"I had a letter from Louise yesterday," announced Clare.
She was curled up in a saddle-bag before the roaring golden fire, and
was busy with paper and pencil. Alwynne, big with her as yet unissued
invitation, sat cross-legged on the white bearskin at her feet. The
floor was littered with papers and book-catalogues. At Christmas-time
Clare ordered books as a housewife orders groceries, and she and Alwynne
had spent a luxurious evening over her lists. The vivid flames lit up
Clare's thin, lazy length, and turned the hand she held up against their
heat into transparent carnelian. Her face was in shadow, but there were
dancing specks of light in her sombre eyes that kept time with the
leaping blaze. Clare was a sybarite over her fires. She would not endure
coal or gas or stove--wood, and wood only, must be used; and she would
pay any price for apple-wood, ostensibly for the quality of its flame,
secretly for the mere pleasure of burning fuel with so pleasant a name;
for she liked beautiful words as a child likes chocolate--a sober,
acquisitive liking. She had, too, though she would not own it, a delight
in destruction, costly destruction; she enjoyed the sensation of
reckless power that it gave her. The trait might be morbid, but there
was not a trace of pose in it; she could have enjoyed a Whittington
bonfire, without needing a king to gasp applause. Yet she shivered
nightly as she undressed in her cold bedroom, rather than commit the
extravagance of an extra fire. She never realised the comicality of her
contradictoriness, or even its existence in her character, though it
qualified every act and impulse of her daily life. Her soul was, indeed,
a hybrid, combining the temper of a Calvinist with the tastes of a
Renascence bishop.
At the moment she was in gala mood. The autumn term was but four days
dead, she had not had time to tire of holidays, though, within a week,
she would be bored again, and restless for the heavy work under which
she affected to groan. Her chafing mind seldom allowed her indolent body
much of the peace it delighted in--was ever the American in lotus-land.
It was fidgeted at the moment by Alwynne's absorption in a lavishly
illustrated catalogue.
"Did you hear, Alwynne? A letter from Louise."
Alwynne's "Oh?" was absent. It was in the years of the Rackham craze,
and she had just discovered a reproduction of the _Midsummer_ Helen.
"Any message?" Clare knew how to prod Alwynne.
The girl glanced up amused but a little indignant.
"You've answered it already? Well! And the weeks I've had to wait
sometimes."
"This was such a charming letter," said Clare smoothly. "It deserved an
answer. She really has the quaintest style. And Alwynne--never a blot or
a flourish! It's a pleasure to read."
Alwynne laughed ruefully. She would always squirm good-humouredly under
Clare's pin-pricks, with such amusement at her own discomfiture that
Clare never knew whether to fling away her needle for good, or, for the
mere experiment's sake, to stab hard and savagely. At that stage of
their intimacy, Alwynne's guilelessness invariably charmed and disarmed
her--she knew that it would take a very crude display of cruelty to make
Alwynne believe that she was being hurt intentionally. Clare was amused
by the novel pedestal upon which she had been placed; she was accustomed
to the panoply of Minerva, or the bow of Diana Huntress, but she had
never before been hailed as Bona Dea. It tickled her to be endowed with
every domestic virtue, to be loved, as Alwynne loved her, with the
secure and fearless affection of a daughter for a newly-discovered and
adorable young mother. She appreciated Alwynne's determination of their
relationship, her nice sense of the difference in age, her modesty in
reserving any claim to an equality in their friendship, her frank and
affectionate admiration--yet, while it pleased her, it could pique. Calm
comradeship or surrendering adoration she could cope with, but the
subtle admixture of such alien states of mind was puzzling. She had
acquired a lover with a sense of humour and she felt that she had her
hands full. Her imperious will would, in time, she knew, eliminate
either the lover or the humour--it annoyed her that she was not as yet
quite convinced that it would be the humour. She intended to master
Alwynne, but she realised that it would be a question of time, that she
would give her more trouble than the children to whom she was
accustomed. Alwynne's utter unrealisation of the fact that a trial of
strength was in progress, was disconcerting: yet Clare, jaded and
super-subtle, found her innocence endearing. Without relaxing in her
purpose, she yet caught herself wondering if an ally were not better
than a slave. But the desire for domination was never entirely shaken
off, and Alwynne's free bearing was in itself an ever-present challenge.
