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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Woman With The Fan + +Author: Robert Hichens + +Release Date: July 24, 2009 [EBook #8549] +Last Updated: September 24, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WOMAN WITH THE FAN *** + + + + +Produced by Dagny, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE WOMAN WITH THE FAN + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Robert Hichens + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_EPIL"> EPILOGUE </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + IN a large and cool drawing-room of London a few people were scattered + about, listening to a soprano voice that was singing to the accompaniment + of a piano. The sound of the voice came from an inner room, towards which + most of these people were looking earnestly. Only one or two seemed + indifferent to the fascination of the singer. + </p> + <p> + A little woman, with oily black hair and enormous dark eyes, leaned back + on a sofa, playing with a scarlet fan and glancing sideways at a thin, + elderly man, who gazed into the distance from which the voice came. His + mouth worked slightly under his stiff white moustache, and his eyes, in + colour a faded blue, were fixed and stern. Upon his knees his thin and + lemon-coloured hands twitched nervously, as if they longed to grasp + something and hold it fast. The little dark woman glanced down at these + hands, and then sharply up at the elderly man’s face. A faint and + malicious smile curved her full lips, which were artificially reddened, + and she turned her shoulder to him with deliberation and looked about the + room. + </p> + <p> + On all the faces in it, except one, she perceived intent expressions. A + sleek and plump man, with hanging cheeks, a hooked nose, and hair slightly + tinged with grey and parted in the middle, was the exception. He sat in a + low chair, pouting his lips, playing with his single eyeglass, and looking + as sulky as an ill-conditioned school-boy. Once or twice he crossed and + uncrossed his short legs with a sort of abrupt violence, laid his fat, + white hands on the arms of the chair, lifted them, glanced at his rosy and + shining nails, and frowned. Then he shut his little eyes so tightly that + the skin round them became wrinkled, and, stretching out his feet, seemed + almost angrily endeavouring to fall asleep. + </p> + <p> + A tall young man, who was sitting alone not far off, cast a glance of + contempt at him, and then, as if vexed at having bestowed upon him even + this slight attention, leaned forward, listening with eagerness to the + soprano voice. The little dark woman observed him carefully above the + scarlet feathers of her fan, which she now held quite still. His face was + lean and brown. His eyes were long and black, heavy-lidded, and shaded by + big lashes which curled upward. His features were good. The nose and chin + were short and decided, but the mouth was melancholy, almost weak. On his + upper lip grew a short moustache, turned up at the ends. His body was slim + and muscular. + </p> + <p> + After watching him for a little while the dark woman looked again at the + elderly man beside her, and then quickly back to the young fellow. She + seemed to be comparing the two attentions, of age and of youth. Perhaps + she found something horrible in the process for she suddenly lost her + expression of sparkling and birdlike sarcasm, and bending her arm, as if + overcome with lassitude, she let her fan drop on her knees, and stared + moodily at the carpet. + </p> + <p> + A very tall woman, with snow-white hair and a face in which nobility and + weariness were mated, let fall two tears, and a huge man, with short, + bronze-coloured hair and a protruding lower jaw, who was sitting opposite + to her, noticed them and suddenly looked proud. + </p> + <p> + The light soprano voice went on singing an Italian song about a summer + night in Venice, about stars, dark waters and dark palaces, heat, and the + sound of music, and of gondoliers calling over the lagoons to their + comrades. It was an exquisite voice; not large, but flexible and very + warm. The pianoforte accompaniment was rather uneasy and faltering. Now + and then, when it became blurred and wavering, the voice was abruptly hard + and decisive, once even piercing and almost shrewish. Then the pianist, as + if attacked by fear, played louder and hurried the tempo, the little dark + woman smiled mischievously, the white-haired woman put her handkerchief to + her eyes, and the young man looked as if he wished to commit murder. But + the huge man with the bronze hair went on looking equably proud. + </p> + <p> + When the voice died away there was distinct, though slight, applause, + which partially drowned the accompanist’s muddled conclusion. Then a woman + walked in from the second drawing-room with an angry expression on her + face. + </p> + <p> + She was tall and slight. Her hair and eyes were light yellow-brown, and + the former had a natural wave in it. Her shoulders and bust were superb, + and her small head was beautifully set on a lovely, rather long, neck. She + had an oval face, with straight, delicate features, now slightly distorted + by temper. But the most remarkable thing about her was her complexion. Her + skin was exquisite, delicately smooth and white, warmly white like a white + rose. She did nothing to add to its natural beauty, though nearly every + woman in London declared that she had a special preparation and always + slept in a mask coated thickly with it. The Bond Street oracles never + received a visit from her. She had been born with an enchanting + complexion, a marvellous skin. She was young, just twenty-four. She let + herself alone because she knew improvement—in that direction—was + not possible. The mask coated with Juliet paste, or Aphrodite ivorine, + existed only in the radiant imaginations of her carefully-arranged + acquaintances. + </p> + <p> + In appearance she was a siren. By nature she was a siren too. But she had + a temper and sometimes showed it. She showed it now. + </p> + <p> + As she walked in slowly all the scattered people leaned forward, murmuring + their thanks, and the men stood up and gathered round her. + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful! Beautiful!” muttered the thin, elderly man in a hoarse voice, + striking his fingers repeatedly against the palms of his withered hands. + </p> + <p> + The young man looked at the singer and said nothing; but the anger in her + face was reflected in his, and mingled with a flaming of sympathy that + made his appearance almost startling. The white-haired woman clasped the + singer’s hands and said, “Thank you, dearest!” in a thrilling voice, and + the little dark woman with the red fan cried out, “Viola, you simply pack + up Venice, carry it over the Continent and set it down here in London!” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme frowned slightly. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, thank you, you good-natured dears,” she said with an attempt + at lightness. Then, hearing the thin rustle of a dress, she turned sharply + and cast an unfriendly glance at a mild young woman with a very pointed + nose, on which a pair of eyeglasses sat astride, who came meekly forward, + looking self-conscious, and smiling with one side of her mouth. The man + with the protruding jaw, who was Lord Holme, said to her, in a loud bass + voice: + </p> + <p> + “Thanks, Miss Filberte, thanks.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, not at all, Lord Holme,” replied the accompanist with a sudden air of + rather foolish delight. “I consider it an honour to accompany an amateur + who sings like Lady Holme.” + </p> + <p> + She laid a slight emphasis on the word “amateur.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme suddenly walked forward to an empty part of the drawing-room. + The elderly man, whose name was Sir Donald Ulford, made a movement as if + to follow her, then cleared his throat and stood still looking after her. + Lord Holme stuck out his under jaw. But Lady Cardington, the white-haired + woman spoke to him softly, and he leaned over to her and replied. The + sleek man, whose name was Mr. Bry, began to talk about Tschaikowsky to + Mrs. Henry Wolfstein, the woman with the red fan. He uttered his remarks + authoritatively in a slow and languid voice, looking at the pointed toes + of his shoes. Conversation became general. + </p> + <p> + Robin Pierce, the tall young man, stood alone for a few minutes. Two or + three times he glanced towards Lady Holme, who had sat down on a sofa, and + was opening and shutting a small silver box which she had picked up from a + table near her. Then he walked quietly up the room and sat down beside + her. + </p> + <p> + “Why on earth didn’t you accompany yourself?” he asked in a low voice. + “You knew what a muddler that girl was, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She plays like a distracted black beetle—horrid creature!” + </p> + <p> + “Then—why?” + </p> + <p> + “I look ridiculous sitting at the piano.” + </p> + <p> + “Ridiculous—you—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I hold them far more when I stand up. They can’t get away from me + then.” + </p> + <p> + “And you’d rather have your singing ruined than part for a moment with a + scrap of your physical influence, of the influence that comes from your + beauty, not your talent—your face, not your soul. Viola, you’re just + the same.” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Holme,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “P’sh! Why?” + </p> + <p> + “My little husband’s fussy.” + </p> + <p> + “And much you care if he is.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, I do. He sprawls when he fusses and knocks things over, and + then, when I’ve soothed him, he always goes and does Sandow exercises and + gets bigger. And he’s big enough as it is. I must keep him quiet.” + </p> + <p> + “But you can’t keep the other men quiet. With your face and your voice—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it isn’t the voice,” she said with contempt. + </p> + <p> + He looked at her rather sadly. + </p> + <p> + “Why will you put such an exaggerated value on your appearance? Why will + you never allow that three-quarters at least of your attraction comes from + something else?” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Your personality—your self.” + </p> + <p> + “My soul!” she said, suddenly putting on a farcically rapt and yearning + expression and speaking in a hollow, hungry voice. “Are we in the + prehistoric Eighties?” + </p> + <p> + “We are in the unchanging world.” + </p> + <p> + “Unchanging! My dear boy!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, unchanging,” he repeated obstinately. + </p> + <p> + He pressed his lips together and looked away. Miss Filberte was cackling + and smiling on a settee, with a man whose figure presented a succession of + curves, and who kept on softly patting his hands together and swaying + gently backwards and forwards. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mr. Pierce, what’s the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Pierce!” he said, almost savagely. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of the English Embassy in Rome, rising young diplomat and full of + early Eighty yearns—” + </p> + <p> + “How the deuce can you be as you are and yet sing as you do?” he + exclaimed, turning on her. “You say you care for nothing but the outside + of things—the husk, the shell, the surface. You think men care for + nothing else. Yet when you sing you—you—” + </p> + <p> + “What do I do?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s as if another woman than you were singing in you—a woman + totally unlike you, a woman who believes in, and loves, the real beauty + which you care nothing about.” + </p> + <p> + “The real beauty that rules the world is lodged in the epidermis,” she + said, opening her fan and smiling slowly. “If this”—she touched her + face—“were to be changed into—shall we say a Filberte + countenance?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “There! You see, directly I put the matter before you, you have to agree + with me!” + </p> + <p> + “No one could sing like you and have a face like a silly sheep.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Miss Filberte! Well, then, suppose me disfigured and singing better + than ever—what man would listen to me?” + </p> + <p> + “I should.” + </p> + <p> + “For half a minute. Then you’d say, ‘Poor wretch, she’s lost her voice!’ + No, no, it’s my face that sings to the world, my face the world loves to + listen to, my face that makes me friends and—enemies.” + </p> + <p> + She looked into his eyes with impertinent directness. + </p> + <p> + “It’s my face that’s made Mr. Robin Pierce deceive himself into the belief + that he only worships women for their souls, their lovely natures, their—” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know that in a way you are a singularly modest woman?” he suddenly + interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Am I? How?” + </p> + <p> + “In thinking that you hold people only by your appearance, that your + personality has nothing to say in the matter.” + </p> + <p> + “I am modest, but not so modest as that.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Personality is a crutch, a pretty good crutch; but so long as men are men + they will put crutches second and—something else first. Yes, I know + I’m a little bit vulgar, but everybody in London is.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you lived in Rome.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve seen people being vulgar there too. Besides, there may be reasons + why it would not be good for me to live in Rome.” + </p> + <p> + She glanced at him again less impertinently, and suddenly her whole body + looked softer and kinder. + </p> + <p> + “You must put up with my face, Robin,” she added. “It’s no good wishing me + to be ugly. It’s no use. I can’t be.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed. Her ill-humour had entirely vanished. + </p> + <p> + “If you were—” he said. “If you were—!” + </p> + <p> + “What then?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think no one would stick to you—stick to you for yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Who, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite several old ladies. It’s very strange, but old ladies of a certain + class—the almost obsolete class that wears caps and connects piety + with black brocade—like me. They think me ‘a bright young thing.’ + And so I am.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what you are. Sometimes I seem to divine what you are, and + then—then your face is like a cloud which obscures you—except + when you are singing.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed frankly. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Robin! It was always your great fault—trying to plumb shallows + and to take high dives into water half a foot deep.” + </p> + <p> + He was silent for a minute. At last he said: + </p> + <p> + “And your husband?” + </p> + <p> + “Fritz!” + </p> + <p> + His forehead contracted. + </p> + <p> + “Fritz—yes. What does he do? Try to walk in ocean depths?” + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t sneer at Fritz,” she said sharply. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon.” + </p> + <p> + “Fritz doesn’t bother about shallows and depths. He loves me absurdly, and + that’s quite enough for him.” + </p> + <p> + “And for you.” + </p> + <p> + She nodded gravely. + </p> + <p> + “And what would Fritz do if you were to lose your beauty? Would he be like + all the other men? Would he cease to care?” + </p> + <p> + For the first time Lady Holme looked really thoughtful—almost + painfully thoughtful. + </p> + <p> + “One’s husband,” she said slowly. “Perhaps he’s different. He—he + ought to be different.” + </p> + <p> + A faint suggestion of terror came into her large brown eyes. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a strong tie, you know, whatever people may say, a very strong + tie in marriage,” she murmured, as if she were thinking out something for + herself. “Fritz ought to love me, even if—if—” + </p> + <p> + She broke off and looked about the room. Robin Pierce glanced round too + over the chattering guests sitting or standing in easy or lazy postures, + smiling vaguely, or looking grave and indifferent. Mrs. Wolfstein was + laughing, and yawned suddenly in the midst of her mirth. Lady Cardington + said something apparently tragic, to Mr. Bry, who was polishing his + eyeglass and pouting out his dewy lips. Sir Donald Ulford, wandering round + the walls, was examining the pictures upon them. Lady Manby, a woman with + a pyramid of brown hair and an aggressively flat back, was telling a + story. Evidently it was a comic history of disaster. Her gestures were + full of deliberate exaggeration, and she appeared to be impersonating by + turns two or three different people, each of whom had a perfectly + ridiculous personality. Lord Holme burst into a roar of laughter. His big + bass voice vibrated through the room. Suddenly Lady Holme laughed too. + </p> + <p> + “Why are you laughing?” Robin Pierce asked rather harshly. “You didn’t + hear what Lady Manby said.” + </p> + <p> + “No, but Fritz is so infectious. I believe there are laughter microbes. + What a noise he makes! It’s really a scandal.” + </p> + <p> + And she laughed again joyously. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t know much about women if you think any story of Lady Manby’s is + necessary, to prompt my mirth. Poor dear old Fritz is quite enough. There + he goes again!” + </p> + <p> + Robin Pierce began to look stiff with constraint, and just then Sir Donald + Ulford, in his progress round the walls, reached the sofa where they were + sitting. + </p> + <p> + “You are very fortunate to possess this Cuyp, Lady Holme,” he said in a + voice from which all resonance had long ago departed. + </p> + <p> + “Alas, Sir Donald, cows distress me! They call up sad memories. I was + chased by one in the park at Grantoun when I was a child. A fly had stung + it, so it tried to kill me. This struck me as unreason run riot, and ever + since then I have wished the Spaniards would go a step farther and make + cow-fights the national pastime. I hate cows frankly.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald sat down in an armchair and looked, with his faded blue eyes, + into the eyes of his hostess. His drawn yellow face was melancholy, like + the face of one who had long been an invalid. People who knew him well, + however, said there was nothing the matter with him, and that his + appearance had not altered during the last twenty years. + </p> + <p> + “You can hate nothing beautiful,” he said with a sort of hollow assurance. + </p> + <p> + “I think cows hideous.” + </p> + <p> + “Cuyp’s?” + </p> + <p> + “All cows. You’ve never had one running after you.” + </p> + <p> + She took up her gloves, which she had laid down on the table beside her, + and began to pull them gently through her fingers. Both Sir Donald and + Robin looked at her hands, which were not only beautiful in shape but + extraordinarily intelligent in their movements. Whatever they did they did + well, without hesitation or bungling. Nobody had ever seen them tremble. + </p> + <p> + “Do you consider that anything that can be dangerous for a moment must be + hideous for ever?” asked Sir Donald, after a slight pause. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure I don’t know. But I truly think cows hideous—I truly do.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t put on your gloves,” exclaimed Robin at this moment. + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald glanced at him and said: + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” said Lady Holme. + </p> + <p> + It was obvious to both men that there was no need to answer her question. + She laid the gloves in her lap, smoothed them with her small fingers, and + kept silence. Silence was characteristic of her. When she was in society + she sometimes sat quite calmly and composedly without uttering a word. + After watching her for a minute or two, Sir Donald said: + </p> + <p> + “You must know Venice very well and understand it completely.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’ve been there, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Recently?” + </p> + <p> + “Not so very long ago. After my marriage Fritz took me all over Europe.” + </p> + <p> + “And you loved Venice.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald did not ask a question, he made a statement. + </p> + <p> + “No. It didn’t agree with me. It depressed me. We were there in the + mosquito season.” + </p> + <p> + “What has that to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Sir Donald, if you’d ever had a hole in your net you’d know. I + made Fritz take me away after two days, and I’ve never been back. I don’t + want to have my one beauty ruined.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald did not pay the reasonable compliment. He only stretched out + his lean hands over his knees, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Venice is the only ideal city in Europe.” + </p> + <p> + “You forget Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “Paris!” said Sir Donald. “Paris is a suburb of London and New York. Paris + is no longer the city of light, but the city of pornography and + dressmakers.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t know exactly what pornography is—unless it’s some new + process for taking snapshots. But I do know what gowns are, and I love + Paris. The Venice shops are failures and the Venice mosquitoes are + successes, and I hate Venice.” + </p> + <p> + An expression of lemon-coloured amazement appeared upon Sir Donald’s face, + and he glanced at Robin Pierce as if requesting the answer to a riddle. + Robin looked rather as if he were enjoying himself, but the puzzled + melancholy grew deeper on Sir Donald’s face. With the air of a man + determined to reassure his mind upon some matter, however, he spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “You visited the European capitals?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, all of them.” + </p> + <p> + “Constantinople?” + </p> + <p> + “Terrible place! Dogs, dogs, nothing but dogs.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you like Petersburg?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I couldn’t bear it. I caught cold there.” + </p> + <p> + “And that was why you hated it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I went out one night with Fritz on the Neva to hear a woman in a + boat singing—a peasant girl with high cheek-bones—and I caught + a frightful chill.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Sir Donald. “What was the song? I know a good many of the + Northern peasant songs.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Lady Holme got up, letting her gloves fall to the ground. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll sing it to you,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Robin Pierce touched her arm. + </p> + <p> + “For Heaven’s sake not to Miss Filberte’s accompaniment!” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. But come and sit where you can see me.” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t,” he said with brusque obstinacy. + </p> + <p> + “Madman!” she answered. “Anyhow, you come, Sir Donald.” + </p> + <p> + And she walked lightly away towards the piano, followed by Sir Donald, who + walked lightly too, but uncertainly, on his thin, stick-like legs. + </p> + <p> + “What are you up to, Vi?” said Lord Holme, as she came near to him. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to sing something for Sir Donald.” + </p> + <p> + “Capital! Where’s Miss Filberte?” + </p> + <p> + “Here I am!” piped a thin alto voice. + </p> + <p> + There was a rustle of skirts as the accompanist rose hastily from her + chair. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, please, Miss Filberte,” said Lady Holme in a voice of ice. + </p> + <p> + Miss Filberte sat down like one who has been knocked on the head with a + hammer, and Lady Holme went alone to the piano, turned the button that + raised the music-stool, sat down too, holding herself very upright, and + played some notes. For a moment, while she played, her face was so + determined and pitiless that Mr. Bry, unaware that she was still thinking + about Miss Filberte, murmured to Lady Cardington: + </p> + <p> + “Evidently we are in for a song about Jael with the butter in the lordly + dish omitted.” + </p> + <p> + Then an expression of sorrowful youth stole into Lady Holme’s eyes, + changed her mouth to softness and her cheeks to curving innocence. She + leaned a little way from the piano towards her audience and sang, looking + up into vacancy as if her world were hidden there. The song had the clear + melancholy and the passion of a Northern night. It brought the stars out + within that room and set purple distances before the eyes. Water swayed in + it, but languidly, as water sways at night in calm weather, when the black + spars of ships at anchor in sheltered harbours are motionless as fingers + of skeletons pointing towards the moon. Mysterious lights lay round a + silent shore. And in the wide air, on the wide waters, one woman was + singing to herself of a sorrow that was deep as the grave, and that no one + upon the earth knew of save she who sang. The song was very short. It had + only two little verses. When it was over, Sir Donald, who had been + watching the singer, returned to the sofa, where Robin Pierce was sitting + with his eyes shut and, again striking his fingers against the palms of + his hands, said: “I have heard that song at night on the Neva, and yet I + never heard it before.” + </p> + <p> + People began getting up to go away. It was past eleven o’clock. Sir Donald + and Robin Pierce stood together, saying good-bye to Lady Holme. As she + held out her hand to the former, she said: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Sir Donald, you know Russia, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I want you to tell me the name of that stuff they carry down the + Neva in boats—the stuff that has such a horrible smell. That song + always reminds me of it, and Fritz can’t remember the name.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor can I,” said Sir Donald, rather abruptly. “Good-night, Lady Holme.” + </p> + <p> + He walked out of the room, followed by Robin. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + LORD HOLME’S house was in Cadogan Square. When Sir Donald had put on his + coat in the hall he turned to Robin Pierce and said: + </p> + <p> + “Which way do you go?” + </p> + <p> + “To Half Moon Street,” said Robin. + </p> + <p> + “We might walk, if you like. I am going the same way. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + They set out slowly. It was early in the year. Showers of rain had fallen + during the day. The night was warm, and the damp earth in the Square + garden steamed as if it were oppressed and were breathing wearily. The sky + was dark and cloudy, and the air was impregnated with a scent to which + many things had contributed, each yielding a fragment of the odour + peculiar to it. Rain, smoke, various trees and plants, the wet paint on a + railing, the damp straw laid before the house of an invalid, the hothouse + flowers carried by a woman in a passing carriage—these and other + things were represented in the heavy atmosphere which was full of the + sensation of life. Sir Donald expanded his nostrils. + </p> + <p> + “London, London!” he said. “I should know it if I were blind.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. The London smell is not to be confused with the smell of any other + place. You have been back a good while, I believe?” + </p> + <p> + “Three years. I am laid on the London shelf now.” + </p> + <p> + “You have had a long life of work—interesting work.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Diplomacy has interesting moments. I have seen many countries. I + have been transferred from Copenhagen to Teheran, visited the Sultan of + Morocco at Fez, and—” he stopped. After a pause he added: “And now I + sit in London clubs and look out of bay windows.” + </p> + <p> + They walked on slowly. + </p> + <p> + “Have you known our hostess of to-night long?” Sir Donald asked presently. + </p> + <p> + “A good while—quite a good while. But I’m very much away at Rome + now. Since I have been there she has married.” + </p> + <p> + “I have only met her to speak to once before to-night, though I have seen + her about very often and heard her sing.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + “To me she is an enigma,” Sir Donald continued with some hesitation. “I + cannot make her out at all.” + </p> + <p> + Robin Pierce smiled in the dark and thrust his hands deep down in the + pockets of his overcoat. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” Sir Donald resumed, after a slight pause, “I don’t know + what is your—whether you care much for beauty in its innumerable + forms. Many young men don’t, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “I do,” said Robin. “My mother is an Italian, you know, and not an Italian + Philistine.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you can help me, perhaps. Does Lady Holme care for beauty? But she + must. It is impossible that she does not.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think so? Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I really cannot reconcile myself to the idea that such performances as + hers are matters of chance.” + </p> + <p> + “They are not. Lady Holme is not a woman who chances things before the + cruel world in which she, you and I live, Sir Donald.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. I felt sure of that. Then we come to calculation of effects, to + consideration of that very interesting question—self-consciousness + in art.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you feel that Lady Holme is self-conscious when she is singing?” + </p> + <p> + “No. And that is just the point. She must, I suppose, have studied till + she has reached that last stage of accomplishment in which the + self-consciousness present is so perfectly concealed that it seems to be + eliminated.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. She has an absolute command over her means.” + </p> + <p> + “One cannot deny it. No musician could contest it. But the question that + interests me lies behind all this. There is more than accomplishment in + her performance. There is temperament, there is mind, there is emotion and + complete understanding. I am scarcely speaking strongly enough in saying + complete—perhaps infinitely subtle would be nearer the mark. What do + you say?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think if you said that there appears to be an infinitely subtle + understanding at work in Lady Holme’s singing you would be going at all + too far.” + </p> + <p> + “Appears to be?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald stopped for a moment on the pavement under a gas-lamp. As the + light fell on him he looked like a weary old ghost longing to fade away + into the dark shadows of the London night. + </p> + <p> + “You say ‘appears to be,’” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask why?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, would you undertake to vouch for Lady Holme’s understanding—I + mean for the infinite subtlety of it?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald began to walk on once more. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot find it in her conversation,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Nor can I, nor can anyone.” + </p> + <p> + “She is full of personal fascination, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean because of her personal beauty?” + </p> + <p> + “No, it’s more than that, I think. It’s the woman herself. She is + suggestive somehow. She makes one’s imagination work. Of course she is + beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + “And she thinks that is everything. She would part with her voice, her + intelligence—she is very intelligent in the quick, frivolous fashion + that is necessary for London—that personal fascination you speak of, + everything rather than her white-rose complexion and the wave in her + hair.” + </p> + <p> + “Really, really?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She thinks the outside everything. She believes the world is + governed, love is won and held, happiness is gained and kept by the husk + of things. She told me only to-night that it is her face which sings to us + all, not her voice; that were she to sing as well and be an ugly woman we + should not care to listen to her.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m! H’m!” + </p> + <p> + “Absurd, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “What will be the approach of old age to her?” + </p> + <p> + There was a suspicion of bitterness in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “The coming of the King of Terrors,” said Pierce. “But she cannot hear his + footsteps yet.” + </p> + <p> + “They are loud enough in some ears. Ah, we, are at your door already?” + </p> + <p> + “Will you be good-natured and come in for a little while?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid—isn’t it rather late?” + </p> + <p> + “Only half-past eleven.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + They stepped into the little hall. As they did so a valet appeared at the + head of the stairs leading to the servants’ quarters. + </p> + <p> + “If you please, sir,” he said to Pierce, “this note has just come. I was + to ask if you would read it directly you returned.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you excuse me?” said Pierce to Sir Donald, tearing open the + envelope. + </p> + <p> + He glanced at the note. + </p> + <p> + “Is it to ask you to go somewhere to-night?” Sir Donald said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but—” + </p> + <p> + “I will go.” + </p> + <p> + “Please don’t. It is only from a friend who is just round the corner in + Stratton Street. If you will not mind his joining us here I will send him + a message.” + </p> + <p> + He said a few words to his man. + </p> + <p> + “That will be all right. Do come upstairs.” + </p> + <p> + “You are sure I am not in the way?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope you will not find my friend in the way; that’s all. He’s an odd + fellow at the best of times, and to-night he’s got an attack of what he + calls the blacks—his form of blues. But he’s very talented. Carey is + his name—Rupert Carey. You don’t happen to know him?” + </p> + <p> + “No. If I may say so, your room is charming.” + </p> + <p> + They were on the first floor now, in a chamber rather barely furnished and + hung with blue-grey linen, against which were fastened several old Italian + pictures in black frames. On the floor were some Eastern rugs in which + faded and originally pale colours mingled. A log fire was burning on an + open hearth, at right angles to which stood an immense sofa with a square + back. This sofa was covered with dull blue stuff. Opposite to it was a + large and low armchair, also covered in blue. A Steinway grand piano stood + out in the middle of the room. It was open and there were no ornaments or + photographs upon it. Its shining dark case reflected the flames which + sprang up from the logs. Several dwarf bookcases of black wood were filled + with volumes, some in exquisite bindings, some paper covered. On the top + of the bookcases stood four dragon china vases filled with carnations of + various colours. Electric lights burned just under the ceiling, but they + were hidden from sight. In an angle of the wall, on a black ebony + pedestal, stood an extremely beautiful marble statuette of a nude girl + holding a fan. Under this, on a plaque, was written, “<i>Une Danseuse de + Tunisie</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald went up to it, and stood before it for two or three minutes in + silence. + </p> + <p> + “I see indeed you do care for beauty,” he said at length. “But—forgive + me—that fan makes that statuette wicked.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but a thousand times more charming. Carey said just the same thing + when he saw it. I wonder I wonder what Lady Holme would say.” + </p> + <p> + They sat down on the sofa by the wood fire. + </p> + <p> + “Carey could probably tell us!” Pierce added. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, then your friend knows Lady Holme?” + </p> + <p> + “He did once. I believe he isn’t allowed to now. Ah, here is Carey!” + </p> + <p> + A quick step was audible on the stairs, the door was opened, and a broad, + middle-sized young man, with red hair, a huge red moustache and fierce + red-brown eyes, entered swiftly with an air of ruthless determination. + </p> + <p> + “I came, but I shall be devilish bad company to-night,” he said at once, + looking at Sir Donald. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll cheer you up. Let me introduce you to Sir Donald Ulford—Mr. + Rupert Carey.” + </p> + <p> + Carey shook Sir Donald by the hand. + </p> + <p> + “Glad to meet you,” he said abruptly. “I’ve carried your Persian poems + round the world with me. They lay in my trunk cheek by jowl with + God-forsaken, glorious old Omar.” + </p> + <p> + A dusky red flush appeared in Sir Donald’s hollow cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “Really,” he said, with obvious embarrassment, “I—they were a great + failure. ‘Obviously the poems of a man likely to be successful in dealing + with finance,’ as <i>The Times</i> said in reviewing them.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, in the course of your career you’ve done some good things for + England financially, haven’t you?—not very publicly, perhaps, but as + a minister abroad.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. To come forward as a poet was certainly a mistake.” + </p> + <p> + “Any fool could see the faults in your book. True Persia all the same + though. I saw all the faults and read ‘em twenty times.” + </p> + <p> + He flung himself down in the big armchair. Sir Donald could see now that + there was a shining of misery in his big, rather ugly, eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Where have you two been?” he continued, with a directness that was almost + rude. + </p> + <p> + “Dining with the Holmes,” answered Pierce. + </p> + <p> + “That ruffian! Did she sing?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, twice.” + </p> + <p> + “Wish I’d heard her. Here am I playing Saul without a David. Many people + there?” + </p> + <p> + “Several. Lady Cardington—” + </p> + <p> + “That white-haired enchantress! There’s a Niobe—weeping not for her + children, she never had any, but for her youth. She is the religion of + half Mayfair, though I don’t know whether she’s got a religion. Men who + wouldn’t look at her when she was sixteen, twenty-six, thirty-six, worship + her now she’s sixty. And she weeps for her youth! Who else?” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Wolfstein.” + </p> + <p> + “A daughter of Israel; coarse, intelligent, brutal to her reddened + finger-tips. I’d trust her to judge a singer, actor, painter, writer. But + I wouldn’t trust her with my heart or half a crown.” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Manby.” + </p> + <p> + “Humour in petticoats. She’s so infernally full of humour that there’s no + room in her for anything else. I doubt if she’s got lungs. I’m sure she + hasn’t got a heart or a brain.” + </p> + <p> + “But if she is so full of humour,” said Sir Donald mildly, “how does she—?” + </p> + <p> + “How does a great writer fail over an addition sum? How does a man who + speaks eight languages talk imbecility in them all? How is it that a bird + isn’t an angel? I wish to Heaven we knew. Well, Robin?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, Mr. Bry.” + </p> + <p> + Carey’s violent face expressed disgust in every line. + </p> + <p> + “One of the most finished of London types,” he exclaimed. “No other city + supplies quite the same sort of man to take the colour out of things. He’s + enormously clever, enormously abominable, and should have been strangled + at birth merely because of his feet. Why he’s not Chinese I can’t + conceive; why he dines out every night I can. He’s a human cruet-stand + without the oil. He’s so monstrously intelligent that he knows what a + beast he is, and doesn’t mind. Not a bad set of people to talk with, + unless Lady Holme was in a temper and you were next to her, or you were + left stranded with Holme when the women went out of the dining-room.” + </p> + <p> + “You think Holme a poor talker?” asked Sir Donald. + </p> + <p> + “Precious poor. His brain is muscle-bound, I believe. Robin, you know I’m + miserable to-night you offer me nothing to drink.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon. Help yourself. And, Sir Donald, what will you—?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Try one of those cigars.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald took one and lit it quietly, looking at Carey, who seemed to + interest him a good deal. + </p> + <p> + “Why are you miserable, Carey?” said Pierce, as the former buried his + moustache in a tall whisky-and-soda. + </p> + <p> + “Because I’m alive and don’t want to be dead. Reason enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Because you’re an unmitigated egoist,” rejoined Pierce. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am an egoist. Introduce me to a man who is not, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “And what about women?” + </p> + <p> + “Many women are not egoists. But you have been dining with one of the most + finished egoists in London to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Holme?” said Sir Donald, shifting into the left-hand corner of the + sofa. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Viola Holme, once Lady Viola Grantoun; whom I mustn’t know any + more.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not sure that you are right, Carey,” said Pierce, rather coldly. + </p> + <p> + “What!” + </p> + <p> + “Can a true and perfect egoist be in love?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. Is not even an egoist an animal?” + </p> + <p> + Pierce’s lips tightened for a second, and his right hand strained itself + round his knee, on which it was lying. + </p> + <p> + “And how much can she be in love?” + </p> + <p> + “Very much.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean with her body?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do; and with the spirit that lives in it. I don’t believe there’s + any life but this. A church is more fantastic to me than the room in which + Punch belabours Judy. But I say that there is spirit in lust, in hunger, + in everything. When I want a drink my spirit wants it. Viola Holme’s + spirit—a flame that will be blown out at death—takes part in + her love for that great brute Holme. And yet she’s one of the most + pronounced egoists in London.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you care to tell us any reason you may have for saying so?” said Sir + Donald. + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, his voice, brought into sharp contrast with the changeful and + animated voice of Carey, sounded almost preposterously thin and worn out. + </p> + <p> + “She is always conscious of herself in every situation, in every relation + of life. While she loves even she thinks to herself, ‘How beautifully I am + loving!’ And she never forgets for a single moment that she is a + fascinating woman. If she were being murdered she would be saying + silently, while the knife went in, ‘What an attractive creature, what an + unreplaceable personage they are putting an end to!’” + </p> + <p> + “Rupert, you are really too absurd!” exclaimed Pierce, laughing + reluctantly. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not absurd. I see straight. Lady Holme is an egoist—a + magnificent, an adorable egoist, fine enough in her brilliant selfishness + to stand quite alone.” + </p> + <p> + “And you mean to tell us that any woman can do that?” exclaimed Pierce. + </p> + <p> + “Who am I that I should pronounce a verdict upon the great mystery? What + do I know of women?” + </p> + <p> + “Far too much, I’m afraid,” said Pierce. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, I have never been married, and only the married man knows + anything of women. The Frenchmen are wrong. It is not the mistress who + informs, it is the loving wife. For me the sex remains mysterious, like + the heroine of my realm of dreams.” + </p> + <p> + “You are talking great nonsense, Rupert.” + </p> + <p> + “I always do when I am depressed, and I am very specially depressed + to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “But why? There must be some very special reason.” + </p> + <p> + “There is. I, too, dined out and met at dinner a young man whose one + desire in life appears to be to deprive living creatures of life.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald moved slightly. + </p> + <p> + “You’re not a sportsman, then, Mr. Carey?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, I am. I’ve shot big game, the Lord forgive me, and found big + pleasure in doing it. Yet this young man depressed me. He was so robust, + so perfectly happy, so supremely self-satisfied, and, according to his own + account, so enormously destructive, that he made me feel very sick. He is + married. He married a widow who has an ear-trumpet and a big shooting in + Scotland. If she could be induced to crawl in underwood, or stand on a + cairn against a skyline, I’m sure he’d pot at her for the fun of the + thing.” + </p> + <p> + “What is his name?” asked Sir Donald. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t catch it. My host called him Leo. He has—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! He is my only son.” + </p> + <p> + Pierce looked very uncomfortable, but Carey replied calmly: + </p> + <p> + “Really. I wonder he hasn’t shot you long ago.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t he depress you?” added Carey. + </p> + <p> + “He does, I’m sorry to say, but scarcely so much as I depress him.” + </p> + <p> + “I think Lady Holme would like him.” + </p> + <p> + For once Sir Donald looked really expressive, of surprise and disgust. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I can’t think so!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, she would. She doesn’t care honestly for art-loving men. Her + idea of a real man, the sort of man a woman marries, or bolts with, or + goes off her head for, is a huge mass of bones and muscles and thews and + sinews that knows not beauty. And your son would adore her, Sir Donald. + Better not let him, though. Holme’s a jealous devil.” + </p> + <p> + “Totally without reason,” said Pierce, with a touch of bitterness. + </p> + <p> + “No doubt. It’s part of his Grand Turk nature. He ought to possess a + Yildiz. He’s out of place in London where marital jealousy is more + unfashionable than pegtop trousers.” + </p> + <p> + He buried himself in his glass. Sir Donald rose to go. + </p> + <p> + “I hope I may see you again,” he said rather tentatively at parting. “I am + to be found in the Albany.” + </p> + <p> + They both said they would call, and he slipped away gently. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a sensitive man,” said Carey when he had gone. “A sort of male + Lady Cardington. Both of them are morbidly conscious of their age and + carry it about with them as if it were a crime. Yet they’re both worth + knowing. People with that temperament who don’t use hair-dye must have + grit. His son’s awful.” + </p> + <p> + “And his poems?” + </p> + <p> + “Very crude, very faulty, very shy, but the real thing. But he’ll never + publish anything again. It must have been torture to him to reveal as much + as he did in that book. He must find others to express him, and such as + him, to the world.” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Holmes?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Par exemple</i>. Deuced odd that while the dumb understand the whole + show the person who’s describing it quite accurately to them often knows + nothing about it. Paradox, irony, blasted eternal cussedness of life! Did + you ever know Lady Ulford?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “She was a horse-dealer’s daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “Rupert!” + </p> + <p> + “On my honour! One of those women who are all shirt and collar and + nattiness, with a gold fox for a tie-pin and a hunting-crop under the arm. + She was killed schooling a horse in Mexico after making Ulford shy and + uncomfortable for fifteen years. Lady Cardington and a Texas cowboy would + have been as well suited to one another. Ulford’s been like a wistful + ghost, they tell me, ever since her death. I should like to see him and + his son together.” + </p> + <p> + A hard and almost vicious gleam shone for as instant in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You’re as cruel as a Spaniard at a bull-fight.” + </p> + <p> + “My boy, I’ve been gored by the bull.” + </p> + <p> + Pierce was silent for a minute. He thought of Lady Holme’s white-rose + complexion and of the cessation of Carey’s acquaintance with the Holmes. + No one seemed to know exactly why Carey went to the house in Cadogan + Square no more. + </p> + <p> + “For God’s sake give me another drink, Robin, and make it a stiff one.” + </p> + <p> + Pierce poured out the whisky and thought: + </p> + <p> + “Could it have been that?” + </p> + <p> + Carey emptied the tumbler and heaved a long sigh. + </p> + <p> + “When d’you go back to Rome?” + </p> + <p> + “Beginning of July.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll be there in the dead season.” + </p> + <p> + “I like Rome then. The heat doesn’t hurt me and I love the peace. + Antiquity seems to descend upon the city in August, returning to its own + when America is far away.” + </p> + <p> + Carey stared at him hard. + </p> + <p> + “A rising diplomatist oughtn’t to live in the past,” he said bluntly. + </p> + <p> + “I like ruins.” + </p> + <p> + “Unless they’re women.” + </p> + <p> + “If I loved a woman I could love her when she became what is called a + ruin.” + </p> + <p> + “If you were an old man who had crumbled gradually with her.” + </p> + <p> + “As a young man, too. I was discussing—or rather flitting about, + dinner-party fashion—that very subject to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “With whom?” + </p> + <p> + “Viola.” + </p> + <p> + “The deuce! What line did you take?” + </p> + <p> + “That one loves—if one loves—the kernel, not the shell.” + </p> + <p> + “And she?” + </p> + <p> + “You know her—the opposite.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + “And you, Carey?” + </p> + <p> + “I! I think if the shell is a beautiful shell and becomes suddenly broken + it makes a devil of a lot of difference in what most people think of the + kernel.” + </p> + <p> + “It wouldn’t to me.” + </p> + <p> + “I think it would.” + </p> + <p> + “You take Viola’s side then?” + </p> + <p> + “And when did I ever do anything else? I’m off.” + </p> + <p> + He got up, nodded good-night, and was gone in a moment. Pierce heard him + singing in a deep voice as he went down the stairs, and smiled with a + faint contempt. + </p> + <p> + “How odd it is that nobody will believe a man if he’s fool enough to hint + at the truth of his true self,” he thought. “And Carey—who’s so + clever about people!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + WHEN the last guest had grimaced at her and left the drawing-room, Lady + Holme stood with her hand on the mantelpiece, facing a tall mirror. She + was alone for the moment. Her husband had accompanied Mrs. Wolfstein + downstairs, and Lady Holme could hear his big, booming voice below, + interrupted now and then by her impudent soprano. She spoke English with a + slight foreign accent which men generally liked and women loathed. Lady + Holme loathed it. But she was not fond of her own sex. She believed that + all women were untrustworthy. She often said that she had never met a + woman who was not a liar, and when she said it she had no doubt that, for + once, a woman was speaking the truth. Now, as she heard Mrs. Wolfstein’s + curiously improper laugh, she frowned. The face in the mirror changed and + looked almost old. + </p> + <p> + This struck her unpleasantly. She kept the frown in its place and stared + from under it, examining her features closely, fancying herself really an + old woman, her whimsical fascination dead in its decaying home, her powers + faded if not fled for ever. She might do what she liked then. It would all + be of no use. Even the voice would be cracked and thin, unresponsive, + unwieldy. The will would be phlegmatic. If it were not, the limbs and + features would not easily obey its messages. The figure, now beautiful, + would perhaps be marred by the ungracious thickness, the piteous + fleshiness that Time often adds assiduously to ageing bodies, as if with + an ironic pretence of generously giving in one direction while taking away + in another. Decay would be setting in, life becoming perpetual loss. The + precious years would be gone irrevocably. + </p> + <p> + She let the frown go and looked again on her beauty and smiled. The + momentary bitterness passed. For there were many precious years to come + for her, many years of power. She was young. Her health was superb. Her + looks were of the kind that lasts. She thought of a famous actress whom + she resembled closely. This actress was already forty-three, and was still + a lovely woman, still toured about the world winning the hearts of men, + was still renowned for her personal charm, worshipped not only for her + talent but for her delicious skin, her great romantic eyes, her thick, + waving hair. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme laughed. In twenty years what Robin Pierce called her “husk” + would still be an exquisite thing, and she would be going about without + hearing the horrible tap, tap of the crutch in whose sustaining power she + really believed so little. She knew men, and she said to herself, as she + had said to Robin, that for them beauty lies in the epidermis. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo, Vi, lookin’ in the glass! ‘Pon my soul, your vanity’s disgustin’. + A plain woman like you ought to keep away from such things—leave ‘em + to the Mrs. Wolfsteins—what?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme turned round in time to see her husband’s blunt, brown features + twisted in the grimace which invariably preceded his portentous laugh. + </p> + <p> + “I admire Mrs. Wolfstein,” she said. + </p> + <p> + The laugh burst like a bomb. + </p> + <p> + “You admire another woman! Why, you’re incapable of it. The Lord defend me + from hypocrisy, and there’s no greater hypocrisy than one woman takin’ + Heaven to witness that she thinks another a stunnin’ beauty.” + </p> + <p> + “You know nothing about it, Fritz. Mrs. Wolfstein’s eyes would be lovely + if they hadn’t that pawnbroking expression.” + </p> + <p> + “Good, good! Now we’re goin’ to hear the voice of truth. Think it went + well, eh?” + </p> + <p> + He threw himself down on a sofa and began to light a cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “The evening? No, I don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + He crossed his long legs and leaned back, resting his head on a cushion, + and puffing the smoke towards the ceiling. + </p> + <p> + “They all seemed cheery—what? Even Lady Cardington only cried when + you were squallin’.” + </p> + <p> + It was Lord Holme’s habit to speak irreverently of anything he happened to + admire. + </p> + <p> + “She had reason to cry. Miss Filberte’s accompaniment was a tragedy. She + never comes here again.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the row with her? I thought her fingers got about over the piano + awful quick.” + </p> + <p> + “They did—on the wrong notes.” + </p> + <p> + She came and sat down beside him. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t understand music, Fritz, thank goodness.” + </p> + <p> + “I know I don’t. But why thank what’s-his-name?” + </p> + <p> + “Because the men that do are usually such anaemic, dolly things, such + shaved poodles with their Sunday bows on.” + </p> + <p> + “What about that chap Pierce? He’s up to all the scales and thingumies, + isn’t he?” + </p> + <p> + “Robin—” + </p> + <p> + “Pierce I said.” + </p> + <p> + “And I said Robin.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme frowned and stuck out his under jaw. When he was irritated he + always made haste to look like a prize-fighter. His prominent cheek-bones, + and the abnormal development of bone in the lower part of his face, helped + the illusion whose creation was begun by his expression. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Vi,” he said gruffly. “If you get up to any nonsense there’ll + be another Carey business. I give you the tip, and you can just take it in + time. Don’t you make any mistake. I’m not a Brenford, or a + Godley-Halstoun, or a Pennisford, to sit by and—” + </p> + <p> + “What a pity it is that your body’s so big and your intelligence so + small!” she interrupted gently. “Why aren’t there Sandow exercises for + increasing the brain?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve quite enough brain to rub along with very well. If I’d chosen to + take it I could have been undersecretary—-” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve told me that so many times, old darling, and I really can’t + believe it. The Premier’s very silly. Everybody knows that. But he’s still + got just a faint idea of the few things the country won’t stand. And you + are one of them, you truly are. You don’t go down even with the Primrose + League, and they simply worship at the shrine of the great Ar-rar.” + </p> + <p> + “Fool or not, I’d kick out Pierce as I kicked out Carey if I thought—” + </p> + <p> + “And suppose I wouldn’t let you?” + </p> + <p> + Her voice had suddenly changed. There was in it the sharp sound which had + so overwhelmed Miss Filberte. + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme sat straight up and looked at his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose—what?” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I declined to let you behave ridiculously a second time.” + </p> + <p> + “Ridiculously! I like that! Do you stick out that Carey didn’t love you?” + </p> + <p> + “Half London loves me. I’m one of the most attractive women in it. That’s + why you married me, blessed boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Carey’s a violent ass. Red-headed men always are. There’s a chap at + White’s—” + </p> + <p> + “I know, I know. You told me about him when you forbade poor Mr. Carey the + house. But Robin’s hair is black and he’s the gentlest creature in + diplomacy.” + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn’t trust him a yard.” + </p> + <p> + “Believe me, he doesn’t wish you to. He’s far too clever to desire the + impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “Then he can stop desirin’ you.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be insulting, Fritz. Remember that by birth you are a gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme bit through his cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes I wish you were an ugly woman,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + “And if I were?” + </p> + <p> + She leaned forward quite eagerly on the sofa and her whimsical, + spoilt-child manner dropped away from her. + </p> + <p> + “You ain’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be silly. I know I’m not, of course. But if I were to become one?” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Really, Fritz, there’s no sort of continuity in your mental processes. If + I were to become an ugly woman, what would you feel about me then?” + </p> + <p> + “How the deuce could you become ugly?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, in a hundred ways. I might have smallpox and be pitted for life, or + be scalded in the face as poor people’s babies often are, or have vitriol + thrown over me as lots of women do in Paris, or any number of things.” + </p> + <p> + “What rot! Who’d throw vitriol over you, I should like to know?” + </p> + <p> + He lit a fresh cigarette with tender solicitude. Lady Holme began to look + irritated. + </p> + <p> + “Do use your imagination!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t got one, thank God!” he returned philosophically. + </p> + <p> + “I insist upon your imagining me ugly. Do you hear, I insist upon it.” + </p> + <p> + She laid one soft hand on his knee and squeezed his leg with all her + might. + </p> + <p> + “Now you’re to imagine me ugly and just the same as I am now.” + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn’t be the same.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I should. I should be the same woman, with the same heart and + feelings and desires and things as I have now. Only the face would be + altered.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, go ahead, but don’t pinch so, old girl.” + </p> + <p> + “I pinch you to make you exert your mind. Now tell me truly—truly; + would you love me as you do now, would you be jealous of me, would you—” + </p> + <p> + “I say, wait a bit! Don’t drive on at such a rate. How ugly are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Very ugly; worse than Miss Filberte.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Filberte’s not so bad.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she is, Fritz, you know she is. But I mean ever so much worse; with + a purple complexion, perhaps, like Mrs. Armington, whose husband insisted + on a judicial separation; or a broken nose, or something wrong with my + mouth—” + </p> + <p> + “What wrong?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear, anything! What <i>l’homme qui vir</i> had—or a frightful + scar across my cheek. Could you love me as you do now? I should be the + same woman, remember.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it’d be all the same to me, I s’pose. Let’s turn in.” + </p> + <p> + He got up, went over to the hearth, on which a small wood fire was + burning, straddled his legs, bent his knees and straightened them several + times, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his trousers, which were + rather tight and horsey and defined his immense limbs. An expression of + profound self-satisfaction illumined his face as he looked at his wife, + giving it a slightly leery expression, as of a shrewd rustic. His large + blunt features seemed to broaden, his big brown eyes twinkled, and his + lips, which were thick and very red and had a cleft down their middle, + parted under his short bronze moustache, exposing two level rows of square + white teeth. + </p> + <p> + “It’s jolly difficult to imagine you an ugly woman,” he said, with a deep + chuckle. + </p> + <p> + “I do wish you’d keep your legs still,” said Lady Holme. “What earthly + pleasure can it give you to go on like that? Would you love me as you do + now?” + </p> + <p> + “You’d be jolly sick if I didn’t, wouldn’t you, Vi, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if it ever occurs to you that you’re hideously conceited, + Fritz?” + </p> + <p> + She spoke with a touch of real anger, real exasperation. + </p> + <p> + “No more than any other Englishman that’s worth his salt and ever does any + good in the world. I ain’t a timid molly-coddle, if that’s what you mean.” + </p> + <p> + He took one large hand out of his pocket, scratched his cheek and yawned. + As he did so he looked as unconcerned, as free from self-consciousness, as + much a slave to every impulse born of passing physical sensation as a wild + animal in a wood or out on a prairie. + </p> + <p> + “Otherwise life ain’t worth tuppence,” he added through his yawn. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme sat looking at him for a moment in silence. She was really + irritated by his total lack of interest in what she wanted to interest in + him, irritated, too, because her curiosity remained unsatisfied. But that + abrupt look and action of absolutely unconscious animalism, chasing the + leeriness of the contented man’s conceit, turned her to softness if not to + cheerfulness. She adored Fritz like that. His open-mouthed, gaping yawn + moved something in her to tenderness. She would have liked to kiss him + while he was yawning and to pass her hands over his short hair, which was + like a mat and grew as strongly as the hair which he shaved every morning + from his brown cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what about bed, old girl?” he said, stretching himself. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme did not reply. Some part of him, some joint, creaked as he + forced his clasped hands downward and backward. She was listening eagerly + for a repetition of the little sound. + </p> + <p> + “What! Is mum the word?” he said, bending forward to stare into her face. + </p> + <p> + At this moment the door opened, and a footman came in to extinguish the + lights and close the piano. By mistake he let the lid of the latter drop + with a bang. Lady Holme, who had just got up to go to bed, started + violently. She said nothing but stared at him for an instant with an + expression of cold rebuke on her face. The man reddened. Lord Holme was + already on the stairs. He yawned again noisily, and turned the sound + eventually into a sort of roaring chant up and down the scale as he + mounted towards the next floor. Lady Holme came slowly after him. She had + a very individual walk, moving from the hips and nearly always taking + small, slow steps. Her sapphire-blue gown trailed behind her with a pretty + noise over the carpet. + </p> + <p> + When her French maid had locked up her jewels and helped her to undress, + she dismissed her, and called out to Lord Holme, who was in the next room, + the door of which was slightly open. + </p> + <p> + “Fritz!” + </p> + <p> + “Girlie?” + </p> + <p> + His mighty form, attired in pale blue pyjamas, stood in the doorway. In + his hand he grasped a toothbrush, and there were dabs of white + tooth-powder on his cheeks and chin. + </p> + <p> + “Finish your toilet and make haste.” + </p> + <p> + He disappeared. There was a prolonged noise of brushing and the gurgling + and splashing of water. Lady Holme sat down on the white couch at the foot + of the great bed. She was wrapped in a soft white gown made like a + burnous, a veritable Arab garment, with a white silk hood at the back, and + now she put up her hands and, with great precision, drew the hood up over + her head. The burnous, thus adjusted, made her look very young. She had + thrust her bare feet into white slippers without heels, and now she drew + up her legs lightly and easily and crossed them under her, assuming an + Eastern attitude and the expression of supreme impassivity which suits it. + A long mirror was just opposite to her. She swayed to and fro, looking + into it. + </p> + <p> + “Allah-Akbar!” she murmured. “Allah-Akbar! I am a fatalist. Everything is + ordained, so why should I bother? I will live for the day. I will live for + the night. Allah-Akbar, Allah-Akbar!” + </p> + <p> + The sound of water gushing from a reversed tumbler into a full basin was + followed by the reappearance of Lord Holme, looking very clean and very + sleepy. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme stopped swaying. + </p> + <p> + “You look like a kid of twelve years old in that thing, Vi,” he observed, + surveying her with his hands on his hips. + </p> + <p> + “I am a woman with a philosophy,” she returned with dignity. + </p> + <p> + “A philosophy! What the deuce is that?” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t learn much at Eton and Christchurch.” + </p> + <p> + “I learnt to use my fists and to make love to the women.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a brute!” she exclaimed with most unphilosophic vehemence. + </p> + <p> + “And that’s why you worship the ground I tread on,” he rejoined equably. + “And that’s why I’ve always had a good time with the women ever since I + stood six foot in my stockin’s when I was sixteen.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme looked really indignant. Her face was contorted by a spasm. She + was one of those unfortunate women who are capable of retrospective + jealousy. + </p> + <p> + “I won’t—how dare you speak to me of those women?” she said + bitterly. “You insult me.” + </p> + <p> + “Hang it, there’s no one since you, Vi. You know that. And what would you + have thought of a great, hulkin’ chap like me who’d never—well, all + right. I’ll dry up. But you know well enough you wouldn’t have looked at + me.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder why I ever did.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you don’t. I’m just the chap to suit you. You’re full of whimsies and + need a sledge-hammer fellow to keep you quiet. It you’d married that ass, + Carey, or that—” + </p> + <p> + “Fritz, once for all, I won’t have my friends abused. I allowed you to + have your own way about Rupert Carey, but I will not have Robin Pierce or + anyone else insulted. Please understand that. I married to be more free, + not more—” + </p> + <p> + “You married because you’d fallen jolly well in love with me, that’s why + you married, and that’s why you’re a damned lucky woman. Come to bed. You + won’t, eh?” + </p> + <p> + He made a stride, snatched Lady Holme up as if she were a bundle, and + carried her off to bed. + </p> + <p> + She was on the point of bursting into angry tears, but when she found + herself snatched up, her slippers tumbling off, the hood of the burnous + falling over her eyes, her face crushed anyhow against her husband’s + sinewy chest, she suddenly felt oddly contented, disinclined to protest or + to struggle. + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme did not trouble himself to ask what she was feeling or why she + was feeling it. + </p> + <p> + He thought of himself—the surest way to fasten upon a man the + thoughts of others. