December Love
by Robert Hichens
PART ONE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
PART TWO
CHAPTER I
PART THREE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
PART FOUR
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
PART FIVE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
PART SIX
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
PART ONE
CHAPTER I
Alick Craven, who was something in the Foreign Office, had been
living in London, except for an interval of military service during the
war, for several years, and had plenty of interesting friends and
acquaintances, when one autumn day, in a club, Frances Braybrooke, who
knew everybody, sat down beside him and began, as his way was, talking
of people. Braybrooke talked well and was an exceedingly agreeable man,
but he seldom discussed ideas. His main interest lay in the doings of
the human race, the “human animal,” to use a favorite phrase of his, in
what the human race was “up to.” People were his delight. He could not
live away from the centre of their activities. He was never tired of
meeting new faces, and would go to endless trouble to bring an
interesting personality within the circle of his acquaintance. Craven's
comparative indifference about society, his laziness in social matters,
was a perpetual cause of surprise to Braybrooke, who nevertheless was
always ready to do Craven a good turn, whether he wanted it done to him
or not. Indeed, Craven was indebted to his kind old friend for various
introductions which had led to pleasant times, and for these he was
quite grateful. Braybrooke was much older than most people, though he
seldom looked it, and decades older than Craven, and he had a genial
way of taking those younger than himself in charge, always with a view
to their social advancement. He was a very ancient hand at the social
game; he loved to play it; and he wanted as many as possible to join
in, provided, of course, that they were “suitable” for such a purpose.
Perhaps he slightly resembled “the world's governess,” as a witty woman
had once called him. But he was really a capital fellow and a mine of
worldly wisdom.
On the occasion in question, after chatting for about an hour, he
happened to mention Lady Sellingworth—“Adela Sellingworth,” as he
called her. Craven did not know her, and said so in the simplest way.
“I don't know Lady Sellingworth.”
Braybrooke sat for a moment in silence looking at Craven over his
carefully trimmed grey and brown beard.
“How very strange!” he said at last.
“Why is it strange?”
“All these years in London and not know Adela Sellingworth!”
“I know about her, of course. I know she was a famous beauty when
King Edward was Prince of Wales, and was tremendously prominent in
society after he came to the throne. But I have never seen her about
since I have been settled in London. To tell the honest truth, I
thought Lady Sellingworth was what is called a back number.”
“Adela Sellingworth a back number!”
Braybrooke bristled gently and caught his beard-point with his
broad- fingered right hand. His small, observant hazel eyes rebuked
Craven mildly, and he slightly shook his head, covered with thick,
crinkly and carefully brushed hair.
“Well—but,” Craven protested. “But surely she long ago retired from
the fray! Isn't she over sixty?”
“She is about sixty. But that is nothing nowadays.”
“No doubt she had a terrific career.”
“Terrific! What do you mean exactly by terrific?”
“Why, that she was what used to be called a professional beauty, a
social ruler, immensely distinguished and smart and all that sort of
thing. But I understood that she suddenly gave it all up. I remember
someone telling me that she abdicated, and that those who knew her best
were most surprised about it.”
“A woman told you that, no doubt.”
“Yes, I think it was a woman.”
“Anything else?”
“If I remember rightly, she said that Lady Sellingworth was the very
last woman one had expected to do such a thing, that she was one of the
old guard, whose motto is 'never give up,' that she went on expecting,
and tacitly demanding, the love and admiration which most men only give
with sincerity to young women long after she was no more young and had
begun to lose her looks. Perhaps it was all lies.”
“No, no. There is something in it.”
He looked meditative.
“It certainly was a sudden business,” he presently added. “I have
often thought so. It came about after her return from Paris some ten
years ago—that time when her jewels were stolen.”
“Were they?” said Craven.
“Were they!”
Braybrooke's tone just then really did rather suggest the world's
governess.
“My dear fellow—yes, they were, to the tune of about fifty thousand
pounds.”
“What a dreadful business! Did she get them back?”
“No. She never even tried to. But, of course, it came out
eventually.”
“It seems to me that everything anyone wishes to hide does come out
eventually in London,” said Craven, with perhaps rather youthful
cynicism. “But surely Lady Sellingworth must have wanted to get her
jewels back. What can have induced her to be silent about such a loss?”
“It's a mystery. I have wondered why—often,” said Braybrooke,
gently stroking his beard.
He even slightly wrinkled his forehead, until he remembered that
such an indulgence is apt to lead to permanent lines, whereupon he
abruptly became as smooth as a baby, and added:
“She must have had a tremendous reason. But I'm not aware that
anyone knows what it is unless—” he paused meditatively. “I have
sometimes suspected that perhaps Seymour Portman—”
“Sir Seymour, the general?”
“Yes. He knows her better than anyone else does. He cared for her
when she was a girl, through both her marriages, and cares for her just
as much still, I believe.”
“How were her jewels stolen?” Craven asked.
Braybrooke had roused his interest. A woman who lost jewels worth
fifty thousand pounds, and made no effort to get them back, must surely
be an extraordinary creature.
“They were stolen in Paris at the Gare du Nord out of a first-class
compartment reserved for Adela Sellingworth. That much came out through
her maid.”
“And nothing was done?”
“I believe not. Adela Sellingworth is said to have behaved most
fatalistically when the story came out. She said the jewels were gone
long ago, and there was an end of it, and that she couldn't be
bothered.”
“Bothered!—about such a loss?”
“And, what's more, she got rid of the maid.”
“Very odd!”
“It was. Very odd! Her abdication also was very odd and abrupt. She
changed her way of living, gave up society, let her hair go white,
allowed her face to do whatever it chose, and, in fact, became very
much what she is now—the most charming old woman in London.”
“Oh, is she charming?”
“Is she charming!”
Braybrooke raised his thick eyebrows and looked really pitiful.
“I will see if I can take you there one day,” he continued, after a
rebuking pause. “But don't count on it. She doesn't see very many
people. Still, I think she might like you. You have tastes in common.
She is interested in everything that is interesting—except, perhaps,
in love affairs. She doesn't seem to care about love affairs. And yet
some young girls are devoted to her.”
“Perhaps that is because she has abdicated.”
Braybrooke looked at Craven with rather sharp inquiry.
“I only mean that I don't think, as a rule, young girls are very
fond of elderly women whose motto is 'never give up.'“ Craven
explained.
“Ah?”
Braybrooke was silent. Then, lighting a cigarette, he remarked:
“Youth is very charming, but one must say that it is set free from
cruelty.”
“I agree with you. But what about the old guard?” Craven asked. “Is
that always so very kind?”
Then he suddenly remembered that in London there is an “old guard"
of men, and that undoubtedly Braybrooke belonged to it; and, afraid
that he was blundering, he changed the conversation.
CHAPTER II
A fortnight later Craven received a note from his old friend saying
that Braybrooke had spoken about him to “Adela Sellingworth,” and that
she would be glad to know him. Braybrooke was off to Paris to stay with
the Mariguys, but all Craven had to do was to leave a card at Number
18A, Berkeley Square, and when this formality had been accomplished
Lady Sellingworth would no doubt write to him and suggest an hour for a
meeting. Craven thanked his friend, left a card at Number 18A, and a
day or two later received an invitation to go to tea with Lady
Sellingworth on the following Sunday. He stayed in London on purpose to
do this, although he had promised to go into the country from Saturday
to Monday. Braybrooke had succeeded in rousing keen interest in him. It
was not Craven's habit to be at the feet of old ladies. He much
preferred to them young or youngish women, unmarried or married. But
Lady Sellingworth “intrigued” him. She had been a reigning beauty. She
had “lived” as not many English women had lived. And then—the stolen
jewels and her extraordinary indifference about their loss!
Decidedly he wanted to know her!
Number 18A, Berkeley Square was a large town mansion, and on the
green front door there was a plate upon which was engraved in bold
lettering, “The Dowager Countess of Sellingworth.” Craven looked at
this plate and at the big knocker above it as he rang the electric
bell. Almost as soon as he had pressed the button the big door was
opened, and a very tall footman in a pale pink livery appeared. Behind
him stood a handsome, middle-aged butler.
A large square hall was before Craven, with a hooded chair and a big
fire burning on a wide hearth. Beyond was a fine staircase, which had a
balustrade of beautifully wrought ironwork with gold ornamentations. He
gave his hat, coat and stick to the footman—after taking his name, the
butler had moved away, and was pausing not far from the staircase
—Craven suddenly felt as if he stood in a London more solid, more
dignified, more peaceful, even more gentlemanlike, than the London he
was accustomed to. There seemed to be in this house a large calm, an
almost remote stillness, which put modern Bond Street, just around the
corner, at a very great distance. As he followed the butler, walking
softly, up the beautiful staircase, Craven was conscious of a flavour
in this mansion which was new to him, but which savoured of spacious
times, when the servant question was not acute, when decent people did
not move from house to house like gipsies changing camp, when flats
were unknown—spacious times and more elegant times than ours.
The butler and Craven gained a large landing on which was displayed
a remarkable collection of oriental china. The butler opened a tall
mahogany door and bent his head again to receive the murmur of Craven's
name. It was announced, and Craven found himself in a great
drawing-room, at the far end of which, by a fire, were sitting three
people. They were Lady Sellingworth, the faithful Sir Seymour Portman,
and a beautiful girl, slim, fair, with an athletic figure, and vividly
intelligent, though rather sarcastic, violet eyes. This was Miss Beryl
Van Tuyn. (Craven did not know who she was, though he recognized at
once the erect figure, faithful, penetrating eyes and curly white hair
—cauliflower hair—of the general, whom he had often seen about town
and “in attendance” on royalty at functions.)
Lady Sellingworth got up to receive him. As she did so he was almost
startled by her height.
She was astonishingly tall, probably well over six feet, very slim,
thin even, with a small head covered with rather wavy white hair and
set on a long neck, sloping shoulders, long, aristocratic hands on
which she wore loose white gloves, narrow, delicate feet, very fine
wrists and ankles. Her head reminded Craven of the head of a deer. As
for her face, once marvellously beautiful according to the report of
competent judges who had seen all the beauties of their day, it was now
quite frankly a ruin, lined, fallen in here and there, haggard, drawn.
Nevertheless, looking upon it, one could guess that once upon a time it
must have been a face with a mobile, almost imperial, outline, perhaps
almost insolently striking, the arrogant countenance of a conqueror.
When gazing at it one gazed at the ruin, not of a cottage or of a
gimcrack villa, but at the ruins of a palace. Lady Sellingworth's eyes
were very dark and still magnificent, like two brilliant lamps in her
head. A keen intelligence gazed out of them. There was often something
half sad, half mocking in their expression. But Craven thought that
they mocked at herself rather than at others. She was very plainly
dressed in black, and her dress was very high at the neck. She wore no
ornaments except a wedding ring, and two sapphires in her ears, which
were tiny and beautiful.
Her greeting to Craven was very kind. He noticed at once that her
manner was as natural almost as a frank, manly schoolboy's, carelessly,
strikingly natural. There could never, he thought, have been a grain of
affectation in her. The idea even came into his head that she was as
natural as a tramp. Nevertheless the stamp of the great lady was
imprinted all over her. She had a voice that was low, very sensitive
and husky.
Instantly she fascinated Craven. Instantly he did not care whether
she was old or young, in perfect preservation or a ruin. For she seemed
to him penetratingly human, simply and absolutely herself as God had
made her. And what a rare joy that was, to meet in London a woman of
the great world totally devoid of the smallest shred of make-believe!
Craven felt that if she appeared before her Maker she would be exactly
as she was when she said how do you do to him.
She introduced him to Miss Van Tuyn and the general, made him sit
next to her, and gave him tea.
Miss Van Tuyn began talking, evidently continuing a conversation
which had been checked for a moment by the arrival of Craven. She was
obviously intelligent and had enormous vitality. She was also obviously
preoccupied with her own beauty and with the effect it was having upon
her hearers. She not only listened to herself while she spoke; she
seemed also to be trying to visualize herself while she spoke. In her
imagination she was certainly watching herself, and noting with
interest and pleasure her young and ardent beauty, which seemed to
Craven more remarkable when she was speaking than when she was silent.
She must, Craven thought, often have stood before a mirror and
carefully “memorized” herself in all her variety and detail. As he sat
there listening he could not help comparing her exquisite bloom of
youth with the ravages of time so apparent in Lady Sellingworth, and
being struck by the inexorable cruelty of life. Yet there was something
which persisted and over which time had no empire—charm. On that
afternoon the charm of Lady Sellingworth's quiet attention to her girl
visitor seemed to Craven even greater than the charm of that girl
visitor's vivid vitality.
Sir Seymour, who had the self-contained and rather detached manner
of the old courtier, mingled with the straight-forward self-possession
of the old soldier thoroughly accustomed to dealing with men in
difficult moments, threw in a word or two occasionally. Although a
grave, even a rather sad-looking man, he was evidently entertained by
Miss Van Tuyn's volubility and almost passionate, yet not vulgar,
egoism. Probably he thought such a lovely girl had a right to admire
herself. She talked of herself in modern Paris with the greatest
enthusiasm, cleverly grouping Paris, its gardens, its monuments, its
pictures, its brilliant men and women as a decor around the one central
figure—Miss Beryl Van Tuyn.
“Why do you never come to Paris, dearest?” she presently said to
Lady Sellingworth. “You used to know it so very well, didn't you?”
“Oh, yes; I had an apartment in Paris for years. But that was almost
before you were born,” said the husky, sympathetic voice of her
hostess.
Craven glanced at her. She was smiling.
“Surely you loved Paris, didn't you?” said Miss Van Tuyn.
“Very much, and understood it very well.”
“Oh—that! She understands everything, doesn't she, Sir Seymour?”
“Perhaps we ought to except mathematics and military tactics,” he
replied, with a glance at Lady Sellingworth half humorous, half
affectionate. “But certainly everything connected with the art of
living is her possession.”
“And—the art of dying?” Lady Sellingworth said, with a lightly
mocking sound in her voice.
Miss Van Tuyn opened her violet eyes very wide.
“But is there an art of dying? Living—yes; for that is being and is
continuous. But dying is ceasing.”
“And there is an art of ceasing, Beryl. Some day you may know that.”
“Well, but even very old people are always planning for the future
on earth. No one expects to cease. Isn't it so, Mr. Craven?”
She turned to him, and he agreed with her and instanced a certain
old duchess who, at the age of eighty, was preparing for a tour round
the world when influenza stepped in and carried her off, to the great
vexation of Thomas Cook and Son.
“We must remember that that duchess was an American,” observed Sir
Seymour.
“You mean that we Americans are more determined not to cease than
you English?” she asked. “That we are very persistent?”
“Don't you think so?”
“Perhaps we are.”
She turned and laid a hand gently, almost caressingly, on Lady
Sellingworth's.
“I shall persist until I get you over to Paris,” she said. “I do
want you to see my apartment, and my bronzes—particularly my bronzes.
When were you last in Paris?”
“Passing through or staying—do you mean?”
“Staying.”
Lady Sellingworth was silent for an instant, and Craven saw the half
sad, half mocking expression in her eyes.
“I haven't stayed in Paris for ten years,” she said.
She glanced at Sir Seymour, who slightly bent his curly head as if
in assent.
“It's almost incredible, isn't it, Mr. Craven?” said Miss Van Tuyn.
“So unlike the man who expressed a wish to be buried in Paris.”
Craven remembered at that moment Braybrooke's remark in the club
that Lady Sellingworth's jewelry were stolen in Paris at the Gare du
Nord ten years ago. Did Miss Van Tuyn know about that? He wondered as
he murmured something non-committal.
Miss Van Tuyn now tried to extract a word of honour promise from
Lady Sellingworth to visit her in Paris, where, it seemed, she lived
very independently with a dame de compagnie, who was always in
one room with a cold reading the novels of Paul Bourget. (“Bourget
keeps on writing for her!” the gay girl said, not without
malice.)
But Lady Sellingworth evaded her gently.
“I'm too lazy for Paris now,” she said. “I no longer care for moving
about. This old town house of mine has become to me like my shell. I'm
lazy, Beryl; I'm lazy. You don't know what that is; nor do you, Mr.
Craven. Even you, Seymour, you don't know. For you are a man of action,
and at Court there is always movement. But I, my friends—” She gave
Craven a deliciously kind yet impersonal smile. “I am a contemplative.
There is nothing oriental about me, but I am just a quiet British
contemplative, untouched by the unrest of your age.”
“But it's your age, too!” cried Miss Van Tuyn.
“No, dear. I was an Edwardian.”
“I wish I had known you then!” said Miss Van Tuyn impulsively.
“You would not have known me then,” returned Lady
Sellingworth, with the slightest possible stress on the penultimate
word.
Then she changed the conversation. Craven felt that she was not fond
of talking about herself.
CHAPTER III
That day Craven walked away from Lady Sellingworth's house with Miss
Van Tuyn, leaving Sir Seymour Portman behind him.
Miss Van Tuyn was staying with a friend at the Hyde Park Hotel, and,
as she said she wanted some air, Craven offered to accompany her there
on foot.
“Do!” she said in her frank and very conscious way. “I'm afraid of
London on a Sunday.”
“Afraid!”
“As I'm afraid of a heavy, dull person with a morose expression.
Please don't be angry.”
Craven smiled.
“I know! Paris is much lighter in hand than London on a Sunday.”
“Isn't it? But there are people in London! Isn't she a
precious person?”
“Lady Sellingworth?”
“Yes. You have marvellous old women in London who do all that we
young people do, and who look astonishing. They might almost be
somewhere in the thirties when one knows they are really in the
sixties. They play games, ride, can still dance, have perfect
digestions, sit up till two in the morning and are out shopping in Bond
Street as fresh as paint by eleven, having already written dozens of
acceptances to invitations, arranged dinners, theatre parties, heaven
knows what! Made of cast iron, they seem. They even manage somehow to
be fairly attractive to young men. They are living marvels, and I take
off my toque to them. But Lady Sellingworth, quite old, ravaged,
devastated by time one might say, who goes nowhere and who doesn't even
play bridge—she beats them all. I love her. I love her wrinkled
distinction, her husky voice, her careless walk. She walks anyhow, like
a woman alone on a country road. She looks even older than she is. But
what does it matter? If I were a man—”
“Would you fall in love with her?” Craven interposed.
“Oh, no!”
She shot a blue glance at him.
“But I should love her—if only she would let me. But she wouldn't.
I feel that.”
“I never saw her till to-day. She charmed me.”
“Of course. But she didn't try to.”
“Probably not.”
“That's it! She doesn't try, and that's partly why she succeeds,
being as God has made her. Do you know that some people hate her?”
“Impossible!”
“They do.”
“Who do?”
“The young-old women of her time, the young-old Edwardian women. She
dates them. She shows them up by looking as she does. She is their
contemporary, and she has the impertinence to be old. And they can't
forgive her for it.”
“I understand,” said Craven. “She has betrayed the 'old guard.' She
has disobeyed the command inscribed on their banner. She has given up.”
“Yes. They will never pardon her, never!”
“I wonder what made her do it?” said Craven.
And he proceeded to touch on Miss Van Tuyn's desire to get Lady
Sellingworth to Paris. He soon found out that she did not know about
the jewels episode. She showed curiosity, and he told her what he knew.
She seemed deeply interested.
“I was sure there was a mystery in her life,” she said. “I have
always felt it. Ten years ago! And since then she has never stayed in
Paris!”
“And since then—from that moment—she has betrayed the 'old
guard.'“
“How? I don't understand.”
Craven explained. Miss Van Tuyn listened with an intensity of
interest which flattered him. He began to think her quite lovely, and
she saw the pretty thought in his mind.
When he had finished she said:
“No attempt to recover the lost jewels, the desertion of Paris, the
sudden change into old age! What do you make of it?”
“I can make nothing. Unless the chagrin she felt made her throw up
everything in a fit of anger. And then, of course, once the thing was
done she couldn't go back.”
“You mean—go back to the Edwardian youthfulness she had abandoned?”
“Yes. One may refuse to grow old, but once one has become
definitely, ruthlessly old, it's practically impossible to jump back to
a pretence of the thirties.”
“Of course. It would frighten people. But—it wasn't that.”
“No?”
“No. For if she had felt the loss of her jewels so much as you
suggest, she would have made every effort to recover them.”
“I suppose she would.”
“The heart of the mystery lies in her not wishing to try to get the
jewels back. That, to me, is inexplicable. Because we women love
jewels. And no woman carries about jewels worth fifty thousand pounds
without caring very much for them.”
“Just what I have thought,” said Craven.
After a short silence he added:
“Could Lady Sellingworth possibly have known who had stolen the
jewels, do you think?”
“What! And refrained from denouncing the thief!”
“She might have had a reason.”
Miss Van Tuyn's keen though still girlish eyes looked sharply into
Craven's for an instant.
“I believe you men, you modern men are very apt to think terrible
things about women,” she said.
Craven warmly defended himself against this abrupt accusation.
“Well, but what did you mean?” persisted Miss Van Tuyn. “Now, go
against your sex and be truthful for once to a woman.”
“I really don't know exactly what I meant,” said Craven. “But I
suppose it's possible to conceive of circumstances in which a woman
might know the identity of a thief and yet not wish to prosecute.”
“Very well. I'll let you alone,” she rejoined. “But this mystery
makes Lady Sellingworth more fascinating to me than ever. I'm not
particularly curious about other people. I'm too busy about myself for
that. But I would give a great deal to know a little more of her truth.
Do you remember her remark when I said 'I wish I had known you then'?”
“Yes. She said, 'You would not have known me then.'“
“There have been two Adela Sellingworths. And I only know one. I do
want to know the other. But I am almost sure I never shall. And yet
she's fond of me. I know that. She likes my being devoted to her. I
feel she's a book of wisdom, and I have only read a few pages.”
She walked on quickly with her light, athletic step. Just as they
were passing Hyde Park Corner she said:
“I think I shall go to one of the 'old guard.'“
“Why?” asked Craven.
“You ask questions to which you know the answers,” she retorted.
And then they talked of other things.
When they reached the hotel and Craven was about to say good-bye,
Miss Van Tuyn said to him:
“Are you coming to see me one day?”
Her expression suggested that she was asking a question to which she
knew the answer, in this following the example just given to her by
Craven.
“I want to,” he said.
“Then do give me your card.”
He gave it to her.
“We both want to know her secret,” she said, as she put it into her
card-case. “Our curiosity about that dear, delightful woman is a link
between us.”
Craven looked into her animated eyes, which were strongly searching
him for admiration. He took her hand and held it for a moment.
“I don't think I want to know Lady Sellingworth's secret if she
doesn't wish me to know it,” he said.
“Now—is that true?”
“Yes,” he said, with a genuine earnestness which seemed to amuse
her. “Really, really it is true.”
She sent him a slightly mocking glance.
“Well, I am less delicate. I want to know it, whether she wishes me
to or not. And yet I am more devoted to her than you are. I have known
her for quite a long time.”
“One can learn devotion very quickly,” he said, pressing her hand
before he let it go.
“In an afternoon?”
“Yes, in an afternoon.”
“Happy Lady Sellingworth!” she said.
Then she turned to go into the hotel. Just before she passed through
the swing door she looked round at Craven. The movement of her young
head was delicious.
“After all, in spite of the charm that won't die,” he thought,
“there's nothing like youth for calling you.”
He thought Lady Sellingworth really more charming than Miss Van
Tuyn, but he knew that the feeling of her hand in his would not have
thrilled something in him, a very intimate part of himself, as he had
just been thrilled.
He felt almost angry with himself as he walked away, and he muttered
under his breath:
“Damn the animal in me!”
CHAPTER IV
Not many days later Craven received a note from Miss Van Tuyn asking
him to come to see her at a certain hour on a certain day. He went and
found her alone in a private sitting-room overlooking the Park. For the
first time he saw her without a hat. With her beautiful corn- coloured
hair uncovered she looked, he thought, more lovely than when he had
seen her at Lady Sellingworth's. She noted that thought at once, caught
it on the wing through his mind, as it were, and caged it comfortably
in hers.
“I have seen the 'old guard,'“ she said, after she had let him hold
and press her hand for two or three seconds.
“What, the whole regiment?” said Craven.
She sat down on a sofa by a basket of roses. He sat down near her.
“No; only two or three of the leaders.”
“Do I know them?”
“Probably. Mrs. Ackroyde?”
“I know her.”
“Lady Archie Brook?”
“Her, too.”
“I've also seen Lady Wrackley.”
“I have met Lady Wrackley, but I can hardly say I know her. Still,
she shows her teeth at me when I come into a room where she is.”
“They are wonderful teeth, aren't they?”
“Astonishing!”
“And they are her own—not by purchase.”
“Are you sure she doesn't owe for them?”
“Positive; except, of course, to her Creator. Isn't it wonderful to
think that those three women are contemporaries of Lady Sellingworth?”
“Indeed it is! But surely you didn't let them know that you knew
they were? Or shall I say know they are?”
She smiled, showing perfect teeth, and shook her corn-coloured head.
“You see, I'm so young and live in Paris! And then I'm American.
They have no idea how much I know. I just let them suppose that I only
knew they were old enough to remember Lady Sellingworth when she was
still a reigning beauty. I implied that they were buds then.”
“And they accepted the implication?”
“Oh, they are women of the world! They just swallowed it very
quietly, as a well-bred person swallows a small easy-going bonbon.”
Craven could not help laughing. As he did so he saw in Miss Van
Tuyn's eyes the thought:
“You think me witty, and you're not far out.”
“And did you glean any knowledge of Lady Sellingworth?” he asked.
“Oh, yes; quite a good deal. Mrs. Ackroyde showed me a photograph of
her as she was about eleven years ago.”
“A year before the plunge!”
“Yes. She looked very handsome in the photograph. Of course, it was
tremendously touched up. Still, it gave me a real idea of what she must
once have been. But, oh! how she has changed!”
“Naturally!”
“I mean in expression. In the photograph she looks vain, imperious.
Do you know how a woman looks who is always on the watch for new
lovers?”
“Well—yes, I think perhaps I do.”
“Lady Sellingworth in the photograph has that on the pounce
expression.”
“That's rather awful, isn't it?”
“Yes; because, of course, one can see she isn't really at all young.
It's only a fausse jeunesse after all, but still very effective.
The gap between the woman of the photograph and the woman of 18A
Berkeley Square is as the gulf between Dives and Lazarus. I shouldn't
have loved her then. But perhaps—perhaps a man might have thought he
did. I mean in the real way of a man—perhaps.”
Craven did not inquire what Miss Van Tuyn meant exactly by that.
Instead, he asked:
“And did these ladies of the 'old guard' speak kindly of the white-haired traitress?”
“They were careful. But I gathered that Lady Sellingworth had been
for years and years one of those who go on their way chanting, 'Let us
eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die.' I gathered, too, that
her efforts were chiefly concentrated on translating into appropriate
action the third 'let us.' But that no doubt was for the sake of her
figure and face. Lady Archie said that the motto of Lady Sellingworth's
life at that period was 'after me the deluge,' and that she had so
dinned it into the ears of her friends that when she let her hair grow
white they all instinctively put up umbrellas.”
“And yet the deluge never came.”
“It never does. I could almost wish it would.”
“Now?”
“No; after me.”
He looked deep into her eyes, and as he did so she seemed
deliberately to make them more profound so that he might not touch
bottom.
“It's difficult to think of an after you,” he said.
“But there will be, I suppose, some day when the Prince of Wales
wears a grey beard and goes abroad in the winter to escape bronchial
troubles. Oh, dear! What a brute Time is!”
She tried to look pathetic, and succeeded better than Craven had
expected.
“I shall put up my en tout cas then,” said Craven very
seriously.
Still looking pathetic, she allowed her eyes to stray to a
neighbouring mirror, waited for a moment, then smiled.
“Time's a brute, but there's still plenty of him for me,” she said.
“And for you, too.”
“He isn't half so unpleasant to men as to women,” said Craven. “He
makes a very unfair distinction between the sexes.”
“Naturally—because he's a man.”
“What did Lady Wrackley say?” asked Craven, returning to their
subject.
“Why do you ask specially what she said?”
“Because she has a reputation, a bad one, for speaking her mind.”
“She certainly was the least guarded of the 'old guard.' But she
said she loved Lady Sellingworth now, because she was so changed.”
“Physically, I suppose.”
“She didn't say that. She said morally.”
“That wasn't stupid of her.”
“Just what I thought. She said a moral revolution had taken place in
Lady Sellingworth after the jewels were stolen.”
“That sounds almost too tumultuous to be comfortable.”
“Like 'A Tale of Two Cities' happening in one's interior.”
“And what did she attribute such a phenomenon to?”
“Well, she took almost a clerical view of the matter.”
“How very unexpected!”
“She said she believed that Adela—she called her Adela—that Adela
took the loss of her jewels as a punishment for her sins.”
“Do you mean to say she used the word sins?”
“No; she said 'many lapses.' But that's what she meant.”
“Lapses from what?”
“She didn't exactly say. But I'm afraid she meant from a strict
moral code.”
“Oh, Lord!” said Craven, thinking of Lady Wrackley's smile.
“Why do you say that?”
“Please—never mind! So Lady Wrackley thinks that Lady Sellingworth
considered the loss of her jewels such a fitting punishment for her
many lapses from a strict moral code that she never tried to get them
back?”
“Apparently. She said that Addie—she called her Addie then—that
Addie bowed her head.”
“Not beneath the rod! Don't tell me she used the word rod!”
“But she did!”
“Priceless!”
“Wasn't it? But women are like that when they belong to the 'old
guard.' Do you think she can be right?”
“If it is so, Lady Sellingworth must be a very unusual sort of
woman.”
“She is—now. For she really did give up all in a moment. And she
has never repented of what she did, as far as anyone knows. I think—”
She paused, looking thoughtful at the mirror.
“Yes?” said Craven gently.
“I think it's rather fine to plunge into old age like that. You go
on being young and beautiful till everyone marvels, and then one
day—or night, perhaps—you look in the glass and you see the wrinkles
as they are—”
“Does any woman ever do that?”
