again to the receiver, immediately accepted Laurence’s offer.
‘Queen, king, ace and out!’ murmured Ravella, laying down her cards in triumph. Of course a successful gambler is only successful because he accurately sums up the odds, and Ravella was nothing if not astute.
Meanwhile, Trevick spent all day pursuing various business transactions, intermittently trying to call Clare on the telephone, and wondering why he could not get through to her. Nevertheless, he made his way to keep the appointment he had specified in his card, and arrived at the restaurant just in time to see his darling sitting down to dinner at the table he had booked, with another man. Trevick’s jealous hackles rose; Clare’s wounded feelings seethed; Laurence’s gallantry nettled at the perceived injury done to the lady —there was a terrible scene— rash words were spoken, hot tempers flared— patrons gasped and waiters fainted— blows fell, and at last the entire party were ejected from the restaurant.
Each went their own way, utterly outraged, offended and embarrassed. The romantic aspirations of all three were blasted, and Ravella had neatly effected the whole.
But she had not done it for pleasure— all for gain. Yes, this was a mere prelude to the main performance, in which she meant to pursue her quarry, namely, Trevick’s money. And having successfully brought him into the scheme by cutting out his current attachment, she now intended to build on her initial victory by cutting out her own, and beginning the chase.
She hurried back to her apartment with thoughts ticking over, and once there quickly packed up her few belongings and made ready to depart— for in truth it was the home of this Jack Elliott, so happily absent in St. Petersburg, content in the belief that Ravella was waiting dotingly for his return. But she had other plans, a new conquest to make, a new crusade; she meant to have that James Trevick, and win his fabled millions too, in one fell swoop: all other considerations simply paled and faded away.
Pausing in her business, she assessed herself in the long bedroom mirror, and counted over the weapons she might bring to bear on her prey. Bright, flashing eyes, good; lips quick to smile and pout by turns, good; hair, brown, indifferent— but lustrous and dark, better; figure not too large, good; figure not too small, bad —but there was time for improvement there. A pretty face and pretty manners, together with the brain of a Moriarty, Mata Hari and Medea all at once, with a dash of Mary Poppins too, just to sweeten the mix. Yes, yes, she would do well enough.
An ancient look crept into her young eyes then, as she gazed on her own face; tinges of yesterdays— but she put them away, and continued her packing.
This done, she turned to the mirror once more, to set about the composition of some expressive phrase of valediction, to be written (in the best tradition) with lipstick on the glass. Her muse was hampered, however, by a nagging concern, namely that she did not want to waste too much of her favourite shade. As it happened, though, she was spared the trouble and the lipstick together by the sudden opening of the front door, and the entrance of a very bluff and jolly Jack Elliott, prematurely returned from Russia to surprise his beloved.
Ravella looked around at this vision of merry joy and realised that she had her work cut out. Elliott was besotted with her, supported her comfortably in his home, and would not suffer butter to melt in her mouth at any time— none of which boded that he would take being cast off wonderfully well. And he didn’t.
You must imagine for yourself a full hour of shock, horror, outrage, wounded cries, poisoned looks, bleeding tears, impassioned pleas, tantrums and heartbreak, all on the part of the unfortunate gentleman. An attack on the feelings can injure just as severely as a physical assault, and certainly takes much more concentration and effort to heal; and indeed, if Ravella had snatched a kitchen knife and butchered Elliott, filleting his bones and boiling them for broth, he would not, perhaps, have experienced so intense a sensation of pain and hurt as he did during that hour, and long afterwards. But these interesting observations aside, let it suffice to say that Elliott was somewhat upset when Ravella told him she was leaving.
After the hour had elapsed (Ravella had her eye on the time), he sat down on his suitcase in the hall with a heavy sigh, and she sat down on hers.
‘I’ve loved you so much,’ he said, ‘so much, Ravella, and I’ve been so happy. I was happy right up to that front door, right until I saw you, right until you spoke to me. Have you never been happy? Have you never been happy with me?’
‘Of course I have,’ she replied, ‘quite as happy as you, my dear, and I’m happy now.’
‘Happy to be leaving me!’
‘Happy that our whole affair has been happy, Jack, from beginning to end. I would hate to think of it waning into bitterness and resentment.’ She smiled sweetly.
