"Has Mr. Dean come in?"
"No, Sir Owen."
"What time is it?"
"Eight o'clock."
"Dinner is quite ready?"
"Quite ready, Sir Owen."
"I don't think there is any good in waiting. Something must have
detained Mr. Dean."
"Very well, Sir Owen."
The butler left the room surprised, for if there was one thing that
Sir Owen hated it was to dine by himself, yet Owen had not screamed
out a single blasphemy, or even muttered a curse, and wondering at
his master's strange resignation, the butler crossed the hall,
hoping Sir Owen's health was not run down. He put the evening paper
by Sir Owen, for there had been some important racing that day, and
sometimes Sir Owen would talk quite affably. There were other times
when he would not say a word, and this was one of them. He pushed
the paper away, and went on eating, irritated by the sound of his
knife and fork on his plate, the only sound in the dining-room, for
the footmen went silently over the thick pile carpet, receiving
their directions by a gesture from the great butler.
After dinner Owen had recourse to the evening paper, and he read it,
and every other paper in his room, advertisements and all, asking
himself what the devil had happened to Ulick. Some of his operatic
friends must have asked him to dinner. A moment after it seemed to
him that Ulick was treating his house like a hotel. "Damn him! he
might have easily sent me a telegram." At half-past ten the footman
brought in the whisky, and Owen sat sipping his drink, smoking
cigars, and wondering why Ulick had net come home for dinner; and
the clock had struck half-past eleven before Ulick's latchkey was
heard in the door.
"I hope you didn't wait dinner for me?"
"We waited a little while. Where have you been?"
"She asked me to stay to dinner."
"Oh, she asked you to stay to dinner!" Such a simple explanation of
Ulick's absence Owen hadn't thought of, and, reading his face, Ulick
hastened to tell him that after dinner they had gone to a concert.
"Well, I suppose you were right to go with her; the concert must have
been a great break in her life.... Sitting there all the evening,
writing letters, trying to get situations for drunken men, girl
mothers, philanthropy of every kind. How she must have enjoyed the
concert! Tell me about it; and tell me how she was dressed."
Ulick had not remarked Evelyn's dress very particularly, and Owen was
angry with him for only being able to tell him that she wore a pale
silk of a faint greenish colour.
"And her cloak?"
"Oh, her cloak was all right; it seemed warm enough."
Owen wanted to know what jewellery she wore, and complained that she
had sold all the jewellery he had given her for the nuns. Ulick was
really sorry for him. Now, what did she think of the singing? To
please him Ulick attributed all his criticism of the singers to
Evelyn, and Owen said:
"Extraordinary, isn't it? Did she say that she regretted leaving the
stage? And what did she say about me?"
Ulick had been expecting this question.
"She hoped you were very well, and that you did not speak unkindly of
her."
"Speak unkindly of her!" and Owen's thoughts seemed to fade away.
Cigar after cigar, drink after drink, until sleep settled in their
eyes, and both went to bed too weary to think of her any more.
But next day Owen remembered that Ulick had not told him if he had
driven Evelyn home after the concert, and the fact that he had not
mentioned how they had parted was in itself suspicious; and he
determined to question Ulick. But Ulick was seldom in Berkeley
Square; he pleaded as his excuse business appointments; he had
business appointments all over London; Owen listened to his
explanations, and then they talked of other things. In this way Owen
never learnt on what terms Evelyn and Ulick were: whether she wrote
to him, whether they saw each other daily or occasionally. It was
not natural to think that after a dinner and a concert their
intimacy should cease as suddenly as it had begun. No doubt they
dined together in restaurants, and they went to concerts. Every hour
which he spent away from Berkeley Square he spent with her ...
possibly. To find out if this were true he would have to follow
Ulick, and that he couldn't do. He might question him? No, he
couldn't do that. And, sitting alone in his study in the evening,
for Ulick had gone out after dinner, he asked himself if he could
believe that Ulick was with the directors of the opera company. It
was much more likely that he was in the Bayswater flat, trying to
persuade Evelyn to return to the stage. So far he was doing good
work, but the only means he had of persuading her was through her
senses, by making love to her. Her senses had kindled for him once,
why shouldn't they kindle again? It would be a hard struggle between
the flesh and the idea, the idea which urged her in one direction,
and the flesh which drew her in another. Which would prevail? Ulick
was young, and Owen knew how her senses flared up, how certain music
set her senses on fire and certain literature. "All alone in that
flat," and the vision becoming suddenly intense he saw Ulick leading
her to the piano, and heard the music, and saw her eyes lifted as
she had lifted them many times to him--grey marble eyes, which would
never soften for him again.
