“ICH LIEBE DICH”
To her surprise Claudia found that the assembled company included her
father and mother-in-law. Mrs. Rivington’s set was absolutely antipodal
to Lady Currey’s, but as the General was an old friend of Sir John’s
Lady Currey occasionally and stiffly countenanced the wife. Since her
marriage, the intercourse between Claudia and Gilbert’s family had been
of the most formal description, for Lady Currey found nothing to like
in Claudia, and her daughter-in-law realized that she was taken on
sufferance.
“So I shall not see my dear son to-night,” said the elder woman, as she
presented a frosty cheek for Claudia to kiss. “It is a disappointment.”
She looked with sideways disapproval at Claudia’s toilette. “As showy as
her mother,” was her mental comment.
“You knew he was expected? He telephoned me at the last minute that he
was detained at his chambers.”
Lady Currey’s eyebrows were of the fixture kind that cannot really be
raised, only crumpled. She crumpled them now.
“Ah! I remember when I was young no woman thought of going out without
her husband. If John did not care to go to a function I stayed away. When
he had that fall from his horse I never took a meal outside the house
for five months.”
Claudia would have explained to anyone else that her hostess had insisted
on her presence, and thus have soothed down old-fashioned prejudices, but
Lady Currey’s tone annoyed her.
“Oh!” she said carelessly, “women are neither treated as children nor
inmates of a harem nowadays. We have progressed, you know. Women are
freeing themselves. Did you never revolt in your heart of hearts?”
“My pleasure was always to do as my husband wished.”
“What is that about me?” said Sir John, coming up to them. “How do you
do, Claudia. I am sorry Gilbert is not able to come. But it shows the
right spirit. I inculcated that into him when he was a boy.”
He looked at Claudia fixedly under his heavy, bushy eyebrows. They always
annoyed Claudia, who longed to tell him to brush them. She knew the
meaning of that look. It was to remind her that she had so far failed to
provide him with a grandson.
“Then the responsibility rests with you,” said Claudia quietly.
“What do you mean? What responsibility? We are proud of him.”
“‘All work and no play——’” Claudia began to quote, when he interrupted
her.
“Pooh! that was invented by some lazy rogue, I bet. Work never yet hurt
any man. It’s play—late hours, too rich food and too much drink—that
plays old Harry with the constitution. I impressed that on him early in
life. Marian, don’t fidget with your fan”—she carried an old-fashioned
fan of black ostrich feathers—“it worries me. The husband to work and
the wife to look after the house and the children, that is the proper
division. You leave Gilbert alone, and don’t worry him to come to silly
dinner-parties. I’m getting on in years, and it doesn’t matter about me.
He’s carrying the name to the country. The youngest K.C.—it’ s a thing to
be proud of in a husband, Claudia.” He fixed his rather prominent cold
grey eyes on her as she lightly shrugged her shoulders.
But her hostess fluttered up to her rescue. Mrs. Rivington never walked
like other people, she always floated or fluttered.
“Mrs. Currey, may I present to you Mr. Littleton, who will take you in to
dinner. It was too bad of your husband to desert us. But he is impervious
to the charms of women, isn’t he?”
“Obviously not,” said the tall, almost gaunt, fair-haired man who bowed
before her. Claudia knew by the accent that he was an American. “Your
husband is the new K.C., is he not? King’s Counsel—it has a dignified but
archaic sound to our ears.”
“Don’t,” cried Mrs. Rivington shrilly, gauging in ten seconds the
probable cost of Claudia’s dress. “I’m an Imperialist, and I wave flags
and put up bunting and do all sorts of loyal things, and the red on a
Union Jack doesn’t agree with my complexion, so I really am quite genuine
and what-you-may-call-it. Don’t run down the King to me.” She fluttered
off, her eyes roving restlessly over the couples she was pairing.
Left together, Claudia and the American smiled. He was the type
of American that suggests the mettlesome racehorse, lean-flanked,
long-limbed, not a spare ounce of flesh on his bones, relying on training
and determination to carry him through the race. He was unusually fair,
with a suggestion that he might have had a Viking ancestor, yet there
was nothing colourless about him. Claudia wondered what he might be,
millionaire, financier, hoping to become one, railroad magnate, what? She
was sure he was a worker, it was written in every line of him.
