The Woman with the Fan

CHAPTER XI

MRS. WOLFSTEIN was right. There was money in Miss Schley’s performance. Her sly impropriety appealed with extraordinary force to the peculiar respectability characteristic of the British temperament, and her celebrity, hitherto mainly social, was suddenly and enormously increased. Already a popular person, she became a popular actress, and was soon as well-known to the world in the streets and the suburbs as to the world in the drawing-rooms of Mayfair. And this public celebrity greatly increased the value that was put upon her in private—especially the value put upon her by men.

The average man adores being connected openly with the woman who is the rage of the moment. It flatters his vanity and makes him feel good all over. It even frequently turns his head and makes him almost as intoxicated as a young girl with adulation received at her first ball.

The combination of Miss Schley herself and Miss Schley’s celebrity—or notoriety—had undoubtedly turned Lord Holme’s head. Perhaps he had not the desire to conceal the fact. Certainly he had not the finesse. He presented his turned head to the world with an audacious simplicity that was almost laughable, and that had in it an element of boyishness not wholly unattractive to those who looked on—the casual ones to whom even the tragedies of a highly-civilised society bring but a quiet and cynical amusement.

Lady Holme was not one of these. Her strong temper was token of a vivid temperament. Till now this vivid temperament had been rocked in the cradle of an easy, a contented, a very successful life. Such storms as had come to her had quickly passed away. The sun had never been far off. Her egoism had been constantly flattered. Her will had been perpetually paramount. Even the tyranny of Lord Holme had been but as the tyranny of a selfish, thoughtless, pleasure-seeking boy who, after all, was faithful to her and was fond of her. His temperamental indifference to any feelings but his own had been often concealed and overlaid by his strong physical passion for his wife’s beauty, his profound satisfaction in having carried off and in possessing a woman admired and sought by many others.

Suddenly life presented to Lady Holme its seamy side; Fate attacking her in her woman’s vanity, her egoism, even in her love. The vision startled. The blow stung. She was conscious of confusion, of cloud, then of a terrible orderliness, of a clear light. In the confusion she seemed to hear voices never heard before, voices that dared to jeer at her; in the cloud to see phantoms of gigantic size menacing her, impending over her. The orderliness, the clear light were more frightful to her. They left less to her imagination; had, as it were, no ragged edges. In them she faced a definite catastrophe, saw it whole, as one sees a near object in the magical atmosphere of the East, outlined with burning blue, quivering with relentless gold. She saw herself in the dust, pelted, mocked at.

That seemed at first to be incredible. But she saw it so plainly that she could not even pretend to herself that she was deceived by some unusual play of light or combination of shadows. What she saw—was:

Her husband had thrown off his allegiance to her and transferred his admiration, perhaps his affection, to the woman who had most deftly and delicately insulted her in the face of all her world. And he had done this with the most abominable publicity. That was what she saw in a clear light like the light of the East. That was what sent a lash across her temperament, scarring it perhaps, but waking it into all it could ever have of life. In each woman there is hidden a second woman, more fierce and tender, more evil and good, more strong and fervent than the woman who hides her in the ordinary hours of life; a woman who weeps blood where the other woman weeps tears, who strikes with a flaming sword where the other woman strikes with a willow wand.

This woman now rose up in Lady Holme, rose up to do battle.

The laughing, frivolous world was all unconscious of her. Lord Holme was unconscious of her. But she was at last fully conscious of herself.

This woman remembered Robin Pierce’s odd belief and the light words with which she had chastised it. He had persistently kept faith in, and sought for, a far-away being. But she was a being of light and glory. His kernel of the husk was still a siren, but a siren with a heart, with an exquisite imagination, with a fragrance of dreams about her, a lilt of eternal music in her voice, the beaming, wonder of things unearthly in her eyes. Poor Robin! Lady Holme found it in her heart to pity him as she realised herself. But then she turned her pity aside and concentrated it elsewhere. The egoism of her was not dead though the hidden woman had sprung up in vivid life. Her intellect was spurred into energy by the suffering of her pride and of her heart. Memory was restless and full of the passion of recall.

