—and he went to get in his car.
‘But where is she now?’ I called after him. ‘How has she taken it?’
‘I’ll find her,’ he said, and drove away in haste.
I remained, bewildered, on my bollard. It was a strange business indeed, and fit for a story, without doubt; but what did it all mean? I could make neither head nor tail of it. James Trevick had married Ravella— Ravella had married James Trevick— and for no good reason, it seemed! And Clare Belmont, where was she? Had she been slighted, or had she planned the whole? I was at a loss to decide on an explanation, but after all, I could not escape the idea that Ravella lay at the heart of the matter, and had turned the clockwork of the entire thing. So I sat there awhile in the sunshine, looking down at the lobster pots and heaps of seaweed, and ruminated on the curious affair, and Ravella in particular.
I cannot tell her whole history, since all I know is what she herself has told me— but I can attest to her general character, having been acquainted with the lady some while, though not without lapses. She has a bright and cheerful temper, is a little humorous, and somewhat clever; she has a wicked smile and shining eyes, and you may well suppose that these charms, allied to a not unpleasing person, have often caused her to be admired— but she was never wont to yield where she might conquer, and has always managed to live prosperously upon her wits, by playing on the wits of others.
Well, it happened that I found out the truth behind it all in the end, and that my suspicions were not altogether awry— though often we find that fortune casts a strange lot, and trumps what we expect to appear in favour of some stranger case; and really there’s no denying that the solutions to many mysteries are mysteries in themselves.
II
It seems that a whole year before this curious wedding, to the day even, our hero James Trevick was first introduced to this Ravella. Clare Belmont had pressed her friend very enthusiastically to come and meet her newfound love, who, she declared, she was ‘desperately fond’ of; and she was sure, besides, that Ravella would quickly form a similar opinion of him.
‘Well, if he is such an angel as you describe,’ said Ravella, ‘how can I help adoring him? But even so, I don’t expect to fall to my knees in awe all at once.’
‘You will,’ she beamed back. ‘I promise you.’
‘Yes? So where did you find this prodigy? And whatever happened to that other work of art you were in love with?’
‘Who?’ cried Clare. ‘Oh, Guy? I was never in love with Guy. I was only fond of Guy.’
‘But I thought you were only fond of this new man?’
‘Oh no, it’s quite different. I’m desperately fond of him.’
I found out later that Guy— Mr. Guy Laurence no less— was the handsome gentleman I met outside the guesthouse in Hurlevor— but I suppose we shall return to him.
Clare planned an excursion to see the new Millennium Wheel on the Thames, at which illustrious venue she gleefully introduced her friend to Trevick, and interjected praises of him amongst the comments on the prodigious height of the wheel, how imperceptibly it turned, how the glass carriages remained upright, and how long it would remain open.
Trevick was reserved, clearly shy of strangers, and a little embarrassed by his lady’s attentive petting. However, Ravella contrived to be so bright and congenial that he began to thaw, smile more often and join in the chatter.
Nevertheless, in one glance she discerned his entire character, and supposed him proud and moody, doubtless one who considers things very seriously, not least himself. Indeed, as she smiled beautifully at the charming couple, she inwardly marvelled that they should be together at all. While she could see that her friend would dote on his masculine profundities, certain awkward glances of his revealed that Clare’s continual attention could become irksome.
‘He will tire of her energy,’ Ravella concluded. She prided herself on her first impressions.
And then matters took a more interesting turn still. As they found their places by the windows of their capsule, Ravella noticed how Trevick subtly contrived to stand between his two companions, so that he might not be entirely monopolised by Clare; in fact he seemed glad to turn his attention elsewhere.
‘That isn’t love,’ thought Ravella, ‘and hardly even fondness, by Clare’s standard.’
So they began to ascend above the river, majestically rearing into the air, and in the enthusiasm of pointing out the sights of London, entirely forgot to feel the vertigo they had anticipated on the ground. Clare was all breathless wonder, Trevick keen interest, and Ravella noted St. Paul’s and the new Tate and turned back to the human panorama within the capsule.