Clare loved her for it, but her pride was in arms. It was her misfortune
not to realise that, for all her Olympian poses, she had come to love
Alwynne deeply and enduringly.
Alwynne, meanwhile, laughing and pouting on the hearth, the firelight
revealing every change of expression in her piquant face, was declining
to be classed with Agatha Middleton; her handwriting may be bad, but it
wasn't a beetle-track; anyhow, Queen Elizabeth had a vile fist--Clare
admired Queen Elizabeth, didn't she? She had always so much to say to
Clare, that if she stopped to bother about handwriting----! Had Clare
never got into a row for untidiness in her own young days? Elsbeth had
hinted.... But of course she reserved judgment till she had heard
Clare's version! She settled to attention and Clare, inveigled into
reminiscences, found herself recounting quaint and forgotten incidents
to her own credit and discredit, till, before the evening was over,
Alwynne knew almost as much of Clare's schooldays as Clare did herself.
She could never resist telling Alwynne stories, Alwynne was always so
genuinely breathless with interest.
They returned to Louise at last, and Alwynne read the letter, chuckling
over the odd phrases, and dainty marginal drawings. She would have
dearly liked to see Clare's answer. She was glad, for all her protests,
that Clare had been moved to answer; she knew so well the delight it
would give Louise. The child would need cheering up. For, quite
resignedly and by the way, Louise had mentioned that the Denny family
had developed whooping-cough, and emigrated to Torquay, and she, in
quarantine, though it was hoped she had escaped infection, was preparing
for a solitary Christmas.
Alwynne looked up at Clare with wrinkled brows.
"Poor child! But what can I do? I haven't had whooping-cough, and
Elsbeth is always so afraid of infection; or else she could have come to
us. I know Elsbeth wouldn't have minded."
"You are going to leave me to myself then? You've quite made up your
mind?"
Alwynne's eyes lighted up.
"Oh, Clare, it's all right. You are coming! At least--I mean--Elsbeth
sends her kindest regards, and she would be so pleased if you will come
to dinner with us on Christmas Day," she finished politely.
Clare laughed.
"It's very kind of your aunt."
"Yes, isn't it?" said Alwynne, with ingenuous enthusiasm.
"I'm afraid I can't come, Alwynne."
Alwynne's face lengthened.
"Oh, Clare! Why ever not?"
Clare hesitated. She had no valid reason, save that she preferred the
comfort of her own fireside and that she had intended Alwynne to come to
her. Alwynne's regretful refusal when she first mooted the arrangement,
she had not considered final, but this invitation upset her plans.
Elsbeth's influence was opposing her. She hated opposition. Also she did
not care for Elsbeth. It would not be amiss to make Elsbeth (not her
dislike of Elsbeth) the reason for her refusal. It would have its effect
on Alwynne sooner or later.
She considered Alwynne narrowly, as she answered--
"My dear, I had arranged to be at home, for one thing."
Alwynne looked hurt.
"Of course, if you don't care about it--" she began.
Clare rallied her.
"Be sensible, my child. It is most kind of Miss Loveday; but--wasn't it
chiefly your doing, Alwynne? Imagine her dismay if I accepted. A
stranger in the gate! On Christmas Day! One must make allowances for
little prejudices, you know."
"She'll be awfully disappointed," cried Alwynne, so eager for Clare that
she believed it.
"Will she?" Clare laughed pleasantly. "Every one doesn't wear your
spectacles. What would she do with me, for a whole day?"
"We shouldn't see her much," began Alwynne. "She spends most of her time
in church. I go in the morning--(yes, I'm very good!) but I've drawn the
line at turning out after lunch."
"Then why shouldn't you come to me instead? It would be so much better.
I shall be alone, you know." Clare's wistful intonation was not entirely
artificial.
Alwynne was distressed.
"Oh, Clare, I'd love to--you know I'd love to--but how could I? Elsbeth
would be dreadfully hurt. I couldn't leave her alone on Christmas Day."
