December Love

  CHAPTER III

  "Come up! Come up, my boy! I've something to show you!"

  She heard steps mounting the stairs, and got up from the sofa. Shelooked once more at the portrait, then turned round to meet the two men,standing so that she was directly in front of it. Just then she had awish to conceal it from Arabian, to delay, if only for a moment, hisknowledge of what had been done.

  Arabian came into the studio and saw her in her mourning facing him. Atonce he came up to her with Dick Garstin behind him. He looked grave,sympathetic, almost reverential. His brown eyes held a tender expressionof kindness.

  "Miss Van Tuyn! I did not know you were here."

  She saw Garstin smiling ironically. Arabian took her hand and pressedit.

  "I am glad to see you again."

  His look, his pressure, were full of ardent sympathy.

  "I have been thinking often of you and your great sorrow."

  "Thank you!" she said, almost stammering.

  "And what is it I am to see?" said Arabian, turning to Garstin.

  "Stand away, Beryl!" said Garstin roughly.

  She moved. What else could she do? Arabian saw the portrait and said:

  "Oh, my picture at last!"

  Then he took a step forward, and there was a silence in the studio.

  Miss Van Tuyn looked at the floor at first. Then, as the silencecontinued, she raised her eyes to Arabian's. She did not know what sheexpected to see, but she was surprised at what she did see. Standingquite still immediately in front of the picture, with his large eyesfixed upon it, Arabian was looking very calm. There was, indeed,scarcely any expression in his face. He had thrust both hands into thepockets of his overcoat. Miss Van Tuyn wondered whether those handswould betray any feeling if she could see them. In the calmness of hisface she thought there was something stony, but she was not quite sure.She was, perhaps, too painfully moved, too violently excited just thento be a completely accurate observer. And she was aware of that. Shewished Arabian would speak. When was he going to speak?

  "Well?" said Garstin at last, perhaps catching her feeling. "What doyou think of the thing? Are you satisfied with it? I've been a long timeover it, but there it is at last."

  He laughed slightly, uneasily, she thought.

  "What's the verdict?"

  "One moment--please!" said Arabian in an unusually soft voice.

  Miss Van Tuyn was again struck, as she had been struck, when she firstmet Arabian in the studio, by the man's enormous self-possession. Shefelt sure that he must be feeling furiously angry, yet he did not show atrace of anger, of surprise, of any emotion. Only the marked softness ofhis voice was unusual. He seemed to be examining the picture with quietinterest and care.

  "Well? Well?" said Garstin at last, with a sort of acute impatiencewhich betrayed to her that he was really uneasy. "Let's hear what youthink, though we know you don't set up for being a judge of painting."

  "I think it is very like," said Arabian.

  "Oh, Lord--like!" exclaimed Garstin, on an angry gust of breath. "I'mnot a damned photographer!"

  "Should not a portrait be like?" said Arabian, still in the very softvoice. "Am I wrong, then?"

  "Of course not!" said Miss Van Tuyn, frowning at Garstin.

  At that moment absolutely, and without any reserve, she hated him.

  "Then you're satisfied?" jerked out Garstin.

  "Indeed--yes, Dick Garstin. This is a valuable possession for me."

  "Possession?" said Garstin, as if startled. "Oh, yes, to be sure! You'reto have it--presently!"

  "Quite so. I am to have it. It is indeed very fine. Do not you think so,Miss Van Tuyn?"

  For the first time since he had seen the portrait he looked away fromit, and his eyes rested on her. She felt that she trembled under thoseeyes, and hoped that he did not see it.

  "You do not say! Surely this is a very fine picture?"

  He seemed to be asking her to tell him whether or not the portrait oughtto be admired. There was just then an odd simplicity, or pretence ofsimplicity, in his manner which was almost boyish. And his eyes seemedto be appealing to her.

  "It is a magnificent piece of painting," she forced herself to say.

  But she said it coldly, reluctantly.

  "Then I am not wrong."

  He looked pleased.

  "My eye is not very educated. I fear to express my opinion before peoplesuch as you"--he looked towards Garstin, and added--"and you, DickGarstin."

  And then he turned away from the picture with the manner of a man whohad done with it. She was amazed at his coolness, his perfect ease ofmanner.

  "May I ask for a cigar, Dick Garstin?" he said.

  "Pardon!" said Garstin gruffly.

