The Promise

My wife was never one to keep her appointments, and so I made my way to Claridge's, the hotel where we had agreed to meet, ten minutes past the appointed hour — but she had not yet arrived. I ordered a drink and set my eyes wandering over the people who sat in their comfortable chairs, sipping their coffee at leisure. It was summer, and the women looked graceful in their light-colored summer clothes, and the men looked charming and well turned out; but I saw no one among them who caught my interest enough to make me forget the passing of time as I sat waiting for my wife, who hated nothing in life so much as carrying a watch or wearing an ornament set with turquoise. Her distaste for watches came of their being liable to break down from one moment to the next... as for turquoise, it was her loathing of its color when it turns, with time, from pale blue to dark green. It made no difference to me whether she favored turquoise or not, but I differed with her over her refusal to wear a watch, for I believed a watch runs regularly enough if one takes the trouble to wind it. I was still occupied with thoughts of this kind when I saw one of the waiters come toward me and whisper in my ear that my wife had telephoned the hotel to excuse herself from coming at all, since something had arisen to keep her away. I was put out, for it was not, to my mind, agreeable for a person to sit alone at a table in such a place. But I was hungry, so I took myself off to the dining room, and found every table occupied by diners. I turned my eyes about the room and saw, at the far end, an old friend of mine, Lady Elizabeth Vermont. She smiled at me, and seeing her alone, I made my way to her and said:

— Won't you take pity on a hungry man and allow him to sit at your table?

She smiled and answered, 'Of course... but I have finished my meal.'

I sat down, saying, 'It was my good luck to find you — I am nearly dead with hunger.'

And I saw her smile again — that smile which does not flash out quickly, but creeps slowly from her lips up to her bright, expressive eyes. Lady Vermont was beautiful and graceful in spite of her fifty years, giving whoever saw her an impression of youth and freshness, and she was skilled in the use of makeup without excess. There was nothing I detested so much as those painted faces that look like masks, so thickly are they plastered with color. Her hair was glossy, soft, and black, thanks to dye; her gown of black satin was distinguished by an appealing simplicity; and her jewels were a string of pearls about her neck and her wedding ring with its great emerald, whose dark color made her hands look all the whiter.

Elizabeth was a woman of distinguished descent: the daughter of the seventh Duke of St. Erth. She had married at eighteen a dissolute spendthrift, and her marriage ended in a scandal that decreed her divorce from him. After him she married a man whose name had figured in the same case, and before long — after eighteen months — she left him too and set about weaving herself a web of love affairs; and soon enough the talk was raging around her, and the very mention of her name became offensive to conservative circles.

Yet however unfaithful Lady Vermont was to her lovers... she was a model of fidelity to her friends. Nothing in her conduct or her doings ever lowered her standing in their hearts, for with them she was always the same — gracious, open-handed, and straight, knowing nothing of crookedness or hypocrisy.

I came to know the Lady at a time when fashionable society had turned its back on her, and she had taken to the company of writers and artists, as is the custom of aristocratic women who live her kind of life. I found her a graceful talker, quite ready to speak of her life with a spirit of great honesty and humor.

I would have expected anything of Elizabeth except that at forty she should bind her fate to that of a young man of twenty-one and marry him. Her acquaintances called this step the height of madness, and set themselves to watching for the end of the marriage, pitying her boy husband — for Elizabeth had never in any circumstances endured the company of husband or lover for more than six months. But all their guesses failed, in a way that astonished them. After her marriage to this fresh youth, Elizabeth became a different creature. Was it age that had restored some sense to her? Or had her boundless love for her husband, Peter Vermont, made another woman of her? For behold: she, the extravagant spendthrift, considerately accommodated her husband's slender means and economized; and she, the frivolous pleasure-seeker, inclined to quiet, silencing the many long tongues around her. Her husband's happiness was all that mattered to her any longer in life. And there was not the least doubt that Elizabeth loved her husband with a great and faithful love.

It pleased me greatly that Elizabeth should behave so after all her wanton youth, as though that long past were no part of her at all. But no one could foretell what the fates would bring. And behold, Peter Vermont, after an ideal marriage that had lasted ten years, fell in love with a beautiful girl named Barbara Canton, the youngest daughter of Lord Robert Canton, who was at one time an assistant secretary at the Foreign Office.