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + ROBIN PIERCE and Carey were old acquaintances, if not exactly old friends. + They had been for a time at Harrow together. Pierce had six thousand a + year and worked hard for a few hundreds. Carey had a thousand and did + nothing. He had never done anything definite, anything to earn a living. + Yet his talents were notorious. He played the piano well for an amateur, + was an extraordinarily clever mimic, acted better than most people who + were not on the stage, and could write very entertaining verse with a + pungent, sub-acid flavour. But he had no creative power and no + perseverance. As a critic of the performances of others he was cruel but + discerning, giving no quarter, but giving credit where it was due. He + loathed a bad workman more than a criminal, and would rather have crushed + an incompetent human being than a worm. Secretly he despised himself. His + own laziness was as disgusting to him as a disease, and was as incurable + as are certain diseases. He was now thirty-four and realised that he was + never going to do anything with his life. Already he had travelled over + the world, seen a hundred, done a hundred things. He had an enormous + acquaintance in Society and among artists; writers, actors, painters—all + the people who did things and did them well. As a rule they liked him, + despite his bizarre bluntness of speech and manner, and they invariably + spoke of him as a man of great talent; he said because he was so seldom + fool enough to do anything that could reveal incompetence. His mother, who + was a widow, lived in the north, in an old family mansion, half house, + half castle, near the sea coast of Cumberland. He had one sister, who was + married to an American. + </p> + <p> + Carey always declared that he was that <i>rara avis</i> an atheist, and + that he had been born an atheist. He affirmed that even when a child he + had never, for a moment, felt that there could be any other life than this + earth-life. Few people believed him. There are few people who can believe + in a child atheist. + </p> + <p> + Pierce had a totally different character. He seemed to be more dreamy and + was more energetic, talked much less and accomplished much more. It had + always been his ambition to be a successful diplomat, and in many respects + he was well fitted for a diplomatic career. He had a talent for languages, + great ease of manner, self-possession, patience and cunning. He loved + foreign life. Directly he set foot in a country which was not his own he + felt stimulated. He felt that he woke up, that his mind became more alert, + his imagination more lively. He delighted in change, in being brought into + contact with a society which required study to be understood. His present + fate contented him well enough. He liked Rome and was liked there. As his + mother was a Roman he had many Italian connections, and he was far more at + ease with Romans than with the average London man. His father and mother + lived almost perpetually in large hotels. The former, who was enormously + rich, was a <i>malade imaginaire</i>. He invariably spoke of his quite + normal health as if it were some deadly disease, and always treated + himself, and insisted on being treated, as if he were an exceptionally + distinguished invalid. In the course of years his friends had learned to + take his view of the matter, and he was at this time almost universally + spoken of as “that poor Sir Henry Pierce whose life has been one long + martyrdom.” Poor Sir Henry was fortunate in the possession of a wife who + really was a martyr—to him. Nobody had ever discovered whether Lady + Pierce knew, or did not know, that her husband was quite as well as most + people. There are many women with such secrets. Robin’s parents were at + present taking baths and drinking waters in Germany. They were later going + for an “after cure” to Switzerland, and then to Italy to “keep warm” + during the autumn. As they never lived in London, Robin had no home there + except his little house in Half Moon Street. He had one brother, renowned + as a polo player, and one sister, who was married to a rising politician, + Lord Evelyn Clowes, a young man with a voluble talent, a peculiar power of + irritating Chancellors of the Exchequer, and hair so thick that he was + adored by the caricaturists. + </p> + <p> + Robin Pierce and Carey saw little of each other now, being generally + separated by a good many leagues of land and sea, but when they met they + were still fairly intimate. They had some real regard for each other. + Carey felt at ease in giving his violence to the quiet and self-possessed + young secretary, who was three years his junior, but who sometimes seemed + to him the elder of the two, perhaps because calm is essentially the + senior of storm. He had even allowed Robin to guess at the truth of his + feeling for Lady Holme, though he had never been explicit, on the subject + to him or to anyone. There were moments when Robin wished he had not been + permitted to guess, for Lady Holme attracted him far more than any other + woman he had seen, and he had proposed to her before she had been carried + off by her husband. He admired her beauty, but he did not believe that it + was her beauty which had led him into love. He was sure that he loved the + woman in her, the hidden woman whom Lord Holme and the world at large—including + Carey—knew nothing about. He thought that Lady Holme herself did not + understand this hidden woman, did not realise, as he did, that she + existed. She spoke to him sometimes in Lady Holme’s singing, sometimes in + an expression in her eyes when she was serious, sometimes even in a bodily + attitude. For Robin, half fantastically, put faith in the eloquence of + line as a revealer of character, of soul. But she did not speak to him in + Lady Holme’s conversation. He really thought this hidden woman was + obscured by the lovely window—he conceived it as a window of + exquisite stained glass, jewelled but concealing—through which she + was condemned to look for ever, through which, too, all men must look at + her. He really wished sometimes, as he had said, that Lady Holme were + ugly, for he had a fancy that perhaps then, and only then, would the + hidden woman arise and be seen as a person may be seen through unstained, + clear glass. He really felt that what he loved would be there to love if + the face that ruled was ruined; would not only still be there to love, but + would become more powerful, more true to itself, more understanding of + itself, more reliant, purer, braver. And he had learnt to cherish this + fancy till it had become a little monomania. Robin thought that the world + misunderstood him, but he knew the world too well to say so. He never + risked being laughed at. He felt sure that he was passionate, that he was + capable of romantic deeds, of Quixotic self-sacrifice, of a devotion that + might well be sung by poets, and that would certainly be worshipped by + ardent women. And he said to himself that Lady Holme was the one woman who + could set free, if the occasion came, this passionate, unusual and surely + admirable captive at present chained within him, doomed to inactivity and + the creeping weakness that comes from enforced repose. + </p> + <p> + Carey’s passion for Lady Holme had come into being shortly before her + marriage. No one knew much about it, or about the rupture of all relations + between him and the Holmes which had eventually taken place. But the fact + that Carey had lost his head about Lady Holme was known to half London. + For Carey, when carried away, was singularly reckless; singularly careless + of consequences and of what people thought. It was difficult to influence + him, but when influenced he was almost painfully open in his + acknowledgment of the power that had reached him. As a rule, however, + despite his apparent definiteness, his decisive violence, there seemed to + be something fluid in his character, something that divided and flowed + away from anything which sought to grasp and hold it. He had impetus but + not balance; swiftness, but a swiftness that was uncontrolled. He + resembled a machine without a brake. + </p> + <p> + It was soon after his rupture with the Holmes that his intimates began to + notice that he was becoming inclined to drink too much. When Pierce + returned to London from Rome he was immediately conscious of the slight + alteration in his friend. Once he remonstrated with Carey about it. Carey + was silent for a moment. Then he said abruptly: + </p> + <p> + “My heart wants to be drowned.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme hated Carey. Yet Lady Holme had not loved him; though she had + not objected to him more than to other men because he loved her. She had + been brought up in a society which is singularly free from prejudices, + which has no time to study carefully questions of so-called honour, which + has little real religious feeling, and a desire for gaiety which perhaps + takes the place of a desire for morals. Intrigues are one of the chief + amusements of this society, which oscillates from London to Paris as the + pendulum of a clock oscillates from right to left. Lady Holme, however, + happened to be protected doubly against the dangers—or joys by the + way—to which so many of her companions fell cheerful, and even + chattering, victims. She had a husband who though extremely stupid was + extremely masterful, and, for the time at any rate, she sincerely loved + him. She was a faithful wife and had no desire to be anything else, though + she liked to be, and usually was, in the fashion. But though faithful to + Lord Holme she had, as has been said, both the appearance and the + temperament of a siren. She enjoyed governing men, and those who were + governed by her, who submitted obviously to the power of her beauty and + the charm of manner that seemed to emanate from it, and to be one with it, + were more attractive to her than those who were not. She was inclined to + admire a man for loving her, as a serious and solemn-thinking woman, with + bandeaux and convictions, admires a clergyman for doing his duty. Carey + had done his duty with such fiery ardour that, though she did not prevent + her husband from kicking him out of the house, she could not refrain from + thinking well of him. + </p> + <p> + Her thoughts of Robin Pierce were perhaps a little more confused. + </p> + <p> + She had not accepted him. Carey would have said that he was not “her + type.” Although strong and active he was not the huge mass of bones and + muscles and thews and sinews, ignorant of beauty and devoid of the love of + art, which Carey had described as her ideal. There was melancholy and + there was subtlety in him. When Lady Holme was a girl this melancholy and + subtlety had not appealed to her sufficiently to induce her to become Lady + Viola Pierce. Nevertheless, Robin’s affection for her, and the peculiar + form it took—of idealising her secret nature and wishing her obvious + beauty away—had won upon the egoism of her. Although she laughed at + his absurdity, as she called it, and honestly held to her Pagan belief + that physical beauty was all in all to the world she wished to influence, + it pleased her sometimes to fancy that perhaps he was right, that perhaps + her greatest loveliness was hidden and dwelt apart. The thought was + flattering, and though her knowledge of men rejected the idea that such a + loveliness alone could ever command an empire worth the ruling, she could + have no real objection to being credited with a double share of charm—the + charm of face and manner which everyone, including herself, was aware that + she possessed, and that other stranger, more dim and mysterious charm at + whose altar Robin burnt an agreeably perfumed incense. + </p> + <p> + She had a peculiar power of awakening in others that which she usually + seemed not to possess herself—imagination, passion, not only + physical but ethereal and of the mind; a tenderness for old sorrows, + desire for distant, fleeting, misty glories not surely of this earth. She + was a brilliant suggestionist, but not in conversation. Her face and her + voice, when she sang, were luring to the lovers of beauty. When she sang + she often expressed for them the under-thoughts and under-feelings of + secretly romantic, secretly wistful men and women, and drew them to her as + if by a spell. But her talk and manner in conversation were so unlike her + singing, so little accorded with the look that often came into her eyes + while she sang, that she was a perpetual puzzle to such elderly men as Sir + Donald Ulford, to such young men as Robin Pierce, and even to some women. + They came about her like beggars who have heard a chink of gold, and she + showed them a purse that seemed to be empty. + </p> + <p> + Was it the <i>milieu</i> in which she lived, the influence of a vulgar and + greedy age, which prevented her from showing her true self except in her + art? Or was she that stupefying enigma sometimes met with, an + unintelligent genius? + </p> + <p> + There were some who wondered. + </p> + <p> + In her singing she seemed to understand, to love, to pity, to enthrone. In + her life she often seemed not to understand, not to love, not to pity, not + to place high. + </p> + <p> + She sang of Venice, and those who cannot even think of the city in the sea + without a flutter of the heart, a feeling not far from soft pain in its + tenderness and gratitude, listened to the magic bells at sunset, and + glided in the fairy barques across the liquid plains of gold. She spoke of + Venice, and they heard only the famished voice of the mosquito uttering + its midnight grace before meat. + </p> + <p> + Which was the real Venice? + </p> + <p> + Which was the real woman? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <p> + ON the following day, which was warm and damp; Lady Holme drove to Bond + Street, bought two new hats, had her hand read by a palmist who called + himself “Cupido,” looked in at a ladies’ club and then went to Mrs. + Wolfstein, with whom she was engaged to lunch. She did not wish to lunch + with her. She disliked Mrs. Wolfstein as she disliked most women, but she + had not been able to get out of it. Mrs. Wolfstein had overheard her + saying to Lady Cardington that she had nothing particular to do till four + that day, and had immediately “pinned her.” Besides disliking Mrs. + Wolfstein, Lady Holme was a little afraid of her. Like many clever + Jewesses, Mrs. Wolfstein was a ruthless conversationalist, and enjoyed + showing off at the expense of others, even when they were her guests. She + had sometimes made Lady Holme feel stupid, even feel as if a good talker + might occasionally gain, and keep, an advantage over a lovely woman who + did not talk so well. The sensation passed, but the fact that it had ever + been did not draw Lady Holme any closer to the woman with the “pawnbroking + expression” in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wolfstein was not in the most exclusive set in London, but she was in + the smart set, which is no longer exclusive although it sometimes hopes it + is. She knew the racing people, nearly all the most fashionable Jews, and + those very numerous English patricians who like to go where money is. She + also knew the whole of Upper Bohemia, and was a <i>persona gratissima</i> + in that happy land of talent and jealousy. She entertained a great deal, + generally at modish restaurants. Many French and Germans were to be met + with at her parties; and it was impossible to be with either them or her + for many minutes without hearing the most hearty and whole-souled abuse of + English aspirations, art, letters and cooking. The respectability, the + pictures, the books and the boiled cabbage of Britain all came impartially + under the lash. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wolfstein’s origin was obscure. That she was a Jewess was known to + everybody, but few could say with certainty whether she was a German, a + Spanish, a Polish or an Eastern Jewess. She had much of the covert + coarseness and open impudence of a Levantine, and occasionally said things + which made people wonder whether, before she became Amalia Wolfstein, she + had not perhaps been—well really—something very strange + somewhere a long way off. + </p> + <p> + Her husband was shocking to look at: small, mean, bald, Semitic and + nervous, with large ears which curved outwards from his head like leaves, + and cheeks blue from much shaving. He was said to hide behind his anxious + manner an acuteness that was diabolic, and to have earned his ill-health + by sly dissipations for which he had paid enormous sums. There were two + Wolfstein children, a boy and a girl of eleven and twelve; small, swarthy, + frog-like, self-possessed. They already spoke three languages, and their + protruding eyes looked almost diseased with intelligence. + </p> + <p> + The Wolfstein house, which was in Curzon Street, was not pretty, + Apparently neither Mrs. Wolfstein nor her husband, who was a financier and + company promoter on a very large scale, had good taste in furniture and + decoration. The mansion was spacious but dingy. There was a great deal of + chocolate and fiery yellow paint. There were many stuffy brown carpets, + and tables which were unnecessarily solid. In the hall were pillars which + looked as if they were made of brawn, and arches with lozenges of azure + paint in which golden stars appeared rather meretriciously. A plaster + statue of Hebe, with crinkly hair and staring eyeballs, stood in a corner + without improving matters. That part of the staircase which was not + concealed by the brown carpet was dirty white. An immense oil painting of + a heap of dead pheasants, rabbits and wild duck, lying beside a gun and a + pair of leather gaiters, immediately faced the hall door, which was opened + by two enormous men with yellow complexions and dissipated eyes. Mrs. + Wolfstein was at home, and one of the enormous men lethargically showed + Lady Holme upstairs into a drawing-room which suggested a Gordon Hotel. + She waited for about five minutes on a brown and yellow sofa near a table + on which lay some books and several paper-knives, and then Mrs. Wolfstein + appeared. She was dressed very smartly in blue and red, and looked either + Oriental or Portuguese, as she came in. Lady Holme was not quite certain + which. + </p> + <p> + “Dear person!” she said, taking Lady Holme’s hands in hers, which were + covered with unusually large rings. “Now, I’ve got a confession to make. + What a delicious hat!” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme felt certain the confession was of something unpleasant, but + she only said, in the rather languid manner she generally affected towards + women: + </p> + <p> + “Well? My ear is at the grating.” + </p> + <p> + “My lunch is at the Carlton.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme was pleased. At the Carlton one can always look about. + </p> + <p> + “And—it’s a woman’s lunch.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme’s countenance fell quite frankly. + </p> + <p> + “I knew you’d be horrified. You think us such bores, and so we are. But I + couldn’t resist being malicious to win such a triumph. You at a hen lunch! + It’ll be the talk of London. Can you forgive me?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “And can you stand it?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme looked definitely dubious. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell you who’ll be there—Lady Cardington, Lady Manby, Mrs. + Trent—do you know her? Spanish looking, and’s divorced two husbands, + and’s called the scarlet woman because she always dresses in red—Sally + Perceval, Miss Burns and Pimpernel Schley.” + </p> + <p> + “Pimpernel Schley! Who is she?” + </p> + <p> + “The American actress who plays all the improper modern parts. Directly a + piece is produced in Paris that we run over to see—you know the + sort! the Grand Duke and foreign Royalty species—she has it adapted + for her. Of course it’s Bowdlerised as to words, but she manages to get + back all that’s been taken out in her acting. Young America’s crazy about + her. She’s going to play over here.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme’s voice was not encouraging, but Mrs. Wolfstein was not + sensitive. She chattered gaily all the way to the Haymarket. When they + came into the Palm Court they found Lady Cardington already there, seated + tragically in an armchair, and looking like a weary empress. The band was + playing on the balcony just outside the glass wall which divides the great + dining-room from the court, and several people were dotted about waiting + for friends, or simply killing time by indulging curiosity. Among them was + a large, broad-shouldered young man, with a round face, contemptuous blue + eyes and a mouth with chubby, pouting lips. He was well dressed, but there + was a touch of horseyness in the cut of his trousers, the arrangement of + his tie. He sat close to the band, tipping his green chair backwards and + smoking a cigarette. + </p> + <p> + As Mrs. Wolfstein and Lady Holme went up to greet Lady Cardington, Sally + Perceval and Mrs. Trent came in together, followed almost immediately by + Lady Manby. + </p> + <p> + Sally Perceval was a very pretty young married woman, who spent most of + her time racing, gambling and going to house parties. She looked + excessively fragile and consumptive, but had lived hard and never had a + day’s illness in her life. She was accomplished, not at all intellectual, + clever at games, a fine horsewoman and an excellent swimmer. She had been + all over the world with her husband, who was very handsome and almost + idiotic, and who could not have told you what the Taj was, whether Thebes + was in Egypt or India, or what was the difference, if any, between the + Golden Gate and the Golden Horn. Mrs. Trent was large, sultry, + well-informed and supercilious; had the lustrous eyes of a Spaniard, and + spoke in a warm contralto voice. Her figure was magnificent, and she + prided herself on having a masculine intellect. Her enemies said that she + had a more than masculine temper. + </p> + <p> + Lady Manby had been presented by Providence with a face like a teapot, her + nose being the spout and her cheeks the bulging sides. She saw everything + in caricature. If war were spoken of, her imagination immediately conjured + up visions of unwashed majors conspicuously absurd in toeless boots, of + fat colonels forced to make merry on dead rats, of field-marshals + surprised by the enemy in their nightshirts, and of common soldiers driven + to repair their own clothes and preposterously at work on women’s tasks. + She adored the clergy for their pious humours, the bench for its delicious + attempts at dignity, the bar for its grotesque travesties of passionate + conviction—lies with their wigs on—the world political for its + intrigues dressed up in patriotism. A Lord Chancellor in full state seemed + to her the most delightfully ridiculous phenomenon in a delightfully + ridiculous universe. And she had once been obliged to make a convulsive + exit from an English cathedral, in which one hundred colonial bishops were + singing a solemn hymn, entirely devastated by the laughter waked in her by + this most sacred spectacle. + </p> + <p> + Miss Burns, who hurried in breathlessly ten minutes late, was very thin, + badly dressed and insignificant-looking, wore her hair short, and could + not see you if you were more than four feet away from her. She had been on + various lonely and distant travelling excursions, about which she had + written books, had consorted merrily with naked savages, sat in the oily + huts of Esquimaux, and penetrated into the interior of China dressed as a + man. Her lack of affectation hit you in the face on a first meeting, and + her sincerity was perpetually embroiling her with the persistent liars + who, massed together, formed what is called decent society. + </p> + <p> + “I know I’m late,” she said, pushing her round black hat askew on her + shaggy little head. “I know I’ve kept you all waiting. Pardon!” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed you haven’t,” replied Mrs. Wolfstein. “Pimpernel Schley isn’t here + yet. She lives in the hotel, so of course she’ll turn up last.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Trent put one hand on her hip and stared insolently at the various + groups of people in the court, Lady Cardington sighed, and Lady Holme + assumed a vacant look, which suited her mental attitude at the moment. She + generally began to feel rather vacant if she were long alone with women. + </p> + <p> + Another ten minutes passed. + </p> + <p> + “I’m famishing,” said Sally Perceval. “I’ve been at the Bath Club diving, + and I do so want my grub. Let’s skip in.” + </p> + <p> + “It really is too bad—oh, here she comes!” said Mrs. Wolfstein. + </p> + <p> + Many heads in the Palm Court were turned towards the stairs, down which a + demure figure was walking with extreme slowness. The big young man with + the round face got up from his chair and looked greedy, and the waiters + standing by the desk just inside the door glanced round, whispered, and + smiled quickly before gliding off to their different little tables. + </p> + <p> + Pimpernel Schley was alone, but she moved as if she were leading a quiet + procession of vestal virgins. She was dressed in white, with a black + velvet band round her tiny waist and a large black hat. Her shining, + straw-coloured hair was fluffed out with a sort of ostentatious innocence + on either side of a broad parting, and she kept her round chin tucked well + in as she made what was certainly an effective entrance. Her arms hung + down at her sides, and in one hand she carried a black fan. She wore no + gloves, and many diamond rings glittered on her small fingers, the rosy + nails of which were trimmed into points. As she drew near to Mrs. + Wolfstein’s party she walked slower and slower, as if she felt that she + was arriving at a destination much too soon. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme watched her as she approached, examined her with that piercing + scrutiny in which the soul of one woman is thrust out, like a spear, + towards the soul of another. She noticed at once that Miss Schley + resembled her, had something of her charm of fairness. It was a fainter, + more virginal charm than hers. The colouring of hair and eyes was lighter. + The complexion was a more dead, less warm, white. But there was certainly + a resemblance. Miss Schley was almost exactly her height, too, and— + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme glanced swiftly round the Palm Court. Of all the women gathered + there Pimpernel Schley and herself were nearest akin in appearance. + </p> + <p> + As she recognised this fact Lady Holme felt hostile to Miss Schley. + </p> + <p> + Not until the latter was almost touching her hostess did she lift her eyes + from the ground. Then she stood still, looked up calmly, and said, in a + drawling and infantine voice: + </p> + <p> + “I had to see my trunks unpacked, but I was bound to be on time. I + wouldn’t have come down to-day for any soul in the world but you. I would + not.” + </p> + <p> + It was a pretty speaking voice, clear and youthful, with a choir-boyish + sound in it, and remarkably free from nasal twang, but it was not a lady’s + voice. It sounded like the frontispiece of a summer number become + articulate. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wolfstein began to introduce Miss Schley to her guests, none of whom, + it seemed, knew her. She bowed to each of them, still with the vestal + virgin air, and said, “Glad to know you!” to each in turn without looking + at anyone. Then Mrs. Wolfstein led the way into the restaurant. + </p> + <p> + Everyone looked at the party of women as they came in and ranged + themselves round a table in the middle of the big room. Lady Cardington + sat on one side of Mrs. Wolfstein and Lady Holme on the other, between her + and Mrs. Trent. Miss Schley was exactly opposite. She kept her eyes + eternally cast down like a nun at Benediction. All the quite young men who + could see her were looking at her with keen interest, and two or three of + them—probably up from Sandhurst—had already assumed + expressions calculated to alarm modesty. Others looked mournfully fatuous, + as if suddenly a prey to lasting and romantic grief. The older men were + more impartial in their observation of Mrs. Wolfstein’s guests. And all + the women, without exception, fixed their eyes upon Lady Holme’s hat. + </p> + <p> + Lady Cardington, who seemed oppressed by grief, said to Mrs. Wolfstein: + </p> + <p> + “Did you see that article in the <i>Daily Mail</i> this morning?” + </p> + <p> + “Which one?” + </p> + <p> + “On the suggestion to found a school in which the only thing to be taught + would be happiness.” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s going to be the teacher?” + </p> + <p> + “Some man. I forget the name.” + </p> + <p> + “A man!” said Mrs. Trent, in a slow, veiled contralto voice. “Why, men are + always furious if they think we have any pleasure which they can’t deprive + us of at a minute’s notice. A man is the last two-legged thing to be a + happiness teacher.” + </p> + <p> + “Whom would you have then?” said Lady Cardington. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody, or a child.” + </p> + <p> + “Of which sex?” said Mrs. Wolfstein. + </p> + <p> + “The sex of a child,” replied Mrs. Trent. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wolfstein laughed rather loudly. + </p> + <p> + “I think children are the most greedy, unsatisfied individuals in—” + she began. + </p> + <p> + “I was not alluding to Curzon Street children,” observed Mrs. Trent, + interrupting. “When I speak in general terms of anything I always except + London.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” said Sally Perceval. + </p> + <p> + “Because it’s no more natural, no more central, no more in line with the + truth of things than you are, Sally.” + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear, you surely aren’t a belated follower of Tolstoi!” cried + Mrs. Wolfstein. “You don’t want us all to live like day labourers.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want anybody to do anything, but if happiness is to be taught it + must not be by a man or by a Londoner.” + </p> + <p> + “I had no idea you had been caught by the cult of simplicity,” said Mrs. + Wolfstein. “But you are so clever. You reveal your dislikes but conceal + your preferences. Most women think that if they only conceal their + dislikes they are quite perfectly subtle.” + </p> + <p> + “Subtle people are delicious,” said Lady Manby, putting her mouth on one + side. “They remind me of a kleptomaniac I once knew who had a little + pocket closed by a flap let into the front of her gown. When she dined out + she filled it with scraps. Once she dined with us and I saw her, when she + thought no one was watching, peppering her pocket with cayenne, and + looking so delightfully sly and thieving. Subtle people are always + peppering their little pockets and thinking nobody sees them.” + </p> + <p> + “And lots of people don’t,” said Mrs. Wolfstein. + </p> + <p> + “The vices are divinely comic,” continued Lady Manby, looking every moment + more like a teapot. “I think it’s such a mercy. Fancy what a lot of fun we + should lose if there were no drunkards, for instance!” + </p> + <p> + Lady Cardington looked shocked. + </p> + <p> + “The virtues are often more comic than the vices,” said Mrs. Trent, with + calm authority. “Dramatists know that. Think of the dozens of good farces + whose foundation is supreme respectability in contact with the wicked + world.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know anyone called respectability a virtue,” cried Sally + Perceval. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, all the English do in their hearts,” said Mrs. Wolfstein. “Pimpernel, + are you Yankees as bad?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Schley was eating <i>sole a la Colbert</i> with her eyes on her + plate. She ate very slowly and took tiny morsels. Now she looked up. + </p> + <p> + “We’re pretty respectable over in America, I suppose,” she drawled. “Why + not? What harm does it do anyway?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it limits the inventive faculties for one thing. If one is strictly + respectable life is plain sailing.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, life is never that,” said Mrs. Trent, “for women.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Cardington seemed touched by this remark. + </p> + <p> + “Never, never,” she said in her curious voice—a voice in which tears + seemed for ever to be lingering. “We women are always near the rocks.” + </p> + <p> + “Or on them,” said Mrs. Trent, thinking doubtless of the two husbands she + had divorced. + </p> + <p> + “I like a good shipwreck,” exclaimed Miss Burns in a loud tenor voice. “I + was in two before I was thirty, one off Hayti and one off Java, and I + enjoyed them both thoroughly. They wake folks up and make them show their + mettle.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s always dangerous to speak figuratively if she’s anywhere about,” + murmured Mrs. Wolfstein to Lady Holme. “She’ll talk about lowering boats + and life-preservers now till the end of lunch.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme started. She had not been listening to the conversation but had + been looking at Miss Schley. She had noticed instantly the effect created + in the room by the actress’s presence in it. The magic of a name flits, + like a migratory bird, across the Atlantic. Numbers of the youthful + loungers of London had been waiting impatiently during the last weeks for + the arrival of this pale and demure star. Now that she had come their + interest in her was keen. Her peculiar reputation for ingeniously tricking + Mrs. Bowdler, secretary to Mrs. Grundy, rendered her very piquant, and + this piquancy was increased by her ostentatiously vestal appearance. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme was sometimes clairvoyante. At this moment every nerve in her + body seemed telling her that the silent girl, who sat there nibbling her + lunch composedly, was going to be the rage in London. It did not matter at + all whether she had talent or not. Lady Holme saw that directly, as she + glanced from one little table to another at the observant, whispering men. + </p> + <p> + She felt angry with Miss Schley for resembling her in colouring, for + resembling her in another respect—capacity for remaining calmly + silent in the midst of fashionable chatterboxes. + </p> + <p> + “Will she?” she said to Mrs. Wolfstein. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. If she’d never been shipwrecked she’d have been almost entertaining, + but—there’s Sir Donald Ulford trying to attract your attention.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + She looked and saw Sir Donald sitting opposite to the large young man with + the contemptuous blue eyes and the chubby mouth. They both seemed very + bored. Sir Donald bowed. + </p> + <p> + “Who is that with him?” asked Lady Holme. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Wolfstein. “He looks like a Cupid who’s been + through Sandow’s school. He oughtn’t to wear anything but wings.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s Sir Donald’s son, Leo,” said Lady Cardington. + </p> + <p> + Pimpernel Schley lifted her eyes for an instant from her plate, glanced at + Leo Ulford, and cast them down again. + </p> + <p> + “Leo Ulford’s a blackguard,” observed Mrs. Trent. “And when a fair man’s a + blackguard he’s much more dangerous than a dark man.” + </p> + <p> + All the women stared at Leo Ulford with a certain eagerness. + </p> + <p> + “He’s good-looking,” said Sally Perceval. “But I always distrust cherubic + people. They’re bound to do you if they get the chance. Isn’t he married?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Mrs. Trent. “He married a deaf heiress.” + </p> + <p> + “Intelligent of him!” remarked Mrs. Wolfstein. “I always wish I’d married + a blind millionaire instead of Henry. Being a Jew, Henry sees not only all + there is to see, but all there isn’t. Sir Donald and his Cupid son don’t + seem to have much to say to one another.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don’t you know that family affection’s the dumbest thing on earth?” + said Mrs. Trent. + </p> + <p> + “Too deep for speech,” said Lady Manby. “I love to see fathers and sons + together, the fathers trying to look younger than they are and the sons + older. It’s the most comic relationship, and breeds shyness as the West + African climate breeds fever.” + </p> + <p> + “I know the whole of the West African coast by heart,” declared Miss + Burns, wagging her head, and moving her brown hands nervously among her + knives and forks. “And I never caught anything there.” + </p> + <p> + “Not even a husband,” murmured Mrs. Wolfstein to Lady Manby. + </p> + <p> + “In fact, I never felt better in my life than I did at Old Calabar,” + continued Miss Burns. “But there my mind was occupied. I was studying the + habits of alligators.” + </p> + <p> + “They’re very bad, aren’t they?” asked Lady Manby, in a tone of earnest + inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “I prefer to study the habits of men,” said Sally Perceval, who was always + surrounded by a troup of young racing men and athletes, who admired her + swimming feats. + </p> + <p> + “Men are very disappointing, I think,” observed Mrs. Trent. “They are like + a lot of beads all threaded on one string.” + </p> + <p> + “And what’s the string?” asked Sally Perceval. + </p> + <p> + “Vanity. Men are far vainer than we are. Their indifference to the little + arts we practise shows it. A woman whose head is bald covers it with a + wig. Without a wig she would feel that she was an outcast totally + powerless to attract. But a bald-headed man has no idea of diffidence. He + does not bother about a wig because he expects to be adored without one.” + </p> + <p> + “And the worst of it is that he is adored,” said Mrs. Wolfstein. “Look at + my passion for Henry.” + </p> + <p> + They began to talk about their husbands. Lady Holme did not join in. She + and Pimpernel Schley were very silent members of the party. Even Miss + Burns, who was—so she said—a spinster by conviction not by + necessity, plunged into the husband question, and gave some very daring + illustrations of the marriage customs of certain heathen tribes. + </p> + <p> + Pimpernel Schley hardly spoke at all. When someone, turning to her, asked + her what she thought about the subject under discussion, she lifted her + pale eyes and said, with the choir-boy drawl: + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got no husband and never had one, so I guess I’m no kind of a + judge.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess she’s a judge of other women’s husbands, though,” said Mrs. + Wolfstein to Lady Cardington. “That child is going to devastate London.” + </p> + <p> + Now and then Lady Holme glanced towards Sir Donald and his son. They + seemed as untalkative as she was. Sir Donald kept on looking towards Mrs. + Wolfstein’s table. So did Leo. But whereas Leo Ulford’s eyes were fixed on + Pimpernel Schley, Sir Donald’s met the eyes of Lady Holme. She felt + annoyed; not because Sir Donald was looking at her, but because his son + was not. + </p> + <p> + How these women talked about their husbands! Lady Cardington, who was a + widow, spoke of husbands as if they were a race which was gradually dying + out. She thought the modern woman was beginning to get a little tired of + the institution of matrimony, and to care much less for men than was + formerly the case. Being contradicted by Mrs. Trent, she gave her reasons + for this belief. One was that whereas American matinee girls used to go + mad over the “leading men” of the stage they now went mad over the leading + women. She also instanced the many beautiful London women, universally + admired, who were over thirty and still remained spinsters. Mrs. Trent + declared that they were abnormal, and that, till the end of time, women + would always wish to be wives. Mrs. Wolfstein agreed with her on various + grounds. One was that it was the instinct of woman to buy and to rule, and + that if she were rich she could now acquire a husband as, in former days, + people acquired slaves—by purchase. This remark led to the old + question of American heiresses and the English nobility, and to a + prolonged discussion as to whether or not most women ruled their husbands. + </p> + <p> + Women nearly always argue from personal experience, and consequently Lady + Cardington—whose husband had treated her badly—differed on + this point from Mrs. Wolfstein, who always did precisely what she pleased, + regardless of Mr. Wolfstein’s wishes. Mrs. Trent affirmed that for her + part she thought women should treat their husbands as they treated their + servants, and dismiss them if they didn’t behave themselves, without + giving them a character. She had done so twice, and would do it a third + time if the occasion arose. Sally Perceval attacked her for this, pleading + slangily that men would be men, and that their failings ought to be winked + at; and Miss Burns, as usual, brought the marital proceedings of African + savages upon the carpet. Lady Manby turned the whole thing into a joke by + a farcical description of the Private Enquiry proceedings of a jealous + woman of her acquaintance, who had donned a canary-coloured wig as a + disguise, and dogged her husband’s footsteps in the streets of London, + only to find that he went out at odd times to visit a grandmother from + whom he had expectations, and who happened to live in St. John’s Wood. + </p> + <p> + The foreign waiters, who moved round the table handing the dishes, + occasionally exchanged furtive glances which seemed indicative of + suppressed amusement, and the men who were lunching near, many of whom + were now smoking cigarettes, became more and more intent upon Mrs. + Wolfstein and her guests. As they were getting up to go into the Palm + Court for coffee and liqueurs, Lady Cardington again referred to the + article on the proposed school for happiness, which had apparently made a + deep impression upon her. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if happiness can be taught,” she said. “If it can—” + </p> + <p> + “It can’t,” said Mrs. Trent, with more than her usual sledge-hammer + bluntness. “We aren’t meant to be happy here.” + </p> + <p> + “Who doesn’t mean us to be happy?” asked poor Lady Cardington in a + deplorable voice. + </p> + <p> + “First—our husbands.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s cowardly not to be happy,” cried Miss Burns, pushing her hat over + her left eye as a tribute to the close of lunch. “In a savage state you’ll + always find—” + </p> + <p> + The remainder of her remark was lost in the <i>frou-frou</i> of skirts as + the eight women began slowly to thread their way between the tables to the + door. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme found herself immediately behind Miss Schley, who moved with + impressive deliberation and the extreme composure of a well-brought-up + child thoroughly accustomed to being shown off to visitors. Her + straw-coloured hair was done low in the nape of her snowy neck, and, as + she took her little steps, her white skirt trailed over the carpet behind + her with a sort of virginal slyness. As she passed Leo Ulford it brushed + gently against him, and he drummed the large fingers of his left hand with + sudden violence on the tablecloth, at the same time pursing his chubby + lips and then opening his mouth as if he were going to say something. + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald rose and bowed. Mrs. Wolfstein murmured a word to him in + passing, and they had not been sipping their coffee for more than two or + three minutes before he joined them with his son. + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald came up at once to Lady Holme. + </p> + <p> + “May I present my son to you, Lady Holme?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “Leo, I wish to introduce you to Lady Holme.” + </p> + <p> + Leo Ulford bowed rather ungracefully. Standing up he looked more than ever + like a huge boy, and he had much of the expression that is often + characteristic of huge boys—an expression in which impudence seems + to float forward from a background of surliness. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme said nothing. Leo Ulford sat down beside her in an armchair. + </p> + <p> + “Better weather,” he remarked. + </p> + <p> + Then he called a waiter, and said to him, in a hectoring voice: + </p> + <p> + “Bring me a Kummel and make haste about it.” + </p> + <p> + He lit a cigarette that was almost as big as a cigar, and turned again to + Lady Holme. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been in the Sahara gazelle shooting,” he continued. + </p> + <p> + He spoke in a rather thick, lumbering voice and very loud, probably + because he was married to a deaf woman. + </p> + <p> + “Just come back,” he added. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Lady Holme. + </p> + <p> + She was sitting perfectly upright on her chair, and noticed that her + companion’s eyes travelled calmly and critically over her figure with an + unveiled deliberation that was exceptionally brazen even in a modern + London man. Lady Holme did not mind it. Indeed, she rather liked it. She + knew at once, by that look, the type of man with whom she had to deal. In + Leo Ulford there was something of Lord Holme, as in Pimpernel Schley there + was perhaps a touch of herself. Having finished his stare, Leo Ulford + continued: + </p> + <p> + “Jolly out there. No rot. Do as you like and no one to bother you. Gazelle + are awfully shy beasts though.” + </p> + <p> + “They must have suited you,” said Lady Holme, very gravely. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” he asked, taking the glass of Kummel which the waiter had brought + and setting it down on a table by him. + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you a shy—er—beast?” + </p> + <p> + He stared at her calmly for a moment, and then said: + </p> + <p> + “I say, you’re too sharp, Lady Holme.” + </p> + <p> + He turned his head towards Pimpernel Schley, who was sitting a little way + off with her soft, white chin tucked well in, looking steadily down into a + cup half full of Turkish coffee and speaking to nobody. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s that girl?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “That’s Miss Pimpernel Schley. A pretty name, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Is it? An American of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “What cheek they have? What’s she do?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe she acts in—well, a certain sort of plays.” + </p> + <p> + A slow smile overspread Leo Ulford’s face and made him look more like a + huge boy than ever. + </p> + <p> + “What certain sort?” he asked. “The sort I’d like?” + </p> + <p> + “Very probably. But I know nothing of your tastes.” + </p> + <p> + She did—everything almost. There are a good many Leo Ulfords + lounging about London. + </p> + <p> + “I like anything that’s a bit lively, with no puritanic humbug about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you surely can’t suppose that there can be any puritanic humbug + about Miss Schley or anything she has to do with!” + </p> + <p> + He glanced again at Pimpernel Schley and then at Lady Holme. The smile on + his face became a grin. Then his huge shoulders began to shake gently. + </p> + <p> + “I do love talking to women,” he said, on the tide of a prolonged chuckle. + “When they aren’t deaf.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme still remained perfectly grave. + </p> + <p> + “Do you? Why?” she inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you guess why?” + </p> + <p> + “Our charity to our sister women?” + </p> + <p> + She was smiling now. + </p> + <p> + “You teach me such a lot,” he said. + </p> + <p> + He drank his Kummel. + </p> + <p> + “I always learn something when I talk to a woman. I’ve learnt something + from you.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme did not ask him what it was. She saw that he was now more + intent on her than he had been on Miss Schley, and she got up to go, + feeling more cheerful than she had since she left the <i>atelier</i> of + “Cupido.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t go.” + </p> + <p> + “I must.” + </p> + <p> + “Already! May I come and call?” + </p> + <p> + “Your father knows my address.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I say—but—” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not going already!” cried Mrs. Wolfstein, who was having a second + glass of Benedictine and beginning to talk rather outrageously and with a + more than usually pronounced foreign accent. + </p> + <p> + “I must, really.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid my son has bored you,” murmured Sir Donald, in his worn-out + voice. + </p> + <p> + “No, I like him,” she replied, loud enough for Leo to hear. + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald did not look particularly gratified at this praise of his + achievement. Lady Holme took an airy leave of everybody. When she came to + Pimpernel Schley she said: + </p> + <p> + “I wish you a great success, Miss Schley.” + </p> + <p> + “Many thanks,” drawled the vestal virgin, who was still looking into her + coffee cup. + </p> + <p> + “I must come to your first night. Have you ever acted in London?” + </p> + <p> + “Never.” + </p> + <p> + “You won’t be nervous?” + </p> + <p> + “Nervous! Don’t know the word.” + </p> + <p> + She bent to sip her coffee. + </p> + <p> + When Lady Holme reached the door of the Carlton, and was just entering one + of the revolving cells to gain the pavement, she heard Lady Cardington’s + low voice behind her. + </p> + <p> + “Let me drive you home, dear.” + </p> + <p> + At the moment she felt inclined to be alone. She had even just refused Sir + Donald’s earnest request to accompany her to her carriage. Had any other + woman made her this offer she would certainly have refused it. But few + people refused any request of Lady Cardington’s. Lady Holme, like the rest + of the world, felt the powerful influence that lay in her gentleness as a + nerve lies in a body. And then had she not wept when Lady Holme sang a + tender song to her? In a moment they were driving up the Haymarket + together in Lady Cardington’s barouche. + </p> + <p> + The weather had grown brighter. Wavering gleams of light broke through the + clouds and lay across the city, giving a peculiarly unctuous look to the + slimy streets, in which there were a good many pedestrians more or less + splashed with mud. There was a certain hopefulness in the atmosphere, and + yet a pathos such as there always is in Spring, when it walks through + London ways, bearing itself half nervously, like a country cousin. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like this time of year,” said Lady Cardington. + </p> + <p> + She was leaning back and glancing anxiously about her. + </p> + <p> + “But why not?” asked Lady Holme. “What’s the matter with it?” + </p> + <p> + “Youth.” + </p> + <p> + “But surely—” + </p> + <p> + “The year’s too young. And at my age one feels very often as if the + advantage of youth were an unfair advantage.” + </p> + <p> + “Dare I ask—?” + </p> + <p> + She checked herself, looking at her companion’s snow-white hair, which was + arranged in such a way that it looked immensely thick under the big black + hat she wore—a hat half grandmotherly and half coquettish, that + certainly suited her to perfection. + </p> + <p> + “Spring—” she was beginning rather quickly; but Lady Cardington + interrupted her. + </p> + <p> + “Fifty-eight,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She laughed anxiously and looked at Lady Holme. + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t you think I was older?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know that I ever thought about it,” replied Lady Holme, with the + rather careless frankness she often used towards women. + </p> + <p> + “Of course not. Why should you, or anyone? When a woman’s once over fifty + it really doesn’t matter much whether she’s fifty-one or seventy-one. Does + it?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme thought for a moment. Then she said: + </p> + <p> + “I really don’t know. You see, I’m not a man.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Cardington’s forehead puckered and her mouth drooped piteously. + </p> + <p> + “A woman’s real life is very short,” she said. “But her desire for real + life can last very long—her silly, useless desire.” + </p> + <p> + “But if her looks remain?” + </p> + <p> + “They don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “You think it is a question of looks?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think it is?” asked Lady Cardington. “But how can you know + anything about it, at your age, and with your appearance?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose we all have our different opinions as to what men are and what + men want,” Lady Holme said, more thoughtfully than usual. + </p> + <p> + “Men! Men!” Lady Cardington exclaimed, with a touch of irritation unusual + in her. “Why should we women do, and be, everything for men?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, but we do and we are. There are some men, though, who think + it isn’t a question of looks, or think they think so.” + </p> + <p> + “Who?” said Lady Cardington, quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, there are some,” answered Lady Holme, evasively, “who believe in + mental charm more than in physical charm, or say they do. And mental charm + doesn’t age so obviously as physical—as the body does, I suppose. + Perhaps we ought to pin our faith to it. What do you think of Miss + Schley?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Cardington glanced at her with a kind of depressed curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “She pins her faith to the other thing,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s pretty. Do you know she reminds me faintly of you.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme felt acute irritation at this remark, but she only said: + </p> + <p> + “Does she?” + </p> + <p> + “Something in her colouring. I’m sure she’s a man’s woman, but I can’t say + I found her interesting.” + </p> + <p> + “Men’s women seldom are interesting to us. They don’t care to be,” said + Lady Holme. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she thought that possibly between Pimpernel Schley and herself + there were resemblances unconnected with colouring. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose not. But still—ah, here’s Cadogan Square!” + </p> + <p> + She kissed Lady Holme lightly on the cheek. + </p> + <p> + “Fifty-eight!” Lady Holme said to herself as she went into the house. + “Just think of being fifty-eight if one has been a man’s woman! Perhaps + it’s better after all to be an everybody’s woman. Well, but how’s it + done?” + </p> + <p> + She looked quite puzzled as she came into the drawing-room, where Robin + Pierce had been waiting impatiently for twenty minutes. + </p> + <p> + “Robin,” she said seriously, “I’m very unhappy.” + </p> + <p> + “Not so unhappy as I have been for the last half hour,” he said, taking + her hand and holding it. “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m dreadfully afraid I’m a man’s woman. Do you think I am?” + </p> + <p> + He could not help smiling as he looked into her solemn eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I do indeed. Why should you be upset about it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. Lady Cardington’s been saying things—and I met a + rather abominable little person at lunch, a little person like a baby + that’s been about a great deal in a former state, and altogether—Let’s + have tea.” + </p> + <p> + “By all means.” + </p> + <p> + “And now soothe me, Robin. I’m dreadfully strung up. Soothe me. Tell me, + I’m an everybody’s woman and that I shall never be <i>de trop</i> in the + world—not even when I’m fifty-eight.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <p> + THE success of Pimpernel Schley in London was great and immediate, and + preceded her appearance upon the stage. To some people, who thought they + knew their London, it was inexplicable. Miss Schley was pretty and knew + how to dress. These facts, though of course denied by some, as all facts + in London are, were undeniable. But Miss Schley had nothing to say. She + was not a brilliant talker, as so many of her countrywomen are. She was + not vivacious in manner, except on rare occasions. She was not interested + in all the questions of the day. She was not—a great many things. + But she was one thing. + </p> + <p> + She was exquisitely sly. + </p> + <p> + Her slyness was definite and pervasive. In her it took the place of wit. + It took the place of culture. It even took the place of vivacity. It was a + sort of maid-of-all-work in her personality and never seemed to tire. The + odd thing was that it did not seem to tire others. They found it + permanently piquant. Men said of Miss Schley, “She’s a devilish clever + little thing. She don’t say much, but she’s up to every move on the + board.” Women were impressed by her. There was something in her supreme + and snowy composure that suggested inflexible will. Nothing ever put her + out or made her look as if she were in a false position. + </p> + <p> + London was captivated by the abnormal combination of snow and slyness + which she presented to it, and began at once to make much of her. + </p> + <p> + At one time the English were supposed to be cold; and rather gloried in + the supposition. But recently a change has taken place in the national + character—at any rate as exhibited in London. Rigidity has gone out + of fashion. It is condemned as insular, and unless you are cosmopolitan + nowadays you are nothing, or worse than nothing. The smart Englishwoman is + beginning to be almost as restless as a Neapolitan. She is in a continual + flutter of movement, as if her body were threaded with trembling wires. + She uses a great deal of gesture. She is noisy about nothing. She is + vivacious at all costs, and would rather suggest hysteria than British + phlegm. + </p> + <p> + Miss Schley’s calm was therefore in no danger of being drowned in any + pervasive calm about her. On the contrary, it stood out. It became very + individual. Her composed speechlessness in the midst of uneasy chatter—the + Englishwoman is seldom really self-possessed—carried with it a + certain dignity which took the place of breeding. She was always at her + ease, and to be always at your ease makes a deep impression upon London, + which is full of self-consciousness. + </p> + <p> + She began to be the fashion at once. A great lady, who had a passion for + supplying smart men with what they wanted, saw that they were going to + want Miss Schley and promptly took her up. Other women followed suit. Miss + Schley had a double triumph. She was run after by women as well as by men. + She got her little foot in everywhere, and in no time. Her personal + character was not notoriously bad. The slyness had taken care of that. But + even if it had been, if only the papers had not been too busy in the + matter, she might have had success. Some people do whose names have + figured upon the evening bills exposed at the street corners. Hers had not + and was not likely to. It was her art to look deliberately pure and good, + and to suggest, in a way almost indefinable and very perpetual, that she + could be anything and everything, and perhaps had been, under the perfumed + shadow of the rose. The fact that the suggestion seemed to be conveyed + with intention was the thing that took corrupt old London’s fancy and made + Miss Schley a pet. + </p> + <p> + Her name of Pimpernel was not against her. + </p> + <p> + Men liked it for its innocence, and laughed as they mentioned it in the + clubs, as who should say: + </p> + <p> + “We know the sort of Pimpernel we mean.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Schley’s social success brought her into Lady Holme’s set, and people + noticed, what Lady Holme had been the first to notice, the faint likeness + between them. Lady Holme was not exquisitely sly. Her voice was not like a + choir-boy’s; her manner was not like the manner of an image; her eyes were + not for ever cast down. Even her characteristic silence was far less + perpetual than the equally characteristic silence of Miss Schley. But men + said they were the same colour. What men said women began to think, and it + was not an assertion wholly without foundation. At a little distance there + was an odd resemblance in the one white face and fair hair to the other. + Miss Schley’s way of moving, too, had a sort of reference to Lady Holme’s + individual walk. There were several things characteristic of Lady Holme + which Miss Schley seemed to reproduce, as it were, with a sly + exaggeration. Her hair was similar, but paler, her whiteness more dead, + her silence more perpetual, her composure more enigmatically serene, her + gait slower, with diminished steps. + </p> + <p> + It was all a little like an imitation, with just a touch of caricature + added. + </p> + <p> + One or two friends remarked upon it to Lady Holme, who heard them very + airily. + </p> + <p> + “Are we alike?” she said. “I daresay, but you mustn’t expect me to see it. + One never knows the sort of impression one produces on the world. I think + Miss Schley a very attractive little creature, and as to her social gifts, + I bow to them.” + </p> + <p> + “But she has none,” cried Mrs. Wolfstein, who was one of those who had + drawn Lady Holme’s attention to the likeness. + </p> + <p> + “How can you say so? Everyone is at her feet.” + </p> + <p> + “Her feet, perhaps. They are lovely. But she has no gifts. That’s why she + gets on. Gifted people are a drug in the market. London’s sick of them. + They worry. Pimpernel’s found that out and gone in for the savage state. I + mean mentally of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Her mind dwells in a wigwam,” said Lady Manby. “And wears glass beads and + little bits of coloured cloth.” + </p> + <p> + “But her acting?” asked Lady Holme, with careless indifference. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that’s improper but not brilliant,” said Mrs. Wolfstein. “The + American critics says it’s beneath contempt.” + </p> + <p> + “But not beneath popularity, I suppose?” said Lady Holme. + </p> + <p> + “No, she’s enormously popular. Newspaper notices don’t matter to + Pimpernel. Are you going to ask her to your house? You might. She’s + longing to come. Everybody else has, and she knew you first.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme began to realise why she could never like Mrs. Wolfstein. The + latter would try to manage other people’s affairs. + </p> + <p> + “I had no idea she would care about it,” she answered, rather coldly. + </p> + <p> + “My dear—an American! And your house! You’re absurdly modest. She’s + simply pining to come. May I tell her to?” + </p> + <p> + “I should prefer to invite her myself,” said Lady Holme, with a distinct + touch of hauteur which made Mrs. Wolfstein smile maliciously. + </p> + <p> + When Lady Holme was alone she realised that she had, half unconsciously, + meant that Miss Schley should find that there was at any rate one house in + London whose door did not at once fly open to welcome her demure presence. + But now? She certainly did not intend to be a marked exception to a rule + that was apparently very general. If people were going to talk about her + exclusion of Miss Schley, she would certainly not exclude her. She asked + herself why she wished to, and said to herself that Miss Schley’s slyness + bored her. But she knew that the real reason of the secret hostility she + felt towards the American was the fact of their resemblance to each other. + Until Miss Schley appeared in London she—Viola Holme—had been + original both in her beauty and in her manner of presenting it to the + world. Miss Schley was turning her into a type. + </p> + <p> + It was too bad. Any woman would have disliked it. + </p> + <p> + She wondered whether Miss Schley recognised the likeness. But of course + people had spoken to her about it. Mrs. Wolfstein was her bosom friend. + The Jewess had met her first at Carlsbad and, with that terrible social + flair which often dwells in Israel, had at once realised her fitness for a + London success and resolved to “get her over.” Women of the Wolfstein + species are seldom jealously timorous of the triumphs of other women. A + certain coarse cleverness, a certain ingrained assurance and unconquerable + self-confidence keeps them hardy. And they generally have a noble reliance + on the power of the tongue. Being incapable of any fear of Miss Schley, + Mrs. Wolfstein, ever on the look-out for means of improving her already + satisfactory position in the London world, saw one in the vestal virgin + and resolved to launch her in England. She was delighted with the result. + Miss Schley had already added several very desirable people to the + Wolfstein visiting-list. In return “Henry” had “put her on to” one or two + very good things in the City. Everything would be most satisfactory if + only Lady Holme were not tiresome about the Cadogan Square door. + </p> + <p> + “She hates you, Pimpernel,” said Mrs. Wolfstein to her friend. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” drawled Miss Schley. + </p> + <p> + “You know why perfectly well. You reproduce her looks. I’m perfectly + certain she’s dreading your first night. She’s afraid people will begin to + think that extraordinary colourless charm she and you possess stagey. + Besides, you have certain mannerisms—you don’t imitate her, + Pimpernel?” + </p> + <p> + The pawnbroking expression was remarkably apparent for a moment in Mrs. + Wolfstein’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t started to yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if she don’t ask me to number thirty-eight—‘tis + thirty-eight?” + </p> + <p> + “Forty-two.” + </p> + <p> + “Forty-two Cadogan Square, I might be tempted. I came out as a mimic, you + know, at Corsher and Byall’s in Philadelphia.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Schley gazed reflectively upon the brown carpet of Mrs. Wolfstein’s + boudoir. + </p> + <p> + “Folks said I wasn’t bad,” she added meditatively. + </p> + <p> + “I think I ought to warn Viola,” said Mrs. Wolfstein. + </p> + <p> + She was peculiarly intimate with people of distinction when they weren’t + there. Miss Schley looked as if she had not heard. She often did when + anything of importance to her was said. It was important to her to be + admitted to Lady Holme’s house. Everybody went there. It was one of the + very smartest houses in London, and since everybody knew that she had been + introduced to Lady Holme, since half the world was comparing their faces + and would soon begin to compare their mannerisms—well, it would be + better that she should not be forced into any revival of her Philadelphia + talents. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wolfstein did not warn Lady Holme. She was far too fond of being + amused to do anything so short-sighted. Indeed, from that moment she was + inclined to conspire to keep the Cadogan Square door shut against her + friend. She did not go so far as that; for she had a firm faith in + Pimpernel’s cuteness and was aware that she would be found out. But she + remained passive and kept her eyes wide open. + </p> + <p> + Miss Schley was only going to act for a month in London. Her managers had + taken a theatre for her from the first of June till the first of July. As + she was to appear in a play she had already acted in all over the States, + and as her American company was coming over to support her, she had + nothing to do in the way of preparation. Having arrived early in the year, + she had nearly three months of idleness to enjoy. Her conversation with + Mrs. Wolfstein took place in the latter days of March. And it was just at + this period that Lady Holme began seriously to debate whether she should, + or should not, open her door to the American. She knew Miss Schley was + determined to come to her house. She knew her house was one of those to + which any woman setting out on the conquest of London would wish to come. + She did not want Miss Schley there, but she resolved to invite her if + peopled talked too much about her not being invited. And she wished to be + informed if they did. One day she spoke to Robin Pierce about it. Lord + Holme’s treatment of Carey had not yet been applied to him. They met at a + private view in Bond Street, given by a painter who was adored by the + smart world, and, as yet, totally unknown in every other circle. The + exhibition was of portraits of beautiful women, and all the beautiful + women and their admirers crowded the rooms. Both Lady Holme and Miss + Schley had been included among the sitters of the painter, and—was + it by chance or design?—their portraits hung side by side upon the + brown-paper-covered walls. Lady Holme was not aware of this when she + caught Robin’s eye through a crevice in the picture hats and called him to + her with a little nod. + </p> + <p> + “Is there tea?