December Love

by Robert Hichens

  CHAPTER III

  Francis Braybrooke was pleased. Young Craven and Beryl were evidently"drawing together" now Adela Sellingworth was happily out of the way.He heard of them dining together at the _Bella Napoli_, playing golftogether at Beaconsfield--or was it Chorley Wood? He was not quite sure.He heard of young Craven being seen at Claridge's going up in the liftto Miss Van Tuyn's floor. All this was very encouraging. Braybrooke'sformer fears were swept away and his confidence in his social sense wasre-established upon its throne. Evidently he had been quite mistaken,and there had been nothing in that odd friendship with AdelaSellingworth. This would teach him not to let himself go to suspicion inthe future.

  He still did not know where Lady Sellingworth was. Nothing had appearedin the _Morning Post_ about her movements. Nobody seemed to knowanything about her. He met various members of the "old guard" and madeinquiry, but "Haven't an idea" was the invariable reply. Even, andthis was strangest of all, Seymour Portman did not know where she was.Braybrooke met him one day at the Marlborough and spoke of the matter,and Seymour Portman, with his most self-contained and reserved manner,replied that he believed Lady Sellingworth had gone abroad to "take arest," but that he was not sure where she was "at the moment." She wasprobably moving about.

  Why should she take a rest? She never did anything specially laborious.It really was quite mysterious. One day Braybrooke inquired discreetlyin Berkeley Square, alleging a desire to communicate with LadySellingworth about a charity bazaar in which he was interested; but thefootman did not know where her ladyship was or when she was coming backto town. And still letters were not being forwarded.

  Meanwhile Fanny Cronin felt that Paris was drifting quite out of herken. The autumn was deepening. The first fogs of winter had made apremature appearance, and the spell of the Wallace Collection wasevidently as strong as ever on Beryl. But was it the Wallace Collection?Miss Cronin never knew much about what Beryl was doing. Still, she wasa woman and had her instincts, rudimentary though they were. Mr.Braybrooke must certainly have received his conge. Mrs. Clem Hodsonquite agreed with Miss Cronin on that point. Beryl had probably refusedthe poor foolish old man that day at the Ritz when there had been thatunpleasant dispute about the plum cake. But now there was this Mr.Craven! Miss Cronin had found him once with Beryl in the latter'ssitting-room; she had reason to believe they had played golf together.The young man was certainly handsome. And then Beryl had seemed quitealtered just lately. Her temper was decidedly uncertain. She wasunusually restless and preoccupied. Twice she had been exceedingly crossabout Bourget. And she looked different, too; even Suzanne Hodson hadnoticed it. There was something in her face--"a sort of look," MissCronin called it, with an apt feeling for the choice of words--which wasnew and alarming. Mrs. Clem declared that Beryl had the expression of awoman who was crazy about a man.

  "It's the eyes and the cheek-bones that tell the tale, Fanny!" shehad observed. "They can't deceive a woman. Don't talk to me about theWallace Collection."

  Poor Miss Cronin was very uneasy. The future looked almost as dark asthe London days. As she lay upon the French bed, or reclined upon thesofa, or sat deep in her arm-chair, she envisaged an awful change, whenthe Avenue Henri Martin would know her no more, when she might have toreturn to the lair in Philadelphia from which Miss Van Tuyn had summonedher to take charge of Beryl.

  One day, when she was almost brooding over the fire, between five andsix o'clock in the afternoon, the door opened and Beryl appeared. Shehad been out since eleven in the morning. But that was nothing new. Shewent out very often about half-past ten and scarcely ever came back tolunch.

  "Fanny!" she said. "I want you."

  "What is it, dear?" said Miss Cronin, sitting forward a little in herchair and laying aside her book.

  "I've brought back a friend, and I want you to know him. Come into mysitting-room."

  Miss Cronin got up obediently and remembering Mrs. Clem's words, lookedat Beryl's cheek-bones and eyes.