He had known her for so many years, and thought of her so intensely
that every feature of her face could be recalled in its minutest
line and expression; not only the general colour of her face, but
the whiteness of the forehead, and where the white skin freckled.
How strange it was that freckles should suit her, though they suited
no other woman! And the blue tints under the eyes, he remembered
them, and how the blue purpled, the rose red in the cheeks, and the
various changes--the greys in the chin, the blue veins reticulating
in the round white neck, and the pink shapes of the ear showing
through the shadow. Her hair was visible to him, its colour in the
light and in the shadow; and her long thin hands, the laces she wore
at the wrists, her rings, the lines of the shoulders, and of the
arms, the breasts--their size, their shape, and their very weight--
every attitude that her body fell into naturally. From long knowledge
and intense thinking he could see her at will; and there she was at
the end of the sofa crossing and uncrossing her lovely legs, so long
from the knees, showing through the thin evening gown; he thought of
their sweetness and the seduction of the foot advancing, showing an
inch or two beyond the skirt of her dress. And then she drew her
rings from her fingers, dropping them into her lap, and
unconsciously placed them again over the knuckles.
A great deal he would give--everything--for Ulick's youth, so that he
might charm her again. But of what avail to begin again? Had he not
charmed her before? and had not her love flowed past him like water,
leaving nothing but a memory of it; yet it was all he had--all that
life had given him. And it was so little, because she had never
loved him. Every other quality Nature had bestowed upon her, but not
the capacity for loving. For the first time it seemed to him he had
begun to understand that she was incapable of love--in other words,
of giving herself wholly to anybody. A strange mystery it was that
one who could give her body so unreservedly should be so
parsimonious about her soul. To give her body and retain herself was
her gift, above all other women, thereby remaining always new,
always unexpected, and always desirable. In the few visits to Paris
which had been allowed to him by her, and by Madame Savelli, she had
repaid him for the long abstinences by an extraordinary exaltation
and rapture of body and of intellect, but he had always experienced
a strange alienation, even when he held her in his arms--perhaps
then more than ever did he feel that she never was, and never could
be, his. The thought had always been at the back of his mind:
"Tomorrow I shall be far from her, and she will be interested in
other things. All she can give me is her body--a delicious possession
it is--and a sweet friendliness, a kindliness which sometimes seems
like love, but which is not." Some men would regard her as a cold
sensualist; maybe so, though indeed he did not think that it was so,
for her kindliness precluded such a criticism. But even if it were
so, such superficial thinking about her mattered little to him who
knew her as none other could ever know her, having lived with her
since she was two or three and twenty till five and thirty--thinking
of her always, noting every faintest shade of difference, comparing
one mood with another, learning her as other men learn a difficult
text from some ancient parchment, some obscure palimpsest--that is
what she was, something written over. There was another text which
he had never been able to master; and he sat in his chair conscious
of nothing but some vague pain which--becoming more and more
definite--awoke him at last. Though he had studied her so closely
perhaps he knew as little of her as any one else, as little as she
knew of herself. Of only one thing was there any surety, and that
was she could only be saved by an appeal to the senses.
So he had done right in encouraging her friendship with Ulick,
sending Ulick to her, putting his natural jealousy aside--preferring
to suffer rather than that she should be lost. God only knew how he
was suffering day by day, hour by hour; but it were better that he
should suffer than that she should be abandoned to the spiritual
constriction of the old Roman python. It was horrible to think, but
the powerful coils would break and crush to pulp; then the beast
would lubricate and swallow. Anything were better than this; Ulick's
kisses would never be more to Evelyn than the passing trance of the
senses; she never would love him as other women loved, giving their
souls: she had never given her soul, why should she give it now?
But, good God! if after some new adventure she should return to the
python?
