Part 7 (2/2)

”Do you like her?” I asked him, somewhat bluntly.

His eyes rested upon her as she stood in the doorway, talking to a small, black-bearded man who had just been introduced to her. After a few moments she went out upon his arm, and then Cyril turned to me.

”I think her,” he replied, speaking, as was necessary, very low, ”the embodiment of all that is evil in womanhood. In old days she would have been a Cleopatra, a Theodora, a Delilah. To-day, lacking opportunity, she is the 'smart woman' grubbing for an opening into society--and old Fawley's daughter. I'm tired; let us go home.”

His allusion to her parentage was significant. Few people thought of connecting clever, handsome Geraldine Fawley with ”Rogue Fawley,” Jew renegade, ex-gaol bird, and outside broker; who, having expectations from his daughter, took care not to hamper her by ever being seen in her company. But no one who had once met the father could ever forget the relations.h.i.+p while talking to the daughter. The older face, with its cruelty, its cunning, and its greed stood reproduced, feature for feature, line for line. It was as though Nature, for an artistic freak, had set herself the task of fas.h.i.+oning hideousness and beauty from precisely the same materials. Between the leer of the man and the smile of the girl, where lay the difference? It would have puzzled any student of anatomy to point it out. Yet the one sickened, while to gain the other most men would have given much.

Cyril's answer to my question satisfied me for the time. He met the girl often, as was natural. She was a singer of some repute, and our social circle was what is commonly called ”literary and artistic.” To do her justice, however, she made no attempt to fascinate him, nor even to be particularly agreeable to him. Indeed, she seemed to be at pains to show him her natural--in other words, her most objectionable side.

Coming out of the theatre one first night, we met her in the lobby. I was following Cyril at some little distance, but as he stopped to speak to her the movement of the crowd placed me just behind them.

”Will you be at Leightons' to-morrow?” I heard him ask her in a low tone.

”Yes,” she answered, ”and I wish you wouldn't come.”

”Why not?”

”Because you're a fool, and you bore me.”

Under ordinary circ.u.mstances I should have taken the speech for badinage--it was the kind of wit the woman would have indulged in. But Cyril's face clouded with anger and vexation. I said nothing. I did not wish him to know that I had overheard. I tried to believe that he was amusing himself, but my own explanation did not satisfy me.

Next evening I went to Leightons' by myself. The Grants were in town, and Cyril was dining with them. I found I did not know many people, and cared little for those I did. I was about to escape when Miss Fawley's name was announced. I was close to the door, and she had to stop and speak to me. We exchanged a few commonplaces. She either made love to a man or was rude to him. She generally talked to me without looking at me, nodding and smiling meanwhile to people around. I have met many women equally ill-mannered, and without her excuse. For a moment, however, she turned her eyes to mine.

”Where's your friend, Mr. Harjohn?” she asked. ”I thought you were inseparables.”

I looked at her in astonishment.

”He is dining out to-night,” I replied. ”I do not think he will come.”

She laughed. I think it was the worst part about the woman, her laugh; it suggested so much cruelty.

”I think he will,” she said.

It angered me into an indiscretion. She was moving away. I stepped in front of her and stopped her.

”What makes you think so?” I asked, and my voice, I know, betrayed the anxiety I felt as to her reply. She looked me straight in the face.

There was one virtue she possessed--the virtue that animals hold above mankind--truthfulness. She knew I disliked her--hate would be, perhaps, a more exact expression, did not the word sound out of date, and she made no pretence of not knowing it and returning the compliment.

”Because I am here,” she answered. ”Why don't you save him? Have you no influence over him? Tell the Saint to keep him; I don't want him. You heard what I said to him last night. I shall only marry him for the sake of his position, and the money he can earn if he likes to work and not play the fool. Tell him what I have said; I shan't deny it.”

She pa.s.sed on to greet a decrepit old lord with a languis.h.i.+ng smile, and I stood staring after her with, I fear, a somewhat stupid expression, until some young fool came up grinning, to ask me whether I had seen a ghost or backed a ”wrong 'un.”

There was no need to wait; I felt no curiosity. Something told me the woman had spoken the truth. It was mere want of motive that made me linger. I saw him come in, and watched him hanging round her, like a dog, waiting for a kind word, or failing that, a look. I knew she saw me, and I knew it added to her zest that I was there. Not till we were in the street did I speak to him. He started as I touched him. We were neither of us good actors. He must have read much in my face, and I saw that he had read it; and we walked side by side in silence, I thinking what to say, wondering whether I should do good or harm, wis.h.i.+ng that we were anywhere but in these silent, life-packed streets, so filled with the unseen. It was not until we had nearly reached the Albert Hall that we broke the silence. Then it was he who spoke:

”Do you think I haven't told myself all that?” he said. ”Do you think I don't know I'm a d.a.m.ned fool, a cad, a liar! What the devil's the good of talking about it?”

”But I can't understand it,” I said.

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