  "Is it Mr. Craven?" she asked in a quavering voice.

  "Mr. Craven--no! You know him already."

  "I have seen him once, dear."

  "Come along!"

  Miss Cronin followed her into the lobby. The door of the sitting-roomwas open, and by the fire was standing a stalwart-looking man in a darkblue overcoat. As Miss Cronin came in he gazed at her, and she thoughtshe had never before seen such a pair of matching brown eyes. Berylintroduced him as Mr. Arabian.

  The stranger bowed, and then pressed Miss Cronin's freckled right handgently, but strongly too.

  "I have been hoping to meet you," he said, in a strong but gentle voicewhich had, Miss Cronin thought, almost caressing inflexions.

  "Very glad to meet you, indeed!" said the companion.

  "Yes. Miss Van Tuyn has told me what you are to her."

  "Forgive me for a minute!" said Miss Van Tuyn. "I must take off mythings. They all feel as if they were full of fog. Fanny, entertain Mr.Arabian until I come back. But don't talk about Bourget. He's never readBourget, I'm sure."

  She looked at Fanny Cronin and went out of the room. And in thatlook old Fanny, slow in the uptake though she undoubtedly was, read atremendous piece of news.

  This must be the Wallace Collection!

  That was how her mind put it. This must be the great reason of Beryl'slingering in London, this total stranger of whom she had never heardtill this moment. Her instinct had not deceived her. Beryl had at lastfallen in love. And probably Mr. Braybrooke had been aware of it when hehad called that afternoon and talked so persistently about the changesand chances of life. In that case Miss Cronin had wronged him. And hehad perhaps come to plead the cause of another.

  "The weather--it is really terrible, is it not? You are wise to stay inthe warm."

  So the conversation began between Miss Cronin and Arabian, and itcontinued for quite a quarter of an hour. Then Miss Van Tuyn came backin a tea gown, looking lovely with her uncovered hair and her shining,excited eyes, and some twenty minutes later Arabian went away.

  When he had gone Miss Van Tuyn said carelessly:

  "Fanny, darling, what do you think of him?"

  Fanny, darling! That was not Beryl's usual way of putting things. MissCronin was much shaken. She felt the ground of her life, as it were,rocking beneath her feet, and yet she answered--she could not help it:

  "I think Mr. Arabian is the most--the most--he is fascinating. He is acharming man. And how very good-looking!"

  "Yes, he's a handsome fellow. And so you liked him?"

  "No one has ever been so charming to me as he was--that I can remember.He must have a most sympathetic make-up. Who is he?"

  "A friend of Dick Garstin, the painter. And so he attracted you?"

  "I think him certainly most attractive. I should imagine he must havea very kind heart. There is something almost childlike about him, sosimple!"

  "So--so you find nothing repellent in him?"

  "Repellent!" said Miss Cronin, almost with fear. "Do you mean tosay--then don't you like him?"

  "I like him well enough. But, as you ought to know, I'm not given toraving about men."

  "Well," said Miss Cronin almost severely, "Mr. Arabian--Is that his truename?"

  "Yes. I told you so."

  "It's such an odd name! Mr. Arabian is a most kind and warm-hearted man.I am certain of that. And he is not above being charming and thoughtfulto an ordinary old woman like me. He understands me, and that shows hehas sympathy. I am sure Suzanne would like him too."

  "Really, you quite rave about him!" said Miss Van Tuyn, with a lighttouch of sarcasm.

  But her eyes looked pleased, and that evening she was exceptionally kindto old Fanny.

  She had not yet brought Arabian and Alick Craven together. Somehow sheshrank from that far more than she had shrunk from the test with Fanny.Craven was very English, and Englishmen are apt to be intolerant aboutmen of other nations. And Craven was a man, and apparently was beginningto like her very much. He would not be a fair judge. Undoubted
ly hewould be prejudiced.