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. In the last room.” + </p> + <p> + “Take me there. Oh, there’s Ashley Greaves. Avoid him, like a dear, till + I’ve looked at something.” + </p> + <p> + Ashley Greaves was the painter. There was nothing of the Bohemian about + him. He looked like a heavy cavalry officer as he stood in the centre of + the room talking to a small, sharp-featured old lady in a poke bonnet. + </p> + <p> + “He’s safe. Lady Blower’s got hold of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor wretch! She ought to have a keeper. Strong tea, Robin.” + </p> + <p> + They found a settee in a corner walled in by the backs of tea-drinking + beauties. + </p> + <p> + “I want to ask you something,” said Lady Holme, confidentially. “You go + about and hear what they’re saying.” + </p> + <p> + “And greater nonsense it seems each new season.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense keeps us alive.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it the oxygen self-administered by an almost moribund society?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s the perfume that prevents us from noticing the stuffiness of the + room. But, Robin, tell me—what is the nonsense of now?” + </p> + <p> + “Religious, political, theatrical, divorce court or what, Lady Holme?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her with a touch of mischief in his dark face, which told + her, and was meant to tell her, that he was on the alert, and had divined + that she had a purpose in thus pleasantly taking possession of him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the people—nonsense. You know perfectly what I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Whom are they chattering about most at the moment? You’ll be contemptuous + if I tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a woman, then?” + </p> + <p> + “When isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Do I know her?” + </p> + <p> + “Slightly.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Schley.” + </p> + <p> + “Really?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme’s voice sounded perfectly indifferent and just faintly + surprised. There was no hint of irritation in it. + </p> + <p> + “And what are they saying about Miss Schley?” she added, sipping her tea + and glancing about the crowded room. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, many things, and among the many one that’s more untrue than all the + rest put together.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s too absurd. I don’t think I’ll tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “But why not? If it’s too absurd it’s sure to be amusing.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think so.” + </p> + <p> + His voice sounded almost angry. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, Robin.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her quickly with a warm light in his dark eyes. + </p> + <p> + “If you only knew how I—” + </p> + <p> + “Hush! Go on about Miss Schley.” + </p> + <p> + “They’re saying that she’s wonderfully like you, and that—have some + more tea?” + </p> + <p> + “That—?” + </p> + <p> + “That you hate it.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme smiled, as if she were very much entertained. + </p> + <p> + “But why should I hate it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. But women invent reasons for everything.” + </p> + <p> + “What have they invented for this?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—well—that you like to—I can’t tell you it all, + really. But in substance it comes to this! They are saying, or implying—” + </p> + <p> + “Implication is the most subtle of the social arts.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s the meanest—implying that all that’s natural to you, that sets + you apart from others, is an assumption to make you stand out from the + rest of the crowd, and that you hate Miss Schley because she happens to + have assumed some of the same characteristics, and so makes you seem less + unique than you did before.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme said nothing for a moment. Then she remarked: + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure no woman said ‘less unique.’” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Now did anyone? Confess!” + </p> + <p> + “What d’you suppose they did say?” + </p> + <p> + “More commonplace.” + </p> + <p> + He could not help laughing. + </p> + <p> + “As if you were ever commonplace!” he exclaimed, rather relieved by her + manner. + </p> + <p> + “That’s not the question. But then Miss Schley’s said to be like me not + only in appearance but in other ways? Are we really so Siamese?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t see the faintest beginning of a resemblance.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, now you’re falling into exaggeration in the other direction.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, not in realities. Perhaps in one or two trifling mannerisms—I + believe she imitates you deliberately.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I must ask her to the house.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should you?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, perhaps you might tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t people saying that the reason I don’t ask her is because I am + piqued at the supposed resemblance between us?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, people will say anything. If we are to model our lives according to + their ridiculous ideas—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, but we do.” + </p> + <p> + “Unless we follow the dictates of our own natures, our own souls.” + </p> + <p> + He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Be yourself, be the woman who sings, and no one—not even a fool—will + ever say again that you resemble a nonentity like Miss Schley. You see—you + see now that even socially it is a mistake not to be your real self. You + can be imitated by a cute little Yankee who has neither imagination nor + brains, only the sort of slyness that is born out of the gutter.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Robin, remember where we are. You—a diplomatist!” + </p> + <p> + She put her finger to her lips and got up. + </p> + <p> + “We must look at something or Ashley Greaves will be furious.” + </p> + <p> + They made their way into the galleries, which were almost impassable. In + the distance Lady Holme caught sight of Miss Schley with Mrs. Wolfstein. + They were surrounded by young men. She looked hard at the American’s pale + face, saying to herself, “Is that like me? Is that like me?” Her + conversation with Robin Pierce had made her feel excited. She had not + shown it. She had seemed, indeed, almost oddly indifferent. But something + combative was awake within her. She wondered whether the American was + consciously imitating her. What an impertinence! But Miss Schley was + impertinence personified. Her impertinence was her <i>raison d’etre</i>. + Without it she would almost cease to be. She would at any rate be as + nothing. + </p> + <p> + Followed by Robin, Lady Holme made her way slowly towards the Jewess and + the American. + </p> + <p> + They were now standing together before the pictures, and had been joined + by Ashley Greaves, who was beginning to look very warm and expressive, + despite his cavalry moustache. Their backs were towards the room, and Lady + Holme and Robin drew near to them without being perceived. Mrs. Wolfstein + had a loud voice and did not control it in a crowd. On the contrary, she + generally raised it, as if she wished to be heard by those whom she was + not addressing. + </p> + <p> + “Sargent invariably brings out the secret of his sitters,” she was saying + to Ashley Greaves as Lady Holme and Robin came near and stood for an + instant wedged in by people, unable to move forward or backward. “You’ve + brought out the similarities between Pimpernel and Lady Holme. I never saw + anything so clever. You show us not only what we all saw but what we all + passed over though it was there to see. There is an absurd likeness, and + you’ve blazoned it.” + </p> + <p> + Robin stole a glance at his companion. Ashley Greaves said, in a thin + voice that did not accord with his physique: + </p> + <p> + “My idea was to indicate the strong link there is between the English + woman and the American woman. If I may say so, these two portraits, as it + were, personify the two countries, and—er—and—er—” + </p> + <p> + His mind appeared to give way. He strove to continue, to say something + memorable, conscious of his conspicuous and central position. But his + intellect, possibly over-heated and suffering from lack of air, declined + to back him up, and left him murmuring rather hopelessly: + </p> + <p> + “The one nation—er—and the other—yes—the give and + take—the give and take. You see my meaning? Yes, yes.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Schley said nothing. She looked at Lady Holme’s portrait and at hers + with serenity, and seemed quite unconscious of the many eyes fastened upon + her. + </p> + <p> + “You feel the strong link, I hope, Pimpernel?” said Mrs. Wolfstein, with + her most violent foreign accent. “Hands across the Herring Pond!” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Greaves has been too cute for words,” she replied. “I wish Lady Holme + could cast her eye on them.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up at nothing, with a sudden air of seeing something + interesting that was happening along way off. + </p> + <p> + “Philadelphia!” murmured Mrs. Wolfstein, with an undercurrent of laughter. + </p> + <p> + It was very like Lady Holme’s look when she was singing. Robin Pierce saw + it and pressed his lips together. At this moment the crowd shifted and + left a gap through which Lady Holme immediately glided towards Ashley + Greaves. He saw her and came forward to meet her with eagerness, holding + out his hand, and smiling mechanically with even more than his usual + intention. + </p> + <p> + “What a success!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “If it is, your portrait makes it so.” + </p> + <p> + “And where is my portrait?” + </p> + <p> + Robin Pierce nipped in the bud a rather cynical smile. The painter wiped + his forehead with a white silk handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you guess? Look where the crowd is thickest.” + </p> + <p> + The people had again closed densely round the two pictures. + </p> + <p> + “You are an artist in more ways than one, I’m afraid,” said Lady Holme. + “Don’t turn my head more than the heat has.” + </p> + <p> + The searching expression, that indicated the strong desire to say + something memorable, once more contorted the painter’s face. + </p> + <p> + “He who would essay to fix beauty on canvas,” he began, in a rather + piercing voice, “should combine two gifts.” + </p> + <p> + He paused and lifted his upper lip two or three times, employing his + under-jaw as a lever. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said Lady Holme, encouragingly. + </p> + <p> + “The gift of the brush which perpetuates and the gift of—er—gift + of the—” + </p> + <p> + His intellect once more retreated from him into some distant place and + left him murmuring: + </p> + <p> + “Beauty demands all, beauty demands all. Yes, yes! Sacrifice! Sacrifice! + Isn’t it so?” + </p> + <p> + He tugged at his large moustache, with an abrupt assumption of the cavalry + officer’s manner, which he doubtless deemed to be in accordance with his + momentary muddle-headedness. + </p> + <p> + “And you give it what it wants most—the touch of the ideal. It + blesses you. Can we get through?” + </p> + <p> + She had glanced at Robin while she spoke the first words. Ashley Greaves, + with an expression of sudden relief, began very politely to hustle the + crowd, which yielded to his persuasive shoulders, and Lady Holme found + herself within looking distance of the two portraits, and speaking + distance of Mrs. Wolfstein and Miss Schley. She greeted them with a nod + that was more gay and friendly than her usual salutations to women, which + often lacked <i>bonhomie</i>. Mrs. Wolfstein’s too expressive face lit up. + </p> + <p> + “The sensation is complete!” she exclaimed loudly. + </p> + <p> + “Hope you’re well,” murmured Miss Schley, letting her pale eyes rest on + Lady Holme for about a quarter of a second, and then becoming acutely + attentive to vacancy. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme was now in front of the pictures. She looked at Miss Schley’s + portrait with apparent interest, while Mrs. Wolfstein looked at her with + an interest that was maliciously real. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Mrs. Wolfstein. “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s an extraordinary resemblance!” said Lady Holme. “It’s wonderfully + like.” + </p> + <p> + “Even you see it! Ashley, you ought to be triumphant—” + </p> + <p> + “Wonderfully like—Miss Schley,” added Lady Holme, cutting gently + through Mrs. Wolfstein’s rather noisy outburst. + </p> + <p> + She turned to the American. + </p> + <p> + “I have been wondering whether you won’t come in one day and see my little + home. Everyone wants you, I know, but if you have a minute some Wednesday—” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll be delighted.” + </p> + <p> + “Next Wednesday, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks. Next Wednesday.” + </p> + <p> + “Cadogan Square—the red book will tell you. But I’ll send cards. I + must be running away now.” + </p> + <p> + When she had gone, followed by Robin, Mrs. Wolfstein said to Miss Schley: + </p> + <p> + “She’s been conquered by fear of Philadelphia.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait till I give her Noo York,” returned the American, placidly. + </p> + <p> + It seemed that Lady Holme’s secret hostility to Miss Schley was returned + by the vestal virgin. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <p> + LORD HOLME seldom went to parties and never to private views. He thought + such things “all damned rot.” Few functions connected with the arts + appealed to his frankly Philistine spirit, which rejoiced in celebrations + linked with the glories of the body; boxing and wrestling matches, + acrobatic performances, weight-lifting exhibitions, and so forth. He + regretted that bear-baiting and cock-fighting were no longer legal in + England, and had, on two occasions, travelled from London to South America + solely in order to witness prize fights. + </p> + <p> + As he so seldom put in an appearance at smart gatherings he had not yet + encountered Miss Schley, nor had he heard a whisper of her much-talked-of + resemblance to his wife. Her name was known to him as that of a woman whom + one or two of his “pals” began to call a “deuced pretty girl” but his + interest in her was not greatly awakened. The number of deuced pretty + girls that had been in his life, and in the lives of his pals, was legion. + They came and went like feathers dancing on the wind. The mere report of + them, therefore, casual and drifting, could not excite his permanent + attention, or fix their names and the record of their charms in his + somewhat treacherous memory. Lady Holme had not once mentioned the + American to him. She was a woman who knew how to be silent, and sometimes + she was silent by instinct without saying to herself why. + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme never appeared on her Wednesdays; and, indeed, those days were + a rather uncertain factor among the London joys. If Lady Holme was to be + found in her house at all, she was usually to be found on a Wednesday + afternoon. She herself considered that she was at home on Wednesdays, but + this idea of hers was often a mere delusion, especially when the season + had fully set in. There were a thousand things to be done. She frequently + forgot what the day of the week was. Unluckily she forgot it on the + Wednesday succeeding her invitation to Miss Schley. The American duly + turned up in Cadogan Square and was informed that Lady Holme was not to be + seen. She left her card and drove away in her coupe with a decidedly stony + expression upon her white face. + </p> + <p> + That day it chanced that Lord Holme came in just before his wife and + carelessly glanced over the cards which had been left during the + afternoon. He was struck by the name of Pimpernel. It tickled his fancy + somehow. As he looked at it he grinned. He looked at it again and vaguely + recalled some shreds of the club gossip about Miss Schley’s attractions. + When Lady Holme walked quietly into her drawing-room two or three minutes + later he met her with Miss Schley’s card in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “What have you got there, Fritz?” she said. + </p> + <p> + He gave her the card. + </p> + <p> + “You never told me you’d run up against her,” he remarked. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme looked at the card and then, quickly, at her husband. + </p> + <p> + “Why—do you know Miss Schley?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Not I.” + </p> + <p> + “Well then?” + </p> + <p> + “Fellows say she’s deuced takin’. That’s all. And she’s got a fetchin’ + name—eh? Pimpernel.” + </p> + <p> + He repeated it twice and began to grin once more, and to bend and + straighten his legs in the way which sometimes irritated his wife. Lady + Holme was again looking at the card. + </p> + <p> + “Surely it isn’t Wednesday?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is. What did you think it was?” + </p> + <p> + “Tuesday—Monday—I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Where’d you meet her?” + </p> + <p> + “Whom? Miss Schley? At the Carlton. A lunch of Amalia Wolfstein’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she pretty?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + There was no hesitation before the reply. + </p> + <p> + “What colour? + </p> + <p> + “Oh!—not Albino.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme stared. + </p> + <p> + “What d’you mean by that, girlie?” + </p> + <p> + “That Miss Schley is remarkably fair—fairer than I am.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she as pretty as you? + </p> + <p> + “You can find out for yourself. I’m going to ask her to something—presently.” + </p> + <p> + In the last word, in the pause that preceded it, there was the creeping + sound of the reluctance Lady Holme felt in allowing Miss Schley to draw + any closer to her life. Lord Holme did not notice it. He only said: + </p> + <p> + “Right you are. Pimpernel—I should like to have a squint at her.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. You shall.” + </p> + <p> + “Pimpernel,” repeated Lord Holme, in a loud bass voice, as he lounged out + of the room, grinning. The name tickled his fancy immensely. That was + evident. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme fully intended to ask Miss Schley to the “something” already + mentioned immediately. But somehow several days slipped by and it was + difficult to find an unoccupied hour. The Holme cards had, of course, duly + gone to the Carlton, but there the matter had ended, so far as Lady Holme + was concerned. Miss Schley, however, was not so heedless as the woman she + resembled. She began to return with some assiduity to the practice of the + talent of the old Philadelphia days. In those days she used to do a “turn” + in the course of which she imitated some of the popular public favourites + of the States, and for each of her imitations she made up to resemble the + person mimicked. She now concentrated this talent upon Lady Holme, but + naturally the methods she employed in Society were far more subtle than + those she had formerly used upon the stage. They were scarcely less + effective. She slightly changed her fashion of doing her hair, puffing it + out less at the sides, wearing it a little higher at the back. The change + accentuated her physical resemblance to Lady Holme. She happened to get + the name of the dressmaker who made most of the latter’s gowns, and + happened to give her an order that was executed with remarkable rapidity. + But all this was only the foundation upon which she based, as it were, the + structure of her delicate revenge. + </p> + <p> + That consisted in a really admirable hint—it could not be called + more—of Lady Holme’s characteristic mannerisms. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme was not an affected woman, but, like all women of the world who + are greatly admired and much talked about, she had certain little ways of + looking, moving, speaking, being quiet, certain little habits of laughter, + of gravity, that were her own property. Perhaps originally natural to her, + they had become slightly accentuated as time went on, and many tongues and + eyes admired them. That which had been unconscious had become conscious. + The faraway look came a little more abruptly, went a little more + reluctantly; than it had in the young girl’s days. The wistful smile + lingered more often on the lips of the twenties than on the lips of the + teens. Few noticed any change, perhaps, but there had been a slight + change, and it made things easier for Miss Schley. + </p> + <p> + Her eye was observant although it was generally cast down. Society began + to smile secretly at her talented exercises. Only a select few, like Mrs. + Wolfstein, knew exactly what she was doing and why she was doing it, but + the many were entertained, as children are, without analysing the cause of + their amusement. + </p> + <p> + Two people, however, were indignant—Robin Pierce and Rupert Carey. + </p> + <p> + Robin Pierce, who had an instinct that was almost feminine in its + subtlety, raged internally, and Rupert Carey, who, naturally acute, was + always specially shrewd when his heart was in the game, openly showed his + distaste for Miss Schley, and went about predicting her complete failure + to capture the London public as an actress. + </p> + <p> + “She’s done it as a woman,” someone replied to him. + </p> + <p> + “Not the public, only the smart fools,” returned Carey. + </p> + <p> + “The smart fools have more influence on the public every day.” + </p> + <p> + Carey only snorted. He was in one of his evil moods that afternoon. He + left the club in which the conversation had taken place, and, casting + about for something to do, some momentary solace for his irritation and <i>ennui</i>, + he bethought him of Sir Donald Ulford’s invitation and resolved to make a + call at the Albany. Sir Donald would be out, of course, but anyhow he + would chance it and shoot a card. + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald’s servant said he was in. Carey was glad. Here was an hour + filled up. + </p> + <p> + With his usual hasty, decisive step he followed the man through a dark and + Oriental-looking vestibule into a library, where Sir Donald was sitting at + a bureau of teakwood, slowly writing upon a large, oblong sheet of + foolscap with a very pointed pen. + </p> + <p> + He got up, looking rather startled, and held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to see you. I hoped you would come.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m disturbing a new poem,” said Carey. + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald’s faded face acknowledged it. + </p> + <p> + “Sorry. I’ll go.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no. I have infinite leisure, and I write now merely for myself. I + shall never publish anything more. The maunderings of the old are really + most thoroughly at home in the waste-paper basket. Do sit down.” + </p> + <p> + Carey threw himself into a deep chair and looked round. It was a room of + books and Oriental china. The floor was covered with an exquisite Persian + carpet, rich and delicate in colour, with one of those vague and elaborate + designs that stir the imagination as it is stirred by a strange perfume in + a dark bazaar where shrouded merchants sit. + </p> + <p> + “I light it with wax candles,” said Sir Donald, handing Carey a cigar. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a good room to think in, or to be sad in.” + </p> + <p> + He struck a match on his boot. + </p> + <p> + “You like to shut out London,” he continued. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Yet I live in it.” + </p> + <p> + “And hate it. So do I. London’s like a black-browed brute that gets an + unholy influence over you. It would turn Mark Tapley into an Ibsen man. + Yet one can’t get away from it.” + </p> + <p> + “It holds interesting minds and interesting faces.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t Persia?” + </p> + <p> + “Lethargy dwells there and in all Eastern lands.” + </p> + <p> + “You have made up your mind to spend the rest of your days in the fog?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Indeed, only to-day I acquired a Campo Santo with cypress trees, in + which I intend to make a home for any dying romance that still lingers + within me.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke with a sort of wistful whimsicality. Carey stared hard at him. + </p> + <p> + “A Campo Santo’s a place for the dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not for the dying? Don’t they need holy ground as much?” + </p> + <p> + “And where’s this holy ground of yours?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald got up from his chair, went over to the bureau, opened a + drawer, and took out of it a large photograph rolled round a piece of + wood, which he handed to Carey, who swiftly spread it out on his knees. + </p> + <p> + “That is it.” + </p> + <p> + “I say, Sir Donald, d’you mind my asking for a whisky-and-soda?” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon.” + </p> + <p> + He hastily touched a bell and ordered it. Meanwhile Carey examined the + photograph. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of it?” Sir Donald asked. + </p> + <p> + “Well—Italy obviously.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and a conventional part of Italy.” + </p> + <p> + “Maggiore?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Como.” + </p> + <p> + “The playground of the honeymoon couple.” + </p> + <p> + “Not where my Campo Santo is. They go to Cadenabbia, Bellagio, Villa + D’Este sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + “I see the fascination. But it looks haunted. You’ve bought it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. The matter was arranged to-day.” + </p> + <p> + The photograph showed a large, long house, or rather two houses divided by + a piazza with slender columns. In the foreground was water. Through the + arches of the piazza water was also visible, a cascade falling in the + black cleft of a mountain gorge dark with the night of cypresses. To the + right of the house, rising from the lake, was a tall old wall overgrown + with masses of creeping plants and climbing roses. Over it more cypresses + looked, and at the base of it, near the house, were a flight of worn steps + disappearing into the lake, and an arched doorway with an + elaborately-wrought iron grille. Beneath the photograph was written, “<i>Casa + Felice</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Casa Felice, h’m!” said Carey, with his eyes on the photograph. + </p> + <p> + “You think the name inappropriate?” + </p> + <p> + “Who knows? One can be wretched among sunbeams. One might be gay among + cypresses. And Casa Felice belongs to you?” + </p> + <p> + “From to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Old—of course?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. There is a romance connected with the house.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Long ago two guilty lovers deserted their respective mates and the + brilliant world they had figured in, and fled there together.” + </p> + <p> + “And quarrelled and were generally wretched there for how many months?” + </p> + <p> + “For eight years.” + </p> + <p> + “The devil! Fidelity gone mad!” + </p> + <p> + “It is said that during those years the mistress never left the garden, + except to plunge into the lake on moonlight nights and swim through the + silver with her lover.” + </p> + <p> + Carey was silent. He did not take his eyes from the photograph, which + seemed to fascinate him. When the servant came in with the whisky-and-soda + he started. + </p> + <p> + “Not a place to be alone in,” he said. + </p> + <p> + He drank, and stared again at the photograph. + </p> + <p> + “There’s something about the place that holds one even in a photograph,” + he added. + </p> + <p> + “One can feel the strange intrigue that made the house a hermitage. It has + been a hermitage ever since.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + “An old Italian lady, very rich, owned it, but never lived there. She + recently died, and her heir consented to sell it to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I should like to see it in the flesh—or the bricks and + mortar. But it’s not a place to be alone in,” repeated Carey. “It wants a + woman if ever a house did.” + </p> + <p> + “What sort of woman?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald had sat down again on the chair opposite, and was looking with + his exhausted eyes through the smoke of the cigars at Carey. + </p> + <p> + “A fair woman, a woman with a white face, a slim woman with eyes that are + cords to draw men to her and bind them to her, and a voice that can sing + them into the islands of the sirens.” + </p> + <p> + “Are there such women in a world that has forgotten Ulysses?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you know it?” + </p> + <p> + He rolled the photograph round the piece of wood and laid it on a table. + </p> + <p> + “I can only think of one who at all answers to your description.” + </p> + <p> + “The one of whom I was thinking.” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Holme?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think she would be dreadfully bored in Casa Felice?” + </p> + <p> + “Horribly, horribly. Unless—” + </p> + <p> + “Unless?” + </p> + <p> + “Who knows what? But there’s very often an unless hanging about, like a + man at a street corner, that—” He broke off, then added abruptly, + “Invite me to Casa Felice some day.” + </p> + <p> + “I do.” + </p> + <p> + “When will you be going there?” + </p> + <p> + “As soon as the London season is over. Some time in August. Will you come + then?” + </p> + <p> + “The house is ready for you?” + </p> + <p> + “It will be. The necessary repairs will be begun now. I have bought it + furnished.” + </p> + <p> + “The lovers’ furniture?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I shall add a number of my own things, picked up on my wanderings.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll come in August if you’ll have me. But I’ll give you the season to + think whether you’ll have me or whether you won’t. I’m a horrible bore in + a house—the lazy man who does nothing and knows a lot. Casa Felice—Casa + Felice. You won’t alter the name?” + </p> + <p> + “Would you advise me to?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. To keep it is to tempt the wrath of the gods, but I should + keep it.” + </p> + <p> + He poured out another whisky-and-soda and suddenly began to curse Miss + Schley. + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald had spoken to her after Mrs. Wolfstein’s lunch. + </p> + <p> + “She’s imitating Lady Holme,” said Carey. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot see the likeness,” Sir Donald said. “Miss Schley seems to me + uninteresting and common.” + </p> + <p> + “She is.” + </p> + <p> + “And Lady Holme’s personality is, on the contrary; interesting and + uncommon.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. Pimpernel Schley would be an outrage in that Campo Santo of + yours. And yet there is a likeness, and she’s accentuating it every day + she lives.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Ask the women why they do the cursed things they do do.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a woman-hater?” + </p> + <p> + “Not I. Didn’t I say just now that Casa Felice wanted a woman? But the + devil generally dwells where the angel dwells—cloud and moon + together. Now you want to get on with that poem.” + </p> + <p> + Half London was smiling gently at the resemblance between Lady Holme and + Miss Schley before the former made up her mind to ask the latter to + “something.” And when, moved to action by certain evidences of the + Philadelphia talent which could not be misunderstood, she did make up her + mind, she resolved that the “something” should be very large and by no + means very intimate. Safety wanders in crowds. + </p> + <p> + She sent out cards for a reception, one of those affairs that begin about + eleven, are tremendous at half past, look thin at twelve, and have faded + away long before the clock strikes one. + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme hated them. On several occasions he had been known to throw + etiquette to the winds and not to turn up when his wife was giving them. + He always made what he considered to be a good excuse. Generally he had + “gone into the country to look at a horse.” As Lady Holme sent out her + cards, and saw her secretary writing the words, “Miss Pimpernel Schley,” + on an envelope which contained one, she asked herself whether her husband + would be likely to play her false this time. + </p> + <p> + “Shall you be here on the twelfth?” she asked him casually. + </p> + <p> + “Why? What’s up on the twelfth?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to have one of those things you hate—before the Arkell + House ball. I chose that night so that everyone should run away early! You + won’t be obliged to look at a horse in the country that particular day?” + </p> + <p> + She spoke laughingly, as if she wanted him to say no, but would not be + very angry if he didn’t. Lord Holme tugged his moustache and looked very + serious indeed. + </p> + <p> + “Another!” he ejaculated. “We’re always havin’ ‘em. Any music?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, nothing. There are endless dinners that night, and Mrs. + Crutchby’s concert with Calve, and the ball. People will only run in and + say something silly and run out again.” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s comin’?” + </p> + <p> + “Everybody. All the tiresome dears that have had their cards left.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme stared at his varnished boots and looked rather like a puzzled + boy at a <i>viva voce</i> examination. + </p> + <p> + “The worst of it is, I can’t be in the country lookin’ at a horse that + night,” he said with depression. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + She hastily added: + </p> + <p> + “But why should you? You ought to be here.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d rather be lookin’ at a horse. But I’m booked for the dinner to Rowley + at the Nation Club that night. I might say the speeches were too long and + I couldn’t get away. Eh?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her for support. + </p> + <p> + “You really ought to be here, Fritz,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + It ended there. Lady Holme knew her husband pretty well. She fancied that + the speeches at the dinner given to Sir Jacob Rowley, ex-Governor of some + place she knew nothing about, would turn out to be very lengthy indeed—speeches + to keep a man far from his home till after midnight. + </p> + <p> + On the evening of the twelfth Lord Holme had not arrived when the first of + his wife’s guests came slowly up the stairs, and Lady Holme began gently + to make his excuses to all the tiresome dears who had had their cards left + at forty-two Cadogan Square. There were a great many tiresome dears. The + stream flowed steadily, and towards half-past eleven resembled a + flood-tide. + </p> + <p> + Lady Cardington, Lady Manby, Mr. Bry, Sally Perceval had one by one + appeared, and Robin Pierce’s dark head was visible mounting slowly amid a + throng of other heads of all shapes, sizes and tints. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme was looking particularly well. She was dressed in black. Of + course black suits everybody. It suited her even better than most people, + and her gown was a triumph. She was going on to the Arkell House ball, and + wore the Holme diamonds, which were superb, and which she had recently had + reset. She was in perfect health, and felt unusually young and unusually + defiant. As she stood at the top of the staircase, smiling, shaking hands + with people, and watching Robin Pierce coming slowly nearer, she wondered + a little at certain secret uneasinesses—they could scarcely be + called tremors—which had recently oppressed her. How absurd of her + to have been troubled, even lightly, by the impertinent proceedings of an + American actress, a nobody from the States, without position, without + distinction, without even a husband. How could it matter to her what such + a little person—she always called Pimpernel Schley a little person + in her thoughts—did or did not do? As Robin came towards her she + almost—but not quite—wished that the speeches at the dinner to + Sir Jacob Rowley had not been so long as they evidently had been, and that + her husband were standing beside her, looking enormous and enormously + bored. + </p> + <p> + “What a crowd!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. We can’t talk now. Are you going to Arkell House?” + </p> + <p> + Robin nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Take me in to supper there.” + </p> + <p> + “May I? Thank you. I’m going with Rupert Carey.” + </p> + <p> + “Really!” + </p> + <p> + At this moment Lady Holme’s eyes and manner wandered. She had just caught + a glimpse of Mrs. Wolfstein, a mass of jewels, and of Pimpernel Schley at + the foot of the staircase, had just noticed that the latter happened to be + dressed in black. + </p> + <p> + “Bye-bye!” she added. + </p> + <p> + Robin Pierce walked on into the drawing-rooms looking rather preoccupied. + </p> + <p> + Everybody came slowly up the stairs. It was impossible to do anything + else. But it seemed to Lady Holme that Miss Schley walked far more slowly + than the rest of the tiresome dears, with a deliberation that had a touch + of insolence in it. Her straw-coloured hair was done exactly like Lady + Holme’s, but she wore no diamonds in it. Indeed, she had on no jewels. And + this absence of jewels, and her black gown, made her skin look almost + startlingly white, if possible whiter than Lady Holme’s. She smiled + quietly as she mounted the stairs, as if she were wrapt in a pleasant, + innocent dream which no one knew anything about. + </p> + <p> + Amalia Wolfstein was certainly a splendid—a too splendid—foil + to her. The Jewess was dressed in the most vivid orange colour, and was + very much made up. Her large eyebrows were heavily darkened. Her lips were + scarlet. Her eyes, which moved incessantly, had a lustre which suggested + oil with a strong light shining on it. “Henry” followed in her wake, + looking intensely nervous, and unnaturally alive and observant, as if he + were searching in the crowd for a bit of gold that someone had + accidentally dropped. When anyone spoke to him he replied with extreme + vivacity but in the fewest possible words. He held his spare figure + slightly sideways as he walked, and his bald head glistened under the + electric lamps. Behind them, in the distance, was visible the yellow and + sunken face of Sir Donald Ulford. + </p> + <p> + When Miss Schley gained the top of the staircase Lady Holme saw that their + gowns were almost exactly alike. Hers was sewn with diamonds, but + otherwise there was scarcely any difference. And she suddenly felt as if + the difference made by the jewels was not altogether in her favour, as if + she were one of those women who look their best when they are not wearing + any ornaments. Possibly Mrs. Wolfstein made all jewellery seem vulgar for + the moment. She looked like an exceedingly smart jeweller’s shop rather + too brilliantly illuminated; “as if she were for sale,” as an old and + valued friend of hers aptly murmured into the ear of someone who had known + her ever since she began to give good dinners. + </p> + <p> + “Here we are! I’m chaperoning Pimpernel. But her mother arrives + to-morrow,” began Mrs. Wolfstein, with her strongest accent, while Miss + Schley put out a limp hand to meet Lady Holme’s and very slightly + accentuated her smile. + </p> + <p> + “Your mother? I shall be delighted to meet her. I hope you’ll bring her + one day,” said Lady Holme; thinking more emphatically than ever that for a + woman with a complexion as perfect as hers it was a mistake to wear many + jewels. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll be most pleased, but mother don’t go around much,” replied Miss + Schley. + </p> + <p> + “Does she know London?” + </p> + <p> + “She does not. She spends most of her time sitting around in Susanville, + but she’s bound to look after me in this great city.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wolfstein was by this time in violent conversation with a pale young + man, who always looked as if he were on the point of fainting, but who + went literally everywhere. Miss Schley glanced up into Lady Holme’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I hoped to make the acquaintance of Lord Holme to-night,” she murmured. + “Folks tell me he’s a most beautiful man. Isn’t he anywhere around?” + </p> + <p> + She looked away into vacancy, ardently. Lady Holme felt a slight tingling + sensation in her cool skin. For a moment it seemed to her as if she + watched herself in caricature, distorted perhaps by a mirror with a slight + flaw in it. + </p> + <p> + “My husband was obliged to dine out to-night; unfortunately. I hope he’ll + be here in a moment, but he may be kept, as there are to be some dreadful + speeches afterwards. I can’t think why elderly men always want to get up + and talk nonsense about the Royal family after a heavy dinner. It’s so bad + for the digestion and the—ah, Sir Donald! Sweet of you to turn up. + Your boy’s been so unkind. I asked him to call, or he asked to call, and + he’s never been near me.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Schley drifted away and was swallowed by the crowd. Sir Donald had + arrived at the top of the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Leo’s been away in Scotland ever since he had the pleasure of meeting + you. He only came back to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I’m not quite so hurt. He’s always running about, I suppose, to kill + things, like my husband.” + </p> + <p> + “He does manage a good deal in that way. If you are going to the Arkell + House ball you’ll meet him there. He and his wife are both—” + </p> + <p> + “How did do! Oh, Charley, I never expected to see you. I thought it wasn’t + the thing for the 2nd to turn up at little hay parties like this. Kitty + Barringlave is in the far room, dreadfully bored. Go and cheer her up. + Tell her what’ll win the Cup. She’s pale and peaky with ignorance about + Ascot this year. Both going to Arkell House, Sir Donald, did you say? + Bring your son to me, won’t you? But of course you’re a wise man trotting + off to bed.” + </p> + <p> + “No. The Duke is a very old friend of mine, and so—” + </p> + <p> + “Perfect. We’ll meet then. They say it’s really locomotor ataxia, poor + fellow I but—ah, there’s Fritz!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald looked at her with a sudden inquiring shrewdness, that lit up + his faded eyes and made them for a moment almost young. He had caught a + sound of vexation in her voice, which reminded him oddly of the sound in + her singing voice when Miss Filberte was making a fiasco of the + accompaniment. Lord Holme was visible and audible in the hall. His immense + form towered above his guests, and his tremendous bass voice dominated the + hum of conversation round him. Lady Holme could see from where she stood + that he was in a jovial and audacious mood. The dinner to Sir Jacob Rowley + had evidently been well cooked and gay. Fritz had the satisfied and rather + larky air of a man who has been having one good time and intends to have + another. She glanced into the drawing-rooms. They were crammed. She saw in + the distance Lady Cardington talking to Sir Donald Ulford. Both of them + looked rather pathetic. Mrs. Wolfstein was not far off, standing in the + midst of a group and holding forth with almost passionate vivacity and + self-possession. Her husband was gliding sideways through the crowd with + his peculiarly furtive and watchful air, which always suggested the old + nursery game, “Here I am on Tom Tiddler’s ground, picking up gold and + silver.” Lady Manby was laughing in a corner with an archdeacon who looked + like a guardsman got up in fancy dress. Mr. Bry, his eyeglass fixed in his + left eye, came towards the staircase, moving delicately like Agag, and + occasionally dropping a cold or sarcastic word to an acquaintance. He + reached Lady Holme when Lord Holme was half-way up the stairs, and at once + saw him. + </p> + <p> + “A giant refreshed with wine,” he observed, dropping his eyeglass. + </p> + <p> + It was such a perfect description of Lord Holme in his present condition + that two or three people who were standing with Lady Holme smiled, looking + down the staircase. Lady Holme did not smile. She continued chattering, + but her face wore a discontented expression. Mr. Bry noticed it. There + were very few things he did not notice, although he claimed to be the most + short-sighted man in London. + </p> + <p> + “Why is your husband so dutiful to-night?” he murmured to his hostess. “I + thought he always had to go into the country to look at a gee-gee on these + occasions.” + </p> + <p> + “He had to be in town for the dinner to Sir Jacob Rowley. I begged him to + come back in—How did do! How did do! Yes, very. Mr. Raleigh, do tell + the opera people not to put on Romeo too often this season. Of course + Melba’s splendid in it, and all that, but still—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bry fixed his eyeglass again, and began to smile gently like an + evil-minded baby. Lord Holme’s brown face was full in view, grinning. His + eyes were looking about with unusual vivacity. + </p> + <p> + “How early you are, Fritz! Good boy. I want you to look after—” + </p> + <p> + “I say, Vi, why didn’t you tell me?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bry, letting his eyeglass fall, looked abstracted and lent an + attentive ear. If he were not playing prompter to social comedies he + generally stood in the wings, watching and listening to them with a cold + amusement that was seldom devoid of a spice of venom. + </p> + <p> + “Tell you what, Fritz?” + </p> + <p> + “That Miss Schley was comin’ to-night. Everyone’s talking about her. I sat + next Laycock at dinner and he was ravin’. Told me she was to be here and I + didn’t know it. Rather ridiculous, you know. Where is she?” + </p> + <p> + “Somewhere in the rooms.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s she like?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!—I don’t know. She’s in black. Go and look for her.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme strode on. As he passed Mr. Bry he said: + </p> + <p> + “I say, Bry, d’you know Miss Pimpernel Schley?” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally.” + </p> + <p> + “Come with me, there’s a good chap, and—what’s she like?” + </p> + <p> + As they went on into the drawing-rooms Mr. Bry dropped out: + </p> + <p> + “Some people say she’s like Lady Holme.” + </p> + <p> + “Like Vi! Is she? Laycock’s been simply ravin’—simply ravin’—and + Laycock’s not a feller to—where is she? + </p> + <p> + “We shall come to her. So there was no gee-gee to look at in the country + to-night?” + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme burst into a roar of laughter. + </p> + <p> + “There’s the vestal tending her lamp,” said Mr. Bry a moment later. + </p> + <p> + “The what up to what?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Pimpernel Schley keeping the fire of adoration carefully alight.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “There.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I see! Jove, what a skin, though! Eh! Isn’t it? She is deuced like Vi + at a distance. Vi looks up just like that when she’s singin’. Doesn’t she, + though? Eh?” + </p> + <p> + He went on towards her. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bry followed him, murmuring. + </p> + <p> + “The giant refreshed with wine. No gee-gee to-night. No gee-gee.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <h3> + “THE brougham is at the door, my lady.” + </h3> + <p> + “Tell his lordship.” + </p> + <p> + The butler went out, and Lady Holme’s maid put a long black cloak + carefully over her mistress’s shoulders. While she did this Lady Holme + stood quite still gazing into vacancy. They were in the now deserted + yellow drawing-room, which was still brilliantly lit, and full of the + already weary-looking flowers which had been arranged for the reception. + The last guest had gone and the carriage was waiting to take the Holmes to + Arkell House. + </p> + <p> + The maid did something to the diamonds in Lady Holme’s hair with deft + fingers, and the light touch seemed to wake Lady Holme from a reverie. She + went to a mirror and looked into it steadily. The maid stood behind. After + a moment Lady Holme lifted her hand suddenly to her head, as if she were + going to take off her tiara. The maid could not repress a slight movement + of startled astonishment. Lady Holme saw it in the glass, dropped her + hand, and said: + </p> + <p> + “C’est tout, Josephine. Vous pouvez vous en aller.” + </p> + <p> + “Merci, miladi.” + </p> + <p> + She went out quietly. + </p> + <p> + Two or three minutes passed. Then Lord Holme’s deep bass voice was + audible, humming vigorously: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ina, Ina, oh, you should have seen her! + Seen her with her eyes cast down. + She looked upon the floor, + And all the Johnnies swore + That Ina, Ina—oh, you should have seen her!— + That Ina was the <i>chic</i>-est girl in town.” + </pre> + <p> + Lady Holme frowned. + </p> + <p> + “Fritz!” she called rather sharply. + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme appeared with a coat thrown over his arm and a hat in his hand. + His brown face was beaming with self-satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + “Well, old girl, ready? What’s up now?” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you wouldn’t sing those horrible music-hall songs. You know I hate + them.” + </p> + <p> + “Music-hall! I like that. Why, it’s the best thing in <i>The Chick from + the Army and Navy</i> at the Blue Theatre.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s disgustingly vulgar.” + </p> + <p> + “What next? Why, I saw the Lord Chan—” + </p> + <p> + “I daresay you did. Vulgarity will appeal to the Saints of Heaven next + season if things go on as they’re going now. Come along.” + </p> + <p> + She went out of the room, walking more quickly than she usually walked, + and holding herself very upright. Lord Holme followed, forming the words + of his favourite song with his lips, and screwing up his eyes as if he + were looking at an improper peepshow. When they were in the electric + brougham, which spun along with scarcely any noise, he began: + </p> + <p> + “I say, Vi, how long’ve you known Miss Schley?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. Some weeks.” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “I did. I said I had met her at Mrs. Wolfstein’s lunch.” + </p> + <p> + “No, but why didn’t you tell me how like you she was?” + </p> + <p> + There was complete silence in the brougham for a minute. Then Lady Holme + said: + </p> + <p> + “I had no idea she was like me.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you’re blind, old girl. She’s like you if you’d been a chorus-girl + and known a lot of things you don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Really. Perhaps she has been a chorus-girl.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll bet she has, whether she says so or not.” + </p> + <p> + He gave a deep chuckle. Lady Holme’s gown rustled as she leaned back in + her corner. + </p> + <p> + “And she’s goin’ to Arkell House. Americans are the very devil for gettin’ + on. Laycock was tellin’ me to-night that—” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t wish to hear Mr. Laycock’s stories, Fritz. They don’t amuse me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, p’r’aps they’re hardly the thing for you, Vi. But they’re deuced + amusin’ for all that.” + </p> + <p> + He chuckled again. Lady Holme felt an intense desire to commit some act of + physical violence. She shut her eyes. In a minute she heard her husband + once more beginning to hum the refrain about Ina. How utterly careless he + was of her desires and requests. There was something animal in his + forgetfulness and indifference. She had loved the animal in him. She did + love it. Something deep down in her nature answered eagerly to its call. + But at moments she hated it almost with fury. She hated it now and longed + to use the whip, as the tamer in a menagerie uses it when one of his + beasts shows its teeth, or sulkily refuses to perform one of its tricks. + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme went on calmly humming till the brougham stopped in the long + line of carriages that stretched away into the night from the great + portico of Arkell House. + </p> + <p> + People were already going in to supper when the Holmes arrived. The Duke, + upon whom a painful malady was beginning to creep, was bravely welcoming + his innumerable guests. He found it already impossible to go unaided up + and down stairs, and sat in a large armchair close to the ball-room, with + one of his pretty daughters near him, talking brightly, and occasionally + stealing wistful glances at the dancers, who were visible through a high + archway to his left. He was a thin, middle-aged man, with a curious, + transparent look in his face—something crystalline that was nearly + beautiful. + </p> + <p> + The Duchess was swarthy and masterful, very intelligent and <i>grande dame</i>. + Vivacity was easy to her. People said she had been a good hostess in her + cradle, and that she had presided over the ceremony of her own baptism in + a most autocratic and successful manner. It was quite likely. + </p> + <p> + After a word with the Duke, Lady Holme went slowly towards the ballroom + with her husband. She did not mean to dance, and began to refuse the + requests of would-be partners with charming protestations of fatigue. Lord + Holme was scanning the ballroom with his big brown eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to dance, Fritz?” asked Lady Holme, nodding to Robin + Pierce, whom she had just seen standing at a little distance with Rupert + Carey. + </p> + <p> + The latter had not seen her yet, but as Robin returned her nod he looked + hastily round. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I promised Miss Schley to struggle through a waltz with her. Wonder + if she’s dancin’?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme bowed, a little ostentatiously, to Rupert Carey. Her husband + saw it and began at once to look pugilistic. He could not say anything, + for at this moment two or three men strolled up to speak to Lady Holme. + While she was talking to them, Pimpernel Schley came in sight waltzing + with Mr. Laycock, one of those abnormally thin, narrow-featured, smart + men, with bold, inexpressive ayes, in whom London abounds. + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme’s under-jaw resumed its natural position, and he walked away + and was lost in the crowd, following the two dancers. + </p> + <p> + “Take me in to supper, Robin. I’m tired.” + </p> + <p> + “This way. I thought you were never coming.” + </p> + <p> + “People stayed so late. I can’t think why. I’m sure it was dreadfully dull + and foolish. How odd Mr. Carey’s looking! When I bowed to him just now he + didn’t return it, but only stared at me as if I were a stranger.” + </p> + <p> + Robin Pierce made no rejoinder. They descended the great staircase and + went towards the picture-gallery. + </p> + <p> + “Find a corner where we can really talk.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Here—this is perfect.” + </p> + <p> + They sat down at a table for two that was placed in an angle of the great + room. Upon the walls above them looked down a Murillo and a Velasquez. + Lady Holme was under the Murillo, which represented three Spanish street + boys playing a game in the dust with pieces of money. + </p> + <p> + “A table for two,” said Robin Pierce. “I have always said that the Duchess + understands the art of entertaining better than anyone in London, except + you—when you choose.” + </p> + <p> + “To-night I really couldn’t choose. Later on, I’m going to give two or + three concerts. Is anything the matter with Mr. Carey?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I hope it isn’t true what people are saying.” + </p> + <p> + “What are they saying?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s he’s not very judicious in one way.” + </p> + <p> + A footman poured champagne into her glass. Robin Pierce touched the glass. + </p> + <p> + “That way?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It would be too sad.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us hope it isn’t true, then.” + </p> + <p> + “You know him well. Is it true?” + </p> + <p> + “Would you care if it was?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I like Mr. Carey.” + </p> + <p> + There was a rather unusual sound of sincerity in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “And what is it that you like in him?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t know. He talks shocking nonsense, of course, and is down on + people and things. And he’s absurdly unsophisticated at moments, though he + knows the world so well. He’s not like you—not a diplomat. But I + believe if he had a chance he might do something great.” + </p> + <p> + Robin felt as if the hidden woman had suddenly begun to speak. Why did she + speak about Rupert Carey? + </p> + <p> + “Do you like a man to do something great?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. All women do.” + </p> + <p> + “But I perpetually hear you laughing at the big people—the Premiers, + the Chancellors, the Archbishops, the Generals of the world.” + </p> + <p> + “Because I’ve always known them. And really they are so often quite absurd + and tiresome.” + </p> + <p> + “And—Rupert Carey?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he’s nothing at all, poor fellow! Still there’s something in his face + that makes me think he could do an extraordinary thing if he had the + chance. I saw it there to-night when he didn’t bow to me. There’s Sir + Donald’s son. And what a dreadful-looking woman just behind him.” + </p> + <p> + Leo Ulford was coming down the gallery with a gaunt, aristocratic, + harsh-featured girl. Behind him walked Mr. Bry, conducting a very young + old woman, immensely smart, immensely vivacious, and immensely pink, who + moved with an unnecessary alertness that was birdlike, and turned her head + about sharply on a long, thin neck decorated with a large diamond + dog-collar. Slung at her side there was a tiny jewelled tube. + </p> + <p> + “That’s Mrs. Leo.” + </p> + <p> + “She must be over sixty.” + </p> + <p> + “She is.” + </p> + <p> + The quartet sat down at the next table. Leo Ulford did not see Lady Holme + at once. When he caught sight of her, he got up, came to her, stood over + her and pressed her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Been away,” he explained. “Only back to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been complaining to your father about you.” + </p> + <p> + A slow smile overspread his chubby face. + </p> + <p> + “May I see you again after supper?” + </p> + <p> + “If you can find me.” + </p> + <p> + “I can always manage to find what I want,” he returned, still smiling. + </p> + <p> + When he had gone back to his table Robin Pierce said: + </p> + <p> + “How insolent Englishmen are allowed to be in Society! It always strikes + me after I’ve been a long time abroad. Doesn’t anybody mind it?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that you consider Mr. Ulford insolent?” + </p> + <p> + “In manner. Yes, I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I think there’s something like Fritz about him.” + </p> + <p> + Robin Pierce could not tell from the way this was said what would be a + safe remark to make. He therefore changed the subject. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what Sir Donald’s been doing?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No. What?” + </p> + <p> + “Buying a Campo Santo.” + </p> + <p> + “A Campo Santo! Is he going to bury himself, then? What do you mean, + Robin?” + </p> + <p> + “He called it a Campo Santo to Carey. It’s really a wonderful house in + Italy, on Como. Casa Felice is the name of it. I know it well.” + </p> + <p> + “Casa Felice. How delicious! But is it the place for Sir Donald?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “For an old, tired man. Casa Felice. Won’t the name seem an irony to him + when he’s there?” + </p> + <p> + “You think an old man can’t be happy anywhere?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t imagine being happy old.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!”—she lowered her voice—“if you want to know, look at Mrs. + Ulford.” + </p> + <p> + “Your husk theory again. A question of looks. But you will grow old + gracefully—some day in the far future.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I shall grow old at all.” + </p> + <p> + “Then—?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I shall die before that comes—say at forty-five. I couldn’t + live with wrinkles all over my face. No, Robin, I couldn’t. And—look + at Mrs. Ulford!—perhaps an ear-trumpet set with opals.” + </p> + <p> + “What do the wrinkles matter? But some day you’ll find I’m right. You’ll + tell me so. You’ll acknowledge that your charm comes from within, and has + survived the mutilation of the husk.” + </p> + <p> + “Mutilation! What a hideous sound that word has. Why don’t all mutilated + people commit suicide at once? I should. Is Sir Donald going to live in + his happy house?” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally. He’ll be there this August. He’s invited Rupert Carey to stay + there with him.” + </p> + <p> + “And you?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose he will. Everybody always asks you everywhere. Diplomacy is so + universally—” + </p> + <p> + She broke off. Far away, at the end of the gallery, she had caught sight + of Miss Schley coming in with her husband. They sat down at a table near + the door. Robin Pierce followed her eyes and understood her silence. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going on the first?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “What to?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Schley’s first night.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it on the first? I didn’t know. We can’t. We’re dining at Brayley + House that evening.” + </p> + <p> + “What a pity!” he said, with a light touch of half playful malice. “You + would have seen her as she really is—from all accounts.” + </p> + <p> + “And what is Miss Schley really?” + </p> + <p> + “The secret enemy of censors.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + “You dislike her. Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t dislike her at all.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you like her?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I like very few women. I don’t understand them.” + </p> + <p> + “At any rate you understand—say Miss Schley—better than a man + would.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—a man!” + </p> + <p> + “I believe all women think all men fools.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme laughed, not very gaily. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t they?” he insisted. + </p> + <p> + “In certain ways, in certain relations of life, I suppose most men are—rather + short-sighted.” + </p> + <p> + “Like Mr. Bry.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Bry is the least short-sighted man I know. That’s why he always wears + an eyeglass.” + </p> + <p> + “To create an illusion?” + </p> + <p> + “Who knows?” + </p> + <p> + She looked down the long room. Between the heads of innumerable men and + women she could see Miss Schley. Her husband was hidden. She would have + preferred to see him. Miss Schley’s head was by no means expressive of the + naked truth. It merely looked cool, self-possessed, and—so Lady + Holme said to herself—extremely American. What she meant by that she + could, perhaps, hardly have explained. + </p> + <p> + “Do you admire Miss Schley’s appearance?” + </p> + <p> + Robin Pierce spoke again with a touch of humorous malice. He knew Lady + Holme so well that he had no objection to seem wanting in tact to her when + he had a secret end to gain. She looked at him sharply; leaning forward + over the table and opening her eyes very wide. + </p> + <p> + “Why are you forgetting your manners to-night and bombarding me with + questions?” + </p> + <p> + “The usual reason—devouring curiosity.” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated, looking at him. Then suddenly her face changed. Something, + some imp of adorable frankness, peeped out of it at him, and her whole + body seemed confiding. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Schley is going about London imitating me. Now, isn’t that true? + Isn’t she?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe she is. Damned impertinence!” + </p> + <p> + He muttered the last words under his breath. + </p> + <p> + “How can I admire her?” + </p> + <p> + There was something in the way she said that which touched him. He leaned + forward to her. + </p> + <p> + “Why not punish her for it?” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “Reveal what she can’t imitate.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” + </p> + <p> + “All you hide and I divine.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “She mimics the husk. She couldn’t mimic the kernel.” + </p> + <p> + “Ice, my lady?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme started. Till the footman spoke she had not quite realised how + deeply interested she was in the conversation. She helped herself to some + ice. + </p> + <p> + “You can go on, Mr. Pierce,” she said when the man had gone. + </p> + <p> + “But you understand.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head, smiling. Her body still looked soft and attractive, + and deliciously feminine. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Schley happens to have some vague resemblance to you in height and + colouring. She is a clever mimic. She used to be a professional mimic.” + </p> + <p> + “Really!” + </p> + <p> + “That was how she first became known.” + </p> + <p> + “In America?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should she imitate me?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you been nice to her?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. Yes. Nice enough.” + </p> + <p> + Robin shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “You think she dislikes me then?” + </p> + <p> + “Do women want definite reasons for half the things they do? Miss Schley + may not say to herself that she dislikes you, any more than you say to + yourself that you dislike her. Nevertheless—” + </p> + <p> + “We should never get on. No.” + </p> + <p> + “Consider yourselves enemies—for no reasons, or secret woman’s + reasons. It’s safer.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme looked down the gallery again. Miss Schley’s fair head was + bending forward to some invisible person. + </p> + <p> + “And the mimicry?” she asked, turning again to Robin. + </p> + <p> + “Can only be applied to mannerisms, to the ninety-ninth part, the + inconsiderable fraction of your charm. Miss Schley could never imitate the + hidden woman, the woman who sings, the woman who laughs at, denies herself + when she is not singing.” + </p> + <p> + “But no one cares for her—if she exists.” + </p> + <p> + There was a hint of secret bitterness in her voice when she said that. + </p> + <p> + “Give her a chance—and find out. But you know already that numbers + do.” + </p> + <p> + He tried to look into her eyes, but she avoided his gaze and got up. + </p> + <p> + “Take me back to the ballroom.” + </p> + <p> + “You are going to dance?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to see who’s here.” + </p> + <p> + As they passed the next table Lady Holme nodded to Leo Ulford. He bowed in + return and indicated that he was following almost immediately. Mrs. Ulford + put down her ear-trumpet, turned her head sharply, and looked at Lady + Holme sideways, fluttering her pink eyelids. + </p> + <p> + “How exactly like a bird she is,” murmured Lady Holme. + </p> + <p> + “Exactly—moulting.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme meant as she walked down the gallery; to stop and speak a few + gay words to Miss Schley and her husband, but when she drew near to their + table Lord Holme was holding forth with such unusual volubility, and Miss + Schley was listening with such profound attention, that it did not seem + worth while, and she went quietly on, thinking they did not see her. Lord + Holme did not. But the American smiled faintly as Lady Holme and Robin + disappeared into the hall. Then she said, in reply to her animated + companion: + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure if I am like Lady Holme I ought to say <i>Te Deum</i> and think + myself a lucky girl. I ought, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme had not been in the ballroom five minutes before Leo Ulford + came up smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Here I am,” he remarked, as if the statement were certain to give + universal satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + Robin looked black and moved a step closer to Lady Holme. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Mr. Pierce,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She took Leo Ulford’s arm, nodded to Robin, and walked away. + </p> + <p> + Robin stood looking after her. He started when he heard Carey’s voice + saying: + </p> + <p> + “Why d’you let her dance with that blackguard?” + </p> + <p> + “Hulloa, Carey?” + </p> + <p> + “Come to the supper-room. I want to have a yarn with you. And all this”—he + made a wavering, yet violent, gesture towards the dancers—“might be + a Holbein.” + </p> + <p> + “A dance of death? What nonsense you talk!” + </p> + <p> + “Come to the supper-room.” + </p> + <p> + Robin looked at his friend narrowly. + </p> + <p> + “You’re bored. Let’s go and take a stroll down Park Lane.” + </p> + <p> + “No. Well, then, if you won’t—” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll come.” + </p> + <p> + He put his arm through Carey’s, and they went out together. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme was generally agreeable to men. She was particularly charming + to Leo Ulford that night. He was not an interesting man, but he seemed to + interest her very much. They sat out together for a long time in the + corner of a small drawing-room, far away from the music. She had said to + Robin Pierce that she thought there was something about Leo Ulford that + was like her husband, and when she talked to him she found the resemblance + even greater than she had supposed. + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme and Leo Ulford were of a similar type. Both were strong, + healthy, sensual, slangy, audacious in a dull kind of fashion—Lady + Holme did not call it dull—serenely and perpetually intent upon + having everything their own way in life. Both lived for the body and + ignored the soul, as they would have ignored a man with a fine brain, a + passionate heart, a narrow chest and undeveloped muscles. Such a man they + would have summed up as “a rotter.” If they ever thought of the soul at + all, it was probably under some such comprehensive name. Both had the same + simple and blatant aim in life, an aim which governed all their actions + and was the generator of most of their thoughts. This aim, expressed in + their own terse language, was “to do themselves jolly well.” Both had, so + far, succeeded in their ambition. Both were, consequently, profoundly + convinced of their own cleverness. Intellectual conceit—the conceit + of the brain—is as nothing to physical conceit—the conceit of + the body. Acute intelligence is always capable of uneasiness, can always + make room for a doubt. But the self-satisfaction of the little-brained and + big-muscled man who has never had a rebuff or a day’s illness is cased in + triple brass. Lady Holme knew this self-satisfaction well. She had seen it + staring out of her husband’s big brown eyes. She saw it now in the boyish + eyes of Leo Ulford. She was at home with it and rather liked it. In truth, + it had at least one merit—from the woman’s point of view—it + was decisively masculine. + </p> + <p> + Whether Leo Ulford was, or was not, a blackguard; as Mrs. Trent had + declared, did not matter to her. Three-quarters of the men she knew were + blackguards according to the pinched ideas of Little Peddlington; and Mrs. + Trent might originally have issued from there. + </p> + <p> + She got on easily with Leo Ulford because she was experienced in the + treatment of his type. She knew exactly what to do with it; how to lead it + on, how to fend it off, how to throw cold water on its enterprise without + dashing it too greatly, how to banish any little, sulky cloud that might + appear on the brassy horizon without seeming to be solicitous. + </p> + <p> + The type is amazingly familiar to the woman of the London world. She can + recognize it at a glance, and can send it in its armchair canter round the + circus with scarce a crack of the ring-mistress’s whip. + </p> + <p> + To-night Lady Holme enjoyed governing it more than usual, and for a subtle + reason. + </p> + <p> + In testing her power upon Leo Ulford she was secretly practising her + siren’s art, with a view that would have surprised and disgusted him, + still more amazed him, had he known it. She was firing at the dummy in + order that later she might make sure of hitting the living man. Leo Ulford + was the dummy. The living man would be Fritz. + </p> + <p> + Both dummy and living man were profoundly ignorant of her moving + principle. The one was radiant with self-satisfaction under her fusillade. + The other, ignorant of it so far, would have been furious in the knowledge + of it. + </p> + <p> + She knew-and laughed at the men. + </p> + <p> + Presently she turned the conversation, which was getting a little too + personal—on Leo Ulford’s side—to a subject very present in her + mind that night. + </p> + <p> + “Did you have a talk with Miss Schley the other day after I left?” she + asked. “I ran away on purpose to give you a chance. Wasn’t it good-natured + of me, when I was really longing to stay?” + </p> + <p> + Leo Ulford stretched out his long legs slowly, his type’s way of purring. + </p> + <p> + “I’d rather have gone on yarning with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you did have a talk! She was at my house to-night, looking quite + delicious. You know she’s conquered London?” + </p> + <p> + “That sort’s up to every move on the board.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean? What board?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with innocent inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “I wish men didn’t know so much,” she added; with a sort of soft vexation. + “You have so many opportunities of acquiring knowledge and we so few—if + we respect the <i>convenances</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Schley wouldn’t respect ‘em.” + </p> + <p> + He chuckled, and again drew up and then stretched out his legs, slowly and + luxuriously. + </p> + <p> + “How can you know?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s not the sort that does. She’s the sort that’s always kicking over + the traces and keeping it dark. I know ‘em.” + </p> + <p> + “I think you’re rather unkind. Miss Schley’s mother arrives to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + Leo Ulford put up his hands to his baby moustache and shook with laughter. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the only thing she wanted to set her up in business,” he + ejaculated. “A marmar. I do love those Americans!” + </p> + <p> + “But you speak as if Mrs. Schley were a stage property!” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll bet she is. Wait till you see her. Why, it’s a regular profession in + the States, being a marmar. I tell you what—” + </p> + <p> + He leaned forward and fixed his blue eyes on Lady Holme, with an air of + profound acuteness. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to see her?” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Schley? I daresay.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you remember what I tell you. She’ll be as dry as a dog-biscuit, + wear a cap and spectacles with gold rims, and say nothing but ‘Oh, my, yes + indeed!’ to everything that’s said to her. Does she come from Susanville?” + </p> + <p> + “How extraordinary! I believe she does.” + </p> + <p> + Leo Ulford’s laugh was triumphant and prolonged. + </p> + <p> + “That’s where they breed marmars!” he exclaimed, when he was able to + speak. “Women are stunning.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,” said Lady Holme, preserving a quiet + air of pupilage. “But perhaps it’s better I shouldn’t. Anyhow, I am quite + sure Miss Schley’s mother will be worthy of her daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “You may bet your bottom dollar on that. She’ll be what they call ‘a + sootable marmar.’ I must get my wife to shoot a card on her.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope you’ll introduce me to Mrs. Ulford. I should like to know her.” + </p> + <p> + “Yours isn’t the voice to talk down a trumpet,” said Leo Ulford, with a + sudden air of surliness. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to know her now I know you and your father.” + </p> + <p> + At the mention of his father Leo Ulford’s discontented expression + increased. + </p> + <p> + “My father’s a rotter,” he said. “Never cared for anything. No shot to + speak of. He can sit on a horse all right. Had to, in South America and + Morocco and all those places. But he never really cared about it, I don’t + believe. Why, he’d rather look at a picture than a thoroughbred any day!” + </p> + <p> + At this moment Sir Donald wandered into the room, with his hands behind + his thin back, and his eyes searching the walls. The Duke possessed a + splendid collection of pictures. + </p> + <p> + “There he is!” said Leo, gruffly. + </p> + <p> + “He doesn’t see us. Go and tell him I’m here.” + </p> + <p> + “Why? he might go out again if we keep mum.” + </p> + <p> + “But I want to speak to him. Sir Donald! Sir Donald!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald turned round at the second summons and came towards them, + looking rather embarrassed. + </p> + <p> + “Hulloa, pater!” said Leo. + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald nodded to his son with a conscientious effort to seem familiar + and genial. + </p> + <p> + “Hulloa!” he rejoined in a hollow voice. + </p> + <p> + “Your boy has been instructing me in American mysteries,” said Lady Holme. + “Do take me to the ballroom, Sir Donald.” + </p> + <p> + Leo Ulford’s good humour returned as abruptly as it had departed. Her + glance at him, as she spoke, had seemed to hint at a secret understanding + between them in which no one—certainly not his father—was + included. + </p> + <p> + “Pater can tell you all about the pictures,” he said, with a comfortable + assurance, which he did not strive to disguise, that she would be + supremely bored. + </p> + <p> + He stared at her hard, gave a short laugh, and lounged away. + </p> + <p> + When he had gone, Sir Donald still seemed embarrassed. He looked at Lady + Holme apologetically, and in his faded eyes she saw an expression that + reminded her of Lady Cardington. It was surely old age asking forgiveness + for its existence. + </p> + <p> + She did not feel much pity for it, but with the woman of the world’s + natural instinct to smooth rough places—especially for a man—she + began to devote herself to cheering Sir Donald up, as they slowly made + their way through room after room towards the distant sound of the music. + </p> + <p> + “I hear you’ve been plunging!” she began gaily. + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald looked vague. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I scarcely—” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me. I catch slang from my husband. He’s ruining my English. I + mean that I hear you’ve been investing—shall I say your romance?—in + a wonderful place abroad, with a fascinating name. I hope you’ll get + enormous interest.” + </p> + <p> + A faint colour, it was like the ghost of a blush, rose in Sir Donald’s + withered cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Mr. Carey—” + </p> + <p> + He checked himself abruptly, remembering whet he had heard from Robin + Pierce. + </p> + <p> + “No, Mr. Pierce was my informant. He knows your place and says it’s too + wonderful. I adore the name.” + </p> + <p> + “Casa Felice. You would not advise me to change it, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Change it! Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I—one should not, perhaps, insist beforehand that one is + going to have happiness, which must always lie on the knees of the gods.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I believe in defiance.” + </p> + <p> + There was an audacious sound in her voice. Her long talk with Leo Ulford + had given her back her belief in herself, her confidence in her beauty, + her reliance on her youth. + </p> + <p> + “You have a right to believe in it. But Casa Felice is mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Even to buy it was a defiance—in a way.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps so. But then—” + </p> + <p> + “But then you have set out and you must not turn back, Sir Donald. Baptise + your wonderful house yourself by filling it with happiness. Another gave + it its name. Give it yourself the reason for the name.” + </p> + <p> + Happiness seemed to shine suddenly in the sound of her speaking voice, as + it shone in her singing voice when the theme of her song was joy. Sir + Donald’s manner lost its self-consciousness, its furtive diffidence. + </p> + <p> + “You—you come and give my house its real baptism,” he said, with a + flash of ardour that, issuing from him, was like fire bursting out of a + dreary marsh land. “Will you? This August?” + </p> + <p> + “But,” she hesitated. “Isn’t Mr. Carey coming?” + </p> + <p> + At this moment they came into a big drawing-room that immediately preceded + the ballroom, with which it communicated by an immense doorway hung with + curtains of white velvet. They could see in the distance the dancers + moving rather indifferently in a lancers. Lord Holme and Miss Schley were + dancing in the set nearest to the doorway, and on the side that faced the + drawing-room. Directly Lady Holme saw the ballroom she saw them. A sudden + sense of revolt, the defiance of joy carried on into the defiance of + anger, rose up in her. + </p> + <p> + “If Mr. Carey is coming I’ll come too, and baptise your house,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald looked surprised, but he answered, with a swiftness that did + not seem to belong to old age: + </p> + <p> + “That is a bargain, Lady Holme. I regard that as a bargain.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll not go back on it.” + </p> + <p> + There was a hard sound in her voice. + </p> + <p> + They entered the ballroom just as the band played the closing bars of the + lancers, and the many sets began to break up and melt into a formless + crowd which dispersed in various directions. The largest number of people + moved towards the archway near which the Duke was still sitting, bravely + exerting himself to be cheerful. Lady Holme and Sir Donald became involved + in this section of the crowd, and naturally followed in its direction. + Lord Holme and Miss Schley were at a short distance behind them, and Lady + Holme was aware of this. The double defiance was still alive in her, and + was strengthened by a clear sound which reached her ears for a moment, + then was swallowed up by the hum of conversation from many intervening + voices—the sound of the American’s drawling tones raised to say + something she could not catch. As she came out into the hall, close to the + Duke’s chair, she saw Rupert Carey trying to make his way into the + ballroom against the stream of dancers. His face was flushed. There were + drops of perspiration on his forehead, and the violent expression that was + perpetually visible in his red-brown eyes, lighting them up as with a + flame, seemed partially obscured as if by a haze. The violence of them was + no longer vivid but glassy. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme did not notice all this. The crowd was round her, and she was + secretly preoccupied. She merely saw that Rupert Carey was close to her, + and she knew who was following behind her. A strong impulse came upon her + and she yielded to it without hesitation. As she reached Rupert Carey she + stopped and held out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Carey,” she said, “I’ve been wanting to speak to you all the evening. + Why didn’t you ask me to dance?” + </p> + <p> + She spoke very distinctly. Carey stood still and stared at her, and now + she noticed the flush on his face and the unnatural expression in his + eyes. She understood at once what was the matter and repented of her + action. But it was too late to draw back. Carey stared dully for an + instant, as if he scarcely knew who she was. Then, with a lurch, he came + closer to her, and, with a wavering movement, tried to find her hand, + which she had withdrawn. + </p> + <p> + “Where is it?” he muttered in a thick voice. “Where is it?” + </p> + <p> + He groped frantically. + </p> + <p> + “Sir Donald!” Lady Holme whispered sharply, while the people nearest to + them began to exchange glances of surprise or of amusement. + </p> + <p> + She pressed his arm and he tried to draw her on. But Carey was exactly in + front of her. It was impossible for her to escape. He found her hand at + last, took it limply in his, bent down and began to kiss it, mumbling some + loud but incoherent words. + </p> + <p> + The Duke, who from his chair, was a witness of the scene, tried to raise + himself up, and a vivid spot of scarlet burned in his almost transparent + cheeks. His daughter hastened forward to stop his effort. Lady Holme + dragged her hand away violently, and Carey suddenly burst into tears. Sir + Donald hurried Lady Holme on, and Carey tried to follow, but was forcibly + prevented by two men. + </p> + <p> + When at length Lady Holme found herself at the other end of the great + hall, she turned and saw her husband coming towards her with a look of + fury on his face. + </p> + <p> + “I wish to go home,” she said to him in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + She withdrew her hand from Sir Donald’s arm and quietly bade him good-bye. + Lord Holme did not say a word. + </p> + <p> + “Where is the Duchess?” Lady Holme added. “Ah, there she is!” + </p> + <p> + She saw the Duchess hurriedly going towards the place where the Duke was + sitting, intercepted her swiftly, and bade her good-night. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Fritz!” she said. + </p> + <p> + She was conscious that a number of people were watching her, and her voice + and manner were absolutely unembarrassed. A footman took the number of her + cloak from Lord Holme and fetched the cloak. A voice cried in the + distance, “Lord Holme’s carriage!” Another, and nearer voice, echoed the + call. She passed slowly between two lines of men over a broad strip of + carpet to the portico, and stepped into the brougham. + </p> + <p> + As it glided away into the night she heard her husband’s loud breathing. + </p> + <p> + He did not speak for two or three minutes, but breathed like a man who had + been running, and moved violently in the carriage as if to keep still were + intolerable to him. The window next to him was up. He let it down. Then he + turned right round to his wife, who was leaning back in her corner wrapped + up in her black cloak. + </p> + <p> + “With the Duke sittin’ there!” he said in a loud voice. “With the Duke + sittin’ there!” + </p> + <p> + There was a sound of outrage in the voice. + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t I kick that sweep out of the house?” he added. “Didn’t I?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you asked Mr. Carey not to call anymore.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme’s voice had no excitement in it. + </p> + <p> + “Asked him! I—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t make such a noise, Fritz. The men will hear you.” + </p> + <p> + “I told him if he ever came again I’d have him put out.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he never has come again.” + </p> + <p> + “What d’you mean by speakin’ to him? What d’you mean by it?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme knew that her husband was a thoroughly conventional man, and, + like all conventional men, had a horror of a public scene in which any + woman belonging to him was mixed up. Such a scene alone was quite enough + to rouse his wrath. But there was in his present anger something deeper, + more brutal, than any rage caused by a breach of the conventions. His + jealousy was stirred. + </p> + <p> + “He didn’t speak to you. You spoke to him.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme did not deny it. + </p> + <p> + “I heard every word you said,” continued Lord Holme, beginning to breathe + hard again. “I—I—” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme felt that he was longing to strike her, that if he had been the + same man, but a collier or a labourer, born in another class of life, he + would not have hesitated to beat her. The tradition in which he had been + brought up controlled him. But she knew that if he could have beaten her + he would have hated her less, that his sense of bitter wrong would have at + once diminished. In self-control it grew. The spark rose to a flame. + </p> + <p> + “You’re a damned shameful woman!” he said. + </p> + <p> + The brougham drew up softly before their house. Lord Holme, who was seated + on the side next the house, got out first. He did not wait on the pavement + to assist his wife, but walked up the steps, opened the door, and went + into the hall. Lady Holme followed. She saw her husband, with the light + behind him, standing with his hand on the handle of the hall door. For an + instant she thought that he was going to shut her out. He actually pushed + the door till the light was almost hidden. Then he flung it open with a + bang, threw down his hat and strode upstairs. + </p> + <p> + If he had shut her out! She found herself wondering what would have become + of her, where she would have gone. She would have had to go to the Coburg, + or to Claridge’s, without a maid, without luggage. As she slowly came + upstairs she heard her husband go into the drawing-room. Was he waiting + for her there? or did he wish to avoid her? When she reached the broad + landing she hesitated. She was half inclined to go in audaciously, to + laugh in his face; turn his fury into ridicule, tell him she was the sort + of woman who is born to do as she likes, to live as she chooses, to think + of nothing but her own will, consult nothing but her whims of the moment. + But she went on and into her bedroom. + </p> + <p> + Josephine was there and began to take the diamonds out of her hair. Lady + Holme did not say a word. She was listening intently for the sound of any + movement below. She heard nothing. When she was undressed, and there was + nothing more for the maid to do, she began to feel uneasy, as if she would + rather not dismiss the girl. But it was very late. Josephine strangled her + yawns with difficulty. There was no excuse for keeping her up any longer. + </p> + <p> + “You can go.” + </p> + <p> + The maid went out, leaving Lady Holme standing in the middle of the big + bedroom. Next to it on one side was Lord Holme’s dressing-room. On the + other side there was a door leading into Lady Holme’s boudoir. Almost + directly after Josephine had gone Lady Holme heard the outer door of this + room opened, and the heavy step of her husband. It moved about the room, + stopped, moved about again. What could he be doing? She stood where she + was, listening. Suddenly the door between the rooms was thrown open and + Lord Holme appeared. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s the red book?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “The red book!” + </p> + <p> + “Where is it? D’you hear?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want it for?” + </p> + <p> + “That sweep’s address.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do? Write to him?” + </p> + <p> + “Write to him!” said Lord Holme, with bitter contempt. “I’m goin’ to + thrash him. Where is it?” + </p> + <p> + “You are going now?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve not come up to answer questions. I’ve come for the red book. Where + is it?” + </p> + <p> + “The little drawer at the top on the right hand of the writing-table.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme turned back into the boudoir, went to the writing-table, found + the book, opened it, found the address and wrote it down on a bit of + paper. He folded the paper up anyhow and thrust it into his waistcoat + pocket. Then, without saying another word to his wife, or looking at her, + he went out and down the staircase. + </p> + <p> + She followed him on to the landing, and stood there till she heard the + hall door shut with a bang. + </p> + <p> + A clock below struck four. She went back into the bedroom and sank into an + armchair. + </p> + <p> + A slight sense of confusion floated over her mind for a moment, like a + cloud. She was not accustomed to scenes. There had been one certainly when + Rupert Carey was forbidden to come to the house any more, but it had been + brief, and she had not been present at it. She had only heard of it + afterwards. Lord Holme had been angry then, and she had rather liked his + anger. She took it as, in some degree, a measure of his attachment to her. + And then she had had no feeling of being in the wrong or of humiliation. + She had been charming to Carey, as she was charming to all men. He had + lost his head. He had mistaken the relations existing between her and her + husband, and imagined that such a woman as she was must be unhappily mated + with such a man as Lord Holme. The passionate desire to console a + perfectly-contented woman had caused him to go too far, and bring down + upon himself a fiat of exile, which he could not defy since Lady Holme + permitted it to go forth, and evidently was not rendered miserable by it. + So the acquaintance with Rupert Carey had ceased, and life had slipped + along once more on wheels covered with india-rubber tyres. + </p> + <p> + And now she had renewed the acquaintance publicly and with disastrous + results. + </p> + <p> + As she sat there she began to wonder at herself, at the strength of her + temper, the secret violence of her nature. She had yielded like a child to + a sudden impulse. She had not thought of consequences. She had ignored her + worldly knowledge. She had considered nothing, but had acted abruptly, as + any ignorant, uneducated woman might have acted. She had been the slave of + a mood. Or had she been the slave of another woman—of a woman whom + she despised? + </p> + <p> + Miss Schley had certainly been the cause of the whole affair. Lady Holme + had spoken to Rupert Carey merely because she knew that her husband was + immediately behind her with the American. There had been within her at + that moment something of a broad, comprehensive feeling, mingled with the + more limited personal feeling of anger against another woman’s successful + impertinence, a sentiment of revolt in which womanhood seemed to rise up + against the selfish tyrannies of men. As she had walked in the crowd, and + heard for an instant Miss Schley’s drawlling voice speaking to her + husband, she had felt as if the forbidding of the acquaintance between + herself and Rupert Carey had been an act of tyranny, as if the + acquaintance between Miss Schley and her husband were a worse act of + tyranny. The feeling was wholly unreasonable, of course. How could Lord + Holme know that she wished to impose a veto, even as he had? And what + reason was there for such a veto? That lay deep down within her as woman’s + instinct. No man could have understood it. + </p> + <p> + And now Lord Holme had gone out in the dead of the night to thrash Carey. + </p> + <p> + She began to think about Carey. + </p> + <p> + How disgusting he had been. A drunken man must be one of two things—either + terrible or absurd. Carey had been absurd—disgusting and absurd. It + had been better for him if he had been terrible. But mumblings and tears! + She remembered what she had said of Carey to Robin Pierce—that + something in his eyes, one of those expressions which are the children of + the eyes, or of the lines about the eyes, told her that he was capable of + doing something great. What an irony that her remark to Robin had been + succeeded by such a scene! And she heard again the ugly sound of Carey’s + incoherent exclamations, and felt again the limp clasp of his hot, weak + hand, and saw again the tears running over his flushed, damp face. It was + all very nauseous. And yet—had she been wrong in what she had said + of him? Did she even think that she had been wrong now, after what had + passed? + </p> + <p> + What kind of great action had she thought he would be capable of if a + chance to do something great were thrown in his way? She said to herself + that she had spoken at random, as one perpetually speaks in Society. And + then she remembered Carey’s eyes. They were ugly eyes. She had always + thought them ugly. Yet, now and then, there was something in them, + something to hold a woman—no, perhaps not that—but something + to startle a woman, to make her think, wonder, even to make her trust. And + the scene which had just occurred, with all its weakness, its fatuity, its + maundering display of degradation and the inability of any + self-government, had not somehow destroyed the impression made upon Lady + Holme by that something in Carey’s eyes. What she had said to Robin Pierce + she might not choose ever to say again. She would not choose ever to say + it again—of that she was certain—but she had not ceased to + think it. + </p> + <p> + A conviction based upon no evidence that could be brought forward to + convince anyone is the last thing that can be destroyed in a woman’s + heart. + </p> + <p> + It was nearly six o’clock when Lady Holme heard a step coming up the + stairs. She was still sitting in the deep chair, and had scarcely moved. + The step startled her. She put her hands on the arms of the chair and + leaned forward. The step passed her bedroom. She heard the door of the + dressing-room opened and then someone moving about. + </p> + <p> + “Fritz!” she called. “Fritz!” + </p> + <p> + There was no answer. She got up and went quickly to the dressing-room. Her + husband was there in his shirt sleeves. His evening coat and waistcoat + were lying half on a chair, half on the floor, and he was in the act of + unfastening his collar. She looked into his face, trying to read it. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” she said. “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Go to bed!” he said brutally. + </p> + <p> + “What have you done?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s my business. Go to bed. D’you hear?” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated. Then she said: + </p> + <p> + “How dare you speak to me like that? Have you seen Mr. Carey?” + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme suddenly took his wife by the shoulders; pushed her out of the + room, shut the door, and locked it. + </p> + <p> + They always slept in the same bedroom. Was he not going to bed at all? + What had happened? Lady Holme could not tell from his face or manner + anything of what had occurred. She looked at her clock and saw her husband + had been out of the house for two hours. Indignation and curiosity fought + within her; and she became conscious of an excitement such as she had + never felt before. Sleep was impossible, but she got into bed and lay + there listening to the noises made by her husband in his dressing-room. + She could just hear them faintly through the door. Presently they ceased. + A profound silence reigned. There was a sofa in the dressing-room. Could + he be trying to sleep on it? Such a thing seemed incredible to her. For + Lord Holme, although he could rough it when he was shooting or hunting, at + home or abroad, and cared little for inconvenience when there was anything + to kill, was devoted to comfort in ordinary life, and extremely exigent in + his own houses. For nothing, for nobody, had Lady Holme ever known him to + allow himself to be put out. + </p> + <p> + She strained her ears as she lay in bed. For a long time the silence + lasted. She began to think her husband must have left the dressing-room, + when she heard a noise as if something—some piece of furniture—had + been kicked, and then a stentorian “Damn!” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she burst out laughing. She shook against the pillows. She + laughed and laughed weakly; helplessly, till the tears ran down her + cheeks. And with those tears ran away her anger, the hot, strained + sensation that had been within her even since the scene at Arkell House. + If she had womanly pride it melted ignominiously. If she had feminine + dignity—that pure and sacred panoply which man ignores at his own + proper peril—it disappeared. The “poor old Fritz” feeling, which was + the most human, simple, happy thing in her heart, started into vivacity as + she realised the long legs flowing into air over the edge of the short + sofa, the pent-up fury—fury of the too large body on the too small + resting-place—which found a partial vent in the hallowed objurgation + of the British Philistine. + </p> + <p> + With every moment that she lay in the big bed she was punishing Fritz. She + nestled down among the pillows. She stretched out her limbs luxuriously. + How easy it was to punish a man! Lying there she recalled her husband’s + words, each detail of his treatment of her since she had spoken to Carey. + He had called her “a damned shameful woman.” That was of all the worst + offence. She told herself that she ought to, that she must, for that + expression alone, hate Fritz for ever. And then, immediately, she knew + that she had forgiven it already, without effort, without thought. + </p> + <p> + She understood the type with which she had to deal, the absurd boyishness + that was linked with the brutality of it, the lack of mind to give words + their true, their inmost meaning. Words are instruments of torture, or the + pattering confetti of a carnival, not by themselves but by the mind that + sends them forth. Fritz’s exclamation might have roused eternal enmity in + her if it had been uttered by another man. Coming from Fritz it won its + pardon easily by having a brother, “Damn.” + </p> + <p> + She wondered how long her husband would be ruled by his sense of outrage. + </p> + <p> + Towards seven she heard another movement; another indignant exclamation, + then the creak of furniture, a step, a rattling at the door. She turned on + her side towards the wall, shut her eyes and breathed lightly and + regularly. The key revolved, the door opened and closed, and she heard + feet shuffling cautiously over the carpet. A moment and Fritz was in bed. + Another moment, a long sigh, and he was asleep. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme still lay awake. Now that her attention was no longer fixed + upon her husband’s immediate proceedings she began to wonder again what + had happened between him and Rupert Carey. She would find out in the + morning. + </p> + <p> + And presently she too slept. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <p> + IN the morning Lord Holme woke very late and in a different humour. Lady + Holme was already up, sitting by a little table and pouring out tea, when + he stretched himself, yawned, turned over, uttered two or three booming, + incohorent exclamations, and finally raised himself on one arm, exhibiting + a touzled head and a pair of blinking eyes, stared solemnly at his wife’s + white figure and at the tea-table, and ejaculated: + </p> + <p> + “Eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Tea?” she returned, lifting up the silver teapot and holding it towards + him with an encouraging, half-playful gesture. + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme yawned again, put up his hands to his hair, and then looked + steadily at the teapot, which his wife was moving about in the sunbeams + that were shining in at the window. The morning was fine. + </p> + <p> + “Tea, Fritz?” + </p> + <p> + He smiled and began to roll out of bed. But the action woke up his memory, + and when he was on his feet he looked at his wife again more doubtfully. + She saw that he was beginning, sleepily but definitely, to consider + whether he should go on being absolutely furious about the events of the + preceding night, and acted with promptitude. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be frightened,” she said quickly. “I’ve made up my mind to forgive + you. You’re only a great schoolboy after all. Come along.” + </p> + <p> + She began to pour out the tea. It made a pleasant little noise falling + into the cup. The sun was wonderfully bright in the pretty room, almost + Italian in its golden warmth. Lady Holme’s black Pomeranian, Pixie, stood + on its hind legs to greet him. He came up to the sofa, still looking + undecided, but with a wavering light of dawning satisfaction in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You behaved damned badly last night,” he growled. + </p> + <p> + He sat down beside his wife with a bump. She put up her hand to his rough, + brown cheek. + </p> + <p> + “We both behaved atrociously,” she answered. “There’s your tea.” + </p> + <p> + She poured in the cream and buttered a thin piece of toast. Lord Holme + sipped. As he put the cup down she held the piece of toast up to his + mouth. He took a bite. + </p> + <p> + “And we both do the Christian act and forgive each other,” she added. + </p> + <p> + He leaned back. Sleep was flowing away from him, full consciousness of + life and events returning to him. + </p> + <p> + “What made you speak to that feller?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Drink your tea. I don’t know. He looked miserable at being avoided, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Miserable! He was drunk. He’s done for himself in London, and pretty near + done for you too.” + </p> + <p> + As he thought about it all a cloud began to settle over his face. Lady + Holme saw it and said: + </p> + <p> + “That depends on you, Fritz.” + </p> + <p> + She nestled against him, put her hand over his, and kept on lifting his + hand softly and then letting it fall on his knee, as she went on: + </p> + <p> + “That all depends on you.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + He began to look at her hand and his, following their movements almost + like a child. + </p> + <p> + “If we are all right together, obviously all right, very, very + par-ti-cu-lar-ly all right—voyez vous, mon petit chou?—they + will think nothing of it. ‘Poor Mr. Carey! What a pity the Duke’s + champagne is so good!’ That’s what they’ll say. But if we—you and I—are + not on perfect terms, if you behave like a bear that’s been sitting on a + wasps’ nest—why then they’ll say—they’ll say—” + </p> + <p> + “What’ll they say?” + </p> + <p> + “They’ll say, ‘That was really a most painful scene at the Duke’s. She’s + evidently been behaving quite abominably. Those yellow women always bring + about all the tragedies—‘” + </p> + <p> + “Yellow women!” Lord Holme ejaculated. + </p> + <p> + He looked hard at his wife. It was evident that his mind was tacking. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Schley heard what you said to the feller,” he added. + </p> + <p> + “People who never speak hear everything—naturally.” + </p> + <p> + “How d’you mean—never speak? Why, she’s full of talk.” + </p> + <p> + “How well she listened to him!” was Lady Holme’s mental comment. + </p> + <p> + “If half the world heard it doesn’t matter if you and I choose it + shouldn’t. Unless—” + </p> + <p> + “Unless what?” + </p> + <p> + “Unless you did anything last night—afterwards—that will make + a scandal?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + “Did you?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all right.” + </p> + <p> + He applied himself with energy to the toast. Lady Holme recognised, with a + chagrin which she concealed, that Lord Holme was not going to allow + himself to be “managed” into any revelation. She recognised it so + thoroughly that she left the subject at once. + </p> + <p> + “We’d better forgive and forget,” she said. “After all, we are married and + I suppose we must stick together.” + </p> + <p> + There was a clever note of regret in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “Are you sorry?” Lord Holme said, with a manner that suggested a readiness + to be surly. + </p> + <p> + “For what?” + </p> + <p> + “That we’re married?” + </p> + <p> + She sat calmly considering. + </p> + <p> + “Am I? Well, I must think. It’s so difficult to be sure. I must compare + you with other men—” + </p> + <p> + “If it comes to that, I might do a bit of comparin’ too.” + </p> + <p> + “I should be the last to prevent you, old boy. But I’m sure you’ve often + done it already and always made up your mind afterwards that she wasn’t + quite up to the marrying mark.” + </p> + <p> + “Who wasn’t?” + </p> + <p> + “The other—horrid creature.” + </p> + <p> + He could not repress a chuckle. + </p> + <p> + “You’re deuced conceited,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve made me so.” + </p> + <p> + “I—how?” + </p> + <p> + “By marrying me first and adoring me afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + They had finished tea and were no longer preoccupied with cups and + saucers. It was very bright in the room, very silent. Lord Holme looked at + his wife and remembered how much she was admired by other men, how many + men would give—whatever men are ready to give—to see her as + she was just then. It occurred to him that he would have been rather a + fool if he had yielded to his violent impulse and shut her out of the + house the previous night. + </p> + <p> + “You’re never to speak to that cad again,” he said. “D’you hear?” + </p> + <p> + “Whisper it close in my ear and I’ll try to hear. Your voice is so—what’s + your expression—so infernally soft.” + </p> + <p> + He put his great arm round her. + </p> + <p> + “D’you hear?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m trying.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll make you.” + </p> + <p> + Whether Lord Holme succeeded or not, Lady Holme had no opportunity—even + if she desired it—of speaking to Rupert Carey for some time. He left + London and went up to the North to stay with his mother. The only person + he saw before he went was Robin Pierce. He came round to Half Moon Street + early on the afternoon of the day after the Arkell House Ball. Robin was + at home and Carey walked in with his usual decision. He was very pale, and + his face looked very hard. Robin received him coldly and did not ask him + to sit down. That was not necessary, of course. But Robin was standing by + the door and did not move back into the room. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going North to-night,” said Carey. + </p> + <p> + “Are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. If you don’t mind I’ll sit down.” + </p> + <p> + Robin said nothing. Carey threw himself into an armchair. + </p> + <p> + “Going to see the mater. A funny thing—but she’s always glad to see + me.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Mothers have a knack that way. Lucky for sons like me.” + </p> + <p> + There was intense bitterness in his voice, but there was a sound of + tenderness too. Robin shut the door but did not sit down. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to be in the country long?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t know. What time did you leave Arkell House last night?” + </p> + <p> + “Not till after Lady Holme left.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + He was silent for a moment, biting his red moustache. + </p> + <p> + “Were you in the hall after the last lancers?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “You weren’t?” + </p> + <p> + He spoke quickly, with a sort of relief, hesitated then added + sardonically: + </p> + <p> + “But of course you know—and much worse than the worst. The art of + conversation isn’t dead yet, whatever the—perhaps you saw me being + got out?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “But you do know?” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally.” + </p> + <p> + “I say, I wish you’d let me have—” + </p> + <p> + He checked himself abruptly, and muttered: + </p> + <p> + “Good God! What a brute I am.” + </p> + <p> + He sprang up and walked about the room. Presently he stopped in front of + the statuette of the “<i>Danseuse de Tunisie</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it the woman that does it all, or the fan?” he said. “I don’t know. + Sometimes I think it’s one, and sometimes the other. Without the fan + there’s purity, what’s meant from the beginning—” + </p> + <p> + “By whom?” said Robin. “I thought you were an atheist?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, God! I don’t know what I am.” + </p> + <p> + He turned away from the statuette. + </p> + <p> + “With the fan there’s so much more than purity, than what was meant to + complete us—as devils—men. But—mothers don’t carry the + fan. And I’m going North to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say that Lady Holme—?” + </p> + <p> + Robin’s voice was stern. + </p> + <p> + “Why did she say that to me?” + </p> + <p> + “What did she say?” + </p> + <p> + “That she wished to speak to me, to dance with me.” + </p> + <p> + “She said that? How can you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I wasn’t so drunk that I couldn’t hear the voice from Eden. Pierce, + you know her. She likes you. Tell her to forgive as much as she can. Will + you? And tell her not to carry the fan again when fools like me are + about.” + </p> + <p> + And then, without more words, he went out of the room and left Robin + standing alone. + </p> + <p> + Robin looked at the statuette, and remembered what Sir Donald Ulford had + said directly he saw it—“Forgive me, that fan makes that statuette + wicked.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor old Carey!” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + His indignation at Carey’s conduct, which had been hot, had nearly died + away. + </p> + <p> + “If I had told him what she said about him at supper!” he thought. + </p> + <p> + And then he began to wonder whether Lady Holme had changed her mind on + that subject. Surely she must have changed it. But one never knew—with + women. He took up his hat and gloves and went out. If Lady Holme was in he + meant to give her Carey’s message. It was impossible to be jealous of + Carey now. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme was not in. + </p> + <p> + As Robin walked away from Cadogan Square he was not sure whether he was + glad or sorry that he had not been able to see her. + </p> + <p> + After his cup of early morning tea Lord Holme had seemed to be “dear old + Fritz” again, and Lady Holme felt satisfied with herself despite the + wagging tongues of London. She knew she had done an incautious thing. She + knew, too, that Carey had failed her. Her impulse had been to use him as a + weapon. He had proved a broken reed. And this failure on his part was + likely to correct for ever her incautious tendencies. That was what she + told herself, with some contempt for men. She did not tell herself that + the use to which she had intended to put Carey was an unworthy one. Women + as beautiful, and as successful in their beauty, as she was seldom tell + themselves these medicinal truths. + </p> + <p> + She went about as usual, and on several occasions took Lord Holme with + her. And though she saw a light of curiosity in many eyes, and saw lips + almost forced open by the silent questions lurking within many minds, it + was as she had said it would be. The immediate future had been in Fritz’s + hands, and he had made it safe enough. + </p> + <p> + He had made it safe. Even the Duchess of Arkell was quite charming, and + laid the whole burden of blame—where it always ought to be laid, of + course—upon the man’s shoulders. Rupert Carey was quite done for + socially. Everyone said so. Even Upper Bohemia thought blatant + intemperance—in a Duke’s house—an unnecessary defiance flung + at the Blue Ribbon Army. Only Amalia Wolfstein, who had never succeeded in + getting an invitation to Arkell House, remarked that “It was probably the + champagne’s fault. She had always noticed that where the host and hostess + were dry the champagne was apt to be sweet.” + </p> + <p> + Yes, Fritz had made it safe, but: + </p> + <p> + Circumstances presently woke in Lady Holme’s mind a rather disagreeable + suspicion that though Fritz had “come round” with such an admirable + promptitude he had reserved to himself a right to retaliate, that he + perhaps presumed to fancy that her defiant action, and its very public and + unpleasant result, gave to him a greater license than he had possessed + before. + </p> + <p> + Some days after the early morning tea Lord Holme said to his wife: + </p> + <p> + “I say, Vi, we’ve got nothing on the first, have we?” + </p> + <p> + There was a perceptible pause before she replied. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we have. We’ve accepted a dinner at Brayley House.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme looked exceedingly put out. + </p> + <p> + “Brayley House. What rot!” he exclaimed. “I hate those hind-leg affairs. + Why on earth did you accept it?” + </p> + <p> + “Dear boy, you told me to. But why?” + </p> + <p> + “Why what?” + </p> + <p> + “Why are you so anxious to be free for the first?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it’s Miss Schley’s <i>debut</i> at the British. Everyone’s goin’ + and Laycock says—” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not very interested in Mr. Laycock’s aphorisms, Fritz. I prefer + yours, I truly do.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, I’m as good as Laycock, I know. Still—” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a thousand times better. And so everybody’s going, on Miss + Schley’s first night? I only wish we could, but we can’t. Let’s put up + with number two. We’re free on the second.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme did not look at all appeased. + </p> + <p> + “That’s not the same thing,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the difference? She doesn’t change the play, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “No. But naturally on the first night she wants all her friends to come up + to the scratch, muster round—don’t you know?—and give her a + hand.” + </p> + <p> + “And she thinks your hand, being enormous, would be valuable? But we can’t + throw over Brayley House.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme’s square jaw began to work, a sure sign of acute irritation. + </p> + <p> + “If there’s a dull, dreary house in London, it’s Brayley House,” he + grumbled. “The cookin’s awful—poison—and the wine’s worse. + Why, last time Laycock was there they actually gave him—” + </p> + <p> + “Poor dear Mr. Laycock! Did they really? But what can we do? I’m sure I + don’t want to be poisoned either. I love life.” + </p> + <p> + She was looking brilliant. Lord Holme began to straddle his legs. + </p> + <p> + “And there’s the box!” he said. “A box next the stage that holds six in a + row can’t stand empty on a first night, eh? It’d throw a damper on the + whole house.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand. What box?” + </p> + <p> + “Hang it all!—ours.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know we had a box for this important social function.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme really made a great effort to keep the ice out of her voice, + but one or two fragments floated in nevertheless. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I tell you I’ve taken a box and asked Laycock—” + </p> + <p> + The reiterated mention of this hallowed name was a little too much for + Lady Holme’s equanimity. + </p> + <p> + “If Mr. Laycock’s going the box won’t be empty. So that’s all right,” she + rejoined. “Mr. Laycock will make enough noise to give the critics a lead. + And I suppose that’s all Miss Schley wants.” + </p> + <p> + “But it isn’t!” said Lord Holme, violently letting himself down at the + knees and shooting himself up again. + </p> + <p> + “What does she want?” + </p> + <p> + “She wants you to be there.” + </p> + <p> + “Me! Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because she’s taken a deuce of a fancy to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Really!” + </p> + <p> + An iceberg had entered the voice now. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, thinks you the smartest woman in London, and all that. So you are.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m very sorry, but even the smartest woman in London can’t throw over + the Brayley’s. Take another box for the second.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme looked fearfully sulky and lounged out of the room. + </p> + <p> + On the following morning he strode into Lady Holme’s boudoir about twelve + with a radiant face. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right!” he exclaimed. “Talk of diplomatists! I ought to be an + ambassador.” + </p> + <p> + He flung himself into a chair, grinning with satisfaction like a + schoolboy. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” asked Lady Holme, looking up from her writing-table. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been to Lady Brayley, explained the whole thing, and got us both + off. After all, she was a friend of my mother’s, and knew me in kilts and + all that, so she ought to be ready to do me a favour. She looked a bit + grim, but she’s done it. You’ve—only got to tip her a note of + thanks.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re mad then, Fritz!” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme stood up suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Never saner.” + </p> + <p> + He put one hand into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out an + envelope. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s what she says to you.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme tore the note open. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “BRAYLEY HOUSE, W. + + “DEAR VIOLA,—Holme tells me you made a mistake when you accepted + my invitation for the first, and that you have long been pledged + to be present on that date at some theatrical performance or other. + I am sorry I did not know sooner, but of course I release you with + pleasure from your engagement with me, and I have already filled up + your places.—Believe me, yours always sincerely, + + “MARTHA BRAYLEY.” + </pre> + <p> + Lady Holme read this note carefully, folded it up, laid it quietly on the + writing-table and repeated: + </p> + <p> + “You’re mad, Fritz.” + </p> + <p> + “What d’you mean—mad?” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve made Martha Brayley my enemy for life.” + </p> + <p> + “Rubbish!” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon. And for—for—” + </p> + <p> + She stopped. It was wiser not to go on. Perhaps her face spoke for her, + even to so dull an observer as Lord Holme, for he suddenly said, with a + complete change of tone: + </p> + <p> + “I forgave you about Carey.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I see! You want a <i>quid pro quo</i>. Thank you, Fritz.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t forget to tip Lady Brayley a note of thanks,” he said rather + loudly, getting up from his chair. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, thanks! You certainly ought to be an ambassador—at the court of + some savage monarch.” + </p> + <p> + He said nothing, but walked out of the room whistling the refrain about + Ina. + </p> + <p> + When he had gone Lady Holme sat down and wrote two notes. One was to Lady + Brayley and was charmingly apologetic, saying that the confusion was + entirely owing to Fritz’s muddle-headedness, and that she was in despair + at her misfortune—which was almost literally true. The other was to + Sir Donald Ulford, begging him to join them in their box on the first, and + asking whether it was possible to persuade Mr. and Mrs. Leo Ulford to come + with him. If he thought so she would go at once and leave cards on Mrs. + Ulford, whom she was longing to know. + </p> + <p> + Both notes went off by hand before lunch. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <p> + THE Ulfords accepted for the first. Lady Holme left cards on Mrs. Leo and + told her husband that the box was filled up. He received the information + with indifference. So long as his wife was there to please Miss Schley, + and Mr. Laycock to “give her a hand and show ‘em all whether she was + popular,” he was satisfied. Having gained his point, he was once again in + excellent humour. Possibly Lady Holme would have appreciated his large + gaieties more if she had not divined their cause. But she expressed no + dissatisfaction with them, and indeed increased them by her own brilliant + serenity during the days that intervened between the Martha Brayley + incident and the first night. + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme had no suspicion that during these days she was inwardly + debating whether she would go to the theatre or not. + </p> + <p> + It would be very easy to be unwell. She was going out incessantly and + could be over-fatigued. She could have woman’s great stand-by in moments + of crisis—a bad attack of neuralgia. It was the simplest matter in + the world. The only question was—all things considered, was it worth + while? By “all things considered” she meant Leo Ulford. The touch of Fritz + in him made him a valuable ally at this moment. Fritz and Miss Schley were + not going to have things quite all their own way. And then Mrs. Leo! She + would put Fritz next the ear-trumpet. She had enough sense of humour to + smile to herself at the thought of him there. On the whole, she fancied + the neuralgia would not attack her at the critical instant. + </p> + <p> + Only when she thought of what her husband had said about the American’s + desire for her presence did she hesitate again. Her suspicions were + aroused. Miss Schley was not anxious that she should be conspicuously in + the theatre merely because she was the smartest woman in London. That was + certain. Besides, she was not the smartest woman in London. She was far + too well-born to be that in these great days of the <i>demi-mondaine</i>. + She remembered Robin Pierce’s warning at the Arkell House ball—“Consider + yourselves enemies for no reasons or secret woman’s reasons. It’s safer.” + </p> + <p> + When do women want the bulky, solid reasons obtusely demanded by men + before they can be enemies? Where man insists on an insult, a blow, they + will be satisfied with a look—perhaps not even at them but only at + the skirt of their gown—with a turn of the head, with nothing at + all. For what a man calls nothing can be the world and all that there is + in it to a woman. Lady Holme knew that she and the American had been + enemies since the moment when the latter had moved with the tiny steps + that so oddly caricatured her own individual walk down the stairs at the + Carlton. She wanted no tiresome reasons; nor did Miss Schley. Robin was + right, of course. He understood women. But then—? + </p> + <p> + Should she go to the theatre? + </p> + <p> + The night came and she went. Whether an extraordinary white lace gown, + which arrived from Paris in the morning, and fitted too perfectly for + words, had anything to do with the eventual decision was not known to + anybody but herself. + </p> + <p> + Boxes are no longer popular in London except at the Opera. The British + Theatre was new, and the management, recognising that people prefer + stalls, had given up all the available space to them, and only left room + for two large boxes, which faced each other on a level with the dress + circle and next the stage. Lord Holme had one. Mrs. Wolfstein had taken + the other. + </p> + <p> + Miss Schley’s personal success in London brought together a rather special + audience. There were some of the usual people who go to first nights—critics, + ladies who describe dresses, fashionable lawyers and doctors. But there + were also numbers of people who are scarcely ever seen on these occasions, + people who may be found in the ground and grand tier boxes at Covent + Garden during the summer season. These thronged the stalls, and every one + of them was a dear friend of Lady Holme’s. Among them were Lady + Cardington, Lady Manby, Sally Perceval with her magnificently handsome and + semi-idiotic husband, old Lady Blower, in a green cap that suggested the + bathing season, Robin Pierce and Mr. Bry. Smart Americans were scattered + all over the house. Most of them had already seen the play in New York + during the preceding winter, and nearly everyone in the stalls had seen + the French original in Paris. The French piece had been quite shocking and + quite delicious. Every Royalty <i>de passage</i> in Paris had been to see + it, and one wandering monarch had gone three nights running, and had + laughed until his gentleman-in-waiting thought the heir to his throne was + likely to succeed much sooner than was generally expected. + </p> + <p> + The Holmes came in early. Lady Holme hated arriving anywhere early, but + Lord Holme was in such a prodigious fuss about being in plenty of time to + give Miss Schley a “rousin’ welcome,” that she yielded to his bass + protestations, and had the satisfaction of entering their box at least + seven minutes before the curtain went up. The stalls, of course, were + empty, and as they gradually filled she saw the faces of her friends + looking up at her with an amazement that under other circumstances might + have been amusing, but under these was rather irritating. Mr. Laycock + arrived two minutes after they did, and was immediately engaged in a + roaring conversation by Fritz. He was a man who talked a great deal + without having anything to say, who had always had much success with + women, perhaps because he had always treated them very badly, who dressed, + danced and shot well, and who had never, even for a moment, really cared + for anyone but himself. A common enough type. + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald appeared next, looking even more ghostly than usual. He sat + down by Lady Holme, a little behind her. He seemed depressed, but the + expression in his pale blue eyes when they first rested upon her made her + thoroughly realise one thing—that it was one of her conquering + nights. His eyes travelled quickly from her face to her throat, to her + gown. She wore no jewels. Sir Donald had a fastidious taste in beauty—the + taste that instinctively rejects excess of any kind. Her appeal to it had + never been so great as to-night. She knew it, and felt that she had never + found Sir Donald so attractive as to-night. + </p> + <p> + Mr. and Mrs. Ulford came in just as the curtain was going up, and the + introductions had to be gone through with a certain mysterious caution, + and the sitting arrangements made with as little noise as possible. Lady + Holme managed them deftly. Mr. Laycock sat nearest the stage, then Leo + Ulford next to her, on her right. Sir Donald was on her other side, Mrs. + Leo sat in the place of honour, with Lord Holme between her and Sir + Donald. She was intensely pink. Even her gown was of that colour, and she + wore a pink aigrette in her hair, fastened with a diamond ornament. Her + thin, betraying throat was clasped by the large dog-collar she had worn at + Arkell House. She cast swift, bird-like glances, full of a sort of haggard + inquiry, towards Lady Holme as she settled down in her arm-chair in the + corner. Lord Holme looked at her and at her ear-trumpet, and Lady Holme + was glad she had decided not to have neuralgia. There are little + compensations about all women even in the tiresome moments of their lives. + Whether this moment was going to be tiresome or not she could not yet + decide. + </p> + <p> + The Wolfstein party had come in at the same time as the Leo Ulfords, and + the box opposite presented an interesting study of Jewish types. For Mrs. + Wolfstein and “Henry” were accompanied by four immensely rich compatriots, + three of whom were members of the syndicate that was “backing” Miss + Schley. The fourth was the wife of one of them, and a cousin of Henry’s, + whom she resembled, but on a greatly enlarged scale. Both she and Amalia + blazed with jewels, and both were slightly overdressed and looked too + animated. Lady Holme saw Sir Donald glance at them, and then again at her, + and began to think more definitely that the evening would not be tiresome. + </p> + <p> + Leo Ulford seemed at present forced into a certain constraint by the + family element in the box. He looked at his father sideways, then at Lady + Holme, drummed one hand on his knee, and was evidently uncertain of + himself. During the opening scene of the play he found an opportunity to + whisper to Lady Holme: + </p> + <p> + “I never can talk when pater’s there!” + </p> + <p> + She whispered back: + </p> + <p> + “We mustn’t talk now.” + </p> + <p> + Then she looked towards the stage with apparent interest. Mrs. Leo sat + sideways with her trumpet lifted up towards her ear, Lord Holme had his + eyes fixed on the stage, and held his hands ready for the “rousin’ + welcome.” Mr. Laycock, at the end of the row, was also all attention. Lady + Holme glanced from one to the other, and murmured to Sir Donald with a + smile: + </p> + <p> + “I think we shall find to-night that the claque is not abolished in + England.” + </p> + <p> + He raised his eyebrows and looked distressed. + </p> + <p> + “I have very little hope of her acting,” he murmured back. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme put her fan to her lips. + </p> + <p> + “‘Sh! No sacrilege!” she said in an under voice. + </p> + <p> + She saw Leo Ulford shoot an angry glance at his father. Mrs. Wolfstein + nodded and smiled at her from the opposite box, and it struck Lady Holme + that her smile was more definitely malicious than usual, and that her + large black eyes were full of a sort of venomous anticipation. Mrs. + Wolfstein had at all times an almost frightfully expressive face. To-night + it had surely discarded every shred of reticence, and proclaimed an eager + expectation of something which Lady Holme could not divine, but which must + surely be very disagreeable to her. What could it possibly be? And was it + in any way connected with Miss Schley’s anxiety that she should be there + that night? She began to wish that the American would appear, but Miss + Schley had nothing to do in the first act till near the end, and then had + only one short scene to bring down the curtain. Lady Holme knew this + because she had seen the play in Paris. She thought the American version + very dull. The impropriety had been removed and with it all the fun. + People began to yawn and to assume the peculiar blank expression—the + bankrupt face—that is indicative of thwarted anticipation. Only the + Americans who had seen the piece in New York preserved their lively looks + and an appearance of being on the <i>qui vive</i>. + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme’s blunt brown features gradually drooped, seemed to become + definitely elongated. As time went on he really began to look almost + lantern-jawed. He bent forward and tried to catch Mr. Laycock’s eye and to + telegraph an urgent question, but only succeeded in meeting the surly blue + eyes of Leo Ulford, whom he met to-night for the first time. In his + despair he turned towards Mrs. Leo, and at once encountered the + ear-trumpet. He glanced at it with apprehension, and, after a moment of + vital hesitation, was about to pour into it the provender, “Have you any + notion when she’s comin’ on?” when there was a sudden rather languid + slapping of applause, and he jerked round hastily to find Miss Schley + already on the stage and welcomed without any of the assistance which he + was specially there to give. He lifted belated hands, but met a glance + from his wife which made him drop them silently. There was a satire in her + eyes, a sort of humorous, half-urging patronage that pierced the hide of + his self-satisfied and lethargic mind. She seemed sitting there ready to + beat time to his applause, nod her head to it as to a childish strain of + jigging music. And this apparent preparation for a semi-comic, + semi-pitiful benediction sent his hands suddenly to his knees. + </p> + <p> + He stared at the stage. Miss Schley was looking wonderfully like Viola, he + thought, on the instant, more like than she did in real life; like Viola + gone to the bad, though become a very reticent, yet very definite, <i>cocotte</i>. + There was not much in the scene, but Miss Schley, without apparent effort + and with a profound demureness, turned the dulness of it into something + that was—not French, certainly not that—but that was quite as + outrageous as the French had been, though in a different way; something + without definite nationality, but instinct with the slyness of acute and + unscrupulous womankind. The extraordinary thing was the marvellous + resemblance this acute and unscrupulous womanhood bore to Lady Holme’s, + even through all its obvious difference from hers. All her little + mannerisms of voice, look, manner and movement, were there but turned + towards commonness, even towards a naive but very self-conscious + impropriety. Had she been a public performer instead of merely a woman of + the world, the whole audience must have at once recognised the imitation. + As it was, her many friends in the house noticed it, and during the short + progress of the scene various heads were turned in her direction, various + faces glanced up at the big box in which she sat, leaning one arm on the + ledge, and looking towards Miss Schley with an expression of quiet + observation—a little indifferent—on her white face. Even Sir + Donald, who was next to her, and who once—in the most definite + moment of Miss Schley’s ingenious travesty—looked at her for an + instant, could not discern that she was aware of what was amusing or + enraging all her acquaintances. + </p> + <p> + Naturally she had grasped the situation at once, had discovered at once + why Miss Schley was anxious for her to be there. As she sat in the box + looking on at this gross impertinence, she seemed to herself to be + watching herself after a long <i>degringolade</i>, which had brought her, + not to the gutter, but to the smart restaurant, the smart music-hall, the + smart night club; the smart everything else that is beyond the borderland + of even a lax society. This was Miss Schley’s comment upon her. The sting + of it lay in this fact, that it followed immediately upon the heels of the + unpleasant scene at Arkell House. Otherwise, she thought it would not have + troubled her. Now it did trouble her. She felt not only indignant with + Miss Schley. She felt also secretly distressed in a more subtle way. Miss + Schley’s performance was calculated, coming at this moment, to make her + world doubtful just when it had been turned from doubt. A good caricature + fixes the attention upon the oddities, or the absurdities, latent in the + original. But this caricature did more. It suggested hidden possibilities + which she, by her own indiscreet action at the ball, had made perhaps to + seem probabilities to many people. + </p> + <p> + Here, before her friends, was set a woman strangely like her, but + evidently a bad woman. Lady Holme was certain that the result of Miss + Schley’s performance would be that were she to do things now which, done + before the Arkell House ball and this first night, would not have been + noticed, or would have been merely smiled at, they would be commented upon + with acrimony, exaggerated, even condemned. + </p> + <p> + Miss Schley was turning upon her one of those mirrors which distorts by + enlarging. Society would be likely to see her permanently distorted, and + not only in mannerisms but in character. + </p> + <p> + It happened that this fact was specially offensive to her on this + particular evening, and at this particular moment of her life. + </p> + <p> + While she sat there and watched the scene run its course, and saw, without + seeming to see, the effect it had upon those whom she knew well in the + house—saw Mrs. Wolfstein’s eager delight in it, Lady Manby’s broad + amusement, Robin Pierce’s carefully-controlled indignation, Mr. Bry’s + sardonic and always cold gratification, Lady Cardington’s surprised, + half-tragic wonder—she was oscillating between two courses, one a + course of reserve, of stern self-control and abnegation, the other a + course of defiance, of reckless indulgence of the strong temper that dwelt + within her, and that occasionally showed itself for a moment, as it had on + the evening of Miss Filberte’s fiasco. That temper was flaming now unseen. + Was she going to throw cold water over the flame, or to fan it? She did + not know. + </p> + <p> + When the curtain fell, the critics, who sometimes seem to enjoy personally + what they call very sad and disgraceful in print, were smiling at one + another. The blank faces of the men about town in the stalls were shining + almost unctuously. The smart Americans were busily saying to everyone, + “Didn’t we say so?” The whole house was awake. Miss Schley might not be + much of an actress. Numbers of people were already bustling about to say + that she could not act at all. But she had banished dulness. She had shut + the yawning lips, and stopped that uneasy cough which is the expression of + the relaxed mind rather than of the relaxed throat. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme sat back a little in the box. + </p> + <p> + “What d’you think of her?” she said to Sir Donald. “I think she’s rather + piquant, not anywhere near Granier, of course, but still—” + </p> + <p> + “I think her performance entirely odious,” he said, with an unusual + emphasis that was almost violent. “Entirely odious.” + </p> + <p> + He got up from his seat, striking his thin fingers against the palms of + his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Vulgar and offensive,” he said, almost as if to himself, and with a sort + of passion. “Vulgar and offensive!” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he turned away and went out of the box. + </p> + <p> + “I say—” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme, who had been watching Sir Donald’s disordered exit, looked + round to Leo. + </p> + <p> + “I say—” he repeated. “What’s up with pater?” + </p> + <p> + “He doesn’t seem to be enjoying the play.” + </p> + <p> + Leo Ulford looked unusually grave, even thoughtful, as if he were + pondering over some serious question. He kept his blue eyes fixed upon + Lady Holme. At last he said, in a voice much lower than usual: + </p> + <p> + “Poor chap!” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s a poor chap?” + </p> + <p> + Leo jerked his head towards the door. + </p> + <p> + “Your father? Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Why—at his age!” + </p> + <p> + The last words were full of boyish contempt. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you do. To be like that at his age. What’s the good? As if—” + He smiled slowly at her. “I’m glad I’m young,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad you’re young too,” she answered. “But you’re quite wrong about + Sir Donald.” + </p> + <p> + She let her eyes rest on his. He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “No, I’m not. I guessed it that day at the Carlton. All through lunch he + looked at you.” + </p> + <p> + “But what has all this to do with Miss Schley’s performance?” + </p> + <p> + “Because she’s something like you, but low down, where you’d never go.” + </p> + <p> + He drew his chair a little closer to hers. + </p> + <p> + “Would you?” he added, almost in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Laycock, who was in raptures over Miss Schley’s performance, had got + up to speak to Fritz, but found the latter being steadily hypnotised by + Mrs. Leo’s trumpet, which went up towards his mouth whenever he opened it. + He bellowed distracted nothings but could not make her hear, obtaining no + more fortunate result than a persistent flutter of pink eyelids, and a + shrill, reiterated “The what? The what?” + </p> + <p> + A sharp tap came presently on the box door, and Mrs. Wolfstein’s painted + face appeared. Lord Holme sprang up with undisguised relief. + </p> + <p> + “What d’you think of Pimpernel? Ah, Mr. Laycock—I heard your + faithful hands.” + </p> + <p> + “Stunnin’!” roared Lord Holme, “simply stunnin’!” + </p> + <p> + “Stunnin’! stunnin’!” exclaimed Mr. Laycock; “Rippin’! There’s no other + word. Simply rippin’!” + </p> + <p> + “The what? The what?” cried Mrs. Ulford. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wolfstein bent down, with expansive affection, over Lady Holme’s + chair, and clasped the left hand which Lady Holme carelessly raised to a + level with her shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “You dear person! Nice of you to come, and in such a gown too! The angels + wear white lace thrown together by Victorine—it is Victorine? I was + certain!—I’m sure. D’you like Pimpernel?” + </p> + <p> + Her too lustrous eyes—even Mrs. Wolfstein’s eyes looked over-dressed—devoured + Lady Holme, and her large, curving features were almost riotously + interrogative. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Lady Holme said. “Quite.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s startled everybody.” + </p> + <p> + “Startled!—why?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well—she has! There’s money in it, don’t you think?” + </p> + <p> + “Henry,” who had accompanied his wife, and who was standing sideways at + the back of the box looking like a thief in the night, came a step forward + at the mention of money. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I’m no judge of that. Your husband would know better.” + </p> + <p> + “Plenty of money,” said “Henry,” in a low voice that seemed to issue from + the bridge of his nose; “it ought to bring a good six thousand into the + house for the four weeks. That’s—for Miss Schley—for the + Syndicate—ten per cent. on the gross, and twenty-five per cent.—” + </p> + <p> + He found himself in mental arithmetic. + </p> + <p> + “The—swan with the golden eggs!” said Lady Holme, lightly, turning + once more to Leo Ulford. “You mustn’t kill Miss Schley.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wolfstein looked at Mr. Laycock and murmured to him: + </p> + <p> + “Pimpernel does any killing that’s going about—for herself. What + d’you say, Franky?” + </p> + <p> + They went out of the box together, followed by “Henry,” who was still + buzzing calculations, like a Jewish bee. + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme resolutely tore himself from the ear-trumpet, and was preparing + to follow, with the bellowed excuse that he was “sufferin’ from toothache” + and had been ordered to “do as much smokin’ as possible,” when the curtain + rose on the second act. + </p> + <p> + Miss Schley was engaged to a supper-party that evening and did not wish to + be late. Lord Holme sat down again looking scarcely pleasant. + </p> + <p> + “Do as much—the what?” cried Mrs. Ulford, holding the trumpet at + right angles to her pink face. + </p> + <p> + Leo Ulford leant backwards and hissed “Hush!” at her. She looked at him + and then at Lady Holme, and a sudden expression of old age came into her + bird-like face and seemed to overspread her whole body. She dropped the + trumpet and touched the diamonds that glittered in the front of her low + gown with trembling hands. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Laycock slipped into the box when the curtain had been up two or three + minutes, but Sir Donald did not return. + </p> + <p> + “I b’lieve he’s bolted,” Leo whispered to Lady Holme. “Just like him.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!—I’m here, for one thing.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her victoriously. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll have a letter from him to-morrow. Poor old chap!” + </p> + <p> + He spoke contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + For the first time Lord Holme seemed consciously and unfavourably + observant of his wife and Leo. His under-jaw began to move. But Miss + Schley came on to the stage again, and he thrust his head eagerly forward. + </p> + <p> + During the rest of the evening Miss Schley did not relax her ingenious + efforts of mimicry, but she took care not to make them too prominent. She + had struck her most resonant note in the first act, and during the two + remaining acts she merely kept her impersonation to its original lines. + Lady Holme watched the whole performance imperturbably, but before the + final curtain fell she knew that she was not going to throw cold water on + that flame which was burning within her. Fritz’s behaviour, perhaps, + decided which of the two actions should be carried out—the douching + or the fanning. Possibly Leo Ulford had something to say in the matter + too. Or did the faces of friends below in the stalls play their part in + the silent drama which moved step by step with the spoken drama on the + stage? Lady Holme did not ask questions of herself. When Mr. Laycock and + Fritz were furiously performing the duties of a claque at the end of the + play, she got up smiling, and nodded to Mrs. Wolfstein in token of her + pleasure in Miss Schley’s success, her opinion that it had been worthily + earned. As she nodded she touched one hand with the other, making a silent + applause that Mrs. Wolfstein and all her friends might see. Then she let + Leo Ulford put on her cloak and called pretty words down Mrs. Leo’s + trumpet, all the while nearly deafened by Fritz’s demonstrations, which + even outran Mr. Laycock’s. + </p> + <p> + When at last they died away she said to Leo: + </p> + <p> + “We are going on to the Elwyns. Shall you be there?” + </p> + <p> + He stood over her, while Mrs. Ulford watched him, drooping her head + sideways. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “We can talk it all over quietly. Fritz!” + </p> + <p> + “What’s that about the Elwyns?” said Lord Holme. + </p> + <p> + “I was telling Mr. Ulford that we are going on there.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not. Never heard of it.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme was on the point of retorting that it was he who had told her + to accept the invitation on the ground that “the Elwyns always do you + better than anyone in London, whether they’re second-raters or not,” but a + look in Leo Ulford’s eyes checked her. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” she said. “Go to the club if you like; but I must peep in for + five minutes. Mrs. Ulford, didn’t you think Miss Schley rather delicious—?” + </p> + <p> + She went out of the box with one hand on a pink arm, talking gently into + the trumpet. + </p> + <p> + “You goin’ to the Elwyns?” said Lord Holme, gruffly, to Leo Ulford as they + got their coats and prepared to follow. + </p> + <p> + “Depends on my wife. If she’s done up—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Lord Holme, striking a match, and holding out his cigarette + case, regardless of regulations. + </p> + <p> + A momentary desire to look in at the Elwyns’ possessed him. Then he + thought of a supper-party and forgot it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI + </h2> + <p> + MRS. WOLFSTEIN was right. There was money in Miss Schley’s performance. + Her sly impropriety appealed with extraordinary force to the peculiar + respectability characteristic of the British temperament, and her + celebrity, hitherto mainly social, was suddenly and enormously increased. + Already a popular person, she became a popular actress, and was soon as + well-known to the world in the streets and the suburbs as to the world in + the drawing-rooms of Mayfair. And this public celebrity greatly increased + the value that was put upon her in private—especially the value put + upon her by men. + </p> + <p> + The average man adores being connected openly with the woman who is the + rage of the moment. It flatters his vanity and makes him feel good all + over. It even frequently turns his head and makes him almost as + intoxicated as a young girl with adulation received at her first ball. + </p> + <p> + The combination of Miss Schley herself and Miss Schley’s celebrity—or + notoriety—had undoubtedly turned Lord Holme’s head. Perhaps he had + not the desire to conceal the fact. Certainly he had not the finesse. He + presented his turned head to the world with an audacious simplicity that + was almost laughable, and that had in it an element of boyishness not + wholly unattractive to those who looked on—the casual ones to whom + even the tragedies of a highly-civilised society bring but a quiet and + cynical amusement. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme was not one of these. Her strong temper was token of a vivid + temperament. Till now this vivid temperament had been rocked in the cradle + of an easy, a contented, a very successful life. Such storms as had come + to her had quickly passed away. The sun had never been far off. Her egoism + had been constantly flattered. Her will had been perpetually paramount. + Even the tyranny of Lord Holme had been but as the tyranny of a selfish, + thoughtless, pleasure-seeking boy who, after all, was faithful to her and + was fond of her. His temperamental indifference to any feelings but his + own had been often concealed and overlaid by his strong physical passion + for his wife’s beauty, his profound satisfaction in having carried off and + in possessing a woman admired and sought by many others. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly life presented to Lady Holme its seamy side; Fate attacking her + in her woman’s vanity, her egoism, even in her love. The vision startled. + The blow stung. She was conscious of confusion, of cloud, then of a + terrible orderliness, of a clear light. In the confusion she seemed to + hear voices never heard before, voices that dared to jeer at her; in the + cloud to see phantoms of gigantic size menacing her, impending over her. + The orderliness, the clear light were more frightful to her. They left + less to her imagination; had, as it were, no ragged edges. In them she + faced a definite catastrophe, saw it whole, as one sees a near object in + the magical atmosphere of the East, outlined with burning blue, quivering + with relentless gold. She saw herself in the dust, pelted, mocked at. + </p> + <p> + That seemed at first to be incredible. But she saw it so plainly that she + could not even pretend to herself that she was deceived by some unusual + play of light or combination of shadows. What she saw—was: + </p> + <p> + Her husband had thrown off his allegiance to her and transferred his + admiration, perhaps his affection, to the woman who had most deftly and + delicately insulted her in the face of all her world. And he had done this + with the most abominable publicity. That was what she saw in a clear light + like the light of the East. That was what sent a lash across her + temperament, scarring it perhaps, but waking it into all it could ever + have of life. In each woman there is hidden a second woman, more fierce + and tender, more evil and good, more strong and fervent than the woman who + hides her in the ordinary hours of life; a woman who weeps blood where the + other woman weeps tears, who strikes with a flaming sword where the other + woman strikes with a willow wand. + </p> + <p> + This woman now rose up in Lady Holme, rose up to do battle. + </p> + <p> + The laughing, frivolous world was all unconscious of her. Lord Holme was + unconscious of her. But she was at last fully conscious of herself. + </p> + <p> + This woman remembered Robin Pierce’s odd belief and the light words with + which she had chastised it. He had persistently kept faith in, and sought + for, a far-away being. But she was a being of light and glory. His kernel + of the husk was still a siren, but a siren with a heart, with an exquisite + imagination, with a fragrance of dreams about her, a lilt of eternal music + in her voice, the beaming, wonder of things unearthly in her eyes. Poor + Robin! Lady Holme found it in her heart to pity him as she realised + herself. But then she turned her pity aside and concentrated it elsewhere. + The egoism of her was not dead though the hidden woman had sprung up in + vivid life. Her intellect was spurred into energy by the suffering of her + pride and of her heart. Memory was restless and full of the passion of + recall. + </p> + <p> + She remembered the night when she softly drew up the hood of her + dressing-gown above her head and, rocking herself to and fro, murmured the + “Allah-Akbar” of a philosophic fatalist—“I will live for the day. I + will live for the night.” What an absurd patter that was on the lips of a + woman. And she remembered the conversation with Fritz that had preceded + her monologue. She had asked him then whether he could love her if her + beauty were taken from her. It had never occurred to her that while her + beauty still remained her spell upon him might be weakened, might be + broken. That it was broken now she did not say to herself. All she did say + to herself was that she must strike an effective blow against this + impertinent woman. She had some pride but not enough to keep her passive. + She was not one of those women who would rather lose all they have than + struggle to keep it. She meant to struggle, but she had no wish that the + world should know what she was doing. Pride rose in her when she thought + of cold eyes watching the battle, cold voices commenting on it—Amalia + Wolfstein’s eyes, Mr. Bry’s voice, a hundred other eyes and voices. Her + quickened intellect, her woman’s heart would teach her to be subtle. The + danger lay in her temper. But since the scene at Arkell House she had + thoroughly realised its impetuosity and watched it warily as one watches + an enemy. She did not intend to be ruined by anything within her. The + outside chances of life were many enough and deadly enough to deal with. + Strength and daring were needed to ward them off. The chances that had + their origin within the soul, the character—not really chances at + all—must be controlled, foreseen, forestalled. + </p> + <p> + And yet she had not douched the flame of defiance which she had felt + burning within her on the night of Pimpernel Schley’s first appearance on + the London stage. She had fanned it. At the Elwyns’ ball she had fanned + it. Temper had led her that night. Deliberately, and knowing perfectly + well who was her guide, she had let it lead her. She had been like a human + being who says, “To do this will be a sin. Very well, I choose to sin. But + I will sin carefully.” At the Elwyns she had discovered why her husband + had not come with her. She had stayed late to please Leo Ulford. Mr. + Laycock had come in about two in the morning and had described to Leo the + festivity devised by Lord Holme in honour of Miss Schley, at which he had + just been present. And Leo Ulford had repeated the description to her. She + had deceived him into thinking that she had known of the supper-party and + approved of it. But, after this deception, she had given a looser rein to + her temper. She had let herself go, careless whether she set the poor pink + eyelids of Mrs. Leo fluttering or not. + </p> + <p> + The hint of Fritz which she recognised in Leo Ulford had vaguely attracted + her to him from the first. How her world would have laughed at such a + domestic sentiment! She found herself wondering whether it were Miss + Schley’s physical resemblance to her which had first attracted Fritz, the + touch of his wife in a woman who was not his wife and who was what men + call “a rascal.” Perhaps Fritz loved Miss Schley’s imitation of her. She + thought a great deal about that—turning it over and over in her + mind, bringing to bear on it the white light of her knowledge of her + husband’s character. Did he see in the American his wife transformed, made + common, sly, perhaps wicked, set on the outside edge of decent life, or + further—over the border? And did he delight in that? If so, ought + she not to—? Then her mind was busy. Should she change? If herself + changed were his ideal, why not give him what he wanted? Why let another + woman give it to him? But at this point she recognised a fact recognised + by thousands of women with exasperation, sometimes with despair—that + men would often hate in their wives the thing that draws them to women not + their wives. The Pimpernel Schleys of the world know this masculine + propensity of seeking different things—opposites, even—in the + wife and the woman beyond the edge of the hearthstone, a propensity + perhaps more tragic to wives than any other that exists in husbands. And + having recognised this fact, Lady Holme knew that it would be worse than + useless for her to imitate Miss Schley’s imitation of her. Then, + travelling along the road of thought swiftly as women in such a case + always travel, she reached another point. She began to consider the advice + of Robin Pierce, given before she had begun to feel with such intensity, + to consider it as a soldier might consider a plan of campaign drawn up by + another. + </p> + <p> + Should she, instead of descending, of following the demure steps of the + American to the lower places, strive to ascend? + </p> + <p> + Could she ascend? Was Robin Pierce right? She thought for a long time + about his conception of her. The singing woman; would she be the most + powerful enemy that could confront Miss Schley? And, if she would be, + could the singing woman be made continuous in the speech and the actions + of the life without music? She remembered a man she had known who + stammered when he spoke, but never stammered when he sang. And she thought + she resembled this man. Robin Pierce had always believed that she could + speak without the stammer even as she sang without it. She had never cared + to. She had trusted absolutely in her beauty. Now her trust was shaken. + She thought of the crutch. + </p> + <p> + Realising herself she had said within herself, “Poor Robin!” seeing + perhaps the tigress where he saw the angel. Now she asked herself whether + the angel could conquer where the tigress might fail. People had come + round her like beggars who have heard the chink of gold and she had showed + them an empty purse. Could she show them something else? And if she could, + would her husband join the beggars? Would he care to have even one piece + of gold? + </p> + <p> + Whether Lord Holme’s obvious infatuation had carried him very far she did + not know. She did not stop to ask. A woman capable, as she was, of + retrospective jealousy, an egoist accustomed to rule, buffeted in heart + and pride, is swift not sluggish. And then how can one know these things? + Jealousy rushes because it is ignorant. + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme and she were apparently on good terms. She was subtle, he was + careless. As she did not interfere with him his humour was excellent. She + had carried self-control so far as never to allude to the fact that she + knew about the supper-party. Yet it had actually got into the papers. + Paragraphs had been written about a wonderful ornament of ice, + representing the American eagle perched on the wrist of a glittering + maiden, which had stood in the middle of the table. Of course she had seen + them, and of course Lord Holme thought she had not seen them as she had + never spoken of them. He went his way rejoicing, and there seemed to be + sunshine in the Cadogan Square house. And meanwhile the world was smiling + at the apparent triumph of impertinence, and wondering how long it would + last, how far it would go. The few who were angry—Sir Donald was one + of them—were in a mean minority. + </p> + <p> + Robin Pierce was angry too, but not with so much single-heartedness as was + Sir Donald. It could not quite displease him if the Holmes drifted apart. + Yet he was fond enough of Lady Holme, and he was subtle enough, to be + sorry for any sorrow of hers, and to understand it—at any rate, + partially—without much explanation. Perhaps he would have been more + sorry if Leo Ulford had not come into Lady Holme’s life, and if the + defiance within her had not driven her into an intimacy that distressed + Mrs. Leo and puzzled Sir Donald. + </p> + <p> + Robin’s time in London was very nearly at an end. The season was at its + height. Every day was crowded with engagements. It was almost impossible + to find a quiet moment even to give to a loved one. But Robin was + determined to have at least one hour with Lady Holme before he started for + Italy. He told her so, and begged her to arrange it. She put him off again + and again, then at last made an engagement, then broke it. In her present + condition of mind to break faith with a man was a pleasure with a bitter + savour. But Robin was not to be permanently avoided. He had obstinacy. He + meant to have his hour, and perhaps Lady Holme always secretly meant that + he should have it. At any rate she made another appointment and kept it. + </p> + <p> + She came one afternoon to his house in Half Moon Street. She had never + been there before. She had never meant to go there. To do so was an + imprudence. That fact was another of the pleasures with a bitter savour. + </p> + <p> + Robin met her at the head of the stairs, with an air of still excitement + not common in his look and bearing. He followed her into the blue room + where Sir Donald had talked with Carey. The “<i>Danseuse de Tunisie</i>” + still presided over it, holding her little marble fan. The open fireplace + was filled with roses. The tea-table was already set by the great square + couch. Robin shut the door and took out a matchbox. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to make tea,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Bachelor fashion?” + </p> + <p> + She sat down on the couch and looked round quickly, taking in all the + details of the room. He saw her eyes rest on the woman with the fan, but + she said nothing about it. He lit a silver spirit lamp and then sat down + beside her. + </p> + <p> + “At last!” he said. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme leaned back in her corner. She was dressed in black, with a + small, rather impertinent black toque, in which one pale blue wing of a + bird stood up. Her face looked gay and soft, and Robin, who had cunning, + recognised that quality of his in her. + </p> + <p> + “I oughtn’t to be here.” + </p> + <p> + “Absurd. Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Fritz has a jealous temperament.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke with a simple naturalness that moved the diplomat within him to + a strong admiration. + </p> + <p> + “You can act far better than Miss Schley,” he said, with intentional + bluntness. + </p> + <p> + “I love her acting.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m going away. I shan’t see you for an age. Don’t give me a theatrical + performance to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Can a woman do anything else?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She can be a woman.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s stupid—or terrible. What a dear little lamp that is! I like + your room.” + </p> + <p> + Robin looked at the blue-grey linen on the walls, at the pale blue wing in + her hat, then at her white face. + </p> + <p> + “Viola,” he said, leaning forward, “it’s bad to waste anything in this + life, but the worst thing of all is to waste unhappiness. If I could teach + you to be niggardly of your tears!” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + She spoke with sudden sharpness. + </p> + <p> + “I never cry. Nothing’s worth a tear,” she added. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, some things are. But not what you are going to weep for.” + </p> + <p> + Her face had changed. The gaiety had gone out of it, and it looked + hesitating. + </p> + <p> + “You think I am going to shed tears?” she said. “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad you let me tell you. For the loss of nothing—a coin that + never came out of the mint, that won’t pass current anywhere.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve lost nothing,” she exclaimed, “nothing. You’re talking nonsense.” + </p> + <p> + He made no reply, but looked at the small, steady flame of the lamp. She + followed his eyes, and, when he saw that she was looking at it too, he + said: + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t a little, steady flame like that beautiful?” + </p> + <p> + She laughed. + </p> + <p> + “When it means tea—yes. Does it mean tea?” + </p> + <p> + “If you can wait a few minutes.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I must. Have you heard anything of Mr. Carey?” + </p> + <p> + Robin looked at her narrowly. + </p> + <p> + “What made you think of him just then?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. Being here, I suppose. He often comes here, doesn’t he?” + </p> + <p> + “Then this room holds more of his personality than of mine?” + </p> + <p> + There was an under sound of vexation in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Have you heard anything?” + </p> + <p> + “No. But no doubt he’s still in the North with his mother.” + </p> + <p> + “How domestic. I hope there is a stool of repentance in the family house.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if you could ever repent of anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think there is anything I ought to repent of?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “You might have married a man who knew the truth of you, and you married a + man incapable of ever knowing it.” + </p> + <p> + He half expected an outburst of anger to follow his daring speech, but she + sat quite still, looking at him steadily. She had taken off her gloves, + and her hands lay lightly, one resting on the other. + </p> + <p> + “You mean, I might have married you.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not worth much, but at least I could never have betrayed the white + angel in you.” + </p> + <p> + She leaned towards him and spoke earnestly, almost like a child to an + older person in whom it has faith. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think such an angel could do anything in—in this sort of + world?” + </p> + <p> + “Modern London?” + </p> + <p> + She nodded, keeping her eyes still on him. He guessed at once of what she + was thinking. + </p> + <p> + “Do anything—is rather vague,” he replied evasively. “What sort of + thing?” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she threw off all reserve and let her temper go. + </p> + <p> + “If an angel were striving with a common American, do you mean to tell me + you don’t know which would go to the wall in our world?” she cried. + “Robin, you may be a thousand things, but you aren’t a fool. Nor am I—not + <i>au fond</i>. And yet I have thought—I have wondered—” + </p> + <p> + She stopped. + </p> + <p> + “What?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Whether, if there is an angel in me, it mightn’t be as well to trot it + out.” + </p> + <p> + The self-consciousness of the slang prevented him from hating it. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” he said. “When have you wondered?” + </p> + <p> + “Lately. It’s your fault. You have insisted so much upon the existence of + the celestial being that at last I’ve become almost credulous. It’s very + absurd and I’m still hanging back.” + </p> + <p> + “Call credulity belief and you needn’t be ashamed of it.” + </p> + <p> + “And if I believe, what then?” + </p> + <p> + “Then a thousand things. Belief sheds strength through all the tissues of + the mind, the heart, the temperament. Disbelief sheds weakness. The one + knits together, the other dissolves.” + </p> + <p> + “There are people who think angels frightfully boring company.” + </p> + <p> + “I know.” + </p> + <p> + “Well then?” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Robin got up and spoke almost brutally. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I don’t see that you are trying to find out from me what I + think would be the best means of—” + </p> + <p> + The look in her face stopped him. + </p> + <p> + “I think the water is boiling,” he said, going over to the lamp. + </p> + <p> + “It ought to bubble,” she answered quietly. + </p> + <p> + He lifted up the lid of the silver bowl and peeped in. + </p> + <p> + “It is bubbling.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment he was busy pouring the water into the teapot. While he did + this there was a silence between them. Lady Holme got up from the sofa and + walked about the room. When she came to the “<i>Danseuse de Tunisie</i>” + she stopped in front of it. + </p> + <p> + “How strange that fan is,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Robin shut the lid of the teapot and came over to her. + </p> + <p> + “Do you like it?” + </p> + <p> + “The fan?” + </p> + <p> + “The whole thing?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s lovely, but I fancy it would have been lovelier without the fan.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + She considered, holding her head slightly on one side and half closing her + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “The woman’s of eternity, but the fan’s of a day,” she said presently. “It + belittles her, I think. It makes her <i>chic</i> when she might have been—” + </p> + <p> + She stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Throw away your fan!” he said in a low, eager voice. + </p> + <p> + “I?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Be the woman, the eternal woman. You’ve never been her yet, but you + could be. Now is the moment. You’re unhappy.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you are. Viola, don’t imagine I can’t understand. You care for him + and he’s hurting you—hurting you by being just himself, all he can + ever be. It’s the fan he cares for.” + </p> + <p> + “And you tell me to throw it away!” + </p> + <p> + She spoke with sudden passion. They stood still for a moment in front of + the statuette, looking at each other silently. Then Robin said, with a + sort of bitter surprise: + </p> + <p> + “But you can’t love him like that!” + </p> + <p> + “I do.” + </p> + <p> + It gave her an odd, sharp pleasure to speak the truth to him. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do, then?” he asked, after a pause. + </p> + <p> + He spoke without emotion, accepting the situation. + </p> + <p> + “To do? What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Come and sit down. I’ll tell you.” + </p> + <p> + He took her hand and led her back to the sofa. When she had sat down, he + poured out tea, put in cream and gave it to her. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing to eat,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He poured out his tea and sat down in a chair opposite to her, and close + to her. + </p> + <p> + “May I dare to speak frankly?” he asked. “I’ve known you so long, and I’ve—I’ve + loved you very much, and I still do.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on!” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “You thought your beauty was everything, that so long as it lasted you + were safe from unhappiness. Well, to-day you are beautiful, and yet—” + </p> + <p> + “But what does he care for?” she said. “What do men care for? You pretend + that it’s something romantic, something good even. Really, it’s impudent—just + that—cold and impudent. You’re a fool, Robin, you’re a fool!” + </p> + <p> + “Am I? Thank God there are men—and men. You can’t be what Carey + said.” + </p> + <p> + For once he had spoken incautiously. He had blurted out something he never + meant to say. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Carey!” she exclaimed quickly, curiously. “What did Mr. Carey say I + was?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—” + </p> + <p> + “No, Robin, you are to tell me. No diplomatic lies.” + </p> + <p> + A sudden, almost brutal desire came into him to tell her the truth, to + revel in plain speaking for once, and to see how she would bear it. + </p> + <p> + “He said you were an egoist, that you were fine enough in your brilliant + selfishness to stand quite alone—” + </p> + <p> + A faint smile moved the narrow corners of her lips at the last words. He + went on. + </p> + <p> + “—That your ideal of a real man, the sort of man a woman loses her + head for, was—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped. Carey’s description of the Lord Holme and Leo Ulford type had + not been very delicate. + </p> + <p> + “Was—?” she said, with insistence. “Was—?” + </p> + <p> + Robin thought how she had hurt him, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Carey said, a huge mass of bones, muscles, thews, sinews, that cares + nothing for beauty.” + </p> + <p> + “Beauty! That doesn’t care for beauty! But then—?” + </p> + <p> + “Carey meant—yes, I’m sure Carey meant real beauty.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by ‘real beauty’?” + </p> + <p> + “An inner light that radiates outward, but whose abiding-place is hidden—perhaps. + But one can’t say. One can only understand and love.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh. And Mr. Carey said that. Was he—was he at all that evening as + he was at Arkell House? Was he talking nonsense or was he serious?” + </p> + <p> + “Difficult to say! But he was not as he was at Arkell House. Which knows + you best—Carey or I?” + </p> + <p> + “Neither of you. I don’t know myself.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. The only thing I know is that you can’t tell me what to + do.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I can’t.” + </p> + <p> + “But perhaps I can tell you.” + </p> + <p> + She put down her cup and looked at him with a sort of grave kindness that + he had never seen in her face before. + </p> + <p> + “What to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Give up loving the white angel. Perhaps it isn’t there. Perhaps it + doesn’t exist. And if it does—perhaps it’s a poor, feeble thing + that’s no good to me, no good to me.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she put her arms on the back of the couch, leaned her face on + them and began to cry gently. + </p> + <p> + Robin was terribly startled. He got up, stretched out his hands to her in + an impulsive gesture, then drew them back, turned and went to the window. + </p> + <p> + She was crying for Fritz. + </p> + <p> + That was absurd and horrible. Yet he knew that those tears came from the + heart of the hidden woman he had so long believed in, proved her + existence, showed that she could love. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII + </h2> + <p> + AS Lady Holme had foreseen, the impertinent mimicry of Miss Schley + concentrated a great deal of attention upon the woman mimicked. Many + people, accepting the American’s cleverness as a fashionable fact, also + accepted her imitation as the imitation of a fact more surreptitious, and + credited Lady Holme with a secret leading towards the improper never + before suspected by them. They remembered the break between the Holmes and + Carey, the strange scene at the Arkell House ball, and began to whisper + many things of Lady Holme, and to turn a tide of pity and of sympathy upon + her husband. On this tide Lord Holme and the American might be said to + float merrily like corks, unabashed in the eye of the sun. Their intimacy + was condoned on all sides as a natural result of Lady Holme’s conduct. + Most of that which had been accomplished by Lord and Lady Holme together + after their reconciliation over the first breakfast was undone. The silent + tongue began to wag, and to murmur the usual platitudes about the poor + fellow who could not find sympathy at home and so was obliged, against his + will, to seek for it outside. + </p> + <p> + All this Lady Holme had foreseen as she sat in her box at the British + Theatre. + </p> + <p> + The wrong impression of her was enthroned. She had to reckon with it. This + fact, fully recognised by her, made her wish to walk warily where + otherwise her temper might have led her to walk heedlessly. She wanted to + do an unusual thing, to draw her husband’s attention to an intimacy which + was concealed from the world—the intimacy between herself and Leo + Ulford. + </p> + <p> + After her visit to the house in Half Moon Street she began to see a great + deal of Leo Ulford. Carey had been right when he said that they would get + on together. She understood him easily and thoroughly, and for that very + reason he was attracted by her. Men delight to feel that a woman is + understanding them; women that no man can ever understand them. Under the + subtle influence of Lady Holme’s complete comprehension of him, Leo + Ulford’s nature expanded, stretched itself as his long legs stretched + themselves when his mind was purring. There was not much in him to reveal, + but what there was he revealed, and Lady Holme seemed to be profoundly + interested in the contents of his soul. + </p> + <p> + But she was not interested in the contents of his soul in public places on + which the world’s eye is fixed. She refused to allow Leo to do what he + desired, and assumed an air of almost possessive friendship before + Society. His natural inclination for the blatant was firmly checked by + her. She cared nothing for him really, but her woman’s instinct had + divined that he was the type of man most likely to rouse the slumbering + passion of Fritz, if Fritz were led to suspect that she was attracted to + him. Men like Lord Holme are most easily jealous of the men who most + closely resemble them. Their conceit leads them to put an exaggerated + value upon their own qualities in others, upon the resemblance to their + own physique exhibited by others. + </p> + <p> + Leo Ulford was rather like a younger and coarser Lord Holme. In him Lady + Holme recognised an effective weapon for the chastisement, if not for the + eventual reclamation, of her husband. It was characteristic of her that + this was the weapon she chose, the weapon she still continued to rely on + even after her conversation with Robin Pierce. Her faith in white angels + was very small. Perpetual contact with the world of to-day, with life as + lived by women of her order, had created within her far other faiths, + faiths in false gods, a natural inclination to bow the knee in the house + of Rimmon rather than before the altars guarded by the Eternities. + </p> + <p> + And then—she knew Lord Holme; knew what attracted him, what stirred + him, what moved him to excitement, what was likely to hold him. She felt + sure that he and such men as he yield the homage they would refuse to the + angel to the siren. Instead of seeking the angel within herself, + therefore, she sought the siren. Instead of striving to develope that part + of her which was spiritual, she fixed all her attention upon that part of + her which was fleshly, which was physical. She neglected the flame and + began to make pretty patterns with the ashes. + </p> + <p> + Robin came to bid her good-bye before leaving London for Rome. The weeping + woman was gone. He looked into the hard, white face of a woman who smiled. + They talked rather constrainedly for a few minutes. Then suddenly he said: + </p> + <p> + “Once it was a painted window, now it’s an iron shutter.” + </p> + <p> + He got up from his chair and clasped his hands together behind his back. + </p> + <p> + “What on earth do you mean?” she asked, still smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Your face,” he answered. “One could see you obscurely before. One can see + nothing now.” + </p> + <p> + “You talk great nonsense, Robin. It’s a good thing you’re going back to + Rome.” + </p> + <p> + “At least I shall find the spirit of beauty there,” he said, almost with + bitterness. “Over here it is treated as if it were Jezebel. It’s trodden + down. It’s thrown to the dogs.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor spirit!” + </p> + <p> + She laughed lightly. + </p> + <p> + “Do you understand what they’re saying of you?” he went on. + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “All over London.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “But—do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I don’t care to.” + </p> + <p> + “They’re saying—‘Poor thing! But it’s her own fault.’” + </p> + <p> + There was a silence. In it he looked at her hard, mercilessly. She + returned his gaze, still smiling. + </p> + <p> + “And it is your own fault,” he went on after a moment. “If you had been + yourself she couldn’t have insulted you first and humiliated you + afterwards. Oh, how I hate it! And yet—yet there are moments when I + am like the others, when I feel—‘She has deserved it.’” + </p> + <p> + “When will you be in Rome?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “And even now,” he continued, ignoring her remark, “even now, what are you + doing? Oh, Viola, you’re a prey to the modern madness for crawling in the + dirt instead of walking upright in the sun. You might be a goddess and you + prefer to be an insect. Isn’t it mad of you? Isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + He was really excited, really passionate. His face showed that. There was + fire in his eyes. His lips worked convulsively when he was not speaking. + And yet there was just a faint ring of the accomplished orator’s music in + his voice, a music which suggests a listening ear—and that ear the + orator’s own. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps she heard it. At any rate his passionate attack did not seem to + move her. + </p> + <p> + “I prefer to be what I am,” was all she said. + </p> + <p> + “What you are! But you don’t know what you are.” + </p> + <p> + “And how can you pretend to know?” she asked. “Is a man more subtle about + a woman than she is about herself?” + </p> + <p> + He did not answer for a moment. Then he said bluntly: + </p> + <p> + “Promise me one thing before I go away.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Promise me not to—not to—” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated. The calm of her face seemed almost to confuse him. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” she said. “Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “Promise me not to justify anything people are saying, not to justify it + with—with that fellow Ulford.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye,” she answered, holding out her hand. + </p> + <p> + He recognised that the time for his advice had gone by, if it had ever + been. + </p> + <p> + “What a way—what a way for us to—” he almost stammered. + </p> + <p> + He recovered his self-possession with an effort and took her hand. + </p> + <p> + “At least,” he said in a low, quiet voice, “believe it is less jealousy + that speaks within me than love—love for you, for the woman you are + trampling in the dust.” + </p> + <p> + He looked into her eyes and went out. She did not see him again before he + left England. And she was glad. She did not want to see him. Perhaps it + was the first time in her life that the affection of a man whom she really + liked was distasteful to her. It made her uneasy, doubtful of herself just + then, to be loved as Robin loved her. + </p> + <p> + Carey had come back to town, but he went nowhere. He was in bad odour. Sir + Donald Ulford was almost the only person he saw anything of at this time. + It seemed that Sir Donald had taken a fancy to Carey. At any rate, such + friendly feeling as he had did not seem lessened after Carey’s exhibition + at Arkell House. When Carey returned to Stratton Street, Sir Donald paid + him a visit and stayed some time. No allusion was made to the painful + circumstances under which they had last seen each other until Sir Donald + was on the point of going away. Then he said: + </p> + <p> + “You have not forgotten that I expect you at Casa Felice towards the end + of August?” + </p> + <p> + Carey looked violently astonished. + </p> + <p> + “Still?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Carey shot out his hand and grasped Sir Donald’s. + </p> + <p> + “You aren’t afraid to have a drunken beast like me in Casa Felice! It’s a + damned dangerous experiment.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think so.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s your own lookout, you know. I absolve you from the invitation.” + </p> + <p> + “I repeat it, then.” + </p> + <p> + “I accept it, then—again.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald went away thoughtfully. When he reached the Albany he found + Mrs. Leo Ulford waiting for him in tears. They had a long interview. + </p> + <p> + Many people fancied that Sir Donald looked more ghostly, more faded even + than usual as the season wore on. They said he was getting too old to go + about so much as he did, and that it was a pity Society “got such a hold” + on men who ought to have had enough of it long ago. One night he met Lady + Holme at the Opera. She was in her box and he in the stalls. After the + second act she called him to her with a gay little nod of invitation. Lady + Cardington had been with her during the act, but left the box when the + curtain fell to see some friends close by. When Sir Donald tapped at the + door Lady Holme was quite alone. He came in quietly—even his walk + was rather ghostly—and sat down beside her. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t look well,” she said after they had greeted each other. + </p> + <p> + “I am quite well,” he answered, with evident constraint. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t seen you to speak to since that little note of yours.” + </p> + <p> + A very faint colour rose in his faded cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “After Miss Schley’s first night?” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + His yellow fingers moved restlessly. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know that your son told me you would write?” she continued. + </p> + <p> + She was leaning back in her chair, half hidden by the curtain of the box. + </p> + <p> + “Leo!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald’s voice was almost sharp and startling. + </p> + <p> + “How should he—you spoke about me then?” + </p> + <p> + There was a flash of light in his pale, almost colourless eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I wondered where you had gone, and he said you would write next day.” + </p> + <p> + “That was all?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, how suspicious you are!” + </p> + <p> + She spoke banteringly. + </p> + <p> + “Suspicious! No—but Leo does not understand me very well. I was + rather old when he was born, and I have never been able to be much with + him. He was educated in England, and my duties of course lay abroad.” + </p> + <p> + He paused, looking at her and moving his thin white moustache. Then, in an + uneasy voice, he added: + </p> + <p> + “You must not take my character altogether from Leo.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor you mine altogether from Miss Schley,” said Lady Holme. + </p> + <p> + She scarcely knew why she said it. She thought herself stupid, ridiculous + almost, for saying it. Yet she could not help speaking. Perhaps she relied + on Sir Donald’s age. Or perhaps—but who knows why a woman is + cautious or incautious in moments the least expected? God guides her, + perhaps, or the devil—or merely a bottle imp. Men never know, and + that is why they find her adorable. + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald said nothing for a moment, only made the familiar movement with + his hands that was a sign in him of concealed excitement or emotion. His + eyes were fixed upon the ledge of the box. Lady Holme was puzzled by his + silence and, at last, was on the point of making a remark on some other + subject—Plancon’s singing—when he spoke, like a man who had + made up his mind firmly to take an unusual, perhaps a difficult course. + </p> + <p> + “I wish to take it from you,” he said. “Give me the right one, not an + imitation of an imitation.” + </p> + <p> + She knew at once what he meant and was surprised. Had Leo Ulford been + talking? + </p> + <p> + “Lady Holme,” he went on, “I am taking a liberty. I know that. It’s a + thing I have never done before, knowingly. Don’t think me unconscious of + what I am doing. But I am an old man, and old men can sometimes venture—allowance + is sometimes made for them. I want to claim that allowance now for what I + am going to say.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” she said, neither hardly nor gently. + </p> + <p> + In truth she scarcely knew whether she wished him to speak or not. + </p> + <p> + “My son is—Leo is not a safe friend for you at this moment.” + </p> + <p> + Again the dull, brick-red flush rose in his cheeks. There was an odd, + flattened look just above his cheekbones near his eyes, and the eyes + themselves had a strange expression as of determination and guilt mingled. + </p> + <p> + “Your son?” Lady Holme said. “But—” + </p> + <p> + “I do not wish to assume anything, but I—well, my daughter-in-law + sometimes comes to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes!” said Lady Holme. + </p> + <p> + “Leo is not a good husband,” Sir Donald said. “But that is not the point. + He is also a bad—friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you say lover?” she almost whispered. + </p> + <p> + He grasped his knee with one hand and moved the hand rapidly to and fro. + </p> + <p> + “I must say of him to you that where his pleasure or his vanity is + concerned he is unscrupulous.” + </p> + <p> + “Why say all this to a woman?” + </p> + <p> + “You mean that you know as much as I?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think it likely?” + </p> + <p> + “Henrietta—” + </p> + <p> + “Who is that?” + </p> + <p> + “My daughter-in-law has done everything for Leo—too much. She gets + nothing—not even gratitude. I am sorry to say he has no sense of + chivalry towards women. You know him, I daresay. But do you know him + thwarted?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you don’t think so badly of me after all?” she said quickly. + </p> + <p> + “I—I think of you that—that—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped. + </p> + <p> + “I think that I could not bear to see the whiteness of your wings smirched + by a child of mine.” he added. + </p> + <p> + “You too!” she said. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly tears started into her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Another believer in the angel!” she thought. + </p> + <p> + “May I come in?” + </p> + <p> + It was Mr. Bry’s cold voice. His discontented, sleek face was peeping + round the door. + </p> + <p> + Sir Donald got up to go. + </p> + <p> + As Lady Holme drove away from Covent Garden that night she was haunted by + a feverish, embittering thought: + </p> + <p> + “Will everyone notice it but Fritz?” + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme indeed seemed scarcely the same man who had forbidden Carey to + come any more to his house, who had been jealous of Robin Pierce, who had + even once said that he almost wished his wife were an ugly woman. The + Grand Turk nature within him, if not actually dead, was certainly in + abeyance. He was so intent on his own affairs that he paid no heed at all + to his wife’s, even when they might be said to be also his. Leo Ulford was + becoming difficult to manage, and Lord Holme still gaily went his way. As + Lady Holme thought over Sir Donald’s words she felt a crushing weight of + depression sink down upon her. The brougham rolled smoothly on through the + lighted streets. She did not glance out of the windows, or notice the + passing crowds. In the silence and darkness of her own soul she was trying + not to feel, trying to think. + </p> + <p> + A longing to be incautious, to do something startling, desperate, came to + her. + </p> + <p> + It was evident that Mrs. Ulford had been complaining to Sir Donald about + his son’s conduct. With whom? Lady Holme could not doubt that it was with + herself. She had read, with one glance at the fluttering pink eyelids, the + story of the Leo Ulford’s <i>menage</i>. Now, she was not preoccupied with + any regret for her own cruelty or for another woman’s misery. The egoism + spoken of by Carey was not dead in her yet, but very much alive. As she + sat in the corner of the brougham, pressing herself against the padded + wall, she was angry for herself, pitiful for herself. And she was jealous—horribly + jealous. That woke up her imagination, all the intensity of her. Where was + Fritz to-night? She did not know. Suddenly the dense ignorance in which + every human being lives, and must live to the end of time, towered above + her like a figure in a nightmare. What do we know, what can we ever know + of each other? In each human being dwells the most terrible, the most + ruthless power that exists—the power of silence. + </p> + <p> + Fritz had that power; stupid, blundering, self-contented Fritz. + </p> + <p> + She pulled the check-string and gave the order, “Home!” + </p> + <p> + In her present condition she felt unable to go into Society. + </p> + <p> + When she got to Cadogan Square she said to the footman who opened the + door: + </p> + <p> + “His lordship isn’t in yet?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he say what time he would be in to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + The man paused, then added: + </p> + <p> + “His lordship told Mr. Lucas not to wait up.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Lucas” was Lord Holme’s valet. + </p> + <p> + It seemed to Lady Holme as if there were a significant, even a slightly + mocking, sound in the footman’s voice. She stared at him. He was a thin, + swarthy young man, with lantern jaws and a very long, pale chin. When she + looked at him he dropped his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Bring me some lemonade to the drawing-room in ten minutes,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “In ten minutes, not before. Turn on all the lights in the drawing-room.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + The man went before her up the staircase, turned on the lights, stood + aside to let her pass and then went softly down. Lady Holme rang for + Josephine. + </p> + <p> + “Take my cloak and then go to bed,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Josephine took the cloak and went out, shutting the door. + </p> + <p> + “Ten minutes!” Lady Holme said to herself. + </p> + <p> + She sat down on the sofa on which she had sat for a moment alone after her + song at the dinner-party, the song murdered by Miss Filberte. The empty, + brilliantly-lit rooms seemed unusually large. She glanced round them with + inward-looking eyes. Here she was at midnight sitting quite alone in her + own house. And she wished to do something decisive, startling as the + cannon shot sometimes fired from a ship to disperse a fog wreath. That was + the reason why she had told the footman to come in ten minutes. She + thought that in ten minutes she might make up her mind. If she decided + upon doing something that required an emissary the man would be there. + </p> + <p> + She looked at the little silver box she had taken up that night when she + was angry, then at the grand piano in the further room. The two things + suggested to her two women—the woman of hot temper and the woman of + sweetness and romance. What was she to-night, and what was she going to + do? Nothing, probably. What could she do? Again she glanced round the + rooms. It seemed to her that she was like an actress in an intense, + passionate <i>role</i>, who is paralysed by what is called in the theatre + “a stage wait.” She ought to play a tremendous scene, now, at once, but + the person with whom she was to play it did not come on to the stage. She + had worked herself up for the scene. The emotion, the passion, the force, + the fury were alive, were red hot within her, and she could not set them + free. She remained alone upon the stage in a sort of horror of dumbness, a + horror of inaction. + </p> + <p> + The footman came in quietly with the lemonade on a tray. He put it down on + a table by Lady Holme. + </p> + <p> + “Is there anything else, my lady?” + </p> + <p> + She supposed that the question was meant as a very discreet hint to her + that the man would be glad to go to bed. For a moment she did not reply, + but kept him waiting. She was thinking rapidly, considering whether she + would do the desperate thing or not, whether she would summon one of the + actors for the violent scene her nature demanded persistently that night. + </p> + <p> + After the opera she had been due at a ball to which Leo Ulford was going. + She had promised to go in to supper with him and to arrive by a certain + hour. He was wondering, waiting, now, at this moment. She knew that. The + house was in Eaton Square, not far off. Should she send the footman with a + note to Leo, saying that she was too tired to come to the ball but that + she was sitting up at home? That was what she was rapidly considering + while the footman stood waiting. Leo would come, and then—presently—Lord + Holme would come. And then? Then doubtless would happen the scene she + longed for, longed for with a sort of almost crazy desire such as she had + never felt before. + </p> + <p> + She glanced up and saw an astonished expression upon the footman’s pale + face. How long had she kept him there waiting? She had no idea. + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing else,” she said slowly. + </p> + <p> + She paused, then added, reluctantly: + </p> + <p> + “You can go to bed.” + </p> + <p> + The man went softly out of the room. As he shut the door she breathed a + deep sigh, that was almost a sob. So difficult had she found it to govern + herself, not to do the crazy thing. + </p> + <p> + She poured out the lemonade and put ice into it. + </p> + <p> + As she did so she made grimaces, absurd grimaces of pain and misery, like + those on the faces of the two women in Mantegna’s picture of Christ and + the Marys in the Brera at Milan. They are grotesque, yet wonderfully + moving in their pitiless realism. But tears fall from the eyes of + Mantegna’s women and no tears fell from Lady Holme’s eyes. Still making + grimaces, she sipped the lemonade. Then she put down the glass, leaned + back on the sofa and shut her eyes. Her face ceased to move, and became + beautiful again in its stillness. She remained motionless for a long time, + trying to obtain the mastery over herself. In act she had obtained it + already, but not in emotion. Indeed, the relinquishing of violence, the + sending of the footman to bed, seemed to have increased the passion within + her. And now she felt it rising till she was afraid of being herself, + afraid of being this solitary woman, feeling intensely and able to do + nothing. It seemed to her as if such a passion of jealousy, and desire for + immediate expression of it in action, as flamed within her, must wreak + disaster upon her like some fell disease, as if she were in immediate + danger, even in immediate physical danger. She lay still like one + determined to meet it bravely, without flinching, without a sign of + cowardice. + </p> + <p> + But suddenly she felt that she had made a mistake in dismissing the + footman, that the pain of inaction was too great for her to bear. She + could not just—do nothing. She could not, and she got up swiftly and + rang the bell. The man did not return. She pressed the bell again. After + three or four minutes he came in, looking rather flushed and put out. + </p> + <p> + “I want you to take a note to Eaton Square,” she said. “It will be ready + in five minutes.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + She went to her writing table and wrote this note to Leo Ulford: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “DEAR MR. ULFORD,—I am grieved to play you false, but I am too + tired to-night to come on. Probably you are amusing yourself. I + am sitting here alone over such a dull book. One can’t go to bed + at twelve, somehow, even if one is tired. The habit of the season’s + against early hours and one couldn’t sleep. Be nice and come in for + five minutes on your way home, and tell me all about it. I know you + pass the end of the square, so it won’t be out of your way.—Yours + very sincerely, V. H.” + </pre> + <p> + After writing this note Lady Holme hesitated for a moment, then she went + to a writing table, opened a drawer and took out a tiny, flat key. She + enclosed it in two sheets of thick note paper, folded the note also round + it, and put it into an envelope which she carefully closed. After writing + Leo Ulford’s name on the envelope she rang again for the footman. + </p> + <p> + “Take this to Eaton Square,” she said, naming the number of the house. + “And give it to Mr. Ulford yourself. Go in a hansom. When you have given + Mr. Ulford the note come straight back in the hansom and let me know. + After that you can go to bed. Do you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + The man went out. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme stood up to give him the note. She remained standing after he + had gone. An extraordinary sensation of relief had come to her. Action had + lessened her pain, had removed much of the pressure of emotion upon her + heart. For a moment she felt almost happy. + </p> + <p> + She sat down again and took up a book. It was a book of poems written by a + very young girl whom she knew. There was a great deal about sorrow in the + poems, and sorrow was always alluded to as a person; now flitting through + a forest in the autumn among the dying leaves, now bending over a bed, now + walking by the sea at sunset watching departing ships, now standing near + the altar at a wedding. The poems were not good. On the other hand, they + were not very bad. + </p> + <p> + They had some grace, some delicacy here and there, now and then a touch of + real, if by no means exquisite, sentiment. At this moment Lady Holme found + them soothing. There was a certain music in them and very little reality. + They seemed to represent life as a pensive phantasmagoria of bird songs, + fading flowers, dying lights, soft winds and rains and sighing echoes. + </p> + <p> + She read on and on. Sometimes a hard thought intruded itself upon her mind—the + thought of Leo Ulford with the latch-key of her husband’s house in his + hand. That thought made the poems seem to her remarkably unlike life. + </p> + <p> + She looked at the clock. The footman had been away long enough to do his + errand. Just as she was thinking this he came into the room. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I gave Mr. Ulford the note, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you can go to bed. Good-night. I’ll put out the lights here.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + As he went away she turned again to the poems; but now she could not read + them. Her eyes rested upon them, but her mind took in nothing of their + meaning. Presently—very soon—she laid the book down and sat + listening. The footman had shut the drawing-room door. She got up and + opened it. She wanted to hear the sound of the latch-key being put into + the front door by Leo Ulford. It seemed to her as if that sound would be + like the <i>leit motif</i> of her determination to govern, to take her own + way, to strike a blow against the selfish egoism of men. After opening the + door she sat down close to it and waited, listening. + </p> + <p> + Some minutes passed. Then she heard—not the key put into the hall + door; it had not occurred to her that she was much too far away to hear + that—but the bang of the door being shut. + </p> + <p> + Quickly she closed the drawing-room door, went back to the distant sofa, + sat down upon it and began to turn over the poems once more. She even read + one quite carefully. As she finished it the door was opened. + </p> + <p> + She looked up gaily to greet Leo and saw her husband coming into the room. + </p> + <p> + She was greatly startled. It had never occurred to her that Fritz was + quite as likely to arrive before Leo Ulford as Leo Ulford to arrive before + Fritz. Why had she never thought of so obvious a possibility? She could + not imagine. The difference between the actuality and her intense and + angry conception of what it would be, benumbed her mind for an instant. + She was completely confused. She sat still with the book of poems on her + lap, and gazed at Lord Holme as he came towards her, taking long steps and + straddling his legs as if he imagined he had a horse under him. The gay + expression had abruptly died away from her face and she looked almost + stupid. + </p> + <p> + “Hulloa!” said Lord Holme, as he saw her. + </p> + <p> + She said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “Thought you were goin’ to the Blaxtons to-night,” he added. + </p> + <p> + She made a strong effort and smiled. + </p> + <p> + “I meant to, but I felt tired after the opera.