“I am certain women like our hostess are really and truly the props of
your empire,” he said gravely. “The sacrifice of a complexion, what can
compare with it? Sons, lands, money—what can touch it?”
They both laughed as they moved in to dinner. As Claudia had predicted,
Mrs. Rivington was spreading herself over Frank Hamilton. Littleton
caught the exchange of glances between him and his partner, and made a
mental note. He was by way of studying Englishwomen.
“Are you here for long?” asked Claudia, unfolding her serviette.
“Maybe I’ll be here for six months or so. I know you are wondering what
is my particular branch of money-making. I’m a publisher—Littleton,
Robins and Co., and we’re starting a branch over here as an experiment. I
want to stay for a bit and direct it.”
Her interest was aroused. Everything to do with books had a fascination
for her ever since Colin Paton had taught her to love them. And to her
a publisher was not a merchant, a mere purveyor of books to the public,
but something dedicated to the service of art. The glamour of the books
was around the man who produced them. She knew of his firm as one that
specialized in art books and good _belles lettres_. She had several books
with his imprint on her shelves. So the talk flowed on smoothly after
this happy opening, neither having to consider what they should say next
to while away the dinner-hour. Claudia found herself more interested than
she had been for a long time at a dinner-table. He had not the delicate
illuminating touch of Colin Paton, he lacked the subtleties of his
imagination and sound classical scholarship, but he knew all the books of
the day and was appreciative of the good in them.
Towards the end of dinner he looked at her with a whimsical twinkle in
his blue eyes and said, “I wonder if you will be amused or annoyed if I
tell you something. I am not sure how an Englishwoman takes such things.
Personally I think the photograph of a beautiful woman should be public
property, but I realize she may not.”
Claudia turned a wondering face upon him.
“Your photograph, in the shape of a coloured book-cover, has gone into
every part of the United States, although”—with an appraisingly admiring
glance—“the artist did not get your colouring correctly. He made your
hair dead black and your skin and colouring too pink and commonplace.”
“But how——”
“It was like this. We were publishing a new book of Henry Roxton
Vanderling’s—you know him—and we wanted an attractive paper cover with a
portrait of the heroine. I remember it was a very hot day when we were
discussing the matter, and I told the artist I wanted something specially
taking. I generally have the English illustrated papers sent out to
me, and he was listlessly turning over the pages, when he struck your
photograph. With a cry of ‘Here it is—bully!’ he nabbed it. A few days
later he brought me a coloured sketch suggested by your portrait. I have
the original sketch framed in my office. Are you offended?”
Claudia laughed. It struck her as being humorous and something unusual
in the way of introductions. And she was pleasantly aware, as any woman
would be, of the compliment conveyed.
“I knew you the minute you came into the room, although I had forgotten
your name. When you came in I said to myself, ‘Vanderling’s “Woman of the
East!”’ I felt somehow we were already acquainted.”
“Well, I think I ought to have a copy of the book.” said Claudia promptly.
“Sure. I’ll send you one to-morrow. I’m delighted you are amused, not
angry. I took a big chance in telling you, but I had to.”
“You thought I’d find out and you’d better put the thing nicely, with the
varnished side uppermost?”
He gave a hearty laugh. “Well, you’ve guessed most of the truth. Mrs.
Rivington spotted the resemblance, and as I come from the same country as
George Washington, I didn’t tell a lie.”
“No, it’s no good telling a lie when it is sure to be found out. Only a
good lie justifies the liar.”
Mrs. Rivington was collecting eyes by this time, and Claudia rose. In the
drawing-room, an apartment so crowded with furniture and bric-à-brac of
various periods that it suggested a well-dusted shop in Wardour Street,
her hostess seized on her.
“I was glad to see you getting on so well with Mr. Littleton. He wanted
to meet you. He told you about the ‘Woman of the East’? Quite romantic, I
think. He ought to fall in love with you.”
“To serve as an advertisement is hardly romantic, surely? I rank with the
monkey advertising soap and a starved cat extolling a certain milk.”
“Oh! how funny you are—and so cold and critical! Now I should be
thrilled. But you’re not a bit romantic, anyone can see that. Oh!