“She must have! And you say to yourself, 'C'est fini!'
and you throw up the sponge. No more struggles for you! From one day to
another you become an old woman. I think I shall do as Lady
Sellingworth has done.”
“When?”
“When I'm—perhaps at fifty, yes, at fifty. No man really cares for
a woman, as a woman wants him to care, after fifty.”
“I wonder,” said Craven.
She sent him a sharp, questioning glance.
“Did you ever wonder before you went to Berkeley Square?”
“Perhaps not.”
A slight shadow seemed to pass over Miss Van Tuyn's face.
“I believe there was a famous French actress who was loved after she
was seventy,” said Craven.
“Then the man must have been a freak.”
“Lots of us are freaks.”
“I don't think you are,” she said provocatively.
“Why not?”
“I have my little private reasons,” she murmured.
At that moment Craven was conscious of a silly desire to take her in
his arms, bundle of vanities though he knew her to be. He hated himself
for being so ordinary. But there it was!
He looked at her eyebrows. They were dark and beautifully shaped and
made an almost unnerving contrast with her corn-coloured hair.
“I know what you are thinking,” she said.
“Impossible!”
“You are thinking that I darken them. But I don't.”
And then Craven gave up and became frankly foolish.
CHAPTER V
Though ordinary enough in her youthful egoism, and entirely du
jour in her flagrantly shown vanity, Miss Van Tuyn, as Craven was
to find out, was really something of an original. Her independence was
abnormal and was mental as well as physical. She lived a life of her
own, and her brain was not purely imitative. She not only acted often
originally, but thought for herself. She was not merely a very pretty
girl. She was somebody. And somehow she had trained people to accept
her daring way of life. In Paris she did exactly what she chose, and
quite openly. There was no secrecy in her methods. In London she
pursued the same housetop course. She seldom troubled about a chaperon,
and would calmly give a lunch at the Carlton without one if she wanted
to. Indeed, she had been seen there more than once, making one of a
party of six, five of whom were men. She did not care for women as a
sex, and said so in the plainest language, denouncing their mentality
as still afflicted by a narrowness that smacked of the harem. But for
certain women she had a cult, and among these women Lady Sellingworth
held a prominent, perhaps the most prominent, place.
Three days after his visit to the Hyde Park Hotel Craven, having no
dinner invitation and feeling disinclined for the well-known formality
of the club where he often dined, resolved to yield to a faint
inclination towards a very mild Bohemianism which sometimes beset him,
and made his way in a day suit to Soho seeking a restaurant. He walked
first down Greek Street, then turned into Frith Street. There he peeped
into two or three restaurants without making up his mind to sample
their cooking, and presently was attracted by a sound of guitars giving
forth with almost Neapolitan fervour the well-known tune, “O Sole Mio!”
The music issued from an unpretentious building over the door of which
was inscribed, “Ristorante Bella Napoli.”
It was a cold, dark evening, and Craven was feeling for the moment
rather depressed and lonely. The music drew his thoughts to dear Italy,
to sunshine, a great blue bay, brown, half-naked fishermen pulling in
nets from the deep with careless and Pagan gestures, to the
thoughtless, delicious life only possible in the golden heart of the
South. He did not know the restaurant, but he hesitated no longer.
Never mind what the cooking was like; he would eat to the sound of
those guitars which he knew were being thrummed by Italian fingers. He
pushed the swing door and at once found himself in a room which seemed
redolent of the country which everyone loves.
It was a narrow room, with a sanded floor and the usual small
tables. The walls were painted with volcanic pictures in which Vesuvius
played a principal part. Vesuvius erupted on one wall, slept in the
moonlight on another, at the end of the room was decked out in all the
glories of an extremely Neapolitan sunset. Upon the ceiling was Capri,
stretching out from an azure sea. For the moment the guitars had
ceased, but their players, swarthy, velvet eyed, and unmistakable
children of Italy, sat at ease, their instruments still held in brown
hands ready for further plucking of the sonorous strings. And the room
was alive with the uproar of Italian voices talking their native
language, with the large and unselfconscious gestures of Italian hands,
with the movement of Italian heads, with the flash and sparkle of
animated Italian eyes. Chianti was being drunk; macaroni, minestra,
gnocchi, ravioli, alaione were being eaten; here and there Toscanas
were being smoked. Italy was in the warm air, and in an instant from
Craven's consciousness London was blotted out.
For a moment he stood just inside the door feeling almost confused.
Opposite to him was the padrona, a large and lustrous woman with
sleepy, ox-like eyes, sitting behind a sort of counter. Italian girls,
with coal-black hair, slipped deftly to and fro among the tables
serving the customers. The musicians stared at Craven with the fixed,
unwinking definiteness which the traveller from England begins to meet
with soon after he passes Lugano. Where was a table for an Englishman?
“Ecco, signorino!”
An Italian girl smiled and beckoned with a sort of intimate
liveliness and understanding that quite warmed Craven's heart. There
was a table free, just one, under Vesuvius erupting. Craven took it,
quickly ordered all the Italian dishes he could think of and a bottle
of Chianti Rosso, and then looked about the long, little room. He
looked —to see Italian faces, and he saw many; but suddenly, instead
of merely looking, he stared. His eyelids quivered; even his lips
parted. Was it possible? Yes, it was! At a table tucked into a corner
by the window were sitting Beryl Van Tuyn and actually—Santa
Lucia!—Lady Sellingworth! And they were both eating—what was it?
Craven stretched his neck—they were both eating Risotto alla Milanese!
At this moment the guitars struck up that most Neapolitan of songs,
the “Canzona di Mergellina,” the smiling Italian girl popped a heaped-up plate of macaroni blushing gently with tomato sauce before Craven,
and placed a straw bottle of ruby hued Chianti by the bit of bread at
his left hand, and Miss Van Tuyn turned her corn-coloured head to have
a good look at the room and, incidentally, to allow the room to have a
good look at her.
The violet eyes, full of conscious assurance, travelled from table
to table and arrived at Craven and his macaroni. She looked surprised,
then sent him a brilliant smile, turned quickly and spoke to Lady
Sellingworth. The latter then also looked towards Craven, smiled
kindly, and bowed with the careless, haphazard grace which seemed
peculiar to her.
Craven hesitated for an instant, then got up and threading his way
among Italians, went to greet the two ladies. It struck him that Lady
Sellingworth looked marvellously at home with her feet on the sanded
floor. Could she ever be not at home anywhere? He spoke a few words,
then returned to his table with Miss Van Tuyn's parting sentence in his
ears; “When you have dined come and smoke your Toscana with us.”
As he ate his excellently cooked meal he felt pleasantly warmed and
even the least bit excited. This was a wholly unexpected encounter. To
meet the old age and the radiant youth which at the moment interested
him more than any other old age, any other radiant youth, in London, in
these surroundings, to watch them with the music of guitars in his ears
and the taste of ravioli on his lips, silently to drink to them in
authentic Chianti—all this gave a savour to his evening which he had
certainly not anticipated. When now and then his eyes sought the table
tucked into the corner by the window, he saw his two acquaintances
plunged deep in conversation. Presently Miss Van Tuyn lit a cigarette,
which she smoked in the short interval between two courses. She moved,
and sat in such a way that her profile was presented to the room as
clearly and definitely as a profile stamped on a finely cut coin.
Certainly she was marvellously good-looking. She had not only the
beauty of colouring; she had also the more distinguished and lasting
beauty of line.
An Italian voice near to Craven remarked loudly, with a sort of
coarse sentimentality:
“Che bella ragassa!“
Another Italian voice replied:
“Ha ragione di venire qui con quella povera vecchia! Com'e brutta
la vecchiezza!“
For a moment Craven felt hot with a sort of intimate anger; but the
guitars began “Santa Lucia,” and took him away again to Naples. And
what is the use of being angry with the Italian point of view? As well
be angry with the Mediterranean for being a tideless sea. But he
glanced at the profile and remembered the words, and could not help
wondering whether Miss Van Tuyn's cult for Lady Sellingworth had its
foundations in self-love rather than in attraction to her whom
Braybrooke had called “the most charming old woman in London.”
Presently Miss Van Tuyn, turning three-quarters face, sent him a
“coffee-look,” and he saw that a coffee apparatus of the hour-glass
type was being placed on the table by the window. He nodded, but held
up a clean spoon to indicate that his zabaione had yet to be swallowed.
She smiled, understanding, and spoke again to Lady Sellingworth. A few
minutes later Craven left his table and joined them, taking his Toscana
with him.
They were charmingly prepared for his advent. Three cups were on the
table, and coffee for three was mounting in the hour glass. The two
friends were smoking cigarettes.
As he prepared to sit down on the chair placed ready for him with
his back to the window, Miss Van Tuyn said:
“One minute! Please give the musicians this!”
She put five shillings into his hand.
“And ask them to play the Sicilian Pastorale, and 'A Mezzanotte,'
and the Barcarola di Sorrento, and not to play 'Funiculi,
Funicula.' Do you mind?”
“Of course not! But do let me—”
“No, no! This is my little treat to Lady Sellingworth. She has never
been here before.”
Craven went round to the musicians and carried out his directions.
As he did so he saw adoring looks of comprehension come into their dark
faces, and, turning, he caught a wonderful smile that was meant for
them flickering on the soft lips of Miss Van Tuyn. That smile was as
provocative, as definitely full of the siren quality, as if it had
dawned for the only lover, instead of for three humble Italians,
“hairdressers in the daytime,” as Miss Van Tuyn explained to Craven
while she poured out his coffee.
“I often come here,” she added. “You're surprised, I can see.”
“I must say I am,” said Craven. “I thought your beat lay rather in
the direction of the Carlton, the Ritz, and Claridge's.”
“You see how little he knows me!” she said, turning to Lady
Sellingworth.
“Beryl does not always tread beaten paths,” said Lady Sellingworth
to Craven.
“I hate beaten paths. One meets all the dull people on them, the
people who hope they are walking where everyone walks. Beaten paths are
like the front at Brighton on a Sunday morning. What do you say to our
coffee, dearest?”
“It is the best I have drunk for a long while outside my own house,”
Lady Sellingworth answered.
Then she turned to Craven.
“Are you really going to smoke a Toscana?”
“If you really don't mind? It isn't a habit with me, but I assure
you I know how to do it quite adequately.”
“He's an artist,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “He knows it's the only cigar
that really goes with Vesuvius. Do light up!”
“I'm thankful I came here to-night,” he said. “I felt very dull and
terrifically English, so I turned to Soho as an antidote. The guitars
lured me in here. I was at the Embassy in Rome for a year. In the
summer we lived at the Villa Rosebery, near Naples. Ever since that
time I've had an almost childish love of guitars.”
Miss Van Tuyn held up a hand and formed “Sh!” with her rosy lips.
“It's the Barcarola di Sorrento!” she whispered.
A silence fell in the narrow room. The Italian voices were hushed.
The padrona dreamed behind her counter with her large arms laid upon
it, like an Italian woman spread out on her balcony for an afternoon's
watching of the street below her window. And Craven let himself go to
the music, as so many English people only let themselves go when
something Italian is calling them. On his left Miss Van Tuyn, with one
arm leaning on the table, listened intently, but not so intently that
she forgot to watch Craven and to keep track of his mind. On his right
Lady Sellingworth sat very still. She had put away her only half-smoked cigarette. Her eyes looked down on the table cloth. Her very
tall figure was held upright, but without any stiffness. One of her
hands was hidden. The other, in a long white glove, rested on the
table, and presently the fingers of it began gently to close and
unclose, making, as they did this, a faint shuffling noise against the
cloth.
Miss Van Tuyn glanced at those fingers and then again at Craven, but
for the moment he did not notice her. He was standing by the little
harbour at the Villa Rosebery, looking across the bay to Capri on a
warm summer evening. And the sea people were in his thoughts. How often
had he envied them their lives, as men envy those whose lives are
utterly different from theirs!
But presently Miss Van Tuyn's persistent and vigorous mind must have
got some hold on his, for he began to remember her beauty and to feel
the lure of it in the music. And then, almost simultaneously, he was
conscious of Lady Sellingworth, of her old age and of her departed
beauty. And he felt her loss in the music.
Could such a woman enjoy listening to such music? Must it not rather
bring a subtle pain into her heart, the pain that Italy brings to her
devotees, when the years have stolen from them the last possibilities
of personal romance? For a moment Craven imaginatively projected
himself into old age, saw himself with white hair, a lined face,
heavily-veined hands, faded eyes.
But her eyes were not faded. They still shone like lamps. Was she,
perhaps, the victim of a youthful soul hidden in an old body, like
trembling Love caged in a decaying tabernacle from which it could not
escape?
He looked up. At the same moment Lady Sellingworth looked up. Their
eyes met. She smiled faintly, and her eyes mocked something or someone;
fate, perhaps, him, or herself. He did not know what or whom they
mocked.
The music stopped, and, after some applause, conversation broke out
again.
“Have you given up Italy as you have given up Paris?” Miss Van Tuyn
asked of Lady Sellingworth.
“Oh, yes, long ago. I only go to Aix now for a cure, and sometimes
in the early spring to Cap Martin.”
“The hotel?”
“Yes; the hotel. I like the pine woods.”
“So do I. But, to my mind, there's no longer a vestige of real
romance on the French Riviera. Too many grand dukes have passed over
it.”
Lady Sellingworth laughed.
“But I don't seek romance when I leave London.”
“No?”
She looked oddly doubtful for a moment. Then she said:
“Mr. Craven, will you tell us the truth?”
“It depends. What about?”
“Oh, a very simple matter.”
“I'll do my best, but all men are liars.”
“We only ask you to do your best.”
“We!” he said, with a glance at Lady Sellingworth.
“Yes—yes,” she said. “I go solid with my sex.”
“Then—what is it?”
“Do you ever go travelling—ever, without a secret hope of romance
meeting you on your travels, somewhere, somehow, wonderfully, suddenly?
Do you?”
He thought for a moment. Then he said:
“Honestly, I don't think I ever do.”
“There!” said Miss Van Tuyn triumphantly. “Nor do I.”
She looked half defiantly, half inquisitively at Lady Sellingworth.
“My dear Beryl!” said the latter, “for all these lacks in your
temperament you must wait.”
“Wait? For how long?”
“Till you are fifty, perhaps.”
“I know I shall want romance at fifty.”
“Let us say sixty, then.”
“Or,” interrupted Craven, “until you are comfortably married.”
“Comfortably married!” she cried. “Quelle horreur!“
“I had no idea Americans were so romantic,” said Lady Sellingworth,
with just a touch of featherweight malice.
“Americans! I believe the longing for romance covers both sexes and
all the human race.”
She let her eyes go into Craven's.
“Only up till a certain age,” said Lady Sellingworth. “When we love
to sit by the fire, we can do very well without it. But we must be
careful to lay up treasure for our old age, mental treasure. We must
cultivate tastes and habits which have nothing to do with wildness. A
man in Sorrento taught me about that.”
“A man in Sorrento!” said Miss Van Tuyn, suddenly and sharply on the
alert.
“Yes. He was a famous writer, and had, I dare say, been a famous
lover in his time. One day, as we drove beyond the town towards the
hills, he described to me the compensations old age holds for sensible
people. It's a question of cultivating and preparing the mind, of
filling the storehouse against the day of famine. He had done it, and
assured me that he didn't regret his lost youth or sigh after its
unrecoverable pleasures. He had accustomed his mind to its task.”
“What task, dearest?”
“Acting in connexion with the soul—his word that—as a thoroughly
efficient substitute for his body as a pleasure giver.”
At this moment the adoring eyes of the three musicians who were
“hairdressers in the daytime” focussed passionately upon Miss Van Tuyn,
distracted her attention. She felt masculinity intent upon her and
responded automatically.
“The dear boys! They are asking if they shall play the Pastorale for
me. Look at their eyes!” she said.
Craven did not bother to do that, but looked instead at hers,
wondering a little at her widespread energy in net casting. Was it
possible that once Lady Sellingworth had been like that, ceaselessly on
the lookout for worship, requiring it as a right, even from men who
were hairdressers in the daytime? As the musicians began to play he met
her eyes again and felt sure that it could not have been so. Whatever
she had done, whatever she had been, she could never have frequented
the back stairs. That thought seemed a rather cruel thrust at Miss Van
Tuyn. But there is a difference in vanities. Wonderful variety of
nature!
When the players had finished the Pastorale and “A Mezzanotte,” and
had been rewarded by a long look of thanks from Miss Van Tuyn which
evidently drove them over the borders of admiration into the regions of
unfulfilled desire, Lady Sellingworth said she must go. And then an
unexpected thing happened. It appeared that Miss Van Tuyn had asked a
certain famous critic, who though English by birth was more Parisian
than most French people, to call for her at the restaurant and take her
on to join a party at the Cafe Royal. She, therefore, could not go yet,
and she begged Lady Sellingworth to stay on and to finish up the
evening in the company of Georgians at little marble tables. But Lady
Sellingworth laughingly jibbed at the Cafe Royal.
“I should fall out of my assiette there!” she said.
“But no one is ever surprised at the Cafe Royal, dearest. It is the
one place in London where—Ah! here is Jennings come to fetch us!”
A very small man, with a pointed black beard and wandering green
eyes, wearing a Spanish sombrero and a black cloak, and carrying an
ebony stick nearly as tall as himself, at this moment slipped furtively
into the room, and, without changing his delicately plaintive
expression, came up to Miss Van Tuyn and ceremoniously shook hands with
her.
Lady Sellingworth looked for a moment at Craven.
“May I escort you home?” he said. “At any rate, let me get you a
taxi.”
“Lady Sellingworth, may I introduce Ambrose Jennings,” said Miss Van
Tuyn in a rather firm voice at this moment.
Lady Sellingworth bent kindly to the little man far down below her.
After a word or two she said:
“Now I must go.”
“Must you really? Then Mr. Craven will get you a taxi.”
“If it's fine, I will walk. It seems more suitable to walk home
after dining here.”
“Walk! Then let us all walk together, and we'll persuade you into
the Cafe Royal.”
“Dick Garstin will be there,” said Ambrose Jennings in a frail
voice, “Enid Blunt, a Turkish refugee from Smyrna who writes quite
decent verse, Thapoulos, Penitence Murray, who is just out of prison,
and Smith the sculptor, with his mistress, a round-faced little Russian
girl. She's the dearest little Bolshevik I know.”
He looked plaintively yet critically at Lady Sellingworth, and
pulled his little black beard with fingers covered with antique rings.
“Dear little bloodthirsty thing!” he added to Lady Sellingworth.
“You would like her. I know it.”
“I'm sure I should. There is something so alluring about Bolshevism
when it's safely tucked up at the Cafe Royal. But I will only walk to
the door.”
“And then Mr. Craven will get you a taxi,” said Miss Van Tuyn.
“Shall we go?”
They fared forth into the London night—Craven last.
He realized that Miss Van Tuyn had made up her mind to keep both him
and Jennings as her possessions of the evening, and to send Lady
Sellingworth, if she would go home early, back to Berkeley Square
without an escort. Her cult for her friend, though doubtless genuine,
evidently weakened when there was any question of the allegiance of
men. Craven made up his mind that he would not leave Lady Sellingworth
until they were at the door of Number 18A, Berkeley Square.
In the street he found himself by the side of Miss Van Tuyn, behind
Lady Sellingworth and Ambrose Jennings, who were really a living
caricature as they proceeded through the night towards Shaftesbury
Avenue. The smallness of Jennings, accentuated by his bat-like cloth
cloak, his ample sombrero and fantastically long stick, made Lady
Sellingworth look like a moving tower as she walked at his side, like a
leaning tower when she bent graciously to catch the murmur of his
persistent conversation. And as over the theatres in letters of fire
were written the names of the stars in the London firmament—Marie
Lohr, Moscovitch, Elsie Janis—so over, all over, Lady Sellingworth
seemed to be written for Craven to read: “I am really not a Bohemian.”
“Do you genuinely wish Lady Sellingworth to finish the evening at
the Cafe Royal?” he asked of his companion.
“Yes. They would love her there. She would bring a new note.”
“Probably. But would she love them?”
“I don't think you quite understand her,” said Miss Van Tuyn.
“I'm quite sure I don't. Still—”
“In past years I am certain she has been to all the odd cafes of
Paris.”
“Perhaps. But one changes. And you yourself said there were—or was
it had been?—two Adela Sellingworths, and that you only knew one.”
“Yes. But perhaps at the Cafe Royal I should get to know the other.”
“May she not be dead?”
“I have a theory that nothing of us really dies while we live. Our
abode changes. We know that. But I believe the inhabitant is permanent.
We are what we were, with, of course, innumerable additions brought to
us by the years. For instance, I believe that Lady Sellingworth now is
what she was, to all intents and purposes, with additions which
naturally have made great apparent changes in her. An old moss-covered
house, overgrown with creepers, looks quite different from the same
house when it is new and bare. But go inside—the rooms are the same,
and under the moss and the creepers are the same walls.”
“It may be so. But what a difference the moss and the creepers make.
Some may be climbing roses.”
Craven felt the shrewd girlish eyes were looking at him closely.
“In her case some of them certainly are!” she said. “Oh, do look at
them turning the corner! If Cirella were here he would have a subject
for one of his most perfect caricatures. It is the leaning tower of
Pisa with a bat.”
The left wing of Ambrose Jennings's cloak flew out as he whirled
into Regent Street by Lady Sellingworth's side.
CHAPTER VI
At the door of the Cafe Royal they stopped, and Miss Van Tuyn laid a
hand on Lady Sellingworth's arm.
“Do come in, dearest. It will really amuse you,” she said urgently.
“And—I'll be truthful—I want to show you off to the Georgians as my
friend. I want them to know how wonderful an Edwardian can be.”
“Please—please!” pleaded Jennings from under his sombrero. “Dick
would revel in you. You would whip him into brilliance. I know it. You
admire his work, surely?”
“I admire it very much.”
“And he is more wonderful still when he's drunk. And to-night—I
feel it—he will be drunk. I pledge myself that Dick Garstin will be
drunk.”
“I'm sure it would be a very great privilege to see Mr. Garstin
drunk. But I must go home. Good night, dear Beryl.”
“But the little Bolshevik! You must meet the little Bolshevik!”
cried Jennings.
Lady Sellingworth shook her deer-like head, smiling.
“Good night, Mr. Craven.”
“But he is going to get you a taxi,” said Miss Van Tuyn.
“Yes, and if you will allow me I am going to leave you at your
door,” said Craven, with decision.
A line appeared in Miss Van Tuyn's low forehead, but she only said:
“And then you will come back and join us.”
“Thank you,” said Craven.
He took off his hat. Miss Van Tuyn gave him a long and eloquent
look, which was really not unlike a Leap Year proposal. Then she
entered the cafe with Jennings. Craven thought at that moment that her
back looked unusually rigid.
A taxi was passing. He held up his hand. It stopped. Lady
Sellingworth and he got in, after he had given the address to the
chauffeur.
“What a lovely girl Beryl Van Tuyn is!” said Lady Sellingworth, as
they drove off.
“She is—very lovely.”
“And she has a lot of courage, moral courage.”
“Is it?” he could not help saying.
“Yes. She lives as she chooses to live. And yet she isn't married.”
“Would marriage make it all easier for her?”
“Much, if she married the man who suited her.”
“I wonder what sort of a man that would be.”
“So does she, I think. But she's a strange girl. I should not be
surprised if she were never to marry at all.”
“Don't you think she would fall in love?”
“Yes. For I think every living woman is capable of that. But she has
the sort of intellect which would not be tricked for very long by the
heart. Any weakness of hers would soon be over, I fancy.”
“I dare say you are right. In fact I believe you are generally
right. She told me you were a book of wisdom. And I feel that it is
true.”
“Here is Berkeley Square.”
“How wrong it is of these chauffeurs to drive so fast! It is almost
as bad as in Paris. They defy the law. I should like to have this man
up.”
He got out. She followed him, looking immensely tall in the dimness.
“I am not going back to the Cafe Royal,” he said.
“But it will be amusing. And I think they are certainly expecting
you.”
“I am not going there.”
She rang. Instantly the door was opened by the handsome middle-aged
butler.
“Then come in for a little while,” she said casually. “Murgatroyd,
you might bring us up some tea and lemon, or will you have whisky and
soda, Mr. Craven?”
“I would much rather have tea and lemon, please,” he said.
A great fire was burning in the hall. Again Craven felt that he was
in a more elegant London than the London of modern days. As he went up
the wide, calm staircase, and tasted the big silence of the house, he
thought of the packed crowd in the Cafe Royal, of the uproar there, of
the smoke wreaths, of the staring heterogeneous faces, of the shouting
or sullenly folded lips, of the—perhaps—tipsy man of genius, of
Jennings with his green eyes, his black beard, his tall ebony staff, of
the “little bloodthirsty thing” with the round Russian face, of Miss
Van Tuyn in the midst of it all, sitting by the side of Enid Blunt,
smoking cigarettes, and searching the men's faces for the looks which
were food for her craving. And he loved the contrast which was given to
him.
“Do go in and sit by the fire, and I'll come in a moment,” said the
husky voice he was learning to love. “I'm just going to take off my
hat.”
Craven opened the great mahogany door and went in.
The big room was very dimly lighted by two standard electric lamps,
one near the fireplace, the other in a distant corner where a grand
piano stood behind a huge china bowl in which a pink azalea was
blooming. There was a low armchair near the fire by a sofa. He sat down
in it, and picked up a book which lay on a table close beside it. What
did she read—this book of wisdom?
“Musiciens d'aujourd'hui,” by Romain Rolland.
Craven thought he was disappointed. There was no revelation for him
in that. He held the book on his knee, and wondered what he had
expected to find, what type of book. What special line of reading was
Lady Sellingworth's likely to be? He could imagine her dreaming over
“Wisdom and Destiny,” or perhaps over “The Book of Pity and of Death.”
On the other hand, it seemed quite natural to think of her smiling her
mocking smile over a work of delicate, or even of bitter, irony, such
as Anatole France's story of Pilate at the Baths of Baies, or study of
the Penguins. He could not think that she cared for sentimental books,
though she might perhaps have a taste for works dealing with genuine
passion.
He heard the door open gently, and got up. Lady Sellingworth came
in. She had not changed her dress, which was a simple day dress of
black. She had only taken off her fur and hat, and now came towards
him, still wearing white gloves and holding a large black fan in her
hand.
“What's that you've got?” she asked. “Oh—my book!”
“Yes. I took it up because I wondered what you were reading. I think
what people read by preference tells one something of what they are. I
was interested to know what you read. Forgive my curiosity.”
She sat down by the fire, opened the fan, and held it between her
face and the flames.
“I read all sorts of things.”
“Novels?”
“I very seldom read a novel now. Here is our tea. But I know you
would rather have a whisky-and-soda.”
“As a rule I should, but not to-night. I want to drink what you are
drinking.”
“And to smoke what I am smoking?” she said, with a faintly ironic
smile.
“Yes—please.”
She held out a box of cigarettes. The butler went out of the room.
“I love this house,” said Craven abruptly. “I love its atmosphere.”
“It isn't a modern atmosphere, is it?”
“Neither distinctively modern, nor in the least old-fashioned. I
think the right adjective for it would be perhaps—”
He paused and sat silent for a moment.
“I hardly know. There's something remote, distinguished and yet very
warm and intimate about it.”
He looked at her and added, almost with hardihood.
“It's not a cold, or even a reserved house.”
“Coldness and unnecessary reserve are tiresome—indeed, I might
almost say abhorrent—to me.”
She had given him his tea and lemon and taken hers.
“But not aloofness?”
“You have travelled?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you know how, when travelling, it is easy to get into
intimacies with people whom one doesn't want to be intimate with at
home.”
“Yes. I know all about that.”
“At my age one has learnt to avoid not only such intimacies but many
others less disagreeable, but which at moments might give one what I
can only call mental gooseflesh. Is that aloofness?”
“I think it would probably be called so by some.”
“By whom?”
“Oh, by mental gooseflesh-givers!”
She laughed, laughed quite out with a completeness which had
something almost of youth in it.
“I wonder,” he added rather ruefully, after the pause which the
laugh had filled up, “I wonder whether I am one of them?”
“I don't think you are.”
“And Ambrose Jennings?”
“That's a clever man!” was her reply.
And then she changed the conversation to criticism in general, and
to the type of clever mind which, unable to create, analyses the
creations of others sensitively.
“But I much prefer the creators,” she presently said.
“So do I. They are like the fresh air compared with the air in a
carefully closed room,” said Craven. “Talking of closed rooms, don't
you think it is strange the liking many brilliant men and women have,
both creators and analysers of creators, for the atmosphere of garish
or sordid cafes?”
“You are thinking of the Cafe Royal?”
“Yes. Do you know it?”
“Don't tell Beryl—but I have never been in it. Nevertheless, I know
exactly what it is like.”
“By hearsay?”
“Oh, no. In years gone by I have been into many of the cafes in
Paris.”
“And did you like them and the life in them?”
“In those days they often fascinated me, as no doubt the Cafe Royal
and its life fascinates Beryl to-day. The hectic appeals to something
in youth, when there is often fever in the blood. Strong lights, noise,
the human pressure of crowds, the sight of myriads of faces, the sound
of many voices—all that represents life to us when we are young. Calm,
empty spaces, single notes, room all round us for breathing amply and
fully, a face here or there—that doesn't seem like life to us then.
Beryl dines with me alone sometimes. But she must finish up in the
evening with a crowd if she is near the door of the place where the
crowd is. And you must not tell me you never like the Cafe Royal, for
if you do I shall not believe you.”
“I do like it at times,” he acknowledged. “But to-night, sitting
here, the mere thought of it is almost hateful to me. It is all
vermilion and orange colour, while this . . .”
“Is drab!”
“No, indeed! Dim purple, perhaps, or deepest green.”
“You couldn't bear it for long. You would soon begin longing for
vermilion again.”
“You seem to think me very young. I am twenty-nine.”
“Have you ceased to love wildness already?”
“No,” he answered truthfully. “But there is something there which
makes me feel as if it were almost vulgar.”