  And at this point in her mental communings Miss Van Tuyn realized thatshe was losing her independence of mind. What did it matter if Fannythought this and Alick Craven that? What did it matter what anyonethought but herself?

  But she was surely confused, was walking in the clouds. Dick Garstinhad given her a lead that night of the meeting of the Georgians. She hadcertainly been affected by his words. Perhaps he had even infected herwith his thought. Thought can infect, and Garstin had a powerful mind.And now she was seeking to oppose to Garstin's thought the opinion ofothers. How terribly weak that was! And she had always prided herself onher strength. She was startled, even angered, by the change in herself.

  Her connexion with Craven was peculiar.

  Ever since Lady Sellingworth's abrupt departure from England he hadpersistently sought her out, had shown a sort of almost obstinatedesire to be in her company. Remembering what had happened when LadySellingworth was still in Berkeley Square, Miss Van Tuyn had been onher guard. Craven had hurt her vanity once. She did not quite understandhim. She suspected him of peculiarity. She even wondered whether he hadhad a quarrel with Adela which had been concealed from her, and whichmight account for Adela's departure and for Craven's present assiduity.Possibly, but for one reason, her injured vanity would have kept Cravenat a distance--at any rate, for a time. It would have been pleasant todeal out suitable punishment to one who certainly deserved it. But therewas the reason for the taking of the other course--Arabian.

  An obscure instinct drove her into intimacy with Craven because ofArabian. She was not sure that she wanted Craven just now, but she mightwant him, perhaps very much, later. She knew he was not really in lovewith her, but they were beginning to get on well together. Headmired her; she held out a hand to his youth. There was something ofcomradeship in their association. And their minds understood each otherrather well, she thought. For they were both genuinely interested in thearts, though neither of them was an artist. And she felt very safewith Alick Craven. So she forgave Craven for his behaviour with AdelaSellingworth. She let him off his punishment. She relied upon him asher friend. And she needed to rely upon someone. For the calmself-possession of her nature was beginning to be seriously affected.She was losing some of her hitherto immense self-assurance. Her faith inthe coolness and dominating strength of her own temperament was shaken.

  Arabian troubled her increasingly.

  That night at the restaurant in Conduit Street she had felt that shehated him, and when she had left Garstin she had realized something,that the measure of her nervous hatred was the measure of somethingelse. Why should she mind what Arabian did? What was his way of lifeto her? Other men could do what they chose and her well-poised,well-disciplined brain retained its normal calm. So long as they gaveher the admiration which her vanity needed, she was not persecuted byany undue anxieties about the secret conduct of their lives. But shewas tormented by the memory of that girl in the restaurant. And sheremembered the conversation about jealousy round the dinner table at theCarlton. She was jealous now. That was why she had been so angry withGarstin. That was why she had lain awake that night.

  And yet the next morning she had gone to the studio in Glebe Place. Shehad greeted Arabian as usual. She had never let him know that she hadseen him in the restaurant, and she had persuaded Dick Garstin to saynothing about it. No doubt Arabian supposed that he had been too quickfor them, and that they did not know he was with the woman who had comein and had almost immediately gone out.

  But since that night Miss Van Tuyn had been persecuted by a secretjealousy such as she had never known till now.

  Let him sink back to the depths! She had said that, but she did notwant him to disappear out of her life. She had said, too, that hewas horrible. The words were spoken in a moment of intense nervousirritation. But were they true? She thought of him as a night bird. Yetshe brought him to Claridge's and introduced him to Fanny, and soughtFanny's opinion of him, and been pleased that it was favourable. Andshe saw him almost daily. And she knew she would go on seeing himtill--what?

  She could not foresee the end of this adventure brought about by herown audacious wilfulness. Some day she supposed Dick Garstin would besatisfied with his work. A successful portrait of Arabian would stand onthe easel in Glebe Place. Garstin was not at all satisfied yet. She knewthat. He had put aside two more beginnings angrily, had started again,had paused, taken up other work, taken a rest, sent for Arabian oncemore. But this strange impotence of Garstin to satisfy himself wouldsurely not last for ever. Either he would succeed, or he would abandonthe attempt to succeed, or--a third possibility presented itself to MissVan Tuyn's mind--his model would get tired of the conflict and refuse to"sit" any more.