The girl was pretty, though but for her youth there could have been no comparing her with Lady Vermont. The story of Peter's love got about among people, and they took to speculating whether Elizabeth knew of the affair, and to watching and waiting with a great deal of curiosity — for Elizabeth had never known such an experience: she had always been the first to desert her lovers.

As for me, I felt certain that Elizabeth would pay these matters no great attention, or would at least pretend not to, knowing as I did how sure she was of herself and how proud of the strength of her own character.

I was thinking of all this as I sat facing Lady Vermont at the table while she talked, with her accustomed grace, of various things. Nothing showed of her husband's tender relations with Barbara Canton, for she believed her own sweeping love could not but be met with a love as strong.

We drank our coffee and burned a few cigarettes; then Elizabeth asked me the time. It was a quarter to three.

She stirred in her chair and said, 'I must ask for the bill.' I begged her to leave that to me, and she consented.

I asked her: 'Are you in a hurry?'

She said: 'I am meeting Peter at three.'

'Oh — how is he?'

'Well.'

She smiled one of her sweet smiles, though it was not without meaning; then I saw hesitant words upon her lips, which she cut short with resolve, saying: 'Listen. You love dramatic situations, don't you? You cannot imagine what a task I have to carry out now. I have telephoned Peter to meet me at three at a certain place. I am going to ask him to divorce me.'

A cry escaped me and I said: 'What? Divorce you? I thought things were going well between you.' She said calmly: 'What... do you think I don't know what goes on behind my back? I am not such a fool as that, my friend.'

One could only be frank with her, so I did not pretend ignorance of the matter. I kept silent a few moments, then said:

'And why should you be the one to ask for the divorce?'

She said: 'So that I shall not stand between him and her. Though I doubt her father will let him marry her. And one more divorce will make little difference, one way or the other, in the history of my life.' And she shrugged her shoulder.

I asked:

— 'But who told you he means to marry her?'

She said: 'He is drowned in love with her up to his ears.'

I asked: 'Has he said anything of the kind?'

She denied it, saying: 'No. He does not know that I know of the connection. The poor man has done his utmost to hide it, so as not to wound my feelings.'

I said: 'Wait a little — his love may be a storm in a teacup, and then it will pass.' She said: 'And what good would that do me? They are young, and suited to each other. And suppose his love for her did cool — what would that gain me? I am nineteen years older than he, and when a man's heart turns away from loving a woman of his mother's age, no power on earth can bring back to his heart what it once felt for her.'

'You are a teller of tales, my friend... you ought to understand human nature better. But I do not understand why you should make this sacrifice.'

'When he asked me to marry him, ten years ago, I promised to give him his freedom whenever he should want it. That is a right of his, imposed by the great difference in our ages.'

'But he has not asked you to keep the promise.'

She moved her fingers, and with the movement the black stone of her wedding ring glinted; and in that black flash I saw an omen of ill. Then she said:

'One must behave properly in such matters... You want the truth? I came to lunch here today only so as to sit at the very table at which he and I sat when he came asking for my hand. I love him still with the same strength and sincerity and devotion — but that does not mean I should be selfish and bind his spring to my autumn.'

She was silent a little, and then said, clenching her teeth: 'I must go now. Peter hates to be kept waiting.'

She gave me a look in which there was a shadow of defeat. Then, to my surprise, she could not rise to her feet with ease; but she smiled and took hold of herself. I said: 'Would you like me to go with you?'

She said, the smile still on her lips: 'Only as far as the hotel door.' So I walked with her to the door, and wanted to call her a taxi, but she refused, and insisted on going to her appointment on foot.

She gave me her hand and I pressed it, and she said to me: 'This has been a happy chance. I am going abroad tomorrow, but I shall be back in the autumn — try to ask after me.'

She nodded her head and went.

I stood watching her as she crossed the street, flooded with the light of a bright spring sun. She was erect, light, graceful as ever; and I saw one of her acquaintances pass her and raise his hat to her, and she returned his greeting with a graceful bow.

Did it ever occur to that man, I wonder, that this elegant, gay, self-assured woman carried within her a broken heart? How far from it... The crowded history of this woman had never touched her frank and upright nature.