A DANCE AT CLARIDGE’S
It was dusk when the car swept into the drive at Stagsden, and as
Edris got out, Lord Simba, her Great Dane, bounded forth to meet her,
while a few moments afterwards Darville, still in his traveling coat,
stood before the welcome fire in the artistic morning-room, being
greeted by his friend General Temperley and his wife.
“It’s awfully good of you, Mr. Darville, to have given Edris such a
jolly time! She wrote saying how much she was enjoying herself at
Wengen,” Mrs. Temperley said.
“Glad you’re safely back, Darville,” exclaimed the General cheerily,
rising from his chair. “It’s been pretty dull here without Edris, for
she’s always lively. You had a good time, eh?”
“Delightful,” replied the novelist, while at that moment Edris, who
had been greeting her magnificent dog, entered, and embraced both her
father and mother.
That night, after dinner, both the General and his wife retired early,
and, after Edris had taken Lord Simba out in the grounds, she sat with
Seton beside the fire.
“Somehow, darling,” she exclaimed suddenly, “I feel that you are not
the same to me as you were. Why?”
He remained silent. What could he say? It was upon the tip of his
tongue to speak frankly and tell her that he knew of her perfidy and
deceit, and to cast her out of his life as worthless. But his better
nature asserted itself, and he crushed down the volcano of anger
arising within him.
“I am just the same to you, darling,” he replied quite calmly. “I love
you. I can say no more.”
“You have been annoyed about Karl--I know it,” she exclaimed. “But do
believe me when I tell you that there is no reason whatever to be
jealous. He is going to Canada, and I shall never see him again. I
bade farewell to him in Interlaken. He leaves from Cherbourg on
Saturday week.”
Darville, a heavy expression upon his face, bent towards her, and,
taking her hand, asked: “Then you have really parted from him?”
“I have.”
“You asked me to obtain a job for him in England. Suppose that I do
so?”
“Oh, it would be awfully good of you to do so, Seti. Do try and fix
him up somehow, won’t you, dearest? I feel so sorry for him.”
“I will try and do so, darling--if it is your wish. But why do you
want to get him here to England?”
“I have no other interest in him except that I like him as a friend,”
she assured him, looking straight into his eyes. “I know you think I
love him, but I assure you I don’t. I love you and you only, Seti. I
shall never love any man except your wonderful self. To me your life,
your achievements, your popularity--all are wonderful. You are my
wonderful lover!” And she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him
again and again.
Her attitude towards him was such as to cause him to wonder once again
whether he had not suffered the canker-worm of jealousy without real
cause. What Bennett had reported might, after all, have been slightly
exaggerated. His age was different from hers, and, after all, had he
not told her that he wished her to have an enjoyable time in Wengen?
As they smoked their cigarettes together he sat gazing upon her smart
figure in her evening gown of cyclamen velvet, and, entranced by the
sweetness of her smiles, he began to dub himself a fool for
entertaining false suspicions concerning the girl who, after all, was
devoted to him, and was wholly his.
When they parted for the night he felt that her kisses were just as
they had been at Hove before Christmas--full of hot passion and deep
devotion. And he, in turn, held her in a long, clinging embrace, his
lips pressed to hers.
On the following morning, when the neat maid brought his early tea,
several letters lay upon the tray. One, in a long envelope of peculiar
pattern, he recognized as being from Bennett.
He tore it open, and found within a note enclosing four photographs,
being those of four pages of a closely-written letter in a small
handwriting. He sprang from his bed and carried them to the light.
He recognized the handwriting of Karl Weiss. The letter was full of
poetry and undying affection, but from it he learnt one staggering
fact--that Edris, though pretending to be his, had _engaged herself to
Karl!_
His friend had betrayed him! They were engaged! _Engaged!_
He uttered a cry of agonized despair, and, covering his face with his
hands, sank into an arm-chair and gave vent to a torrent of tears.
The woman he loved dearer than his life was no longer his!
He rose from his chair and stood motionless. The blow had turned his
heart to stone.
When they met at breakfast Darville said nothing. The knowledge he had
gained of the girl’s astounding deceit held him silent and
broken-hearted. The light of his life had become extinguished. She no
longer belonged to him.
She kissed him when they were alone, and, although locked away in her
room was the letter she had received from Karl, a copy of which was in
Darville’s hands, she still made great pretense of affection.