  Miss Van Tuyn noticed that he seemed very ill at ease. His roughself-possession had deserted him. He looked almost shy and awkward.Before going to the cabinet he went to the easel and noisily wheeled itaway. Then he fetched the cigar and poured out a drink for Arabian.

  "Light up, old chap! Have a drink!"

  There was surely reluctant admiration in his voice.

  Arabian accepted the drink, lit the cigar, sat down, and began to talkabout his flat. At that moment he dominated them both. Miss Van Tuynfelt it. He talked much more than she had ever before heard him talk inthe studio, and expressed himself better, with more fluency than usual.Garstin said very little. There was a fixed flush on his cheek-bones andan angry light in his eyes. He sat watching Arabian with a hostile, andyet half-admiring, scrutiny, smoking rapidly, nervously, and twistinghis large hands about.

  Presently Miss Van Tuyn got up to go.

  "Going already?" said Garstin.

  "Yes, I must."

  "Oh, well--"

  "I will accompany you," said Arabian.

  She looked away from him and said nothing. Garstin went with themdownstairs and opened the door.

  "Bye-bye!" he said in a loud voice. "See you again soon. Good luck toyou!"

  Arabian held out his hand.

  "Good-bye."

  Miss Van Tuyn nodded without speaking. Garstin shut the door noisily.

  They walked down Glebe Place in silence. When they got to the cornerArabian said:

  "Are you in a hurry to-day?"

  "No, not specially."

  "Shall we take a little walk? It is not very late."

  "A walk? Where to?"

  "Shall we go along by the river?"

  She hesitated. She was torn by conflicting feelings. She was very angrywith Garstin. She still continued to say, though now to herself, "Idon't believe it! I don't believe it!" And yet she knew that Garstin'sportrait had greatly increased her strange fear of Arabian.

  "This way will take us to the river."

  She knew he was looking straight at her though she did not look at him.At that moment a remembrance of Craven and Camber flashed through hermind.

  "Yes, I know," she said, "But--"

  "I am fond of the river," he said.

  "Yes--but in winter!"

  "Let us go. Or will you come back to--"

  "No, I will go. I like it too. London looks its best from thewaterside."

  And she walked on again with him. He said nothing more, and she did notspeak till they had crossed the broad road and were on the path by thedark river, which flowed at full tide under a heavy blackish grey sky.Then Arabian spoke again, and the peculiar softness she had noticed thatafternoon had gone out of his voice.

  "I am fortunate, am I not," he said, "to be the possessor of that veryfine picture by Dick Garstin? Many people would be glad to buy it, Isuppose."

  "Oh, yes!"

  "Do you consider it one of Dick Garstin's best paintings? I know you area good judge. I wish to hear what you really think."

  "He has never painted anything more finely that I have seen."

  "Ah! That is indeed lucky for me."

  "Yes."

  "I shall send and fetch it away."

  "Oh, but--"

  She stopped speaking. She was sta
rtled by his tone and also by whathe had said. She glanced at him, then looked away and across the darkriver. Dead leaves brushed against her feet with a dry, brittle noise.

  "What is that you say, please?"

  "I only--I thought it was arranged that the picture was to beexhibited," she said, falteringly.

  "Oh, no. I shall not permit Dick Garstin to exhibit that picture."

  Now intense curiosity was born in her and seemed for the moment tosubmerge her uneasiness and fear.

  "But wasn't it understood?" she said.

  "Please, what do you say was understood?"

  "Didn't Mr. Garstin say he meant to exhibit the picture and afterwardsgive it to you?"

  "But I say that I shall not permit Dick Garstin to exhibit my picture."

  "Why won't you allow it?" she asked.

  In her curiosity she was at last regaining some of her usualself-possession. She scented a struggle between these two men, both ofthem of tough fibre, both of them, she believed, far from scrupulous,both of them likely to be enormously energetic and determined whenroused.

  "Do you not know?" he asked.

  "No! How can I know such a thing? How can I know what is in your mindunless you tell me?"

  "Oh, but I will tell you then! I will not let Dick Garstin exhibit thatpicture because it is a lie about me."

  "A lie? How can that be?"

  "A man can speak a lie. Is it not so?"

  "Of course."

  "Cannot a man write a lie?"

  "Yes."

  "And a man can paint a lie. Dick Garstin has painted a lie about me."

  "But then--if it is so--"

  "Certainly it is so."

