December Love

  Produced by Dagny; John Bickers

  DECEMBER LOVE

  By Robert Hichens

  DECEMBER LOVE

  By Robert Hichens

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER I

  Alick Craven, who was something in the Foreign Office, had been livingin London, except for an interval of military service during thewar, for several years, and had plenty of interesting friends andacquaintances, when one autumn day, in a club, Francis Braybrooke, whoknew everybody, sat down beside him and began, as his way was, talkingof people. Braybrooke talked well and was an exceedingly agreeable man,but he seldom discussed ideas. His main interest lay in the doings ofthe human race, the "human animal," to use a favorite phrase of his, inwhat the human race was "up to." People were his delight. He could notlive away from the centre of their activities. He was never tiredof meeting new faces, and would go to endless trouble to bring aninteresting personality within the circle of his acquaintance. Craven'scomparative indifference about society, his laziness in social matters,was a perpetual cause of surprise to Braybrooke, who nevertheless wasalways ready to do Craven a good turn, whether he wanted it done to himor not. Indeed, Craven was indebted to his kind old friend for variousintroductions which had led to pleasant times, and for these he wasquite grateful. Braybrooke was much older than most people, though heseldom looked it, and decades older than Craven, and he had a genial wayof taking those younger than himself in charge, always with a view totheir social advancement. He was a very ancient hand at the socialgame; he loved to play it; and he wanted as many as possible to joinin, provided, of course, that they were "suitable" for such a purpose.Perhaps he slightly resembled "the world's governess," as a witty womanhad once called him. But he was really a capital fellow and a mine ofworldly wisdom.

  On the occasion in question, after chatting for about an hour, hehappened to mention Lady Sellingworth--"Adela Sellingworth," as hecalled her. Craven did not know her, and said so in the simplest way.

  "I don't know Lady Sellingworth."

  Braybrooke sat for a moment in silence looking at Craven over hiscarefully trimmed grey and brown beard.

  "How very strange!" he said at last.

  "Why is it strange?"

  "All these years in London and not know Adela Sellingworth!"

  "I know about her, of course. I know she was a famous beauty when KingEdward was Prince of Wales, and was tremendously prominent in societyafter he came to the throne. But I have never seen her about since Ihave been settled in London. To tell the honest truth, I thought LadySellingworth was what is called a back number."

  "Adela Sellingworth a back number!"

  Braybrooke bristled gently and caught his beard-point with hisbroad-fingered right hand. His small, observant hazel eyes rebukedCraven mildly, and he slightly shook his head, covered with thick,crinkly and carefully brushed hair.

  "Well--but," Craven protested. "But surely she long ago retired from thefray! Isn't she over sixty?"

  "She is about sixty. But that is nothing nowadays."

  "No doubt she had a terrific career."

  "Terrific! What do you mean exactly by terrific?"

  "Why, that she was what used to be called a professional beauty, asocial ruler, immensely distinguished and smart and all that sort ofthing. But I understood that she suddenly gave it all up. I remembersomeone telling me that she abdicated, and that those who knew her bestwere most surprised about it."

  "A woman told you that, no doubt."

  "Yes, I think it was a woman."

  "Anything else?"

  "If I remember rightly, she said that Lady Sellingworth was the verylast woman one had expected to do such a thing, that she was one of theold guard, whose motto is 'never give up,' that she went on expecting,and tacitly demanding, the love and admiration which most men only givewith sincerity to young women long after she was no more young and hadbegun to lose her looks. Perhaps it was all lies."

  "No, no. There is something in it."

  He looked meditative.

  "It certainly was a sudden business," he presently added. "I have oftenthought so. It came about after her return from Paris some ten yearsago--that time when her jewels were stolen."

  "Were they?" said Craven.

  "Were they!"

  Braybrooke's tone just then really did rather suggest the world'sgoverness.

  "My dear fellow--yes, they were, to the tune of about fifty thousandpounds."

  "What a dreadful business! Did she get them back?"

  "No. She never even tried to. But, of course, it came out eventually."

  "It seems to me that everything anyone wishes to hide does come outeventually in London," said Craven, with perhaps rather youthfulcynicism. "But surely Lady Sellingworth must have wanted to get herjewels back. What can have induced her to be silent about such a loss?"

  "It's a mystery. I have wondered why--often," said Braybrooke, gentlystroking his beard.

  He even slightly wrinkled his forehead, until he remembered that suchan indulgence is apt to lead to permanent lines, whereupon he abruptlybecame as smooth as a baby, and added:

  "She must have had a tremendous reason. But I'm not aware that anyoneknows what it is unless--" he paused meditatively. "I have sometimessuspected that perhaps Seymour Portman--"

  "Sir Seymour, the general?"

  "Yes. He knows her better than anyone else does. He cared for her whenshe was a girl, through both her marriages, and cares for her just asmuch still, I believe."

  "How were her jewels stolen?" Craven asked.

  Braybrooke had roused his interest. A woman who lost jewels worth fiftythousand pounds, and made no effort to get them back, must surely be anextraordinary creature.

  "They were stolen in Paris at the Gare du Nord out of a first-classcompartment reserved for Adela Sellingworth. That much came out throughher maid."

  "And nothing was done?"

  "I believe not. Adela Sellingworth is said to have behaved mostfatalistically when the story came out. She said the jewels weregone long ago, and there was an end of it, and that she couldn't bebothered."

  "Bothered!--about such a loss?"

  "And, what's more, she got rid of the maid."

  "Very odd!"

  "It was. Very odd! Her abdication also was very odd and abrupt. Shechanged her way of living, gave up society, let her hair go white,allowed her face to do whatever it chose, and, in fact, became very muchwhat she is now--the most charming _old_ woman in London."

  "Oh, is she charming?"

  "Is she charming!"

  Braybrooke raised his thick eyebrows and looked really pitiful.

  "I will see if I can take you there one day," he continued, aftera rebuking pause. "But don't count on it. She doesn't see very manypeople. Still, I think she might like you. You have tastes in common.She is interested in everything that is interesting--except, perhaps, inlove affairs. She doesn't seem to care about love affairs. And yet someyoung girls are devoted to her."

  "Perhaps that is because she has abdicated."

  Braybrooke looked at Craven with rather sharp inquiry.

  "I only mean that I don't think, as a rule, young girls are very fond ofelderly women whose motto is 'never give up.'" Craven explained.

  "Ah?"

  Braybrooke was silent. Then, lighting a cigarette, he remarked:

  "Youth is very charming, but one must say that it is set free fromcruelty."

  "I agree with you. But what about the old guard?" Craven asked. "Is thatalways so very kind?"

  Then he suddenly remembered that in London there is an "old guard" ofmen, and that undoubtedly Braybrooke belonged to it; and, afraid that hewas blundering, he changed the conversation.