CHAPTER 15
EVA EVERSLEIGH_(James Orlebar Cloyster's narrative continued)_
With my system thus in full swing I experienced the intoxication ofassured freedom. To say I was elated does not describe it. I walked onair. This was my state of mind when I determined to pay a visit to theGunton-Cresswells. I had known them in my college days, but since I hadbeen engaged in literature I had sedulously avoided them because Iremembered that Margaret had once told me they were her friends.
But now there was no need for me to fear them on that account, andthinking that the solid comfort of their house in Kensington would befar from disagreeable, thither, one afternoon in spring, I made my way.It is wonderful how friendly Convention is to Art when Art does notappear to want to borrow money.
No. 5, Kensington Lane, W., is the stronghold of Britishrespectability. It is more respectable than the most respectablesuburb. Its attitude to Mayfair is that of a mother to a daughter whohas gone on the stage and made a success. Kensington Lane is almosttolerant of Mayfair. But not quite. It admits the success, but shakesits head.
Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell took an early opportunity of drawing me aside,and began gently to pump me. After I had responded with sufficientdocility to her leads, she reiterated her delight at seeing me again. Ihad concluded my replies with the words, "I am a struggling journalist,Mrs. Cresswell." I accompanied the phrase with a half-smile which shetook to mean--as I intended she should--that I was amusing myself bydabbling in literature, backed by a small, but adequate, privateincome.
"Oh, come, James," she said, smiling approvingly, "you know you willmake a quite too dreadfully clever success. How dare you try to deceiveme like that? A struggling journalist, indeed."
But I knew she liked that "struggling journalist" immensely. She wouldcouple me and my own epithet together before her friends. She wouldenjoy unconsciously an imperceptible, but exquisite, sensation ofpatronage by having me at her house. Even if she discussed me withMargaret I was safe. For Margaret would give an altogether differentinterpretation of the smile with which I described myself asstruggling. My smile would be mentally catalogued by her as "brave";for it must not be forgotten that as suddenly as my name had achieved alittle publicity, just so suddenly had it utterly disappeared.
* * * * *
Towards the end of May, it happened that Julian dropped into my roomsabout three o'clock, and found me gazing critically at a top-hat.
"I've seen you," he remarked, "rather often in that get-up lately."
"It _is_, perhaps, losing its first gloss," I answered, inspectingmy hat closely. I cared not a bit for Julian's sneers; for the smell ofthe flesh-pots of Kensington had laid hold of my soul, and I wasresolved to make the most of the respite which my system gave me.
"What salon is to have the honour today?" he asked, spreading himselfon my sofa.
"I'm going to the Gunton-Cresswells," I replied.
Julian slowly sat up.
"Ah?" he said conversationally.
"I've been asked to meet their niece, a Miss Eversleigh, whom they'veinvited to stop with them. Funny, by the way, that her name should bethe same as yours."
"Not particularly," said Julian shortly; "she's my cousin. My cousinEva."
This was startling. There was a pause. Presently Julian said, "Do youknow, Jimmy, that if I were not the philosopher I am, I'd curse thisawful indolence of mine."
I saw it in a flash, and went up to him holding out my hand insympathy. "Thanks," he said, gripping it; "but don't speak of it. Icouldn't endure that, even from you, James. It's too hard for talking.If it was only myself whose life I'd spoilt--if it was only myself----"
He broke off. And then, "Hers too. She's true as steel."
I had heard no more bitter cry than that.
I began to busy myself amongst some manuscripts to give Julian time tocompose himself. And so an hour passed. At a quarter past four I got upto go out. Julian lay recumbent. It seemed terrible to leave himbrooding alone over his misery.
A closer inspection, however, showed me he was asleep.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, Eva Eversleigh and I became firm friends. Of her personI need simply say that it was the most beautiful that Nature evercreated. Pressed as to details, I should add that she was _petite_,dark, had brown hair, very big blue eyes, a _retrousse_ nose,and a rather wide mouth.
Julian had said she was "true as steel." Therefore, I felt nodiffidence in manoeuvring myself into her society on every conceivableoccasion. Sometimes she spoke to me of Julian, whom I admitted I knew,and, with feminine courage, she hid her hopeless, all-devouringaffection for her cousin under the cloak of ingenuous levity. Shelaughed nearly every time his name was mentioned.
About this time the Gunton-Cresswells gave a dance.
I looked forward to it with almost painful pleasure. I had not been toa dance since my last May-week at Cambridge. Also No. 5, KensingtonLane had completely usurped the position I had previously assigned toParadise. To waltz with Julian's cousin--that was the ambition whichnow dwarfed my former hankering for the fame of authorship or ahabitation in Bohemia.
Mrs. Goodwin once said that happiness consists in anticipating animpossible future. Be that as it may, I certainly thought my sensationswere pleasant enough when at length my hansom pulled up jerkily besidethe red-carpeted steps of No. 5, Kensington Lane. As I paid the fare, Icould hear the murmur from within of a waltz tune--and I kept repeatingto myself that Eva had promised me the privilege of taking her in tosupper, and had given me the last two waltzes and the first two extras.