“No, no. It need not be vulgar. It can be wonderful—beautiful,
even. It can be like the wild light which sometimes breaks out in the
midst of the blackness of a storm and which is wilder far than the
darkest clouds. Do you ever read William Watson?”
“I have read some of his poems.”
“There is one I think very beautiful. I wonder if you know it.
'Pass, thou wild heart, wild heart of youth that still hast half a will
to stay—'“
She stopped and held her fan a little higher.
“I don't know it,” he said.
“It always makes me feel that the man or woman who has never had the
wild heart has never been truly and intensely human. But one must know
when to stop, when to let the wild heart pass away.”
“But if the heart wants to remain?”
“Then you must dominate it. Nothing is more pitiable, nothing is
more disgusting, even, than wildness in old age. I have a horror of
that. And I am certain that nothing else can affect youth so painfully.
Old wildness—that must give youth nausea of the soul.”
She spoke with a thrill of energy which penetrated Craven in a
peculiar and fascinating way. He felt almost as if she sent a vital
fluid through his veins.
Suddenly he thought of the “old guard,” and he knew that not one of
the truly marvellous women who belonged to it could hold him or charm
him as this white-haired woman, with the frankly old face, could and
did.
“After all,” he thought, “it isn't the envelope that matters; it is
the letter inside.”
Deeply he believed that just then. He was, indeed, under a sort of
spell for the moment. Could the spell be lasting? He looked at Lady
Sellingworth's eyes in the lamplight and firelight, and, despite a
certain not forgotten moment connected with the Hyde Park Hotel, he
believed that it could. And Lady Sellingworth looked at him and knew
that it could not. About such a matter she had no illusions.
And yet for years she had lived a life cloudy with illusions. What
had led her out from those clouds? Braybrooke had hinted to Craven that
possibly Seymour Portman knew the secret of Lady Sellingworth's abrupt
desertion of the “old guard” and plunge into old age. But even he did
not know it. For he loved her in a still, determined, undeviating way.
And no woman would care to tell such a secret to a man who loved her
and who was almost certain, barring the explosion of a moral bombshell,
and perhaps even then, to go on loving her.
No one knew why Lady Sellingworth had abruptly and finally emerged
from the world of illusions in which she had lived. But possibly a
member of the underworld, a light-fingered gentleman of brazen
assurance, had long ago guessed the reason for her sudden departure
from the regiment of which she had been a conspicuous member; possibly
he had guessed, or surmised, why she had sent in her papers. But even
he could scarcely be certain.
The truth of the matter was this.
PART TWO
CHAPTER I
Lady Sellingworth belonged to a great English family, and had been
brought up in healthy splendour, saved from the canker of too much
luxury by the aristocratic love of sport which is a tradition in such
English families as hers. As a girl she had been what a certain
sporting earl described as “a leggy beauty.” Even then she had shown a
decided inclination to run wild and had seldom checked the inclination.
Unusually tall and athletic, rather boyish in appearance, and of the
thin, greyhound type, she had excelled in games and held her own in
sports. She had shot in an era when comparatively few women shot, and
in the hunting-field she had shown a reckless courage which had
fascinated the hard-riding men who frequented her father's house. As
she grew older her beauty had rapidly developed, and with it an
insatiable love of admiration. Early she had realized that she was
going to be a beauty, and had privately thanked the gods for her luck.
She could scarcely have borne not to be a beauty; but, mercifully, it
was all right. Woman's greatest gift was to be hers. When she looked
into the glass and knew that, when she looked into men's eyes and knew
it even more definitely, she felt merciless and eternal. In the dawn no
end was in sight; in the dawn no end seemed possible.
From the age of sixteen onwards hers was the intimate joy, certainly
one of the greatest, if not the greatest of all the joys of women, of
knowing that all men looked at her with pleasure, that many men looked
at her with longing, that she was incessantly desired.
From the time when she was sixteen she lived perpetually in that
atmosphere which men throw round a daring and beautiful woman without
even conscious intention, creating it irresistibly merely by their
natural desire. And that atmosphere was the breath of life to her. Soon
she could not imagine finding any real value in life without it. She
often considered plain girls, dull girls, middle-aged women who had
never had any beauty, any saving grace but that of freshness, and
wondered how they managed to get along at all. What was the use of life
to them? Nobody bothered about them, except, perhaps, a few relations,
or what are called “old friends”—that is, people who, having always
been accustomed to you, put up with you comfortably, and wear their
carpet slippers in your presence without troubling whether you like
slippers or would prefer them in high-heeled shoes.
As to old women, those from whom almost the last vestiges of what
they once had been physically had fallen away, she was always charming
to them; but she always wondered why they still seemed to cling on to
life. They were done with. It was long ago all over for them. They did
not matter any more, even if once they had mattered. Why did they still
keep a hold on life with their skinny hands? Was it from fear of death,
or what? Once she expressed her wonder about this to a man.
“Of course,” she said. “I know they can't go just because they want
to. But why do they want to stay?”
“Oh,” he said, “I think lots of old ladies enjoy themselves
immensely in their own way.”
“Well, I can't understand it!” she said.
And she spoke the truth.
She flirted, of course. Her youthful years were complicated by a
maze of flirtations, through which she wandered with apparently the
greatest assurance, gaining knowledge of men.
Finally she married. She made what is called “a great match,” the
sort of match in every way suitable to such an aristocratic, beautiful
and daring girl.
Then began her real reign.
Although such a keen sportswoman, she was also a woman who had a
good brain, a quick understanding, and a genuine love of the
intellectual and artistic side of life, for its own sake, not for any
reason of fashion. She was of the type that rather makes fashions than
follows them. As a married woman she was not only Diana in the open
country, she was Egeria elsewhere. She liked and she wanted all types
of men; the hard-bitten, keen-eyed, lean-flanked men who could give her
a lead or take a lead from her over difficult country, and the softer
breed of men, whose more rounded bodies were informed by sharp spirits,
who, many of them, could not have sat a horse over the easiest fence,
or perhaps even have brought down a stag at twenty paces, but who would
dominate thousands from their desks, or from the stages of opera
houses, or from adjustable seats in front of pianos, or from studios
hung with embroideries and strewn with carpets of the East.
These knew how to admire and long for a beautiful woman quite as
well as the men of the moors and the hunting field, and they were often
more subtle in their ways of showing their feelings.
Lady Sellingworth had horses named after her and books dedicated to
her. She moved in all sets which were penetrated by the violent zest
for the life of the big world, and in all sets she more than held her
own. She was as much at home in Chelsea as she was at Newmarket. Her
beautifully disguised search for admiration extended far and wide, and
she found what she wanted sometimes in unexpected places, in sombre
Oxford libraries, in time-worn deaneries, in East-End settlements,
through which she flashed now and then like a bird of Paradise, darting
across the murk of a strange black country on its way to golden
regions, as well as in Mayfair, in the Shires, in foreign capitals, and
on the moors of Scotland.
Her husband was no obstacle in her way. She completely dominated
him, even though she gave him no child. He knew she was, as he
expressed it, “worth fifty” of him. Emphatically he was the husband of
his wife, and five years after their marriage he died still adoring
her.
She was sorry; she was even very sorry. And she withdrew from the
great world in which she had been a moving spirit now for over ten
years for the period of mourning, a year. But she was not overwhelmed
by sorrow. It is so very difficult for the woman who lives by, and for,
her beauty and her charm for men to be overwhelmed. One man has gone
and she mourns him; but there are so many men left, all of them with
eyes in which lamps may be set and with hearts to be broken.
It was at this time that she became very familiar with Paris.
She wanted to be away from London, so she took an apartment in
Paris, and began to live there very quietly. Friends, of course, came
to see her, and she began to study Paris thoroughly, not the gay,
social Paris, but a very interesting Paris. Presently her freedom from
the ordinary social ties began to amuse her. She had now so much time
for all sorts of things which women very much in society miss more
often than not. Never going to parties, she was able to go elsewhere.
She went elsewhere. Always there had dwelt caged in her a certain
wildness which did not come from her English blood. There was a foreign
strain in her from the borders of Asia mingled with a strong Celtic
strain. This wildness which in her girlhood she had let loose happily
in games and sports, in violent flirtations, and in much daring skating
over thin ice, which in her married life had spent itself in the whirl
of society, and in the energies necessary to the attainment of an
unchallenged position at the top of things, in her widowhood began to
seek an outlet in Bohemia.
Paris can be a very kind or a very cruel city, in its gaiety hiding
velvet or the claws of a tiger. To Lady Sellingworth—then Lady Manham
—it was kind. It gave her its velvet. She knew a fresh type of life
there, with much for the intellect, with not a little for the senses,
even with something for the heart. It was there that she visited out-of-the-way cafes, where clever men met and talked over every subject on
earth. A place like the Cafe Royal in London had no attraction for the
Lady Sellingworth over sixty. That sort of thing, raised to the nth
degree, had been familiar to her years and years ago, before Beryl Van
Tuyn and Enid Blunt had been in their cradles.
And the freedom of her widowhood, with no tie at all, had become
gradually very dear to her. She had felt free enough in her marriage.
But this manner of life had more breathing space in it. There is no
doubt that in that Paris year, especially in the second half of it, she
allowed the wild strain in her to play as it had never played before,
like a reckless child out of sight of parents and all relations.
When the mourning was over and she returned to London she was a
woman who had progressed, but whether upon an upward or a downward path
who shall decide? She had certainly become more fascinating. Her beauty
was at its height. The year in Paris, lived almost wholly among clever
and very unprejudiced French people, had given her a peculiar polish—
one Frenchman who knew English slang called it “a shine”—which made
her stand out among her English contemporaries. Many of them when girls
had received a “finish” in Paris. But girls cannot go about as she had
gone about. They had learnt French; she had learnt Paris. From that
time onward she was probably the most truly cosmopolitan of all the
aristocratic Englishwomen of her day. Distinguished foreigners who
visited London generally paid their first private call on her. Her
house was European rather than English. She kept, too, her apartment in
Paris, and lived there almost as much as she lived in London. And,
perhaps, her secret wildness was more at home there.
Scandal, of course, could not leave her untouched. But her position
in society was never challenged. People said dreadful things about her,
but everyone who did not know her wanted to know her, and no one who
knew her wished not to know her. She “stood out” from all the other
women in England of her day, not merely because of her beauty—she was
not more beautiful than several of her contemporaries—but because of
her gay distinction, a daring which was never, which could not be, ill
bred, her extraordinary lack of all affectation, and a peculiar and
delightful bonhomie which made her at home with everyone and everyone
at home with her. Servants and dependents loved her. Everyone about her
was fond of her. And yet she was certainly selfish. Invariably almost
she was kind to people, but herself came first with her. She made few
sacrifices, and many sacrificed themselves to her. There was seldom a
moment when incense was not rising up before her altar, and the burnt
offerings to her were innumerable.
And all through these years she was sinking more deeply into
slavery, while she was ruling others. Her slavery was to herself. She
was the captive of her own vanity. Her love of admiration had developed
into an insatiable passion. She was ceaselessly in her tower spying out
for fresh lovers. From afar off she perceived them, and when they drew
near to her castle she stopped them on their way. She did not love them
and cast them to death like Tamara of the Caucasus. No; but she
required of them the pause on their travels, which was a tribute to her
power. No one must pass her by as if she were an ordinary woman.
Probably there is no weed in all the human garden which grows so
fast as vanity. Lady Sellingworth's vanity grew and grew with the years
until it almost devoured her. It became an idee fixe in her. A few
people no doubt knew this—a few women. But she was saved from all
vulgarity of vanity by an inherent distinction, not only of manner but
of something more intimate, which never quite abandoned her, which her
vanity was never able to destroy. Although her vanity was colossal, she
usually either concealed it, or if she showed it showed it subtly. She
was not of the type which cannot pass a mirror in a restaurant without
staring into it. She only looked into mirrors in private. Nor was she
one of those women who powder their faces and rouge their lips before
men in public places. It was impossible for her to be blatant.
Nevertheless, her moral disease led her gradually to fall from her own
secret standard of what a woman of her world should be. Craven had once
said to himself that Lady Sellingworth could never seek the backstairs.
He was not wholly right in this surmise about her. There was a time in
her life—the time when she was, or was called, a professional
beauty—when she could scarcely see a man's face without watching it
for admiration. Although she preserved her delightfully unselfconscious
manner she was almost ceaselessly conscious of self. Her own beauty was
the idol which she worshipped and which she presented to the world
expectant of the worship of others. There have been many women like
her, but few who have been so clever in hiding their disease. But
always seated in her brain there was an imp who understood, was
contemptuous and mocked, an imp who knew what was coming to her, what
comes to all the daughters of men who outlive youth and its shadowy
triumphs. Her brain was ironic, while her temperament was passionate,
and greedy in its pursuit of the food it clamoured for; her brain
watched the unceasing chase with almost a bitterness of sarcasm,
merging sometimes into a bitterness of pity. In some women there seems
at times to be a dual personality, a woman of the blood at odds with a
woman of the grey matter. It was so in Lady Sellingworth's case, but
for a long time the former woman dominated the latter, whose empire was
to come later with white hair and a ravaged face.
At the age of thirty-five, after some years of brilliant and even of
despotic widowhood, she married again—Lord Sellingworth.
He was twenty-five years older than she was, ruggedly handsome,
huge, lean, self-possessed, very clever, very worldly, and that unusual
phenomenon, a genuine atheist. There was no doubt that he had a keen
passion for her, one of those passions which sometimes flare up in a
man of a strong and impetuous nature, who has lived too much, who is
worn out, haunted at times by physical weariness, yet still fiercely
determined to keep a tight grip on life and life's few real pleasures,
the greatest of which is perhaps the indulgence of love.
Like her first marriage this marriage was apparently a success. Lord
Sellingworth's cleverness fascinated his wife's brain, and led her to
value the pursuits of the intellect more than she had ever done before.
She was proud of his knowledge and wit, proud of being loved by a man
of obvious value. After this marriage her house became more than ever
the resort of the brilliant men of the day. But though Lord
Sellingworth undoubtedly improved his wife's mental capacities,
enlarged the horizon of her mind, and gave her new interests, without
specially intending it he injured her soul. For he increased her
worldliness and infected her with his atheism. She had always been
devoted to the world. He continually suggested to her that there was
nothing else, nothing beyond. All sense of mysticism had been left out
of his nature. What he called “priestcraft” was abhorrent to him. The
various religions seemed to him merely different forms of superstition,
the assertions of their leaders only varying forms of humbug. He was
greedy in searching for food to content the passions of the body, and
was restless in pursuit of nutriment for the mind. But not believing in
the soul he took no trouble about it.
Lady Sellingworth had this man at her feet. Nevertheless, in a
certain way he dominated her. In hard mental power he was much her
superior, and her mind became gradually subservient to his in many
subtle ways. It was in his day that she developed that noticeable and
almost reckless egoism which is summed up by the laconic saying, “after
me the deluge.” For Lord Sellingworth's atheism was not of the type
which leads to active humanitarianism, but of the opposite type which
leads to an exquisite selfishness. And he led his wife with him. He
taught her the whole art of self-culture, and with it the whole art of
self- worship, subtly extending to her mind that which for long had
been concerned mainly with the body. They were two of the most selfish
and two of the most charming people in London. For they were both
thorough bred and naturally kind-hearted, and so there were always
showers of crumbs falling from their well-spread table for the benefit
of those about them. Their friends had a magnificent time with them and
so did their servants. They liked others to be pleased with them and
satisfied because of them. For they must live in a warm atmosphere. And
nothing makes the atmosphere so cold about a man or woman as the egoism
which shows itself in miserliness, or in the unwillingness that others
should have a good time.
When Lady Sellingworth was thirty-nine Lord Sellingworth died
abruptly. The doctors said that his heart was worn out; others said
something different, something less kind.
For the second time Lady Sellingworth was a widow; for the second
time she spent the period of mourning in Paris. And when it was over
she went for a tour round the world with a small party of friends; Sir
Guy Letchworth and his plain, but gay and clever wife, and Roger Brand,
a millionaire and a famous Edwardian.
Brand was a bachelor, and had long been a devoted adherent of Lady
Sellingworth's, and people, of course, said that he was going to marry
her. But they eventually came back from their long tour comfortably
disengaged. Brand went back to his enormous home in Park Lane, and Lady
Sellingworth settled down in number 18A Berkeley Square.
She was now forty-one. She had arrived at a very difficult period in
the life of a beauty. The freshness and bloom of youth had inevitably
left her. The adjectives applied to her were changing. The word
“lovely” was dropped. Its place was taken by such epithets as
“handsome,” “splendid looking,” “brilliant,” “striking,” “alluring.”
People spoke of Lady Sellingworth's “good days”; and said of her,
“Isn't she astonishing?” The word “zenith” was occasionally used in
reference to her. A verb which began to be mixed up with her a good
deal was the verb “to last.” It was said of her that she “lasted"
wonderfully. Women put the question, “Isn't it miraculous how Adela
Sellingworth lasts?”
All this might, perhaps, be called complimentary. But women are not
as a rule specially fond of such compliments. When kind friends speak
of a woman's “good days” there is an implication that some of her days
are bad. Lady Sellingworth knew as well as any woman which compliments
are left-handed and which are not. On one occasion soon after she
returned to London from her tour round the world a woman friend said to
her:
“Adela, you have never looked better than you do now. Do you know
what you remind me of?”
The woman was an American. Lady Sellingworth replied carelessly:
“I haven't the slightest idea.”
“You remind me of our wonderful Indian summers that come in October.
How do you manage it?”
That come in October?
These words struck a chill through Lady Sellingworth. Suddenly she
felt the autumn in her. She had been in America: she had known the
glory of its Indian summer; she had also known that Indian summer's
startling sudden collapse. Winter comes swiftly after those almost
unnaturally golden days. And what is there left in winter for a woman
who has lived for her beauty since she was sixteen years old? The
freedom of a second widowhood would be only chill loneliness in winter.
She saw herself like a figure in the distance, sitting over a fire
alone. But little warmth would come from that fire. The warmth that was
necessary to her came from quite other sources than coal or wood
kindled and giving out flames.
Her vanity shuddered. She realized strongly, perhaps, for the first
time, that people were just beginning to think of her as a woman
inevitably on the wane. She looked into her mirror, stared into it, and
tried to consider herself impartially. She was certainly very
good-looking. Her tall figure had never been made ugly by fatness. She
was not the victim of what is sometimes called “the elderly spread.”
But although she was slim, considering her great height, she thought
that she discerned signs of a thickening tendency. She must take that
in time. Her figure must not be allowed to degenerate. And her face?
She was so accustomed to her face, and so accustomed to its being a
beautiful face, that it was difficult to her to regard it with cold
impartiality. But she tried to; tried to look at it as she might have
looked at the face of another woman, of say, a rival beauty.
What age did the face seem to be? If she had seen it passing by in
the street what age would she have guessed its owner to be? Something
in the thirties; but perhaps in the late thirties? She wasn't quite
certain about it. Really it is so difficult to look at yourself quite
impartially. And she did not wish to fall into exaggeration, to be
hypercritical. She wished to be strictly reasonable, to see herself
exactly as she was. The eyes were brilliant, but did they look like
young eyes?
No, they didn't. And yet they were full of light. There was nothing
faded about them. But somehow at that moment they looked terribly
experienced. With a conscious effort she tried to change their
expression, to make them look less full of knowledge. But it seemed to
her that she failed utterly. No, they were not young eyes; they never
could be young eyes. The long accustomed woman of the world was
mirrored in them with her many experiences. They were beautiful in
their way, but their way had nothing to do with youth. And near the
eyes, very near, there were definite traces of maturity. A few, as yet
very faint, lines showed; and there were shadows; and there was—she
could only call it to herself “a slightly hollow look,” which she had
never observed in any girl, or, so far as she remembered, in any young
woman.
She gazed at her mouth and then at her throat. Both showed signs of
age; the throat especially, she thought. The lips were fine, finely
curved, voluptuous. But they were somehow not fresh lips. In some
mysterious way, which really she could not define, life had marked them
as mature. There were a couple of little furrows in the throat and
there was also a slightly “drawn” look on each side just below the line
of the jaw. By the temples also, close to the hair, there was something
which did not look young.
Lady Sellingworth felt very cold. At that moment she probably
exaggerated in her mind the effect of her appearance. She plunged down
into pessimism about herself. A sort of desperation came upon her.
Underneath all her conquering charm, hidden away like a trembling bird
under depths of green leaves, there was a secret diffidence of which
she had occasionally been conscious during her life. It had no doubt
been born with her, had lived in her as long as she had lived. Very few
people knew of its existence. But she knew, had known of it as long as
she remembered. Now that diffidence seemed to hold her with talons, to
press its beak into her heart.
She felt that she could not face the world with any assurance if she
lost her beauty. She had charm, cleverness, rank, position, money. She
knew all her advantages. But at that moment she seemed to be
confronting penury. And as she continued to look into the mirror
ugliness seemed to grow in the woman she saw like a spreading disease
till she felt that she would be frightened to show herself to anyone,
and wished she could hide from everyone who knew her.
That absurdly morbid fit passed, of course. It could not continue,
except in a woman who was physically ill, and Lady Sellingworth was
quite well. But it left its mark in her mind. From that day she began
to take intense trouble with herself. Hitherto she had been inclined to
trust her own beauty. She had relied on it almost instinctively. And
that strange, hidden diffidence, when it had manifested itself, had
manifested itself in connexion with social things, the success of a
dinner, or with things of the mind, the success or non-success of a
conversation with a clever man. She had never spoken of it to anyone,
for she had always been more or less ashamed of it, and had brought
silence to her aid in the endeavour to stamp it out lest it should
impair her power over others. But now it was quickened within her. It
grew, and in its growth tortured her.
“How do you manage it?”
That not very kind question of the friend who had compared her to an
Indian summer remained with Lady Sellingworth. Since she had considered
herself in the mirror she had realized that she had attained that
critical period in a beauty's life when she must begin incessantly to
manage to continue a beauty. Hitherto, beyond always dressing perfectly
and taking care to be properly “turned out,” she had done less to
herself than many women habitually do. Now she swung to the opposite
extreme. There is no need to describe what she did. She did, or had
done to her, all that she considered necessary, and she considered that
a very great deal was necessary.
A certain Greek, who was a marvellous expert in his line, helped her
at a very high figure. And she helped herself by much rigid abstinence,
by denying natural appetites, by patient physical discipline. Her fight
against the years was tremendous, and was conducted with extraordinary
courage.
But nevertheless it seemed to her that a curse was put upon her; in
that she was surely one of those women who, once they take the first
step upon the downward slope, are compelled to go forward with a
damnable rapidity.
The more she “managed it” the more there seemed to be to manage.
From the time when she frankly gave herself into the clutches of
artificiality the natural physical merit of her seemed to her to
deteriorate at a speed which was headlong.
A hideous leap in the downward course took place presently. She
began to dye her hair. She was not such a fool as to change its natural
colour. She merely concealed the fact that white hairs were beginning
to grow on her head at an age when many simple people, who don't care
particularly what they look like—sensible clergymen's wives in the
provinces, and others unknown to fashion—remain as brown as a berry,
or as pleasantly auburn as the rind of a chestnut.
The knowledge of those hidden white hairs haunted her. She felt
horribly ashamed of them. She hated them with an intense, and almost
despairing, hatred. For they stamped the terrific difference between
her body and her nature.
It seemed to her that in her nature she retained all the passions of
youth. This was not strictly true, for no woman over forty has
precisely the same passions as an ardent girl, however ardent she may
be. But the “wild heart,” spoken of by Lady Sellingworth to Craven,
still beat in her breast, and the vanity of the girl, enormously
increased by the passage of the years, still lived intensely in the
middle-aged woman. It was perhaps this natural wildness combined with
her vanity which tortured Lady Sellingworth most at this period of her
life. She still desired happiness and pleasure greedily, indeed with
almost unnatural greediness; she still felt that life robbed of the
admiration and the longing of men would not be worth living.
Beryl Van Tuyn had spoken of a photograph of Lady Sellingworth taken
when she was about forty-nine, and had said that, though very handsome,
it showed a fausse jeunesse, and revealed a woman looking vain
and imperious, a woman with the expression of one always on the watch
for new lovers. And there had been a cruel truth in her words. For,
from the time when she had given herself to artificiality until the
time, some nine years later, when she had plunged into what had seemed
to her, and to many others, something very like old age, Lady
Sellingworth had definitely and continuously deteriorated, as all those
do who try to defy any natural process. Carrying on a fight in which
there is a possibility of winning may not do serious harm to a
character, but carrying on a fight which must inevitably be lost always
hardens and embitters the combatant. During those years of her
fausse jeunesse Lady Sellingworth was at her worst.
For one thing she became the victim of jealousy. She was secretly
jealous of good-looking young women, and, spreading her evil wide like
a cloud, she was even jealous of youth. To be young was to possess a
gift which she had lost, and a gift which men love as they love but few
things. She could not help secretly hating the possessors of it.
She had now become enrolled in the “old guard,” and had adopted as
her device their motto, “Never give up.” She was one of the more or
less mysterious fighters of London. She fought youth incessantly, and
she fought Time. And sometimes the weariness and the nausea of battle
lay heavy upon her. Her expression began to change. She never lost, she
never could lose, her distinction, but it was slightly blurred,
slightly tarnished. She preserved the appearance of bonhomie, but her
cordiality, her good nature, were not what they had been. Formerly she
had had marvellous spirits; now she was often accompanied into the
world by the black dog. And when she was alone he sat by the hearth
with her.
She began to hate being a widow. Sometimes she thought that she
wished she had had children. But then it occurred to her that they
might have been daughters, lovely girls now perhaps, showing to society
what she had once been. With such daughters she would surely have been
forced into abdication. For she knew that she could never have entered
into a contest with her own children. Perhaps it was best as it was,
best that she was childless.
She might no doubt have married a third time. Sir Seymour Portman, a
bachelor for her sake, would have asked nothing better than to become
her husband. And there were other middle-aged and old men who would
gladly have linked themselves with her, and who did not scruple to tell
her so. But now she could not bear the idea of making a “suitable"
match. Lord Sellingworth had been old, and she had been happy with him.
But she had felt, and had considered herself to be, young when she had
married him. The contrast between him and herself had been flattering
to her vanity. It would be different now. And besides, with the coming
of middle age, and the fatal fading of physical attraction, there had
come into her a painful obsession.
As much as she hated youth in women she was attracted by it in men.
She began secretly to worship youth as it showed itself in the other
sex. Something in her clamoured for the admiration and the longing of
the young men who were amorous of life, who were comparatively new to
the fray, who had the ardour and the freshness which could have mated
with hers when she was a girl, but which now contrasted violently with
her terribly complete experience and growing morbidity. She felt that
now she could never marry a man of her own age or older than herself,
not simply because she could not love such a man, but because she would
be perpetually in danger of loving a man of quite another type.
She entered upon a very ugly period, perhaps the ugliest there can
be in the secret life of a woman. And it was then that there came
definitely into her face, and was fixed there, the expression noted by
Miss Van Tuyn in the photograph in Mrs. Ackroyd's drawing-room, the
expression of a woman on the pounce.
There is no food so satisfying to the vanity of a middle-aged woman
as the admiration and desire of young men. Lady Sellingworth longed
for, and sought for, that food, but not without inward shame, and
occasionally something that approached inward horror. For she had, and
never was able to lose, a sense of what was due not merely to herself
but to her better self. Here the woman of the blood was at grips with
the woman of the grey matter. And the imp enthroned somewhere within
her watched, marked, remembered, condemned.
That imp began to persecute Lady Sellingworth. She would have slain
him if she could, for he was horribly critical, and remained cold
through all her intensities. In Paris he had often been useful to her,
for irony is appreciated in Paris, and he was strongly ironical. Often
she felt as if he had eyes fixed upon her sardonically, when she was
giving way to the woman in her blood. In Paris it had been different.
For there, at any rate in all the earlier years, he had been
criticizing and laughing at others. Now his attention was always on
her. There were moments when she could almost hear his ugly, whispering
voice telling her all he thought about her, about her appearance, her
conduct, her future, about her connexions with others now, about the
loneliness that was coming upon her. She saw many other women who were
evidently content in, and unconscious of, their follies. Why was she
not like them? Why had she been singled out for this persecution of the
brain. It is terrible to have a brain which mocks at you instead of
happily mocking at others. And that was her case. Later she was to
understand herself better; she was to understand that her secret
diffidence was connected with the imp, was the imp's child in her as it
were; later, too, she was to learn that the imp was working for her
eventual salvation, in the moral sense.
But she had not yet reached that turning in the path of her life.
During all this period her existence was apparently as successful
and brilliant as ever. She was still a leader in London, knowing and
known to everyone, going to all interesting functions, receiving at her
house all the famous men and women of the day. To an observer it would
have seemed that she occupied an impregnable position and that she was
having a wonderful time. But she was really a very unhappy woman at
violent odds with herself.
On one occasion when she was giving a dinner in her house a
discussion broke out on the question of happiness. It was asked by
someone, “If you could demand of the gods one gift, with the certainty
of receiving it, what gift would you demand?” Various answers were
given. One said, “Youth for as long as I lived”; another “Perfect
health”; another “Supreme beauty”; another “The most brilliant
intellect of my time”; another “The love and admiration of all I came
in contact with.” Finally a sad-looking elderly man, poet, philosopher,
and the former administrator of a great province in India, was appealed
to. His answer was, “Complete peace of mind.” And on his answer
followed the general discussion about happiness.
When the party broke up and Lady Sellingworth was alone she thought
almost desperately about that discussion and about the last answer to
the question which had been put.
Complete peace of mind! How extraordinary it would be to possess
that! She could scarcely conceive of it, and it seemed to her that even
in her most wonderful days, in her radiant and careless youth, when she
had had almost everything, she had never had that. But then she had not
even wanted to have it. Complete peace seems but a chilly sort of thing
to youth in its quick-silver time. But later on in life we love combat
less.