"But you can me?"
"Clare, don't put it like that. You know I shall want to be with you all
the time. But Elsbeth's like my mother. It would be beastly of me. You
must put relations first at Christmas-time, even if they're not first
really."
She smiled at Clare, but she felt disloyal as she said it, and hated
herself. Yet wasn't it true? Clare came first, though Elsbeth must never
guess it. Dear old Elsbeth was pretty dense, thank goodness! Where
ignorance is bliss, etcetera! Yet she, Alwynne, felt extraordinarily
mean....
Clare watched her jealously. She had set her heart on securing Alwynne
for Christmas Day, and had thought, ten minutes since, with a secret,
confident smile, that there would not be much difficulty. And here was
Alwynne holding out--refusing categorically! It was incredible! Yet she
could not be angry: Alwynne so obviously was longing to be with her....
Equally obviously prepared to risk her displeasure (a heavy penalty
already, Clare guessed, to Alwynne), rather than ignore the older claim.
Clare thought that an affection that could be so loyal to a tedious old
maid was better worth deflecting than many a more ardent, unscrupulous
enthusiasm. Alwynne was showing strength of character.
She persisted nevertheless--
"Well, it's a pity. I must eat my Christmas dinner alone, I suppose."
"Oh, Clare, you might come to us," cried Alwynne. "I can't see why you
won't."
Clare shrugged her shoulders.
"If you can't see why, my dear Alwynne, there's no more to be said."
Alwynne most certainly did not see; but Clare's delicately reproachful
tone convicted her, and incidentally Elsbeth, of some failure in tact.
She supposed she had blundered ... she often did.... But Elsbeth, at
least, must be exonerated ... she did so want Clare to think well of
Elsbeth....
She perjured herself in hasty propitiation.
"Yes. Yes--I do see. I ought to have known, of course. Elsbeth was quite
right. She said you wouldn't, all along."
"Oh?" Clare sat up. "Oh? Your aunt said that, did she?" She spoke with
detachment, but inwardly she was alert, on guard. Elsbeth had suddenly
become worth attention.
"Oh, yes." Alwynne's voice was rueful. "She was quite sure of it. She
said I might ask you, with pleasure, if I didn't believe her--you see,
she'd love you to come--but she didn't think you would."
"I wonder," said Clare, laughing naturally, "what made her say that?"
"She said she knew you better than I did," confided Alwynne, with one of
her spurts of indignation. "As if----"
"Yes, it's rather unlikely, isn't it?" said Clare, with an intimate
smile. "But you're not going?"
"I must. Look at the time! Elsbeth will be having fits!" Alwynne called
from the hall where she was hastily slipping on her coat and hat.
Clare stood a moment--thinking.
So the duel had been with Elsbeth! So that negligible and mouse-like
woman had been aware--all along ... had prepared, with a thoroughness
worthy of Clare herself, for the inevitable encounter ... had worsted
Clare completely.... It was amazing.... Clare was compelled to
admiration. It was clear to her now that Elsbeth must have distrusted
her from the beginning. It had been Elsbeth's doing, not hers, that
their intercourse had been so slight.... Yet she had never restrained
Alwynne; she had risked giving her her head.... She was subtle! This
affair of the Christmas dinner for instance--Clare appreciated its
cleverness. Elsbeth had not wanted her, Clare now saw clearly; had been
anxious to avoid the intimacy that such an invitation would imply;
equally anxious, surely, that Alwynne should not guess her uneasy
jealousy: so she had risked the invitation, counting on her knowledge of
Clare's character (Clare stamped with vexation--that the woman should
have such a memory!) secure that Clare, unsuspicious of her motives,
would, by refusing, do exactly as Elsbeth wished. It had been the
neatest of gossamer traps--and Clare had walked straight into it....
