THE VISIT
In the doorway of his flat Christine kissed G.J. vehemently, but with
a certain preoccupation; she was looking about her, very curious. The
way in which she raised her veil and raised her face, mysteriously
glanced at him, puckered her kind brow--these things thrilled him.
She said:
"You are quite alone, of course."
She said it nicely, even benevolently; nevertheless he seemed to hear
her saying: "You are quite alone, or, of course, you wouldn't have let
me come."
"I suppose it's through here," she murmured; and without waiting for
an invitation she passed direct into the lighted drawing-room and
stood there, observant.
He followed her. They were both nervous in the midst of the interior
which he was showing her for the first time, and which she was
silently estimating. For him she made an exquisite figure in the
drawing-room. She was so correct in her church-dress, so modest, prim
and demure. And her appearance clashed excitingly with his absolute
knowledge of her secret temperament. He had often hesitated in his
judgment of her. Was she good enough or was she not? But now he
thought more highly of her than ever. She was ideal, divine, the
realisation of a dream. And he felt extraordinarily pleased with
himself because, after much cautious indecision, he had invited her
to visit him. By heaven, she was young physically, and yet she knew
everything! Her miraculous youthfulness rejuvenated him.
As a fact he was essentially younger than he had been for years. Not
only she, but his war work, had re-vitalised him. He had developed
into a considerable personage on the Lechford Committee; he was
chairman of a sub-committee; he bore responsibilities and had worries.
And for a climax the committee had sent him out to France to report on
the accountancy of the hospitals; he had received a special passport;
he had had glimpses of the immense and growing military organisation
behind the Front; he had chatted in his fluent and idiomatic French
with authorities military and civil; he had been ceremoniously
complimented on behalf of his committee and country by high officials
of the Service de Santé. A wondrous experience, from which he had
returned to England with a greatly increased self-respect and a
sharper apprehension of the significance of the war.
Life in London was proceeding much as usual. If on the one hand the
Treasury had startlingly put an embargo upon capital issues, on the
other hand the King had resumed his patronage of the theatre, and the
town talked of a new Lady Teazle, and a British dye-industry had been
inaugurated. But behind the thin gauze of social phenomena G.J. now
more and more realistically perceived and conceived the dark shape
of the war as a vast moving entity. He kept concurrently in his mind,
each in its place, the most diverse factors and events: not merely
the Flemish and the French battles, but the hoped-for intervention of
Roumania, the defeat of the Austrians by Servia, the menace of a new
Austrian attack on Servia, the rise in prices, the Russian move north
of the Vistula, the raid on Yarmouth, the divulgence of the German
axioms about frightfulness, the rumour of a definite German submarine
policy, the terrible storm that had disorganised the entire English
railway-system, and the dim distant Italian earthquake whose
death-roll of thousands had produced no emotion whatever on a globe
monopolised by one sole interest.
And to-night he had had private early telephonic information of a
naval victory in the North Sea in which big German cruisers had been
chased to their ignominious lairs and one sunk. Christine could not
possibly know of this grand affair, for the Sunday night extras were
not yet on the streets; he had it ready for her, eagerly waiting to
pour it into her delicious lap along with the inexhaustible treasures
of his heart. At that moment he envisaged the victory as a shining
jewel specially created in order to give her a throb of joy.
"It seems they picked up a lot of survivors from the _Blucher_," he
finished his narration, rather proudly.
She retorted, quietly but terribly scornful:
"_Zut_! You English are so naive. Why save them? Why not let them
drown? Do they not deserve to drown? Look what they have done, those
Boches! And you save them! Why did the German ships run away? They had
set a trap--that sees itself--in addition to being cowards. You save
them, and you think you have made a fine gesture; but you are nothing
but simpletons." She shrugged her shoulders in inarticulate disdain.
Christine's attitude towards the war was uncomplicated by any
subtleties. Disregarding all but the utmost spectacular military
events, she devoted her whole soul to hatred of the Germans--and all
the Germans. She believed them to be damnably cleverer than any other
people on earth, and especially than the English. She believed them
to be capable of all villainies whatsoever. She believed every charge
brought against them, never troubling about evidence. She would have
imprisoned on bread and water all Germans and all persons with German
names in England. She was really shocked by the transparent idiocy of
Britons who opposed the retirement of Prince Louis of Battenberg from
the Navy. For weeks she had remained happily in the delusion that
Prince Louis had been shot in the Tower, and when the awakening came
she had instantly decided that the sinister influence of Lord Haldane
and naught else must have saved Prince Louis from a just retribution.