  And then--the depths?

  Till now Arabian's patience had been remarkable. Evidently Garstin'sobstinacy was matched by an obstinacy in him. Although he had onceperhaps been secretly reluctant to sit, had been tempted to becomeGarstin's model by the promise of the finished picture, he nowseemed determined to do his part, endured Garstin's irritability,dissatisfaction, abandoned and renewed attempts to "make a first-ratejob of him" with remarkable good temper. He was evidently resolved notto give up this enterprise without his reward. There was fixed purposein his patience.

  "By God he's a stayer!" Garstin had said of him in a puffing breath oneday when the palette knife had been angrily used once more. "Either he'swaiting for the money value of a portrait by me like a cat for a mouse,or he's afraid of the finish."

  "Why?" Miss Van Tuyn had asked.

  "Well, you're in the thing! Perhaps he's afraid that when he saysgood-bye to my studio he says good-bye to you too. Or perhaps thetwo reasons govern him--love of money, love of woman. Anyhow he's asticker!"

  "He only wants the picture," she had said.

  But that remark had been made for the benefit of Garstin. By this timeshe knew that Arabian had a further purpose, and that it was connectedwith herself. She was sure that he was intent on her. And she wonderedvery much what he would do when at last the picture was finished. Surelythen something definite must happen. She both longed for and dreadedthat moment. She knew Garstin, and she knew that once he had achievedwhat he was trying--"sweating blood," he called it--to achieve hisinterest in Arabian would almost certainly cease. Arabian would thenbe nothing but used material of no more value in Garstin's life. Thepicture would be exhibited, and then handed over to Arabian, and Garstinwould be off on some other track.

  She had now been with Arabian probably as many times as she had beenwith Craven. Yet she thoroughly understood the essential qualities ofthe Englishman, or believed that she did, and she still knew very littleabout Arabian. She did not even know what race he belonged to. He hadevidently travelled a great deal. Sometimes he casually mentioned havingbeen here or there. He spoke of America as one who had often been in NewYork. Once he had mentioned San Francisco as if he were very familiarwith it. Miss Van Tuyn had relatives there, and had asked him if he knewthem. But he had not known them. Whom did he know? She often wondered.He must know somebody besides that horrible girl she had seen for amoment in the restaurant in Conduit Street. But she did not like to askhim direct questions. To do that would be to show too much interest inhim. And something else, too, prevented her from questioning him. Shehad no faith in his word. She felt that he was a man who would sayanything which suited his purpose. She had never caught him out in adirect lie, but she was quite certain he would not mind telling one. Ofcourse she had often known men about whom she knew really verylittle. But she could not remember ever having known a man about whosecharacter, position, education and former life she was so ignorant asshe was about Arabian's.

  He was still a vague sort of Cosmopolitan to her, a floating foreign manwhom she could not place. He was still the magnificent mongrel belongingto no known breed.

  Certain things about him she did know, however. She knew he was atpresent living at the Charing Cross Hotel, though he said he was lookingfor a flat in the West En
d. He spoke several languages; certainlyEnglish, French, German and Spanish. He had some knowledge ofhorseflesh, and evidently took an interest in racing. He seemedinterested, too, in finance. And he played the piano and sang.

  That gift of his had surprised her. One day in the studio, when Garstinhad finished painting, and they had lingered smoking and talking, theconversation had turned on music, and Garstin, who had some knowledge ofall the arts, had spoken about Stravinsky, whom he knew, and whose musiche professed to understand. Miss Van Tuyn had joined in, and had givenher view on _Le Sacre du Printemps_, _The Nightingale_, and other works.Arabian had sat smoking in discreet silence, till she had said to himbluntly:

  "Do you care about music?"