Suddenly Lady Sellingworth realized the age of her mind, and it
seemed to her that she was a horrible mixture of incongruities. She was
physically aging slowly but surely. She had appetites which were in
direct conflict with age. She had desires all of which turned towards
youth. And her mind was quite old. It must be, she said to herself,
because now she was sitting still and longing to know that complete
peace of mind which an old man had talked of that evening at her dinner
table.
A sort of panic shook her as she thought of all the antagonists
which at a certain period of life gather together to attack and slay
youth, all vestiges of youth, in the human being; the unsatisfied
appetites, the revolts of the body, the wearinesses of soul, and the
subtle and contradictory desires which lie hidden deep in the mind.
She was now intensely careful about her body, had brought its care
almost to the level of a finely finished art. But she had not troubled
about the disciplining of her mind. Yet the undisciplined mind can work
havoc in the tissues of the body. Youth of the mind, if preserved,
helps the body to continue apparently young. It may not be able to
cause the body actually to look young, but in some mysterious way it
throws round the body a youthful atmosphere which deceives many people,
which creates an illusion. And the strange thing is that the more
intimate people are with one possessing that mental youthfulness, the
more strong is the illusion upon them. Atmosphere has a spell which
increases upon us the longer we remain bathed in it. Lady Sellingworth
said all this to herself that night, and rebuked herself for letting
her mind go towards old age. She rebelled against the longing for
complete peace of mind because she now connected such a longing with
stagnation. And men, especially young men, love vivacity, restlessness,
the swift flying temperament. Such a temperament suggests to them
youth. It is old age which sits still. Youth is for ever on the move.
“I must not long for peace or anything of that kind!” she said to
herself.
Nevertheless the lack of all mental peace ravages the body.
She scarcely knew what to do for the best. But eventually she tried
to take her mind in hand, for she was afraid of it, afraid of its age,
afraid of the effect its age might eventually have upon her appearance.
So she strove to train it backwards towards youthfulness. For now she
was sure that she was not one of those fortunate women who have
naturally young minds which refuse to grow old. She knew a few such
women. She envied them almost bitterly. There was no need for them to
strive. She watched them surreptitiously, studied them, tried to master
their secret.
Presently a tragic episode occurred in her life.
She fell in love with a man of about twenty-three. He was the son of
people whom she knew very well in Paris, French people who were almost
her contemporaries, and was the sporting type of Frenchman, very good-looking, lively, satirical and strong. He was a famous lawn tennis
player and came over to London for the tournament at Wimbledon. She had
already seen him in Paris, and had known him when he was little more
than a boy. But she had never thought much about him in those days. For
in those days she had not been haunted by the passion for youth which
possessed her now.
Louis de Rocheouart visited at her house as a matter of course, was
agreeable and gallant to her because she was a charming and influential
woman and an old friend of his family. But he did not think of her as a
woman to whom it was possible that a man of his age could make love. He
looked upon her as one who had been a famous beauty, but who was now
merely a clever, well-preserved and extremely successful member of the
“old guard” of society in London. Her “day” as a beauty was in his
humble opinion quite over. She belonged to his mother's day. He knew
that. And his mother happened to be one of those delightful Frenchwomen
who are spirituelle at all ages, but who never pretend to be anything
they are not. His mother's hair was already grey, and she had two
married daughters, one of whom had been trusting enough to make her a
grandmother.
While Rocheouart was in London a number of popular middle-aged women
banded together and gave a very smart ball at Prince's. Lady
Sellingworth was one of the hostesses, all of whom danced merrily and
appeared to be in excellent spirits and health. It was certainly one of
the very best balls of the season, and young men turned up at it in
large numbers. Among them was young Rocheouart.
Lady Sellingworth danced with him more than once. That night she had
almost managed to deceive herself as to the real truth of life. The
ball was being such a success; the scramble for invitations had been so
great; the young men evidently found things so lively, and seemed to be
in such exuberant spirits, that she was carried away, and really felt
as if youth were once more dancing through her veins and shining out of
her eyes.
The “old guard” were in excelsis that night; the Edwardians
were in their glory on the top of the world. Probably more than one of
them thought, “They can say what they like but we can cut out the girls
when we choose.” Their savoir faire was immense. Many of them still
possessed an amazing amount of the joie de vivre. And some of them were
thoroughly sensible women, saved from absurdity by the blessed sense of
humour.
But Lady Sellingworth was by this time desperately in love with
Louis de Rocheouart, and her sense of humour was in abeyance that
night. In consequence, she was the victim of a mortification which she
was never to forget as long as she lived.
Towards the end of the evening she happened to be standing with Sir
Seymour Portman near the entrance to the ballroom, and overheard a
scrap of conversation between two people just behind them.
A girl's light voice said:
“Have you heard the name Cora Wellingborough has given to this
ball?”
(The Duchess of Wellingborough was one of the hostesses.)
“No,” replied a voice, which Lady Sellingworth recognized as the
voice of young Rocheouart. “What is it?”
“She calls it 'The Hags' Hop'! Isn't it delicious of her? It will be
all over London to-morrow. The name will stick. In the annuals of
London festivities to-night will always be remembered as the night of
the famous Hags' Hop.”
Lady Sellingworth heard Rocheouart's strong, manly young laugh.
“That's just like the duchess!” he said. “She's simply made of
humour and always hits the nail on the head. And how clever of her to
give the right name to the ball herself instead of leaving it for some
pretty girl to do. The Hags' Hop! It's perfect! If she hadn't said
that, you would have before the evening was out, and then all the
charming hags would have been furious with you.”
The girl laughed, and she and Rocheouart passed Lady Sellingworth
without noticing her and went into the ballroom.
She looked at them as they began to dance; then she looked at the
Duchess of Wellingborough, who was also dancing.
The duchess was frankly middle-aged. She was very good-looking, but
she had let her figure go. She was quite obviously the victim of the
“elderly spread.” Her health was excellent, her sense of humour
unfailing. She never pretended to anything, but was as natural almost
as a big child. Although a widow, she wanted no lover. She often said
that she had “got beyond all that sort of thing.” Another of her
laughingly frank sayings was: “No young man need be afraid of me.” In
consequence of her gaiety, humour, frankness and hospitality she was
universally popular.
But that night Lady Sellingworth almost hated her.
The Hags' Hop!
That terrible name stuck in Lady Sellingworth's mind and seemed to
fasten there like a wound in a body.
As Rocheouart's partner had foretold, the name went all over London.
The duchess's mot even got into a picture paper, and everyone
laughed about it. The duchess was delighted. Nobody seemed to mind.
Even Lady Sellingworth forced herself to quote the saying and to make
merry over it. But from that day she gave up dancing entirely. Nothing
would induce her even to join in a formal royal quadrille.
Before his return to Paris, Rocheouart came to bid her good-bye.
Although she was still, as she supposed, madly in love with him, she
concealed it, or, if she showed it, did so only by being rather
unnaturally cold with him. When he was gone she felt desperate.
Her imp had perhaps controlled her during the short time of
Rocheouart's final visit, had mocked and made her fear him. When she
was alone, however, he vanished for the moment.
From that time the hidden diffidence in Lady Sellingworth was her
deadly enemy, because it fought perpetually with her vanity and with
her almost uncontrollable desires. Sometimes she was tempted to give
way to it entirely and to retire from the fray. But she asked herself
what she had to retire to. The thought of a life lived in the shade, or
of a definitely middle-aged life, prolonged in such sunshine as falls
upon grey-haired heads, was terrible to her. She was not like the
Duchess of Wellingborough. She was cursed with what was called in her
set “a temperament,” and she did not know how to conquer it, did not
dare, even, to try to conquer it.
She soon forgot Louis de Rocheouart, but his place was not long left
empty. She fell in love with another young man.
Eventually—by this time she had almost ceased to struggle, was not
far from being a complete victim to her temperament—she seriously
considered the possibility of marrying again, and of marrying a man
many years younger than herself. Several women whom she knew had done
this. Why should not she do it? Such marriages seldom turned out well,
seldom lasted very long. But there were exceptions to every rule. Her
marriage, if she made it, might be an exception. She was now only
forty-eight. (She had reached the age when that qualifying word is
applied to the years.) Women older, much older, than herself, had
married mere boys. She did not intend to do that. But why should she
not take a charming man of, say, thirty into her life?
The mere thought of having such a husband, such a companion in
Number 18A, Berkeley Square, sent a glow through her mind and body.
What a flood of virility, anticipation, new strength, new interests he
would bring with him! She imagined his loud, careless step on the
stairs, his strong bass or baritone voice resounding in the rooms; she
heard the doors banged by his reckless hand; she saw his raincoats, his
caps, his golf clubs, his gun cases littering the hall. When she
motored he would be at the wheel instead of a detached and rigid-faced
chauffeur, and he would whirl her along, taking risk, all the time.
But would he be able to love her?
Her diffidence and her vanity fought over that question; fought
furiously, and with an ugly tenacity. It seemed that the vanity
conquered. For she resolved to make the trial.
Many striking advantages were on her side. She could give any man a
magnificent social position, could take him into the heart of the great
world. Her husband, unless he were absolutely impossible—and of course
he would not be—would be welcomed everywhere because of her. She was
rich. She had unusual charm. She was quick witted, intelligent, well
read, full of tact and knowledge of the world. Surely she could be a
splendid companion, even a great aid, to any man of the least ambition.
And she was still very handsome—with difficulty.
She and her Greek alone knew exactly how much trouble had to be
taken to keep her as she was when she went among people.
She had not been able to do much with her mind. It seemed
uncontrollable by her. There was no harmony in her inner life. The
diversities within her were sharp, intense. In her kingdom of self
there was perpetual rebellion. And the disorder in her moral life had
hastened the aging process more even than she was aware of. Underneath
the artificial beauty of her appearance she was now older than her
years.
But she was still very handsome—with difficulty.
She hardened herself after the fight and resolved that, if she
chose, she could still make almost any man love her. That she could
easily fascinate she knew. Most people were subject to her easy charm
and to the delightfully unaffected manner which no amount of vanity had
ever been able to rid her of. Surely the temporarily fascinated man
might easily be changed into the permanent lover! Fear assailed her
certainly when she thought of the danger of deliberately contrasting
with her maturity the vividness of youth. To do what she thought of
doing would be to run a great risk. When she had married Lord
Sellingworth she had provided herself with a foil to her beauty and to
her comparative youth. To marry a young man would be to make herself
the foil. He would emphasize her age by his lack of years. Could she
dare it?
Again she hardened herself and resolved that she would dare it. The
wildness in her came uppermost, rose to recklessness. After me the
deluge! She might not be happy long if she married a young husband, but
she might be happy for a time. The mere marriage would surely be a
triumph for her. And if she had three years, two years, even one year
of happiness, she would sing a Laus Deo and let the deluge close
over her head.
She began, in woman's quiet but penetrating way, to look about her.
She met many young men in the world, in fact nearly all the young
eligible men of the time. Many of them came to her house, for she often
gave parties to which she asked not only the “old guard” and the
well-known men of the day, but also the young married women. Now she
began to give small dances to which she asked pretty young girls. There
was a ballroom built out at the back of her house. It was often in use.
The pretty young girls began to say she was “a dear” to bother so much
about them. Dancing men voted her a thundering good hostess and a most
good-natured woman. In popularity she almost cut out the Duchess of
Wellingborough, who sometimes gave dances, too, for young people.
Really through it all she was on the watch, was seeking the possible
husband.
Presently she found the man with whom she could imagine being almost
desperately happy if he would only fall in with her hidden views. They
were so carefully hidden that not one of her friends, not one of the
“old guard,” suspected that she had made up her mind to marry again and
to make what is universally called “a foolish marriage.”
His name was Rupert Louth, and he was the fourth son of an
impecunious but delightful peer, Lord Blyston. He was close upon
thirty, and had spent the greater part of his time, since his twentieth
year, out of England. He had ranched in Canada, and had also done
something vague of the outdoor kind in Texas. He had fought, and was a
good man of his hands. His health was splendid. He was as hard as nails
in condition, and as lively and ready as they make them. Many things he
could do, but one thing he had never been able to do. He had never been
able to make money. His gift lay rather in the direction of joyously
spending it. This gift distracted his father, who confided to Lady
Sellingworth his fears for the lad's—he would insist on calling Rupert
the lad— for the lad's future. Here he was back on the family's hands
with expensive tastes and no prospects whatever!
“And he's always after the women, too!” said Lord Blyston, with
admiring despair. “He's been away from them so long there's no holding
him.”
After a pause he added:
“My dear Adela, if you want to do me a good turn find the lad a
wife. His poor mother's gone, or she would have done it. What he wants
is a wife who can manage him, with a decent amount of money.”
Without exactly saying so, Lady Sellingworth implied that she would
see what she could do for Rupert.
From that moment Lord Blyston pushed “the lad” perpetually towards
18A Berkeley Square.
Rupert Louth was fair and very good-looking, reckless and full of
go. And wherever he went he carried with him an outdoor atmosphere. He
cared nothing for books, music, or intellectual pursuits. Nevertheless,
he was at home everywhere, and quite as much at ease in a woman's
drawing-room as rounding up cattle in Canada or lassooing wild horses
in Texas. He lived entirely and wholeheartedly for the day, and was a
magnificent specimen of dashing animal life; for certainly the animal
predominated in him.
Lady Sellingworth fell in love with him—it really was like falling
in love each time—and resolved to marry him. A wonderful breath of
manhood and youth exhaled from “the lad” and almost intoxicated her. It
called to her wildness. It brought back to her the days when she had
been a magnificent girl, had shot over the moors, and had more than
held her own in the hunting field. After she had married Lord
Sellingworth she had given up shooting and hunting, had devoted herself
more keenly to the arts, to mental and purely social pursuits, to the
opera, the forming of a salon, to politics and to entertaining, than to
the physical pleasures which had formerly played such a prominent part
in her life. Since his death she had put down her horses. But now she
began to change her mode of living. She went with Rupert to
Tattersalls, and they picked up some good horses together. She began
riding again, and lent him a mount. She was perpetually at Hurlingham
and Ranelagh, and developed a passion for polo, which he played
remarkably well. She played lawn tennis at King's Club in the morning,
and renewed her energy at golf.
Louth was really struck by her activity and competence, and said of
her that she was a damned good sport and as active as a cat. He also
said that there wasn't a country in the world that bred such wonderful
old women as England. This remark he made to his father, who rejoined
that Adela Sellingworth was not an old woman.
“Well, she must be near fifty!” said his son. “And if that isn't old
for a woman where are we to look for it?”
Lord Blyston replied that there were many women far older than Adela
Sellingworth, to which his son answered:
“Anyhow, she's as active as a cat, so why don't you marry her?”
“She's twenty years too young for me,” said Lord Blyston. “I should
bore her to death.”
It had just occurred to him that Rupert could be very comfortable on
Lord Sellingworth's and Lord Manham's combined fortunes, though he had
no idea that Lady Sellingworth had ever thought of “the lad” as a
possible husband.
Other people, however, noticed the new development in her life.
Every morning quite early she was to be seen, perfectly mounted,
cantering in the Row, often with Rupert Louth beside her. Her
extraordinary interest in every branch of athletics was generally
remarked. She even went to boxing matches, and was persuaded to give
away prizes at a big meeting at Stamford Bridge.
Although she never said a word about it to anyone, this sudden
outburst of intense bodily activity at her age presently began to tire,
then almost to exhaust her. The strain upon her was great, too great.
Whatever Rupert Louth did, he never turned a hair. But she was nearly
twenty years older than he was, and decidedly out of training. She
fought desperately against her physical fatigue, and showed a gay face
to the world. But a horrible conviction possessed her. She began
presently to feel certain that her effort to live up to Rupert Louth's
health and vigour was hastening the aging process in her body. By what
she was doing she was marring her chance of preserving into old age the
appearance of comparative youth. Sometimes at night, when all the
activities of the day were over and there was no prospect of seeing
Rupert again until, at earliest, the following morning, she felt
absolutely haggard with weariness of body—felt as she said to herself
with a shudder, like an old hag. But she could not give up, could not
rest, for Rupert expected of everyone who was not definitely laid on
the shelf inexhaustible energy, tireless vitality. His own perpetual
freshness was a marvel, and fascinated Lady Sellingworth. To be with
him was like being with eternal youth, and made her long for her own
lost youth with an ache of desperation. But to act being young is
hideously different from being actually young. She acted astonishingly
well, but she paid for every moment of the travesty, and Rupert never
noticed, never had the least suspicion of all she was going through on
account of him.
To him she was merely a magnificently hospitable pal of his
father's, who took a kindly interest in him. He found her capital
company. He, like everyone else, felt her easy fascination, enjoyed
being with her. But, like Rocheouart of the past days, he never thought
of her as a possible lover. Nor did it ever occur to him that she was
thinking of him as a possible husband. He always wanted, and generally
managed to have a splendid time; and he was quite willing to be petted
and spoilt and made much of; but he was not, under a mask of
carelessness, a cold and persistent egoist. He really was just what he
seemed to be, a light-hearted, rather uproarious, and very healthy
young man, intent on enjoying himself, and recklessly indifferent to
the future. He was quite willing to eat Lady Sellingworth's excellent
dinners, to ride her spirited horses, to sit in her opera box and look
at pretty women while others listened to music, but it never occurred
to him that it would be the act of a wise man to try to put her fortune
into his own pocket at the price of marrying her.
His lack of self-interest, which she divined, charmed Lady
Sellingworth; on the other hand, she was tormented by his detachment
from her, by his lack of all vision of the truth of the situation. And
she was perpetually tortured by jealousy.
Before she had been in love with Rupert she had often felt jealous.
All women of her temperament are subject to jealousy, and all middle-aged people who worship youth unsuitably have felt its sting. But she
had never before known jealousy as she knew it now.
Although she was so often with Rupert she was more often not with
him. He made no pretences of virtue to her or to anyone else. He was a
cheery Pagan, a good sport and—no doubt—a devil among the women.
Being a thorough gentleman he never talked, as some vulgar men do, of
his conquests. But Lady Sellingworth knew that his silence probably
covered a multitude of sins. And her ignorance of the greater part of
his life often ravaged her.
What was he doing when he was not with her? Who was he making love
to?
His name was not specially connected with that of any girl whom she
knew in society. But she had reason to know that he spent a lot of his
time out of society in circles to which she had never penetrated.
Doubtless he met quantities of women whose names she had never heard
of, unknown women of the stage, women who went to night clubs, women of
the curious world which floats between the aristocracy and the
respectable middle classes, which is as well dressed as the one and
greedier even than the other, which seems always to have unlimited
money, and which, nevertheless, has often no visible means of
subsistence.
She lay awake often, when she badly needed sleep, wondering where
Rupert was and what he was doing.
Jealousy, combined with unnatural physical exertion, and the
perpetual endeavour to throw round her an atmosphere of youth, energy
and unceasing cheerfulness, wrought havoc in Lady Sellingworth. Her
appearance began to deteriorate. Deeper lines became visible near her
eyes, and the light of those eyes was feverish. Her nerves began to go
to pieces. Restlessness increased upon her. She was scarcely able to
keep still for a moment. The more she needed repose the more incapable
of repose she became. The effort to seem younger, gayer, stronger than
she was became at last almost convulsive. Her social art was tarnished.
The mechanism began to be visible.
People noticed the change in her and began to discuss it, and more
than one of the “old guard” hit upon the reason of it. It became subtly
known and whispered about that Adela Sellingworth was desperately in
love with Rupert Louth. Several of her friends hinted at their
knowledge to Lady Sellingworth, and she was forced to laugh at the idea
as absurd, knowing that her laughter would serve no good end. These
experienced women knew. Impossible to deceive them about a thing of
that kind! They were mercilessly capable in detecting a hidden passion
in one of their body. Their intrigues and loves were usually common
property, known to, and frankly discussed by them all.
Lady Sellingworth presently had the satisfaction of knowing that the
whole of the “old guard” was talking about her passion for Rupert
Louth. This fact drove her to a hard decision which was not natural to
her. She wanted to marry Rupert because she was in love with him. But
now she felt she must marry him to save her own pride before her
merciless fellow-women. She decided that the time had come when she
must trample on her own delicacy and prove that she still possessed the
power of a conqueror. Otherwise she would be laughed at by the greater
part of the society in which she usually lived.
She resolved to open Rupert Louth's eyes and to make him understand
that she and all she stood for were at his disposal. She knew he was up
to the eyes in debt. She knew he had no prospects. Lord Blyston had no
money to give him, and was for ever in difficulties himself. It was a
critical moment for Louth, and a critical moment for her. Their
marriage would smooth out the whole situation, would set him free from
all money miseries, and her from greater miseries still—torments of
desire, and the horror of being laughed at or pitied by her set. And in
any case she felt that the time had arrived when she must do something
drastic; must either achieve or frankly and definitely give up. She
knew that she was nearing the end of her tether. She could not much
longer keep up the brilliant pretence of being an untiring Amazon
crammed full of the joie de vivre which she had assumed for the purpose
of winning Rupert Louth as a husband. Her powers of persistence were
rapidly waning. Only will drove her along, in defiance of the warnings
and protests of her body. But the untiring Amazon was cracking up, to
use a favourite expression of Louth's. Soon the weary, middle-aged
woman must claim her miserable rights: the right to be tired
occasionally, the right to “slack off” at certain hours of the day, the
right to find certain things neither suitable nor amusing to her, the
right, in fact, to be now and then a middle- aged woman. Certainly
something in her said to Lady Sellingworth: “In your marriage, if you
marry, you will have to act even better, even more strenuously, than
you are acting now. Being in love as you are, you will never be able to
dare to be your true self. Your whole married life will be a perpetual
throwing of dust in the eyes of your husband. To keep him you will have
to live backwards, or to try to live backwards, all the time. If you
are tired now, what will you be then?” And she knew that the voice was
speaking the truth. Her imp, too, was watching her closely and with an
ugly intensity of irony as she approached her decision.
Nevertheless, she defied him; she defied the voice within her, and
took it. She said to herself, or her worn nervous system said to her,
that there was nothing else to be done. In her fatigue of body and
nerves she felt reckless as only the nearly worn out feel. Something—
she didn't know what—had cast the die for her. It was her fate to open
Rupert Louth's eyes, to make him see; it was her fate to force her will
into a last strong spasm. She would not look farther than the day. She
would not contemplate her married life imaginatively, held in
contemplation, like a victim, by the icy hands of reason. She would
kick reason out, harden herself, give her wildness free play, and act,
concentrating on the present with all the force of which her diseased
nerves were capable.
Instead of thinking just then “after me the deluge,” her thought was
“after my marriage to Rupert Louth the deluge.” She would, she must,
make him her husband. It would be perhaps the last assertion of her
power. She knew enough of men to know that such an assertion might well
be followed by disaster. But she was prepared to brave any disaster
except one, the losing of Louth and the subsequent ironical amusement
of the “old guard.”
Two or three days later Louth called, mounted on one of her horses,
to take her for a ride in the park.
During the previous night Lady Sellingworth had scarcely slept at
all. She had got up feeling desperately nervous and almost lightheaded.
On looking in the glass she had been shocked at her appearance, but she
had managed to alter that considerably, although not so completely as
she wished. Depression, following inevitably on insomnia, had fixed its
claws in her. She felt deadly, almost terrible, and as if her face must
be showing plainly the ugliness of her mental condition. For she seemed
to have lost control over it. The facial muscles seemed to have
hardened, to have become fixed. When the servant came to tell her that
Louth and the horses were at the door she was almost afraid to go down,
lest he should see at once in her face the strong will power which she
had summoned up; as a weapon in this crisis of her life.
As she went slowly downstairs she forced herself to smile. The smile
came with difficulty, but it came, and when she met Louth he did not
seem to notice any peculiarity in her. But, to tell the truth, he
scarcely seemed to notice her at all with any particularity. For her
strange and abnormal pre-occupation was matched by a like pre-occupation in him. He took off his hat, bade her good morning, and
helped her skilfully to mount. But she saw at once that he was not as
usual. His face was grave and looked almost thoughtful. The merry light
had gone out of his eyes. And, strangest phenomenon of all, he was
tongue-tied. They started away from the house, and rode through Mayfair
towards the park in absolute silence.
She began to wonder very much what was the matter with Rupert, and
guessed that he had “come an awful cropper” of some kind. It must
certainly be an exceptional cropper to cloud his spirit. Perhaps he had
lost a really large sum of money, or perhaps he—
The thought of a woman came suddenly to her, she did not know why.
Suspicion, jealousy woke in her. She glanced sideways at Rupert under
her hard hat. He looked splendid on horseback, handsomer even than when
he was on foot. For he was that rare thing, a really perfect horseman.
His appearance disarmed her. She longed to do something for him, by
some act of glowing generosity to win him completely. But they were
still in the streets, and she said nothing. Directly they turned into
the green quietude of the park, however, she yielded to her impulse and
spoke, and asked him bluntly what was the matter.
He did not fence with her. Fencing was not easy to him. He turned in
the saddle, faced her, and told her that he had made a damned fool of
himself. Still bent on generosity, on being more than a friend to him,
she asked him to tell her how. His reply almost stunned her. A
fortnight previously he had secretly married a Miss Willoughby—really
a Miss Bertha Crouch, and quite possibly of Crouch End—who was
appearing in a piece at the Alhambra Theatre, but who had not yet
arrived at the dignity of a “speaking part.” This young lady, it
seemed, had already “landed” Louth in expenses which he didn't know how
to meet. What was he to do? She was the loveliest thing on earth, but
she was accustomed to living in unbridled luxury. In fact she wanted
the earth, and he was longing to give it to her. But how? Where could
he possibly get hold of enough money for the purchase of the earth on
behalf of Miss Bertha Crouch—now Willoughby, or, rather, now the Hon.
Mrs. Rupert Louth? His face softened, his manner grew almost boyishly
eager, as he poured confidences into Lady Sellingworth's ears. She was
his one real friend! She was a woman of the world. She had lived ever
so much longer than he had and knew five times as much. What would she
advise? Might he bring little Bertha to see her? Bertha was really the
most splendid little sort, although naturally she wanted to have the
things other women had—etc., etc.
When she got home that day Lady Sellingworth almost crumbled. By a
supreme effort during the rest of the ride she had managed to conceal
the fact that she had received a blow over the heart. The pride on
which she had been intending to trample when she came downstairs that
morning had come to her aid in that difficult moment. The woman of the
world had, as Louth would have said, “come up to the scratch.” But when
she was alone she gave way to an access of furious despair; and, shut
up in her bedroom behind locked doors, was just a savage human being
who had been horribly wounded, and who was unable to take any revenge
for the wound. She would not take any revenge, because she was not the
sort of woman who could go quite into the gutter. And she knew even in
her writhings of despair that Rupert Louth would go scot free. She
would never try to punish him for what he had done to her: and he would
never know he had done it, unless one of the “old guard” told him.
It was when she thought of the “old guard” that Lady Sellingworth
almost crumbled, almost went to pieces. For she knew that whatever she
did, or left undone, she would never succeed in deceiving its members.
She would not have been deceived herself if circumstances had been
changed, if another woman had been in her situation and she had been an
onlooker. “They” would all know.
For a moment she thought of flight.
But this episode ended in the usual way; it ended in the usual
effort of the poor human being to safeguard the sacred things by
deception. Lady Sellingworth somehow—how do human beings achieve such
efforts?— pulled herself together and gave herself to pretence. She
pretended to Louth that she was his best friend and had never thought
of being anything else. She was the receptacle for the cascade of his
confidences. She swore to help him in any way she could. Even after she
received “the Crouch,” once Willoughby and still Willoughby to the
“nuts” who frequented the stalls of the Alhambra. She received that
tall and voluptuous young woman, with her haughty face and her
disdainful airs, and she bore with her horrible proprietorship of
Louth. And finally she broke it to Lord Blyston at Rupert's earnest
request.
That should have been her supreme effort. But it was not. There was
no rest in pretence. As soon as Lord Blyston knew, everyone knew,
including the “old guard.” And then, of course, Lady Sellingworth's
energies had all to be called into full play.
It was no wonder if underneath the cleverness of her Greek she aged
rapidly, more rapidly than was natural in a woman of her years. For she
had piled effort on effort. She had been young for Rupert Louth until
she had been physically exhausted; and then she had been old for him
until she was mentally exhausted. The hardy Amazon had been forced to
change in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, into the calm and
middle-aged adviser of hot passioned youth, into the steady unselfish
confidante, into the breaker of untoward news to the venerable parent
—in fact, into Mother Hubbard, as Lady Sellingworth more than once
desperately told herself.
“Mother Hubbard! Mother Hubbard! I'm just Mother Hubbard to him and
to that horrible girl!”
And she saw herself as Mother Hubbard, a “dame.” And she alone knew
how absolutely bare her cupboard was at that time. But she struggled on
magnificently, taking no rest; she faced the “old guard” with splendid
courage, in fact with such courage that most of them pretended to be
deceived, and perhaps—for is not everything possible in this
life?—perhaps two or three of them really were deceived.
The Duchess of Wellingborough said often at this time: “Addie
Sellingworth has the stuff in her of a leader of forlorn hopes!”
Lord Blyston paid up for “the Crouch,” once Willoughby, who had now
left the Alhambra disconsolate. He paid up by selling the only estate
he still possessed, and letting his one remaining country house to an
extraordinarily vulgar manufacturer from the Midlands, who did not know
a Turner from a Velasquez until he was told. And for the time “the
Crouch” was as satisfied as a woman of her type can ever be.
Time passed on. Lady Sellingworth went about everywhere with a
smiling carefully-made-up face and a heart full of dust and ashes.
But even then she could not make up her mind finally to abandon all
pretence of youth, all hope of youth's distractions, pleasures, even
joys. She had a terribly obstinate nature, it seemed, a terribly strong
lust after life.
Even her imp could not lash her into acceptance of the inevitable,
could not drive her with his thongs of irony into the dignity which
only comes when the human being knows how to give up, and when.
But what the imp could not achieve was eventually achieved by a man,
whose name Lady Sellingworth did not know.
This was how it happened.