She drove him that morning into Leicester in her fine blue car, but as
he sat at her side, he spoke only a few words, for the poor fellow’s
cup of bitterness was full to overflowing. Edris and Karl, in their
ignorance, thought themselves amazingly clever, yet next morning’s
post brought another envelope from Bennett, containing photographs of
an amazing love-letter in Edris’s bold handwriting, which not only
revealed the fact that Karl was coming to London purposely to see her,
but which also contained most unkind references to himself, describing
how she was keeping from him the truth regarding her engagement. The
letter breathed love in every line, and towards the man who had
fascinated her she used every term of endearment she could conjure up.
The letter had been posted in secret at the little village post office
at Thurnby, but it had not escaped the eyes which in London were
awaiting it.
Those references to himself cut him to the quick. He had never
imagined that any woman living could be so cruel and base to the man
who was devoted to her. To and fro he paced his bedroom, beside
himself with grief. Her lover was coming to London to meet her in
secret, and they were actually engaged to each other! He felt himself
bewildered, for his brain had been dulled by that most terrible and
unexpected blow. He read and re-read that cruel letter, which was on
its way to Switzerland, until the breakfast gong sounded, when he
descended to grasp the hand that had penned those hard, bitter words.
How he got through that day he hardly knew.
He walked into the village in pretence of buying postage stamps, and
in his absence, Edris flew to her room and wrote the usual daily
letter to her lover, a copy of which duly found its way to Seton.
On the following day, when he was about to leave for London, she
placed her arms around his neck and kissed him a fond adieu, saying:
“You’ll come back in a day or two, Seti, won’t you? I cannot live
without you, my darling. It will be so horribly dull and lonely while
you are away.”
“Yes,” he said in a strange voice, “I’ll come back very soon, Carina.
I’ll endeavor to see my friend concerning Karl.”
“Do, darling. He’ll be so thankful to you.”
Darville recollected her letter, a copy of which reposed in his
pocket, and, nauseated by her abominable deception, entered the car,
raised his hat, and with a forced smile, drove down the drive.
He held his breath as he turned back to wave her farewell.
Then aloud he exclaimed in a bitter, broken voice, tears welling in
his eyes, “And so ends my romance!”
He went down to Hove, and shut himself up in his flat with his
unbearable grief. At evening he would take his pet Pom for a walk
beside the sea, over those same paths where he had walked so
blissfully at Edris’s side at the birth of their love. For hours he
would sit in his rooms, brooding and alone, speaking to himself aloud
between his sobs.
Strong man that he was, he now was inert, broken, and deserted.
He tried to apply himself to his literary work, so as to forget, but
all in vain. The beautiful face of Edris, with its great, gray eyes
and dark, shingled hair, smiled upon him in his fancy, and sometimes
he would set the big arm-chair before the fire and conjure up a
recollection of her seated there, laughing gayly and smoking, just as
she had so often done when he had first revealed his great passion for
her.
As day succeeded day, however, there came to him copies of Karl’s
letters to Edris, and those of her replies. The mean character of the
man who had stolen her heart from him was revealed by his jeering and
insulting references to himself, while his views Edris never
challenged. In one letter she declared that she was tired of him.
That expression caused him the greatest grief, and added much to his
burden of sorrow. She was tired of him, so to that younger man she had
secretly engaged herself on the night of her departure from
Switzerland. Though playing a double game, she still made a hollow
pretense of loving him, for she wrote him constantly letters which
were perfectly charming.
They were, however, strange missives when compared with her letters to
her lover in Switzerland.
One day he received a letter saying that she was coming to London on
business for her father, and asked whether he would meet her at the
Carlton, where she would be staying. He had loaned his rooms for a few
weeks to a friend recently married, therefore he replied by wire that
he, too, would also stay at the Carlton. He had made up his mind that
he would, while wreaking a terrible vengeance upon Karl Weiss, see her
for the last time and speak his mind openly.
Already in the post was a letter to Interlaken, written from a certain
Government department in Whitehall, saying that if he happened to be
coming to London the department would be pleased if he would call.
That department was the Secret Service, which, if he called, would
offer to engage him at a big remuneration if he would pose as a
German, which he could easily do, and go to Moscow to investigate the
new Communist plot against Great Britain. Darville had arranged that
Webster was to pose in his place as director of the department.