  There was now a hard sound in his voice, and, when she looked at him,she saw that his face had changed. The quiet self-control which hadamazed her in the studio was evidently leaving him. Or he no longercared to exercise it.

  "But, then, do you wish to possess the picture? Do you wish to possess alie?"

  "Is it not right that I possess it rather than someone else?"

  "Yes, perhaps it is."

  "Certainly it is. I shall take that picture away."

  "But Dick Garstin intends to exhibit it. I know that. I know he will notlet you have it till it has been shown."

  "What is the law in England that one man should paint a wicked portraitof another man and that this other should be helpless to prevent it frombeing shown to all the world? Is that just?"

  "No, I don't think it is."

  He stopped abruptly and stood by the river wall. It was a cold anddreary afternoon, menacing and dark. Few people were out in that place.She stood still beside him.

  "Miss Van Tuyn," he said, looking hard at her with an expressionof--apparently--angry sincerity in his eyes. "This happens. I sitquietly in the Cafe Royal, a public place. A strange man comes up. Neverhave I seen him before. He says himself to be a painter. He asks topaint me--he begs! I go to his studio, as you know. I hesitate when Ihave seen his pictures--all of horrible persons, bad women and a beastlyold man. At last he persuades me to be painted, promising to give me thepicture when finished. He paints and paints, destroys and destroys. I ampatient. I give up nearly all my time to him. I sit there day after dayfor hours. At last he has painted me. And when I look I find he has madeof me a beast, a monster, worse than all the other horrible persons. Andwhen I come in he is showing this monster to you, a lady, my friend, oneI respect and admire above all, and who, perhaps, has thought of me withkindness, who has been to me in trouble, to my flat, who has told meher sorrow and put trust in me as in none other. 'Here he is!' says DickGarstin. 'This beast, this monster--it is he! Look at him. I introduceyou to Nicolas Arabian!' Am I, in return for such things, to say, 'Allright! Now take this beast, this monster, and show him to all the worldand say, "There is Nicolas Arabian!"' Do you say I should do this?"

  "But I have nothing to do with it."

  "Have you not?"

  Her eyes gave way before his and looked down.

  "Anyhow," he said, "I will not do it. I have a will as well as he."

  "Yes," she thought. "You have a will, a tremendous will."

  "To you," he said, "I show what I would not show to him, that I havefeelings and that I am very much hurt to-day."

  "I am sorry. I told Dick Garstin--"

  "Yes? What?"

  "Before you came I told him he ought not to exhibit the picture."

  "Ah! Thank you! Thank you!"

  He smiled, and the lustrously soft look came into his eyes.

  "A woman--she always knows what a man is!" he said, in a low voice.

  "It is cold standing here!" she said.

  She shivered as she spoke and looked at the water.

  "We will go to my flat," he said, with a sudden air of authority. "Thereis a big fire there."

  "Oh, no, I can't!"

  "Why not? You have been there."

  "Yes, but I ought not to have gone. I am in mourning."

  "You go to Dick Garstin. What is the difference?"

  "People are so foolish. They talk."

  "But you go to Dick Garstin!"

  He had turned, and now made her walk back by his side along the riverbank among the whirling leaves.

  "People have begun to talk about us," she said, almost desperately."That women, Mrs. Birchington, who lives opposite to you--she's agossip."

  "And do you mind such people?" he asked, with an air of surprisedcontempt.

  "A girl has to be careful what she does."

  As Miss Van Tuyn said this she marvelled at her own conventionality.That she should be driven to such banality, she who had defied theopinion of both Paris and London!

  "Please come once more. I want you to help me."

  "I! How can I help you?"

  "With Dick Garstin. I do not want to fight with that man. I am not whathe thinks, but I do not wish to quarrel. You can help."

  "I don't see how."

  "By the fire I will tell you."

  "I don't think I ought to come."

  "What is life if it is always what ought and what ought not? I do not goby that. I am not able to think always of that. And do you? Oh, no!"

  He cast a peculiar glance at her, full of intense shrewdness. It madeher remember the Cafe Royal on the evening of her meeting withthe Georgians, her pressure put on Dick Garstin to make Arabian'sacquaintance, her lonely walk in the dark when Arabian had followedher, her first visit to Garstin's studio, her pretended reason for manysubsequent visits there. This man must surely have understood always themotive which had governed her in what she had done. His glance told herthat. It pierced through her pretences like a weapon and quivered in thetruth of her. He had always understood her. Was he at last going to lether understand him? His eyes seemed to say, "Why pretend any longer withme? You wanted to know me. You chose to know me. It is too late now toplay the conventional maiden with me."