She had a vision of England as overrun with innumerable German
spies who moved freely at inexpressible speed about the country in
high-powered grey automobiles with dazzling headlights, while the
marvellously stupid and blind British police touched their hats
to them. G.J. smiled at her in silence, aware by experience of the
futility of argument. He knew quite a lot of women who had almost
precisely Christine's attitude towards the war, and quite a lot of men
too. But he could have wished the charming creature to be as desirable
for her intelligence as for her physical and her strange spiritual
charm: he could have wished her not to be providing yet another
specimen of the phenomena of woman repeating herself so monotonously
in the various worlds of London. The simpleton of fifty made in his
soul an effort to be superior, and failed. "What is it that binds me
to her?" he reflected, imagining himself to be on the edge of a divine
mystery, and never expecting that he and Christine were the huge
contrivances of certain active spermatozoa for producing other active
spermatozoa.
Christine did not wonder what bound her to G.J. She knew, though she
had never heard such a word as spermatozoa. She had a violent passion
for him; it would, she feared, be eternal, whereas his passion for her
could not last more than a few years. She knew what the passions of
men were--so she said to herself superiorly. Her passion for him was
in her smile as she smiled back at his silent smile; but in her
smile there was also a convinced apostleship--for she alone was the
repository of the truth concerning Germans, which truth she preached
to an unheeding world. And there was something else in her baffling
smile, namely, a quiet, good-natured, resigned resentment against the
richness of his home. He had treated her always with generosity, and
at any rate with rather more than fairness; he had not attempted to
conceal that he was a man of means; she had nothing to reproach him
with financially. And yet she did reproach him--for having been too
modest. She had a pretty sure instinct for the price of things,
and she knew that this Albany interior must have been very costly;
further, it displayed what she deemed to be the taste of an exclusive
aristocrat. She saw that she had been undervaluing her Gilbert. The
proprietor of this flat would be entitled to seek relations of higher
standing than herself in the ranks of _cocotterie_; he would be
justified in spending far more money on a girl than he had spent on
her. He was indeed something of a fraud with his exaggerated English
horror of parade. And he lived by himself, save for servants; he was
utterly free; and yet for two months he had kept her out of
these splendours, prevented her from basking in the glow of these
chandeliers and lounging on these extraordinary sofas and beholding
herself in these terrific mirrors. Even now he was ashamed to let his
servants see her. Was it altogether nice of him? Her verdict on him
had not the slightest importance--even for herself. In kissing other
men she generally kissed him--to cheat her appetite. She was at his
mercy, whatever he was. He was useful to her and kind to her; he might
be the fount of very important future advantages; but he was more than
that, he was indispensable to her. She walked exploringly into the
little glittering bedroom. Beneath the fantastic dome of the bed the
sheets were turned down and a suit of pyjamas laid out. On a Chinese
tray on a lacquered table by the bed was a spirit-lamp and kettle, and
a box of matches in an embroidered case with one match sticking out
ready to be seized and struck. She gazed, and left the bedroom, saying
nothing, and wandered elsewhere. The stairs were so infinitesimal
and dear and delicious that they drew from her a sharp exclamation of
delight. She ran up them like a child. G.J. turned switches. In the
little glittering dining-room a little cold repast was laid for two on
an inlaid table covered with a sheet of glass. Christine gazed, saying
nothing, and wandered again to the drawing-room floor, while G.J.
hovered attendant. She went to the vast Regency desk, idly fingering
papers, and laid hold of a document. It was his report on the
accountacy of the Lechford Hospitals in France. She scrutinised it
carefully, murmuring sentences from it aloud in her French accent. At
length she dropped it; she did not put it down, she dropped it, and
murmured:
"All that--what good does it do to wounded men?... True, I comprehend
nothing of it--I!"
Then she sat to the piano, whose gorgeous and fantastic case might
well have intimidated even a professional musician.
"Dare I?" She took off her gloves.
As she began to play her best waltz she looked round at G.J. and said:
"I adore thy staircase."
And that was all she did say about the flat. Still, her demeanour,
mystifying as it might be, was benign, benevolent, with a remarkable
appearance of genuine humility.
G.J., while she played, discreetly picked up the telephone and got the
Marlborough Club. He spoke low, so as not to disturb the waltz, which
Christine in her nervousness was stumbling over.
"I want to speak to Mr. Montague Ryper. Yes, yes; he is in the club.