Her friend was wont to view the world entirely according to her own wishes, and was therefore oblivious to anything contrary. She took for granted that her James was as attached to her, as she was to him, and so did not really notice any evidence to contradict this. Her winning naïveté trusted that everybody else was as straightforward as she; but Ravella could see things differently. She looked on Trevick in quite another light, because it seemed that, not only did he appear to wish a greater distance between himself and Clare, but that he also wished a smaller distance between himself and Ravella.
The indications were slight, but she could not be mistaken. It was Ravella he asked if she could hear the guide quite well enough; it was Ravella to whom he pointed out Greenwich; and as the wheel turned to bring them to the summit, it was over Ravella’s shoulder he leaned, and hinted that on a clear day you could see Windsor Castle. Ravella raised her eyebrows by way of reply, but was not listening to his observations.
They began their descent and saw what was to be seen, until, finally satisfied with skylines and cityscapes, they alighted on the bankside and nipped along to the rooms at the old County Hall for tea. Over this refreshment the conversation turned to more general topics. Clare explained again how she had been introduced to James at a party, and how they had gotten along so well, and how they had done this and that and this and more and more and then some, until Trevick was moved to check her, with: ‘Ravella doesn’t want to hear all this, Clare.’
‘But I can’t hear enough!’ Ravella smiled. ‘And now tell me, whereabouts do you live, James?’
‘You’re renting a flat in Clapham, aren’t you, James?’ put in Clare.
‘But I’m mostly in Devon,’ he added, tersely.
‘And what do you do?’ asked Ravella.
‘He’s an artist,’ returned Clare gravely.
‘A poet,’ corrected Trevick.
‘A poet! Well, but what do you do for money, though?’ pursued Ravella.
He sipped his tea quietly. Clare gave her a significant glance, which was supposed to imply independent wealth.
‘On the dole,’ concluded Ravella to herself. Really, she had formed a very critical opinion of this man’s suitability as a partner for her friend. The latter’s addiction to spending money, and his apparently slender means notwithstanding, there was a discrepancy in their characters. Although they looked very handsomely together, they did not fit. And then besides, there was this other factor.
She decided to test it out by means of a faithful old contrivance. She took up a teaspoon and began to stir the pot, but halfway through this action, left off, seemingly engrossed in Clare’s conversation at that moment. The spoon remained in the teapot. Ravella allowed several minutes to pass, and then turned to take it out again.
Suddenly her hand was prevented by Trevick’s, with the warning caution that the spoon would be too hot to touch. Ravella feigned surprise, but inwardly marked her triumph. She was right to notice his interest in her. After all, he had kept his eye on her throughout her little charade, so that he could jump in and save her from injury. He was clearly more involved in that than his beloved’s conversation. There was no doubt about it. He preferred Ravella.
‘That settles it,’ she decided to herself. ‘I’ll have to ruin their little romance as soon as possible. I shall split them up, and Clare will
thank me for it at length. That’s what friends are for.’
When the two women met again, it was one bright and cold afternoon. They strolled through Green Park together, beneath the forlorn trees and a crisp blue sky, wrapped up close in their coats and an interesting conversation. As this was the first time they had spoken since the former introduction, Clare’s first demand, in a gasp of cloudy breath, was: ‘What did you think of him?’
But Ravella, who did not care to be too honest on that topic, only returned innocently, ‘Who?’
‘Oh, you know who! How can you be thinking of anyone but him? Well?’ she pursued anxiously, ‘What did you think?’
Ravella considered. ‘I thought he was extremely tall.’
‘Tall! He isn’t all that tall,’ objected Clare.
‘Isn’t he?’ said Ravella, wide-eyed. ‘Well then, on reflection, I thought him rather short.’
‘But he isn’t short, either,’ protested her friend.
Ravella held up her hands, smiling. ‘Then what is he?’
Clare pondered on it a moment, before happily deciding that he was just right.
Her companion pursed her lips. ‘I stand corrected.’
‘Yes yes, but Ravella, what did you think of him, though? I mean, really?’
‘Really,’ she returned, ‘I thought him very tall.’
‘But he isn’t tall! You’re dodging me, Ravella!’
‘What! I never dodge,’ countered she, a