  It is too late now.

  Her will seemed to be dying out of her. She walked on beside himmechanically. She knew that she was going to do what he wished, thatshe was going to his flat again; and when they reached Rose Tree Gardenswithout any further protest she got into the lift with him and went upto his floor. But when he was putting the latchkey into the door thealmost solemn words of Dick Garstin came back to her: "Beryl, believeit or not, as you can, that _is_ Arabian!" And she hesitated. An intensedisinclination to go into the flat struggled with the intense desire toyield herself to Arabian's will. Arabian was before her eyes, standingthere by the opening door, and Garstin's portrait was before the eyes ofher mind in all its magnificent depravation. Which showed the real manand which the unreal? Garstin said that he had painted her intuitionabout Arabian, that she knew Arabian's secret and had conveyed it tohim. Was that true?

  "Please!" said Arabian, holding open the door.

  "I cannot come in," she said, in a dull, low voice.

  Beyond the gap of the doorway there lay perhaps the unknown territorycalled by Garstin the underworld. She remembered the
piercingly shrewdlook Arabian had cast at her by the river, a look which had surelyincluded her with him in the region which lies outside all the barriers.But she did not belong to that region. Despite her keen curiosities, herresolute defiance of the conventions, her intensely modern determinationto live as she chose to live, she would never belong to it. A horriblelonging which she could not understand fought with the fear whichGarstin that day had dragged up from the depths of her to the surface.But she now gave herself to the fear, and she repeated doggedly:

  "I cannot come in."

  But just at this moment her intention was changed, and her subsequentaction was determined in her by a trifling event, one of those eventswhich teach the world to believe in Fate. A door, the door of Mrs.Birchington's flat, clicked behind her. Someone was coming out.

  Instantly, driven by the thought "I mustn't be seen!" Miss Van Tuynstepped into Arabian's flat. She expected to hear the front door of itclose immediately behind her. But instead she heard Mrs. Birchington'shigh soprano voice saying:

  "Oh, how d'you do? Glad to meet you again!"

  Quickly she opened the second door on the left and stepped intoArabian's drawing-room. Why had he been so slow in shutting the frontdoor? She must have been seen. Certainly she had been seen by thathorrible Minnie Birchington. There would be more gossip. It would be allover London that she was perpetually in this man's flat. Why had nothe shut the door directly she had stepped into the hall? Her nervoustension found momentary relief in sudden violent anger against him, andwhen at length she heard the door shut, and his footstep outside, sheturned round to meet him with fierce resolution.

  "Why did you do that?"

  "Beg pardon!" he said, gently, and looking surprised.

  "Why didn't you shut the front door? That--Mrs. Birchington must haveseen me. I know she has seen me!"

  "I had no time. I could not refuse to speak to her, could I? I could notbe rude to a lady."

  "But I didn't wish her to see me!"

  She was losing her self-control and knew it. She was angry with herselfas well as with him, but she could not regain her self-possession.

  "Why not?" he said, still very gently. "What is the harm? Are we doingwrong? I cannot see it. I say again, I had no time to shut the door."

  "Did she see me?"

  "Really I do not know."

  He shut the sitting-room door.

  "I hope," he said, "that you are not ashamed to be acquainted with me."

  His voice sounded hurt, and now an expression of acute vexation had comeinto his face.

  "Really after what has happened with Dick Garstin to-day I--"

  His face now had an expression almost of pain.

  "I am really not _canaille_," he said. "I am not accustomed to bethought of and treated as if I were _canaille_."

  "It's all right," she said. "But--you see my mourning! I am in deepmourning, and I ought not--"

  She stopped. She felt the uselessness of her protest, the ungraciousnessof her demeanour. Without another word she went to the sofa by one ofthe windows and sat down. He came and sat down beside her.

  "I want you to help me about Dick Garstin," he said.

  "How? What can I do? I have no influence with him."

  "Oh, yes, you have. A lady like you has always influence with a man."

  "Not with him."

  "But I say you have."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "I want you to tell him what I have said to you to-day."

  "That you won't have the picture exhibited?"

  "Yes."

  "He'll only laugh."

  "Beg him for your sake to yield."

  "But what have I to do with it?"