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you toddle off to bed then?” + </p> + <p> + “I feel tired, I don’t feel sleepy.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme stared at her, put his hand into his trousers pocket and pulled + out his cigarette-case. Lady Holme knew that he had been in a good humour + when he came home, and that the sight of her sitting up in the + drawing-room had displeased him. She had seen a change come into his face. + He had been looking gay. He began to look glum and turned his eyes away + from her. + </p> + <p> + “What have you been up to?” she asked, with a sudden light gaiety and air + of comradeship. + </p> + <p> + “Club—playin’ bridge,” he answered, lighting a cigarette. + </p> + <p> + He shot a glance at her sideways as he spoke, a glance that was meant to + be crafty. If she had not been excited and horribly jealous, such a glance + would probably have amused her, even made her laugh. Fritz’s craft was + very transparent. But she could not laugh now. She knew he was telling her + the first lie that had occurred to him. + </p> + <p> + “Lucky?” she asked, still preserving her light and casual manner. + </p> + <p> + “Middlin’,” he jerked out. + </p> + <p> + He sat down in an armchair and slowly stretched his legs, staring up at + the ceiling. Lady Holme began to think rapidly, feverishly. + </p> + <p> + Had he locked the front door when he came in? Very much depended upon + whether he had or had not. The servants had all gone to bed. Not one of + them would see that the house was closed for the night. Fritz was a very + casual person. He often forgot to do things he had promised to do, things + that ought to be done. On the other hand, there were moments when his + memory was excellent. If she only knew which mood had been his to-night + she thought she would feel calmer. The uncertainty in which she was made + mind and body tingle. If Fritz had remembered to lock the door, Leo Ulford + would try to get in, fail, and go away. But if he had not remembered, at + any moment Leo Ulford might walk into the room triumphantly with the + latch-key in his hand. And it was nearly half-past twelve. + </p> + <p> + She wished intensely that she knew what Fritz had done. + </p> + <p> + “What’s up?” he said abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “Up?” she said with an uncontrollable start. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. What d’you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you looked as if—don’t you b’lieve I’ve been playin’ bridge?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do. Really, Fritz, how absurd you are!” + </p> + <p> + It was evident that he, too, was not quite easy to-night. If he had a + conscience, surely it was pricking him. Fierce anger flamed up again + suddenly in Lady Holme, and the longing to lash her husband. Yet even this + anger did not take away the anxiety that beset her, the wish that she had + not done the crazy thing. The fact of her husband’s return before Leo’s + arrival seemed to have altered her action, made it far more damning. To + have been found with Leo would have been compromising, would have roused + Fritz’s anger. She wanted to rouse his anger. She had meant to rouse it. + But when she looked at Fritz she did not like the thought of Leo walking + in at this hour holding the latch-key in his hand. What had Fritz done + that night to Rupert Carey? What would he do to-night if—? + </p> + <p> + “What the deuce is up with you?” + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme drew in his legs, sat up and stared with a sort of uneasy + inquiry which he tried to make hard. She laughed quickly, nervously. + </p> + <p> + “I’m tired, I tell you. It was awfully hot at the opera.” + </p> + <p> + She put some more ice into the lemonade, and added: + </p> + <p> + “By the way, Fritz, I suppose you locked up all right?” + </p> + <p> + “Locked up what?” + </p> + <p> + “The front door. All the servants have gone to bed, you know.” + </p> + <p> + No sooner had she spoken the last words than she regretted them. If Leo + did get in they took away all excuse. She might have pretended he had been + let in. He would have had to back her up. It would have been mean of her, + of course. Still, seeing her husband there, Leo would have understood, + would have forgiven her. Women are always forgiven such subterfuges in + unfortunate moments. What a fool she was to-night! + </p> + <p> + “That don’t matter,” said her husband, shortly. + </p> + <p> + “But—but it does. You know how many burglaries there are. Why, only + the other night Mrs. Arthur came home from a ball and met two men on the + stairs.” + </p> + <p> + “I pity any men I found on my stairs,” he returned composedly, touching + the muscle of his left arm with his right hand. + </p> + <p> + He chuckled. + </p> + <p> + “They’d be sorry for themselves, I’ll bet,” he added. + </p> + <p> + He put down his cigarette and took out another slowly, leisurely. Lady + Holme longed to strike him. His conceited composure added fuel to the + flame of her anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “Well, anyhow, I don’t care to run these risks in a place like London, + Fritz,” she said almost angrily. “Have you locked up or not?” + </p> + <p> + “Damned if I remember,” he drawled. + </p> + <p> + She did not know whether he was deliberately trying to irritate her or + whether he really had forgotten, but she felt it impossible to remain any + longer in uncertainty. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, then, I shall go down and see,” she said. + </p> + <p> + And she laid the book of poems on a table and prepared to get up from the + sofa. + </p> + <p> + “Rot!” said Lord Holme; “if you’re nervous, I’ll go.” + </p> + <p> + She leaned back. + </p> + <p> + “Very well.” + </p> + <p> + “In a minute.” + </p> + <p> + He struck a match and let it out. + </p> + <p> + “Do go now, there’s a good dog,” she said coaxingly. + </p> + <p> + He struck another match and held it head downwards. + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t hurry a feller.” + </p> + <p> + He tapped his cigarette gently on his knee, and applied the flame to it. + </p> + <p> + “That’s better.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme moved violently on the sofa. She had a pricking sensation all + over her body, and her face felt suddenly very hot, as if she had fever. A + ridiculous, but painful idea started up suddenly in her mind. Could Fritz + suspect anything? Was he playing with her? She dismissed it at once as the + distorted child of a guilty conscience. Fritz was not that sort of man. He + might be a brute sometimes, but he was never a subtle brute. He blew two + thin lines of smoke out through his nostrils, now with a sort of sensuous, + almost languid, deliberation, and watched them fade away in the + brilliantly-lit room. Lady Holme resolved to adopt another manner, more in + accord with her condition of tense nervousness. + </p> + <p> + “When I ask you to do a thing, Fritz, you might have the decency to do + it,” she said sharply. “You’re forgetting what’s due to me—to any + woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t fuss at this time of night.” + </p> + <p> + “I want to go to bed, but I’m not going till I know the house is properly + shut up. Please go at once and see.” + </p> + <p> + “I never knew you were such a coward,” he rejoined without stirring. “Who + was at the opera?” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t talk to you till you do what I ask.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a staggerin’ blow.” + </p> + <p> + She sprang up with an exclamation of anger. Her nerves were on edge and + she felt inclined to scream out. + </p> + <p> + “I never thought you could be so—such a cad to a woman, Fritz,” she + said. + </p> + <p> + She moved towards the door. As she did so she heard a cab in the square + outside, a rattle of wheels, then silence. It had stopped. Her heart + seemed to stand still too. She knew now that she was a coward, though not + in the way Fritz meant. She was a coward with regard to him. Her jealousy + had prompted her to do a mad thing. In doing it she had actually meant to + produce a violent scene. It had seemed to her that such a scene would + relieve the tension of her nerves, of her heart, would clear the air. But + now that the scene seemed imminent—if Fritz had forgotten, and she + was certain he had forgotten, to lock the door—she felt heart and + nerves were failing her. She felt that she had risked too much, far too + much. With almost incredible swiftness she remembered her imprudence in + speaking to Carey at Arkell House and how it had only served to put a + weapon into her husband’s hand, a weapon he had not scrupled to use in his + selfish way to further his own pleasure and her distress. That stupid + failure had not sufficiently warned her, and now she was on the edge of + some greater disaster. She was positive that Leo Ulford was in the cab + which had just stopped, and it was too late now to prevent him from + entering the house. Lord Holme had got up from his chair and stood facing + her. He looked quite pleasant. She thought of the change that would come + into his face in a moment and turned cold. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t cut up so deuced rough,” he said; “I’ll go and lock up.” + </p> + <p> + So he had forgotten. He took a step towards the drawing-room door. But now + she felt that at all costs she must prevent him from going downstairs, + must gain a moment somehow. Suddenly she swayed slightly. + </p> + <p> + “I feel—awfully faint,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She went feebly, but quickly, to the window which looked on to the Square, + drew away the curtain, opened the window and leaned out. The cab had + stopped before their door, and she saw Leo Ulford standing on the pavement + with his back to the house. He was feeling in his pocket, evidently for + some money to give to the cabman. If she could only attract his attention + somehow and send him away! She glanced back. Fritz was coming towards her + with a look of surprise on his face. + </p> + <p> + “Leave me alone,” she said unevenly. “I only want some air.” + </p> + <p> + “But—” + </p> + <p> + “Leave me—oh, do leave me alone!” + </p> + <p> + He stopped, but stood staring at her in blank amazement. She dared not do + anything. Leo Ulford stretched out his arm towards the cabman, who bent + down from his perch. He took the money, looked at it, then bent down + again, showing it to Leo and muttering something. Doubtless he was saying + that it was not enough. She turned round again sharply to Fritz. + </p> + <p> + “Fritz,” she said, “be a good dog. Go upstairs to my room and fetch me + some eau de Cologne, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “But—” + </p> + <p> + “It’s on my dressing-table—the gold bottle on the right. You know. I + feel so bad. I’ll stay here. The air will bring me round perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + She caught hold of the curtain, like a person on the point of swooning. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” he said, and he went out of the room. + </p> + <p> + She watched till he was gone, then darted to the window and leaned out. + </p> + <p> + She was too late. The cab was driving off and Leo was gone. He must have + entered the house. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII + </h2> + <p> + BEFORE she had time to leave the window she heard a step in the room. She + turned and saw Leo Ulford, smiling broadly—like a great boy—and + holding up the latch-key she had sent him. At the sight of her face his + smile died away. + </p> + <p> + “Go—go!” she whispered, putting out her hand. “Go at once!” + </p> + <p> + “Go! But you told me—” + </p> + <p> + “Go! My husband’s come back. He’s in the house. Go quickly. Don’t make a + sound. I’ll explain to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + She made a rapid, repeated gesture of her hands towards the door, + frowning. Leo Ulford stood for an instant looking heavy and sulky, then, + pushing out his rosy lips in a sort of indignant pout, he swung round on + his heels. As he did so, Lord Holme came into the room holding the bottle + of eau de Cologne. When he saw Leo he stopped. Leo stopped too, and they + stood for a moment staring at each other. Lady Holme, who was still by the + open window, did not move. There was complete silence in the room. Then + Leo dropped the latch-key. It fell on the thick carpet without a noise. He + made a hasty, lumbering movement to pick it up, but Lord Holme was too + quick for him. When Lady Holme saw the key in her husband’s hand she moved + at last and came forward into the middle of the room. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Ulford’s come to tell me about the Blaxtons’ dance,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She spoke in her usual light voice, without tremor or uncertainty. Her + face was perfectly calm and smiling. Leo Ulford cleared his throat. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said loudly, “about the Blaxtons’ dance.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme stood looking at the latch-key. Suddenly his face swelled up + and became bloated, and large veins stood out in his brown forehead. + </p> + <p> + “What’s this key?” he said. + </p> + <p> + He held it out towards his wife. Neither she nor Leo Ulford replied to his + question. + </p> + <p> + “What’s this key?” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + “The key of Mr. Ulford’s house, I suppose,” said Lady Holme. “How should I + know?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not askin’ you,” said her husband. + </p> + <p> + He came a step nearer to Leo. + </p> + <p> + “Why the devil don’t you answer?” he said to him. + </p> + <p> + “It’s my latch-key,” said Leo, with an attempt at a laugh. + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme flung it in his face. + </p> + <p> + “You damned liar!” he said. “It’s mine.” + </p> + <p> + And he struck him full in the face where the key had just struck him. + </p> + <p> + Leo returned the blow. When she saw that, Lady Holme passed the two men + and went quickly out of the room, shutting the door behind her. Holding + her hands over her ears, she hurried upstairs to her bedroom. It was in + darkness. She felt about on the wall for the button that turned on the + electric light, but could not find it. Her hands, usually deft and certain + in their movements, seemed to have lost the sense of touch. It was as if + they had abruptly been deprived of their minds. She felt and felt. She + knew the button was there. Suddenly the room was full of light. Without + being aware of it she had found the button and turned it. In the light she + looked down at her hands and saw that they were trembling violently. She + went to the door and shut it. Then she sat down on the sofa at the foot of + the bed. She clasped her hands together in her lap, but they went on + trembling. Pulses were beating in her eyelids. She felt utterly degraded, + like a scrupulously clean person who has been rolled in the dirt. And she + fancied she heard a faint and mysterious sound, pathetic and terrible, but + very far away—the white angel in her weeping. + </p> + <p> + And the believers in the angel—were they weeping too? + </p> + <p> + She found herself wondering as a sleeper wonders in a dream. + </p> + <p> + Presently she got up. She could not sit there and see her hands trembling. + She did not walk about the room, but went over to the dressing-table and + stood by it, resting her hands upon it and leaning forward. The attitude + seemed to relieve her. She remained there for a long time, scarcely + thinking at all, only feeling degraded, unclean. The sight of physical + violence in her own drawing-room, caused by her, had worked havoc in her. + She had always thought she understood the brute in man. She had often + consciously administered to it. She had coaxed it, flattered it, played + upon it even—surely—loved it. Now she had suddenly seen it + rush out into the full light, and it had turned her sick. + </p> + <p> + The gold things on the dressing-table—bottles, brushes, boxes, trays—looked + offensive. They were like lies against life, frauds. Everything in the + pretty room was like a lie and a fraud. There ought to be dirt, ugliness + about her. She ought to stand with her feet in mud and look on blackness. + The angel in her shuddered at the siren in her now, as at a witch with + power to evoke Satanic things, and she forgot the trembling of her hands + in the sensation of the trembling of her soul. The blow of Fritz, the blow + of Leo Ulford, had both struck her. She felt a beaten creature. + </p> + <p> + The door opened. She did not turn round, but she saw in the glass her + husband come in. His coat was torn. His waistcoat and shirt were almost in + rags. There was blood on his face and on his right hand. In his eyes there + was an extraordinary light, utterly unlike the light of intelligence, but + brilliant, startling; flame from the fire by which the animal in human + nature warms itself. In the glass she saw him look at her. The light + seemed to stream over her, to scorch her. He went into his dressing-room + without a word, and she heard the noise of water being poured out and used + for washing. He must be bathing his wounds, getting rid of the red stains. + </p> + <p> + She sat down on the sofa at the foot of the bed and listened to the noise + of the water. At last it stopped and she heard drawers being violently + opened and shut, then a tearing sound. After a silence her husband came + into the room again with his forehead bound up in a silk handkerchief, + which was awkwardly knotted behind his head. Part of another silk + handkerchief was loosely tied round his right hand. He came forward, stood + in front of her and looked at her, and she saw now that there was an + expression almost of exultation on his face. She felt something fall into + her lap. It was the latch-key she had sent to Leo Ulford. + </p> + <p> + “I can tell you he’s sorry he ever saw that—damned sorry,” said Lord + Holme. + </p> + <p> + And he laughed. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme took the key up carefully and put it down on the sofa. She was + realising something, realising that her husband was feeling happy. When + she had laid down the key she looked up at him and there was an intense + scrutiny in her eyes. Suddenly it seemed to her as if she were standing up + and looking down on him, as if she were the judge, he the culprit in this + matter. The numbness left her mind. She was able to think swiftly again + and her hands stopped trembling. That look of exultation in her husband’s + eyes had changed everything. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, I want to speak to you,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She was surprised by the calm sound of her own voice. + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme looked astonished. He shifted the bandage on his hand and stood + where he was. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down,” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Well!” he said. + </p> + <p> + And he sat down. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you came up here to turn me out of the house?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “You deserve it,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + But even now he did not look angry. There was a sort of savage glow on his + face. It was evident that the violent physical effort he had just made, + and the success of it, had irresistibly swept away his fury for the + moment. It might return. Probably it would return. But for the moment it + was gone. Lady Holme knew Fritz, and she knew that he was feeling good all + over. The fact that he could feel thus in such circumstances set the brute + in him before her as it had never been set before—in a glare of + light. + </p> + <p> + “And what do you deserve?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + All her terror had gone utterly. She felt mistress of herself. + </p> + <p> + “When I went to thrash Carey he was so drunk I couldn’t touch him. This + feller showed fight but he was a baby in my hands. I could do anything I + liked with him,” said Lord Holme. “Gad! Talk of boxin’—” + </p> + <p> + He looked at his bandaged hand and laughed again triumphantly. Then, + suddenly, a sense of other things than his physical strength seemed to + return upon him. His face changed, grew lowering, and he thrust forward + his under jaw, opening his mouth to speak. Lady Holme did not give him + time. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I sent Leo Ulford the latch-key,” she said. “You needn’t ask. I sent + it, and told him to come to-night. D’you know why?” + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme’s face grew scarlet. + </p> + <p> + “Because you’re a—” + </p> + <p> + She stopped him before he could say the irrevocable word. + </p> + <p> + “Because I mean to have the same liberty as the man I’ve married,” she + said. “I asked Leo Ulford here, and I intended you should find him here.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t. You thought I wasn’t comin’ home.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I have thought such a thing?” she said, swiftly, sharply. + </p> + <p> + Her voice had an edge to it. + </p> + <p> + “You meant not to come home, then?” + </p> + <p> + She read his stupidity at a glance, the guilty mind that had blundered, + thinking its intention known when it was not known. He began to deny it, + but she stopped him. At this moment, and exactly when she ought surely to + have been crushed by the weight of Fritz’s fury, she dominated him. + Afterwards she wondered at herself, but not now. + </p> + <p> + “You meant not to come home?” + </p> + <p> + For once Lord Holme showed a certain adroitness. Instead of replying to + his wife he retorted: + </p> + <p> + “You meant me to find Ulford here! That’s a good ‘un! Why, you tried all + you knew to keep him out.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then?” + </p> + <p> + “I wanted—but you’d never understand.” + </p> + <p> + “He does,” said Lord Holme. + </p> + <p> + He laughed again, got up and walked about the room, fingering his + bandages. Then suddenly, he turned on Lady Holme and said savagely: + </p> + <p> + “And you do.” + </p> + <p> + “I?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you. There’s lots of fellers that would—” + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” said Lady Holme, in a voice of sharp decision. + </p> + <p> + She got up too. She felt that she could not say what she meant to say + sitting down. + </p> + <p> + “Fritz,” she added, “you’re a fool. You may be worse. I believe you are. + But one thing’s certain—you’re a fool. Even in wickedness you’re a + blunderer.” + </p> + <p> + “And what are you?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I!” she answered, coming a step nearer. “I’m not wicked.” + </p> + <p> + A sudden, strange desire came to her, a desire—as she had slangily + expressed it to Robin Pierce—to “trot out” the white angel whom she + had for so long ignored or even brow-beaten. Was the white angel there? + Some there were who believed so. Robin Pierce, Sir Donald, perhaps others. + And these few believers gave Lady Holme courage. She remembered them, she + relied on them at this moment. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not wicked,” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + She looked into her husband’s face. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you know that?” + </p> + <p> + He was silent. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you’d rather I was,” she continued. “Don’t men prefer it?” + </p> + <p> + He stared first at her, then at the carpet. A puzzled look came into his + face. + </p> + <p> + “But I don’t care,” she said, gathering resolution, and secretly calling, + calling on the hidden woman, yet always with a doubt as to whether she was + there in her place of concealment. “I don’t care. I can’t change my nature + because of that. And surely—surely there must be some men who prefer + refinement to vulgarity, purity to—” + </p> + <p> + “Ulford, eh?” he interrupted. + </p> + <p> + The retort struck like a whip on Lady Holme’s temper. She forgot the + believers in the angel and the angel too. + </p> + <p> + “How dare you?” she exclaimed. “As if I—” + </p> + <p> + He took up the latch-key and thrust it into her face. His sense of + physical triumph was obviously dying away, his sense of personal outrage + returning. + </p> + <p> + “Good women don’t do things like that,” he said. “If it was known in + London you’d be done for.” + </p> + <p> + “And you—may you do what you like openly, brazenly?” + </p> + <p> + “Men’s different,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The words and the satisfied way in which they were said made Lady Holme + feel suddenly almost mad with rage. The truth of the statement, and the + disgrace that it was truth, stirred her to the depths. At that moment she + hated her husband, she hated all men. She remembered what Lady Cardington + had said in the carriage as they were driving away from the Carlton after + Mrs. Wolfstein’s lunch, and her sense of impotent fury was made more + bitter by the consciousness that women had chosen that men should be + “different,” or at least—if not that—had smilingly given them + a license to be so. She wanted to say, to call out, so much that she said + nothing. Lord Holme thought that for once he had been clever, almost + intellectual. This was indeed a night of many triumphs for him. An + intoxication of power surged up to his brain. + </p> + <p> + “Men’s made different and treated differently,” he said. “And they’d never + stand anything else.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme sat down again on the sofa. She put her right hand on her left + hand and held it tightly in her lap. + </p> + <p> + “You mean,” she said, in a hard, quiet voice, “that you may humiliate your + wife in the eyes of London and that she must just pretend that she enjoys + it and go on being devoted to you? Well, I will not do either the one or + the other. I will not endure humiliation quietly, and as to my devotion to + you—I daresay it wouldn’t take much to kill it. Perhaps it’s dead + already.” + </p> + <p> + No lie, perhaps, ever sounded more like truth than hers. At that moment + she thought that probably it was truth. + </p> + <p> + “Eh?” said Lord Holme. + </p> + <p> + He looked suddenly less triumphant. His blunt features seemed altered in + shape by the expression of blatant, boyish surprise, even amazement, that + overspread them. His wife saw that, despite the incident of Leo Ulford’s + midnight visit, Fritz had not really suspected her of the uttermost + faithlessness, that it had not occurred to him that perhaps her love for + him was dead, that love was alive in her for another man. Had his conceit + then no limits? + </p> + <p> + And then suddenly another thought flashed into her mind. Was he, too, a + firm, even a fanatical, believer in the angel? She had never numbered + Fritz among that little company of believers. Him she had always set among + the men who worship the sirens of the world. But now—? Can there be + two men in one man as there can be two women in one woman? Suddenly Fritz + was new to her, newer to her than on the day when she first met him. And + he was complex. Fritz complex! She changed the word conceit. She called it + trust. And tears rushed into her eyes. There were tears in her heart too. + She looked up at her husband. The silk bandage over his forehead had been + white. Now it was faintly red. As she looked she thought that the colour + of the red deepened. + </p> + <p> + “Come here, Fritz,” she said softly. + </p> + <p> + He moved nearer. + </p> + <p> + “Bend down!” + </p> + <p> + “Eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Bend down your head.” + </p> + <p> + He bent down his huge form with a movement that had in it some resemblance + to the movement of a child. She put up her hand and touched the bandage + where it was red. She took her hand away. It was damp. + </p> + <p> + A moment later Fritz was sitting in a low chair by the wash-hand stand in + an obedient attitude, and a woman—was she siren or angel?—was + bathing an ugly wound. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV + </h2> + <p> + AFTER that night Lady Holme began to do something she had never done + before—to idealise her husband. Hitherto she had loved him without + weaving pretty fancies round him, loved him crudely for his strength, his + animalism, his powerful egoism and imperturbable self-satisfaction. She + had loved him almost as a savage woman might love, though without her + sense of slavery. Now a change came over her. She thought of Fritz in a + different way, the new Fritz, the Fritz who was a believer in the angel. + It seemed to her that he could be kept faithful most easily, most surely, + by such an appeal as Robin Pierce would have loved. She had sought to + rouse, to play upon the instincts of the primitive man. She had not gone + very far, it is true, but her methods had been common, ordinary. She had + undervalued Fritz’s nature. That was what she felt now. He had behaved + badly to her, had wronged her, but he had believed in her very much. She + resolved to make his belief more intense. An expression on his face—only + that—had wrought a vital change in her feeling towards him, her + conception of him. She ranged him henceforth with Sir Donald, with Robin + Pierce. He stood among the believers in the angel. + </p> + <p> + She called upon the angel passionately, feverishly. + </p> + <p> + There was strength in Lady Holme’s character, and not merely strength of + temper. When she was roused, confident, she could be resolute, persistent; + could shut her eyes to side issues and go onward looking straight before + her. Now she went onward and she felt a new force within her, a force that + would not condescend to pettiness, to any groping in the mud. + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme was puzzled. He felt the change in his wife, but did not + understand it. Since the fracas with Leo Ulford their relations had + slightly altered. Vaguely, confusedly, he was conscious of being pitied, + yes, surely pitied by his wife. She shed a faint compassion, like a light + cloud, over the glory of his wrongdoing. And the glory was abated. He felt + a little doubtful of himself, almost as a son feels sometimes in the + presence of his mother. For the first time he began to think of himself, + now and then, as the inferior of his wife, began even, now and then, to + think of man as the inferior of woman—in certain ways. Such a state + of mind was very novel in him. He stared at it as a baby stares at its + toes, with round amazement, inwardly saying, “Is this phenomenon part of + me?” + </p> + <p> + There was a new gentleness in Viola, a new tenderness. Both put him—as + one lifted and dropped—a step below her. He pulled his bronze + moustache over it with vigour. + </p> + <p> + His wife showed no desire to control his proceedings, to know what he was + about. When she spoke of Miss Schley she spoke kindly, sympathetically, + but with a dainty, delicate pity, as one who secretly murmurs, “If she had + only had a chance!” Lord Holme began to think it a sad thing that she had + not had a chance. The mere thought sent the American a step down from her + throne. She stood below him now, as he stood below Viola. It seemed to him + that there was less resemblance between his wife and Miss Schley than he + had fancied. He even said so to Lady Holme. The angel smiled. Somebody + else in her smiled too. Once he remarked to the angel, <i>a propos de + bottes</i>, “We men are awful brutes sometimes.” Then he paused. As she + said nothing, only looked very kind, he added, “I’ll bet you think so, + Vi?” + </p> + <p> + It sounded like a question, but she preferred to give no answer, and he + walked away shaking his head over the brutishness of men. + </p> + <p> + The believers in the angel naturally welcomed the development in Lady + Holme and the unbelievers laughed at it, especially those who had been at + Arkell House and those who had been influenced by Pimpernel Schley’s + clever imitation. One night at the opera, when <i>Tannhauser</i> was being + given, Mr. Bry said of it, “I seem to hear the voice of Venus raised in + the prayer of Elizabeth.” Mrs. Wolfstein lifted large eyebrows over it, + and remarked to Henry, in exceptionally guttural German: + </p> + <p> + “If this goes on Pimpernel’s imitation will soon be completely out of + date.” + </p> + <p> + To be out of date—in Mrs. Wolfstein’s opinion—was to be + irremediably damned. Lady Cardington, Sir Donald Ulford, and one or two + others began to feel as if their dream took form and stepped out of the + mystic realm towards the light of day. Sir Donald seemed specially moved + by the change. It was almost as if something within him blossomed, warmed + by the breath of spring. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme wondered whether he knew of the fight between her husband and + his son. She dared not ask him and he only mentioned Leo once. Then he + said that Leo had gone down to his wife’s country place in Hertfordshire. + Lady Holme could not tell by his intonation whether he had guessed that + there was a special reason for this departure. She was glad Leo had gone. + The developing angel did not want to meet the man who had suffered from + the siren’s common conduct. Leo was not worth much. She knew that. But she + realised now the meanness of having used him merely as a weapon against + Fritz, and not only the meanness, but the vulgarity of the action. There + were moments in which she was fully conscious that, despite her rank, she + had not endured unsmirched close contact with the rampant commonness of + London. + </p> + <p> + One of the last great events of the season was to be a charity concert, + got up by a Royal Princess in connection with a committee of well-known + women to start a club for soldiers and sailors. Various amateurs and + professionals were asked to take part in it, among them Lady Holme and + Miss Schley. The latter had already accepted the invitation when Lady + Holme received the Royal request, which was made <i>viva voce</i> and was + followed by a statement about the composition of the programme, in which + “that clever Miss Schley” was named. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme hesitated. She had not met the American for some time and did + not wish to meet her. Since she had bathed her husband’s wound she knew—she + could not have told how—that Miss Schley’s power over him had + lessened. She did not know what had happened between them. She did not + know that anything had happened. And, as part of this new effort of hers, + she had had the strength to beat down the vehement, the terrible curiosity—cold + steel and fire combined—that is a part of jealousy. That curiosity, + she told herself, belonged to the siren, not to the angel. But at this + Royal request her temper waked, and with it many other children of her + temperament. It was as if she had driven them into a dark cave and had + rolled a great stone to the cave’s mouth. Now the stone was pushed back, + and in the darkness she heard them stirring, whispering, preparing to come + forth. + </p> + <p> + The Royal lady looked slightly surprised. She coughed and glanced at a + watch she wore at her side. + </p> + <p> + “I shall be delighted to do anything, ma’am,” Lady Holme said quickly. + </p> + <p> + When she received the programme she found that her two songs came + immediately after “Some Imitations” by Miss Pimpernel Schley. + </p> + <p> + She stood for a moment with the programme in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Some Imitations”; there was a certain crudeness about the statement, a + crudeness and an indefiniteness combined. Who were to be the victims? At + this moment, perhaps, they were being studied. Was she to be pilloried + again as she had been pilloried that night at the British Theatre? The + calm malice of the American was capable of any impudent act. It seemed to + Lady Holme that she had perhaps been very foolish in promising to appear + in the same programme with Miss Schley. Was it by accident that their + names were put together? Lady Holme did not know who had arranged the + order of the performances, but it occurred to her that there was + attraction to the public in the contiguity, and that probably it was a + matter of design. No other two women had been discussed and compared, + smiled over and whispered about that season by Society as she and Miss + Schley had been. + </p> + <p> + For a moment, while she looked at the programme, she thought of the + strange complications of feeling that are surely the fruit of an extreme + civilisation. She saw herself caught in a spider’s web of apparently + frail, yet really powerful, threads spun by an invisible spider. Her world + was full of gossamer playing the part of iron, of gossamer that was + compelling, that made and kept prisoners. What freedom was there for her + and women like her, what reality of freedom? Even beauty, birth, money + were gossamer to hold the fly. For they concentrated the gaze of those + terrible watchful eyes which govern lives, dominating actions, even + dominating thoughts. + </p> + <p> + She moved, had always moved, in a maze of complications. She saw them tiny + yet intense, like ants in their hill. They stirred minds, hearts, as the + ants stirred twigs, leaves, blossoms, and carried them to the hill for + their own purposes. In this maze free will was surely lost. The beautiful + woman of the world seems to the world to be a dominant being, to be + imposing the yoke of her will on those around her. But is she anything but + a slave? + </p> + <p> + Why were she and Miss Schley enemies? Why had they been enemies from the + moment they met? There was perhaps a reason for their hostility now, a + reason in Fritz. But at the beginning what reason had there been? + Civilisation manufactures reasons as the spider manufactures threads, + because it is the deadly enemy of peace—manufactures reasons for all + those thoughts and actions which are destructive of inward and exterior + peace. + </p> + <p> + For a moment it seemed to Lady Holme as if she and the American were + merely victims of the morbid conditions amid which they lived; conditions + which caused the natural vanity of women to become a destroying fever, the + natural striving of women to please a venomous battle, the natural desire + of women to be loved a fracas, in which clothes were the armour, modes of + hair-dressing, manicure, perfumes, dyes, powder-puffs the weapons. + </p> + <p> + What a tremendous, noisy nothingness it was, this state of being! How + could an angel be natural in it,—be an angel at all? + </p> + <p> + She laid down the programme and sighed. She felt a vague yet violent + desire for release, for a fierce change, for something that would brush + away the spider’s web and set free her wings. Yet where would she fly? She + did not know; probably against a window-pane. And the change would never + come. She and Fritz—what could they ever be but a successful couple + known in a certain world and never moving beyond its orbit? + </p> + <p> + Perhaps for the first time the longing that she had often expressed in her + singing, obedient to poet and composer, invaded her own soul. Without + music she was what with music she had often seemed to be—a creature + of wayward and romantic desires, a yearning spirit, a soaring flame. + </p> + <p> + At that moment she could have sung better than she had ever sung. + </p> + <p> + On the programme the names of her songs did not appear. They were + represented by the letters A and B. She had not decided yet what she would + sing. But now, moved by feeling to the longing for some action in which + she might express it, she resolved to sing something in which she could at + least flutter the wings she longed to free, something in which the angel + could lift its voice, something that would delight the believers in the + angel and be as far removed from Miss Schley’s imitations as possible. + </p> + <p> + After a time she chose two songs. One was English, by a young composer, + and was called “Away.” It breathed something of the spirit of the East. + The man who had written it had travelled much in the East, had drawn into + his lungs the air, into his nostrils the perfume, into his soul the + meaning of desert places. There was distance in his music. There was + mystery. There was the call of the God of Gold who lives in the sun. There + was the sound of feet that travel. The second song she chose was French. + The poem was derived from a writing of Jalalu’d dinu’r Rumi, and told this + story. + </p> + <p> + One day a man came to knock upon the door of the being he loved. A voice + cried from within the house, “<i>Qui est la</i>?” “<i>C’est moi</i>!” + replied the man. There was a pause. Then the voice answered, “This house + cannot shelter us both together.” Sadly the lover went away, went into the + great solitude, fasted and prayed. When a long year had passed he came + once more to the house of the one he loved, and struck again upon the + door. The voice from within cried, “<i>Qui est la</i>?” “<i>C’est toi</i>!” + whispered the lover. Then the door was opened swiftly and he passed in + with outstretched arms. + </p> + <p> + Having decided that she would sing these two songs, Lady Holme sat down to + go through them at the piano. Just as she struck the first chord of the + desert song a footman came in to know whether she was at home to Lady + Cardington. She answered “Yes.” In her present mood she longed to give out + her feeling to an audience, and Lady Cardington was very sympathetic. + </p> + <p> + In a minute she came in, looking as usual blanched and tired, dressed in + black with some pale yellow roses in the front of her gown. Seeing Lady + Holme at the piano she said, in her low voice with a thrill in it: + </p> + <p> + “You are singing? Let me listen, let me listen.” + </p> + <p> + She did not come up to shake hands, but at once sat down at a short + distance from the piano, leaned back, and gazed at Lady Holme with a + strange expression of weary, yet almost passionate, expectation. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme looked at her and at the desert song. Suddenly she thought she + would not sing it to Lady Cardington. There was too wild a spell in it for + this auditor. She played a little prelude and sang an Italian song, full, + as a warm flower of sweetness, of the sweetness of love. The refrain was + soft as golden honey, soft and languorous, strangely sweet and sad. There + was an exquisite music in the words of the refrain, and the music they + were set to made their appeal more clinging, like the appeal of white + arms, of red, parting lips. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Torna in fior di giovinezza + Isaotta Blanzesmano, + Dice: Tutto al mondo e vano: + Nell’amore ogni dolcezza.” + </pre> + <p> + Tears came into Lady Cardington’s eyes as she listened, brimmed over and + fell down upon her blanched cheeks. Each time the refrain recurred she + moved her lips: “Dice: Tutto al mondo e vano: Nell’amore ogni dolcezza.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme’s voice was like honey as she sang, and tears were in her eyes + too. Each time the refrain fell from her heart she seemed to see another + world, empty of gossamer threads, a world of spread wings, a world of—but + such poetry and music do not tell you! Nor can you imagine. You can only + dream and wonder, as when you look at the horizon line and pray for the + things beyond. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Tutto—tutto al mondo a vano: + Nell’amore ogni dolcezza.” + </pre> + <p> + “Why do you sing like that to-day?” said Lady Cardington, wiping her eyes + gently. + </p> + <p> + “I feel like that to-day,” Lady Holme said, keeping her hands on the keys + in the last chord. There was a vagueness in her eyes, a sort of faint + cloud of fear. While she was singing she had thought, “Have I known the + love that shows the vanity of the world? Have I known the love in which + alone all sweetness lives?” The thought had come in like a firefly through + an open window. “Have I? Have I?” + </p> + <p> + And something within her felt a stab of pain, something within her soul + and yet surely a thousand miles away. + </p> + <p> + “Tutto—tutto al mondo e vano,” murmured Lady Cardington. “We feel + that and we feel it, and—do you?” + </p> + <p> + “To-day I seem to,” answered Lady Holme. + </p> + <p> + “When you sing that song you look like the love that gives all sweetness + to men. Sing like that, look like that, and you—If Sir Donald had + heard you!” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme got up from the piano. + </p> + <p> + “Sir Donald!” she said. + </p> + <p> + She came to sit down near Lady Cardington. + </p> + <p> + “Sir Donald! Why do you say that?” + </p> + <p> + And she searched Lady Cardington’s eyes with eyes full of inquiry. + </p> + <p> + Lady Cardington looked away. The wistful power that generally seemed a + part of her personality had surely died out in her. There was something + nervous in her expression, deprecating in her attitude. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you speak about Sir Donald?” Lady Holme said. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you know?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Cardington looked up. There was an extraordinary sadness in her eyes, + mingled with a faint defiance. + </p> + <p> + “Know what?” + </p> + <p> + “That Sir Donald is madly in love with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Sir Donald! Sir Donald—madly anything!” + </p> + <p> + She laughed, not as if she were amused, but as if she wished to do + something else and chose to laugh instead. Lady Cardington sat straight + up. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t understand anything but youth,” she said. + </p> + <p> + There was a sound of keen bitterness in her low voice. + </p> + <p> + “And yet,” she added, after a pause, “you can sing till you break the + heart of age—break its heart.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she burst into a flood of tears. Lady Holme was so surprised that + she did absolutely nothing, did not attempt to console, to inquire. She + sat and looked at Lady Cardington’s tall figure swayed by grief, listened + to the sound of her hoarse, gasping sobs. And then, abruptly, as if + someone came into the room and told her, she understood. + </p> + <p> + “You love Sir Donald,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Lady Cardington looked up. Her tear-stained, distorted face seemed very + old. + </p> + <p> + “We both regret the same thing in the same way,” she said. “We were both + wretched in—in the time when we ought to have been happy. I thought—I + had a ridiculous idea we might console each other. You shattered my hope.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry,” Lady Holme said. + </p> + <p> + And she said it with more tenderness than she had ever before used to a + woman. + </p> + <p> + Lady Cardington pressed a pocket-handkerchief against her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Sing me that song again,” she whispered. “Don’t say anything more. Just + sing it again and I’ll go.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme went to the piano. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Torna in fior di giovinezza + Isaotta Blanzesmano, + Dice: Tutto al mondo a vano: + Nell’amore ogni dolcezza.” + </pre> + <p> + When the last note died away she looked towards the sofa. Lady Cardington + was gone. Lady Holme leaned her arm on the piano and put her chin in her + hand. + </p> + <p> + “How awful to be old!” she thought. + </p> + <p> + Half aloud she repeated the last words of the refrain: “Nell’amore ogni + dolcezza.” And then she murmured: + </p> + <p> + “Poor Sir Donald!” + </p> + <p> + And then she repeated, “Poor—” and stopped. Again the faint cloud of + fear was in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV + </h2> + <p> + THE Charity Concert was to be given in Manchester House, one of the + private palaces of London, and as Royalty had promised to be present, all + the tickets were quickly sold. Among those who bought them were most of + the guests who had been present at the Holmes’ dinner-party when Lady + Holme lost her temper and was consoled by Robin Pierce. Robin of course + was in Rome, but Lady Cardington, Lady Manby, Mrs. Wolfstein, Sir Donald, + Mr. Bry took seats. Rupert Carey also bought a ticket. He was not invited + to great houses any more, but on this public occasion no one with a guinea + to spend was unwelcome. To Lady Holme’s surprise the day before the + concert Fritz informed her that he was going too. + </p> + <p> + “You, Fritz!” she exclaimed. “But it’s in the afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “What o’ that?” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll be bored to death. You’ll go to sleep. Probably you’ll snore.” + </p> + <p> + “Not I.” + </p> + <p> + He straddled his legs and looked attentively at the toes of his boots. + Lady Holme wondered why he was going. Had Miss Schley made a point of it? + She longed to know. The cruel curiosity which the angel was ever trying to + beat down rose up in her powerfully. + </p> + <p> + “I say—” + </p> + <p> + Her husband was speaking with some hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s have a squint at the programme, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “Here it is.” + </p> + <p> + She gave it to him and watched him narrowly as he looked quickly over it. + </p> + <p> + “Hulloa!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Some Imitations,” he said. “What’s that mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t you know Miss Schley was a mimic?” + </p> + <p> + “A mimic—not I! She’s an actress.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—now.” + </p> + <p> + “Now? When was she anythin’ else?” + </p> + <p> + “When she began in America. She was a mimic in the music-halls.” + </p> + <p> + “The deuce she was!” + </p> + <p> + He stood looking very grave and puzzled for a minute, then he stared hard + at his wife. + </p> + <p> + “What did she mimic?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know—people.” + </p> + <p> + Again there was a silence. Then he said— + </p> + <p> + “I say, I don’t know that I want you to sing at that affair to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “But I must. Why not?” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other almost like a great boy. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what she’s up to,” he answered at last. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Schley?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme felt her heart beat faster. Was her husband going to open up a + discussion of the thing that had been turning her life to gall during + these last weeks—his flirtation, his <i>liaison</i>—if it were + a <i>liaison</i>; she did not know—with the American? The woman who + had begun to idealise Fritz and the woman who was desperately jealous of + him both seemed to be quivering within her. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean—?” she began. + </p> + <p> + She stopped, then spoke again in a quiet voice. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that you think Miss Schley is going to do something unusual + at the concert tomorrow?” + </p> + <p> + “I dunno. She’s the devil.” + </p> + <p> + There was a reluctant admiration in his voice, as there always is in the + voice of a man when he describes a woman as gifted with infernal + attributes, and this sound stung Lady Holme. It seemed to set that angel + upon whom she was calling in the dust, to make of that angel a puppet, an + impotent, even a contemptible thing. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Fritz,” she said in a rather loud, clear voice, like the voice of + one speaking to a child, “my dear Fritz, you’re surely aware that I have + been the subject of Miss Schley’s talent ever since she arrived in + London?” + </p> + <p> + “You! What d’you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “You surely can’t be so blind as not to have seen what all London has + seen?” + </p> + <p> + “What’s all London seen?’ + </p> + <p> + “Why, that Miss Schley’s been mimicking me!” + </p> + <p> + “Mimickin’ you!” + </p> + <p> + The brown of his large cheeks was invaded by red. + </p> + <p> + “But you have noticed it. I remember your speaking about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Not I!” he exclaimed with energy. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You spoke of the likeness between us, in expression, in ways of + looking and moving.” + </p> + <p> + “That—I thought it was natural.” + </p> + <p> + “You thought it was natural?” + </p> + <p> + There was a profound, if very bitter, compassion in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “Poor old boy!” she added. + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme looked desperately uncomfortable. His legs were in a most + violent, even a most pathetic commotion, and he tugged his moustache with + the fingers of both hands. + </p> + <p> + “Damned cheek!” he muttered. “Damned cheek!” + </p> + <p> + He turned suddenly as if he were going to stride about the room. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t get angry,” said his wife. “I never did.” + </p> + <p> + He swung round and faced her. + </p> + <p> + “D’you mean you’ve always known she was mimickin’ you?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. From the very start.” + </p> + <p> + His face got redder. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll teach her to let my wife alone,” he muttered. “To dare—my + wife!” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid it’s a little late in the day to begin now,” Lady Holme said. + “Society’s been laughing over it, and your apparent appreciation of it, + the best part of the season.” + </p> + <p> + “My what?” + </p> + <p> + “Your apparent enjoyment of the performance.” + </p> + <p> + And then she went quietly out of the room and shut the door gently behind + her. But directly the door was shut she became another woman. Her mouth + was distorted, her eyes shone, she rushed upstairs to her bedroom, locked + herself in, threw herself down on the bed and pressed her face furiously + against the coverlet. + </p> + <p> + The fact that she had spoken at last to her husband of the insult she had + been silently enduring, the insult he had made so far more bitter than it + need have been by his conduct, had broken down something within her, some + wall of pride behind which had long been gathering a flood of feeling. She + cried now frantically, with a sort of despairing rage, cried and crushed + herself against the bed, beating the pillows with her hands, grinding her + teeth. + </p> + <p> + What was the use of it all? What was the use of being beautiful, of being + young, rich? What was the use of having married a man she had loved? What + was the use? What was the use? + </p> + <p> + “What’s the use?” she sobbed the words out again and again. + </p> + <p> + For the man was a fool, Fritz was a fool. She thought of him at that + moment as half-witted. For he saw nothing, nothing. He was a blind man led + by his animal passions, and when at last he was forced to see, when she + came and, as it were, lifted his eyelids with her fingers, and said to + him, “Look! Look at what has been done to me!” he could only be angry for + himself, because the insult had attained him, because she happened to be + his wife. It seemed to her, while she was crying there, that stupidity + combined with egoism must have the power to kill even that vital, enduring + thing, a woman’s love. She had begun to idealise Fritz, but how could she + go on idealising him? And she began for the first time really to + understand—or to begin to understand—that there actually was + something within her which was hungry, unsatisfied, something which was + not animal but mental, or was it spiritual?—something not sensual, + not cerebral, which cried aloud for sustenance. And this something did + not, could never, cry to Fritz. It knew he could not give it what it + wanted. Then to whom did it cry? She did not know. + </p> + <p> + Presently she grew calmer and sat upon the bed, looking straight before + her. Her mind returned upon itself. She seemed to go back to that point of + time, just before Lady Cardington called, when she had the programme in + her hand and thought of the gossamer threads that were as iron in her + life, and in such lives as hers; then to move on to that other point of + time when she laid down the programme, sighed, and was conscious of a + violent desire for release, for something to come and lift a powerful hand + and brush away the spider’s web. + </p> + <p> + But now, returning to this further moment in her life, she asked herself + what would be left to her if the spider’s web were gone? The believers in + the angel? Perhaps she no longer included Fritz among them. The impotence + of his mind seemed to her an impotence of heart just then. He was to her + like a numbed creature, incapable of movement, incapable of thought, + incapable of belief. Credulity—yes, but not belief. And so, when she + looked at the believers, she saw but a few people: Robin Pierce, Sir + Donald—whom else? + </p> + <p> + And then she heard, as if far off, the song she would sing on the morrow + at Manchester House. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Torna in fior di giovinezza + Isaotta Blanzesmano, + Dice: Tutto al mondo a vano: + Nell’amore ogni dolcezza.” + </pre> + <p> + And then she cried again, but no longer frantically; quietly, with a sort + of childish despair and confusion. In her heart there had opened a dark + space, a gulf. She peered into it and heard, deep down in it, hollow + echoes resounding, and she recoiled from a vision of emptiness. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * * * * * * * +</pre> + <p> + On the following day Fritz drove her himself to Manchester House in a new + motor he had recently bought. All the morning he had stayed at home and + fidgeted about the house. It was obvious to his wife that he was in an + unusually distracted frame of mind. He wanted to tell her something, yet + could not do so. She saw that plainly, and she felt almost certain that + since their interview of the previous day he had seen Miss Schley. She + fancied that there had been a scene of some kind between them, and she + guessed that Fritz had been hopelessly worsted in it and was very sorry + for himself. There was a beaten look in his face, a very different look + from that which had startled her when he came into her room after + thrashing Leo Ulford. This time, however, her curiosity was not awake, and + the fact that it was not awake marked a change in her. She felt to-day as + if she did not care what Fritz had been doing or was going to do. She had + suffered, she had concealed her suffering, she had tried vulgarly to pay + Fritz out, she had failed. At the critical moment she had played the woman + after he had played the man. He had thrashed the intruder whom she was + using as a weapon, and she had bathed his wounds, made much of him, + idealised him. She had done what any uneducated street woman would have + done for “her man.” And now she had suddenly come to feel as if there had + always been an emptiness in her life, as if Fritz never had, never could + fill it. The abruptness of the onset of this new feeling confused her. She + did not know that a woman could be subject to a change of this kind. She + did not understand it, realise what it portended, what would result from + it. But she felt that, for the moment, at any rate, she could not get up + any excitement about Fritz, his feelings, his doings. Whenever she thought + of him she thought of his blundering stupidity, his blindness, sensuality + and egoism. No doubt she loved him. Only, to-day, she did not feel as if + she loved him or anyone. Yet she did not feel dull. On the contrary, she + was highly strung, unusually sensitive. What she was most acutely + conscious of was a sensation of lonely excitement, of solitary + expectation. Fritz fidgeted about the house, and the fact that he did so + gave her no more concern than if a little dog had been running to and fro. + She did not want him to tell her what was the matter. On the other hand, + she did want him not to tell her. Simply she did not care. + </p> + <p> + He said nothing. Perhaps something in her look, her manner, kept him dumb. + </p> + <p> + When they were in the motor on the way to Manchester House, he said: + </p> + <p> + “I bet you’ll cut out everybody.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, there are all sorts of stars.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, mind you put ‘em all out.” + </p> + <p> + It was evident to her that for some reason or other he was particularly + anxious she should shine that afternoon. She meant to. She knew she was + going to. But she had no desire to shine in order to gratify Fritz’s + egoism. Probably he had just had a quarrel with Miss Schley and wanted to + punish her through his wife. The idea was not a pretty one. Unfortunately + that circumstance did not ensure its not being a true one. + </p> + <p> + “Mind you do, eh?” reiterated her husband, giving the steering wheel a + twist and turning the car up Hamilton Place. + </p> + <p> + “I shall try to sing well, naturally,” she replied coldly. “I always do.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course—I know.” + </p> + <p> + There was something almost servile in his manner, an anxiety which was + quite foreign to it as a rule. + </p> + <p> + “That’s a stunnin’ dress,” he added. “Keep your cloak well over it.” + </p> + <p> + She said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the row?” he asked. “Anythin’ up?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m thinking over my songs.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I see.” + </p> + <p> + She had silenced him for the moment. + </p> + <p> + Very soon they were in a long line of carriages and motors moving slowly + towards Manchester House. + </p> + <p> + “Goin’ to be a deuce of a crowd,” said Fritz. + </p> + <p> + “Naturally.” + </p> + <p> + “Wonder who’ll be there?” + </p> + <p> + “Everybody who’s still in town.” + </p> + <p> + She bowed to a man in a hansom. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s that?” + </p> + <p> + “Plancon. He’s singing.” + </p> + <p> + “How long’ll it be before you come on?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite an hour, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “Better than bein’ first, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you goin’ to sing?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—” + </p> + <p> + She was about to say something impatient about his not knowing one tune + from another, but she checked herself, and answered quietly: + </p> + <p> + “An Italian song and a French song.” + </p> + <p> + “What about?” + </p> + <p> + “Take care of that carriage in front—love.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her sideways. + </p> + <p> + “You’re the one to sing about that,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She felt that he was admiring her beauty as if it were new to him. She did + not care. + </p> + <p> + At last they reached Manchester House. Fritz’s place was taken by his + chauffeur, and they got out. The crowd was enormous. Many people + recognised Lady Holme and greeted her. Others, who did not know her + personally, looked at her with open curiosity. A powdered footman came to + show her to the improvised artists’ room. Fritz prepared to follow. + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you going into the concert-room?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Presently.” + </p> + <p> + “But—” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll take you up first.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” she said. “But it isn’t the least necessary.” + </p> + <p> + He only stuck out his under jaw. She realised that Miss Schley would be in + the artists’ room and said nothing more. They made their way very slowly + to the great landing on the first floor of the house, from which a maze of + reception rooms opened. Mr. and Mrs. Ongrin, the immensely rich + Australians who were the owners of the house, were standing there ready to + receive the two Royal Princesses who were expected, and Mr. Ongrin took + from a basket on a table beside him a great bouquet of honey-coloured + roses, and offered it to Lady Holme with a hearty word of thanks to her + for singing. + </p> + <p> + She took the roses with a look of pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “How sweet of you! They suit my song,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She was thinking of the Italian song. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Ongrin, who was a large, loose-limbed man, with straw-coloured hair + turning grey, and a broken nose, looked genial and confused, and she went + on, still closely followed by Fritz. + </p> + <p> + “This is the room for the performers, my lady,” said the footman, showing + them into a large, green drawing-room, with folding doors at one end shut + off by an immense screen. + </p> + <p> + “Is the platform behind the screen?” Lady Holme asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady. The ladies’ cloak-room is on the left—that door, my + lady.” + </p> + <p> + There were already several people in the room, standing about and looking + tentative. Lady Holme knew most of them. One was a French actor who was + going to give a monologue; very short, very stout, very + intelligent-looking, with a face that seemed almost too flexible to be + human. Two or three were singers from the Opera House. Another was an + aristocratic amateur, an intimate friend of Lady Holme’s, who had a + beautiful contralto voice. Several of the committee were there too, making + themselves agreeable to the artists. Lady Holme began to speak to the + French actor. Fritz stood by. He scarcely understood a word of French, and + always looked rather contemptuous when it was talked in his presence. The + French actor appealed to him on some point in the conversation. He + straddled his legs, uttered a loud, “Oh, wee! Oh, wee! wee!” and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Lord Holme est tout a fait de mon avis!” cried the comedian. + </p> + <p> + “Evidemment,” she answered, wishing Fritz would go. Miss Schley had not + come yet. She was certain to be effectively late, as she had been at Mrs. + Wolfstein’s lunch-party. Lady Holme did not feel as if she cared whether + she came early or late, whether she were there or not. She was still + companioned by her curious sensation of the morning, a sensation of odd + loneliness and detachment, combined with excitement—but an + excitement which had nothing to do with the present. It seemed to her as + if she were a person leaning out of a window and looking eagerly along a + road. People were in the room behind her, voices were speaking, things + were happening there, but they had nothing to do with her. That which had + to do with her was coming down the road. She could not see yet what it + was, but she could hear the faint sound of its approach. + </p> + <p> + The comedian spoke to someone else. She went into the cloak-room and took + off her motor cloak. As she glanced into a mirror to see if all the + details of her gown were perfect, she was struck by the expression on her + face, as if she had seen it on the face of a stranger. For a moment she + looked at herself as at a stranger, seeing her beauty with a curious + detachment, and admiring it without personal vanity or egoism, or any + small, triumphant feeling. Yet it was not her beauty which fascinated her + eyes, but an imaginative look in them and in the whole face. For the first + time she fully realised why she had a curious, an evocative, influence on + certain people, why she called the hidden children of the secret places of + their souls, why those children heard, and stretched out their hands, and + lifted their eyes and opened their lips. + </p> + <p> + There was a summoning, and yet a distant expression in her eyes. She saw + it herself. They were like eyes that had looked on magic, that would look + on magic again. + </p> + <p> + A maid came to help her. In a moment she had picked up her bouquet of + roses and her music-case, and was back in the green drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + There were more people in it now. Fritz was still hovering about looking + remarkably out of place and strangely ill at ease. To-day his usual + imperturbable self-confidence had certainly deserted him. He spoke to + people but his eyes were on the door. Lady Holme knew that he was waiting + for Miss Schley. She felt a sort of vague pity for his uneasiness. It was + time for the concert to begin, but the Princesses had not yet arrived. A + murmur of many voices came from the hidden room beyond the screen where + the audience was assembled. Several of the performers began to look rather + strung up. They smiled and talked with slightly more vivacity than was + quite natural in them. One or two of the singers glanced over their songs, + and pointed out certain effects they meant to make to the principal + accompanist, an abnormally thin boy with thick dark hair and flushed + cheeks. He expressed comprehension, emphasising it by finger-taps on the + music and a continual, “I see! I see!” Two or three of the members of the + committee looked at their watches, and the murmur of conversation in the + hidden concert-room rose into a dull roar. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme sat down on a sofa. Sometimes when she was going to sing she + felt nervous. There are very few really accomplished artists who do not. + But to-day she was not at all nervous. She knew she was going to do well—as + well as when she sang to Lady Cardington, even better. She felt almost as + if she were made of music, as if music were part of her, ran in her veins + like blood, shone in her eyes like light, beat in her heart like the pulse + of life. But she felt also as if she were still at a window, looking down + a road, and listening to the sound of an approach. + </p> + <p> + “Did you see him?” + </p> + <p> + A lady near her was speaking to a friend. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Doesn’t he look shocking? Such an alteration!” + </p> + <p> + “Poor fellow! I wonder he cares to go about.” + </p> + <p> + “And he’s so clever. He helped me in a concert once—the Gordon boys, + you know—and I assure you—” + </p> + <p> + She did not catch anything more, but she felt a conviction that they were + speaking of Rupert Carey, and that he must be in the concert-room. Poor + Carey! She thought of the Arkell House ball, but only for a moment. Then + someone spoke to her. A moment later Miss Schley came slowly into the + room, accompanied by a very small, wiry-looking old woman, dreadfully + dressed, and by Leo Ulford, who was carrying a bouquet of red carnations. + The kind care of Mr. Ongrin had provided a bouquet for each lady who was + performing. + </p> + <p> + As Leo came in he looked round swiftly, furtively. He saw Fritz, and a + flush went over his face. Then Lady Holme saw him look at her with a + scowl, exactly like the scowl of an evil-tempered schoolboy. She bowed to + him slightly. He ignored the recognition, and spoke to Miss Schley with a + heavy assumption of ignominious devotion and intimacy. Lady Holme could + scarcely help smiling. She read the little story very plainly—the + little common story of Leo’s desire to take a revenge for his thrashing + fitting in with some similar desire of Miss Schley’s; on her part probably + a wish to punish Fritz for having ventured to say something about her + impudent mimicry of his wife. Easy to read it was, common-minded, + common-hearted humanity in full sail to petty triumph, petty revenge. But + all this was taking place in the room behind Lady Holme, and she was + leaning from the window watching the white road. But Fritz? She glanced + round the drawing-room and saw that he was moved by the story as they had + meant him to be moved. The angry jealousy of the primitive, sensual man + was aflame, His possessive sense, one of the strongest, if not the + strongest, of such a man’s senses, was outraged. And he showed it. + </p> + <p> + He was standing with a middle-aged lady, one of the committee, but he had + ceased from talking to her, and was staring at Miss Schley and Leo with + the peculiar inflated look on his face that was characteristic of him when + his passions were fully roused. Every feature seemed to swell and become + bloated, as if under the influence of a disease or physical seizure. The + middle-aged lady looked at him with obvious astonishment, then turned away + and spoke to the French actor. + </p> + <p> + Miss Schley moved slowly into the middle of the room. She did not seem to + see Fritz. Two or three people came to speak to her. She smiled but did + not say much. The little wiry-looking old lady, her mother from + Susanville, stood by her in an effaced manner, and Leo, holding the + bouquet, remained close beside her, standing over her in his impudent + fashion like a privileged guardian and lover. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme was watching Fritz. The necessary suppression of his anger at + such a moment, and in such surroundings, suppression of any demonstration + of it at least, was evidently torturing him. Someone—a man—spoke + to him. His wife saw that he seemed to choke something down before he + could get out a word in reply. Directly he had answered he moved away from + the man towards Miss Schley, but he did not go up to her. He did not trust + himself to do that. He stood still again, staring. Leo bent protectively + over the American. She smiled at him demurely beneath lowered eyelids. The + little old lady shook out her rusty black dress and assumed an absurd air + of social sprightliness, making a mouth bunched up like an old-fashioned + purse sharply drawn together by a string. + </p> + <p> + There was a sudden lull in the roar of conversation from the concert-room, + succeeded by a wide rustling noise. The Princesses had at length arrived, + and the audience was standing up as they came in and took their seats. + After a brief silence the rustling noise was renewed as the audience sat + down again. Then the pianist hurried up to a grave-looking girl who was + tenderly holding a violin, took her hand and led her away behind the + screen. A moment later the opening bars of a duet were audible. + </p> + <p> + The people in the artists’ room began to sit down with a slight air of + resignation. The French actor looked at the very pointed toes of his + varnished boots and composed his india-rubber features into a solemn, + almost priestly, expression. Lady Holme went over to a sofa near the + screen and listened attentively to the duet, but from time to time she + glanced towards the middle of the room where Miss Schley was still calmly + standing up with Leo holding the bouquet. The mother from Susanville had + subsided on a small chair with gilt legs, spread out her meagre gown, and + assumed the aspect of a roosting bird at twilight. Fritz stood up with his + back against the wall, staring at Miss Schley. His face still looked + bloated. Presently Miss Schley glanced at him, as if by accident, looked + surprised at seeing him there, and nodded demurely. He made a movement + forward from the wall, but she immediately began to whisper to Leo Ulford, + and after remaining for a moment in an attitude of angry hesitation he + moved backward again. His face flushed scarlet. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme realised that he was making a fool of himself. She saw several + pairs of eyes turned towards him, slight smiles appearing on several + faces. The French actor had begun to watch him with an expression of close + criticism, as a stage manager watches an actor at rehearsal. But she did + not feel as if she cared what Fritz was doing. The sound of the violin had + emphasised her odd sensation of having nothing to do with what was going + on in the room. Just for one hour Fritz’s conduct could not affect her. + </p> + <p> + Very soon people began to whisper round her. Artists find it very + difficult to listen to other artists on these occasions. In a minute or + two almost everybody was speaking with an air of mystery. Miss Schley put + her lips to Leo Ulford’s ear. Evidently she had a great deal to say to + him. He began to pout his lips in smiles. They both looked across at Lord + Holme. Then Miss Schley went on murmuring words into Leo’s ear and Leo + began to shake with silent laughter. Lord Holme clenched his hands at his + sides. The French actor, still watching him closely, put up a fat + forefinger and meditatively traced the outline of his own profile, pushing + out his large flexible lips when the finger was drawing near to them. The + whole room was full of the tickling noise of half-whispered conversation. + </p> + <p> + Presently the music stopped. Instantly the tickling noise stopped too. + There was languid applause—the applause of smart people on a summer + afternoon—from beyond the screen. Then the grave girl reappeared, + looking graver and hot. Those who had been busily talking while she was + playing gathered round her to express their delight in her kind + accompaniment. The pianist hurried up to a stout man with a low, + turned-down collar and a white satin tie, whose double chin, and general + air of rather fatuous prosperity, proclaimed him the possessor of a tenor + voice, and Miss Schley walked quietly, but with determination, up to where + Lady Holme was sitting and took a seat beside her. + </p> + <p> + “Glad to meet you again,” she drawled. + </p> + <p> + She called Leo Ulford with a sharp nod. He hesitated, and began to look + supremely uncomfortable, twisting the bouquet of carnations round and + round in nervous hands. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been simply expiring all season to hear you sing,” Miss Schley + continued. + </p> + <p> + “How sweet of you!” + </p> + <p> + “That is so. Mr. Ulford, please bring my flowers.” + </p> + <p> + Leo had no alternative but to obey. He came slowly towards the sofa, while + the tenor and the pianist vanished behind the screen. That he was + sufficiently sensitive to be conscious of the awkwardness of the situation + Miss Schley had pleasantly contrived was very apparent. He glowered upon + Lady Holme, forcing his boyish face to assume a coarsely-determined and + indifferent expression. But somehow the body, which she knew her husband + had thrashed, looked all the time as if it were being thrashed again. + </p> + <p> + The voice of the hidden tenor rose in “<i>Celeste Aida!</i>” and Lady + Holme listened with an air of definite attention, taking no notice of Leo. + The music gave her a perfect excuse for ignoring him. But Miss Schley did + not intend to be interfered with by anything so easily trampled upon as an + art. Speaking in her most clear and choir-boyish tones, she said to Leo + Ulford: + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, Mr. Ulford. You fidget me standing.” + </p> + <p> + Then turning again to Lady Holme she continued: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Ulford’s been so lovely and kind. He came up all the way from + Hertfordshire just to take care of marmar and me to-day. Marmar’s fair and + crazy about him. She says he’s the most lovely feller in Europe.” + </p> + <p> + Leo twisted the bouquet. He was sitting now on the edge of a chair, and + shooting furtive glances in the direction of Lord Holme, who had begun to + look extremely stupid, overwhelmed by the cool impudence of the American. + </p> + <p> + “Your husband looks as if he were perched around on a keg of + rattlesnakes,” continued Miss Schley, her clear voice mingling with the + passionate tenor cry, “<i>Celeste Aida!</i>” “Ain’t he feeling well + to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe he is perfectly well,” said Lady Holme, in a very low voice. + </p> + <p> + It was odd, perhaps, but she did not feel at all angry, embarrassed, or + even slightly annoyed, by Miss Schley’s very deliberate attempt to + distress her. Of course she understood perfectly what had happened and was + happening. Fritz had spoken to the actress about her mimicry of his wife, + had probably spoken blunderingly, angrily. Miss Schley was secretly + furious at his having found out what she had been doing, still more + furious at his having dared to criticise any proceeding of hers. To + revenge herself at one stroke on both Lord and Lady Holme she had turned + to Leo Ulford, whose destiny it evidently was to be used as a weapon + against others. Long ago Lady Holme had distracted Leo’s wandering glances + from the American and fixed them on herself. With the instinct to be + common of an utterly common nature Miss Schley had resolved to awake a + double jealousy—of husband and wife—by exhibiting Leo Ulford + as her <i>ami intime</i>, perhaps as the latest victim to her fascination. + It was the vulgar action of a vulgar woman, but it failed of its effect in + one direction. Lord Holme was stirred, but Lady Holme was utterly + indifferent. Miss Schley’s quick instinct told her so and she was puzzled. + She did not understand Lady Holme. That was scarcely strange, for to-day + Lady Holme did not understand herself. The curious mental detachment of + which she had been conscious for some time had increased until it began + surely to link itself with something physical, something sympathetic in + the body that replied to it. She asked herself whether the angel were + spreading her wings at last. All the small, sordid details of which lives + lived in society, lives such as hers, are full, details which assume often + an extraordinary importance, a significance like that of molecules seen + through a magnifying glass, had suddenly become to her as nothing. A + profound indifference had softly invaded her towards the petty side of + life. Miss Schley, Leo Ulford, even Fritz in his suppressed rage and + jealousy of a male animal openly trampled upon, had nothing to do with + her, could have no effect on her at this moment. She remembered that she + had once sighed for release. Well, it seemed to her as if release were at + hand. + </p> + <p> + The tenor finished his romance. Again the muffled applause sounded. As the + singer came from behind the screen, wiping beads of perspiration from his + self-satisfied face, Lady Holme got up and congratulated him. Then she + crossed over to her husband. + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you go into the concert-room, Fritz? You’re missing everything, + and you’re only in the way here.” + </p> + <p> + She did not speak unkindly. He said nothing, only cleared his throat. + </p> + <p> + “Go in,” she said. “I should like to have you there while I am singing.” + </p> + <p> + He cleared his throat again. + </p> + <p> + “Right you are.” + </p> + <p> + He stared into her eyes with a sort of savage admiration. + </p> + <p> + “Cut her out,” he said. “Cut her out! You can, and—damn her!—she + deserves it.” + </p> + <p> + Then he turned and went out. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme felt rather sick for a moment. She knew she was going to sing + well, she wished to sing well—but not in order to punish Miss Schley + for having punished Fritz. Was everything she did to accomplish some + sordid result? Was even her singing—the one thing in which Robin + Pierce and some other divined a hidden truth that was beautiful—was + even that to play its contemptible part in the social drama in which she + was so inextricably entangled? Those gossamer threads were iron strands + indeed. + </p> + <p> + Someone else was singing—her friend with the contralto voice. + </p> + <p> + She sat down alone in a corner. Presently the French actor began to give + one of his famous monologues. She heard his wonderfully varied elocution, + his voice—intelligence made audible and dashed with flying lights of + humour rising and falling subtly, yet always with a curious sound of + inevitable simplicity. She heard gentle titterings from the concealed + audience, then a definite laugh, then a peal of laughter quite gloriously + indiscreet. The people were waking up. And she felt as if they were being + prepared for her. But why had Fritz looked like that, spoken like that? It + seemed to spoil everything. To-day she felt too far away from—too + far beyond, that was the truth—Miss Schley to want to enter into any + rivalry with her. She wished very much that she had been placed first on + the programme. Then there could have been no question of her cutting out + the American. + </p> + <p> + As she was thinking this Miss Schley slowly crossed the room and came up + to her. + </p> + <p> + “Lady Holme,” she said, “I come next.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you?” + </p> + <p> + “I do. And then you follow after.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Say, would you mind changing it? It don’t do to have two recitations one + after the other. There ought to be something different in between.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme looked at her quite eagerly, almost with gratitude. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll sing next,” she said quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Much obliged to you, I’m sure. You’re perfectly sweet.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme saw again a faint look of surprise on the American’s white + face, succeeded instantly by an expression of satisfaction. She realised + that Miss Schley had some hidden disagreeable reason for her request. She + even guessed what it was. But she only felt glad that, whatever happened, + no one could accuse her of trying to efface any effect made by Miss Schley + upon the audience. As she sang before the “imitations,” if any effect were + to be effaced it must be her own. The voice of the French actor ceased, + almost drowned in a ripple of laughter, a burst of quite warm applause. He + reappeared looking calm and magisterial. The applause continued, and he + had to go back and bow his thanks. The tenor, who had not been recalled, + looked cross and made a movement of his double chin that suggested + bridling. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Miss Schley!” said the pianist. “You come now!” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Holme has very kindly consented to go first,” she replied. + </p> + <p> + Then she turned to the French actor and, in atrocious but very + self-possessed French, began to congratulate him on his performance. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well—” the pianist hurried up to Lady Holme. “You have really—very + well then—these are the songs! Which do you sing first? Very hot, + isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + He wiped his long fingers with a silk pocket-handkerchief and took the + music she offered to him. + </p> + <p> + “The Princesses seem very pleased,” he added. “Marteau—charming + composer, yes—very pleased indeed. Which one? ‘<i>C’est toi</i>’? + Certainly, certainly.” + </p> + <p> + He wiped his hands again and held out one to lead Lady Holme to the + platform. But she ignored it gently and went on alone. He followed, + carrying the music and perspiring. As they disappeared Miss Schley got up + and moved to a chair close by the screen that hid the platform. She + beckoned to Leo Ulford and he followed her. + </p> + <p> + As Lady Holme stepped on to the low platform, edged with a bank of + flowers, it seemed to her as if with one glance she saw everyone in the + crowded room, and felt at least something swiftly of each one’s feeling. + </p> + <p> + The two Princesses sat together looking kind and serious. As she curtseyed + to them they bowed to her and smiled. Behind them she saw a compact mass + of acquaintances: Lady Cardington sitting with Sir Donald and looking + terribly sad, even self-conscious, yet eager; Mrs. Wolfstein with Mr. + Laycock; Mr. Bry, his eyeglass fixed, a white carnation in his coat; Lady + Manby laughing with a fat old man who wore a fez, and many others. At the + back she saw Fritz, standing up and staring at her with eyes that seemed + almost to cry, “Cut her out!” And in the fourth row she saw a dreary, even + a horrible, sight—Rupert Carey’s face, disfigured by the vice which + was surely destroying him, red, bloated, dreadfully coarsened, spotted. + From the midst of the wreckage of the flesh his strange eyes looked out + with a vivid expression of hopelessness. Yet in them burned fires, and in + fire there is an essence of fierce purity. The soul in those eyes seemed + longing to burn up the corruption of his body, longing to destroy the + ruined temple, longing to speak and say, “I am in prison, but do not judge + of the prisoner by examining the filthiness of his cell.” + </p> + <p> + As Lady Holme took in the audience with a glance there was a rustle of + paper. Almost everyone was looking to see if the programme had been + altered. Lady Holme saw that suddenly Fritz had realised the change that + had been made, and what it meant. An expression of anger came into his + face. + </p> + <p> + She felt that she saw more swiftly, and saw into more profoundly to-day + than ever before in her life; that she had a strangely clear vision of + minds as well as of faces, that she was vivid, penetrating. And she had + time, before she began to sing, for an odd thought of the person drowning + who flashes back over the ways of his past, who is, as it were, allowed + one instant of exceptional life before he is handed over to death. This + thought was clear, clean cut in her mind for a moment, and she put herself + in the sounding arms of the sea. + </p> + <p> + Then the pianist began his prelude, and she moved a step forward to the + flowers and opened her lips to sing. + </p> + <p> + She sang by heart the little story drawn from the writing of Jalalu’d + dinu’r Rumi. The poet who had taken it had made a charming poem of it, + delicate, fragile, and yet dramatic and touched with fervour, porcelain + with firelight gleaming on it here and there. Lady Holme had usually a + power of identifying herself thoroughly with what she was singing, of + concentrating herself with ease upon it, and so compelling her hearers to + be concentrated upon her subject and upon her. To-day she was deeper down + in words and music, in the little drama of them, than ever before. She was + the man who knocked at the door, the loved one who cried from within the + house. She gave the reply, “<i>C’est moi</i>!” with the eagerness of that + most eager of all things—Hope. Then, as she sang gravely, with + tender rebuke, “This house cannot shelter us both together,” she was in + the heart of love, that place of understanding. Afterwards, as one carried + by Fate through the sky, she was the man set down in a desert place, + fasting, praying, educating himself to be more worthy of love. Then came + the return, the question, “<i>Qui est la</i>?” the reply;—reply of + the solitary place, the denied desire, the longing to mount, the educated + heart—“<i>C’est toi</i>!” the swiftly-opening door, the rush of feet + that were welcome, of outstretched arms for which waited a great + possession. + </p> + <p> + Something within her lived the song very fully and completely. For once + she did not think at all of what effect she was making. She was not + unconscious of the audience. She was acutely conscious of the presence of + people, and of individuals whom she knew; of Fritz, of Lady Cardington, + Sir Donald, even of poor, horrible Rupert Carey. But with the unusual + consciousness was linked a strange indifference, a sense of complete + detachment. And this enabled her to live simultaneously two lives—Lady + Holme’s and another’s. Who was the other? She did not ask, but she felt as + if in that moment a prisoner within her was released. And yet, directly + the song was over and the eager applause broke out, a bitterness came into + her heart. Her sense, banished for the moment, of her own personality and + circumstances returned upon her, and that “<i>C’est toi</i>!” of the + educated heart seemed suddenly an irony as she looked at Fritz’s face. Had + any lover gone into the desert for her, fasted and prayed for her, learned + for her sake the right answer to the ceaseless question that echoes in + every woman’s heart? + </p> + <p> + The pianist modulated, struck the chord of a new key, paused, then broke + into a languid, honey-sweet prelude. Lady Holme sang the Italian song + which had made Lady Cardington cry. + </p> + <p> + Afterwards, she often thought of her singing of that particular song on + that particular occasion as people think of the frail bridges that span + the gulfs between one fate and another. And it seemed to her that while + she was crossing this bridge, that was a song, she had a faint premonition + of the land that lay before her on the far side of the gulf. She did not + see clearly any features of the landscape, but surely she saw that it was + different from all that she had known. Perhaps she deceived herself. + Perhaps she fancied that she had divined something that was in reality + hidden from her. One thing, however, is certain—that she made a very + exceptional effect upon her audience. Many of them, when later they heard + of an incident that occurred within a very short time, felt almost + awestricken for a moment. It seemed to them that they had been visited by + one of the messengers—the forerunners of destiny—that they had + heard a whispering voice say, “Listen well! This is the voice of the + Future singing.” + </p> + <p> + Many people in London on the following day said, “We felt in her singing + that something extraordinary must be going to happen to her.” And some of + them at any rate, probably spoke the exact truth. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme herself, while she sang her second song, really felt this + sensation—that it was her swan song. If once we touch perfection we + feel the black everlasting curtain being drawn round us. We have done what + we were meant to do and can do no more. Let the race of men continue. Our + course is run out. To strive beyond the goal is to offer oneself up to the + derision of the gods. In her song, Lady Holme felt that suddenly, and with + great ease, she touched the perfection that it was possible for her to + reach. She felt that, and she saw what she had done—in the eyes of + Lady Cardington that wept, in Sir Donald’s eyes, which had become young as + the eyes of Spring, and in the eyes of that poor prisoner who was the real + Rupert Carey. When she sang the first refrain she knew. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Torna in fior di giovinezza + Isaotta Blanzesmano, + Dice: Tutto al mondo e vano: + Nell’amore ogni dolcezza.” + </pre> + <p> + She understood while she sang—she had never understood before, nor + could conceive why she understood now—what love had been to the + world, was being, would be so long as there was a world. The sweetness of + love did not merely present itself to her imagination, but penetrated her + soul. And that penetration, while it carried with it and infused through + her whole being a delicate radiance, that was as the radiance of light in + the midst of surrounding blackness—beams of the moon in a forest—carried + with it also into her heart a frightful sense of individual isolation, of + having missed the figure of Truth in the jostling crowd of shams. + </p> + <p> + Fritz stood there against the wall. Yes—Fritz. And he was savagely + rejoicing in the effect she was making upon the audience, because he + thought, hoped, that it would lessen the triumph of the woman who was + punishing him. + </p> + <p> + She had missed the figure of Truth. That was very certain. And as she sang + the refrain for the last time she seemed to herself to be searching for + the form that must surely be very wonderful, searching for it in the many + eyes that were fixed upon her. She looked at Sir Donald: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Dice: Tutto al mondo e vano:” + </pre> + <p> + She looked at Rupert Carey: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Nell’amore ogni dolcezza.” + </pre> + <p> + She still looked at Carey, and the hideous wreckage of the flesh was no + longer visible to her. She saw only his burning eyes. + </p> + <p> + Directly she had finished singing she asked for her motor cloak. While + they were fetching it she had to go back twice to the platform to bow to + the applause. + </p> + <p> + Miss Schley, who was looking angry, said to her: + </p> + <p> + “You’re not going away before my show?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to go to the concert room, where I can hear better, and see,” she + replied. + </p> + <p> + Miss Schley looked at her doubtfully, but had to go to the platform. As + she slowly disappeared behind the screen Lady Holme drew the cloak round + her, pulled down her veil and went quickly away. + </p> + <p> + She wanted—more, she required—to be alone. + </p> + <p> + At the hall door she sent a footman to find the motor car. When it came up + she said to the chauffeur: + </p> + <p> + “Take me home quickly and then come back for his lordship.” + </p> + <p> + She got in. + </p> + <p> + As the car went off swiftly she noticed that the streets were shining with + wet. + </p> + <p> + “Has it been raining?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Raining hard, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI + </h2> + <p> + ON the following morning the newspapers contained an account of the + concert at Manchester House. They contained also an account of a motor + accident which had occurred the same afternoon between Hyde Park Corner + and Knightsbridge. + </p> + <p> + On the wet pavement Lord Holme’s new car, which was taking Lady Holme to + Cadogan Square at a rapid pace, skidded and overturned, pinning Lady Holme + beneath it. While she was on the ground a hansom cab ran into the car. + </p> + <p> + At their breakfasts her friends, her acquaintances, her enemies and the + general public read of her beautiful singing at the concert, and read also + the following paragraph, which closed the description of the accident: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “We deeply regret to learn that Lady Holme was severely injured in + the face by the accident. Full particulars have not reached us, but + we understand that an immediate operation is necessary and will be + performed to-day by Mr. Bernard Crispin the famous surgeon. Her + ladyship is suffering great pain, and it is feared that she will be + permanently disfigured.” + </pre> + <p> + The fierce change which Lady Holme had longed for was a reality. One life, + the life of the siren, had come to an end. But the eyes of the woman must + still see light. The heart of the woman must still beat on. + </p> + <p> + Death stretched out a hand in the darkness and found the hand of Birth. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII + </h2> + <p> + ON a warm but overcast day, at the end of the following September, a + woman, whose face was completely hidden by a thick black veil, drove up to + the boat landing of the town of Como in a hired victoria. She was alone, + but behind her followed a second carriage containing an Italian maid and a + large quantity of luggage. When the victoria stopped at the water’s edge + the woman got out slowly, and stood for a moment, apparently looking for + something. There were many boats ranged along the quay, their white + awnings thrown back, their oars resting on the painted seats. Beside one, + which was larger than the others, soberly decorated in brown with touches + of gold, and furnished with broad seats not unlike small armchairs, stood + two bold-looking Italian lads dressed in white sailors’ suits. One of + them, after staring for a brief instant at the veiled woman, went up to + her and said in Italian: + </p> + <p> + “Is the signora for Casa Felice?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + The boy took off his round hat with a gallant gesture. + </p> + <p> + “The boat is here, signora.” + </p> + <p> + He led the way to the brown-and-gold craft, and helped the lady to get + into it. She sat down on one of the big seats. + </p> + <p> + “That is the luggage,” she said, speaking Italian in a low voice, and + pointing to the second carriage from which the maid was stepping. The two + boatmen hastened towards it. In a few minutes maid and luggage were + installed in a big black gondola, oared by two men standing up, and the + brown boat, with the two lads in white and the veiled woman, glided out on + the calm water. + </p> + <p> + The day was a grey dream, mystical in its colourless silence. Blue Italy + was shrouded as the woman’s face was shrouded. The speechlessness of + Nature environed her speechlessness. She was an enigma set in an enigma, + and the two rowers looked at her and at the sunless sky, and bent to their + oars gravely. A melancholy stole into their sensitive dark faces. This new + <i>padrona</i> had already cast a shadow upon their buoyant temperaments. + </p> + <p> + She noticed it and clasped her hands together in her lap. She was not + accustomed yet to her new <i>role</i> in life. + </p> + <p> + The boat stole on. Como was left behind. The thickly-wooded shores of the + lake, dotted with many villas, the tall green mountains covered with + chestnut trees, framed the long, winding riband of water which was the way + to Casa Felice. There were not many other boats out. The steamer had + already started for Bellagio, and was far away near the point where Torno + nestles around its sheltered harbour. The black gondola was quickly left + behind. Its load of luggage weighed it down. The brown boat was alone in + the grey dream of the sunless autumn day. + </p> + <p> + Behind her veil Lady Holme was watching the two Italian boys, whose lithe + bodies bent to their oars, whose dark eyes were often turned upon her with + a staring scrutiny, with the morose and almost violent expression that is + the child of frustrated curiosity. + </p> + <p> + Was it true? Was she in real life, or sitting there, watching, thinking, + striving to endure, in a dream? Since the accident which had for ever + changed her life she had felt many sensations, a torrent of sensations, + but never one exactly like this, never one so full of emptiness, chaos, + grey vacancy, eternal stillness, unreal oppression and almost magical + solitude as this. She had thought she had suffered all things that she + could suffer. She had not yet suffered this. Someone, the Governing Power, + had held this in reserve. Now it was being sent forth by decree. Now it + was coming upon her. Now it was enveloping her. Now it was rolling round + her and billowing away on every side to unimaginably remote horizons. + </p> + <p> + Another and a new emotion of horror was to be hers. Would the attack of + the hidden one upon her never end? Was that quiver of poisoned arrows + inexhaustible? + </p> + <p> + She leaned back against the cushions without feeling them. She wanted to + sink back as the mortally wounded sink, to sink down, far down, into the + gulf where surely the dying go to find, with their freezing lips, the + frozen lips of Death. She shut her eyes. + </p> + <p> + Presently, with the faint splash of the oars in the water, there mingled a + low sound of music. The rower nearest to her was singing in an under voice + to keep his boy’s heart from succumbing to the spell of melancholy. She + listened, still wrapped in this dreadful chaos that was dreamlike. At + first the music was a murmur. But presently it grew louder. She could + distinguish words now and then. Once she heard <i>carissima</i>, a moment + afterwards <i>amore</i>. Then the poison in which the tip of this last + arrow had been curiously steeped began its work in her. The quivering + creature hidden within her cowered, shrank, put up trembling hands, cried + out, “I cannot endure this thing. I do not know how to. I have never + learnt the way. This is impossible for me. This is a demand I have not the + capacity to fulfil!” And, even while it cowered and cried out, knew, “This + I must endure. This demand I shall be made to fulfil. Nothing will serve + me; no outstretched hands, no wailings of despair, no prayers, no curses + even will save me. For I am the soul in the hands of the vivisector.” + </p> + <p> + Along the lake, past the old home of La Taglioni, past the Villa Pasta + with its long garden, past little Torno with its great round oleanders and + its houses crowding to the shore, the boatman sang. Gathering courage as + his own voice dispersed his melancholy, and the warm hopes of his youth + spread their wings once more, roused by the words of love his lips were + uttering, he fearlessly sent out his song. Love in the South was in it, + love in the sun, embraces in warm scented nights, longings in moonlight, + attainment in darkness. The boy had forgotten the veiled lady, whose + shrouded face and whose silence had for a moment saddened him. His hot, + bold nature reasserted itself, the fire of his youth blazed up again. He + sang as if only the other boatman had been there and they had seen the + girls they loved among the trees upon the shore. + </p> + <p> + And the soul writhed, like an animal stretched and strapped upon the + board, to whom no anaesthetic, had been given. + </p> + <p> + Never before would it have been possible to Lady Holme to believe that the + mere sound of a word could inflict such torment upon a heart as the sound + of the word <i>amore</i>, coming from the boatman’s lips, now inflicted + upon hers. Each time it came, with its soft beauty, its languor of + sweetness—like a word reclining—it flayed her soul alive, and + showed her red, raw bareness. + </p> + <p> + Yet she did not ask the man to stop singing. Few people in the hands of + Fate ask Fate for favours. Instinct speaks in the soul and says, “Be + silent.” + </p> + <p> + The boat rounded the point of Torno and came at once into a lonelier + region of the lake. Autumn was more definite here. Its sadness spoke more + plainly. Habitations on the shores were fewer. The mountains were more + grim, though grander. And their greyness surely closed in a little upon + the boat, the rowers, the veiled woman who was being taken to Casa Felice. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps to combat the gathering gloom of Nature the boatman sang more + loudly, with the full force of his voice. But suddenly he seemed to be + struck by the singular contrast opposed to his expansive energy by the + silent figure opposite to him. A conscious look came into his face. His + voice died away abruptly. After a pause he said, + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps the signora is not fond of music?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme wanted to speak, but she could not. She and this bright-eyed + boy were not in the same world. That was what she felt. He did not know + it, but she knew it. And one world cannot speak through infinite space + with another. + </p> + <p> + She said nothing. The boy looked over his shoulder at his companion. Then, + in silence, they both rowed on. + </p> + <p> + And now that the song had ceased she was again in the grey chaos of the + dream, in the irrevocable emptiness, the intense, the enormous solitude + that was like the solitude of an unpeopled eternity in which man had no + lot. + </p> + <p> + Presently, with a stroke of his right oar, the boy who had sung turned the + boat’s prow toward the shore, and Lady Holme saw a large, lonely house + confronting them on the nearer bank of the lake. It stood apart. For a + long distance on either side of it there was no other habitation. The + flat, yellow facade rose out of the water. Behind was a dim tangle of + densely-growing trees rising up on the steep mountain side towards the + grey sky. Lady Holme could not yet see details. The boat was still too far + out upon the lake. Nor would she have been able to note details if she had + seen them. Only a sort of heavy impression that this house had a pale, + haunted aspect forced itself dully upon her. + </p> + <p> + “Ecco Casa Felice, signora!” said the foremost rower, half timidly, + pointing with his brown hand. + </p> + <p> + She made an intense effort and uttered some reply. The boy was encouraged + and began to tell her about the beauties of the house, the gardens, the + chasm behind the piazza down which the waterfall rushed, to dive beneath + the house and lose itself in the lake. She tried to listen, but she could + not. The strangeness of her being alone, hidden behind a dense veil, of + her coming to such a retired house in the autumn to remain there in utter + solitude, with no object except that of being safe from the intrusion of + anyone who knew her, of being hidden from all watching eyes that had ever + looked upon her—the strangeness of it obsessed her, was both + powerful and unreal. That she should be one of those lonely women of whom + the world speaks with a lightly-contemptuous pity seemed incredible to + her. Yet what woman was lonelier than she? + </p> + <p> + The boat drew in toward the shore and she began to see the house more + plainly. It was large, and the flat facade was broken in the middle by an + open piazza with round arches and slender columns. This piazza divided the + house in two. The villa was in fact composed of two square buildings + connected together by it. From the boat, looking up, Lady Holme saw a + fierce mountain gorge rising abruptly behind the house. Huge cypresses + grew on its sides, towering above the slate roof, and she heard the loud + noise of falling water. It seemed to add to the weight of her desolation. + </p> + <p> + The boat stopped at a flight of worn stone steps. One of the boys sprang + out and rang a bell, and presently an Italian man-servant opened a tall + iron gate set in a crumbling stone arch, and showed more stone steps + leading upward between walls covered with dripping lichen. The boat boy + came to help Lady Holme out. + </p> + <p> + For a moment she did not move. The dreamlike feeling had come upon her + with such force that her limbs refused to obey her will. The sound of the + falling water in the mountain gorge had sent her farther adrift into the + grey, unpeopled eternity, into the vague chaos. But the boy held out his + hand, took hers. The strong clasp recalled her. She got up. The Italian + man-servant preceded her up the steps into a long garden built up high + above the lake on a creeper-covered wall. To the left was the house door. + She stood still for an instant looking out over the wide expanse of + unruffled grey water. Then, putting her hand up to her veil as if to keep + it more closely over her face, she slowly went into the house. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII + </h2> + <p> + DESPAIR had driven Lady Holme to Casa Felice. When she had found that the + accident had disfigured her frightfully, and that the disfigurement would + be permanent, she had at first thought of killing herself. But then she + had been afraid. Life had abruptly become a horror to her. She felt that + it must be a horror to her always. Yet she dared not leave it then, in her + home in London, in the midst of the sights and sounds connected with her + former happiness. After the operation, and the verdict of the doctors, + that no more could be done than had been done, she had had an access of + almost crazy misery, in which all the secret violence of her nature had + rushed to the surface from the depths. Shut up alone in her room, she had + passed a day and a night without food. She had lain upon the floor. She + had torn her clothes into fragments. The animal that surely dwells at the + door of the soul of each human being had had its way in her, had ravaged + her, humiliated her, turned her to savagery. Then at last she had slept, + still lying upon the floor. And she had waked feeling worn out but calm, + desperately calm. She defied the doctors. What did they know of women, of + what women can do to regain a vanished beauty? She would call in + specialists, beauty doctors, quacks, the people who fill the papers with + their advertisements. + </p> + <p> + Then began a strange defile of rag-tag humanity to the Cadogan Square door—women, + men, of all nationalities and pretensions. But the evil was beyond their + power. At last an American specialist, who had won renown by turning a + famous woman of sixty into the semblance of a woman of six-and-thirty—for + a short time—was called in. Lady Holme knew that his verdict must be + final. If he could do nothing to restore her vanished loveliness nothing + could be done. After being closeted with her for a long time he came out + of her room. There were tears in his eyes. To the footman who opened the + hall door, and who stared in surprise, he explained his emotion thus. + </p> + <p> + “Poor lady,” he said. “It’s a hopeless case.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said the man, who was the pale footman Lady Holme had sent with the + latch-key to Leo Ulford. + </p> + <p> + “Hopeless. It’s a hard thing to have to tell a lady she’ll always be—be—” + </p> + <p> + “What, sir?” said the footman. + </p> + <p> + “Well—what people won’t enjoy looking at.” + </p> + <p> + He winked his eyes. He was a little bald man, with a hatchet face that did + not suggest emotion. + </p> + <p> + “And judging by part of the left side of the face, I guess she must have + been almost a beauty once,” he added, stepping into the square. + </p> + <p> + That was Lady Holme now. She had to realise herself as a woman whom people + would rather not look at. + </p> + <p> + All this time she had not seen Fritz. He had asked to see her. He had even + tried to insist on seeing her, but so long as there was any hope in her of + recovering her lost beauty she had refused to let him come near her. The + thought of his eyes staring upon the tragic change in her face sent cold + creeping through her veins. But when the American had gone she realised + that there was nothing to wait for, that if she were ever to let Fritz see + her again it had better be now. The bandages in which her face had been + swathed had been removed. She went to a mirror and, setting her teeth and + clenching her hands, looked into it steadily. + </p> + <p> + She did not recognise herself. As she stood there she felt as if a + dreadful stranger had come into the room and was confronting her. + </p> + <p> + The accident, and the surgical treatment that had followed upon it, had + greatly altered the face. The nose, once fine and delicate, was now coarse + and misshapen. A wound had permanently distorted the mouth, producing a + strange, sneering expression. The whole of the right side of the face was + puffy and heavy-looking, and drawn down towards the chin. It was also at + present discoloured. For as Lady Holme lay under the car she had been + badly burnt. The raw, red tinge would no doubt fade away with time, but + the face must always remain unsightly, even a little grotesque, must + always show to the casual passer-by a woman who had been the victim of a + dreadful accident. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme stared at this woman for a long time. There were no tears in + her eyes. Then she went to the dressing-table and began to make up her + face. Slowly, deliberately, with a despairing carefulness, she covered it + with pigments till she looked like a woman in Regent Street. Her face + became a frightful mask, and even then the fact that she was disfigured + was not concealed. The application of the pigments began to cause her + pain. The right side of her face throbbed. She looked dreadfully old, too, + with this mass of paint and powder upon her—like a hag, she thought. + And it was obvious that she was trying to hide something. Anyone, man or + woman, looking upon her, would divine that so much art could only be used + for the concealment of a dreadful disability. People, seeing this mask, + would suppose—what might they not suppose? The pain in her face + became horrible. Suddenly, with a cry, she began to undo what she had + done. When she had finished she rang the bell. Her maid knocked at the + door. Without opening it she called out: + </p> + <p> + “Is his lordship in the house?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady. His lordship has just come in.” + </p> + <p> + “Go and ask him to come up and see me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme sat down on the sofa at the foot of the bed. She was trembling + violently. She sat looking on the ground and trying to control her limbs. + A sort of dreadful humbleness surged through her, as if she were a guilty + creature about to cringe before a judge. She trembled till the sofa on + which she was sitting shook. She caught hold of the cushions and made a + strong effort to sit still. The handle of the door turned. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t come in!” she cried out sharply. + </p> + <p> + But the door opened and her husband appeared on the threshold. As he did + so she turned swiftly so that only part of the left side of her face was + towards him. + </p> + <p> + “Vi!” he said. “Poor old girl, I—” + </p> + <p> + He was coming forward when she called out again “Stay there, Fritz!” + </p> + <p> + He stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I—I—wait a minute. Shut the door.” + </p> + <p> + He shut the door. She was still looking away from him. + </p> + <p> + “Do you understand?” she said, still in a sharp voice. + </p> + <p> + “Understand what?” + </p> + <p> + “That I’m altered, that the accident’s altered me—very much?” + </p> + <p> + “I know. The doctor said something. But you look all right.” + </p> + <p> + “From there.” + </p> + <p> + The trembling seized her again. + </p> + <p> + “Well, but—it can’t be so bad—” + </p> + <p> + “It is. Don’t move! Fritz—” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “You—do you care for me?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do, old girl. Why, you know—” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she turned round, stood up and faced him desperately. + </p> + <p> + “Do you care for me, Fritz?” she said. + </p> + <p> + There was a dead silence. It seemed to last for a long while. At length it + was broken by a woman’s voice crying: + </p> + <p> + “Fritz,—Fritz—it isn’t my fault! It isn’t my fault!” + </p> + <p> + “Good God!” Lord Holme said slowly. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t my fault, Fritz! It isn’t my fault!” + </p> + <p> + “Good God! but—the doctor didn’t—Oh—wait a minute—” + </p> + <p> + A door opened and shut. He was gone. Lady Holme fell down on the sofa. She + was alone, but she kept on sobbing: + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t my fault, Fritz! It isn’t my fault, Fritz!” + </p> + <p> + And while she sobbed the words she knew that her life with Fritz Holme had + come to an end. The chapter was closed. + </p> + <p> + From that day she had only one desire—to hide herself. The season + was over. London was empty. She could travel. She resolved to disappear. + Fritz had stayed on in the house, but she would not see him again, and he + did not press her to. She knew why. He dreaded to look at her. She would + see no one. At first there had been streams of callers, but now almost + everybody had left town. Only Sir Donald came to the door each day and + inquired after her health. One afternoon a note was brought to her. It was + from Fritz, saying that he had been “feeling a bit chippy,” and the doctor + advised him to run over to Homburg. But he wished to know what she meant + to do. Would she go down to her father?—her mother, Lady St. Loo, + was dead, and her father was an old man—or what? Would she come to + Homburg too? + </p> + <p> + When she read those words she laughed out loud. Then she sent for the <i>New + York Herald</i> and looked for the Homburg notes. She found Miss Pimpernel + Schley’s name among the list of the newest arrivals. That evening she + wrote to her husband: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Do not bother about me. Go to Homburg. I need rest and I want to + be alone. Perhaps I may go to some quiet place in Switzerland with + my maid. I’ll let you know if I leave town. Good-bye. + + “VIOLA HOLME.” + </pre> + <p> + At first she had put only Viola. Then she added the second word. Viola + alone suggested an intimacy which no longer existed between her and the + man she had married. + </p> + <p> + The next day Lord Holme crossed the Channel. She was left with the + servants. + </p> + <p> + Till then she had not been out of the house, but two days afterwards, + swathed in a thick veil, she went for a drive in the Park, and on + returning from it found Sir Donald on the door-step. He looked frailer + than ever and very old. Lady Holme would have preferred to avoid him. + Since that interview with her husband the idea of meeting anyone she knew + terrified her. But he came at once to help her out of the carriage. Her + face was invisible, but he knew her, and he greeted her in a rather shaky + voice. She could see that he was deeply moved, and thanked him for his + many inquiries. + </p> + <p> + “But why are you still in London?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “You are still in London,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + She was about to say good-bye on the door-step; but he kept her hand in + his and said: + </p> + <p> + “Let me come in and speak to you for a moment.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” she said. + </p> + <p> + When they were in the drawing-room she still kept the veil over her face, + and remained standing. + </p> + <p> + “Sir Donald,” she said, “you cared for me, I know; you were fond of me.” + </p> + <p> + “Were?” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—were. I am no longer the woman you—other people—cared + for.” + </p> + <p> + “If there is any change—” he began. + </p> + <p> + “I know. You are going to say it is not in the woman, the real woman. But + I say it is. The change is in what, to men, is the real woman. This change + has destroyed any feeling my husband may have had for me.” + </p> + <p> + “It could never destroy mine,” Sir Donald said quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it could—yours especially, because you are a worshipper of + beauty, and Fritz never worshipped anything except himself. I am going to + let you say good-bye to me without seeing me. Remember me as I was.” + </p> + <p> + “But—what do you mean? You speak as if you would no longer go into + the world.” + </p> + <p> + “I go into the world! You haven’t seen me, Sir Donald.” + </p> + <p> + She saw an expression of nervous apprehension come into his face as he + glanced at her veil. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do, then?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. I—I want a hiding-place.” + </p> + <p> + She saw tears come into his old, faded eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” he said. “Don’t-” + </p> + <p> + “A hiding-place. I want to travel a long way off and be quite alone, and + think, and see how I can go on, if I can go on.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice was quite steady. + </p> + <p> + “If I could do something—anything for you!” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + “You fancy you are still speaking to the woman who sang, Sir Donald.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you—” Suddenly he spoke with some eagerness. “You want to go + away, to be alone?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I must.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me lend you Casa Felice!” + </p> + <p> + “Casa Felice!” + </p> + <p> + She laughed. + </p> + <p> + “To be sure; I was to baptise it, wasn’t I?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that—will you have it for a while?” + </p> + <p> + “But you are going there!” + </p> + <p> + “I will not go. It is all ready. The servants are engaged. You will be + perfectly looked after, perfectly comfortable. Let me feel I can do + something for you. Try it. You will find beauty there—peace. And I—I + shall be on the lake, not far off.” + </p> + <p> + “I must be alone,” she said wearily. + </p> + <p> + “You shall be. I will never come unless you send for me.” + </p> + <p> + “I should never send for you or for anyone.” + </p> + <p> + She did not say then what she would do, but three days later she accepted + Sir Donald’s offer. + </p> + <p> + And now she was alone in Casa Felice. She had not even brought her French + maid, but had engaged an Italian. She was resolved to isolate herself with + people who had never seen her as a beautiful woman. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX + </h2> + <p> + LADY HOLME never forgot that first evening at Casa Felice. The strangeness + of it was greater than the strangeness of any nightmare. When she was shut + up in her bedroom in London she had thought she realised all the meaning + of the word loneliness. Now she knew that then she had not begun to + realise it. For she had been in her own house, in the city which contained + a troop of her friends, in the city where she had reigned. And although + she knew that she would reign no more, she had not grasped the exact + meaning of that knowledge in London. She had known a fact but not fully + felt it. She had known what she now was but not fully felt what she now + was. Even when Fritz, muttering almost terrified exclamations, had + stumbled out of the bedroom, she had not heard the dull clamour of + finality as she heard it now. + </p> + <p> + She was an exile. She was an outcast among women. She was no longer a + beautiful woman, she was not even a plain woman—she was a + dreadful-looking human being. + </p> + <p> + The Italian servants by whom she was surrounded suddenly educated her in + the lore of exact knowledge of herself and her present situation. + </p> + <p> + Italians are the most charming of the nations, but Italians of the lower + classes are often very unreserved in the display of their most fugitive + sensations, their most passing moods. The men, especially when they are + young, are highly susceptible to beauty in women. They are also—and + the second emotion springs naturally enough from the first—almost + childishly averse from female ugliness. It is a common thing in Italy to + hear of men of the lower classes speak of a woman’s plainness with + brutality, with a manner almost of personal offence. They often shrink + from personal ugliness as Englishmen seldom do, like children shrinking + from something abnormal—a frightening dwarf, a spectre. + </p> + <p> + Now that Lady Holme had reached the “hiding-place” for which she had + longed, she resolved to be brutal with herself. Till now she had almost + perpetually concealed her disfigured face. Even her servants had not seen + it. But in this lonely house, among these strangers, she knew that the + inevitable moment was come when she must begin the new life, the terrible + life that was henceforth to be hers. In her bedroom she took off her hat + and veil, and without glancing into the glass she came downstairs. In the + hall she met the butler. She saw him start. + </p> + <p> + “Can I have tea?” she said, looking at him steadily. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, signora,” he answered, looking down. + </p> + <p> + “In the piazza, please.” + </p> + <p> + She went out through the open door into the piazza. The boy who had sung + in the boat was there, watering some geraniums in pots. As she came out he + glanced up curiously, at the same time pulling off his hat. When he saw + her his mouth gaped, and an expression of pitiless repulsion came into his + eyes. It died out almost instantaneously, and he smiled and began to speak + about the flowers. But Lady Holme had received her education. She knew + what she was to youth that instinctively loves beauty. + </p> + <p> + She sat down in a cane chair. It seemed to her as if people were scourging + her with thongs of steel, as if she were bleeding from the strokes. + </p> + <p> + She looked out across the lake. + </p> + <p> + The butler brought tea and put it beside her. She did not hear him come or + go. Behind her the waterfall roared down between the cypresses. Before her + the lake spread out its grey, unruffled surface. And this was the baptism + of Casa Felice, her baptism into a new life. Her agony was the more + intense because she had never been an intellectual woman, had never lived + the inner life. Always she had depended on outward things. Always she had + been accustomed to bustle, movement, excitement, perpetual intercourse + with people who paid her homage. Always she had lived for the world, and + worshipped, because she had seen those around her worshipping, the body. + </p> + <p> + And now all was taken from her. Without warning, without a moment for + preparation, she was cast down into Hell. Even her youth was made useless + to her. + </p> + <p> + When she thought of that she began to cry, sitting there by the stone + balustrade of the piazza, to cry convulsively. She remembered her pity for + old age, for the monstrous loss it cannot cease from advertising. And now + she, in her youth, had passed it on the road to the pit. Lady Cardington + was a beautiful woman. She pitied herself bitterly because she was morbid, + as many beautiful women are when they approach old age. But she was + beautiful. She would always be beautiful. She might not think it, but she + was still a power, could still inspire love. In her blanched face framed + in white hair there was in truth a wonderful attraction. + </p> + <p> + Whiteness—Lady Holme shuddered when she thought of whiteness, + remembering what the glass had shown her. + </p> + <p> + Fritz—his animal passion for her—his horror of her now—Miss + Schley—their petty, concealed strife—Rupert Carey’s love—Leo + Ulford’s desire of conquest—his father’s strange, pathetic devotion—Winter + falling at the feet of Spring—figures and events from the panorama + of her life now ended flickered through her almost numbed mind, while the + tears still ran down her face. + </p> + <p> + And Robin Pierce? + </p> + <p> + As she thought of him more life quickened in her mind. + </p> + <p> + Since her accident he had written to her several times, ardent, tender + letters, recalling all he had said to her, recounting again his adoration + of her for her nature, her soul, the essence of her, the woman in her, + telling her that this terror which had come upon her only made her dearer + to him, that—as she knew—he had impiously dared almost to long + for it, as for an order of release that would take effect in the + liberation of her true self. + </p> + <p> + These letters she had read, but they had not stirred her. She had told + herself that Robin did not know, that he was a self-deceiver, that he did + not understand his own nature, which was allied to the nature of every + living man. But now, seeking some, even the smallest solace in the intense + agony of desolation that was upon her, she caught—in her bleeding + woman’s heart—at this hand stretched out from Rome. She got up, went + to her bedroom, unlocked her despatch-box, took out these letters of + Robin’s. They had not stirred her, yet she had kept them. Now she came + down once more to the piazza, sat by the tea-table, opened them, read + them, re-read them, whispered them over again and again. Something she + must have; some hand she must catch at. She could not die in this freezing + cold which she had never known, this cold that came out of the Inferno, at + whose cavern mouth she stood. And Robin said he was there—Robin said + he was there. + </p> + <p> + She did not love Robin. It seemed to her now that it would be grotesque + for her to love any man. Her face was not meant for love. But as she read + these ardent, romantic letters, written since the tragedy that had + overtaken her, she began to ask herself, with a fierce anxiety, whether + what Robin affirmed could be the truth? Was he unlike other men? Was his + nature capable of a devotion of the soul to another soul, of a devotion to + which any physical ugliness, even any physical horror, would count as + nothing? + </p> + <p> + After that last scene with Fritz she felt as if he were no longer her + husband, as if he were only a man who had fled from her in fear. She did + not think any more of his rights, her duties. He had abandoned his rights. + What duties could she have towards a man who was frightened when he looked + at her? And indeed all the social and moral questions to which the average + woman of the world pays—because she must pay—attention had + suddenly ceased to exist for Lady Holme. She was no longer a woman of the + world. All worldly matters had sunk down beneath her feet with her lost + beauty. She had wanted to be free. Well, now she was surely free. Who + would care what she did in the future? + </p> + <p> + Robin said he was there. + </p> + <p> + She thought that, unless she could feel that in world there was one man + who wanted to take care of her, she must destroy herself. The thought grew + in her as she sat there, till she said to herself, “If it is true what he + says, perhaps I shall be able to live. If it is not true—” She + looked over the stone balustrade at the grey waters of the lake. Twilight + was darkening over them. + </p> + <p> + Late that evening, when she was sitting in the big drawing-room staring at + the floor, the butler came in with a telegram. She opened it and read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Sir Donald has told me you are at Casa Felice; arrive to-morrow + from Rome—ROBIN.” + </pre> + <p> + “No answer,” she said. + </p> + <p> + So he was coming—to-morrow. The awful sense of desolation lifted + slightly from her. A human being was travelling to her, was wanting to see + her. To see her! She shuddered. Then fiercely she asked herself why she + was afraid. She would not be afraid. She would trust in Robin. He was + unlike other men. There had always been in him something that set him + apart, a strangeness, a romance, a love of hidden things, a subtlety. If + only he would still care for her, still feel towards her as he had felt, + she could face the future, she thought. They might be apart. That did not + matter. She had no thought of a close connection, of frequent intercourse + even. She only wanted desperately, frantically, to know that someone who + had loved her could love her still in spite of what had happened. If she + could retain one deep affection she felt that she could live. + </p> + <p> + The morrow would convince her. + </p> + <p> + That night she did not sleep. She lay in bed and heard the water falling + in the gorge, and when the dawn began to break she did a thing she had not + done for a long time. + </p> + <p> + She got out of bed, knelt down and prayed—prayed to Him who had + dealt terribly with her that He would be merciful when Robin came. + </p> + <p> + When it was daylight and the Italian maid knocked at her door she told her + to get out a plain, dark dress. She did her hair herself with the utmost + simplicity. That at least was still beautiful. Then she went down and + walked in the high garden above the lake. The greyness had lifted and the + sky was blue. The mellowness rather than the sadness of autumn was + apparent, throned on the tall mountains whose woods were bathed in + sunshine. All along the great old wall, that soared forty feet from the + water, roses were climbing. Scarlet and white geraniums bloomed in + discoloured ancient vases. Clumps of oleanders showed pink showers of + blossoms. Tall bamboos reared their thin heads towards the tufted summits + of palms that suggested Africa. Monstrous cypresses aspired, with a sort + of haughty resignation, above their brother trees. The bees went to and + fro. Flies circled and settled. Lizards glided across the warm stones and + rustled into hiding among the ruddy fallen leaves. And always the white + water sang in the gorge as it rushed towards the piazza of Casa Felice. + </p> + <p> + And Lady Holme tried to hope. + </p> + <p> + Yet, as she walked slowly to and fro amid the almost rank luxuriance of + the garden, she was gnawed by a terrible anxiety. The dreadful humbleness, + the shrinking cowardice of the unsightly human being invaded her. She + strove to put them from her. She strove to call Robin’s own arguments and + assertions to her aid. What she had been she still was in all essentials. + Her self was unharmed, existed, could love, hate, be tender, be passionate + as before. Viola was there still within her, the living spirit to which a + name had been given when she was a little child. The talent was there + which had spoken, which could still speak, through her voice. The beating + heart was there which could still speak through her actions. The mysteries + of the soul still pursued their secret courses within her, like far-off + subterranean streams. The essential part of her remained as it had been. + Only a little outside bit of a framework had been twisted awry. Could that + matter very much? Had she not perhaps been morbid in her despair? + </p> + <p> + She determined to take courage. She told herself that if she allowed this + dreadful, invading humbleness way in her she would lose all power to + dominate another by showing that she had ceased to dominate herself. If + she met Robin in fear and trembling she would actually teach him to + despise her. If she showed that she thought herself changed, horrible, he + would inevitably catch her thought and turn it to her own destruction. Men + despise those who despise themselves. She knew that, and she argued with + herself, fought with herself. If Robin loved the angel; surely he could + still love. For if there were an angel within her it had not been harmed. + And she leaned on the stone wall and prayed again while the roses touched + her altered face. + </p> + <p> + It seemed to her then that courage was sent to her. She felt less + terrified of what was before her, as if something had risen up within her + upon which she could lean, as if her soul began to support the trembling, + craven thing that would betray her, began to teach it how to be still. + </p> + <p> + She did not feel happy, but she felt less desperately miserable than she + had felt since the accident. + </p> + <p> + After <i>dejeuner</i> she walked again in the garden. As the time drew + near for Robin to arrive, the dreadful feverish anxiety of the early + morning awoke again within her. She had not conquered herself. Again the + thought of suicide came upon her, and she felt that her life or death were + in the hands of this man whom yet she did not love. They were in his hands + because he was a human being and she was one. There are straits in which + the child of life, whom the invisible hand that is extended in a religion + has not yet found, must find in the darkness a human hand stretched out to + it or sink down in utter terror and perhaps perish. Lady Holme was in such + a strait. She knew it. She said to herself quite plainly that if Robin + failed to stretch out his hand to her she could not go on living. It was + clear to her that her life or death depended upon whether he remained true + to what he had said was his ideal, or whether he proved false to it and + showed himself such a man as Fritz, as a thousand others. + </p> + <p> + She sickened with anxiety as the moments passed. + </p> + <p> + Now, leaning upon the wall, she began to scan the lake. Presently she saw + the steamer approaching the landing-stage of Carate on the opposite bank. + The train from Rome had arrived. But Robin would doubtless come by boat. + There was at least another hour to wait. She left the wall and walked + quickly up and down, moving her hands and her lips. Now she almost wished + he were not coming. She recalled the whole story of her acquaintance with + Robin—his adoration of her when she was a girl, his wish to marry + her, his melancholy when she refused him, his persistent affection for her + after she had married Fritz, his persistent belief that there was that + within her which Fritz did not understand and could never satisfy, his + persistent obstinacy in asserting that he had the capacity to understand + and content this hidden want. Was that true? + </p> + <p> + Fritz had cared for nothing but the body, yet she had loved Fritz. She did + not love Robin. Yet there was a feeling in her that if he proved true to + his ideal now she might love him in the end. If only he would love her—after + he knew. + </p> + <p> + She heard a sound of oars. The blood rushed to her face. She drew back + from the wall and hurried into her house. All the morning she had been + making up her mind to go to meet Robin at once in the sunlight, to let him + know all at once. But now, in terror, she went to her room. With trembling + hands she pinned on a hat; she took out of a drawer the thick veil she + wore when travelling and tied it tightly over her face. Panic seized her. + </p> + <p> + There was a knock at the door, the announcement that a signore was waiting + in the drawing-room for the signora. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme felt an almost ungovernable sensation of physical nausea. She + went to her dressing-case and drank one or two burning drops of eau de + Cologne. Then she pulled down the veil under her chin and stood in the + middle of the room for several minutes without moving. Then she went + downstairs quickly and went quickly into the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + Robin was there, standing by the window. He looked excited, with an + excitement of happiness, and this gave to him an aspect of almost boyish + youth. His long black eyes shone with eagerness when she came into the + room. But when he saw the veil his face changed. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t trust me!” he said, without any greeting. + </p> + <p> + She went up to him and put out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Robin!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t trust me,” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + He took her hand. His was hot. + </p> + <p> + “Robin—I’m a coward,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Her voice quivered. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dearest!” he exclaimed, melted in a moment. + </p> + <p> + He took her other hand, and she felt his hands throbbing. His clasp was so + ardent that it startled her into forgetting everything for one instant, + everything that except these clasping hands loved her hands, loved her. + That instant was exquisitely sweet to her. There was a stinging sweetness + in it, a mystery of sweetness, as if their four hands were four souls + longing to be lost in one another. + </p> + <p> + “Now you’ll trust me,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She released her hands and immediately her terror of doubt returned. + </p> + <p> + “Let us go into the garden,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + He followed her to the path beside the wall. + </p> + <p> + “I looked for you from here,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I did not see you.” + </p> + <p> + “No. When I heard the boat I—Robin, I’m afraid—I’m afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “Of me, Viola?” + </p> + <p> + He laughed joyously. + </p> + <p> + “Take off your veil,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No, no—not yet. I want to tell you first—” + </p> + <p> + “To tell me what?” + </p> + <p> + “That my—that my—Robin, I’m not beautiful now.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice quivered again. + </p> + <p> + “You tell me so,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “It’s true.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe it.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” she began, almost desperately, “it’s true, Robin, oh, it’s true! + When Fritz—” + </p> + <p> + She stopped. She was choking. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—Fritz!” he said with scathing contempt. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, listen! You’ve got to listen.” She put her hand on his arm. “When + Fritz saw me—afterwards he—he was afraid of me. He couldn’t + speak to me. He just looked and said—and said—” + </p> + <p> + Tears were running down behind the veil. He put up his hand to hers, which + still touched his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t tell me what he said. What do I care? Viola, you know I’ve almost + longed for this—no, not that, but—can’t you understand that + when one loves a woman one loves something hidden, something mystical? + It’s so much more than a face that one loves. One doesn’t want to live in + a house merely because it’s got a nice front door.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed again as if he were half ashamed of his own feeling. + </p> + <p> + “Is that true, Robin?” + </p> + <p> + The sound of her voice told him that he need not be afraid to be + passionate. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down here,” he said. + </p> + <p> + They had reached an old stone bench at the end of the garden where the + woods began. Two cypresses towered behind it, sad-looking sentinels. There + was a gap in the wall here through which the lake could be seen as one sat + upon the bench. + </p> + <p> + “I want to make you understand, to make you trust me.” + </p> + <p> + She sat down without speaking, and he sat beside her. + </p> + <p> + “Viola,” he said, “there are many men who love only what they can see, and + never think of the spirit behind it. They care only for a woman’s body. + For them the woman’s body is the woman. I put it rather brutally. What + they can touch, what they can kiss, what they can hold in their arms is + all to them. They are unconscious of the distant, untameable woman, the + lawless woman who may be free in the body that is captive, who may be + unknown in the body that is familiar, who may even be pure in the body + that is defiled as she is immortal though her body is mortal. These men + love the flesh only. But there are at least some men who love the spirit. + They love the flesh, too, because it manifests the spirit, but to them the + spirit is the real thing. They are always stretching out their arms to + that. The hearth can’t satisfy them. They demand the fire. The fire, the + fire!” he repeated, as if the word warmed him. “I’ve so often thought of + this, imagined this. It’s as if I’d actually foreseen it.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke with gathering excitement. + </p> + <p> + “What?” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + “That some day the woman men—those men I’ve spoken of—loved + would be struck down, and the real woman, the woman of the true beauty, + the mystic, the spirit woman, would be set free. If this had not happened + you could perhaps never have known who was the man that really loved you—that + loved the real you, the you that lies so far beyond the flesh, the you + that has sung and suffered—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, suffered!” she said. + </p> + <p> + But there was a note of something that was not sorrow in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “If you want to know the man I mean,” Robin said, “lift up your veil, + Viola.” + </p> + <p> + She sat quite still for a moment, a moment that seemed very long. Then she + put up both hands to her head, untied the veil and let it fall into her + lap. He looked at her, and there was silence. They heard the bees humming. + There were many among the roses on the wall. She had turned her face fully + towards him, but she kept her eyes on the veil that lay in her lap. It was + covered with little raised black spots. She began to count them. As the + number mounted she felt her body turning gradually cold. + </p> + <p> + “Fifteen—sixteen-seventeen”—she formed the words with her + lips, striving to concentrate her whole soul upon this useless triviality—“eighteen—nineteen—twenty.” + </p> + <p> + Little drops of moisture came out upon her temples. Still the silence + continued. She knew that all this time Robin was looking into her face. + She felt his eyes like two knives piercing her face. + </p> + <p> + “Twenty-one—twenty-two—” + </p> + <p> + “Viola!” + </p> + <p> + He spoke at last and his voice was extraordinary. It was husky, and + sounded desperate and guilty. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” she said, still looking at the spots. + </p> + <p> + “Now you know the man I spoke of.” + </p> + <p> + Yes, it was a desperate voice and hard in its desperation. + </p> + <p> + “You mean that you are the man?” + </p> + <p> + Still she did not look up. After a pause she heard him say: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that I am the man.” + </p> + <p> + Then she looked up. His face was scarlet, like a face flushed with guilt. + His eyes met hers with a staring glance, yet they were furtive. His hands + were clenched on his knees. When she looked at him he began to smile. + </p> + <p> + “Viola,” he said, “Viola.” + </p> + <p> + He unclenched his hands and put them out towards her, as if to take her + hands. She did not move. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Robin!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Poor—but—what do you mean?” he stammered. + </p> + <p> + He never turned his eyes from her face. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Robin!—but it isn’t your fault.” + </p> + <p> + Then she put out her hand and touched his gently. + </p> + <p> + “My fault? + </p> + <p> + “That it was all a fancy, all a weaving of words. You want to be what you + thought you were, but you can’t be.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re wrong, Viola, you’re utterly wrong—” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, Robin! That woman you spoke of—that woman knows.” + </p> + <p> + He cleared his throat, got up, went over to the wall, leaned his arms upon + it and hid his face on them. There were tears in his eyes. At that moment + he was suffering more than she was. His soul was rent by an abject sense + of loss, an abject sense of guilty impotence and shame. It was frightful + that he could not be what he wished to be, what he had thought he was. He + longed to comfort her and could not do anything but plunge a sword into + her heart. He longed to surround her with tenderness—yes, he was + sure he longed—but he could only hold up to her in the sun her + loneliness. And he had lost—what had he not lost? A dream of years, + an imagination that had been his inseparable and dearest companion. His + loneliness was intense in that moment as was hers. The tears seemed to + scald his eyes. In his heart he cursed God for not permitting him to be + what he longed to be, to feel what he longed to feel. It seemed to him + monstrous, intolerable, that even our emotions are arranged for us as are + arranged the events of our lives. He felt like a doll, a horrible puppet. + </p> + <p> + “Poor old Robin!” + </p> + <p> + She was standing beside him, and in her voice there was, just for a + moment, the sound that sometimes comes into a mother’s voice when she + speaks to her little child in the dark. + </p> + <p> + At the moment when he knew he did not love the white angel she stood + beside him. + </p> + <p> + And she thought that she was only a wretched woman. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX + </h2> + <p> + ROBIN had gone. He had gone, still protesting that Lady Holme was + deceiving herself, protesting desperately, with the mistaken chivalry of + one who was not only a gentleman to his finger-tips but who was also an + almost fanatical lover of his own romance. After recovering from the first + shock of his disillusion, and her strange reception of it, so different + from anything he could have imagined possible in her, or indeed in any + woman who had lived as she had, he had said everything that was + passionate, everything that fitted in with his old protestations when she + was beautiful. He had spoken, perhaps, even more to recall himself than to + convince her, but he had not succeeded in either effort, and a strange, + mingled sense of tragic sadness and immense relief invaded him as the + width of waterway grew steadily larger between his boat and Casa Felice. + He could have wept for her and for himself. He could even have wept for + humanity. Yet he felt the comfort of one from whom an almost intolerable + strain has just been removed. To a man of his calibre, sensitive, almost + feminine in his subtlety, the situation had been exquisitely painful. He + had felt what Viola was feeling as well as what he was feeling. He had + struggled like a creature taken in a net. And how useless it had all been! + He found himself horribly inferior to her. Her behaviour at this critical + moment had proved to him that in his almost fantastic conception of her he + had shown real insight. Then why had his heart betrayed his intellect? Why + had his imagination proved true metal, his affection false? He asked + himself these questions. He searched his own nature, as many a man has + done in moments when he has found himself unworthy. And he was met by + mystery, by the “It was impossible for me!” which stings the soul that + would be strong. He remembered Carey’s words that night in Half Moon + Street when Sir Donald had accompanied him home after the dinner in + Cadogan Square. Sir Donald had gone. He and Carey were alone, and he had + said that if one loves, one loves the kernel not the shell. And Carey had + said, “I think if the shell is a beautiful shell, and becomes suddenly + broken, it makes a devil of a lot of difference in what most people think + of the kernel.” And when he—Robin—had replied, “It wouldn’t to + me,” Carey had abruptly exclaimed, “I think it would.” After Carey had + gone Robin remembered very well saying to himself that it was strange no + man will believe you if you hint at the truth of your true self. That + night he had not known his true self and Carey had known it. But then, had + he loved the shell only? He could not believe it. He felt bewildered. Even + now, as the boat crept onward through the falling darkness, he felt that + he loved Viola, but as someone who had disappeared or who was dead. This + woman whom he had just left was not Viola. And yet she was. When he was + not looking at her and she spoke to him, the past seemed to take the form + of the present. When she had worn the veil and had touched him all his + pulses had leaped. But when she had touched him with those same hands + after the veil had fallen, there had been frost in his veins. Nothing in + his body had responded. The independence of the flesh appalled him. It had + a mind of its own then. It chose and acted quite apart from the spirit + which dwelt in it. It even defied that spirit. And the eyes? They had + become almost a terror to him. He thought of them as a slave thinks of a + cruel master. Were they to coerce his soul? Were they to force his heart + from its allegiance? He had always been accustomed to think that the + spirit was essentially the governing thing in man, that indestructible, + fierce, beautiful flame which surely outlives death and time. But now he + found himself thinking of the flesh, the corruptible part of man that + mingles its dust with the earth, as dominant over the spirit. For the + first time, and because of his impotence to force his body to feel as his + spirit wished it to feel, he doubted if there were a future for the soul, + if there were such a condition as immortality. He reached Villa d’Este in + a condition of profound depression, almost bordering on despair. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Viola, standing by the garden wall, had watched the boat that + carried Robin disappear on the water. Till it was only a speck she + watched. It vanished. Evening came on. Still she stood there. She did not + feel very sad. The strange, dreamlike sensation of the preceding day had + returned to her, but with a larger vagueness that robbed it of some of its + former poignancy. It seemed to her that she felt as a spirit might feel—detached. + She remembered once seeing a man, who called himself an “illusionist,” + displaying a woman’s figure suspended apparently in mid-air. He took a + wand and passed it over, under, around the woman to show that she was + unattached to anything, that she did not rest upon anything. Viola thought + that she was like that woman. She was not embittered. She was not even + crushed. Her impulse of pity, when she understood what Robin was feeling, + had been absolutely genuine. It had rushed upon her. It remained with her. + But now it was far less definite, and embraced not only Robin but surely + other men whom she had never known or even seen. They could not help + themselves. It was not their fault. They were made in a certain way. They + were governed. It seemed to her that she looked out vaguely over a world + of slaves, the serfs of God who have never been emancipated. She had no + hope. But just then she had no fear. The past did not ebb from her, nor + did the future steal towards her. The tides were stilled. The pulses of + life were stopped. Everything was wrapped in a cold, grey calm. She had + never been a very thoughtful woman. She had not had much time for thought. + That is what she herself would probably have said. Seldom had she puzzled + her head over the mysteries of existence. Even now, when she confronted + the great mystery of her own, she did not think very definitely. Before + Robin came her mind had been in a fever. Now that he was gone the fever + had gone with him. Would it ever return? She did not ask or wonder. + </p> + <p> + The night fell and the servant came to summon her to dinner. She shook her + head. + </p> + <p> + “The signora will not eat anything?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + She took her arms from the wall and looked at the man. + </p> + <p> + “Could I have the boat?” + </p> + <p> + “The signora wishes to go on the lake?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I will tell Paolo.” + </p> + <p> + Two or three minutes later the boy who had sung came to say that the boat + was ready. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme fetched a cloak, and went down the dark stone staircase between + the lichen-covered walls to the tall iron gate. The boat was lying by the + outer steps. She got in and Paolo took the oars. + </p> + <p> + “Where does the signora wish to go?” + </p> + <p> + “Anywhere out on the lake.” + </p> + <p> + He pushed off. Soon the noise of the waterfall behind Casa Felice died + away, the spectral facade faded and only the plash of the oars and the + tinkle of fishermen’s bells above the nets, floating here and there in the + lake, were audible. The distant lights of mountain villages gleamed along + the shores, and the lights of the stars gleamed in the clear sky. + </p> + <p> + Now that she was away from the land Lady Holme became more conscious of + herself and of life. The gentle movement of the boat promoted an echoing + mental movement in her. Thoughts glided through the shadows of her soul as + the boat glided through the shadows of the night. Her mind was like a + pilgrim, wandering in the darkness cast by the soul. + </p> + <p> + She felt, first, immensely ignorant. She had scarcely ever, perhaps never, + consciously felt immensely ignorant before. She felt also very poor, very + small and very dingy, like a woman very badly dressed. She felt, finally, + that she was the most insignificant of all the living things under the + stars to the stars and all they watched, but that, to herself, she was of + a burning, a flaming significance. + </p> + <p> + There seemed to be bells everywhere in the lake. The water was full of + their small, persistent voices. + </p> + <p> + So had her former life been full of small, persistent voices, but now, + abruptly, they were all struck into silence, and she was left listening—for + what? For some far-off but larger voice beyond? + </p> + <p> + “What am I to do? What am I to do?” + </p> + <p> + Now she began to say this within herself. The grey calm was floating away + from her spirit, and she began to realise what had happened that + afternoon. She remembered that just before Robin came she had made up her + mind that, though she did not love him, he held the matter of her life or + death in his power. Well, if that were so, he had decided. The dice had + been thrown and death had come up. No hand had been stretched out in the + darkness to the child. + </p> + <p> + She looked round her. On every side she saw smooth water, a still surface + which hid depths. At the prow of the boat shone a small lantern, which + cast before the boat an arrow of light. And as the boat moved this arrow + perpetually attacked the darkness in front. It was like the curiosity of + man attacking the impenetrable mysteries of God. It seemed to penetrate, + but always new darkness disclosed itself beyond, new darkness flowed + silently around. + </p> + <p> + Was the darkness the larger voice? + </p> + <p> + She did not say this to herself. Her mind was not of the definite species + that frames such silent questions often. But, like all human beings + plunged in the strangeness of a terror that is absolutely new, and left to + struggle in it quite alone, she thought a thousand things that she did not + even know she thought, her mind touched many verges of which she was not + aware. There were within her tremendous activities of which she was + scarcely conscious. She was like a woman who wakes at night without + knowing why, and hears afterwards that there was a tumult in the city + where she dwelt. + </p> + <p> + Gradually, along devious ways, she came to the thought that life had done + with her. It seemed to her that life said to her, “Woman, what have I to + do with thee?” The man who had sworn to protect her could not endure to + look at her. The man who had vowed that he loved her soul shrank before + her face. She had never been a friend to women. Why should they wish to be + her friends now? They would not wish it. And if they did she felt their + friendship would be useless to her, more—horrible. She would rather + have shown her shattered face to a thousand men than to ten women. She had + never “bothered” much about religion. No God seemed near her now. She had + no sense of being chastened because she was loved. On the other hand, she + did feel as if she had been caught by a torturer who did not mean to let + her go. + </p> + <p> + It became obvious to her that there was no place for her in life, and + presently she returned to the conclusion that, totally unloved, she could + not continue to exist. + </p> + <p> + She began definitely to contemplate self-destruction. + </p> + <p> + She looked at the little arrow of light beyond the boat’s prow. Like that + little arrow she must go out into the darkness. When? Could she go + to-night? If not, probably she could never go at all by her own will and + act. It should be done to-night then, abruptly, without much thought. For + thought is dangerous and often paralysing. + </p> + <p> + She spoke to the boat boy. He answered. They fell into conversation. She + asked him about his family, his life, whether he would have to be a + soldier; whether he had a sweetheart. She forced herself to listen + attentively to his replies. He was a responsive boy and soon began to talk + volubly, letting the oars trail idly in the water. With energy he paraded + his joyous youth before her. Even in his touches of melancholy there was + hope. His happiness confirmed her in her resolution. She put herself in + contrast with this boy, and her heart sank below the sources of tears into + a dry place, like the valley of bones. + </p> + <p> + “Will you turn towards Casa Feli—towards the house now,” she said + presently. + </p> + <p> + The boat swung round, and instantly the boy began to sing. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I can do it to-night,” she thought. + </p> + <p> + His happy singing entered like iron into her soul. + </p> + <p> + When the pale facade of Casa Felice was visible once more, detaching + itself from the surrounding darkness, she said to the boy carelessly: + </p> + <p> + “Where do you put the boat at night?” + </p> + <p> + “The signora has not seen?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Under the house. There is deep water there. One can swim for five minutes + without coming out into the open.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to see that place. Can I get out of the boat there?” + </p> + <p> + “Si, signora. There is a staircase leading into the piazza by the + waterfall.” + </p> + <p> + “Then row in.” + </p> + <p> + “Si, signora.” + </p> + <p> + He was beginning to sing again, but suddenly he stopped, looked over his + shoulder and listened. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” she asked quickly. + </p> + <p> + “There is a boat, signora.” + </p> + <p> + “Where.” + </p> + <p> + She looked into the darkness but saw nothing. + </p> + <p> + “Close to the house, signora.” + </p> + <p> + “But how do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “I heard the oars. The man in the boat was not rowing, but just as I began + to sing he began to row. When I stopped singing he stopped rowing.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t see the boat?” + </p> + <p> + “No, signora. It carries no light.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her mysteriously. + </p> + <p> + “<i>It may be the contrabbandieri</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Smugglers?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + He turned his head over his shoulder and whistled, in a peculiar way. + There was no reply. Then he bent down over the gunwale of the boat till + his ear nearly touched the water, and listened. + </p> + <p> + “The boat has stopped. It must be near us.” + </p> + <p> + His whole body seemed quivering with attentive life, like a terrier’s when + it stands to be unchained. + </p> + <p> + “Might it not be a fisherman?” asked Lady Holme. + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “This is not the hour.” + </p> + <p> + “Some tourists, perhaps, making an excursion?” + </p> + <p> + “It is too far. They never come here at night.” + </p> + <p> + His eyes stared, his attitude was so intensely alert and his manner so + mysterious that, despite her desperate preoccupation, Lady Holme found + herself distracted for a moment. Her mind was detached from herself, and + fixed upon this hidden boat and its occupant or occupants. + </p> + <p> + “You think it is <i>contrabbandieri</i>?” she whispered. He nodded. + </p> + <p> + “I have been one, signora.” + </p> + <p> + “You!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, when I was a boy, in the winter. Once, when we were running for the + shore, on a December night, the <i>carabinieri</i> fired on us and killed + Gaetano Cremona.” + </p> + <p> + “Your companion?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He was sixteen and he died. The boat was full of his blood.” + </p> + <p> + She shuddered. + </p> + <p> + “Row in,” she said. “That boat must have gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Non, signora. It has not. It is close by and the oars are out of the + water.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke with certainty, as if he saw the boat. Then, reluctantly, he + dipped his oars in the lake, and rowed towards the house, keeping his head + half turned and staring into the darkness with eyes that were still full + of mystery and profound attention. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme looked over the water too, but she saw nothing upon its calm + surface. + </p> + <p> + “Go into the boat-house,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Paolo nodded without speaking. His lips were parted. + </p> + <p> + “Chi e la?” she heard him whisper to himself. + </p> + <p> + They were close to the house now. Its high, pale front, full of shuttered + windows, loomed over them, and the roar of the waterfall was loud in their + ears. Paolo turned the boat towards his right, and, almost directly, Lady + Holme saw a dark opening in the solid stone blocks on which the house was + built. The boat glided through it into cover, and the arrow of light at + the prow pierced ebon blackness, while the plash of the oars made a + curious sound, full of sudden desolation and weariness. A bat flitted over + the arrow of light and vanished, and the head of a swimming rat was + visible for a moment, pursued by a wrinkle on the water. + </p> + <p> + “How dark it is here,” Lady Holme said in a low voice. “And what strange + noises there are.” + </p> + <p> + There was terror in the sound of the waterfall heard under this curving + roof of stone. It sounded like a quantity of disputing voices, quarrelling + in the blackness of the night. The arrow of light lay on a step, and the + boat’s prow grated gently against a large ring of rusty iron. + </p> + <p> + “And you tie up the boat here at night?” she asked as she got up. + </p> + <p> + “Si, signora.” + </p> + <p> + While she stood on the step, close to the black water, he passed the rope + through the ring, and tied it deftly in a loose knot that any backward + movement of the boat would tighten. She watched with profound attention + his hands moving quickly in the faint light cast by the lantern. + </p> + <p> + “How well you tie it,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Si, signora.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it easy to untie?” + </p> + <p> + “Si, signora.” + </p> + <p> + “Show me, will you? It—it holds so well that I should have thought + it would be difficult.” + </p> + <p> + He looked up at her with a flash of surprise. Something in her voice had + caught his young attention sharply. She smiled at him when she saw the + keen inquiry in his large eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I’m interested in all these little things you do so well,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He flushed with pride, and immediately untied the knot, carefully, showing + her exactly how he did it. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. I see. It’s very ingenious.” + </p> + <p> + “Si, signora. I can do many things like that.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a clever boy, Paolo.” + </p> + <p> + He tied the knot again, unhooked the lantern; jumped out of the boat, and + lighted her up the staircase to a heavy wooden door. In another moment she + stood on the piazza close to the waterfall. The cold spray from it fell on + her face. He pushed the door to, but did not lock it. + </p> + <p> + “You leave it like that at night?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Non, signora. Before I go to bed I lock it.” + </p> + <p> + “I see.” + </p> + <p> + She saw a key sticking out from the door. + </p> + <p> + “<i>A rivederci</i>, Paolo.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>A rivederci</i>, signora.” + </p> + <p> + He took off his hat and went swiftly away. The light of the lantern danced + on the pavement of the piazza, and, for one instant, on the white foam of + the water falling between the cypresses. + </p> + <p> + When Viola was alone on the piazza she went to the stone balustrade and + looked over it at the lake. Was there a boat close by? She could not see + it. The chiming bells of the fishermen came up to her, mingling with the + noise of the cascade. She took out her watch and held it up close to her + eyes. The hour was half-past nine. She wondered what time Italian servants + went to bed. + </p> + <p> + The butler came out and begged to know if she would not eat something. He + seemed so distressed at her having missed dinner, that she went into the + house, sat down at the dining table and made a pretence of eating. A clock + struck ten as she finished. + </p> + <p> + “It is so warm that I am going to sit out in the piazza,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Will the signora take coffee?” + </p> + <p> + “No—yes, bring me some there. And tell my maid—tell the + servants they needn’t sit up. I may stay out quite late. If I do, I’ll + lock the door on to the piazza when I go in.” + </p> + <p> + “Si, signora.” + </p> + <p> + When she reached the piazza she saw a shining red spark just above the + balustrade. Paolo was there smoking a black cigar and leaning over + sideways. + </p> + <p> + “What are you looking for?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “That boat, signora. It has not gone.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know? It may have gone when we were in the boat-house.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “You could not have heard the oars through the noise of the waterfall.” + </p> + <p> + “Si, signora. It has not gone. Shall I take the boat and—” + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” she interrupted quickly. “What does it matter? Go and have + supper.” + </p> + <p> + “I have had it, signora.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, when you have finished smoking, you’d better go to bed.” + </p> + <p> + She forced herself to smile lightly. + </p> + <p> + “Boys like you need plenty of sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “Four hours is enough, signora.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no. You should go to bed early.” + </p> + <p> + She saw an odd expression come into his face. He looked over at the water, + then at her, with a curious dawning significance, that would almost have + been impudent if it had not been immensely young and full of a kind of + gnomish sympathy. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go to bed, signora!” he said. + </p> + <p> + Then he looked at her again and there were doubt and wonder in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + She turned away, with a sickness at her heart. She knew exactly what he + had thought, was thinking. The suspicion had crossed his mind that she + knew why the hidden boat was there, that she wished no one else to suspect + why it was there. And then had followed the thought, “Ma—per questa + signora—non e possibile.” + </p> + <p> + At certain crises of feeling, a tiny incident will often determine some + vital act. So it was now. The fleeting glance in a carelessly expressive + boy’s eyes at this moment gave to Lady Holme’s mind the last touch it + needed to acquire the impetus which would carry it over the edge of the + precipice into the abyss. The look in Paolo’s eyes said to her, “Life has + done with you. Throw it away.” And she knew that though she had thought + she had already decided to throw it away that night, she had really not + decided. Secretly she had been hesitating. Now there was no more + hesitation in her. She drank her coffee and had the cup taken away, and + ordered the lights in the drawing-room to be put out. + </p> + <p> + “When I come in I shall go straight up to bed,” she said. “Leave me a + candle in the hall.” + </p> + <p> + The lights went out behind the windows. Blank darkness replaced the yellow + gleam that had shone upon them. The two houses on either side of the + piazza were wrapped in silence. Presently there was a soft noise of feet + crossing the pavement. It was Paolo going to lock the door leading to the + boathouse. Lady Holme moved round sharply in her chair to watch him. He + bent down. With a swift turn of his brown wrists he secured the door and + pulled the key out of the lock. She opened her lips to call out something + to him, but when she saw him look at the key doubtfully, then towards her, + she said nothing. And he put it back into the keyhole. When he did that + she sighed. Perhaps a doubt had again come into his young mind. But, if + so, it had come too late. He slipped away smiling, half ironically, to + himself. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holme sat still. She had wrapped a white cloth cloak round her. She + put up her hand to the disfigured side of her face, and touched it, trying + to see its disfigurement as the blind see, by feeling. She kept her hand + there, and her hand recognized ugliness vividly. After two or three + minutes she took her hand away, got up and walked to and fro in the + piazza, very near to the balustrade. + </p> + <p> + Now she was thinking fiercely. + </p> + <p> + She thought of Fritz. What would he feel when he knew? Shocked for a + moment, no doubt. After all, they had been very close to each other, in + body at least, if not in soul. And the memory of the body would surely + cause him to suffer a little, to think, “I held it often, and now it is + sodden and cold.” At least he must think something like that, and his body + must shudder in sympathy with the catastrophe that had overtaken its old + companion. She felt a painful yearning to see Fritz again. Yet she did not + say to herself that she loved him any more. Even before the accident she + had begun to realise that she had not found in Fritz the face of truth + among the crowd of shams which all women seek, ignorantly or not. And + since the accident—there are things that kill even a woman’s love + abruptly. And for a dead love there is no resurrection. + </p> + <p> + Yet to-night she felt infinitely tender over Fritz, as if she stood by him + again and saw the bandage darkened by the red stain. + </p> + <p> + Then she thought of the song she had sung to Lady Cardington, the song + which had surely opened the eyes of her own drowsy, if not actually + sleeping, heart: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Tutto al mondo e vano: + Nell’amore ogni dolcezza.” + </pre> + <p> + It was horribly true to her to-night. She could imagine now, in her utter + desolation, that for love a woman could easily sacrifice the world. But + she had had the world—all she called the world—ruthlessly + taken from her, and nothing had been given to her to fill its place. + Possibly before the accident she might have recoiled from the idea of + giving up the world for love. But now, as she walked to and fro, it seemed + to her as if a woman isolated from everything with love possessed the + world and all that is therein. Vaguely she remembered the story she had + heard about this very house, Casa Felice. There had been a romance + connected with it. Two lovers had fled here, had lived here for a long + time. She imagined them now, sitting together at night in this piazza, + hearing the waterfall together, looking at the calm lake together, + watching the stars together. The sound of the water was terrible to her. + To them how beautiful it must have been, how beautiful the light of the + stars, and the lonely gardens stretching along the lake, and the dim paths + between the cypresses, and the great silence that floated over the lake to + listen to the waterfall. And all these things were terrible to her—all. + Not one was beautiful. Each one seemed to threaten her, to say to her, + “Leave us, we are not for such as you.” Well, she would obey these voices. + She would go. She wrapped the cloak more closely round her, went to the + balustrade and leaned over it looking at the water. + </p> + <p> + It seemed to her as if her life had been very trivial. She thought now + that she had never really enjoyed anything. She looked upon her life as if + it were down there in the water just beneath her, and she saw it as a + broken thing, a thing in many fragments. And the fragments, however + carefully and deftly arranged, could surely never have been fitted + together and become a complete whole. Everything in her life had been awry + as her face was now awry, and she had not realised it. Her love for Fritz, + and his—what he had called his, at least—for her, had seemed + to her once to be a round and beautiful thing, a circle of passion without + a flaw. How distorted, misshapen, absurd it had really been. Nothing in + her life had been carried through to a definite end. Even her petty + struggle with Miss Schley had been left unfinished. Those who had loved + her had been like spectres, and now, like spectres, had faded away. And + all through their spectral love she had clung to Fritz. She had clasped + the sand like a mad-woman, and never felt the treacherous grains shifting + between her arms at the touch of every wind. + </p> + <p> + A sudden passionate fury of longing woke in her to have one week, one day, + one hour of life, one hour of life now that her eyes were open, one moment + only—even one moment. She felt that she had had nothing, that every + other human being must have known the <i>dolcezza</i>, the ineffable, the + mysterious ecstasy, the one and only thing worth the having, that she + alone had been excluded, when she was beautiful, from the participation in + joy that was her right, and that now, in her ugliness, she was irrevocably + cast out from it. + </p> + <p> + It was unjust. Suddenly she faced a God without justice in His heart, + all-powerful and not just. She faced such a God and she knew Hell. + </p> + <p> + Swiftly she turned from the balustrade, went to the door by the waterfall, + unlocked it and descended the stone staircase. It was very dark. She had + to feel her way. When she reached the last step she could just see the + boat lying against it in the black water. She put out her hand and felt + for the ring through which the rope was slipped. The rope was wet. It took + her some minutes to undo it. Then she got into the boat. Her eyes were + more accustomed to the darkness now, and she could see the arched opening + which gave access to the lake. She found the oars, pushed them into the + rowlocks, and pulled gently to the opening. The boat struck against the + wall and grated along it. She stood up and thrust one hand against the + stone, leaning over to the side. The boat went away swiftly, and she + nearly fell into the water, but managed to save herself by a rapid + movement. She sank down, feeling horribly afraid. Yet, a moment after, she + asked herself why she had not let herself go. It was too dark there under + the house. Out in the open air it would be different, it would be easier. + She wanted the stars above her. She did not know why she wanted them, why + she wanted anything now. + </p> + <p> + The boat slipped out from the low archway into the open water. + </p> + <p> + It was a pale and delicate night, one of those autumn nights that are full + of a white mystery. A thin mist lay about the water, floated among the + lower woods. Higher up, the mountains rose out of it. Their green sides + looked black and soft in the starlight, their summits strangely remote and + inaccessible. Through the mist, here and there, shone faintly the lights + of the scattered villages. The bells in the water were still ringing + languidly, and their voices emphasised the pervading silence, a silence + full of the pensive melancholy of Nature in decline. + </p> + <p> + Viola rowed slowly out towards the middle of the lake. Awe had come upon + her. There seemed a mystical presence in the night, something far away but + attentive, a mind concentrated upon the night, upon Nature, upon herself. + She was very conscious of it, and it seemed to her not as if eyes, but as + if a soul were watching her and everything about her; the stars and the + mountains, the white mist, even the movement of the boat. This + concentrated, mystical attention oppressed her. It was like a soft, + impalpable weight laid upon her. She rowed faster. + </p> + <p> + But now it seemed to her as if she were being followed. Casa Felice had + already disappeared. The shore was hidden in the darkness. She could only + see vaguely the mountain-tops. She paused, then dipped the oars again, but + again—after two or three strokes—she had the sensation that + she was being followed. She recalled Paolo’s action when they were + returning to Casa Felice in the evening, leaned over the boat’s side and + put her ear close to the water. + </p> + <p> + When she did so she heard the plash of oars—rhythmical, steady, and + surely very near. For a moment she listened. Then a sort of panic seized + her. She remembered the incident of the evening, the hidden boat, Paolo’s + assertion that it was waiting near the house, that it had not gone. He had + said, too, that the unseen rower had begun to row when he began to sing, + had stopped rowing when he stopped singing. A conviction came to her that + this same rower as now following her. But why? Who was it? She knew nobody + on the lake, except Robin. And he—no, it could not be Robin. + </p> + <p> + The ash of the oars became more distinct. Her unreasoning fear increased. + With the mystical attention of the great and hidden mind was now blent a + crude human attention. She began to feel really terrified, and, seizing + her oars, she pulled frantically towards the middle of the lake. + </p> + <p> + “Viola!” + </p> + <p> + Out of the darkness it came. + </p> + <p> + “Viola!” + </p> + <p> + She stopped and began to tremble. Who—what—could be calling + her by name, here, in the night? She heard the sound of oars plainly now. + Then she saw a thing like a black shadow. It was the prow of an advancing + boat. She sat quite still, with her hands on the oars. The boat came on + till she could see the figure of one man in it, standing up, and rowing, + as the Italian boatmen do when they are alone, with his face set towards + the prow. A few strong strokes and it was beside her, and she was looking + into Rupert Carey’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI + </h2> + <p> + SHE sat still without saying anything. It seemed to her as if she were on + the platform at Manchester House singing the Italian song. Then the + disfigured face of Carey—disfigured by vice as hers now by the + accident—had become as nothing to her. She had seen only his eyes. + She saw only his eyes now. He remained standing up in the faint light with + the oars in his hands looking at her. Round about them tinkled the bells + above the nets. + </p> + <p> + “You heard me call?” he said at last, almost roughly. + </p> + <p> + She nodded. + </p> + <p> + “How did you—?” she began, and stopped. + </p> + <p> + “I was there this evening when you came in. I heard your boy singing. I + was under the shadow of the woods.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + All this time she was gazing into Carey’s eyes, and had not seen in them + that he was looking, for the first time, at her altered face. She did not + realise this. She did not remember that her face was altered. The + expression in his eyes made her forget it. + </p> + <p> + “I wanted something of you.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + He let the oars go, and sat down on the little seat. They were close to + each other now. The sides of the boats touched. He did not answer her + question. + </p> + <p> + “I know I’ve no business to speak to you,” he said. “No business to come + after you. I know that. But I was always a selfish, violent, headlong + brute, and it seems I can’t change.” + </p> + <p> + “But what do you want with me?” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she remembered—put her hands up to her face with a swift + gesture, then dropped them again. What did it matter now? He was the last + man who would look upon her in life. And now that she remembered her own + condition she saw his. She saw the terror of his life in his marred + features, aged, brutalised by excess. She saw, and was glad for a moment, + as if she met someone unexpectedly on her side of the stream of fate. Let + him look upon her. She was looking upon him. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want?” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + “I want a saviour,” he said, staring always straight at her, and speaking + without tenderness. + </p> + <p> + “A saviour!” + </p> + <p> + For a moment she thought of the Bible, of religion; then of her sensation + that she had been caught by a torturer who would not let her go. + </p> + <p> + “Have you come to me because you think I can tell you of saviour?” she + said. + </p> + <p> + And she began to laugh. + </p> + <p> + “But don’t you see me?” she exclaimed. “Don’t you see what I am now?” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she felt angry with him because his eyes did not seem to see the + dreadful change in her appearance. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think I want a saviour too?” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think about you,” he said with a sort of deliberate brutality. “I + think about myself. Men generally do when they come to women.” + </p> + <p> + “Or go away from them,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She was thinking of Robin then, and Fritz. + </p> + <p> + “Did you know Robin Pierce was here to-day?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I saw him leave you.” + </p> + <p> + “You saw—but how long have you been watching?” + </p> + <p> + “A long time.” + </p> + <p> + “Where do you come from?” + </p> + <p> + He pointed towards the distant lights behind her and before him. + </p> + <p> + “Opposite. I was to have stayed with Ulford in Casa Felice. I’m staying + with him over there.” + </p> + <p> + “With Sir Donald?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He’s ill. He wants somebody.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir Donald’s afraid of me now,” she said, watching him closely. “I told + him to live with his memory of me. Will he do that?” + </p> + <p> + “I think he will. Poor old chap! he’s had hard knocks. They’ve made him + afraid of life.” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you keep your memory of me?” she said, with sudden nervous + anger. “You too? If you hadn’t come to-night it would never have been + destroyed.” + </p> + <p> + Her extreme tension of the nerves impelled her to an exhibition of fierce + bitterness which she could not control. She remembered how he had loved + her, with what violence and almost crazy frankness. Why had he come? He + might have remembered her as she was. + </p> + <p> + “I hate you for coming,” she said, almost under her breath. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care. I had to come.” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I told you. I want a saviour. I’m down in the pit. I can’t get out. You + can see that for yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered, “I can see that.” + </p> + <p> + “Give me a hand, Viola, and—you’ll make me do something I’ve never + done, never been able to do.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” she half whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Believe there’s a God—who cares.” + </p> + <p> + She drew in her breath sharply. Something warm surged through her. It was + not like fire. It was more like the warmth that comes from a warm hand + laid on a cold one. It surged through her and went away like a travelling + flood. + </p> + <p> + “What are you saying?” she said in a low voice. “You are mad to come here + to-night, to say this to me to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “No. It’s just to-night it had to be said.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she resolved to tell him. He was in the pit. So was she. Well, + the condemned can be frank with one another though all the free have to + practise subterfuge. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t know,” she said, and her voice was quiet now. “You don’t know + why it was mad of you to come to-night. I’ll tell you. I’ve come out here + and I’m not going back again.” + </p> + <p> + He kept his eyes on hers, but did not speak. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to stay out here,” she said. + </p> + <p> + And she let her hand fall over the side of the boat till her fingers + touched the water. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said. “You can’t do that.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I shall do it. I want to hide my face in the water.” + </p> + <p> + “Give me a hand first, Viola.” + </p> + <p> + Again the warmth went through her. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody else can.” + </p> + <p> + “And you’ve looked at me!” she said. + </p> + <p> + There was a profound amazement in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “It’s only when I look at you,” he said, “that I know there are stars + somewhere beyond the pit’s mouth.” + </p> + <p> + “When you look at me—now?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “But you are blind then?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Or are the others blind?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Instinctively, really without knowing what she did, she put up her hand to + her face, touched it, and no longer felt that it was ugly. For a moment it + seemed to her that her beauty was restored. + </p> + <p> + “What do you see?” she asked. “But—but it’s so dark here.” + </p> + <p> + “Not too dark to see a helping hand—if there is one,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + And he stretched out his arm into her boat and took her right hand from + the oar it was holding. + </p> + <p> + “And there is one,” he added. + </p> + <p> + She felt a hand that loved her hand, and there was no veil over her face. + How strange that was. How utterly impossible it seemed. Yet it was so. No + woman can be deceived in the touch of a hand on hers. If it loves—she + knows. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do, Viola?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + There was a sound almost of shame, a humble sound, in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t do anything,” she murmured. “You would know that to-morrow, in + sunlight.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow I’ll come in sunlight.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no. I shall not be there.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall come.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!—good-night,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She began to feel extraordinarily, terribly excited. She could not tell + whether it was an excitement of horror, of joy—what it was. But it + mounted to her brain and rushed into her heart. It was in her veins like + an intoxicant, and in her eyes like fire, and thrilled in her nerves and + beat in her arteries. And it seemed to be an excitement full of passionate + contradictions. She was at the same time like a woman on a throne and a + woman in the dust—radiant as one worshipped, bowed as one beaten. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, good-night,” she repeated, scarcely knowing what she said. + </p> + <p> + Her hand struggled in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Viola, if you destroy yourself you destroy two people.” + </p> + <p> + She scarcely heard him speaking. + </p> + <p> + “D’you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no. Not to-night. I can’t understand anything to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Then to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, to-morrow-to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + He would not let go her hand, and now his was arbitrary, the hand of a + master rather than of a lover. + </p> + <p> + “You won’t dare to murder me,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Murder—what do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + He had used the word to arrest her attention, which was wandering almost + as the attention of a madwoman wanders. + </p> + <p> + “If you hide your face in the water I shall never see those stars above + the pit’s mouth.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t help it—I can’t help anything. It’s not my fault, it’s not + my fault.” + </p> + <p> + “It will be your fault. It will be your crime.” + </p> + <p> + “Your hand is driving me mad,” she gasped. + </p> + <p> + She meant it, felt that it was so. He let her go instantly. She began to + row back towards Casa Felice. And now that mystical attention of which she + had been conscious, that soul watching the night, her in the night, was + surely profounder, watched with more intensity as a spectator bending down + to see a struggle. Never before had she felt as if beyond human life there + was life compared with which human life was as death. And now she told + herself that she was mad, that this shock of human passion coming suddenly + upon her loneliness had harmed her brain, that this cry for salvation + addressed to one who looked upon herself as destroyed had deafened reason + within her. + </p> + <p> + His boat kept up with hers. She did not look at him. Casa Felice came in + sight. She pulled harder, like a mad creature. Her boat shot under the + archway into the darkness. Somehow—how, she did not know—she + guided it to the steps, left it, rushed up the staircase in the dark and + came out on to the piazza. There she stopped where the waterfall could + cast its spray upon her face. She stayed till her hair and cheeks and + hands were wet. Then she went to the balustrade. His boat was below and he + was looking up. She saw the tragic mask of his face down in the thin mist + that floated about the water, and now she imagined him in the pit, gazing + up and seeking those stars in which he still believed though he could not + see them. + </p> + <p> + “Go away,” she said, not knowing why she said it or if she wished him to + go, only knowing that she had lost the faculty of self-control and might + say, do, be anything in that moment. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t bear it.” + </p> + <p> + She did not know what she meant she could not bear. + </p> + <p> + He made a strange answer. He said: + </p> + <p> + “If you will go into the house, open the windows and sing to me—the + last song I heard you sing—I’ll go. But to-morrow I’ll come and + touch my helping hand, and after to-morrow, and every day.” + </p> + <p> + “Sing—?” she said vacantly. “To-night!” + </p> + <p> + “Go into the house. Open the window. I shall hear you.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke almost sternly. + </p> + <p> + She crossed the piazza slowly. A candle was burning in the hall. She took + it up and went into the drawing-room, which was in black darkness. There + was a piano in it, close to a tall window which looked on to the lake. She + set the candle down on the piano, went to the window, unbarred the + shutters and threw the window open. Instantly she heard the sound of oars + as Carey sent his boat towards the water beneath the window. She drew + back, went again to the piano, sat down, opened it, put her hands on the + keys. How could she sing? But she must make him go away. While he was + there she could not think, could not grip herself, could not—She + struck a chord. The sound of music, the doing of a familiar action, had a + strange effect upon her. She felt as if she recovered clear consciousness + after an anaesthetic. She struck another chord. What did he want? The + concert—that song. Her fingers found the prelude, her lips the + poetry, her voice the music. And then suddenly her heart found the + meaning, more than the meaning, the eternal meanings of the things + unutterable, the things that lie beyond the world in the deep souls of the + women who are the saviours of men. + </p> + <p> + When she had finished she went to the window. He was still standing in the + boat and looking up, with the whiteness of the mist about him. + </p> + <p> + “When you sing I can see those stars,” he said. “Do you understand?” + </p> + <p> + She bent down. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know—I don’t think I understand anything,” she whispered. + “But—I’ll try—I’ll try to live.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice was so faint, such an inward voice, that it seemed impossible he + could have heard it. But he struck the oars at once into the water and + sent the boat out into the shadows of the night. + </p> + <p> + And she stood there looking into the white silence, which was broken only + by the faint voices of the fishermen’s bells, and said to herself again + and again, like a wondering child: + </p> + <p> + “There must be a God, there must be; a God who cares!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_EPIL" id="link2H_EPIL"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPILOGUE + </h2> + <p> + IN London during the ensuing winter people warmly discussed, and many of + them warmly condemned, a certain Italian episode, in which a woman and a + man, once well-known and, in their very different ways, widely popular in + Society, were the actors. + </p> + <p> + In the deep autumn Sir Donald Ulford had died rather suddenly, and it was + found in his will that he had left his newly-acquired property, Casa + Felice, to Lady Holme, who—as everybody had long ago discovered—was + already living there in strict retirement, while her husband was amusing + himself in various Continental towns. This legacy was considered by a + great number of persons to be “a very strange one;” but it was not this + which caused the gossip now flitting from boudoir to boudoir and from club + to club. + </p> + <p> + It had become known that Rupert Carey, whose unfortunate vice had been + common talk ever since the Arkell House ball, was a perpetual visitor to + Casa Felice, and presently it was whispered that he was actually living + there with Lady Holme, and that Lord Holme was going to apply to the + Courts for a divorce. Thereupon many successful ladies began to wag bitter + tongues. It seemed to be generally agreed that the affair was rendered + peculiarly disgraceful by the fact that Lady Holme was no longer a + beautiful woman. If she had still been lovely they could have understood + it! The wildest rumours as to the terrible result of the accident upon her + had been afloat, and already she had become almost a legend. It was stated + that when poor Lord Holme had first seen her, after the operation, the + shock had nearly turned his brain. And now it was argued that the only + decent thing for a woman in such a plight to do was to preserve at least + her dignity, and to retire modestly from the fray in which she could no + longer hope to hold her own. That she had indeed retired, but apparently + with a man, roused much pious scorn and pinched regret in those whose + lives were passed amid the crash of broken commandments. + </p> + <p> + One day, at a tea, a certain lady, animadverted strongly upon Lady Holme’s + conduct, and finally remarked: + </p> + <p> + “It’s grotesque! A woman who is disfigured, and a man who is, or at any + rate was, a drunkard! Really it’s the most disgusting thing I ever heard + of!” + </p> + <p> + Lady Cardington happened to be in the room and she suddenly flushed. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think we know very much about it,” she said, and her voice was + rather louder than usual. + </p> + <p> + “But Lord Holme is going to—” began the lady who had been speaking. + </p> + <p> + “He may be, and he may succeed. But my sympathies are not with him. He + left his wife when she needed him.” + </p> + <p> + “But what could he have done for her?” + </p> + <p> + “He could have loved her,” said Lady Cardington. + </p> + <p> + The flush glowed hotter in the face that was generally as white as ivory. + </p> + <p> + There was a moment of silence in the room. Then Lady Cardington, getting + up to go, added: + </p> + <p> + “Whatever happens, I shall admire Mr. Carey as long as I live, and I wish + there were many more men like him in the world.” + </p> + <p> + She went out, leaving a tense astonishment behind her. + </p> + <p> + Her romantic heart, still young and ardent, though often aching with + sorrow, and always yearning for the ideal love that it had never found, + had divined the truth these chattering women had not imagination enough to + conceive of, soul enough to appreciate if they had conceived of it. + </p> + <p> + In that Italian winter, far away from London, a very beautiful drama of + human life was being enacted, not the less but the more beautiful because + the man and woman who took part in it had been scourged by fate, had + suffered cruel losses, were in the eyes of many who had known them well + pariahs—Rupert Carey through his fault, Lady Holme through her + misfortune. + </p> + <p> + Long ago, at the Arkell House ball, Lady Holme had said to Robin Pierce + that if Rupert Carey had the chance she could imagine him doing something + great. The chance was given him now of doing one of the greatest things a + human being can do—of winning a soul that is in despair back to + hope, of winning a heart that is sceptical of love back to belief in love. + It was a great thing to do, and Carey set about doing it in a strange way. + He cast himself down in his degradation at the feet of this woman whom he + was resolved to help, and he said, “Help me!” He came to this woman who + was on the brink of self-destruction and he said, “Teach me to live!” + </p> + <p> + It was a strange way he took, but perhaps he was right—perhaps it + was the only way. The words he spoke at midnight on the lake were as + nothing. His eyes, his acts in sunlight the next day, and day after day, + were everything. He forced Viola to realise that she was indeed the only + woman who could save him from the vice he had become the slave of, lift + him up out of that pit in which he could not see the stars. At first she + could not believe it, or could believe it only in moments of exaltation. + Lord Holme and Robin Pierce had rendered her terrified of life and of + herself in life. She was inclined to cringe before all humanity like a + beaten dog. There were moments, many moments at first, when she cringed + before Rupert Carey. But his eyes always told her the same story. They + never saw the marred face, but always the white angel. The soul in them + clung to that, asked to be protected by that. And so, at last, the white + angel—one hides somewhere surely in every woman—was released. + </p> + <p> + There were sad, horrible moments in this drama of the Italian winter. The + lonely house in the woods was a witness to painful, even tragic, scenes. + Viola’s love for Rupert Carey was reluctant in its dawning and he could + not rise at once, or easily, out of the pit into the full starlight to + which he aspired. After the death of Sir Donald, when the winter set in, + he asked her to let him live in the house on the opposite side of the + piazza from the house in which she dwelt. They were people of the world, + and knew what the world might say, but they were also human beings in + distress, and they felt as if they had passed into a region in which the + meaning of the world’s voices was lost, as the cry of an angry child is + lost in the vastness of the desert. She agreed to his request, and they + lived thus, innocently, till the winter was over and the spring came to + bring to Italy its radiance once more. + </p> + <p> + Even the spring was not an idyll. Rupert Carey had struggled upward, but + Viola, too, had much to forget and very much to learn. The egoist, spoken + of by Carey himself one night in Half Moon Street, was slow to fade in the + growing radiance that played about the angel’s feet. But it knew, and + Carey knew also, that it was no longer fine enough in its brilliant + selfishness to stand quite alone. With the death of the physical beauty + there came a modesty of heart. With the understanding, bitter and terrible + as it was, that the great, conquering outward thing was destroyed, came + the desire, the imperious need, to find and to develop if possible the + inner things which, perhaps, conquer less easily, but which retain their + conquests to the end. There was growth in Casa Felice, slow but stubborn, + growth in the secret places of the soul, till there came a time when not + merely the white angel, but the whole woman, angel and that which had + perhaps been devil too, was able to accept the yoke laid upon her with + patience, was able to say, “I can endure it bravely.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Holme presently took his case to the Courts. It was undefended and he + won it. Not long ago Viola Holme became Viola Carey. + </p> + <p> + When Robin Pierce heard of it in Rome he sat for a long time in deep + thought. Even now, even after all that had passed, he felt a thrill of + pain that was like the pain of jealousy. He wished for the impossible, he + wished that he had been born with his friend’s nature; that, instead of + the man who could only talk of being, he were the man who could be. And + yet, in the past, he had sometimes surely defended Viola against Carey’s + seeming condemnation! He had defended and not loved—but Carey had + judged and loved. + </p> + <p> + Carey had judged and loved, yet Carey had said he did not believe in a + God. Robin wondered if he believed now. + </p> + <p> + Robin was in Rome, and could not hear the words of a man and a woman who + were sitting one night, after the marriage, upon a piazza above the Lake + of Como. + </p> + <p> + The man said: + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember Robin’s ‘<i>Danseuse de Tunisie</i>’?” + </p> + <p> + “The woman with the fan?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I see her now without the fan. With it she was a siren, perhaps, but + without it she is—” + </p> + <p> + “What is she without it?” + </p> + <p> + “Eternal woman. Ah, how much better than the siren!” + </p> + <p> + There was a silence filled only by the voice of the waterfall between the + cypresses. Then the woman spoke, rather softly. + </p> + <p> + “You taught her what she could be without the fan. You have done the great + thing.” + </p> + <p> + “And do you know what you have done?” + </p> + <p> + “I?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You have taught me to see the stars and to feel the soul beyond the + stars.” + </p> + <p> + “No, it was not I.” + </p> + <p> + Again there was a silence. Then the man said: + </p> + <p> + “No, thank God—it was not you.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Woman With The Fan, by Robert Hichens + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WOMAN WITH THE FAN *** + +***** This file should be named 8549-h.htm or 8549-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/5/4/8549/ + +Produced by Dagny, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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