One day when Lady Sellingworth was walking down Bond Street—it was
in the morning and she was with the Duchess of Wellingborough—an
extraordinarily handsome young man, whom neither of them knew, met them
and passed by. He was tall, brown skinned, with soft, very intelligent
brown eyes, and strong, manly and splendidly cut features. His thick
brown hair was brushed, his little brown moustache was cut, like a
Guardsman's. But he was certainly not a Guardsman. He was not even an
Englishman, although he was dressed in a smart country suit made
evidently by a first-rate London tailor. There was something faintly
exotic about his eyes, and his way of holding himself and moving, which
suggested to Lady Sellingworth either Spain or South America. She was
not quite sure which. He gave her a long look as he went by, and she
felt positive that he turned to glance after her when he had passed
her. But this she never knew, as naturally she did not turn her head.
“What an extraordinarily good-looking man that was!” said the
Duchess of Wellingborough. “I wonder who he is. If—,” and she
mentioned a well-known Spanish duke, “had a brother that might be the
man. Do you know who he is?”
“No,” said Lady Sellingworth.
“Well, he must know who you are.”
“Why?”
“He seemed deeply interested in you.”
Lady Sellingworth wanted to say that a young man might possibly be
deeply interested in her without knowing who she was. But she did not
say it. It was not worth while. And she knew the duchess had not meant
to be ill-mannered.
She lunched with the duchess that day in Grosvenor Square, and met
several of the “old guard” whom she knew very well, disastrously well.
After lunch the duchess alluded to the brown man they had met in Bond
Street, described him minutely, and asked if anyone knew him. Nobody
knew him. But after the description everyone wanted to know him. It was
generally supposed that he must be one of the strangers from distant
countries who are perpetually flocking to London.
“We shall probably all know him in a week or two,” said someone. “A
man of that type is certain to have brought introductions.”
“If he has brought one for Adela I'm sure he'll deliver that first,”
said the duchess, with her usual almost boisterous good humour.
And thereupon she told the “old guard” of the stranger's evident
interest in Lady Sellingworth.
Although she completely concealed it, Lady Sellingworth felt decided
interest in the brown man. The truth was that his long and ardent—yet
somehow not impudently ardent—look at her had stirred the dust and
ashes in her heart. It was as if a little of the dust rose and floated
away, as if some of the ashes crumbled into a faint grey powder which
was almost nothingness.
At that moment she was in the dangerous mood when a woman of her
type will give herself to almost any distraction which promises a
possible adventure, or which holds any food for her almost starving
vanity. Her love—or was it really lust—for Rupert Louth still ravaged
her. The thought of “the Crouch's” triumph still persecuted her mind.
Terrible pictures of a happiness she had no share in still made every
night hideous to her. She longed for Rupert Louth, but she longed also
to be reinstated in her self-esteem. That glance of a stranger had
helped her. She asked herself whether a man of that type, young,
amazingly handsome, would ever send such a glance to Mother Hubbard.
Suddenly she felt safer, as if she could hold up her head once more.
Really she had always held it up, but to herself, since Louth's blunt
confession, she had been a woman bowed down, old, done with, a thing
fit for the scrap heap. Now a slight, almost trembling sensation of
returning self-esteem stole through her. She could not have been
mistaken about the brown man's interest in her, for the Duchess of
Wellingborough had specially noticed it. She wondered who he was,
whether he really had brought introductions, where he was staying,
whether he would presently appear in her set. His brown eyes were
gentle and yet enterprising. He looked like a sportsman, she thought,
and yet as if he were more intellectual, more subtle than Louth. There
seemed to be a slight thread of sympathy between her and him! She had
felt it immediately when they had met in Bond Street. She wondered
whether he had felt it too.
In all probability if Lady Sellingworth had been in a thoroughly
normal condition at this time she would not have thought twice about
such a trifling episode as a stranger's glance at her in the street.
But she was not in a normal condition. She was the prey of acute
depression and morbidity. Life was becoming hideous to her. She
exaggerated her loneliness in the midst of society. She had mentally
constructed for herself a new life with Louth as her husband.
Imaginatively she had lived that life until it had become strangely
familiar to her, as an imagined life can become to a highly strung
woman. The abrupt and brutal withdrawal of all possibility of it as a
reality had made the solitude of her widowhood seem suddenly terrible,
unnatural, a sort of nightmare. She had moments of desperation in which
she said to herself, “This cannot go on. I can't live alone any more or
I shall go mad.” In such moments she sometimes thought of rewarding Sir
Seymour Portman's long fidelity. But something in her, something
imperious, shrank at the thought. She did not want to marry an elderly
man.
And yet it seemed that no young man would ever want to marry her.
She shuddered before the mysteries of the flesh. Often she was
shaken by a storm of self-pity. Darkness yawned before her. And she
still longed, as she thought no other woman could ever have longed, for
happiness, companionship, a virile affection.
For some days she did not see the stranger again, although she was
several times in Bond Street. She began to think, to fear, he had left
London; yes—to fear! It had come to that! Realizing it, she felt
humiliation. But his eyes had seemed to tell her that she possessed for
him great attraction! She longed to see those eyes again, to decipher
their message more carefully. The exact meaning of it might have
escaped her in that brief instant of encounter. She wondered whether
the young man had known who she was, or whether he had merely been
suddenly struck by her appearance, and had thought, “I wish I knew that
woman.” She wondered what exactly was his social status. No doubt if he
had been English she could have “placed” him at once, or if he had been
French. But he was neither the one nor the other. And she had had
little time to make up her mind about him, although, of course, his
good looks had leaped to the eye.
She had begun to think that Destiny had decided against another
encounter between her and this man when one day Seymour Portman asked
her to lunch with him at the Carlton. She accepted and went into the
restaurant at the appointed time. It was crowded with people, many of
whom she knew, but one table near that allotted to the general's party
had two empty chairs before it. On it was a card with the word
“Reserved.” Soon after the general's guests had begun to lunch, when
Lady Sellingworth was in the full flow of conversation with her host,
by whose side she was sitting, and with a hunting peer whom she had
known all her life, and who sat on her other side, two people made
their way to the table near by and sat down in the empty chairs. One
was an old woman in a coal-black wig, with a white face and faded eyes,
rather vague and dull in appearance, but well dressed and quietly
self-assured, the other was the man Lady Sellingworth had met in Bond
Street. He took the chair which was nearly opposite to her; but whether
deliberately or by accident she had no time to notice. He did not look
at her for several minutes after sitting down. He was apparently busy
ordering lunch, consulting with a waiter, and speaking to his old
companion, whose coal-black wig made a rather strange contrast with her
lined white cheeks and curiously indefinite eyes. But presently, with a
sort of strong deliberation, his gaze was turned on Lady Sellingworth,
and she knew at once that he had seen her when he came in. She met his
gaze for an instant, and this time seemed to be definitely aware of
some mysterious thread of sympathy between her and him. Sir Seymour
spoke to her in his quiet, rather deep voice, and she turned towards
him, and as she did so she felt she knew, as she had never known
before, that she could never marry him, that something in her that was
of her essence was irrevocably dedicated to youth and the beauty of
youth, which is like no other beauty. The wildness of her which did not
die, which probably would never die, was capable of trampling over Sir
Seymour's fidelity to get to unstable, selfish and careless youth, was
capable of casting away his fidelity for the infidelity of youth. As
she met her host's grave eyes, she sentenced him in her heart to
eternal watching at her gate. She could not, she never would be able
to, let him into the secret room where she was really at home.
During lunch she now and then glanced towards the old woman and the
stranger. They evidently knew no one, for no one took any notice of
them, and they did not seem to be on the look out for acquaintances.
Many people passed by them, entering and leaving the restaurant, but
there were no glances of recognition, no greetings. Only some of the
women looked at the young man as if struck, or almost startled, by his
good looks. Certainly he was amazingly handsome. His brown skin
suggested the sun; his figure athletic exercises; the expression of his
face audacity and complete self-possession. Yet there was in his large
eyes a look of almost appealing gentleness, as if he were seeking
something, some sympathy, some affection, perhaps, which he needed and
had never yet found. Several times when she glanced towards him with
careful casualness, Lady Sellingworth found his eyes fixed upon her
with this no doubt unconsciously appealing expression in them. She knew
that this man recognized her as the woman he had met in Bond Street.
She felt positive that for some reason he was intent upon her, that he
was deeply interested in her. For what reason? Her woman's vanity,
leaping eagerly up like a flame that had been damped down for a time
but that now was being coaxed into bright burning, told her that there
could be only one reason. Why is a handsome young man interested in a
woman whom he does not know and has only met casually in the street?
The mysterious attraction of sex supplied, Lady Sellingworth thought,
the only possible answer. She had not been able to attract Rupert
Louth, but she attracted this man, strongly, romantically, perhaps. The
knowledge—for it seemed like knowledge, though it was really only
surmise—warmed her whole nature. She felt again the delicious
conquering sensation which she had lost. She emerged out of
humiliation. Her vivacity grew as the lunch progressed. Suddenly she
felt good-looking, fascinating, even brilliant. The horrible dreariness
of life had departed from her, driven away by the look in a stranger's
eyes.
Towards the end of lunch the woman on Sir Seymour's other side said
to him:
“Do you know who that man is—the young man opposite to that funny
South American-looking old woman with the black wig?”
Sir Seymour looked for a moment at the brown man with his cool,
direct, summing-up, soldier's eyes.
“No,” he answered. “I've never set eyes on him before.”
“I think he is the best-looking man I have ever seen,” said the
woman.
“No doubt—very good-looking, very good-looking!” said her host;
“but on the wrong side of the line, I should say.”
“The wrong side of the line? What do you mean?”
“The shady side,” said Sir Seymour.
And then he turned to speak to Lady Sellingworth.
She had overheard the conversation, and felt suddenly angry with
him. But she concealed her vexation and merely said to herself that men
are as jealous of each other as women are jealous, that a man cannot
bear to hear another man praised by a woman. Possibly—she was not sure
of this—possibly Sir Seymour had noticed that she was interested in
the stranger. He was very sharp in all matters connected with her. His
affection increased his natural acuteness. She resolved to be very
careful, even very deceptive. And she said:
“Isn't it odd how good looks, good manners and perfect clothes, even
combined with charm, cannot conceal the fact that a man is an
outsider?”
“Ah, you agree with me!” Sir Seymour said, looking suddenly pleased.
“That's good! Men and women are seldom at one on such matters.”
Lady Sellingworth shot a glance at the man discussed and felt
absurdly like a traitor.
Soon afterwards Sir Seymour's lunch party broke up.
In leaving the restaurant Lady Sellingworth passed so close to the
young man that her gown almost brushed against him. He looked up at
her, and this time the meaning of his glance was unmistakable. It said:
“I want to know you. How can I get to know you?”
She went home feeling almost excited. On the hall table of her house
she found a note from Rupert Louth asking her whether she would help
“little Bertha” by speaking up for her to a certain great dressmaker,
who had apparently been informed of the Louths' shaky finances. Louth's
obstinate reliance on her as a devoted friend of him and his
disdainfully vulgar young wife began to irritate Lady Sellingworth
almost beyond endurance. She took the letter up with her into the
drawing-room, and sat down by the writing-table holding it in her hand.
It had come at a dangerous moment.
Louth's blindness now exasperated her, although she had desperately
done her best to close his eyes to the real nature of her feeling for
him and to the unexpressed intentions she had formed concerning him and
had been forced to abandon. It was maddening to be tacitly rejected as
a possible wife and to be enthusiastically claimed as a
self-sacrificing friend. Surely no woman born of woman could be
expected to stand it. At that moment Lady Sellingworth began almost to
hate Rupert Louth.
What a contrast there was between his gross misunderstanding of her
and the brown man's understanding! Already she began to tell herself
that this man who did not know her nevertheless in some subtle, almost
occult, way had a clear understanding of her present need. He wanted
sympathy—his eyes said that—but he had sympathy to give. She began to
hate the controlling absurdities of civilization. All her wildness
seemed to rise up and rush to the surface. How inhuman, how against
nature it was, that two human beings who wished to know each other
should be held back from such knowledge by mere convention, by the
unwritten law of the solemn and formal introduction! A great happiness
might lie in their intercourse, but conventionality solemnly and
selfishly forbade it, unless they could find a common acquaintance to
mumble a few unmeaning words over them. Mumbo-Jumbo! What a fantastic
world of stupidly obedient puppets this world of London was! She said
to herself that she hated it. Then she thought of her first widowhood
and of her curious year in Paris.
There she might more easily have made the acquaintance of the
unknown man in some Bohemian cafe, where people talked to each other
casually, giving way to their natural impulses, drifting in and out as
the whim took them, careless of the convenances or actively
despising them. In London, at any rate if one is English and cursed by
being well known, one lives in a strait waist-coat. Lady Sellingworth
felt the impossibility of speaking to a stranger without an
introduction in spite of her secret wildness.
And if he spoke to her?
She remembered Sir Seymour's instant judgment on him. It had made
her feel very angry at the time when it was delivered, but then she had
not held any mental debate about it. She had simply been secretly up in
arms against an attack on the man she was interested in. Now she
thought about it more seriously.
Although she had never been able to love Sir Seymour, she esteemed
him very highly and valued his friendship very much. She also respected
his intellect and his character. He was not a petty man, but an honest,
brave and far-seeing man of the world. Such a man's opinion was
certainly worth something. One could not put it aside as if it were the
opinion of a fool. And after a brief glance at the stranger Sir Seymour
had unhesitatingly pronounced him to be an outsider.
Was he an outsider?
As a rule Lady Sellingworth was swift in deciding what was the
social status of a man. She could “place” a man as quickly as any
woman. But, honestly, she could not make up her mind about the
stranger. Although he was so exceptionally good-looking, perhaps, he
was not exactly distinguished looking. But she had known dukes and
Cabinet Ministers who resembled farmers and butlers, young men of high
rank who had the appearance of grooms or bookies. It was difficult to
be sure about anyone without personal knowledge of him.
When she had first seen the young man in Bond Street it had
certainly not occurred to her that there was anything common or shady
in his appearance. And the Duchess of Wellingborough had not hinted
that she held such an opinion about him. And surely women are quicker
about such matters than men.
Lady Sellingworth decided that Seymour Portman was prejudiced. Old
courtiers are apt to be prejudiced. Always mixing with the most
distinguished men of their time, they acquire, perhaps too easily, a
habit of looking down upon ordinary but quite respectable people.
Here Lady Sellingworth suddenly smiled. The adjective “respectable"
certainly did not fit the Bond Street young man. He looked slightly
exotic! That, no doubt, had set Sir Seymour against him. He was not of
the usual type of club man. He “intrigued” her terribly. As the Duchess
of Wellingborough would have phrased it, she was “crazy” to know him.
She even said to herself that she did not care whether he was on the
shady side of the line or not. Abruptly a strong democratic feeling
took possession of her. In the affections, in the passions, differences
of rank did not count.
Rupert Louth had married a Crouch!
Lady Sellingworth looked at his note which was still in her hand,
and memories of the disdainful young beauty “queening it”—that really
was the only appropriate expression—“queening it” with vulgar
gentility among the simple mannered, well-bred people to whom Louth
belonged rose up in her mind. How terrible were those definite airs of
being a lady! How truly unspeakable were those august condescensions of
the undeniable Crouch!
When Lady Sellingworth mused on them her sense of the equality
before God of all human creatures decidedly weakened.
She wrote a brief letter to Louth declining to “speak up” to the
great dressmaker. “Little Bertha” must manage without her aid. She made
this quite clear, but she wrote very charmingly, and sent her love at
the end to little Bertha. That done, almost violently she dismissed
Louth and his wife from her mind and became democratic again!
Putting Louth and little Bertha aside, when it came to the
affections and the passions what could one be but just a human being?
Rank did not count when the heart was awake. She felt intensely human
just then. And she continued to feel so. Life was quickened for her by
the presence in London of a stranger whom nobody knew. This might be a
humiliating fact. But how many facts connected with human beings if
sternly considered are humiliating!
And nobody knew of her fact.
Every morning at this time she woke up with the hope of a little
adventure during the day. When she went out she was alive to the
possibility of a new encounter with the unknown man. And she met him
several times, walking about town, sometimes alone, sometimes with the
old lady, and once with another man, a thin sallow individual who
looked like a Frenchman. And each time he sent her a glance which
seemed almost to implore her to know him.
But how could she know him? She never met him in society. Evidently
he knew no one whom she knew. She began to be intensely irritated by
her leaping desire which was constantly thwarted. That this man was in
love with her and longing to know her she now firmly believed. She
wished to know him. She wished it more than she wished for anything
else in the world just then. But the gulf of conventionality yawned
between them, and there seemed no likelihood of its ever being bridged.
Sometimes she condemned the man for not being adventurous, for not
taking his courage in both hands and speaking to her without an
introduction. At other times she told herself that his not doing this
proved him to be a gentleman, in spite of what Sir Seymour Portman had
thought him. In defiance of his longing to know her he would not insult
her.
But if he only knew how she was pining for the insult!
And yet if he had spoke to her perhaps she would have been angry.
She discovered eventually that he was staying at the Carlton Hotel,
for one day on her way to the restaurant she saw him with a key in his
hand—evidently the key of his room. That same day she heard him speak
for the first time. After lunch, when she was in the Palm Court, he
came and stood quite close to where she was sitting. The thin, sallow
individual was with him. They lighted cigars and looked about them. And
presently she heard them talking in French. The thin man said something
which she did not catch. In reply the other said, speaking very
distinctly, almost loudly:
“I shall go over to Paris on Thursday morning next. I shall stay at
the Ritz Hotel.”
That was all Lady Sellingworth heard. He had intended her to hear
it. She was certain of that. For immediately afterwards he glanced at
her and then moved away, like a man who has carried out an intention
and can relax and be idle. He sat down by a table a little way off, and
a waiter brought coffee for him and his companion.
His voice, when he spoke the few words, had sounded agreeable. His
French was excellent, but he had a slight foreign accent which Lady
Sellingworth at once detected.
Paris! He was going to Paris on Thursday!
She was quite positive that he had wished her to know that. Why?
There could be only one reason. She guessed that he had become as
fiercely irritated by their situation as she was, that he was tempting
her to break away and to do something definite, that he wanted her to
leave London. She still had her apartment in Paris. Could he know that?
Could he have seen her in Paris without her knowledge and have followed
her to London?
She began to feel really excited, and there was something almost
youthful in her excitement. Yet she was on the eve of a horrible
passing. For that day was her last day in the forties. On the following
morning she would wake up a woman of fifty.
While the two men were still having their coffee Lady Sellingworth
and her friend got up to go away. As her tall figure disappeared the
brown man whispered something to his companion and they both smiled.
Then they continued talking in very low voices, and not in French.
Paris! All the rest of that day Lady Sellingworth thought about
Paris! Already it stood for a great deal in her life. Was it perhaps
going to stand for much more? In Paris long ago—she wished it were not
so long ago—she had tasted a curious freedom, had given herself to her
wildness, had enlarged her boundaries. And now Paris called her again,
called her through the voice of this man whom she did not yet know.
Deliberately that day he had summoned her to Paris. She had no doubt
about that. And if she went? He must have some quite definite intention
connected with his wish for her to go. It could only be a romantic
intention.
And yet to-morrow she would be fifty!
He was quite young. He could not be more than five-and-twenty.
For a moment her imp spoke loudly in her ear. He told her that by
this time she must have learnt her lesson, that it was useless to
pretend that she had not, that Rupert Louth's marriage had taught her
all that she needed to know, and that now she must realize that the
time for adventures, for romance, for the secret indulgence of the
passions, was in her case irrevocably over. “Fifty! Fifty! Fifty!” he
knelled in her ears. And there were obscure voices within her which
backed him up, faintly, as if half afraid, agreeing with him.
She listened. She could not help listening, though she hated it. And
for a moment she was almost inclined to submit to the irony of the imp,
to trample upon her desire, and to grasp hands once and for all with
her self-respect.
The imp said to her: “If you go to Paris you will be making a fool
of yourself. That man doesn't really want you to go. He is only a
mischievous boy amusing himself at your expense. Perhaps he has made a
bet with that friend of his that you will cross on the same day that he
does. You are far too old for adventures. Look in the glass and see
yourself as you really are. Remember your folly with Rupert Louth, and
this time try to be wise.”
But something else in her, the persistent vanity, perhaps, of a once
very beautiful woman, told her that her attraction was not dead, and
that if she obeyed her imp she would simply be throwing away the chance
of a great joy. Once again her thoughts went to marriage. Once again
she dreamed of a young man falling romantically in love with her, and
of taking him into her life, and of making his life wonderful by her
influence and her connexions.
Once again she was driven by her wildness.
The end of it was that she summoned her maid and told her that they
were going over to Paris for a few days on the following Thursday. The
maid was not surprised. She supposed that my lady wanted some new
gowns. She asked, and was told, what to pack.
Now Lady Sellingworth, as all her friends and many others knew,
possessed an extremely valuable collection of jewels, and seldom, or
never, moved far without taking a part of the collection with her. She
loved jewels, and usually wore them in the evening, and as she was
often seen in public—at the opera and elsewhere—her diamonds,
emeralds, sapphires and pearls had often been admired, and perhaps
longed for, by strangers.
When she went to Paris on this occasion she took a jewel-case with
her. In it there were perhaps fifty thousand pounds' worth of gems. Her
maid, a woman who had been with her for years, was in charge of the
case except when Lady Sellingworth was actually in the train. Then Lady
Sellingworth had it with her in a reserved first-class carriage for the
whole of which she paid.
The journey was not eventful. But to Lady Sellingworth it was an
adventure.
The brown man was on the train with his thin, sardonic friend, and
with the old woman Lady Sellingworth had seen with him in London.
The sight of this party—she saw them stepping into the Pullman car
as she was going to her reserved carriage—surprised her. She had
expected that the stranger would travel alone. As she sat down in her
corner facing the engine, with the jewel-case on the seat next to her,
she felt an obscure irritation. A man in search of adventure does not
usually take two people—one of them an old woman in a black wig—with
him when he sets out on his travels. A trio banishes romance. And how
can a woman be thrilled by a family party?
For a moment Lady Sellingworth felt anger against the stranger. For
a moment she wished she had not undertaken the journey. It occurred to
her that perhaps she had made a humiliating mistake when she thought
that the brown man wished, and intended, her to go to Paris because he
was going. Her pride was alarmed. She saw plainly for a moment the mud
into which vanity had led her, and she longed to get out of the train
and to remain in London. But how could she account to her maid for such
a sudden change of plans? What could she say to her household? She
knew, of course, that she owed them no explanation. But still—and her
friends? She had told everybody that she was going to Paris. They would
think her crazy for giving up the journey after she was actually in the
train. And she had seen two or three acquaintances on the platform. No;
she must make the journey now. It was too late to give it up. But she
wished intensely she had not undertaken it.
At the moment of this wish of hers, coming from the Pullman, the
brown man walked slowly by on the platform, alone. His eyes were
searching the train with keen attention. But Lady Sellingworth happened
to be leaning back, and he did not see her. She knew he was looking for
her. He went on out of her sight. She sat still in her corner, and
presently saw him coming back. This time he saw her, and did something
which for the moment startled her. On the window of the carriage, next
the seat opposite to hers, was pasted a label with “Reserved” printed
on it in big letters. Underneath was written: “For the Countess of
Sellingworth.” When the man saw Lady Sellingworth in her corner he gave
no sign of recognition but he took out of the breast pocket of his
travelling coat a pocket-book, went deliberately up to the window,
looked hard at the label, and then wrote something—her name, no doubt
—in his book. This done, he put the book back in his pocket and walked
gravely away without glancing at her again.
And now Lady Sellingworth no longer regretted that she was going to
Paris. What the man had just done had reassured her. It was now evident
to her that the first time they had met in Bond Street he had not known
who she was or anything about her. He must simply have been struck by
her beauty, and from that moment had wished to know her. Ever since
then he must have been longing to know who she was. The fact that he
had evidently not discovered her name till he had read it on the label
pasted on the railway carriage window convinced her that, in spite of
his boldness in showing her his feelings, he was a scrupulous man. A
careless man could certainly have found out who she was at the Carlton,
by asking a waiter. Evidently he had not chosen to do that. The
omission showed delicacy, refinement of nature. It pleased her. It made
her feel safe. She felt that the man was a gentleman, one who could
respect a woman. Sir Seymour had been wrong in his hasty judgment. An
outsider would not have behaved in such a way. That the stranger had
deliberately taken down her name in his book while she was watching him
did not displease her at all. He wished her to know of his longing, but
he was evidently determined to keep it hidden from others.
She felt now in the very heart of a romantic adventure, and thrilled
with excitement about the future. What would happen when they all got
to Paris? It was evident to her now that he did not know she had an
apartment there—unless, indeed, he had first seen her in Paris and
had, perhaps, followed her to London! But even if that were so it was
unlikely that he knew where she lived.
In any case she knew he was going to the Ritz.
The train flew on towards the sea while she mused over possibilities
and imagined events in Paris.
She knew now, of course, that the stranger was absolutely out of her
world. His ignorance proved to her that he could not be in any society
she moved in. She guessed that he was some charming young man from a
distance, come to Europe perhaps for the first time—some ardent youth
from Brazil, from Peru, from Mexico! The guess gave colour to the
adventure. He knew her name now. She wondered what his name was. And
she wondered about the old woman in the wig and about the sardonic
friend. In what relation did the three people stand to each other?
She could not divine. But she thought that perhaps the old woman was
the mother of the man she wished to know.
She had a private cabin on the boat. It was on the top deck. But, as
the weather was fine and the sea fairly calm, her maid occupied it with
the jewel-case, while she sat in the open on a deck chair, well wrapped
up in a fur rug. Presently an acquaintance, a colonel in the Life
Guards, joined her, established himself in a chair at her side, and
kept her busy with conversation.
When the ship drew out into the Channel several men began to pace up
and down the deck with the sturdy determination of good sailors
resolved upon getting health from the salt briskness of the sea. Among
them were the two men of the trio. The old woman had evidently gone
into hiding.
As Lady Sellingworth conversed with her colonel she made time, as a
woman can, for a careful and detailed consideration of the man on whom
her thoughts were concentrated. Although he did not look at her as he
passed up and down the deck, she knew that he had seen where she was
sitting. And, without letting the colonel see what she was doing, she
followed the tall, athletic figure in the long, rough, greenish-brown
overcoat with her eyes, looking away when it drew very near to her. And
now and then she looked at its companion.
In the Paris rapide she was again alone in a carriage
reserved for her. She did not go into the restaurant to lunch, as she
hated eating in a crowd. Instead, her maid brought her a luncheon
basket which had been supplied by the chef in Berkeley Square. After
eating she smoked a cigarette and read the French papers which she had
bought at the Calais station. And then she sat still and looked out of
the window, and thought and dreamed and wondered and desired.
Although she did not know it, she was living through almost the last
of those dreams which are the rightful property of youth, but which
sometimes, obstinate and deceitful, haunt elderly minds, usually to
their undoing.
The light began to fade and the dream to become more actual. She
lived again as she had lived in the days when she was a reigning
beauty, when there was no question of her having to seek for the joys
and the adventures of life. In the twilight of France she reigned.
A shadow passed by in the corridor. She had scarcely seen it. Rather
she had felt its passing. But the dream was gone. She was alert, tense,
expectant. Paris was near. And he was near. She linked the two together
in her mind. And she felt that she was drawing close to a climax in her
life. A conviction took hold of her that some big, some determining
event was going to happen in Paris, that she would return to London
different—a changed woman.
Happiness changes! She was travelling in search of happiness. The
wild blood in her leaped at the thought of grasping happiness. And she
felt reckless. She would dare all, would do anything, if only she might
capture happiness. Dignity, self-respect, propriety, the conventions—
what value had they really? To bow down to them—does that bring
happiness? Out of the way with them, and a straight course for the
human satisfaction which comes only in following the dictates of the
nature one is born with!
Lights twinkled here and there in the gloom. Again the shadow passed
in the corridor. A moment later Lady Sellingworth's maid appeared to
take charge of the jewel-case.
The crowd at the Gare du Nord was great, and the station was badly
lit. Lady Sellingworth did not see her reason for coming to Paris. A
carriage was waiting for her. She got into it with her jewel-case, and
drove away to her apartment, leaving her maid to follow with the
luggage.
In the evening she dined alone, and she went to bed early.
She had made no engagements in Paris; had not told any of her
friends there that she was going to be there for some days. She had no
wish to go into society. Her wish was to be perfectly free. But as she
lay in bed in her pretty, familiar room, she began to wonder what she
was going to do. She had come to Paris suddenly, driven by an intense
caprice, without making any plans, without even deciding how long she
was going to stay. She had imagined that in loneliness she would keep a
hold on liberty. But now she began to wonder about things.
Even her secret wildness did not tell her that she could “knock
about” in Paris like a man. For one thing she was far too well known
for that. Many people might recognize her. When she had been much
younger she had certainly been to all sorts of odd places, and had had
a wonderful time. But somehow, with the passing of the years, she had
learnt to pay some attention to the imp within her, though there were
moments when she defied him. And he told her that she simply could not
now do many of the daring things which she had done when she was a
brilliant and lovely young woman. Besides, what would be the use?
Almost suddenly she realized the difficulty of her situation.
She could not very well go about Paris alone. And yet to go about in
company must inevitably frustrate the only purpose which had brought
her to Paris. She had come there with an almost overwhelming desire,
but with no plan for its realization.
But surely he had a plan. He must certainly have one if, as she
still believed, in spite of the trio, he had meant her to come to Paris
when he did. She wondered intensely what his plan was. He looked very
determined, audacious even, in spite of the curious and almost pleading
softness of his eyes, a softness which had haunted her imagination ever
since she had first seen him. She felt convinced that, once thoroughly
roused, he would be a man who would stick at very little, perhaps at
nothing, in carrying out a design he had formed. His design was surely
to make her acquaintance, and to make it in Paris. Yet he had come over
with two people, while she had come alone. What was he going to do? She
longed to know his plan. She wished to conform to it. Yet how could she
do that in total ignorance of what his plan was? Perhaps he knew her
address and would communicate with her. But that morning he had not
even known her name! She felt excited but puzzled. As the night grew
late she told herself that she must cease from thinking and try to
sleep. She must leave the near future in the lap of the gods. But she
could not make her mind a blank. Over and over again she revolved the
matter which obsessed her in her mind. Almost for the first time in her
life she ardently wished she were a man, able to take the initiative in
any matter of love.