  "Very much, I think. It will be better that he yields--really."

  She raised her eyes to his.

  "We do not want a scandal, do we?"

  "But--"

  "If it should come to a fight between Dick Garstin and me there might bea scandal."

  "But my name wouldn't--"

  Again she was silent.

  "I might try. But it wouldn't be any use."

  He put out a hand and took one of hers.

  "But it all came through you. Didn't it?"

  "But--but you said you had never seen Dick Garstin till he came up andasked you to sit to him."

  "That was not true. I saw him with you that night at the Cafe Royal.That is why I came to the studio. I knew I should meet you there.And--you knew."

  Again the terribly shrewd glance came into his eyes. She saw it andfelt no strength for denial. From the first he must have thoroughlyunderstood her.

  "You and I, we are not babies," he said gently. "We wanted to know eachother, and so it happened. I have done all this for you. Now I ask youto tell Dick Garstin for me."

  "I'll do what I can," she said.

  He pressed her hand softly.

  "You are not one of those who are afraid," he said. "You do what youchoose--even at night."

  She thought of the episode in Shaftesbury Avenue.

  "Then you--you--"

  "But I do not need to take a shilling from a lady!"

  "You didn't know me that night!" she said defiantly.

  "Ah, but when I heard you speak in the studio I knew!"

  "And you follow women like that at night!"

  She tried to draw away her hand, but he would not let her.

  "You drew me after you--not knowing. It was what they call occult."

  "Then why did you go away?"

  "I felt that I had been wrong, that you didn't wish me to speak to you."

  "Do you mean when I--that you suspected what I was?"

  "Something said to me, 'This is a lady. She does strange things, she isnot like others, but she is a lady. Go away.'"

  "And in the studio--"

  "When you spoke I knew."

  She felt degraded. She could not explain. And she felt confused. Shedid not understand this man. His curious reticence that night, after hisaudacity, was inexplicable to her. What could he think of her? What musthe think?

  "I was going out that night to dine in a restaurant in Soho with somefriends," she said, trying to speak very naturally. "I wanted some freshair, so I walked."

  "Why not? I beg you to forgive me for my rudeness. I feel very ashamedof it now. I have learnt in all these days to respect you very much."

  His voice sounded so earnest, so sincere, that she felt suddenly a senseof relief. After all, he had always treated her with respect. He hadnever been impertinent, or even really audacious, and yet he had alwaysknown that she had wanted to meet him, that she had meant to meet him!He had never taken advantage of that knowledge. If he were really whatDick Garstin said he was, surely he would have acted differently.

  "Do you really respect me?" she said.

  "Yes. Have I not shown it in all these days? Have I ever done anything alady could object to?"

  "No."

  Her hand still lay in his, and his touch had aroused in her that strangeand intense desire to belong to him which seemed a desire entirely ofthe body, something with which the mind had little or nothing to do.

  "Are you evil?" her eyes were asking him.

  And his eyes, looking straight down into hers, seemed steadily andsimply to deny it.

  "Do you believe the lie of Dick Garstin?" they said to her.

  And she no longer knew whether she believed it or not.

  He drew a little nearer to her.

  "I respect you--yes," he said. "But that is not all. I have anotherfeeling for you. I have had it ever since I first saw you that night,when I was standing by the door in the Cafe Royal and you looked at me."

  "But--but you--"

  "Yes?"

  Her lips trembled. Again jealousy seized her.

  "I saw you that night in Conduit Street," she said. "You thought Ididn't, but I did."

  He still looked perfectly calm and untroubled.

  "You were dining with Dick Garstin. May I not dine with someone?"

&nb
sp; "Then why did you leave the restaurant?"

  "I did not want you to see me."

  "Ah!"

  "I thought you might not understand."

  "I do understand. I understand perfectly!"

  She drew her hand sharply away from his.

  "Are you angry with me?"

  "Angry? No! What does it matter to me?"

  "I am a man. I live alone. My life is lonely. Must I give up everythingbefore I know that some day I shall have the only thing I really wish?You know men. You know how we are. I do not defend. I only say that Iam not better than the other men. I want to be happy. If that is not forme, then I want to make the time pass. I do not pretend. Men generallypretend very much to beautiful girls. But you would not believe suchnonsense."

  "Then why didn't you stay in the restaurant?"