  And then Arabian had said that he was very fond of music, and played andsang a little himself, but that he had been too lazy to study seriouslyand had an uneducated ear.

  Garstin had told him bluntly to go to the piano and show them what hecould do. And Arabian had surprised Miss Van Tuyn by at once complyingwith this request, which had sounded like an order.

  His performance had been the sort of thing she, having "advanced" viewson musical matters, was generally inclined to sneer at or avoid. He hadplayed two or three coon songs and a tango. But there had been in hisplaying a sheer "musicalness," as she had called it afterwards, whichhad enticed her almost against her will. And when he had sung somelittle Spanish songs she had been conquered, though she had not said so.

  His voice was a warm and soft tenor, and he had sung very naturally,carelessly almost. But everything had been just right. When he hadstolen time, when he had given it back, the stealing and repayment hadbeen right. His expression had been charming and not overdone. There hadbeen at moments a delightful impudence in his singing. The touches oftenderness had been light as a feather, but they had had real meaning.Through his last song he had kept a cigarette alight in his mouth. Hehad merely hummed the melody, but it had been quite delicious. EvenGarstin had approved, and had said: "The stuff was sheer rot, but it waslike a palm tree singing."

  And then Arabian had given them a piece of information.

  "I was brought up among palm trees."

  "Florida?" Garstin had said.

  But somehow the question had not been answered. Perhaps she--Beryl--hadspoken just then. She was not sure. But she had been "got at" by themusic. And at that moment she had realized why Arabian was dangerousto her. Not only his looks appealed to her. He had other, more secretweapons. Charm, suppleness of temperament, heat and desire were his.Otherwise he could not have sung and played that rubbish as he had done.

  That day, later on, he had not actually said, but had implied that someSpanish blood ran in his veins.

  "But I belong to no country," he had added quickly. "I am a _gamin_ ofthe world."

  "Not a citizen?" she had said.

  "No; I am the eternal _gamin_. I shall never be anything else."

  All very well! But at moments she was convinced that there was a veryhard and a very wary man in Arabian.

  Perhaps sitting under the singing palm tree there was a savage!

  She wanted to know what Arabian was. She began to feel that she mustknow. For, in spite of her ignorance, their intimacy was deepening. Andnow people were beginning to talk. Although she had been so careful notto show herself with Arabian in any smart restaurants, not to walk withhim in the more frequented parts of the West End, they had been seentogether. On the day when she had brought him to Claridge's someAmerican friends had seen them pass through the hall, and afterwardshad asked her who he was. Another day, when she was coming away with himfrom the studio, she had met Lady Archie Brooke at the corner of GlebePlace. She had not stopped to speak. But Lady Archie had stared atArabian. And Miss Van Tuyn knew what that meant. The "old guard" wouldbe told of Beryl's wonderful new man.

  She felt nervously sensitive about Arabian. And yet she had been aboutParis with all sorts of men, and had not cared what people had thoughtor said. But those men had been clever, workers in the arts, men withnames that were known, or that would be known presently. Arabian wasdifferent. She felt oddly shy about being seen with him. Her audacityseemed fading away in her. She realized that and felt alarmed. If onlyshe knew something definite about Arabian, who he was, what his peoplewere, where he came from, she would feel much easier. She began toworry about the matter. She lay awake at night. At moments a sort ofdesperation came upon her like a wave. Sometimes she said to herself, "Iwish I had never met him." And yet she knew that she did not want to getrid of him. But she wished no one to know of her friendship; with thisman--if it were a friendship.

  Garstin was watching her through it all. She hated his eyes. He did notcare what was happening to her. He only cared what appearance it caused;how it affected her eyes, her manner, her expression, the line of hermouth, the movements of her hands. He had said that she was waking up.But--to what?