She was furious. If Alwynne, maddeningly unsuspicious Alwynne, had but
enlightened her earlier in the evening! Now she was caught, committed by
her own decision of manner to the course of action she most would have
wished to avoid.... She could not change her mind now without appearing
foolishly vacillating.... It would not do.... She had been bluffed,
successfully, gorgeously bluffed.... And Elsbeth was sitting at home
enjoying the situation ... too sure of herself and Clare even to be
curious as to the outcome of it all. She knew. Clare stamped again. Oh,
but she would pay Elsbeth for this.... The _casus belli_ was infinitely
trivial, but the campaign should be Homeric.... And this preliminary
engagement could not affect the final issues.... She always won in the
end.... But, after all, Elsbeth could not be blamed, though she must be
crushed; Alwynne was worth fighting for! Elsbeth was a fool.... If she
had treated Clare decently, Clare might--possibly--have shared Alwynne
with her.... She believed she would have had scruples.... Now they were
dispelled.... Alwynne, by fair means or foul, should be detached ...
should become Clare's property ... should be given up to no living woman
or man.
She followed Alwynne into the hall and lit the staircase candle. She
would see Alwynne out. She would have liked to keep Alwynne with her for
a month. She was a delightful companion; it was extraordinary how
indispensable she made herself. Clare knew that her flat would strike
her as a dreary place to return to, when she had shut the door on
Alwynne. She would sit and read and feel restless and lonely. Yet she
did not allow herself to feel lonely as a rule; she scouted the
weakness. But Alwynne wound herself about you, thought Clare, and you
never knew, till she had gone, what a difference she made to you.
She wished she could keep Alwynne another couple of hours.... But it was
eleven already ... her hold was not yet strong enough to warrant
innovations to which Elsbeth could object.... Her time would come
later.... How much later would depend on whether it were affection that
swayed Alwynne, or only a sense of duty.... She believed, because she
hoped, that it was duty--a sense of duty was more easily suborned than
an affection.... For the present, however, Alwynne must be allowed to do
as she thought right. Clare knew when she was beaten, and, with her
capacity for wry admiration of virtues that she had not the faintest
intention of incorporating in her own character, she was able to applaud
Alwynne heartily. Yet she did not intend to make victory easy to her.
They went down the flights of stairs silently, side by side. Alwynne
opened the entrance doors and stood a moment, fascinated.
"Look, Clare! What a night!"
The moon was full and flooded earth and sky with bright, cold light. The
garden, roadway, roofs, trees and fences glittered like powdered
diamonds, white with frost and moonshine. The silence was exquisite.
They stood awhile, enjoying it.
Suddenly Clare shivered. Alwynne became instantly and anxiously
practical.
"Clare, what am I thinking of? Go in at once--you'll catch a dreadful
cold."
With unusual passivity Clare allowed herself to be hurried in. At the
staircase Alwynne said good-bye, handing her her candle, and waiting
till she should have passed out of sight. On the fourth step Clare
hesitated, and turned--
"Alwynne--come to me for Christmas?"
Alwynne flung out her hands.
"Clare! I mustn't."
"Alwynne--come to me for Christmas?"
"You know I mustn't! You know you'd think me a pig if I did, now
wouldn't you?"
"I expect so."
"But I'll come in for a peep at you," cried Alwynne, brightening,
"while Elsbeth's at afternoon service. I could do that. And to say Merry
Christmas!"
"Come to dinner?"
"I can't."
"Then you needn't come at all." Clare turned away.
Alwynne caught her hand, as it leaned on the balustrade. In the other
the candle shook a little.
"Lady Macbeth! Dear Lady Macbeth! Miss Hartill of the Upper Sixth, whom
I'm scared to death of, really--you're behaving like a very naughty
small child. Now, aren't you? Honestly? Oh, do turn round and crush me
with a look for being impudent, and then tell me that I'm only doing
what you really approve. I don't want to, Clare, but you know you hate
selfishness."
Clare looked down at her.
"All right, Alwynne. You must do as you like."
"Say good-night to me," demanded Alwynne. "Nicely, Clare, very nicely!
It's Christmas-time."
Carefully Clare deposited her candlestick on the stair above. Leaning
over the banisters, she put her arms round Alwynne and kissed her
passionately and repeatedly.
"Good-night, my darling," said Clare.
Then, recoiling, she caught up her candlestick, and without another word
or look, hurried up the stairs.
Alwynne walked home on air.