  "Because I thought to do that would be like an insult for you. Suchgirls as that--mud--they must not come into your life even by chance,even for a few minutes. No man wishes to show himself with mud to a ladyhe respects. I tell you just the truth."

  "Have you--have you seen her again?"

  "She is in Paris. She has been in Paris for many days. But she isnothing. Why speak of such people?"

  "I don't know. But I hate--"

  She moved restlessly. Then she got up and went to the fire. He followedher. She could not understand her own jealousy. It humiliated her asshe had never been humiliated before. She felt jealous of this man'sabsolute freedom, of his past. A sort of rage possessed her when shethought of all the experiences he must certainly have had. She almosthated him for those experiences. She wished she could lay hands on them,tear them out of him, so that he should not have them any longerin memory's treasury. And yet she knew that, without them, he wouldprobably attract her much less.

  "Do you care then?" he said.

  "Care?"

  "Do you care what I do?"

  "No, of course not!"

  "But--you do care!" he said.

  He said it without any triumph of the male, quite simply, almost as aboy might have said it.

  "You do care!" he repeated.

  And very gently, slowly, he put his arm round her, drew her close tohim, bent down and gave her a long kiss.

  For a moment she shut her eyes. She was giving herself up entirely tophysical sensation. Fear, thought, everything except bodily feeling,seemed to cease in her entirely at that moment. Some fascination whichhe possessed, an intense fascination for women, entirely mysterious andinexplicable, a thing rooted in the body, absolutely overpowered her atthat moment.

  It was he who broke the physical spell. He lifted his lips from hers andshe heard the words:

  "I want you to marry me. Will you?"

  Instantly she was released. A flood of thoughts, doubts, wonderings,flowed through her. She felt terribly startled.

  Marriage with this man! Marriage with Nicolas Arabian! In all herthoughts of him she had never included the thought of marriage. Yet shehad imagined many situations in which he and she played their parts.Wild dreams had come to her in sleepless nights, the dreams that visitwomen who are awake under fascination. She had lived through romanceswith him. She had been with him in strange places, had travelled withhim in sandy wastes, seen the night come with him in remote cornersof the earth, stood with him in great cities, watched the sea wavesslipping away with him on the decks of Atlantic liners. All this shehad done in imagination with him. But never had she seen herself as hiswife.

  To be the wife of Arabian!

  He let her go directly he felt the surprise in her body.

  "Marry you!" she said.

  "It could not be anything else," he said, very simply. "Could it?"

  She flushed as if he had punished her by his respect for her.

  "But--but we scarcely know each other!" she stammered.

  "You say that now!"

  Again she felt rebuked, as if she were lighter than he and as if he weresurprised by her lightness.

  "But we are only--I mean--"

  "Let us not talk of it then now if you dislike. But I cannot take sucha thing any way but seriously, knowing what you are. I love you; I wouldfollow you anywhere. Naturally, therefore, I must think of marriage withyou, or that I am to have nothing."

  He stopped. She said nothing; could not say anything.

  "With light women one is light. I do not pretend to be a very good man,better than the others. Those so very good men, I do not believe in themvery much. But I know that many women are good. Just at first, let meconfess, I was not sure how you were. At the Cafe Royal that night,seeing you with all those funny people, I made a mistake. I thought,'She is beautiful. She is audacious. She likes adventures. She wishesan adventure with me.' And I came to Dick Garstin's thinking of anadventure. But soon I knew--no! I heard you talk. I got to know yourcultivation, your very fine mind. And then you held back from me,waiting till you should know me better. That pleased me. It taught methe value of you. And when at last you did not hold back, were willingto be alone with me, to lunch with me, to walk with me, I understood youhad made up your mind: 'He is all right!' But, best of all, you at lastasked me to your hotel, introduced me to the dear lady you live with. Iunderstood what was in your mind: '_She_, too, must be satisfied.' ThenI knew it was not an adventure. And when you told me first about yoursorrow! Ah! That was the great day for me! I knew you would not havetold such a thing, kept from even Dick Garstin, unless you put me inyour mind away from the others. That was a very great day for me!"

  She shivered slightly by the fire. He was telling her things. She couldnot in return tell him the truth of herself. Perhaps he really believedall he had just said. And yet that shrewd glance he had given her by theriver and again in that room! What had it meant if now he had spoken thetruth?

  "I knew then that you cared," he said, quietly and with earnestconviction. "I knew then that some day I could ask you to marry me.Anything else--it is impossible between you and me."