Webster and Bennett had been down to Hove, and Darville had arranged
everything. Once Karl Weiss accepted the alluring bait, as he, no
doubt, would--for he loved Secret Service work, as shown by his
success while with the Commission in Germany after the war--then the
rest would be easy. He would travel as a German from Berlin to Moscow,
and it would be easy enough to give anonymous warning to the Soviet
authorities that a British secret agent was in their midst. The hatred
of Seton Darville was now relentless, for, once Karl Weiss crossed the
Russian frontier, then he would never return.
In dealing with an enemy Seton Darville was hard and utterly
unscrupulous, yet such was his strange dual nature that he had the
heart of a child, sympathetic and noble to a degree.
Three days later he met Edris at the Carlton. She had a lady friend
staying with her, and his room was quite close to theirs. When alone
Edris kissed him affectionately before they dressed for dinner. She
having been invited by her friend to go to the theater, Darville was
left alone, when, suddenly, he recollected that he had an invitation
to the Countess of Culford’s dance at Claridge’s, at which many of his
smart friends would be present. So about ten o’clock he took a taxi to
that exclusive hotel, and was soon amid a go-ahead society crowd in
which he was such a well-known figure.
He had danced twice, and was standing idly near the door just at
supper-time, when he heard a female voice behind exclaim in a soft
half-whisper:
“You’ll take me into supper, won’t you, Seton?”
He turned quickly, and found himself face to face with Elaine. A
brilliant, brown-haired figure in a striking dance-frock of gold
tissue, she stood smiling at his expression of sudden surprise.
“I thought you might come here, for I know you always go to Gladys’s
dances when you are in England. So I looked in on the chance of
finding you,” she said, regarding him with dancing eyes. “Where have
you been all this long time?”
“Abroad mostly,” he replied. “But we cannot talk here. Somebody will
see us.”
“Let’s go and have supper, and afterwards drive in the car,” the
pretty young peeress suggested. “I want to talk to you very
particularly.”
They found a corner in the supper-room, where, seated together, he
gazed across at her reflectively. Yes, that provocative smile was just
the same, and the marvelous face, which he had so admired ever since
she had been a schoolgirl, was still as beautiful as ever. He compared
her with Edris, and found at once that, while he loved the latter with
passionate devotion, Elaine merely interested him as an old friend.
The eating of supper was a sham, and, glad to be away from it, they
hurried forth, and he joined her in her fine Rolls a little way along
Brook Street.
“At last, Seton!” exclaimed Elaine when the door of the car was closed
and the driver moved towards Notting Hill Gate, according to her
directions. She placed her hand upon his, and asked very seriously,
“Why have you kept away from me all these months? Don’t you think it
has been just a little cruel of you?” she added with reproach.
“You know the reason. You recollect our parting,” he replied in a low,
tense voice. “I hoped that we should not meet again.”
“Yes,” she said in a tone of bitterness. “You love Edris Temperley--or
is it a mere passing infatuation, Seton, eh?” and she took his hand in
hers.
“I love her,” he replied in a low, tremulous voice. She saw at once
that he was not himself, and wondered whether his emotion was due to
their unexpected meeting.
“You love her, hence you have forsaken me,” Elaine said in a hard
voice.
“There has never been any actual love between us, has there?” he
asked.
“No. You are right. But we have been the firmest of friends,” she
declared. “I could always rely upon you, and now, without you, I feel
lost always.”
“You have your husband,” he pointed out, and as he uttered the words,
he felt her fingers grip his hand convulsively.
“Yes. But--but that does not bring me happiness,” she replied. “You
alone know my secrets--you know the life I lead--one of hollow sham. I
want your companionship, your sympathy, your strong, manly
protection--all that I have now lost”; and she burst into tears.
He endeavored to comfort her. He kissed her on the brow, as he so
often did in the long years of their intimate friendship. Suddenly she
gave way to a paroxysm of grief.
He glanced at the muddled, grief-stricken figure in the magnificent
ermine cloak, and felt impelled to tell her of his own load of sorrow
and anguish. Yet he feared to do so, lest he should lose his strength
of will.
“Come home with me, Seton,” she urged in a voice choked by sobs. “My
husband is in Scotland, therefore we can discuss things--the
future--together and undisturbed.”
“No, Elaine. It would be indiscreet for me to go home with you at this
hour. The servants might talk.”