I went to pay my _devoirs_ to my hostess. She was supinelygamesome. "Ah," she said, showing her excellent teeth, "Geniusattendant at the revels of Terpsichore."
"Where Beauty, Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell," I responded, cutting it, asthough mutton, thick, "teaches e'en the humblest visitor the reigningMuse's art."
"You may have this one, if you like," said Mrs. Gunton-Cresswellsimply.
Supper came at last, and, with supper, Eva.
I must now write it down that she was not a type of English beauty. Shewas not, I mean, queenly, impassive, never-anything-but-her-cool-calm-self.Tonight, for instance, her eyes were as I had never seen them.There danced in them the merriest glitter, which was more than a mereglorification of the ordinary merry glitter--which scores of girlspossess at every ball. To begin with, there was a diabolical abandonin Eva's glitter, which raised it instantly above the common herd's.And behind it all was that very misty mist. I don't know whether allmen have seen that mist; but I am sure that no man has seen it morethan once; and, from what I've seen of the average man, I doubt ifmost of them have ever seen it at all. Well, there it was for me tosee in Eva Eversleigh's eyes that night at supper. It made me thinkof things unspeakable. I felt a rush of classic aestheticism: Arcadia,Helen of Troy, the happy valleys of the early Greeks. Supper: I believeI gave her oyster _pates_. But I was far away. Deep, deep, deepin Eva's eyes I saw a craft sighting, 'neath a cloudless azure sky,the dark blue Symplegades; heard in my ears the jargon, loud and nearme, of the sailors; and faintly o'er the distance of the dead-calm searose intermittently the sound of brine-foam at the clashing rocks....
As we sat there _tete-a-tete_, she smiled across the table at mewith such perfect friendliness, it seemed as though a magic barrierseparated our two selves from all the chattering, rustling crowd aroundus. When she spoke, a little quiver of feeling blended adorably withthe low, sweet tones of her voice. We talked, indeed, of trifles, butwith just that charming hint of intimacy which men friends have who mayhave known one another from birth, and may know one another for alifetime, but never become bores, never change. Only when it comesbetween a woman and a man, it is incomparably finer. It is the talk, ofcourse, of lovers who have not realised they are in love.
"The two last waltzes," I murmured, when parting with her. She nodded.I roamed the Gunton-Cresswells's rooms awaiting them.
She danced thos
e two last waltzes with strangers.
The thing was utterly beyond me at the time. Looking back, I am stillamazed to what lengths deliberate coquetry can go.
She actually took pains to elude me, and gave those waltzes tostrangers.
From being comfortably rocked in the dark blue waters of a Grecian sea,I was suddenly transported to the realities of the ballroom. Mytheoretical love for Eva was now a substantial truth. I was in an agonyof desire, in a frenzy of jealousy. I wanted to hurl the two strangersto opposite corners of the ballroom, but civilisation forbade it.
I was now in an altogether indescribable state of nerves and suspense.Had she definitely and for some unfathomable reason decided to cut me?The first extra drew languorously to a close, couples swept from theroom to the grounds, the gallery or the conservatory. I tried to steadymy whirling head with a cigarette and a whisky-and-soda in thesmoking-room.
The orchestra, like a train starting tentatively on a long run,launched itself mildly into the preliminary bars of _Tout Passe_.I sought the ballroom blinded by my feelings. Pulling myself togetherwith an effort, I saw her standing alone. It struck me for the firsttime that she was clothed in cream. Her skin gleamed shining white. Shestood erect, her arms by her sides. Behind her was a huge, black velvet_portiere_ of many folds, supported by two dull brazen columns.
As I advanced towards her, two or three men bowed and spoke to her. Shesmiled and dismissed them, and, still smiling pleasantly, her glancetraversed the crowd and rested upon me. I was drawing now quite near.Her eyes met mine; nor did she avert them, and stooping a little toaddress her, I heard her sigh.
"You're tired," I said, forgetting my two last dances, forgettingeverything but that I loved her.
"Perhaps I am," she said, taking my arm. We turned in silence to the_portiere_ and found ourselves in the hall. The doors were opened.Some servants were there. At the bottom of the steps I chanced to see ayellow light.
"Find out if that cab's engaged," I said to a footman.
"The cool air----" I said to Eva.
"The cab is not engaged, sir," said the footman, returning.
"Yes," said Eva, in answer to my glance.
"Drive to the corner of Sloane Street, by way of the Park," I told thedriver.
I have said that I had forgotten everything except that I loved her.Could it help remembrance now that we two sped alone through emptystreets, her warm, palpitating body touching mine?
Julian, his friendship for me, his love for Eva; Margaret and her lovefor me; my own honour--these things were blotted from my brain.
"Eva!" I murmured; and I took her hand.
"Eva."
Her wonderful eyes met mine. The mist in them seemed to turn to dew.
"My darling," she whispered, very low. And, the road being deserted, Idrew her face to mine and kissed her.
Not George Washington — an Autobiographical Novel Page 18