  All this time she seemed to be aware of an almost fatal growingintention in Arabian. Nevertheless, he waited. She had never been ableto forget the article she had read in the _Westminster Gazette_. Whenshe had read about the woman in the play she had instinctively comparedherself with that woman. And then something in her revolted. She hadthought of it as her Americanism, which loathed the idea of slavery inany form. But nevertheless, she had been aware of alarming possibilitieswithin her. She was able to understand the woman in the play. And thatmust surely be because she was obscurely akin to her. And she knew thatwhen she had read the article the man in the play had made her thinkof Arabian. That, of course, was absurd. But she understood why it was.That woman had been attracted by a man of whom she knew nothing. She,Beryl Van Tuyn, was in the same situation. But of course she did notcompare poor Arabian in her mind with a homicidal maniac.

  He was gentle and charming. Old Fanny liked him immensely, said he had akind heart. And Fanny was sensitive.

  Yet again she thought of the savage sitting under the palm tree and ofDick Garstin's allusion to a king in the underworld.

  She resented being worried. She resented having her nerves on edge.She was angry with Dick Garstin, and even angry with herself. In bedat night, when she could not sleep, she read books on New Thought,and tried to learn how to govern her mind and to control her thoughtprocesses. But she was not successful in the attempt. Her mindcontinually went to Arabian, and then she was filled with anxiety,with suspicion, with jealousy, and with a strange sort of longingmysteriously combined with repulsion and dread. And underneath all herfeelings and thoughts there was a basic excitement which troubled herand which she could not get rid of.

  One morning she got up full of restlessness. That day Dick Garstin wasnot painting. It was a Sunday, and he had gone into the country to staywith some friends. Miss Van Tuyn had made no arrangement to see Arabian.Indeed, she never saw him except on the painting days, for she stillkept up the pretence that he was merely an acquaintance, and that sheonly met him because of her interest in Garstin's work and her wish tolearn more of the technique of painting. The day was free before her.She went to the telephone and called up Alick Craven.

  It was a fine morning, cold and crisp, with a pale sun. She longed to beout of town, and she suggested to Craven to join her in hiring a Daimlercar, to run down to Rye, and to have a round of golf on the difficultcourse by the sea. She had a friend close to Rye who would introducethem as visiting players. They would take a hamper and lunch in the caron the way down.

  Craven agreed with apparent eagerness. By ten they were off. Soon afterone they were on the links. They played the full round, eighteen holes,and Craven beat her. Then they had tea in the house below the club-houseon the left-hand side of the road as you go towards Camber Sands.

  After tea Miss Van Tuyn suggested running a little farther on in the carand taking a walk on the sands before starting on the journey back toLondon.

  "I love hard sands and the wind and the lines upon lines of surf!" shesaid. "The wind blows away some of my civilization."

  "I know!" said Craven, l
ooking at her with admiration.

  He liked her strength and energy, the indefatigable youth of her.

  "_En route!_"

  Soon the car stopped. They got out, and over the sandy hill, with itsrough sea-grasses, they made their way to the sands.

  The tide was low. There was room and to spare on the hard, levelexpanse. Lines of white surf stretched to right and left far as the eyescould see. The piercing cries of the gulls floating on the eddying windwere relieved against the blooming diapason of the sea. And the solitudewas as the solitude of some lost island of the main. They descended,sinking in the loose, fine sand of the banks, and the soft, pale sandthat edged them, and made their way to the yellow and vast sands thatextended to the calling monster, whose voice filled their ears,and seemed to be summoning them persistently, with an almost tragicarrogance, away from all they knew, from all that was trying to holdand keep them, to the unknown, to the big things that lie always far offover the edge of the horizon.

  "Let us turn our backs on Rye!" said the girl.

  They swung round with the wind behind them, and walked on easily side byside, helped by the firm and delicate floor under their feet.