“Only Kershaw will be up, and he knows you well,” she said, still
holding his hand, and as she spoke, she carried it to her lips. It was
her habit always to kiss his hand when greeting him and when bidding
him adieu.
He felt her lips upon it and drew it away, saying:
“Had we not better return? Let the man drop me at the Carlton. It’s
already getting late--two o’clock.”
With reluctance she ordered the man to take them back to the Carlton,
then she said:
“I think you are treating me very cruelly indeed, Seton. We have both
been such firm friends ever since I was a girl, and ours has been a
valued and Platonic friendship such as few women have ever
experienced. Before my marriage you stood in the place which a lover
might have occupied, and, since, you have been my best and most
devoted friend”; and she choked down a sob. “If my marriage had not
been a loveless one perhaps I might not have appreciated your devotion
to me, but, as it is, my life is unhappy, and now that you have
deserted me in favor of Edris, I feel utterly friendless and alone.
After my bitter experience,” she added, “I don’t wonder that a woman
in my circumstances should take a lover.”
“As I told you, Elaine, our friendship was becoming far too dangerous
for us both. We were too near the borderland.”
“And that is why you refuse to go home with me to talk to-night?” she
asked, raising her tear-stained face to him.
“Yes, it is.”
She drew a long breath, then, losing control of herself, in her
despair she clung to him, and in a fiercely desperate voice asked:
“Why don’t you give up Edris and return to me, Seton? I--I want you! I
can’t live without you now! I am compelled to keep a brave and smiling
face while my heart is breaking. I know that my husband cares no more
for me; he loves somebody else, and would be glad to get rid of me. I
have the villa at Antibes, and also Blacklands. Both are my own
property, besides which I have my own income. You know what it is--so
we shouldn’t starve. It would only be a nine days’ wonder to the
world, and the scandal would soon die and be forgotten. Oh, Seton,
I’ll face it--if you dare to do so!”
The grave-faced man shook his head sorrowfully.
“We have never loved, Elaine,” he answered in a low, tremulous voice.
“I have loved once--but shall never love again.”
“You mean that?” cried the unhappy woman. “You can never love again?”
“Never.”
“But you told me you loved Edris Temperley.”
“Yes, I loved her.”
“Then you don’t love her still?” she asked, much puzzled.
“I do; but--but please do not question me, Elaine. I am in a terrible
quandary. Don’t ask me now for explanations. I may tell you everything
one day, and I know that I shall have your sympathy.”
“You have it already, whatever may be your trouble, Seton,” she
replied. “You have been my friend through all these years, and you are
my friend still. There may have been scandal and gossip about us, but
I know how strictly honorable you are towards a woman”; and she
paused. Then, in an altered voice, she said: “You are behaving
honorably to me, even now when you refuse to accede to my proposal.”
He drew her head down upon his shoulder, and, stroking her hair, said:
“I will still remain your faithful friend, Elaine. But I could never
accept what you suggest. I love Edris,” he whispered, so low and
intense was his voice.
“Then, if so, go to her, Seton! I withdraw my proposal, and I will
stand aside in favor of the girl you love, knowing that you will be
true and honorable towards her. All I hope is that she will, on her
part, appreciate your true worth as a man of character, and never
betray your affection.”
Her words cut him like a knife. They sounded like a biting sarcasm,
even though she was in entire ignorance of the situation.
Almost at that moment the car drew up in the Haymarket before the
entrance to the Carlton. Their hands were clasped, and his left hand
was upon her head.
“Elaine, pray that God will help me in my distress,” he said in a low,
despairing voice. “I may tell you all one day--not to-night. And do
believe me when I say that I am still your best friend, just as I have
ever been.”
“Yes, Seton. I will do as you wish. Go back to Edris; and may you be
very happy is the sincere wish of your Elaine.”
He pressed her hand, and raised it to his dry lips, while she did the
same. Then he stepped out, and raised his hat.
And as the car turned the corner into Pall Mall he saw her bent,
huddled figure, her streaming eyes covered with her hands, and tears
came to his own eyes as he entered the great hotel.
He walked to the lift like a man in a dream. All he knew was that his
great, all-absorbing passion for Edris, even though she had betrayed
him, had held him apart from the one woman in all the world who had
exercised any influence upon his life, and it had prevented him from
taking a step that he most certainly would have regretted.
Truly his love for Edris had that night been put into the crucible and
tested in the furnace of affection.