His heart failed him; but only for a moment. Ulick might prove to her
the futility of her endeavour to lead a chaste life; and once that
was established she would become the beautiful, enchanting being
that he had known; but she would never return to him. If she only
returned to herself! The spirit of sacrifice tempted him, despite
the suffering he was enduring--a suffering which he compared to
sudden scaldings: he was being scalded to death by degrees, covered
from head to foot with blisters. A telegram in the hall for Ulick, a
hesitation in Ulick's voice, a sudden shifting of the eyes--anything
sufficed--and therewith he was burnt to the bone, far beyond the
bone, into the very vitals. Even now in his study, he waited another
scalding. At any moment Ulick might come in, and though he never
betrayed himself by any word or look, still his presence would
suggest that he had just come from Evelyn. Perhaps he had been
walking with her in the park? But why wait in Berkeley Square? If a
martyrdom of jealousy he must endure, let it be at Riversdale. Out of
sight would not mean out of mind; but he would not be constantly
reminded of his torment; there would be business to attend to which
would distract his mind, and when he returned in a few days to
Berkeley Square merciful Fate would have settled everything: she
would be gone away with Ulick to be cured, or would remain behind, a
living food for the serpent.
The valet was told that he must be ready to catch the half-past four
train; and Ulick, when he returned from a long walk with Evelyn at
half-past six, learnt that Sir Owen had gone to Riversdale.
"Sir Owen says, sir, he hopes to see you when he returns."
But what business had taken Sir Owen out of London, and so suddenly?
The placid domestic could only tell him that Sir Owen often went to
Riversdale on business connected with the estate. "Sir Owen often
gets a wire from his agent." But this sudden call to see his agent
did not strike Ulick as very likely; far more likely that Asher had
gone out of town because he suspected--
"Poor chap! it must be dreadful seeing me come in and out of the
house, suspecting every time I am going to or coming from her. But
it was his own will that I should try to get her back to the stage
and away from Monsignor. All the same, it must have been devilishly
unpleasant." Ulick was very sorry for Owen, and hoped that if he did
succeed in tempting Evelyn away from Monsignor Owen would not hate
him for having done so. Nothing is more common than to hate one's
collaborator. Ulick laughed and suddenly grew serious. "His years are
against him. Old age, always a terror, becomes in an affair of this
kind a special terror, for there is no hope; she will never go back
to him, so I might as well get her. If I don't, Monsignor will"; and
a smile appeared again on his face, for he had begun to feel that he
would succeed in persuading Evelyn to accept the engagement, and to
do that would mean taking him on as a lover.
When he lighted a cigar the conviction was borne in upon him, as the
phrase goes, that to travel in an opera company without a mistress
would be unendurable.... Where could he get one equal to Evelyn?
Nowhere. No one in the company was comparable to her; and of course
he loved her, and she loved him: differently, in some strange way he
feared, but still she loved him, or was attracted to him--it did not
matter which so long as he could succeed in persuading her to accept
the engagement which his directors were most anxious to conclude. As
they walked through Kensington Gardens that afternoon he had noticed
how she had begun to talk suddenly on the question whether it would
be permissible for a woman in certain circumstances to take a second
lover, if her life with her first were entirely broken, and so on.
He had answered perfunctorily, and as soon as possible turned the
conversation upon other things. But it had come back--led back by
her unconsciously to the moral question. So it would seem that she
was coming round. But there was something hysterical, something so
outside of herself--something so irresponsible in her yielding to
him, that he did not altogether like the adventure which he had
undertaken, and asked himself if he loved her sufficiently, finding
without difficulty many reasons for loving her. Nowhere could he
find anybody whom he admired more, or who interested him more. He
had loved her, and they had spent a pleasant time together in that
cottage on the river. A memory of it lit up his sensual imagination,
and he determined to continue the experience just as any other young
man would. Evelyn had denied herself to him in Italy for some
strange reason; whatever that reason was it had been overcome, and
once she yielded herself she was glorious. What happened before
would happen again, and if things did not turn out as pleasantly as
he hoped they would--that is to say, if she would not remain in the
opera company, well, the fault would not be with him. She sang very
well, though not as well as Owen thought; and he went upstairs to
dress for dinner, thinking how pleasant it was to live in Berkeley
Square.
They were dining together in a restaurant, and as she came forward to
meet him he said to himself, "She looks like accepting the
engagement." And when he spoke about it to her he only reminded her
that by returning to the stage she would be able to make more money
for her poor people, for he felt it were better not to argue. To
take her hand and tell her that it was beautiful was much more in his
line, to put his arm about her when they drove back together in the
hansom, and speak to her of the cottage at Reading--this he could do
very well; and he continued to inflame her senses until she withdrew
herself from his arm, and he feared that he was compromising his
chance of seeing her on the morrow.