She remembered the night when she softly drew up the hood of her dressing-gown above her head and, rocking herself to and fro, murmured the “Allah-Akbar” of a philosophic fatalist—“I will live for the day. I will live for the night.” What an absurd patter that was on the lips of a woman. And she remembered the conversation with Fritz that had preceded her monologue. She had asked him then whether he could love her if her beauty were taken from her. It had never occurred to her that while her beauty still remained her spell upon him might be weakened, might be broken. That it was broken now she did not say to herself. All she did say to herself was that she must strike an effective blow against this impertinent woman. She had some pride but not enough to keep her passive. She was not one of those women who would rather lose all they have than struggle to keep it. She meant to struggle, but she had no wish that the world should know what she was doing. Pride rose in her when she thought of cold eyes watching the battle, cold voices commenting on it—Amalia Wolfstein’s eyes, Mr. Bry’s voice, a hundred other eyes and voices. Her quickened intellect, her woman’s heart would teach her to be subtle. The danger lay in her temper. But since the scene at Arkell House she had thoroughly realised its impetuosity and watched it warily as one watches an enemy. She did not intend to be ruined by anything within her. The outside chances of life were many enough and deadly enough to deal with. Strength and daring were needed to ward them off. The chances that had their origin within the soul, the character—not really chances at all—must be controlled, foreseen, forestalled.

And yet she had not douched the flame of defiance which she had felt burning within her on the night of Pimpernel Schley’s first appearance on the London stage. She had fanned it. At the Elwyns’ ball she had fanned it. Temper had led her that night. Deliberately, and knowing perfectly well who was her guide, she had let it lead her. She had been like a human being who says, “To do this will be a sin. Very well, I choose to sin. But I will sin carefully.” At the Elwyns she had discovered why her husband had not come with her. She had stayed late to please Leo Ulford. Mr. Laycock had come in about two in the morning and had described to Leo the festivity devised by Lord Holme in honour of Miss Schley, at which he had just been present. And Leo Ulford had repeated the description to her. She had deceived him into thinking that she had known of the supper-party and approved of it. But, after this deception, she had given a looser rein to her temper. She had let herself go, careless whether she set the poor pink eyelids of Mrs. Leo fluttering or not.

The hint of Fritz which she recognised in Leo Ulford had vaguely attracted her to him from the first. How her world would have laughed at such a domestic sentiment! She found herself wondering whether it were Miss Schley’s physical resemblance to her which had first attracted Fritz, the touch of his wife in a woman who was not his wife and who was what men call “a rascal.” Perhaps Fritz loved Miss Schley’s imitation of her. She thought a great deal about that—turning it over and over in her mind, bringing to bear on it the white light of her knowledge of her husband’s character. Did he see in the American his wife transformed, made common, sly, perhaps wicked, set on the outside edge of decent life, or further—over the border? And did he delight in that? If so, ought she not to—? Then her mind was busy. Should she change? If herself changed were his ideal, why not give him what he wanted? Why let another woman give it to him? But at this point she recognised a fact recognised by thousands of women with exasperation, sometimes with despair—that men would often hate in their wives the thing that draws them to women not their wives. The Pimpernel Schleys of the world know this masculine propensity of seeking different things—opposites, even—in the wife and the woman beyond the edge of the hearthstone, a propensity perhaps more tragic to wives than any other that exists in husbands. And having recognised this fact, Lady Holme knew that it would be worse than useless for her to imitate Miss Schley’s imitation of her. Then, travelling along the road of thought swiftly as women in such a case always travel, she reached another point. She began to consider the advice of Robin Pierce, given before she had begun to feel with such intensity, to consider it as a soldier might consider a plan of campaign drawn up by another.

Should she, instead of descending, of following the demure steps of the American to the lower places, strive to ascend?

Could she ascend? Was Robin Pierce right? She thought for a long time about his conception of her. The singing woman; would she be the most powerful enemy that could confront Miss Schley? And, if she would be, could the singing woman be made continuous in the speech and the actions of the life without music? She remembered a man she had known who stammered when he spoke, but never stammered when he sang. And she thought she resembled this man. Robin Pierce had always believed that she could speak without the stammer even as she sang without it. She had never cared to. She had trusted absolutely in her beauty. Now her trust was shaken. She thought of the crutch.