Claudia, is it true about your brother?”
“My brother? What is it?” She wished Mrs. Rivington’s eyes would not
wander so restlessly over her person.
“Why don’t you know? They say he has married ‘The Girlie Girl!’”
“Who on earth is ‘The Girlie Girl’?” laughed Claudia, sipping her
liqueur. “It sounds like a cross between a barrel organ and a seaside
pier.”
“Yes, doesn’t it? But don’t you know her—haven’t you seen her picture on
the hoardings? She was playing at the Pavilion last week. I don’t like
her style myself, but I suppose most men would think her pretty. Not, of
course, that you can tell. Paint goes such a long way, doesn’t it?”
“A music-hall artiste? What an absurd rumour!”
“Are you sure it’s a rumour?” said her hostess, with a gleam of malice.
“These girls are always entrapping rich young men, and I heard as a
positive fact that the wedding took place at the registrar’s three weeks
ago.”
“Nonsense. Jack amuses himself, but he wouldn’t do a thing like that.
He’s an awful fool, but not such a fool as that.”
“Well,” replied Mrs. Rivington, dabbing at her nose with a powder-puff;
“I hope it’s not true, for your sake. Fancy having a sister who calls
herself ‘The Girlie Girl’! Too awful to contemplate, isn’t it? Thank
goodness, I haven’t any children. I shouldn’t survive such a thing. I
don’t believe in marrying out of your own class.” As the General had
obviously married beneath him—it was rumoured that she had been employed
as reception-clerk at an hotel—her scruples were understandable. “She
figures on the hoardings in a sort of _vivandière_ costume, and the men
seem to admire her no end. But men always do admire such creatures. But
really, Claudia, I am afraid it is true. My sewing-maid knows one of
her maids, and this girl told Bertha in confidence that she went to the
registrar’s with them, only nobody is to know at present. She heard all
about the wedding-breakfast and the gallons of champagne and the flowers.
These people live on champagne, I believe.”
Claudia, though a little startled, hardly credited the story. At one time
she had been afraid that Jack would make some horrible _mésalliance_, but
as the years had gone on and he had left the impressionable, callow stage
behind him, she had ceased to feel any alarm. Jack was an ass, but he was
a conventional ass. Once she hinted her fears to him, but he had taken
the suggestion as such a deadly insult that she believed he realized
the foolishness of such things. She remembered that he had proudly
informed her that in the circle of “little ladies” he was nicknamed
“The Knowing Kard,” and he gave her to understand that the nickname was
not undeserved. Every now and then the family asked him when he was
going to settle down and espouse some well-born, inexperienced girl,
but Jack invariably said airily that there was lots of time, and that a
really nice wife would hamper a fellow horribly, and a third party was
always such a nuisance. It was exceedingly unlikely that there was any
foundation for Mrs. Rivington’s piece of gossip. Claudia dismissed the
idea with a laugh.
“Jack has a large heart, if somewhat shallow,” she said lightly. “I don’t
think I’ll worry about his wedding-present.”
“Strange fascination these creatures have for men,” commented her
hostess, glancing round to see that the other women were occupied. “Never
can understand it myself. How a man can fall in love with powder—several
inches thick—and grease paint beats me. But men are so easily taken in,
aren’t they? and of course we should be too proud to use their arts.”
Claudia’s attention was wandering and her eyes were caught by a woman of
about thirty-five, rather badly dressed, who did not seem to belong to
the same _galère_ as the other women. She was sitting apart, looking shy
and a little uncomfortable. No one seemed to be paying any attention to
her. Claudia wondered who she could be. She had fine, expressive eyes and
a sensitive mouth, and she could have been much better-looking had she
been more fashionably dressed. Mrs. Rivington noticed the direction of
her eyes.
“I do wish Mrs. Milton would look smarter,” she said rather irritably.
“I hate réchaufféd dresses, don’t you? But she’s got a beautiful voice,
and I thought she would amuse us after dinner. She and her husband are
as poor as church mice. She can’t get any engagements. Partly her dowdy
dresses, I should think.”
“Do you mean you have engaged her for the evening?” asked Claudia.
“Heavens, no! I give her a dinner in return for some music. She wants to
get known. It’s really doing her a kindness. I must go and talk to your
mother-in-law now. She hates me, but I can see everyone else is tired of
her. Where are you going?”