I spoke to him about an hour ago, and he is waiting for me to ring him
up.... That you, Monty? Well, dear heart, I find I shan't be able to
come to-night after all. I should like to awfully, but I've got these
things I absolutely must finish.... You understand.... No, no.... Is
she, by Jove? By-bye, old thing."
When Christine had pettishly banged the last chord of the coda, he
came close to her and said, with an appreciative smile, in English:
"Charming, my little girl."
She shook her head, gazing at the front of the piano.
He murmured--it was almost a whisper:
"Take your things off."
She looked round and up at him, and the light diffused from a thousand
lustres fell on her mysterious and absorbed face.
"My little rabbit, I cannot stay with thee to-night."
The words, though he did not by any means take them as final,
seriously shocked him. For five days he had known that Mrs. Braiding,
subject to his convenience, was going down to Bramshott to see the
defender of the Empire. For four days he had hesitated whether or not
he should tell her that she might stay away for the night. In the end
he had told her to stay away; he had insisted that she should stay;
he had protested that he was quite ready to look after himself for a
night and a morning. She had gone, unwillingly, having first arranged
a meal which he said he was to share with a friend--naturally, for
Mrs. Braiding, a male friend. She had wanted him to dine at the club,
but he had explained to Mrs. Braiding that he would be busy upon
hospital work, and that another member of the committee would be
coming to help him--the friend, of course. Even when he had contrived
this elaborate and perfect plot he had still hesitated about the
bold step of inviting Christine to the flat. The plan was extremely
attractive, but it held dangers. Well, he had invited her. If she had
not been at home, or if she had been unwilling to come, he would
not have felt desolated; he would have accepted the fact as perhaps
providential. But she was at home; she was willing; she had come.
She was with him; she had put him into an ecstasy of satisfaction and
anticipation. One evening alone with her in his own beautiful flat!
What a frame for her and for love! And now she said that she would not
stay. It was incredible; it could not be permitted.
"But why not? We are happy together. I have just refused a dinner
because of--this. Didn't you hear me on the 'phone?"
"Thou wast wrong," she smiled. "I am not worth a dinner. It is
essential that I should return home. I am tired--tired. It is Sunday
night, and I have sworn to myself that I will pass this evening at
home--alone."
Exasperating, maddening creature! He thought: "I fancied I knew her,
and I don't know her. I'm only just beginning to know her." He stared
steadily at her soft, serious, worried, enchanting face, and tried
to see through it into the arcana of her queer little brain. He could
not. The sweet face foiled him.
"Then why come?"
"Because I wished to be nice to thee, to prove to thee how nice I am."
She seized her gloves. He saw that she meant to go. His demeanour
changed. He was aware of his power over her, and he would use it.
She was being subtle; but he could be subtle too, far subtler than
Christine. True, he had not penetrated her face. Nevertheless his
instinct, and his male gift of ratiocination, informed him that
beneath her gentle politeness she was vexed, hurt, because he had got
rid of Mrs. Braiding before receiving her. She had her feelings, and
despite her softness she could resent. Still, her feelings must not
be over-indulged; they must not be permitted to make a fool of her. He
said, rather teasingly, but firmly:
"I know why she refuses to stay."
She cried, plaintive:
"It is not that I have another rendezvous. No! But naturally thou
thinkest it is that."
He shook his head.
"Not at all. The little silly wants to go back home because she finds
there is no servant here. She is insulted in her pride. I noticed it
in her first words when she came in. And yet she ought to know--"
Christine gave a loud laugh that really disconcerted him.
"Au revoir, my old one. Embrace me." She dropped the veil.
"No!"
He could play a game of pretence longer than she could. She moved with
dignity towards the door, but never would she depart like that.
He knew that when it came to the point she was at the mercy of her
passion for him. She had confessed the tyranny of her passion, as such
victims foolishly will. Moreover he had perceived it for himself.
He followed her to the door. At the door she would relent. And,
sure enough, at the door she leapt at him and clasped his neck with
fierceness and fiercely kissed him through her veil, and exclaimed
bitterly:
"Ah! Thou dost not love me, but I love thee!"
But the next instant she had managed to open the door and she was
gone.
He sprang out to the landing. She was running down the stone stairs.
"Christine!"
She did not stop. G.J. might be marvellously subtle; but he could not
be subtle enough to divine that on that night Christine happened to
be the devotee of the most clement Virgin, and that her demeanour
throughout the visit had been contrived, half unconsciously, to enable
her to perform a deed of superb self-denial and renunciation in the
service of the dread goddess. He ate most miserably alone, facing an
empty chair; the desolate solitude of the evening was terrible; he
lacked the force to go seeking succour in clubs.