Realising herself she had said within herself, “Poor Robin!” seeing perhaps the tigress where he saw the angel. Now she asked herself whether the angel could conquer where the tigress might fail. People had come round her like beggars who have heard the chink of gold and she had showed them an empty purse. Could she show them something else? And if she could, would her husband join the beggars? Would he care to have even one piece of gold?

Whether Lord Holme’s obvious infatuation had carried him very far she did not know. She did not stop to ask. A woman capable, as she was, of retrospective jealousy, an egoist accustomed to rule, buffeted in heart and pride, is swift not sluggish. And then how can one know these things? Jealousy rushes because it is ignorant.

Lord Holme and she were apparently on good terms. She was subtle, he was careless. As she did not interfere with him his humour was excellent. She had carried self-control so far as never to allude to the fact that she knew about the supper-party. Yet it had actually got into the papers. Paragraphs had been written about a wonderful ornament of ice, representing the American eagle perched on the wrist of a glittering maiden, which had stood in the middle of the table. Of course she had seen them, and of course Lord Holme thought she had not seen them as she had never spoken of them. He went his way rejoicing, and there seemed to be sunshine in the Cadogan Square house. And meanwhile the world was smiling at the apparent triumph of impertinence, and wondering how long it would last, how far it would go. The few who were angry—Sir Donald was one of them—were in a mean minority.

Robin Pierce was angry too, but not with so much single-heartedness as was Sir Donald. It could not quite displease him if the Holmes drifted apart. Yet he was fond enough of Lady Holme, and he was subtle enough, to be sorry for any sorrow of hers, and to understand it—at any rate, partially—without much explanation. Perhaps he would have been more sorry if Leo Ulford had not come into Lady Holme’s life, and if the defiance within her had not driven her into an intimacy that distressed Mrs. Leo and puzzled Sir Donald.

Robin’s time in London was very nearly at an end. The season was at its height. Every day was crowded with engagements. It was almost impossible to find a quiet moment even to give to a loved one. But Robin was determined to have at least one hour with Lady Holme before he started for Italy. He told her so, and begged her to arrange it. She put him off again and again, then at last made an engagement, then broke it. In her present condition of mind to break faith with a man was a pleasure with a bitter savour. But Robin was not to be permanently avoided. He had obstinacy. He meant to have his hour, and perhaps Lady Holme always secretly meant that he should have it. At any rate she made another appointment and kept it.

She came one afternoon to his house in Half Moon Street. She had never been there before. She had never meant to go there. To do so was an imprudence. That fact was another of the pleasures with a bitter savour.

Robin met her at the head of the stairs, with an air of still excitement not common in his look and bearing. He followed her into the blue room where Sir Donald had talked with Carey. The “Danseuse de Tunisie” still presided over it, holding her little marble fan. The open fireplace was filled with roses. The tea-table was already set by the great square couch. Robin shut the door and took out a matchbox.

“I am going to make tea,” he said.

“Bachelor fashion?”

She sat down on the couch and looked round quickly, taking in all the details of the room. He saw her eyes rest on the woman with the fan, but she said nothing about it. He lit a silver spirit lamp and then sat down beside her.

“At last!” he said.

Lady Holme leaned back in her corner. She was dressed in black, with a small, rather impertinent black toque, in which one pale blue wing of a bird stood up. Her face looked gay and soft, and Robin, who had cunning, recognised that quality of his in her.

“I oughtn’t to be here.”

“Absurd. Why not?”

“Fritz has a jealous temperament.”

She spoke with a simple naturalness that moved the diplomat within him to a strong admiration.

“You can act far better than Miss Schley,” he said, with intentional bluntness.

“I love her acting.”

“I’m going away. I shan’t see you for an age. Don’t give me a theatrical performance to-day.”

“Can a woman do anything else?”

“Yes. She can be a woman.”