“I am going to talk to Mrs. Milton.” Claudia could not stand the sight of
the solitary figure any longer, and she longed to tell her hostess what
she thought of the practice of getting artistes to give their services
for nothing. Colin Paton had opened her eyes to the injustice. She was
filled with shame for the set which she represented, and she gave Mrs.
Milton her most cordial smile—it could be very charming—as she sat down
beside her.
“Mrs. Rivington tells me that you sing beautifully,” she said. “I am
looking forward to hearing you. One so seldom hears music nowadays after
dinner. It is usually that tiresome bridge.”
The woman flushed with pleasure; she had a fine skin that coloured
easily. They were the first friendly words that had been addressed to her
that evening, for she had been taken in to dinner by a deaf old major.
“How nice of you,” she said involuntarily. She had been admiring Claudia
all the evening. “I do hope I am in good voice, but my little boy has an
attack of bronchitis and I was up with him most of the night. And when
you are a little tired——”
Claudia nodded sympathetically. “I know. It takes all the fullness and
timbre out of the voice, doesn’t it? Must you nurse your little boy
yourself?” She noticed that the singer’s voice was infinitely more
refined than that of her hostess, which had an unmistakable Cockney twang.
“Yes, we can’t afford a nurse,” said Mrs. Milton simply. “You see, my
husband lost all his money two years ago. That’s why I come out to sing.
When we were married I gave it up to please him, but now I want to help
keep the house going.” The kind and real interest in Claudia’s eyes
warmed her to unwonted loquacity.
“And you have a little boy?”
“I have three children, two boys and a girl. They are such darlings.”
Her eyes lit up and the whole face was transformed to something almost
beautiful in its brooding motherliness. “The boys are just like my
husband, so plucky and good-tempered. Oh! they are worth fighting for. We
say that every night when we tip-toe into their room and see they are all
right for the night. Children make all the difference, don’t they?”
“I—I suppose they do.” Claudia could visualize the picture of the man and
woman, tired and anxious, looking with love and hope at their sleeping
children and feeling that they made all the difference. She looked across
at the chattering groups scattered about the room, most of the women,
like her hostess, childless or having only one child. Scraps of their
conversation punctuated Mrs. Milton’s words. “I assure you, Kitty, she
lost eighty pounds in two rubbers, and everyone knows she can’t afford
it. Who pays her debts? I should like to know, and....” “Her bill, my
dear, was outrageous. She charged me twenty-two guineas for that little
muslin frock, and then....” “—entirely new method of treating the
complexion. No creams, only massage with....”
“You have none yet?” said Mrs. Milton gently.
“No ... but a husband counts also, doesn’t he?”
“Oh, yes! Rob is the best husband in the world. Perhaps I love the boys
so much because they are like him. He hates my having to sing again. You
know how a man feels when his wife has to work, and he hoped to give me
an easy time. But he’s working in the City all day, and I’d like to do
something too. Oh, yes! Rob is splendid. I should think he _did_ count.”
A woman’s voice broke in shrilly: “I simply adore my dogs. Wouldn’t be
parted from them. Don’t enjoy my meals unless they are with me and....”
Claudia and Mrs. Milton looked at one another, and the mother-woman
smiled. “Isn’t it a pity?” she said.
“Tell me where you live,” responded Claudia. “I shall want someone to
sing at a little dinner I am giving soon. I will not encourage these dull
bridge evenings. Will you sing for me?... Ah! here come the men.”
Frank Hamilton came straight across to her and commenced to talk,
apparently not noticing her companion, who drew a little away, as though
feeling she was not wanted any longer. But Claudia interrupted Hamilton’s
rather ardent words and said, “Mrs. Milton, was Mr. Hamilton introduced
to you?” He was forced to turn a little, and Claudia noticed that Mrs.
Milton bowed with a little embarrassment.
“I think Mr. Hamilton has forgotten me,” she replied quietly. “We were
acquainted in our youth.”
“Were you?” Claudia looked at him in surprise, for she had been watching
him all the evening out of the corner of her eyes, while apparently
oblivious of his existence—a womanish trick—and she had not seen him
speak to her. When Hamilton spoke it was rather stiffly.