‘But we could go on being happy,’ he urged, ‘we could go on as we are!’
She shook her head.
‘Why not?’ he pressed. ‘Why, tell me why?’
‘Because it’s time to change. That’s the way to stay happy.’
‘But I’m in love with you!’
‘You shouldn’t be,’ she tutted, ‘it’s very rash. Happiness is one thing, but being in love is altogether more risky.’
‘How can I help it, though?’ he parried. ‘You’ve made me love you!’
‘Made you!’ She stood up, frowning. ‘Well I’ll make you hate me now, in recompense!’
Elliott gasped. ‘Ravella, why are you doing this? Why are you being so cruel to me?’
‘I’m being kind,’ she said. ‘You’ve no business loving me. You’ll come to regret it.’
‘How can I regret it? I love you so much!’ —and with this anguished cry he flung his arms around her and sobbed; but she put him off sternly.
‘Too much, Jack! I never knew of love that came to any good. It’s too heady and dangerous for anybody to be content with it.’
But he did not like the taste of that, and retorted angrily: ‘There’s some new man, isn’t there? Who is he? I’ll kill him! I’ll murder him!’ He drew up his middle-age spread to his full height. ‘Tell me his name!’
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘Tell me, Ravella! I swear I’ll have him traced, and shot!’
‘Put your temper away,’ she snapped. ‘I won’t have you shooting him, or anyone.’
‘So there is someone!’ he accused, appalled.
‘Why does it surprise you? There were men before you, and there’ll be men again. Didn’t you “poach” me from your cousin, Jack? Well, you never won me— I won you.’
‘We were in love!’
‘That word again! I knew where my bread was buttered— and you knew how to feather your bed, and we were two happy proverbs together.’
His wrath kindled. ‘What have I ever done to hurt you? You were nothing when I met you!’
‘Nonsense, I was everything when you met me,’ said Ravella. ‘I was feted, celebrated and adored— I was the cat with the cream, and you had to have me. Well, that suited me well enough, at the time— but I find the cream’s gone sour of late, since your love stepped in. That’s done neither you nor me any good: I can’t live with it, and you can’t live without it.’
‘What would you know? You’ve never loved.’
Ravella took a breath before answering. ‘As it happens I have— and powerfully. But it’s all passed.’
Elliott clutched her hand. ‘You loved me?’
She snatched it away. ‘My husband, of course! I can’t tell you how I felt for him. But now I’m done with love.’
Then her erstwhile partner pulled her towards him once more, enjoining tenderly: ‘Give me time, Ravella, give me time. You’ll come to feel differently— about love, about me. You’ll come to feel as I do about you.’
‘I’d rather not feel at all, if I can,’ she told him. ‘Look at all the trouble it leads to.’
With that she looked at the clock, picked up her luggage and kissed his cheek goodbye. He protested still, however, claiming that he would find h
er, would seek her out, would make her see— and rounded off desperately with: ‘I’ll always love you!’ as she retreated.
‘Yes, my darling,’ she smiled kindly, half-turning. ‘But make it a short “always”.’ —and she slammed the door.
James Trevick, meanwhile, true to his proud nature, did not suffer himself to risk further embarrassment, following the scene in the restaurant, by remaining in the city any longer than he needed to. He froze all his feelings for Clare Belmont entirely, and withdrew his affection. He would not be made into a dupe, he would not be humiliated. He was sorely hurt by her apparent duplicity, and did not mean to disgrace himself by continuing her acquaintance if he could avoid it. So avoid it he would, by leaving London altogether, and immediately. Back home at Hurlevor Point he meant to retreat into his shell to lick his wounds, and learn that love is false, which lesson would doubtless form the basis of many a depthless poem.
But Ravella anticipated all of this, and made to head him off at Hurlevor.
III
The granite cottages cluttered in their cove, the forlorn quay, the blustered trees and miserable boats rocking at their moorings were all submerged in a grey sea-fog the following morning, as Ravella arrived in the unwary little village. The waves were furious and foaming, the sky overcast, the seagulls making their dismal madrigals as they headed inland— June did not promise a radiant summer.
Ravella’s umbrella immediately blew out as she stepped from the taxi,
The Drowned Sailor Page 9