“That’s stupid—or terrible. What a dear little lamp that is! I like your room.”

Robin looked at the blue-grey linen on the walls, at the pale blue wing in her hat, then at her white face.

“Viola,” he said, leaning forward, “it’s bad to waste anything in this life, but the worst thing of all is to waste unhappiness. If I could teach you to be niggardly of your tears!”

“What do you mean?”

She spoke with sudden sharpness.

“I never cry. Nothing’s worth a tear,” she added.

“Yes, some things are. But not what you are going to weep for.”

Her face had changed. The gaiety had gone out of it, and it looked hesitating.

“You think I am going to shed tears?” she said. “Why?”

“I am glad you let me tell you. For the loss of nothing—a coin that never came out of the mint, that won’t pass current anywhere.”

“I’ve lost nothing,” she exclaimed, “nothing. You’re talking nonsense.”

He made no reply, but looked at the small, steady flame of the lamp. She followed his eyes, and, when he saw that she was looking at it too, he said:

“Isn’t a little, steady flame like that beautiful?”

She laughed.

“When it means tea—yes. Does it mean tea?”

“If you can wait a few minutes.”

“I suppose I must. Have you heard anything of Mr. Carey?”

Robin looked at her narrowly.

“What made you think of him just then?”

“I don’t know. Being here, I suppose. He often comes here, doesn’t he?”

“Then this room holds more of his personality than of mine?”

There was an under sound of vexation in his voice.

“Have you heard anything?”

“No. But no doubt he’s still in the North with his mother.”

“How domestic. I hope there is a stool of repentance in the family house.”

“I wonder if you could ever repent of anything.”

“Do you think there is anything I ought to repent of?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What?”

“You might have married a man who knew the truth of you, and you married a man incapable of ever knowing it.”

He half expected an outburst of anger to follow his daring speech, but she sat quite still, looking at him steadily. She had taken off her gloves, and her hands lay lightly, one resting on the other.

“You mean, I might have married you.”

“I’m not worth much, but at least I could never have betrayed the white angel in you.”

She leaned towards him and spoke earnestly, almost like a child to an older person in whom it has faith.

“Do you think such an angel could do anything in—in this sort of world?”

“Modern London?”

She nodded, keeping her eyes still on him. He guessed at once of what she was thinking.

“Do anything—is rather vague,” he replied evasively. “What sort of thing?”

Suddenly she threw off all reserve and let her temper go.

“If an angel were striving with a common American, do you mean to tell me you don’t know which would go to the wall in our world?” she cried. “Robin, you may be a thousand things, but you aren’t a fool. Nor am I—not au fond. And yet I have thought—I have wondered—”

She stopped.

“What?” he asked.

“Whether, if there is an angel in me, it mightn’t be as well to trot it out.”

The self-consciousness of the slang prevented him from hating it.

“Ah!” he said. “When have you wondered?”

“Lately. It’s your fault. You have insisted so much upon the existence of the celestial being that at last I’ve become almost credulous. It’s very absurd and I’m still hanging back.”

“Call credulity belief and you needn’t be ashamed of it.”

“And if I believe, what then?”

“Then a thousand things. Belief sheds strength through all the tissues of the mind, the heart, the temperament. Disbelief sheds weakness. The one knits together, the other dissolves.”

“There are people who think angels frightfully boring company.”

“I know.”

“Well then?”

Suddenly Robin got up and spoke almost brutally.

“Do you think I don’t see that you are trying to find out from me what I think would be the best means of—”

The look in her face stopped him.

“I think the water is boiling,” he said, going over to the lamp.

“It ought to bubble,” she answered quietly.

He lifted up the lid of the silver bowl and peeped in.

“It is bubbling.”

For a moment he was busy pouring the water into the teapot. While he did this there was a silence between them. Lady Holme got up from the sofa and walked about the room. When she came to the “Danseuse de Tunisie” she stopped in front of it.

“How strange that fan is,” she said.

Robin shut the lid of the teapot and came over to her.

“Do you like it?”

“The fan?”

“The whole thing?”

“It’s lovely, but I fancy it would have been lovelier without the fan.”