The clocks of Paris were striking three before at last she fell
asleep.
When she woke in the morning late and had had her coffee she did not
know how she was going to spend the day. She felt full of anticipation,
excited, yet vague, and usually lonely. The post brought her nothing.
About noon she was dressed and ready for the day. She must go out, of
course. It would be folly to remain shut up indoors after all the
bother of the journey. She must lunch somewhere, do something
afterwards. There was a telephone in her bedroom. She knew lots of
people in Paris. She might telephone to someone to join her at lunch at
the Ritz or somewhere. Afterwards they might go to a matinee or to a
concert. But she was afraid of getting immersed in engagements, of
losing her freedom. She thought over her friends and acquaintances in
Paris. Which of them would be the safest to communicate with? Which
would be most useful to her, and would trouble her least? Finally she
decided on telephoning to a rich American spinster whom she had known
for years, a woman who was what is called “large minded,” who was very
tolerant, very understanding, and not more curious than a woman has to
be. Caroline Briggs could comprehend a hint without demanding facts to
explain it.
She telephoned to Caroline Briggs. Miss Briggs was at home and
replied, expressing pleasure and readiness to lunch with Lady
Sellingworth anywhere. After a moment's hesitation Lady Sellingworth
suggested the Ritz. Miss Briggs agreed that the Ritz would be the best
place.
They met at the Ritz at one o'clock.
Miss Briggs, a small, dark, elderly and animated person, immensely
rich and full of worldly wisdom, wondered why Lady Sellingworth had
come over to Paris, was told “clothes,” and smilingly accepted the
explanation. She knew Lady Sellingworth very well, and, being extremely
sharp and intuitive, realized at once that clothes had nothing to do
with this sudden visit. A voice within her said: “It's a man!”
And presently the man came into the restaurant, accompanied by the
eternal old woman in the black wig.
Now Caroline Briggs had an enormous and cosmopolitan acquaintance.
She was the sort of woman who knows wealthy Greeks, Egyptian pashas,
Turkish princesses, and wonderful exotic personages from Brazil,
Persia, Central America and the Indies. She gave parties which were
really romantic, which had a flavour, as someone had said, of the
novels of Ouida brought thoroughly up to date. Lady Sellingworth had
been to some of them, and had not forgotten them. And it had occurred
to her that if anyone she knew was acquainted with the brown man, that
person might be Caroline Briggs. She had, therefore, come to the Ritz
with a faint hope in her mind.
Miss Brigs happened to be seated with her smart back to the man and
old woman when they entered the restaurant, and they sat down at a
table behind her, but in full view of Lady Sellingworth, who wished to
draw her companion's attention to them, but who also was reluctant to
show any interest in them. She knew that Miss Briggs knew a great deal
about her, and she did not mind that. But nevertheless, she felt at
this moment a certain pudeur which was almost like the pudeur
of a girl. Had it come to her with her entrance into the fifties? Or
was it a cruel gift from her imp? She was not sure; but she could not
persuade herself to draw Miss Briggs's attention to the people who
interested her until the bill was presented and it was almost time to
leave the restaurant.
Then at last she could keep silence no longer, and she said:
“The people one sees in Paris seem to become more and more
extraordinary! Many of them one can't place at all.”
Miss Briggs, who had lived in Paris for quite thirty years,
remarked:
“Do you think they are more extraordinary than the people one sees
about London?”
“Yes, really I do. That old woman in the black wig over there, for
instance, intrigues me. Where can she come from? Who can she be?”
Miss Briggs looked carelessly round, and at once understood the
reason of Lady Sellingworth's remarks. “The man” was before her, and
she knew it. How? She could not have said. Had she been asked she would
probably have replied: “My bones told me.”
“Oh,” she said, after the look. “She's the type of old woman who is
born and brought up in Brazil, and who, when she is faded, comes to
European spas for her health. I have met many of her type at Aix and
Baden Baden.”
“Ah!” replied Lady Sellingworth carelessly. “You don't know her
then?”
“No. But I have seen her two or three times within the last few
months —three times to be exact. Twice she has travelled in the same
train as I was in, though not in the same compartment, and once I saw
her dining here. Each time she was with that marvelously handsome young
man. I really noticed her—don't blame me—because of him.”
“Perhaps he's her son.”
“He may be her husband.”
“Oh—but the difference in their ages! She must be seventy at least,
if not more.”
“She may be very rich, too,” said Miss Briggs dryly.
Lady Sellingworth remembered that it was always said that Miss
Briggs's enormous fortune had kept her a spinster. She was generally
supposed to be one of those unfortunately cynical millionairesses who
are unable to believe in man's disinterested affection.
“Shall we go?” said Lady Sellingworth.
Miss Briggs assented, and they left the restaurant.
They spent the afternoon together at a matinee at the Opera Comique,
and afterwards Miss Briggs came to tea at Lady Sellingworth's
apartment. Not another word had been said about the two strangers, but
Lady Sellingworth fully realized that Caroline Briggs had found her
out. When her friend finally got up to go she asked Lady Sellingworth
how long she intended to stay in Paris.
“Oh, only a day or two,” Lady Sellingworth said. “I've got to see
two or three dressmakers. Then I shall be off. I haven't told anyone
that I am here. It didn't seem worth while.”
“And you won't be dull all alone?”
“Oh, no, I am never dull. I love two or three days of complete rest
now and then. One isn't made of cast iron, although some people seem to
think one is, or at ay rate ought to be.”
There was a tired sound in her voice as she said this, and Miss
Briggs's small and sharp, but kind, eyes examined her face rather
critically. But Miss Briggs only said:
“Come and dine with me to-morrow night in my house. I shall be quite
alone.”
“Thank you, Caroline.”
She spoke rather doubtfully and paused. But finally she said:
“I will with pleasure. What time?”
“Half-past eight.”
When Miss Briggs had gone Lady Sellingworth gave way to an almost
desperate fit of despondency. She felt ashamed of herself, like a
sensitive person found out in some ugly fault. She sat down, and almost
for the first time in her life mentally she wrestled with herself.
Something, she did not quite know what, in Caroline Briggs's look,
or manner, or surmised mental attitude that day, had gone home to her.
And that remark, “He may be her husband,” followed by, “she may be very
rich, too,” had dropped upon her like a stone.
It had never occurred to her that the old woman in the wig might be
the young man's wife. But she now realized that it was quite possible.
She had always known, since she had known Caroline, that her friend
was one of those few women who are wholly free from illusions. Miss
Briggs had not only never fallen into follies; she had avoided natural
joys. She had perhaps even been the slave of her self-respect. Never at
all good-looking though certainly not ugly, she had been afraid of the
effect of her wealth upon men. And because she was so rich she had
never chosen to marry. She was possibly too much of a cynic, but she
had always preserved her personal dignity. No one had ever legitimately
laughed at her, and no one had ever had the chance of contemptuously
pitying her. She must have missed a great deal, but now in middle-age
she was surround by friends who respected her.
That was something.
And—Lady Sellingworth was sure of it—Caroline was not ravaged by
the Furies who attack “foolish” middle-aged women.
What did Caroline Briggs think of her? What must she think?
Caroline knew well nearly all the members of the “old guard,” and
most of them were fond of her. She had never got in any woman's way
with a man, and she was never condemnatory. So among women she was a
very popular woman. Many people confided in her. Lady Sellingworth had
never done this. But now she wished that she could bring herself to do
it. Caroline must certainly know her horribly well. Perhaps she could
be helped by Caroline.
She needed help, for she was abominably devoid of moral courage.
She did not quite know why at this particular moment she was
overwhelmed by a feeling of degradation; she only knew that she was
overwhelmed. She felt ashamed of being in Paris. She even compared
herself with the horrible old woman in the wig, who, perhaps, had
bought the brown man as she might have bought a big Newfoundland dog.
Fifty! Fifty! Fifty! It knelled in her ears. Caroline saw her as a
woman of fifty. Perhaps everyone really saw her so. And yet—why had
the man given her that strange look in Bond Street? Why had he wished
her to come to Paris? She tried, with a really unusual sincerity, to
find some other reason than the reason which had delighted her vanity.
But she failed. Sincerely she failed.
And yet—was it possible?
She thought of giving up, of becoming like Caroline. It would be a
great rest. But how empty her life would be. Caroline's life was a
habit. But such a life for her would be an absolute novelty. No doubt
Caroline's reward had come to her in middle-age. Middle-age was
bringing something to her, Adela Sellingworth, which was certainly not
a reward. One got what one earned. That was certain. And she had earned
wages which she dreaded having paid to her.
She had a good brain, and she realized that if she had the moral
courage she might—it was possible—be rewarded by a peace of mind such
as she had never yet known. She was able as it were to catch a glimpse
of a future in which she might be at ease with herself. It even enticed
her. But something whispered to her, “It would be stagnation—death in
life.” And then she was afraid of it.
She spent the evening in miserable depression, not knowing what she
could do. She distrusted and almost hated herself. And she could not
decide whether or not on the morrow to give Caroline some insight into
her state of mind.
On the following day she was still miserable, even tormented, and
quite undecided as to what she was going to do.
She spent the morning at her dressmaker's, and walked, with her
maid, in the Rue de la Paix. There she met a Frenchwoman whom she knew
well, Madame de Gretigny, who begged her to come to lunch at her house
in the Faubourg St. Honore. She accepted. What else could she do? After
lunch she drove with her friend in the Bois. Then they dropped in to
tea with some French mutual friends.
The usual Paris was gently beginning to take possession of her. What
was the good of it all? What had she really expected of this visit? She
had started from London with a crazy sense of adventure. And here she
was plunged in the life of convention! Oh, for the freedom of a man! Or
the stable content of a Caroline Briggs!
At moments she felt enraged.
She saw the crowds passing in the streets, women tripping along
consciously, men—flaneurs—strolling with their well-known look of
watchful idleness, and she felt herself to be one of life's prisoners.
And she knew she would never again take hands with the Paris she had
once known so well. Why was that? Because of something in herself,
something irrevocable which had fixed itself in her with the years. She
was changing, had changed, not merely in body, but in something else.
She felt that her audacity was sinking under the influence of her
diffidence. Suddenly it occurred to her that perhaps this sudden visit
to Paris on the track of an adventure was the last strong effort of her
audacity. How would it end? In a meek and ridiculous return to London
after a lunch with Caroline Briggs, a dinner with Caroline, a visit to
the Opera Comique with Caroline! That really seemed the probable
conclusion of the whole business. And yet—and yet she still had a sort
of queer under feeling that she was drawing near to a climax in her
life, and that, when she did return to London, she would return a
definitely changed woman.
At half-past eight that night she walked into Caroline's wonderful
house in the Champs-Elysees.
During dinner the two women talked as any two women of their types
might have talked, quite noncommittally, although, in a surface way,
quite intimately. Miss Briggs was a creature full of tact, and was the
last person in the world to try to force a confidence from anyone. She
was also not given at any time to pouring out confidences of her own.
After dinner they sat in a little room which Miss Briggs had had
conveyed from Persia to Paris. Everything in it was Persian. When the
door by which it was entered had been shut there was absolutely nothing
to suggest Europe to those within. A faint Eastern perfume pervaded
this strange little room, which suggested a deep retirement, an almost
cloistered seclusion. A grille in one of the walls drew the imagination
towards the harem. It seemed that there must be hidden women over there
beyond it. Instinctively one listened for the tinkle of childish
laughter, for the distant plash of a fountain, for the shuffle of
slippers on marble.
Lady Sellingworth admired this room, and envied her friend for
possessing it. But that night it brought to her a thought which she
could not help expressing.
“Aren't you terribly lonely in this house, Caroline?” she said. “It
is so large and so wonderful that I should think it must make solitude
almost a bodily shape to you. And this room seems to be in the very
heart of the house. Do you ever sit here without a friend or guest?”
“Now and then, but not often at night,” said Miss Briggs, with
serene self-possession.
“You are an extraordinary woman!” said Lady Sellingworth.
“Extraordinary! Why?”
“Because you always seem so satisfied to live quite alone. I hate
solitude. I'm afraid of it.”
Suddenly she felt that she must be partially frank with her hostess.
“Is self-respect a real companion for a woman?” she said. “Can one
sit with it and be contented? Does it repay a woman for all the
sacrifices she has offered up to it? Is it worth the sacrifices? That's
what I want to know.”
“I dare say that depends on the woman's mental make up,” replied
Miss Briggs. “One woman, perhaps, might find that it was, another that
it was not.”
“Yes, we are all so different, so dreadfully different, one from
another.”
“It would be very much duller if we weren't.”
“Even as it is life can be very dull.”
“I should certainly not call your life dull,” said Miss Briggs.
“Anyhow, it's dreadful!” said Lady Sellingworth, with sudden
abandonment.
“Why is it dreadful?”
“Caroline, I was fifty a few days ago.”
As Lady Sellingworth said this she observed her friend closely to
see if she looked surprised. Miss Briggs did not look surprised. And
she only said:
“Were you? Well, I shall be fifty-eight in a couple of months.”
“You don't look it.”
“Perhaps that's because I haven't looked young for the last thirty
years.”
“I hate being fifty. The difficulty with me is that my—my nature
and my temperament don't match with my age. And that worries me. What
is one to do?”
“Do you want me to advise you about something?”
“I think I do. But it's so difficult to explain. Perhaps there is a
time to give up. Perhaps I have reached it. But if I do give up, what
am I to do? How am I to live? I might marry again.”
“Why not?”
“It would have to be an elderly man, wouldn't it?”
“I hope so.”
“I—I shouldn't care to marry an elderly man. I don't want to.”
“Then don't do it.”
“You think if I were to marry a comparatively young man—”
She paused, looking almost pleadingly at the uncompromising Miss
Briggs.
“I'm convinced of this, that no really normal young man could ever
be contented long if he married a middle-aged woman. And what
intelligent woman is happy with an abnormal man?”
“Caroline, you are so dreadfully frank!”
“I say just what I think.”
“But you think so drastically. And you are so free from sentiment.”
“What is called sentiment is very often nothing but what is
described in the Bible as the lust of the eye.”
This shaft, perhaps not intended to be a shaft, went home. Lady
Sellingworth reddened and looked down.
“I dare say it is,” she murmured. “But—no doubt some of us are more
subject to temptation than others.”
“I'm sure that is so.”
“It's very difficult to give up deliberately nearly all that has
made life interesting and attractive to you ever since you can
remember. Caroline, would you advise me to—to abdicate? You know what
I mean.”
Miss Briggs's rather plain, but very intelligent, face softened.
“Adela, my dear,” she said, “I understand a great deal more than you
have cared to hint at to me.”
“I know you do.”
“I think that unless you change your way of life in time you are
heading straight for tragedy. We both know a lot of women who try to
defy the natural law. Many of them are rather beautiful women. But do
you think they are happy women? I don't. I know they aren't. Youth
laughs at them. I don't know what you feel about it, but I think I
would rather be pelted with stones than be jeered at by youth in my
middle age. Respect may sound a very dull word, but I think there's
something very warm in it when it surrounds you as you get old. In
youth we want love, of course, all of us. But in middle age we want
respect too. And nothing else takes its place. There's a dignity of the
soul, and women like us—I'm older than you, but still we are neither
of us very young any longer—only throw it away at a terrible price.
When I want to see tragedy I look at the women who try to hang on to
what refuses to stay with them. And I soon have to shut my eyes. It's
too painful. It's like looking at bones decked out with jewels.”
Lady Sellingworth sat very still. There was a long silence between
the two friends. When they spoke again they spoke of other things.
That night Lady Sellingworth told her maid to pack up, as she was
returning to London by the morning express on the following day.
At the Gare du Nord there was the usual bustle. But there was not a
great crowd of travellers for England, and Lady Sellingworth without
difficulty secured a carriage to herself. Her maid stood waiting with
the jewel-case while she went to the bookstall to buy something to read
on the journey. She felt dull, almost miserable, but absolutely
determined. She knew that Caroline was right. She thought she meant to
take her advice. At any rate, she would not try to pursue the adventure
which had lured her to Paris. How she would be able to live when she
got home she did not know. But she would go home. It had been absurd,
undignified of her to come to Paris. She would try to forget all about
it.
She bought a book and some papers; then she walked to the train.
“Are you going to get in, my lady?” said the maid.
“Yes. You can put in the jewel-case.”
The maid did so, and Lady Sellingworth got into the carriage and sat
next to the window on the platform side, facing the engine, with the
jewel-case beside her on the next seat. The corridor was between her
and the platform. On the right, beyond the carriage door, the line was
blocked by another train at rest in the station.
She sat still, not reading, but thinking. The maid went away to her
second-class carriage.
Lady Sellingworth continued to feel very dull. Now that she was
abandoning this adventure, or promise of adventure, she knew how much
it had meant to her. It had lifted her out of the anger and depression
in which she had been plunged by the Rupert Louth episode. It had
appealed to her wildness, had given her new hope, something to look
forward to, something that was food for her imagination. She had lived
in an imagined future that was romantic, delicious and turbulent. Now
she knew exactly how much she had counted on this visit to Paris as the
door through which she would pass into a new and extraordinary romance.
She had felt certain that something wonderful, something
unconventional, bizarre, perhaps almost maddening, was going to happen
to her in Paris.
And now—
At this moment she became aware of some influence which drew her
attention to the platform on her left. She had not seen anyone; she had
simply felt someone. She turned her head and looked through the window
of the corridor.
The brown man was on the platform alone, standing still and looking
intently towards her carriage. Two or three people passed him. He did
not move. She felt sure that he was waiting for her to get out, that
this time he meant to speak to her.
In a moment all her good resolutions, all the worldly wise advice of
Miss Briggs, all her dullness and despair were forgotten. The wildness
that would not die surged up in her. Her vanity glowed. She had been
wrong, utterly wrong. Miss Briggs had been wrong. Despite the
difference between their ages, this man, young, strong, amazingly
handsome, must have fallen in love with her at first sight. He must
have—somehow—been watching her in Paris. He must have ascertained
that she was leaving Paris that morning, have followed her to the
station determined at all costs to have a word with her.
Should she let him have that word?
Just for an instant she hesitated. Then, almost passionately, she
gave way to a turbulent impulse. She felt reckless. At that moment she
was almost ready to let the train go without her. But there were still
a few, a very few, minutes before the time for its departure. She got
up, left the carriage, and stood in the corridor looking out of the
window. Immediately the man slightly raised his hat, sent her a long
and imploring look, and then moved slowly away down the platform in the
direction of the entrance to it. She gazed after him. He paused, again
raised his hat, and made a very slight, scarcely noticeable gesture
with his hand. Then he remained where he was.
Saying to herself that she would certainly not obey his obvious wish
and follow him, but would simply get out of the train and take a few
breaths of air on the platform—as any woman might to while away the
time—Lady Sellingworth made her way to the end of the corridor and
descended to the platform. The brown man was still there, a little way
off. Several people were hurrying to take their places in the train.
Porters were carrying hand luggage, or wheeling trucks of heavy luggage
to the railway vans. No one seemed to have any time to take notice of
her or of the man. She did not look at him, but began slowly to stroll
up and down, keeping near to her carriage. She had given him his
chance. Now it was for him to take firm hold on it. She fully expected
that he would come up and speak to her. She thrilled with excitement at
the prospect. What would he say? How would he act? Would he explain why
he had done nothing in Paris? Would he beg her to stay on in Paris?
Would he ask to be allowed to visit her in London? Would he—
But he did not come up to her.
After taking several short turns, keeping her eyes resolutely away
from the place where he was standing, Lady Sellingworth could not
resist the impulse to look towards him to see what he was doing. She
lifted her eyes.
He was gone.
“En voiture!” cried a hoarse voice.
She stood still.
“En voiture! En voiture!“
Mechanically she moved. She went to her carriage, put her hand on
the rail, mounted the steps, passing into the corridor, and reached her
compartment just as the train began to move.
What had happened to him? What was the meaning of it all? Was he
travelling to England too? Had he got into the train?
She sat down wondering, almost confused.
Mechanically she let her right hand drop on to the seat beside her.
She was so accustomed when travelling to have her jewel-case beside her
that her hand must have missed it though her thoughts were far from it.
For immediately after dropping her hand she looked down.
The jewel-case was gone.
Instantly her feeling of confusion was swept away; instantly she
understood.
She had been caught in a trap by a clever member of the swell mob
operating with a confederate. While she had been on the platform, to
which she had been deliberately enticed, the confederate had entered
the compartment from the line, through the doorway on the right-hand
side of her carriage, and had carried off the jewel-case.
The revelation of the truth almost stunned something in her. Yet she
was able to think quite clearly. She did nothing. She just sat still
and understood, and went on understanding, while the train quickened
its pace on its way towards the sea.
By the time it slowed down, and the dull houses of Calais appeared,
she had made up her mind about the future. Her vanity had received at
last a mortal blow. The climax had come. It was not what she had
expected, but her imp—less satirical now than desperately tragic and
powerfully persuasive, told her that it was what she deserved. And she
bowed her head to his verdict, not with tears, but with a cold and
stormy sense of finality.
When the train stopped at the harbour station her maid appeared in
the corridor.
“Shall I take the jewel-case, my lady?”
Lady Sellingworth stood up. She had not decided what to say to her
maid. She was taken by surprise. As she stood, her tall figure
concealed the seat on which the jewel-case had been lying. For an
instant she looked at the maid in silence. Perhaps the expression of
her face as strange, for after a pause the maid said anxiously:
“Whatever is it, my lady?”
“Never mind about the jewel-case!” said Lady Sellingworth.
“But—”
“It's gone!”
“Gone, my lady!” said the maid, looking aghast. “Gone where?”
“It was taken at the station in Paris.”
“Taken, my lady! But it was in the carriage by the side of your
ladyship! I never left it. I had it in my own hands till your
ladyship—”
“I know—I know! Don't say anything more about it. It's gone, and we
shall never see it again.”
The maid stared, horrified, and scenting a mystery.
“Get that porter! Make haste!”
They got down from the train. Lady Sellingworth turned to make her
way to the ship.
“But, my lady, surely we ought to speak to the police? All your
beautiful jewels—”
“The police could do nothing. It is too late! I should only have
endless trouble, and no good would come of it.”
“But your ladyship was in the carriage with them!”
“Yes, I know! Now don't say any more about the matter!”
There was something in her tone which struck the maid to silence.
She said not another word till they were on the ship.
Then Lady Sellingworth went to the cabin which she had telegraphed
for.
“I am going to lie down,” she said. “You can leave me.”
“Yes, my lady.”
After arranging things in the cabin the maid was about to go when
Lady Sellingworth said:
“You have been with me a long time, Henderson. You have been very
useful to me. And I think I have been a good mistress to you.”
“Oh, yes, my lady, indeed you have. I would do anything for your
ladyship.”
“Would you? Then try to hold your tongue about this unfortunate
occurrence. Talking can do no good. I shall not inform the police. The
jewels are gone, and I shan't get them back. I have a great dislike of
fuss and gossip, and only wish to be left in peace. If you talk, all
this is sure to get into the papers. I should hate that.”
“Yes, my lady. But surely the police—”
“It is my business, and no one else's, to decide what is best in
this matter. So hold your tongue, if you can. You will not repent it if
you do.”
“Yes, my lady. Certainly, my lady.”
The maid was obviously horrified and puzzled. But she left her
mistress without another word.
They arrived in Berkeley Square in the evening.
That evening which Lady Sellingworth spent in solitude was the
turning point in her life. During it and the succeeding night she went
down to the bedrock of realization. She allowed her brains full
liberty. Or they took full liberty as their right. The woman of the
grey matter had it out with the woman of the blood. She stared her
wildness in the face and saw it just as it was, and resolved once for
all to dominate it for the rest of her days. She was not such a fool as
to think that she could ever destroy it. No doubt it would always be
there to trouble her, perhaps often to torture her. But rule her, as it
had ruled her in the past, it never should again. Her resolve about
that was hard, of a rock-like quality.
She had done with a whole side of life, and it was the side for
which she had lived ever since she was a girl of sixteen. The
renunciation was tremendous, devastating almost. She thought of a
landslide carrying away villages, whole populations. How true had been
the instinct which had told her that she was drawing near to a climax
in her life! Had ever a woman before her been brought in a flash to
such a cruel insight? It was as if a tideless sea, by some horrible
miracle, retreated, leaving naked rocks which till that moment had
never been seen by mortal eyes, hideous and grotesque rocks covered
with slime and ooze.
And she stood alone, staring at them.
She remembered the dinner in her house at which there had been the
discussion about happiness, and the desire of the old Anglo-Indian for
complete peace of mind. Could a woman gain that mysterious benefit by
giving up? Could such a thing ever be hers? She did not believe it. But
she knew all the torture of striving. In her renunciation she would at
least be able to rest, to rest in being frankly and openly what she
was. And she knew she was tired. She was very tired. Perhaps some of
the “old guard” were made of cast iron. But she was not.
The “old guard”! With the thought of that body of wonderful women
came a flood of memories. She remembered “The Hags' Hop.” She saw
Rocheouart standing before her; Rupert Louth; other young men, all
lively, handsome, ardent, bursting with life and the wish to enjoy.
Was there ever a time when the human being could utterly forego the
wish to enjoy? To her there seemed to be hidden in desire seeds of
eternity. The struggle for her, then, was not yet over. Perhaps it
would only cease in the grave. And after? Sellingworth had often told
her that there was no hereafter. And at the time she had believed him.
But she was not sure now. For even the persistence of desire seemed to
point to something beyond. But she would not bother about that. She was
held fast enough in the present.
What would the “old guard” say of her, think of her, in a very short
time? What a defection hers would be! For she had resolved to take a
plunge into middle age. No gliding into it for her! She would let
everything go which was ready to go naturally. Her Greek had already
lost his job, although as yet he did not know it.
Caroline Briggs would believe that the change which was at hand, the
change which would be discussed, perhaps laughed at, praised by some,
condemned by others, had been brought about by the conversation in the
Persian Room. She would never know the truth. No one of Lady
Sellingworth's set would ever know it. For no one, except a thief and
his underlings, knew of the last folly of poor old Adela Sellingworth!
Poor old Adela Sellingworth!
As Lady Sellingworth called herself bitterly by that name tears at
last came into her luminous eyes. Secretly she wept over herself,
although the tears did not fall down upon her cheeks. She had done many
foolish things, many wild things, many almost crazy things in her life.
But that day she had surely been punished for them all. When she
thought of the thieves' plot against her, of the working out of it, she
saw herself lying, like a naked thing, in the dust. Such men! How had
they known her character? Somehow they must have got to know it, and
devised their plan to appeal to it. They had woven just the right net
to catch her in its folds. She seemed to hear their hideous discussions
about her. The long look in Bond Street had been the first move in the
horrible game. And she in her folly had connected the game with
romance, with something like love even.
Love! A life such as hers had been was the prostitution of love, and
now she deserved to be loveless for the rest of her life. Vanity and
sensuality had been her substitutes for love. She had dealt in travesty
and had pretended, even to herself, that she was following reality. It
was amazing how she had managed to deceive herself.
She would never do that again.
Very late that night, alone in her bedroom, she sat before a mirror
and looked into it, saying good-bye to the self which she had cherished
and fostered so long, had lived for recklessly sometimes, ruthlessly
almost always. She saw a worn, but still very handsome woman. But she
told herself that the woman was hideous. For really she was looking at
the woman underneath, the woman who was going to emerge very soon into
the daylight with a frankly lined face crowned with grey or perhaps
even white hair, at the woman who was the truth, at herself.
This woman before her was only a counterfeit, a marvellously clever
artificiality.
There were two electric lights at the sides of the mirror. She
turned them both on. She wanted crude light just then. Cruelty she was
taking to her bosom. She was grasping her nettle with both hands.
Yes, the artificiality was marvellously clever! The Greek had been
worth his money. He had created a sort of human orchid whose petals
showed few, wonderfully few, signs of withering.
But she had wanted to be not the orchid but really the rose. And so
she was down in the dust.
Poor old Adela Sellingworth, who in a very short time—how long
exactly would the Greek's work take to crumble—would look even older
than fifty!
She turned out the lights presently and got into bed. When she had
made the big bedroom dark, and had stretched her long body out between
the sheets of Irish linen, she felt terrifically tired, tired in body
and spirit, but somehow not in mind. Her mind was almost horribly alive
and full of agility. It brought visions before her; it brought voices
into her ears.
She saw men of the underworld sitting together in shadows and
whispering about her, using coarse words, undressing her character,
commenting upon it without mercy, planning how they would make use of
it to their advantage. She heard them laughing about her and about all
the women like her.
And presently she saw an old woman with a white face, a withered
throat and vague eyes, an old woman in a black wig, smiling as she
decked herself out in the Sellingworth jewels.
PART THREE
CHAPTER I
Miss Van Tuyn, enthroned among distinguished and definite Georgians
in a nimbus of smoke, presently began to wonder what had become of a
certain young man. Despite the clamour of voices about her, and the
necessity for showing incessantly that, although she had never bothered
to paint cubist pictures or to write minor poetry, or even to criticize
and appreciate meticulously those who did, she was cleverer than any
Georgian of them all, her mind would slip away to Berkeley Square. She
had, of course, noted young Craven's tacit resistance to the pressure
of her desire, and her girlish vanity had resented it. But she had
remembered that even in these active days of the ruthless development
of the ego a sense of politeness, of what is “due” from one human being
to another, still lingers in some perhaps old- fashioned bosoms. Lady
Sellingworth was elderly. Craven might have thought it was his absolute
duty to protect her from the possible dangers lurking between Regent
Street and Berkeley Square. But as time went on, despite the sallies of
Dick Garstin, the bloodless cynicisms of Enid Blunt, who counted
insolence as the chief of the virtues, the amorous sentimentalities of
the Turkish refugee from Smyrna, whose moral ruin had been brought
about by a few lines of praise from Pierre Loti, the touching
appreciations of prison life by Penitence Murray, and the voluble
intellectuality of Thapoulos, Jennings and Smith the sculptor, Miss Van
Tuyn began to feel absent-minded. Her power of attraction was quite
evidently being seriously challenged. She was now certain—how could
she not be—that Craven had not merely gone to Number 18A, but had also
“gone in.”