  "Yes, of course! I never--you mustn't suppose--"

  "I do not suppose. I know you as now you know me."

  He did not touch her again, though, of course, he must know--any manmust have known by this time--his physical power to charm, even tooverwhelm her. His power over himself amazed her. It proved to her thestrength in his character. The man was strong, and in two ways. Sheworshipped strength, but his still made her afraid.

  "Now let us leave it," he said, with a change of manner. "It is gettingdark. It is dreary outside. I will shut the curtains. I will sing to youin the firelight."

  He went over to the windows, drew down the blinds, pulled forward thecurtains. She watched him, sitting motionless, wondering at herself andat him. For the moment he was certainly her master. He governed her asmuch by what he did not do as by what he did. And it had always been soever since she had known him. The assurance in his quiet was enormous.How many things he must have carried through in his life, the life ofwhich she knew absolutely nothing! But this--would he carry throughthis? She tried to tell herself with certainty that he would not. Andyet, as she looked at him, she was not sure. Will can drown will. Greatpower can overcome lesser power, mysteriously sometimes, but certainly.That play of which she had read an account in the _Westminster Gazette_was founded on the possibilities, was based upon a solid foundation. Tothe ignorant it might seem grotesque, incredible even, but not to thosewho had really studied life and the eddying currents of life. In life,almost all that is said to be impossible happens at times, thoughperhaps not often. And who knows, who can say with absolute certainty,that he or she is not an exception, was not born an exception?

  As Miss Van Tuyn watched Arabian drawing the curtains across the windowswhich looked upon the Thames she did not know positively that she wouldnot marry him. She remembered her sensation under his kiss. It had beena sensation of absolute surrender. That was why she had shut her eyes.

  She might shut her eyes again. He might even make her do that.

  After the curtains were drawn, and only the l
ight from the fire lit upthe room, Arabian went over to the piano, a baby grand, and sat down onthe music-stool. He was looking very grave, almost romantically grave,but quite un-self-conscious. She wondered whether, even now, he caredwhat she thought about him. He showed none of the diffidence of thenot-yet-accepted lover, eager to please, anxious about the future. Buthe showed nothing of triumph. The firelight played over his face as hestruck a few chords. She wondered whether his manservant was with themin the flat, or whether they were quite alone--shut in together. Hehad not offered her tea. Perhaps the man had gone out. She did not feelafraid of Arabian at this moment. After what he had said she knew shehad no reason to be afraid of him just now. But if she gave herselfto him, if they ever were married? How would it be then? Life with himwould surely be an extraordinary business. She remembered her solicitudeabout not being seen with him in public places. Already that seemedlong ago. Dick Garstin had told her she had travelled. No doubt that wastrue. One may travel far perhaps in mind and in feeling without beingself-consciously aware of it. But when one was aware, when one knew,it must surely be possible to stop. He had made to her a tremendoussuggestion. She could refuse to entertain it. And when she refused,if she did refuse, what would happen? What would he say, do, when herealized her determination? How would he take a determined refusal? Shecould not imagine. But she knew that she could not imagine Arabian everyielding his will to hers in any big matter which would seriously upsethis life.

  "Now, shall I sing to you?" he said, fixing his eyes upon her.

  "Yes, please do," she answered, looking away from him into the fire.

  "You know how I sing. I am not a musician of cultivation, but I havemusic in me. I have always had it. I have always sung, even as a boy.It is natural to me. But I have been very idle in my life. I have neverbeen able to work, alas!"

  She looked at him again. Always he was playing softly, improvising.

  "Have you really never done any work?"

  "Never. Unfortunately, perhaps, I have always had enough money to beidle."

  "He's not poor!" she thought.

  And then she felt glad, suddenly remembering how rich she was now, sincethe death of her father.