“Why?”

She considered, holding her head slightly on one side and half closing her eyes.

“The woman’s of eternity, but the fan’s of a day,” she said presently. “It belittles her, I think. It makes her chic when she might have been—”

She stopped.

“Throw away your fan!” he said in a low, eager voice.

“I?”

“Yes. Be the woman, the eternal woman. You’ve never been her yet, but you could be. Now is the moment. You’re unhappy.”

“No,” she said sharply.

“Yes, you are. Viola, don’t imagine I can’t understand. You care for him and he’s hurting you—hurting you by being just himself, all he can ever be. It’s the fan he cares for.”

“And you tell me to throw it away!”

She spoke with sudden passion. They stood still for a moment in front of the statuette, looking at each other silently. Then Robin said, with a sort of bitter surprise:

“But you can’t love him like that!”

“I do.”

It gave her an odd, sharp pleasure to speak the truth to him.

“What are you going to do, then?” he asked, after a pause.

He spoke without emotion, accepting the situation.

“To do? What do you mean?”

“Come and sit down. I’ll tell you.”

He took her hand and led her back to the sofa. When she had sat down, he poured out tea, put in cream and gave it to her.

“Nothing to eat,” she said.

He poured out his tea and sat down in a chair opposite to her, and close to her.

“May I dare to speak frankly?” he asked. “I’ve known you so long, and I’ve—I’ve loved you very much, and I still do.”

“Go on!” she answered.

“You thought your beauty was everything, that so long as it lasted you were safe from unhappiness. Well, to-day you are beautiful, and yet—”

“But what does he care for?” she said. “What do men care for? You pretend that it’s something romantic, something good even. Really, it’s impudent—just that—cold and impudent. You’re a fool, Robin, you’re a fool!”

“Am I? Thank God there are men—and men. You can’t be what Carey said.”

For once he had spoken incautiously. He had blurted out something he never meant to say.

“Mr. Carey!” she exclaimed quickly, curiously. “What did Mr. Carey say I was?”

“Oh—”

“No, Robin, you are to tell me. No diplomatic lies.”

A sudden, almost brutal desire came into him to tell her the truth, to revel in plain speaking for once, and to see how she would bear it.

“He said you were an egoist, that you were fine enough in your brilliant selfishness to stand quite alone—”

A faint smile moved the narrow corners of her lips at the last words. He went on.

“—That your ideal of a real man, the sort of man a woman loses her head for, was—”

He stopped. Carey’s description of the Lord Holme and Leo Ulford type had not been very delicate.

“Was—?” she said, with insistence. “Was—?”

Robin thought how she had hurt him, and said:

“Carey said, a huge mass of bones, muscles, thews, sinews, that cares nothing for beauty.”

“Beauty! That doesn’t care for beauty! But then—?”

“Carey meant—yes, I’m sure Carey meant real beauty.”

“What do you mean by ‘real beauty’?”

“An inner light that radiates outward, but whose abiding-place is hidden—perhaps. But one can’t say. One can only understand and love.”

“Oh. And Mr. Carey said that. Was he—was he at all that evening as he was at Arkell House? Was he talking nonsense or was he serious?”

“Difficult to say! But he was not as he was at Arkell House. Which knows you best—Carey or I?”

“Neither of you. I don’t know myself.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. The only thing I know is that you can’t tell me what to do.”

“No, I can’t.”

“But perhaps I can tell you.”

She put down her cup and looked at him with a sort of grave kindness that he had never seen in her face before.

“What to do?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Give up loving the white angel. Perhaps it isn’t there. Perhaps it doesn’t exist. And if it does—perhaps it’s a poor, feeble thing that’s no good to me, no good to me.”

Suddenly she put her arms on the back of the couch, leaned her face on them and began to cry gently.

Robin was terribly startled. He got up, stretched out his hands to her in an impulsive gesture, then drew them back, turned and went to the window.

She was crying for Fritz.

That was absurd and horrible. Yet he knew that those tears came from the heart of the hidden woman he had so long believed in, proved her existence, showed that she could love.