  She was wearing a wine-coloured "jumper," a short skirt of a roughheathery material, a small brown hat pinned low on her head, presseddown on her smooth forehead. Her cheeks were glowing. The wind sent thered to them. She stepped along with a free, strongly athletic movement.There was a hint of the Amazon in her. On her white neck some wispsof light yellow hair, loosened by the wind's fingers, quivered as ifseparately alive and wilful with energy.

  Craven, striding along in knickerbockers beside her, felt the animalcharm of her as he had never felt it in London. She had thrust hergloves away in some hidden pocket. Her right hand grasped a stickfirmly. The white showed at the knuckles. He felt through her silencethat she was giving herself heart and soul to the spirit of the place,to the sweeping touch of the wind, to the eternal sound in the voice ofthe sea.

  They walked on for a long time into the far away. There was a dull lemonlight over the sea pushing through the grey, hinting at sunset. Aflock of gulls tripped jauntily on some wet sand near to them, inwhich radiance from the sky was mysteriously retained. A film of movingmoisture from the sea spread from the nearest surf edge, herald of theturning tide. Miss Van Tuyn raised her arms, shook them, cried out withall her force. And the gulls rose, easily, strongly, and flew insolentlytowards their element.

  "Let us turn!" she said.

  "All right!"

  Those were the first words they had spoken.

  "Let us go and sit down in a sand-bank and see the twilight come."

  "Yes."

  They sat down presently among the spear-like blades of the spiky grass,facing the tides and the evening sky, and Craven, with some difficulty,lit his pipe and persuaded it to draw, while she looked at hislong-fingered brown hands.

  "I couldn't sit here with some people I know," she said. "Desolationlike this needs the right companion. Isn't it odd how some people areonly for certain places?"

  "And I suppose _the_ one person is for all places."

  "Do you feel at home with me here?" she asked him, rather abruptly andwith a searching look at him.

  "Yes, quite--since our game. A good game is a link, isn't it?"

  "For bodies."

  "Well, that means a good deal. We live in the body."

  "Some people marry through games, or hunting. They're the bodily people.Others marry through the arts. Music pulls them together, or painting,or literature. They are mental."

  "Bodies--minds! And what about hearts?" asked Craven.

  "The tide's coming in. Hearts? They work in mystery, I believe. I expectwhen you love someone who hasn't a taste in common with you your heartmust be hard at work. Perhaps it is only opposites who can really love,those who don't understand why. If you understand why you are on theground, you have no need of wings. Have you ever been afraid of anyone?"

  Craven looked at her with a dawning of surprise.

  "Do you mean of a German soldier, for instance?" he said.

  "No, no! Of course not. Of anyone you have known personally; afraid ofanyone as an individual? That's what I mean."

  "I can't remember that I ever have."

  "Do you think it possible to love someone who inspires you at momentswith unreasoning dread?"

  "No; candidly I don't."

  "I think there can be attraction in repulsion."

  "I should be very sorry for myself if I yielded to such an attraction."

  "Why?"

  "Because I think it would probably lead to disaster."

  "How soberly you speak!" said Miss Van Tuyn, almost with an air ofdistaste.

  After a moment of silence she added:

  "I don't believe an Englishman has the power to lose his head."

  Craven sat a little nearer to her.

  "Would you like to see me lose mine?" he asked.

  "I don't say that. But I should like you to be able to."

  "And you? You are an American girl. Don't you pride yourself on yourcoolness, your self-control, your power to deal with any situation? IfEnglishmen are sober minded, what about American women? Do _they_ losetheir heads easily?"

  "No. That's why--"

  She stopped abruptly.

  "What is it you want to say to me? What are you trying to say?"

  "Nothing!" she answered.

  And her voice sounded almost sulky.

  The bar of lemon light over the sea narrowed. Clouds, with gold tintededges, were encroaching upon it. The tide had turned, and, because theyknew it, the voice of the sea sounded louder to them. Already they couldimagine those sands by night, could imagine their bleak desolation,could almost feel the cold thrill of their loneliness.

  Craven stretched out his hand and took one of hers and held it.