That was unnecessary. It was even very strange. For she, Beryl Van
Tuyn, was at least thirty-six years younger than Lady Sellingworth.
Miss Van Tuyn had an almost inordinate belief in the attraction
youth holds for men. She had none of the hidden diffidence which had
been such a troubling element in Lady Sellingworth's nature. Nor was
there any imp which sat out of reach and mocked her. The violet eyes
were satirical; but her satire was reserved for others, and was seldom
or never directed against herself. She possessed a supply of self-assurance such as Lady Sellingworth had never had, though for many
years she had had the appearance of it. Having this inordinate belief
and this strong self-assurance, having also youth and beauty, and
remembering certain little things which seemed to her proof positive
that Craven was quite as susceptible to physical emotions as are most
healthy and normal young men, she wondered why he had not returned to
the Cafe Royal after leaving Lady Sellingworth decorously at her door.
He had known perfectly well that she wished him to return. She had not
even been subtle in conveying the wish to him. And yet he had defied
it.
Or perhaps Lady Sellingworth had defied it for him.
Miss Van Tuyn was really as fond of Lady Sellingworth as she could
be of a woman. She felt strongly the charm which so many others had
felt. Lady Sellingworth also interested her brain and aroused strongly
the curiosity which was a marked feature of her “make-up.” She had
called Lady Sellingworth a book of wisdom. She was also much influenced
by distinction and personal prestige. About the distinction of her
friend there could be no doubt; and the prestige of a once-famous woman
of the world, and of a formerly great beauty whose name would have its
place in the annals of King Edward the Seventh, still lingered about
the now-faded recluse of Berkeley Square. But till this moment Miss Van
Tuyn had never thought of Lady Sellingworth as a possible rival to
herself.
Even now when the idea presented itself to her she was inclined to
dismiss it as too absurd for consideration. And yet Craven had not come
back, although he must know she was expecting him.
Perhaps Lady Sellingworth had made him go in against his will.
Miss Van Tuyn remembered the photograph she had seen at Mrs.
Ackroyd's. That woman had the face of one who was on the watch for new
lovers. And does a woman ever change? Only that very night she herself
had said to Craven, as they walked from Soho to Regent Street, that she
had a theory of the changelessness of character. Or perhaps she had
really meant of temperament. She had even said that she believed that
the Lady Sellingworth of to-day was to all intents and purposes the
Lady Sellingworth of yesterday and of the other days of her past. If
that were so—and she had meant what she had said—then in the
white-haired woman, who seemed now indifferent to admiration and
leagues removed from vanity, there still dwelt a woman on the pounce.
Young Craven was very good-looking, and there was something
interesting about his personality. His casual manner, which was
nevertheless very polite, was attractive. His blue eyes and black hair
gave him an almost romantic appearance. He was very quiet, but was
certainly far from being cold. And he undoubtedly understood a great
deal, and must have had many experiences of which he never talked. Miss
Van Tuyn was subtle enough to know that he was subtle too. She had made
up her mind to explore his subtlety. And now someone else was exploring
it in Berkeley Square. The line reappeared in her low white forehead,
and her cult for Lady Sellingworth, like flannel steeped in water,
underwent a shrinking process. She felt strongly the indecency of
grasping old age. And through her there floated strange echoes of
voices which had haunted Lady Sellingworth's youth, voices which had
died away long ago in Berkeley Square, but which are captured by
succeeding generations of women, and which persist through the ages,
finding ever new dwellings.
The night was growing late, but the Georgians bitterly complained of
the absurdity of London having a closing time. The heat and the noise
seemed to swell with the passing of the hours, and a curious and anemic
brutality dawned with the midnight upon many of the faces around the
narrow tables. They looked at the same time bloodless and hard. Eyes
full of languor, or feverish with apparent expectation of some
impending adventure, stared fixedly through the smoke wreaths at other
eyes in the distance. Loud voices hammered through the murk. Foreheads
beaded with perspiration began to look painfully expressive. It was as
if all faces were undressed.
Dick Garstin, the famous painter, a small, slight, clean-shaven man,
who looked like an intellectual jockey with his powerful curved nose,
thin, close-set lips, blue cheeks and prominent, bony chin, and who
fostered the illusion deliberately by dressing in large-checked suits
of a sporting cut, with big buttons and mighty pockets, kept on
steadily drinking green chartreuse and smoking small, almost black,
cigars. He was said to be made of iron, and certainly managed to
combine perpetual dissipation with an astonishing amount of hard and
admirable work. His models he usually found—or so he said—at the Cafe
Royal, and he made a speciality of painting the portraits of women of
the demi-monde, of women who drank, or took drugs, who were morphia
maniacs, or were victims of other unhealthy and objectionable crazes.
Nothing wholly sane, nothing entirely normal, nothing that suggested
cold water, fresh air or sunshine, made any appeal to him. A daisy in
the grass bored him; a gardenia emitting its strangely unreal perfume
on a dung heap brought all his powers into play. He was an eccentric of
genius, and in his strangeness was really true to himself, although
normal people were apt to assert that his unlikeness to them was a
pose. Simplicity, healthy goodness, the radiance of unsmirched youth
seemed to his eyes wholly inexpressive. He loved the rotten as a dog
loves garbage, and he raised it by his art to fascination. Even
admirable people, walking through his occasional one-man exhibitions,
felt a lure in his presentations of sin, of warped womanhood, and,
gazing at the blurred faces, the dilated eyes, the haggard mouths, the
vicious hands of his portraits, were shiveringly conscious of missed
experiences, and for the moment felt ill at ease with what seemed just
there, and just then, the dullness of virtue. The evil admired him
because he made evil wonderful. To the perverse he was almost as a god.
Miss Van Tuyn was an admirer of Dick Garstin. She thought him a
great painter, but apart from his gift his mind interested her
intensely. He had a sort of melancholy understanding of human nature
and of life, a strangely sure instinct in probing to the bottom of
psychological mysteries, a cruelly sure hand in tearing away the veils
which the victims hoped would shroud their weaknesses and sins. These
gifts made her brain respect him, and tickled her youthful curiosity.
It was really for Dick that she had specially wished Lady Sellingworth
to join the Georgians that night. And now, in her secret vexation, she
was moved to speak of the once famous Edwardian.
“Have you ever heard of Lady Sellingworth?” she said, leaning her
elbow on the marble table in front of her, and bending towards Dick
Garstin so that he might hear her through the uproar.
He finished one more chartreuse and turned his small black eyes upon
her. Pin-points of piercing light gleamed in them. He lifted his large,
coarse and capable painter's hand to his lips, put his cigar stump
between them, inhaled a quantity of smoke, blew it out through his
hairy nostrils, and then said in a big bass voice:
“Never. Why should I have? I hate society women.”
Miss Van Tuyn suppressed a smile at the absurd and hackneyed phrase,
which reminded her of picture papers. For a moment she thought of Dick
Garstin as a sort of inverted snob. But she wanted something from him,
so she pursued her conversational way, and inflicted upon him a rapid
description of Lady Sellingworth, as she had been and as she was,
recording the plunge from artificial youth into perfectly natural
elderliness which had now, to her thinking, become definite old age.
The painter gave her a sort of deep and melancholy attention,
keeping the two pin-points of light directed steadily upon her.
“Did you ever know a woman doing such a thing as that, Dick?” she
asked. “Did you ever know of a woman clinging to her youth, and then
suddenly, in a moment, flinging all pretence of it away from her?”
He did not trouble, or perhaps did not choose, to answer her
question, but instead made the statement:
“She had been thrown off by some lover. In a moment of furious
despair, thinking all was over for her for ever, she let everything go.
And then she hadn't the cheek to try to take any of it back. She hadn't
the toupet. But”—he flung a large hand stained with pigments
out in an ugly, insolent gesture—“any one of these fleurs du mal
would have jumped back from the white to the bronze age when the fit
was passed, without caring a damn what anyone thought of them. All the
moral bravery is in the underworld. That is why I paint it.”
“That is absolute truth,” said Jennings, who was sitting next to
Dick Garstin and smoking an enormous pipe. “The lower you go the more
truth you find.”
“Then I suppose the gutter is full of it,” said Miss Van Tuyn.
“The Cafe Royal is,” said Garstin. “There are free women here. Your
women of society are for ever waiting on the opinion of what they call
their set—God help them! Your Lady Sellingworth, for instance—would
she dare, after showing herself as an old woman, to become a young
woman again? Not she! Her precious set would laugh at her for it. But
Cora, for instance—” He pointed to a table a little way off, at which
a woman was sitting alone. “Do you suppose Cora cares one single damn
what you, or I, or anyone else thinks of her? She knows we all know
exactly what she is, and it makes not a particle of difference to her.
She'll tell you, or anyone else, what her nature is. If you don't
happen to like it, you can go to Hell—for her. That's a free woman.
Look at her face. Why, it's great, because her life and what she is is
written all over it. I've painted her, and I'll paint her again. She's
a human document, not a sentimental Valentine. Waiter! Waiter!”
His sonorous bass rolled out, dominating the uproar around him. Miss
Van Tuyn looked at the woman he had been speaking of. She was tall,
emaciated, high shouldered. Her face was dead white, with brightly
painted lips. She had dark and widely dilated eyes which looked hungry,
observant and desperate. The steadiness of their miserable gaze was
like that of an animal. She was dressed in a perfectly cut coat and
skirt with a neat collar and a black tie. Both her elbows were on the
table, and her sharp white chin was supported by her hands, on which
she wore white gloves sewn with black. Her features were good, and the
shape of her small head was beautiful. Her expression was intense, but
abstracted. In front of her was a small tumbler half full of a liquid
the colour of water.
A waiter brought Garstin a gin-and-soda. He mixed drinks in an
almost stupefying way, as few men can without apparent ill-effects
unless they are Russians.
“Cora—a free woman, by God!” he observed, lighting another of his
small but deadly cigars.
Enid Blunt, who was sitting with Smith the sculptor and others at
the adjoining table, began slowly, and with an insolent drawl, reciting
a sonnet. She was black as the night. Even her hands looked swarthy.
There were yellow lights in her eyes. Her voice was guttural, and she
pronounced English with a strong German accent, although she had no
German blood in her veins and had never been in Germany. The little
Bolshevik, who had the face of a Russian peasant, candid eyes and a
squat figure, listened with an air of profound and somehow innocent
attention. She possessed neither morals nor manners, denied the
existence of God, and wished to pull the whole fabric of European
civilization to pieces. Her small brain was obsessed by a desire for
anarchy. She hated all laws and was really a calmly ferocious little
animal. But she looked like a creature of the fields, and had something
of the shepherdess in her round grey eyes. Thapoulos, a Levantine, who
had once been a courier in Athens, but who was now a rich banker with a
taste for Bohemia, kept one thin yellow hand on her shoulder as he
appeared to listen, with her, to the sonnet. Smith, with whom the
little Bolshevik was allied for the time, and who did in clay very much
what Garstin did on canvas, but more roughly and with less subtlety,
looked at the Levantine's hand with indifference. A large heavy man,
with square shoulders and short bowed legs, he scarcely knew why he had
anything to do with Anna, or remembered how they had come together. He
did not understand her at all, but she cooked certain Russian dishes
which he liked, and minded dirt as little as he did. Perhaps that lack
of minding had thrown them together. He did no know; nobody knew or
cared.
“Well, I'm a free woman,” said Miss Van Tuyn, in answer to Garstin's
exclamation about Cora. “But you've never bothered to paint me.”
She spoke with a touch of irritation. Somehow things seemed to be
going vaguely wrong for her to-night.
“I suppose I am not near enough to the gutter yet,” she added.
“You're too much of the out-of-door type for me,” said Garstin,
looking at her with almost fierce attention. “There isn't a line about
you except now and then in your forehead just above the nose. And even
that only comes from bad temper.”
“Really, Dick,” said Miss Van Tuyn, “you are absurd. It's putting
your art into a strait waistcoat only to paint Cafe Royal types. But if
you want lines Lady Sellingworth ought to sit for you.”
Her mind that night could not detach itself from Lady Sellingworth.
In the midst of the noise, and crush, and strong light of the cafe she
continually imagined a spacious, quiet, and dimly lit room, very calm,
very elegant, faintly scented with flowers; she continually visualized
two figures near together, talking quietly, earnestly, confidentially.
Why had she allowed Jennings to lead her astray? She might have been in
that spacious room, too, if she had not been stupid.
“I want to ask you something about Lady Sellingworth,” she
continued. “Come a little nearer.”
Garstin shifted his chair.
“But I don't know her,” he said, rumpling his hair with an air of
boredom. “An old society woman! What's the good of that to me? What
have I to do with dowagers? Bow wow dowagers! Even Rembrandt—”
“Now, Dick, don't be a bore! If you would only listen occasionally,
instead of continually—”
“Go ahead, young woman! And bend down a little more. Why don't you
take off your hat?”
“I will.”
She did so quickly, and bent her lovely head nearer to him.
“That's better. You've got a damned fine head. Ceres might have
owned it. But classical stuff is no good to me. You ought to have been
painted by Leighton and hung on the line in the precious old Royal
Academy.”
Again the tell-tale mark appeared above the bridge of Miss Van
Tuyn's charming nose.
“I painted by a Royal Academician!” she exclaimed. “Thank you,
Dick!”
Garstin, who was as mischievous as a monkey, and who loved to play
cat and mouse with a woman, continued to gaze at her with his
assumption of fierce attention.
“But Leighton being unfortunately dead, we can't go to him for your
portrait,” he continued gravely. “I think we shall have to hand you
over to McEvoy. Smith!” he suddenly roared.
“Well, what is it, Dick, what is it?” said the sculptor in a thin
voice, with high notes which came surprisingly though the thicket of
tangled hair about the cavern of his mouth.
“Who shall paint Beryl as Ceres?”
“I refuse to be pained by anyone as Ceres!” said Miss Van Tuyn,
almost viciously.
“It ought to have been Leighton. But he's been translated. I
suggested McEvoy.”
“Oh, Lord! He'd take the substance out of her, make her
transparent!”
“I have it then! Orpen! It shall be Orpen! Then she will be hung on
the line.”
“You talk as if I were the week's washing,” said Miss Van Tuyn,
recovering herself. “But I would rather be on the clothes-line than on
the line at the Royal Academy. No, Dick, I shall wait.”
“What for, my girl?”
“For you to get over your acute attack of Cafe Royal. You don't know
how they laugh at you in Paris for always painting morphinomanes and
chloral drinkers. That sort of thing was done to death in France in the
youth of Degas. It may be new over here. But England always lags behind
in art, always follows at the heels of the French. You are too big a
man—”
“I've got it, Smith,” said Garstin, interrupting in the quiet even
voice of one who had been indulging an undisturbed process of steady
thought, and who now announced the definite conclusion reached. “I have
it. Frank Dicksee is the man!”
At this moment Jennings, who for some time had been uneasily groping
through his beard, and turning the rings round and round on his thin
damp fingers, broke in with a flood of speech about modern French art,
in which names of all the latest painters of Paris spun by like twigs
on a spate of turbulent water. The Georgians were soon up and after him
in full cry. It was now nearly closing time, and several friends of
Garstin's, models and others, who had been scattered about in the cafe,
and who were on their way out, stopped to hear what was going on. Some
adherents of Jennings also came up. The discussion became animated.
Voices waxed roaringly loud or piercingly shrill. The little Bolshevik,
suddenly losing her round faced calm and the shepherdess look in her
eyes, burst forth in a voluble outcry in praise of the beauty of
anarchy, expressing herself in broken English, spoken with a cockney
accent, in broken French and liquid Russian. Enid Blunt, increasingly
guttural, and mingling German words with her Bedford Park English,
refuted, or strove to refute, Jennings's ecstatic praise of French
verse, citing rapidly poems composed by members of the Sitwell group,
songs of Siegfried Sassoon, and even lyrics by Lady Margaret Sackville
and Miss Victoria Sackville West. Jennings, who thought he was still
speaking about pictures and statues, though he had now abandoned the
painters and sculptors to their horrid fates in the hands of Garstin
and Smith, replied with a vivacity rather Gallic than British, and
finally, emerging almost with passion from his native language, burst
into the only tongue which expresses anything properly, and assailed
his enemy in fluent French. Thapoulos muttered comments in modern
Greek. And the Turkish refugee from Smyrna quoted again and again the
words of praise from Pierre Loti, which had made of him a moral wreck,
a nuisance to all who came into contact with him, a mere prancing
megalomaniac.
Miss Van Tuyn did not join in the carnival of praises and
condemnations. She had suddenly recovered her mental balance. Her
native irony was roused from its sleep. She was once more the cool,
self-possessed and beautiful girl from whose violet eyes satire looked
out on all those about her.
“Let them all make fools of themselves for my benefit,” was her
comfortable thought as she listened to the chatter of tongues.
Even Garstin was being thoroughly absurd, although his adherents
stood round catching his vociferations as if they were so many precious
jewels.
“The most ridiculous human beings in the world at certain moments
are those who work in the arts,” was Miss Van Tuyn's mental comment.
“Painters, poets, composers, novelists! All these people are living in
blinkers. They can't see the wide world. They can only see studies and
studios.”
She wished she had Craven with her to share in her silent irony. At
that moment she felt some of the very common conceit of the rich
dilettante, who tastes but who never creates, for whom indeed most of
the creation is arduously accomplished.
“They sweat for me, exhaust themselves for me, tear each other to
pieces for me! If I were not here, if the world contained no such
products as Beryl Van Tuyn and her like, female and male, what would
all the Garstins, and Jenningses and Smiths and Enid Blunts do?”
And she felt superior in her incapacity to create because of her
capacity to judge. Wrongly she might, and probably did, judge, but she
and her like judged, spent much of their lives in eagerly judging. And
the poor creators, whatever they might say, whatever airs they might
give themselves, toiled to gain the favourable judgment of the
innumerable Beryl Van Tuyns.
Closing time put an end at last to the fracas of tongues. Even
geniuses must be driven forth from the electric light to the stars,
however unwilling to go into a healthy atmosphere.
There was a general movement. Miss Van Tuyn put on her hat and fur
coat, the latter with the assistance of Jennings. Garstin slipped into
a yellow and brown ulster, and jammed a soft hat on to his head with
its thick tangle of hair. He lit another cigar and waved his hand to
Cora, who was on her way out with a friend.
“A free woman—by God!” he said once more, swinging round to where
Miss Van Tuyn was standing between Jennings and Thapoulos. “I'll paint
her again. I'll make a masterpiece of her.”
“I'm sure you will. But now walk with me to the Hyde Park Hotel.
It's on your way to Chelsea.”
“She doesn't care whether I paint her or not. Cora doesn't care. Art
means nothing to her. She's out for life, hunks of life. She's after
life like a hungry dog after the refuse on a scrap heap. That's why
I'll paint her. She's hungry. Look at her face.”
Miss Van Tuyn, perhaps moved by the sudden, almost ferocious urgency
of his loud bass voice, turned to have a last look at the woman who was
“out for life”; but Cora was already lost in the crowd, and instead of
gazing into the dead-white face which suggested to her some strange
putrefaction, she gazed full into the face of a man. He was not far
off—by the doorway through which people were streaming out into Regent
Street—and he happened to be looking at her. She had been expecting to
see a whiteness which was corpse-like. Instead she was almost startled
by the sight of a skin which suggested to her one of her own precious
bronzes in Paris. It was certainly less deep in colour, but its smooth
and equal, unvarying tint of brown somehow recalled to her those
treasures which she genuinely loved and assiduously collected. And he
was marvellously handsome as some of her bronzes were handsome, with
strong, manly, finely cut features— audacious features, she thought.
His mouth specially struck her by its full-lipped audacity. He was tall
and had an athletic figure. She could not help swiftly thinking what a
curse the modern wrappings of such a figure were; the tubes of cloth or
serge—he wore blue serge— the unmeaning waistcoat with tie and
pale-blue collar above it, the double-breasted jacket. And then she saw
his eyes. Magnificent eyes, she thought them, soft, intelligent,
appealing, brown like his skin and hair. And they were gazing at her
with a sort of sympathetic intention.
Suddenly she felt oddly restored. Really she had had a bad evening.
Things had not gone quite right for her. She had saved the situation in
a measure just at the end by taking refuge in irony. But in her irony
she had been quite alone. And to be quite alone in anything is apt to
be dull. Craven had let her down. Lady Sellingworth had not played the
game—or had played it too well, which was worse. Garstin had been
unusually tiresome with his allusions to the Royal Academy and his
preposterous concentration on the Cora woman.
This brown stranger's gaze was really like manna falling from heaven
in a hungry land. She boldly returned the gaze, stared, trusting to her
own beauty. And as she stared she tried to sum up the stranger, and
failed. She guessed him a little over thirty, but not much. And there
somehow, after the quick, instinctive guess at his age, she stuck.
“Come on, Beryl!”
Garstin's deep strong voice startled her. At that moment she felt
angry with him for calling her by her Christian name, though he had
done it ever since they had first made friends—if they were friends—
in Paris two years ago, when he had come to have a look at her bronzes
with a French painter whom she knew well.
“You are going to walk back with me?”
“To be sure I am. He is devilish good looking, but he ought to be
out of those clothes.”
“Dick!”
He smiled at her sardonically. She knew that he seldom missed
anything, but his sharp observation in the midst of the squash of
people going out of the cafe took her genuinely aback. And then he had
got at her thought, at one of her most definite thoughts at least,
about the brown stranger!
“You are disgustingly clever,” she said, as they made their way out,
followed by the Georgians and their attendant cosmopolitans. “I believe
I dislike you for it to-night.”
“Then take a cab home and I'll walk.”
“No, thank you. I'd rather endure your abominable intelligence.”
He smiled, curling up the left corner of his sensual mouth.
“Come on then. Don't bother about good-byes to all these fools.
They'll never stop talking if they once begin good-bying. Like sheep
they don't know how to get away from each other since they've been
herded together. Come on! Come on!”
He thrust an arm through hers and almost roughly, but forcibly, got
her away through the throng. As he did so she was pushed by, or
accidentally pushed against, several people. For a brief instant she
was in contact with a man. She felt his side, the bone of one of his
hips. It was the man who had looked at her in the cafe. She saw in the
night the gleam of his big brown eyes looking down into hers. Then she
and Garstin were tramping—Garstin always seemed to be tramping when he
walked—over the pavement of Regent Street.
“Catch on tight! Let's get across and down to Piccadilly.”
“Very well.”
Presently they were passing the Ritz. They got away from the houses
on that side. Now on their left were the tall railings that divided
them from the stretching spaces of the Park shrouded in the darkness
and mystery of night.
“Well, my girl, what are you after?” said Garstin, who never
troubled about the conventionalities, and seemed never to care what
anyone thought of him and his ways. “Go ahead. Let me have it. I'm not
coming in to your beastly hotel, you know. So get on with your bow wow
Dowager.”
“So you remember that I had begun—”
“Of course I do.”
“Do you ever miss anything—let anything escape you?”
“I don't know. Well, what is it?”
“I wanted to tell you something about Lady Sellingworth which has
puzzled me and a friend of mine. It is a sort of social mystery.”
“Social! Oh, Lord!”
“Now, Dick, don't be a snob. You are a snob in your pretended hatred
of all decent people.”
“D'you call your society dames decent?”
“Be quiet if you can! You're worse than a woman.”
He did not say anything. His horsey profile looked hard and
expressionless in the night. As she glanced at it she could not help
thinking of Newmarket. He ought surely to have been a jockey with that
face and figure.
“You are listening?”
He said nothing. But he turned his face and she saw the two
pin-points of light. That was enough. She told him about the theft of
Lady Sellingworth's jewels, her neglect of all endeavour to recover
them, her immediate plunge into middle-age after the theft, and her
avoidance of general society ever since.
“What do you make of it?” she asked, when she had finished.
“Make of it?”
“Yes.”
“Does your little mind find it mysterious?”
“Well, isn't it rather odd for a woman who loses fifty thousand
pounds' worth of jewels never to try to get them back?”
“Not if they were stolen by a lover.”
“You think—”
“It's as obvious as that Martin, R.A., can't paint and I can.”
“But I believe they were stolen at the Gare du Nord. Now does
that look like a lover?”
“I didn't say the Gare du Nord looked like a lover.”
“Don't be utterly ridiculous.”
“I don't care where they were stolen—your old dowager's Gew-gaws.
Depend upon it they were stolen by some man she'd been mixed up with,
and she knew it, and didn't dare to prosecute. I can't see any mystery
in the matter.”
“Perhaps you are right.”
“Of course I am right.”
Miss Van Tuyn said nothing for two or three minutes. Her mind had
gone from Lady Sellingworth to Craven, and then flitted on—she did not
know why—to the man who had gazed at her so strangely in the Cafe
Royal. She had been feeling rather neglected, badly treated almost, and
his look had restored her to her normal supreme self-confidence. That
fact would always be to the stranger's credit. She wondered very much
who he was. His good looks had almost startled her. She began also to
wonder what Garstin had thought of him. Garstin seldom painted men. But
he did so now and then. Two of his finest portraits were of men: one a
Breton fisherman who looked like an apache of the sea, the other a
Spanish bullfighter dressed in his Sunday clothes with the book of the
Mass in his hand. Miss Van Tuyn had seen them both. She now found
herself wishing that Garstin would paint a portrait of the man who had
looked at her. But was he a Cafe Royal type? At present Garstin painted
nothing which did not come out of the Cafe Royal.
“That man—” she said abruptly.
“I was just wondering when we should get to him!” interjected
Garstin. “I thought your old dowager wouldn't keep us away from him for
long.”
“I suppose you know by this time, Dick, that I don't care in the
least what you think of me.”
“The only reason I bother about you is because you are a thoroughly
independent cuss and have a damned fine head.”
“Why don't you paint me?”
“I may come to it. But if I do I'm mortally afraid they'll make an
academician of me. Go on about your man.”
“Didn't you think him a wonderful type?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me! If you want to paint someone, what do you do?”
“Do? Go up and tell him or her to come along to the studio.”
“Whether you know them or not?”
“Of course.”
“You ought to paint that man.”
“Just because you want me to pick hum up and then introduce him to
you. I don't paint for reasons of that kind.”
“Have you ever seen him before to-night?”
“Yes. I saw him last night.”
“For the first time?”
“Yes.”
“At the Cafe Royal?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think he is?”
“Probably a successful blackmailer.”
For some obscure reason Miss Van Tuyn felt outraged by this opinion
of Garstin.
“The fact is,” she said, but in quite an impersonal voice, “that
your mind is getting warped by living always among the scum of London,
and by studying and painting only the scum. It really is a great pity.
A painter ought to be a man of the world, not a man of the underworld.”
“And the a propos of all this?” asked Garstin
“You are beginning to see the morphia maniac, the drunkard, the
cocaine fiend, the prostitute, the—”
“Blackmailer?”
“Yes, the blackmailer, if you like, in everyone you meet. You live
in a sort of bad dream, Dick. You paint in a bad dream. If you go on
like this you will lose all sense of the true values.”
“But I honestly do believe the man you want me to pick up and then
introduce to you to be a successful blackmailer.”
“Why? Do you know anything about him?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Then your supposition about him is absurd and rather disgusting.”
“It isn't a supposition.”
“What is it then?”
“Perhaps you don't realize, my girl, that I'm highly sensitive.”
“You seldom seem so. But, of course, I realize that you couldn't
paint as you do unless you were.”
“Instead of using the word supposition in connexion with a fellow
like myself your discrimination should have led you to choose the word
instinct.”
“Oh?”
“Let's cross over. Catch on!”
They crossed to the side of the road next to Hyde Park.
“My instinct tells me that the magnificently handsome man who stared
at you to-night is of the tribe that lives by making those who are
indiscreetly susceptible to beauty pay heavy tribute, in hard cash or
its equivalent. He is probably a king in the underworld. Perhaps I
really will paint him. No, I'm not coming in.”
He left her on the doorstep of the hotel and tramped off towards
Chelsea.
CHAPTER II
Craven went away from Berkeley Square that night still under the
spell and with a mind unusually vivid and alive. As he had told Lady
Sellingworth, he was now twenty-nine and no longer considered himself
young. At the F.O. there are usually a good many old young men, just as
in London society there are always a great many young old women. Craven
was one of the former. He was clever, discreet and careful in his work.
He was also ambitious and intended to rise in the career he had chosen.
To succeed he knew that energy was necessary, and consequently he was
secretly energetic. But his energy did not usually show above the
surface. Tradition rather forbade that. He had a quiet, even a lazy
manner as a rule, and he thought he often felt old, especially in
London. There was something in the London atmosphere which he
considered antagonistic to youth. He had felt decades younger in Naples
in summer-time. But that was all over now. It might be a long time
before he was again attached to an embassy.
When he reached his rooms, or, rather, his flat, which was just off
Curzon Street, he went to look at his bookshelves, and ran his finger
along them until he came to the poems of William Watson, which were
next to Rupert Brooke's poems. After looking at the index he found the
lyric he wanted, sat down, lit his pipe, and read it four times,
thinking of Lady Sellingworth. Then he put away the book and meditated.
Finally—it was after one o'clock—he went almost reluctantly to bed.
In the morning he, of course, felt different—one always feels
different in the morning—but nevertheless he was aware that something
definite had come into his life which had made a change in it. This
something was his acquaintance with Lady Sellingworth. Already he found
it difficult to believe that he had lived for twenty-eight years
without knowing her.
