December Love

  CHAPTER VII

  The winter night was dark when Miss Van Tuyn stood in the hall of LadySellingworth's house waiting for the footman to find a taxicab for her.A big fire was burning on the hearth; the old-fashioned hooded chairstood beside it; and presently, as no taxicab came, she went to thechair and sat down in it. She felt very tired. Her whole body seemed tohave been weakened by what she had just been through. But her mind wascharged with intense vitality. The thoughts galloped through it, andthey were dark as the night. The cold air of winter stole in throughthe doorway of the hall. She felt it and shivered as she lay back in thegreat chair which, with its walls and roof, was like a hiding-place; andfor the first time in her life she longed to hide herself. She had neverbefore known acute fear--fear that was based on ascertained facts. Butshe knew it now.

  The young footman stood on the doorstep bareheaded, looking this way andthat into the blackness, and she sat waiting. In her independence shehad never before known what it was to feel abandoned to loneliness. Shehad always enjoyed her freedom. Now she felt a great longing to cling tosomeone, to be protected, to lean on somebody who was much stronger thanherself, and who would defend her against any attack. At that moment sheenvied Lady Sellingworth safe above stairs in this silent and beautifulhouse, which was like a stronghold. She even envied, or thought she did,Lady Sellingworth for her years. In old age there was surely a securitythat youth could never have. For the riot of life was over and thegreatest dangers were past.

  She longed to stay with Adela that night. She thought of her assecurity. But she dared not expect anything more from Adela. She hadalready received a gift which she had surely not deserved, a gift whichfew women, if indeed any other woman, would have given her.

  She looked towards the open door and saw the footman's flat back, andnarrow head covered with carefully plastered hair. He was calling nowwith both hands to his mouth: "Taxi! Taxi!"

  But there came no sound of wheels in the night, and she put her hands onthe sides of the chair and got up.

  "Can't you find a cab?"

  "No, ma'am. I've very sorry, but there doesn't seem to be one about.Shall I go to the nearest cab rank?"

  Miss Van Tuyn hesitated. Then she determined to fight her fear.

  "It isn't raining, is it?"

  "No, ma'am."

  "Then I'll walk. It's not far. I shall pick up a cab on the wayprobably."

  The young man looked relieved and stood aside to let her go out. Hewatched her as she walked down the square towards the block of flatswhich towered up where the pavement turned at right angles. The lightfrom the hall shone out and made a patch of yellow about his feet. Henoticed presently that the girl he was watching turned her head andlooked back, almost as if she were hesitating. Then she walked onresolutely, and he stepped in and shut the door.

  "Wonder if she's afraid of going like that all by herself!" he thought."I only wish she was my class. I wouldn't mind seeing her home."

  Just before she was out of sight of Lady Sellingworth's house Miss VanTuyn looked back again. The light was gone. She knew that the door wasshut and she shivered. She felt shut out. What was she going to do? Shewas going back to Claridge's of course. But--after that? She longedto take counsel with someone, with someone who was strong and clearbrained, and who really cared for her. But who did care for her? Perhapsfor the first time in her life she was the victim of sentimentality, ofwhat she would have thought of certainly as sentimentality in another.A sort of yearning for affection came to her. A wave of self-pity sweptover her. Her independence of spirit was in abeyance or dead. Arabian,it seemed, had struck her down to the ground. She felt humiliated,terrified, and strangely, horribly young, like a child almost who hadbeen cruelly treated. She thought of her dead father. If he had beenalive and near could she have gone to him? No; for years he had notcared very much about her. He had been kind, had given her plenty ofmoney, but he had been immersed in pleasures and had always been in thehands of some woman or other. He had not really loved her. No one, shethought with desperation, had ever really loved her. She did not askherself whether that was her fault, whether she had ever given to anyonewhat she wanted so terribly now, whether she had any right to expectgenerosity of feeling when she herself was niggardly. She was strickenin her vanity and, because of that, she had come down to the dust.

  It was frightful to her to think, to be obliged to think, that Arabianall this time had looked upon her as a prey, had marked her down as aprey. She understood everything now, his fixed gaze at her in the CafeRoyal when she had seen him for the first time, his coming to Garstin'sstudio, his subtle acting through the early days of their acquaintance.She understood his careful self-repression, his reticence, his evidentreluctance to be painted, overcome no doubt by two desires--the desireto become intimate with her, and the desire to possess eventually apiece of work that would be worth a great deal of money. She understoodthe determination not to allow his portrait to be exhibited. Sheunderstood the look in his face when she had told him of her father'ssudden death, the change in his demeanour to her since he had knownthe fact, the desire to hurry things on, to sweep her off her feet. Sheunderstood--ah, how she understood!--why he had not wished Adela to jointhem in the restaurant! She remembered a hundred things about him now,all mixed up together, in no coherent order, little things at whichshe had wondered but which she wondered at no longer; his distastefor Garstin's portraits because they were of people belonging to theunderworld, his understanding of them, his calm contemplation of thevictims of vice, his lack of all pity for them, his shrewd verdict onthe judge which had so delighted Garstin. And how he had waited for her,how he had known how to wait! It was frightful--that deliberation ofhis! Garstin had been right about him. Garstin's instinct for people hadnot betrayed him. Although later Arabian's craft had puzzled even himhe had summed up Arabian at a first glance. Garstin was diabolicallyclever. If only he were less hard, less brutally cynical, she mightperhaps go to him now. For he had in his peculiar way warned her againstArabian. She flushed in the dark as she thought of Garstin's probablecomments on her situation if he knew of it! And yet Garstin had told herthat Arabian was in love with her. Was that possible? Her vanity faintlystirred like something, albeit feebly, reviving. Arabian had marked herdown as a prey. She had no doubt about that. Her brain refused to doubtit. But perhaps, mingled with his hideous cupidity of the accomplishedadventurer, the professional thief, there was something else, the lust,or even the sensual love, of the primitive man. Perhaps--she realizedthe possibility--he believed he had found in her the great opportunityof his life, the unique chance of combining the satisfaction of hispredatory instincts with the satisfaction of his intimate personaldesires, those desires which he shared with the men who lived far fromthe underworld.

  If that were so--and suddenly she felt that it was so, that she had hitupon the truth--then she was surely in great danger. For Arabian was notthe man to let an unique opportunity slip through his fingers withoutputting up a tremendous fight.

  She must find someone to help her against this man. Again she thoughtof Garstin. But he had his own battle to fight, the battle about theportrait. Then she thought of Craven. Obscurely long ago--it seemed atleast long ago--she had felt that she might some day need Craven inher life. How strange that was! What mysterious instinct had warned herthen? But now Craven was hostile to her. How could she go to him? Andthen there flashed upon her the thought:

  "But I can't go to anybody! I have promised Adela."

  That thought struck her like a blow, struck her so hard that she stoodstill on the pavement. And she realized immediately that either she mustdo without any help at all, or that, in spite of all that had happened,she must ask Adela to help her. For she could never break her promiseto Adela. She knew that. She knew that she would rather go under thanbetray Adela's confidence. Adela had done a fine thing, something thatshe, Beryl, had not believed it was in any woman to do. She could nothave done it, but on the other hand she could not be vile. It was not inher to be
vile.

  She heard a step in the darkness and realized what she was doing.Instantly she hurried on, almost running. She must gain shelter, must bein the midst of light, must be between four walls, must speak to someonewho knew her, and who would not do her harm. Claridge's--old Fanny! Afew minutes later she entered the hotel almost breathless.