“I did not see you before, Mrs. Milton.” It was a stupid fib, and Claudia
noted it. “How do you do? Yes, in our salad days we used to warble
duets together, didn’t we?” The geniality of the last words was rather
forced. Claudia divined that he did not want those days recalled. The
obvious reason momentarily occurred to her, but a glance at Mrs. Milton
dissipated it. Also, she was several years older than Hamilton. Hamilton
had once confessed that he could never fall in love with a plain woman,
and Margaret Milton would never be beautiful except to the man who loved
her.
“I had hoped I should sit next to you,” he said in an undertone. Mrs.
Milton had moved away to the piano. “It was too bad, and I couldn’t even
see you properly because of that beastly erection in the middle.”
“Oh! you were quite happy. You seemed to get on quite well with your
hostess. Who was that dark-complexioned lady next to you, with some truly
wonderful diamonds?”
“Mrs. Jacobs, the wife of a South African millionaire. She told me that
herself and that she was a widow!”
“Ha! ha! Do we want to sit for a dusky portrait?”
“Don’t....” He tried to look very hurt, but it was not so successful as
earlier in the evening. The dinner had been quite good and the champagne
better. Hamilton’s eyes were a little too bright to look very grieved.
“Did she not give you a commission?”
“Well, what if she did? Why do you always sneer at me. And it’s _your_
portrait I want to paint. What do I care for her commission, even if it
is a lucrative one. Parchment and diamonds—ugh! Tell me, when will you
come again to the studio?”
“Hush, Mrs. Milton is going to sing. You must remain absolutely quiet.”
The first notes of Brahms’ “_Sapphische Ode_” throbbed through the
inharmonious room. Margaret Milton had the deep, pure contralto that
makes the listener think of all things tender and true and intimate, the
things that no man or woman says, even to his twin soul, but sometimes in
the watches of the night whispers to the shadows. And the shadows enfold
them and carry them away into the Hinterland beyond the setting of the
sun, with the poignant tears and the imperishable kisses, the pain and
the joy and the passion of mortals.
The timbre of the voice was singularly sympathetic and emotional, and
Claudia instantly fell under its enchantment. Somehow she felt that the
woman was singing to _her_, guiding her, pleading with her. She sang
several times, and then, after “_Still wie die Nacht_” by Claudia’s
request, she began to sing a song that always made Claudia’s heart throb
and ache intolerably. Her throat swelled and burned on this night, and
the tears waited on her eyelids. She forgot the indifferent, politely
bored company, as she listened to the exquisite strains of that wonderful
love-song, “_Ich liebe dich_.”
And this plain, dowdy woman knew the real meaning of that song. Only a
woman who knew the joy and the pain of love could have sung it as she
sang it. The cry of love rang through the room like a clear clarion call.
Even the people who had wanted to play bridge felt it and looked vaguely
uncomfortable. For a moment they were lured from their money-bags. The
call was so clear that it penetrated the cotton-wool of everyday life.
Claudia found herself looking at the shabby woman at the piano with
fierce envy. Once, she, Claudia, had thought she _knew_, once her heart
had triumphantly chanted “_Ich liebe dich, ich liebe dich_,” like an
eternal refrain. Once? Was it all quite over? Something stirred within
her, something touched her cold heart like the rosy finger of hope. Once!
Perhaps she and Gilbert had only drifted apart, perhaps she had not made
due allowances for the inarticulate, more prosaic, unemotional nature of
man. She had loved him very much—she did love him still, if only——
There was a bowl of red roses at her elbow. She did not notice them,
but perhaps it was their perfume that mounted to her brain and brought
back the remembrance just then of the garden at Wargrave, when she had
questioned Gilbert and asked him if he had really loved her.... He had
promised she should always come first ... she was right to demand that
... he had said that he was not good at pretty speeches and that she must
take some things for granted ... that men were different from women....