  "Why do you do that?" she said. "You don't care for me really."

  He pressed her hand. He wanted to kiss her at that moment. His youth,the game they had played together, this isolation and nearness, theoncoming night--they all seemed to be working together, pushing himtowards her mysteriously. But just at that moment on the sands close tothem two dark figures appeared, a fisherman in his Sunday best walkingwith his girl. They did not see Miss Van Tuyn and Craven on thesandbank. With their arms spread round each other's waists, and slightlylurching in the wind, they walked slowly on, sinking at each step alittle in the sand. Their red faces looked bovine in the twilight.

  Almost mechanically Craven's fingers loosened on Miss Van Tuyn's hand.She, too, was chilled by this vision of Sunday love, and her hand cameaway from his.

  "They are having their Sunday out," she said, with a slight, cold laugh."And we have had ours!"

  And she got up and shook the sand grains from her rough skirt.

  "And that's happiness!" she added, almost with a sneer.

  Like him she felt angry and almost tricked, hostile to the working ofsex, vulgarized by the sight of that other drawing together of two humanbeings. Oh! the ineptitude of the echoes we are! Now she was irritatedwith Craven because he had taken her hand. And yet she had been on theedge of a great experiment. She knew that Craven did not love her--yet.Perhaps he would never really love her. Certainly she did not love him.And yet that day she had come out from London with a desire to takerefuge in him. It almost amounted to that. When they started she had notknown exactly what she was going to do. But she had set Craven, the safeman, the man whom she could place, could understand, could certainlytrust up to a point, in her mind against Arabian, the unsafe man,whom she could not place, could not understand, could not trust.And, mentally, she had clung to Craven. And if those two bovinesentimentalists had not intruded flat-footed upon the great waste ofCamber and the romance of the coming night, and Craven had yielded tohis impulse and had kissed her, she might have clung to him in verytruth. And then? She might have been protected against Arabian. Butevidently it was not to be. At the critical moment Fate had intervened,had sent
two human puppets to change the atmosphere.

  She had really a sense of Fate upon her as she shook the sand from herskirt. And the voice of the slowly approaching sea sounded in her earslike the voice of the inevitable.

  What must be must be.

  The lemon in the sky was fast fading. The gold was dying away from theedges of the clouds. The long lines of surf mingled together in ablur of tangled whiteness. She looked for a moment into the gatheringdimness, and she felt a menace in it; she heard a menace in the cry ofthe tides. And within herself she seemed to be aware of a menace.

  "It's all there in us, every bit of it!" she said to herself. "That'sthe horrible thing. It doesn't come upon us. It's in us."

  And she said to Craven:

  "Come!"

  It was rapidly getting dark. The ground was uneven and rough, the sandloose and crumbling.

  "Do take my arm!" he said, but rather coldly, with constraint.

  She hesitated, then took it. And the feeling of his arm, which wasstrong and muscular, brought back to her that strange desire to use himas a refuge.

  Somewhat as Lady Sellingworth had thought of Seymour Portman, Beryl VanTuyn thought of Craven, who would certainly not have enjoyed knowledgeof it.

  When they had scrambled down to the road, and saw the bright eyes of thecar staring at them from the edge of the marshes, she dropped his arm.

  "How Adela Sellingworth would have enjoyed all this if she had been hereto-day instead of me!" she said.

  "Lady Sellingworth!" said Craven, as if startled. "What made you thinkof her just then?"

  "I don't know. Stop a moment!"

  She stood very still.

  "I believe she has come back to London," she said. "Perhaps she sent thethought to me from Berkeley Square. How long has she been away?"

  "About five weeks, I should think."

  "Would you be glad if she were back?"

  "It would make very little difference to me," he said in a casual voice."Now put on your coat."

  He helped her into the car, and they drove away from the sands and thelinks, from the sea and their mood by the sea.

  They drove through the darkness towards London, Lady Sellingworth andArabian.