  He said nothing more, but played a short prelude and began to sing inhis small, but warm, tenor voice. And, sitting there by the fire, shewatched him while he sang, and wondered again, as she had wondered inthe studio, at the musical sense that was in him and that could showitself so easily and completely, without apparently any strong effort.The fascination she felt in him filled all his music, and appealed notonly to her senses but to her musical understanding. She had a genuinepassion for the right in all the arts, for the inevitable word inliterature, the inevitable touch of colour that lights up a painting,fusing the whole into harmony, the inevitable emotional colouring of amusical phrase, the slackening or quickening of time, which make a songexactly what it should be. And to that passion he was able to appealwith his gift. He sang two Italian songs, and she felt Italy in them.Then he sang in French, and finally in Spanish--guitar songs. Andpresently she gave herself entirely to him as a singer. He hadtemperament, and she loved that. It meant, perhaps, too much to her.That, no doubt, was what drew her to him more surely than his remarkablephysical beauty--temperament which has the keys of so many doors, andcan open them at will, showing glimpses of wonderful rooms, and ofgardens bathed in sunshine or steeped in mysterious twilight, and ofsavage wastes, the wilderness, the windy tracts by the sea, landscapesin snow, autumn breathing in mist; temperament which can even simulateknowledge, and can rouse all the under-longings which so often liesleeping and unknown in women.

  "With that man I could never be dull!"

  That thought slipped through her while she listened. Where did he comefrom? In how many lands had he lived? How had his life been passed? Sheought to know. Perhaps some day he would tell her. He must surely tellher. One cannot do great things which affect one's life in the dark.

  Dark--that's his word! When had she thought that? She remembered. Ithad been in that room. And since then she had seen Garstin's terribleportrait.

  But he was like a palm tree singing. Even Garstin had been forced to saythat of him.

  When at last he stopped all the artistic part of her was under hisspell. He had, perhaps deliberately, perhaps at haphazard--she could nottell--aroused in her a great longing for multifarious experiencessuch as she had never yet suffered under or enjoyed. He had let herrecklessness loose from its tethering chain. Was she just then the samewoman who a short time ago had feared Minnie Birchington's curious eyes?She could scarcely believe it.

  He got up from the piano. She too got up. He came up to her, put hishands on her shoulders gently, pressed them, contracting his strongbrown fingers, and said, looking down into her eyes:

  "How beautiful you are! Mon Dieu! how beautiful you are!"

  And her vanity was gratified as it had never been gratified beforeby all the compliments she had received, by all the longings she hadaroused in men.

  Still holding her shoulders he said:

  "Do something for me to-night."

  "What is it? What do you want?"

  "Oh, only a very simple thing."

  She felt disappointed, but she said nothing.

  "Let us dine together to-night! Afterwards I will take you to your hoteland leave you to think."

  He smiled down at her.

  "I am no longer afraid to let you think. Will you come?"

  "Yes," she said.

  "Where was it you were walking to that night when I was so rude as tofollow after you?"

  "To a restaurant in Soho."

  "Yes?"

  "To the _Bella Napoli_."

  "_Napoli_!"

  He half shut his eyes.

  "I love Naples. Is it Italian?"

  "Yes."

  "Really Italian?"

  "Yes."

  "Let us go there. And before we go I will sing you a street song ofNaples."

  "You--you are not a Neapolitan?" she asked.

  "No. I come from South America. But I know Naples very, very well.Listen!"

  And almost laughing, and looking suddenly buffo, he spoke a fewsentences in the Neapolitan patois.

  "Ah, they are rascals there! But one forgives them because they arehappy in their naughtiness, or at any rate they seem happy. And thereis nothing like happiness for getting forgiveness. We will be happyto-night, and we shall get forgiven. We will go to the _Bella Napoli_."

  She did not say "yes" or "no." She was thinking at that moment of Cravenand Adela Sellingworth. It was just possible that they might be there.But if they were? What did it matter? Minnie Birchington had seen herwith Arabian. Lady Archie Brooke had seen her. Craven had seen her.And why should she be ashamed. Ought and ought not! Had she ever beengoverned in her life and her doing by fear of opinion?

  "Do you say yes?" he asked. "Or must you go back to dear MademoiselleCronin?"

  She shook her head.

  "Then what do you say?"

  "Yes, I'll go there with you," she answered.

  But there was a sound of defiance in her voice, and at that momentshe had a feeling that she was going to do something more decisivelyunconventional, even more dangerous, than she had ever yet done.

  If _they_ were there! She remembered Craven's look at Arabian. Sheremembered, too, the change in Arabian's face as Craven had passed them.

  But Craven had gone back to Adela Sellingworth. Arabian, perhaps, hadbeen the cause of that return.

  "Why do you look like that? What are you thinking of?"

  "Naples," she said.

  "I will sing you the street song. And then, presently, we will go. Iknow we must not be too late, or your dear Mademoiselle Cronin will befrightened about you."

  He left her, and went once more to the piano.