Her blood tingled in her veins as she felt in imagination again the
fierce pressure of his arms around her, his kisses on her lips. Surely
he had really loved her then, she reiterated to herself. She knew more
now than she did then. She had been initiated into the mysteries of
life and death. She had begun to realize how large a part mere animal
passion plays in a man’s life, how men take love (so called) where they
find it, how “the worldly hopes men set their hearts upon” cheat women
of their just dues, and leave them bankrupt. But with the passionate
echo of “_Ich liebe dich_” in her ears, she felt she could not write
that horrible word “finis” to this page of her life. Perhaps she had
been too _exigeante_, impatient; perhaps she could be more tactful now.
Eighteen months! Why, it must be that she had not had time to master the
game of love. Their tastes were so different, perhaps that was partly
the trouble. She remembered how he had talked her out of going to the
enchanted Palace at Como and substituted a golfing honeymoon in Scotland.
But he had been very charming to her—humoring all her fancies, his own
having been satisfied—he had made her feel that she had only to command
and he would always obey love’s call. It had been an intoxication. Was
it all behind her? Was love behind her for the rest of her life? No, she
could not do without love. She had always wanted it, she had tasted its
sweets, no, no, no! Gilbert must love her again as he used to. He could
not have entirely changed in eighteen months. He was at home probably.
Perhaps he was thinking of her, wanting her to come in——
She rose abruptly to her feet, filled with an uncontrollable blind desire
for action, to pursue this elusive thing which seemed to have escaped
from her hands.
But Hamilton’s eyes fixed on her in surprise at her abrupt rising, drew
her back to earth and the faded Aubusson carpet on which she stood. He,
too, had been moved by the music. His artistic pulses, so easily set
beating, had responded to the call also. But his thoughts had been of
the rather capricious woman by his side, the woman who so far had never
listened to his words of love.
After his first surprise at her action, he came to the flattering
conclusion that the music had warmed her heart towards him. An easy
favourite with women, he did not doubt that she cared for him. He had
always gained what he wanted, though he had never before aimed at such
big game as Claudia Currey. But he was rapidly becoming famous, he was
sought after and flattered. Women begged him to paint them on his own
terms. He was not what he had been. Mrs. Milton knew what he had been.
Perhaps the game was not so difficult as he had begun to fear. He looked
at her meaningly, with a rising sense of power, but she did not return
his glance. That might be shyness.
He heard her make her adieux to their hostess, who protested at her going
so early.
“It is only eleven o’clock.... I suppose you are going on somewhere else,
you and”—markedly—“Mr. Hamilton.”
But her mother-in-law came to her rescue. “Claudia is quite right. I
daresay Gilbert wants her. I know John is always fidgety when I am away
from him.”
Claudia did not laugh as she would have done half an hour previously.
Perhaps Gilbert _was_ wanting her. She wanted him to want her.
“Mr. Hamilton, you need not see me home. I can——”
“Of course I am coming. Good-bye, Mrs. Rivington, it has been a
delightful evening. Yes, I won’t forget about the portrait, Mrs. Jacobs.”
He followed Claudia out into the hall, followed by Mrs. Milton with her
roll of music.
“Don’t you know I should come?” he whispered, not noticing her.
The maid helped Claudia on with her cloak. Mrs. Milton was tucking
herself—the maid, with the strange knowledge of the servants’ hall, did
not trouble to help her—into a businesslike garment, long and warm.
Claudia heard her make some inquiry of one of the maids, and caught the
words “last ’bus.”
Frank came up to her at that moment, the dawning light of possession in
his eyes, a subtle change in his manner.
“Are you ready, madam?” He smiled to himself as he foresaw the long drive
in the darkness, side by side in the pleasant intimate warmth of the
motor ... her hand would fall naturally into his and then....
“Mrs. Milton, can I not give you a lift in the motor?” Her clear voice
cut short his dreams. “Where do you live? Maida Vale. Oh! we can go that
way quite easily. Yes, I should like to take you home quickly to the
bronchitisy child.”
Only one of the maids, who giggled over it and mimicked him directly
the hall-door was shut, saw the sudden scowl on Hamilton’s brow, for
Claudia was bent on saving the tired woman an uncomfortable cold journey
in the ’bus and Mrs. Milton was full of gratitude at the unexpected
thoughtfulness.
“My! wasn’t that a sell for him,” said the pert parlour-maid. “Thought
he’d have a nice, cosy time with her all alone. But she wasn’t taking
any. Always does a man good to take him down a peg or two!”