"But you will come to the park, won't you? Remember, it is our last
day together."
"Not the last," she said, "the last but one. Yes, I will see you
to-morrow. Now goodbye."
"May I not go upstairs with you?"
"No, Ulick, I cannot bring you up to my flat; it is too late."
"Then walk a little way."
"But if I were to accept that engagement do you think I could remain
a Catholic?"
Ulick could see no difficulty, and begged of her to explain.
His question was not answered until they had passed many lamp-posts,
and then as they retraced their steps she said:
"Travelling about with an opera company do you think I could go to
Mass, above all to Communion?"
"But you'll be on tour; nobody will know."
"What shall I do when I return to London?"
"Why look so far ahead?"
"All my friends know that I go to Mass."
"But you can go to Mass all the same and communicate."
"But if you were my lover?"
"Would that make any difference?"
"Of course it would make a difference if I were to continue to go to
Mass and communicate; I should be committing a sacrilege. You cannot
ask me to do that."
Ulick did not like the earnestness with which she spoke these words.
That she was yielding, however, there could be little doubt, and
whatever doubt remained in his mind was removed on the following day
in the park under the lime-trees, where they had been sitting for
some time, talking indolently--at least, Ulick had been talking
indolently of the various singers who had been engaged. He had done
most of the talking, watching the trees and the spire showing between
them, enjoying the air, and the colour of the day, a little heedless
of his companion, until looking up, startled by some break in her
voice, he saw that she was crying.
"Evelyn, what is the matter? You are crying. I never saw you cry
before."
She laughed a little, but there was a good deal of grief in her
laughter, and confessed herself to be very unhappy. Life was proving
too much for her, and when he questioned her as to her meaning, she
admitted in broken answers that his departure with the company was
more than she could bear.
"Why, then, not come with us? You'll sign the agreement?"
And they walked towards Bayswater together, talking from time to
time, Ulick trying not to say anything which would disturb her
resolution, though he had heard Owen say that once she had made a
promise she never went back upon it.
There was all next day to be disposed of, but he would be very busy,
and she would be busy too; she would have to make arrangements, so
perhaps it would be better they should not meet.
"Then, at the railway station the day after to-morrow," and he bade
her goodbye at her door.
Owen was in his study writing.
"I didn't know you had returned, Asher."
"I came back this afternoon," and he was on the point of adding, "and
saw you with Evelyn as I drove through the park." But the admission
was so painful a one to make that it died upon his lips, finding
expression only in a look of suffering--a sort of scared look, which
told Ulick that something had happened. Could it be that Owen had
seen them in the park sitting under the limes? That long letter on
the writing-table, which Owen put away so mysteriously--could it be
to Evelyn? Ulick had guessed rightly. Owen had seen them in the park,
and he was writing to Evelyn telling her that he could bear a great
deal, but it was cruel and heartless for her to sit with Ulick under
the same trees. He had stopped in the middle of the letter
remembering that it might prevent her from going away with Ulick,
and so throw her back into the power of Monsignor. Even so, he must
write his letter; one has oneself to consider, and he could bear it
no longer.
"I see you are writing, and I have many letters to write. You will
excuse me?" And Ulick went to his room. After writing his letters,
he sent word to Owen that he was dining out. "He will think I am
dining with her, but no matter; anything is better than that we two
should sit looking at each other all through the evening, thinking
of one thing and unable to speak about it."
Next day he was out all day transacting business, thinking in the
intervals, "To-morrow morning she will be in the station," sometimes
asking himself if Owen had written to her.
But the letter he had caught sight of on Owen's table had not been
posted. "After all, what is the good in writing a disagreeable
letter to her? If she is going away with Ulick what does it matter
under what trees they sat?" Yet everything else seemed to him
nothing compared with the fact that she and Ulick had pursued their
courtship under the limes facing the Serpentine; and Owen wondered
at himself. "We are ruled by trifles," he said; all the same he did
not send the letter.
And that night Owen and Ulick bade each other goodbye for the last
time.
"Perhaps I shall see you later on in the year; in about six months'
time we shall be back in London."
Owen could not bring himself to ask if Evelyn had accepted the
engagement--what was the good? To ask would be a humiliation, and he
would know to-morrow; the porter at her flat would tell him whether
she was in London.