He was one of those rather unusual young men who feel strongly the
vulgarity of their own time, and who have in them something which seems
at moments to throw back into the past. Not infrequently he felt that
this mysterious something was lifting up the voice of the laudator
temporis acti. But what did he, the human being who contained this
voice and many other voices, know of those times now gone? They seemed
to draw him in ignorance, and had for him something of the fascination
which attaches to the unknown. And this fascination, or something akin
to it, hung about Lady Sellingworth, and even about the house in which
she dwelt, and drew him to both. He knew that he had never been in any
house in London which he liked so much as he liked hers, that in no
other London house had he ever felt so much at home, so almost
curiously in place. The mere thought of the hall with its blazing fire,
its beehive-chair, its staircase with the balustrade of wrought
ironwork and gold, filled him with a longing to return to it, to hang
up his hat—and remain. And the lady of the house was ideally right in
it. He wondered whether in the future he would often be there, whether
Lady Sellingworth would allow him to be one of the few real intimates
to whom her door was open. He hoped so; he believed so; but he was not
quite certain about it. For there was something elusive about her, not
insincere but just that—elusive. She might not care to see very much
of him although he knew that she liked him. They had touched the fringe
of intimacy on the preceding night.
After his work at the Foreign Office was over he walked to the club,
and the first man he saw on entering it was Francis Braybrooke just
back from Paris. Braybrooke was buying some stamps in the hall, and
greeted Craven with his usual discreet cordiality.
“I'll come in a moment,” he said. “If you're not busy we might have
a talk. I shall like to hear how you fared with Adela Sellingworth.”
Craven begged him to come, and in a few minutes they were settled in
two deep arm-chairs in a quiet corner, and Craven was telling of his
first visit to Berkeley Square.
“Wasn't I right?” said Braybrooke. “Could Adela Sellingworth ever be
a back number? I think that was your expression.”
Craven slightly reddened.
“Was it?”
“I think so,” said Braybrooke, gently but firmly.
“I was a—a young fool to use it.”
“I fancy it's a newspaper phrase that has pushed its way somehow
into the language.”
“Vulgarity pushes its way in everywhere now. Braybrooke, I want to
thank you very much for your introduction to Lady Sellingworth. You
were right. She has a wonderful charm. It's a privilege for a young
man, as I am I suppose, to know her. To be with her makes life seem
more what it ought to be, what one wants it to be.”
Braybrooke looked extremely pleased, almost touched.
“I am glad you appreciate her,” he said. “It shows that real
distinction has still a certain appeal. And so you met Beryl Van Tuyn
there.”
“Do you know her?”
Braybrooke raised his eyebrows.
“Know her? How should I not know her when I am constantly running
over to Paris?”
“Then I suppose she's very much 'in it' there?”
“Yes. She is criticized, of course. She lives very unconventionally,
although Fanny Cronin is always officially with her.”
“Fanny Cronin?”
“Her dame de compagnie.”
“Oh, the lady who reads Paul Bourget!”
“I believe she does. Anyhow, one seldom sees her about. Beryl Van
Tuyn is very audacious. She does things that no other lovely girl in
her position would ever dare to do, or could do without peril to her
reputation. But somehow she brings them off. Mind, I haven't a word to
say against her. She is exceedingly clever and has mastered the
difficult art of making people accept from her what they wouldn't
accept for a moment from any other unmarried girl in society. She may
be said to have a position of her own. Do you like her?”
“Yes, I think I do. She is lovely and very good company.”
“Frenchmen rave about her.”
“And Frenchwomen?”
“Oh, they all know her. She carries things through. That really is
the art of life, to be able to carry things through. Her bronzes are
quite remarkable. By the way, she has an excellent brain. She cares for
the arts. She is by no means a fribble. I have been surprised by her
knowledge more than once.”
“She seems very fond of Lady Sellingworth. She wants to get her over
to Paris.”
“Adela Sellingworth won't go.”
“Why not?”
“She seems to hate Paris now. It is years since she had stayed
there.”
After a pause Craven said:
“Lady Sellingworth is something of a mystery, I think. I wonder—I
wonder if she feels lonely in that big house of hers.”
“Far more people feel lonely than seem lonely,” said Braybrooke.
“I expect they do. But I think that somehow Lady Sellingworth seems
lonely. And yet she is full of mockery.”
“Mockery?”
“Yes. I feel it.”
“But didn't you find her very kind?”
“Oh, yes. I meant of self-mockery.”
Braybrooke looked rather dubious.
“I think,” continued Craven, perhaps a little obstinately, “that she
looks upon herself with irony, while Miss Van Tuyn looks upon others
with irony. Perhaps, though, that is rather a question of the different
outlooks of youth and age.”
“H'm?”
Braybrooke pulled at his grey-and-brown beard.
“I scarcely see—I scarcely see, I confess, why age should be more
disposed to self-mockery than youth. Age, if properly met and suitably
faced—that is, with dignity and self-respect, such as Adela
Sellingworth undoubtedly shows—has no reason for self-mockery; whereas
youth, although charming and delightful might well laugh occasionally
at its own foolishness.”
“Ah, but it never does!”
“I think for once I shall have a cocktail,” said Braybrooke, signing
to an attendant in livery, who at that moment came from some hidden
region and looked around warily.
“You will join me, Craven? Let it be dry Martinis. Eh? Yes! Two dry
Martinis.”
As the attendant went away Braybrooke added:
“My dear boy, if you will excuse me for saying so, are you not
getting the Foreign Office habit of being older than your years? I hope
you will not begin wearing horn spectacles while your sight is still
unimpaired.”
Craven laughed and felt suddenly younger.
The two dry Martinis were brought, and the talk grew a little more
lively. Braybrooke, who seldom took a cocktail, was good enough to
allow it to go to his head, and became, for him, almost unbuttoned.
Craven, entertained by his elderly friend's unwonted exuberance, talked
more freely and a little more intimately to him than usual, and
presently alluded to the events of the previous night, and described
his expedition to Soho.
“D'you know the Ristorante Bella Napoli?” he asked
Braybrooke. “Vesuvius all over the walls, and hair-dressers playing
Neapolitan tunes?”
Braybrooke did not, but seemed interested, for he cocked his head to
one side, and looked almost volcanic for a moment over the tiny glass
in his hand. Craven described the restaurant, the company, the general
atmosphere, the Chianti and Toscanas, and, proceeding with artful
ingenuity, at last came to his climax—Lady Sellingworth and Miss Van
Tuyn in their corner with their feet on the sanded floor and a smoking
dish of Risotto alla Milanese before them.
“Adela Sellingworth in Soho! Adela Sellingworth in the midst of such
a society!” exclaimed the world's governess with unfeigned
astonishment. “What could have induced her—but to be sure, Beryl Van
Tuyn is famous for her escapades, and for bringing the most unlikely
people into them. I remember once in Paris she actually induced Madame
Marretti to go to—ha—ah!”
He pulled himself up short.
“These Martinis are surely very strong!” he murmured into his beard
reproachfully.
“I don't think so.”
“My doctor tells me that all cocktails are rank poison. They set up
fermentation.”
“In the mind?” asked Craven.
“No—no—in the—they cause indigestion, in fact. How poor Adela
Sellingworth must have hated it!”
“I don't think she did. She seemed quite at home. Besides, she has
been to many of the Paris cafes. She told me so.”
“It must have been a long time ago. And in Paris it is all so
different. And you sat with them?”
Craven recounted the tale of the previous evening. When he came to
the Cafe Royal suggestion the world's governess looked really outraged.
“Adela Sellingworth at the Cafe Royal!” he said. “How could Beryl
Van Tuyn? And with a Bolshevik, a Turkish refugee—from Smyrna too!”
“There were the Georgians for chaperons.”
“Georgians!” said Braybrooke, with almost sharp vivacity. “I really
hate that word. We are all subjects of King George. No one has a right
to claim a monopoly of the present reign. I—waiter, bring me two more
dry Martinis, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What was I saying? Oh, yes—about that preposterous claim of
certain groups and coteries! If anybody is a Georgian we are all
Georgians together. I am a Georgian, if it comes to that.”
“Why not? But Lady Sellingworth is definitely not one.”
“How so? I must deny that, really. I know these young poets and
painters like to imagine that everyone who has had the great honour of
living under Queen Victoria—”
“Forgive me! It isn't that at all.”
“Well, then—oh, our dry Martinis! How much is it, waiter?”
“Two shillings, sir.”
“Two—thank you. Well, then, Craven, I affirm that Lady Sellingworth
is as much a Georgian as any young person who writes bad poetry in
Cheyne Walk or paints impossible pictures in Glebe Place.”
“She would deny that. She said, in my presence and in that of Sir
Seymour Portman and Miss Van Tuyn, that she did not belong to this
age.”
“What an—what an extraordinary statement!” said Braybrooke,
drinking down his second cocktail at a gulp.
“She said she was—or rather, had been—an Edwardian. She would not
have it that she belonged to the present day at all.”
“A whim! It must have been a whim! The best of women are subject to
caprice. It is the greatest mistake to class yourself as belonging to
the past. It dates you. It—it—it practically inters you!”
“I think she meant that her glory was Edwardian, that her real life
was then. I don't think she chooses to realize how immensely attractive
she is now in the Georgian days.”
“Well, I really can't understand such a view. I shall—when I meet
her —I shall really venture to remonstrate with her about it. And
besides, apart from the personal question, one owes something to one's
contemporaries. Upon my word, I begin to understand at last why certain
very charming women haven't a good word to say for Adela Sellingworth.”
“You mean the 'old guard,' I suppose?”
“I don't wish to mention any names. It is always a mistake to
mention names. One cannot guard against it too carefully. But having
done what she did ten years ago dear Adela Sellingworth should
really—but it is not for me to criticise her. Only there is nothing
people—women—are more sensitive about than the question of age. No
one likes to be laid on the shelf. Adela Sellingworth has chosen
to—well—one might feel such a very drastic step to be quite uncalled
for—quite uncalled for. And so—but you haven't told me! Did Adela
Sellingworth allow herself to be persuaded to go to the Cafe Royal?”
“No, she didn't.”
“Thank God for that!” said the world's governess, looking immensely
relieved.
“I escorted her to Berkeley Square.”
“Good! good!”
“But we walked to the door of the Cafe Royal.”
“What—down Shaftesbury Avenue?”
“Yes!”
“Past the Cafe Monico and—Piccadilly Circus?”
“Yes!”
“What time was it?”
“Well after ten.”
“Very unsuitable! I must say that—very unsuitable! That corner by
the Monico at night is simply chock-a-block—I—I should say, teems,
that's the word—teems with people whom nobody knows or could ever wish
to know. Beryl Van Tuyn should really be more careful. She grows quite
reckless. And Adela Sellingworth is so tall and unmistakable. I do hope
nobody saw her.”
“I'm afraid scores of people did!”
“No, no! I mean people she knows—women especially.”
“I don't think she would care.”
“Her friends would care for her!” retorted Braybrooke, almost
severely. “To retire from life is all very well. I confess I think it a
mistake. But that is merely one man's opinion. But to retire from life,
a great life such as hers was, and then after ten years to burst forth
into—into the type of existence represented by Shaftesbury Avenue and
the Cafe Royal, that would be unheard of, and really almost
unforgivable.”
“It would, in fact, be old wildness,” said Craven, with a faint
touch of sarcasm.
“Old wildness! What a very strange expression!”
“But I think it covers the suggested situation. And we know what old
wildness is—or if we don't some of the 'old guard' can teach us. But
Lady Sellingworth will never be the one to give us such a horrible
lesson. If there is a woman in London with true dignity, dignity of the
soul, she has it. She has almost too much of it even. I could almost
wish she had less.”
Braybrooke looked suddenly surprised and then alertly observant.
“Less dignity?” he queried, after a slight but significant pause.
“Yes.”
“But can a grande dame, as she is, ever have too much dignity
of the soul?”
“I think even such a virtue as that can be carried to morbidity. It
may become a weapon against the happiness of the one who has it. Those
who have no dignity are disgusting. As Lady Sellingworth said to me,
they create nausea—”
“Nausea!” interrupted Braybrooke, in an almost startled voice.
“Yes—in others. But those who have too much dignity wrap themselves
up in a secret reserve, and reserve shuts out natural happiness, I
think, and creates loneliness. I'm sure Lady Sellingworth feels
terribly alone in that beautiful house. I know she does.”
“Has she told you so?”
“Good heavens—no. But she never would.”
“She need not be alone,” observed Braybrooke. “She could have a
companion to-morrow.”
“I can't imagine her with a Fanny Cronin.”
“I don't mean a dame de compagnie. I mean a husband.”
Craven's ardent blue eyes looked a question.
“Seymour Portman is always there waiting and hoping.”
“Sir Seymour?” cried Craven.
“Well, why not?” said Braybrooke, almost with severity. “Why not?”
“But his age!”
The world's governess, who was older than Sir Seymour, though not a
soul knew it, looked more severe.
“His age would be in every way suitable to Adele Sellingworth's,” he
said firmly.
“Oh, but—”
“Go on!”
“I can't see an old man like Sir Seymour as her husband. Oh,
no! It wouldn't do. She would never marry such an old man. I am certain
of that.”
Braybrooke pinched his lips together and felt for his beard.
“I hope,” he said, lifting and lowering his bushy eyebrows, “I hope,
at any rate, she will never be so foolish as to marry a man who is what
is called young. That would be a terrible mistake, both for her and for
him. Now I really must be going. I am dining to-night rather early
with—oh, by the way, it is with one of your chiefs—Eric Learington. A
good fellow—a good fellow! We are going to some music afterwards at
Queen's Hall. Good-bye. I'm very glad you realize Adela Sellingworth's
great distinction and charm. But—” He paused, as if considering
something carefully; then he added:
“But don't forget that she and Seymour Portman would be perfectly
suitable to one another. She is a delightful creature, but she is no
longer a young woman. But I need not tell you that.”
And having thus done the needless thing he went away, walking with a
certain unwonted self-consciousness which had its source solely in dry
Martinis.
CHAPTER III
Craven realized that he had “given himself away” directly Braybrooke
was gone. The two empty glasses stood on a low table in front of his
chair. He looked at them and for an instant was filled with anger
against himself. To be immortal—he was old-fashioned enough to believe
surreptitiously in his own immortality—and yet to be deflected from
the straight path of good sense by a couple of dry Martinis! It was
humiliating, and he raged against himself.
Braybrooke had certainly gone away thinking that he, Craven, had
fallen in love with Lady Sellingworth. That thought, too, might
possibly have come out of one of those little glasses, the one on the
left. But nevertheless it would stick in Braybrooke's mind long after
the Martinis were forgotten.
And what if it did?
Craven said that to himself, but he felt far less defiant than
sensitively uncomfortable. He was surprised by himself. Evidently he
had not known his own feelings. When Braybrooke mentioned Seymour
Portman as a suitable husband for Lady Sellingworth something strong,
almost violent, had risen up in Craven to protest. What was that? And
why was he suddenly so angry? He was surely not going to make a fool of
himself. He felt almost youthfully alarmed and also rather excited. An
odd sense of romance suddenly floated about him. Did that too come from
those cursed dry Martinis? Impossible to be sure for the moment. He
found himself wondering whether teetotallers knew more about their
souls than moderate drinkers, or less.
But the odd sense of romance persisted when the effect of the dry
Martinis must certainly have worn off. It was something such as Craven
had never known, or even imagined before. He had had his little
adventures, and about them had thrown the woven robes that gleam with
prismatic colours; he had even had deeper, passionate episodes—as he
thought them—in his life. As he had acknowledged in the Ristorante
Bella Napoli he had seldom or never started on a journey abroad
without a secret hope of romance meeting him on the way. And sometimes
it had met him. Or so he had believed at the time. But in all these
episodes of the past there had been something definitely physical,
something almost horribly natural, a prompting of the body, the kind of
thing which belongs to youth, any youth, and which any doctor could
explain in a few crude words. Even then, in those now dead moments,
Craven had sometimes felt sensitive youth's impotent anger at being
under the yoke which is laid upon the necks of innumerable others,
clever, dull, aristocratic, common, the elect and the hopelessly
vulgar.
In this new episode he was emancipated from that. He was able to
feel that he was peculiar, if not unique. In the strong attraction
which drew him towards Lady Sellingworth there was certainly nothing of
the —well, to himself he called it “the medically physical.” Something
of the body there might possibly be. Indeed, perhaps it was impossible
that there should not be. But the predominant factor had nothing
whatever to do with the body. He felt certain of that.
When he got home from the Club he found on his table a note from
Beryl Van Tuyn:
HYDE PARK HOTEL,
Thursday.
My dear Mr. Craven,—What a pity you couldn't get away last night.
But you were quite right to play Squire of Dames to our dear Lady
Sellingworth. We had a rather wonderful evening after you had
gone. Dick Garstin was in his best vein. Green chartreuse brings
out his genius in a wonderful way. I wish it would do for me what
it does for him. But I have tried it—in small doses—quite in
vain. He and I walked home together and talked of everything
under
the stars. I believe he is going to paint me. Next time you make
your way to the Bella Napoli we might go together. Two lovers of
Italy must always feel at home there, and the sight of Vesuvius
is
encouraging, I think. So don't forget that my “beat,” as you call
it, often lies in Soho.
Isn't dear Adela Sellingworth delightful? She looked like a
wonderful antique in that Italian frame. I love every line in her
face and would give my best bronze to have white hair like hers.
But somehow I am almost glad she didn't fall to the Cafe Royal.
She is right. It is too Georgian for her. She is, as she says,
definitely Edwardian and would scarcely understand the new jargon
which comes as easily as how d'you do to our lips.
By the way, coming out of the Cafe Royal last night I saw a living
bronze.—Yours,
BERYL VAN TUYN.
This note half amused and half irritated Craven on a first reading.
On a second reading irritation predominated in him. Miss Van Tuyn's
determined relegation of Lady Sellingworth to the past seemed somehow
to strike at him, to make him—or to intend to make him—ridiculous;
and her deliberate classing of him with herself in the underlined “
our” seemed rather like an attempt to assert authority, the
authority of youth over him. But no doubt this was very natural. Craven
was quite sure that Miss Van Tuyn cared nothing about him. But he was a
not disagreeable and quite presentable young man; he had looked into
her violet eyes, had pressed her hand, had held it longer than was at
all necessary, had in fact shown that he was just a young man and
easily susceptible; and so she did not choose to let an elderly woman
take possession of him even for an hour without sharpening a weapon or
two and bringing them into use.
No wonder that men are conceited when women so swiftly take up arms
on their account!
For a moment Craven almost disliked Miss Van Tuyn, and made up his
mind that there would be no “next time” for him in Soho while she was
in London. He knew that whenever they met he would feel her attraction;
but he now classed it with those attractions of the past which were
disgustingly explicable, and which just recently he had learnt to
understand in a way that was almost old.
Was he putting on horn spectacles while his eyesight was still
unimpaired? He felt doubtful, almost confused for a moment. Was his new
feeling for Lady Sellingworth subtly pulling him away from his youth?
Where was he going? Perhaps this new sensation of movement was only
deceptive; perhaps he was not on the way to an unknown region. For a
moment he wished that he could talk freely, openly, with some
understanding friend, a man of course. But though he had plenty of men
friends he could not think of one he would be able to confide his
present feelings to.
Already he began to realize the human ridicule which always attends
upon any departure from what, according to the decision of all
absolutely ordinary people, is strictly normal.
Everybody would understand and approve if he were to fall
desperately in love with Beryl Van Tuyn; but if he were to prefer a
great friendship with Lady Sellingworth to a love affair with her
youthful and beautiful friend no one would understand, and everybody
would be ready to laugh and condemn.
He knew this and yet he felt obstinate, mulish almost, as he sat
down to reply non-committally to Miss Van Tuyn's letter. It was only
when he did this that he thought seriously about its last words.
Why had she troubled to write them down? Comparatively young though
he was he knew that a woman's “by the way” usually means anything
rather than what it seems to mean—namely, a sentence thrown out by
chance because it has just happened to turn up in the mind. “A living
bronze.” Miss Van Tuyn was exceptionally fond of bronzes and collected
them with enthusiasm. She knew of course the Museum at Naples. Craven
had often visited it when he had been staying at the Villa Rosebery. He
could remember clearly almost every important bronze in that wonderful
collection. He realized what “a living bronze” must mean when written
of by a woman. Miss Van Tuyn had evidently seen an amazingly handsome
man coming out of the Cafe Royal. But why should she tell him about it?
Perhaps her motive was the very ordinary one, an attempt to rouse the
swift jealousy of the male animal. She was certainly “up” to all the
usual feminine tricks. He thoroughly realized her vanity and,
contrasting it with Lady Sellingworth's apparently almost careless lack
of self-consciousness, he wondered whether Lady Sellingworth could ever
have been what she was said to have been. If so, as a snake sheds its
skin she must surely have sloughed her original nature. He was thankful
for that, thankful for her absolute lack of pose and vanity. He even
delighted in her self- mockery, divined by him. So few woman mocked at
themselves and so many mocked at others.
If Miss Van Tuyn had intended to give a flick to his jealousy at the
end of her letter she had failed. If she met fifty living bronzes and
added them to her collection it was nothing to him. He compared his
feeling when Braybrooke had suggested Seymour Portman as a husband for
Lady Sellingworth with his lack of feeling about Miss Van Tuyn and her
bronze, and he was almost startled. And yet Miss Van Tuyn was lovely
and certainly did not want him to go quite away out of her ken. And,
when she chose, she had made him very foolish about her.
What did it all mean?
He wrote a little letter in answer to hers, charmingly polite, but
rather vague about Soho. At the end of it, before signing himself
“Yours”—he could do no less with her letter before him—he put, “I
feel rather intrigued about the living bronze. Was it in petticoats or
trousers?”
CHAPTER IV
Craven had been right in his supposition about the world's
governess. Braybrooke had gone away from the Club that evening firmly
persuaded that his young friend had done the almost unbelievable thing,
had fallen in love with Adela Sellingworth. He was really perturbed
about it. A tremulous sense of the fitness of things governed his whole
life, presided as it were over all his actions and even over most of
his thoughts. He instinctively shrank from everything that was bizarre,
from everything that was, as he called it, “out of keeping.” He was
responsible for the introduction of young Craven into Adela
Sellingworth's life. It would be very unfortunate indeed, it would be
almost disastrous, if the result of that well-meant introduction were
to be a preposterous passion!
When the effect of the two cocktails had subsided he tried to
convince himself that he was giving way to undue anxiety, that there
was really nothing in his supposition except alcohol taken in the
afternoon. But this effort failed. He had lived a very long time, much
longer than almost anyone knew; he was intimately familiar with the
world, and, although unyieldingly discreet himself, was well acquainted
with its follies and sins. Life had taught him that practically nothing
is impossible. He had known old men to run—or rather to walk—off with
young girls; he had known old women to be infatuated with mere boys; he
had known well-born women to marry grooms and chauffeurs; a Peer of his
acquaintance had linked himself to a cabman's daughter and stuck to
her; chorus girls of course perpetually married into the Peerage; human
passions—although he could not understand it—ran as wild as the roots
of eucalyptus trees planted high within reach of water. So he could not
rule out as impossible a sudden affection for Adela Sellingworth in the
heart of young Craven. It was really very unfortunate. Feeling
responsible, he thought perhaps he ought to do something discreetly.
The question was—what?
Braybrooke was inclined to be a matchmaker, though he had neglected
to make one match, his own. Thinking things over now, he said to
himself that it was quite time young Craven settled down. He was a very
promising fellow. Eric Learington, of whom he had made some casual
inquiries during the interval between the two parts of the concert at
Queen's Hall, had spoken quite warmly about Craven's abilities,
industry and ambition. No doubt the young man would go far. But he
ought to have a clever wife with some money to help him. A budding
diplomatist needs a wife more than most men. He is destined to do much
entertaining. Social matters are a part of his duty, of his career. A
suitable wife was clearly indicated for young Craven. And it occurred
to the world's governess that as he had apparently done harm
unwittingly, or approached the doing of harm, by introducing Craven to
dear Adela Sellingworth, it was incumbent on him to try to do good, if
possible, by now knocking the harm on the head, of course gently, as a
well-bred man does things.
Beryl Van Tuyn came into his mind.
As he had told Craven, he knew her quite well and knew all about
her. She came of an excellent American family in Philadelphia. She was
the only child of parents who could not get on together, and who were
divorced. Both her father and mother had married again. The former
lived in New York in Fifth Avenue; the latter, who was a beauty, was
usually somewhere in Europe—now on the Riviera, now in Rome, at Aix,
in Madrid, in London. She sometimes visited Paris, but seldom stayed
long anywhere. She professed to be fond of Beryl, but the truth was
that Beryl was far too good looking to be desirable as her companion.
She loved her child intensely—at a distance. Beryl was quite satisfied
to be at a distance, for she had a passion for independence. Her father
gave her an ample allowance. Her mother had long ago unearthed Fanny
Cronin from some lair in Philadelphia to be her official companion.
Braybrooke knew all this, knew about how much money Miss Van Tuyn
had, and about how much she would eventually have. Without being
vulgarly curious, he somehow usually got to know almost everything.
Beryl Van Tuyn would be just the wife for young Craven when she had
settled down. She was too independent, too original, too daring, and
far too conventional for Braybrooke's way of thinking. But he believed
her to be really quite all right. Modern Americans held views about
personal liberty which were not at all his, but that did not mean that
they were not entirely respectable. Beryl Van Tuyn was clever,
beautiful, had plenty of money. As a diplomatist's wife, when she had
settled down, she would be quite in her element. After some anxious
thought he decided that it was his duty to try to pull strings.
The ascertained fact that Craven had met Adela Sellingworth and
Beryl Van Tuyn on the same day and together, and that the woman of
sixty had evidently attracted him far more than the radiant girl of
twenty-four, did not deter Braybrooke from his enterprise. His long
experience of the world had led him to know that human beings can, and
perpetually do, interfere successfully in each other's affairs, help in
making of what are called destinies, head each other off from the
prosecution of designs, in fact play Providence and the Devil to each
other.
His laudable intention was to play Providence.
On the following day he considered it his social duty to pay a call
at Number 18A, Berkeley Square. Dear Adela Sellingworth would certainly
wish to know how things were going in Paris. Although she now never
went there, and in fact never went anywhere, she still, thank God, had
an interest in what was going on in the world. It would be his pleasure
to gratify it.
He found her at home and alone. But before he was taken upstairs the
butler said he was not sure whether her ladyship was seeing anyone and
must find out. He went away to do so, and returned with an affirmative
answer.
When Braybrooke came into the big drawing-room on the first floor he
fancied that his friend was looking older, and even paler, than usual.
As he took her hand he thought, “Can I be right? Is it possible that
Craven can imagine himself in love with her?”
It was an uncomplimentary thought, and he tried to put it from him
as singularly unsuitable, and indeed almost outrageous at this moment,
but it would not go. It defied him and stuck firmly in his mind. In his
opinion Adela Sellingworth was the most truly distinguished woman in
London. But that she should attract a young man, almost indeed a boy,
in that way! It did really seem utterly impossible.
In answer to his inquiry, Lady Sellingworth acknowledged that she
had not been feeling very well during the last two days.
“Perhaps you have been doing too much?” he suggested.
The mocking look came into her eyes.
“But what do I ever do now?” she said. “I lie quietly on my shelf.
That surely can't be very exhausting.”
“No one would ever connect you with being laid on the shelf,” said
Braybrooke; “your personality forbids that. Besides, I hear that you
have been having quite a lively time.”
He paused—it was his conception of the pause dramatic—then added:
“At the foot of a volcano!”
“Ah! you have heard about Vesuvius!”
“Yes.”
“What a marvellous gatherer of news you are! Beryl Van Tuyn?”
“No. I happened to meet young Craven at the St. James's Club, and he
told me of your excursion into Bohemia.”
“Bohemia!” she said. “I haven't set foot in that entertaining
country since I gave up my apartment in Paris. Soho is beyond its
borders. But I confess to Soho. Beryl persuaded me, and I really quite
enjoyed it. The coffee was delicious, and the hairdressers put their
souls into their guitars. But I doubt if I shall go there again.”
“It tired you? The atmosphere in those places is so mephitic.”
“Oh, I didn't mind that. Besides, we blew it away by walking home,
at least part of the way home.”
“Down Shaftesbury Avenue? That was surely rather dangerous.”
“Dangerous! Why?”
“The sudden change from stuffiness to cold and damp. Craven spoke of
Toscanas. And those cheap restaurants are so very small and badly
ventilated.”
“Oh, we enjoyed our walk.”
“That's good. Craven was quite enthusiastic about the evening.”
Again the pause dramatic!
“He's a nice boy. I hope you liked him. I feel a little
responsible—”
“Do you? But why?”
“Because I ventured to introduce him to you.”
“Oh, don't worry. I assure you I like him very much.”
Her tone was very casual, but quite cordial.
“Well, he was enthusiastic about the evening, said it was like a bit
of Italy. You know he was once at the embassy in Rome.”
“Yes. He told me so.”
“I hear very good accounts of him from the Foreign Office. Eric
Learington speaks very well of him. He ought to rise high in the
career.”
“I hope he will. I like to see clever young men get on. And he
certainly has something in him.”
“Yes, I think so too. By the way, he seems tremendously taken with
Miss Van Tuyn.”
As the world's governess said this he let his small hazel eyes fix
themselves rather intently on Lady Sellingworth's face. He saw no
change of expression there. She still looked tired, but casual, neither
specially interested nor in the least bored. Her brilliant eyes still
held their slightly mocking expression.
“Beryl must be almost irresistible to young men,” she said. “She
combines beauty with brains, and she has the audacity which nearly
always appeals to youth. Besides, unconventionality is really the salt
of our over-civilized life, and she has it in abundance. She doesn't
merely pretend to it. It is part of her.”
“She may grow out of it in time.”
“I hope she won't,” said Lady Sellingworth, rather decisively. “If
she did she would lose a great deal of her charm.”
“Well, but when she marries?”
“Is she thinking of marrying?”
“Girls of her age usually are, I fancy.”
“If she marries the right man he won't mind her unconventionality.
He may even enjoy it.”
It occurred to Braybrooke that Adela Sellingworth was supposed to
have done a great many unconventional things at one time. Nevertheless
he could not help saying:
“I think most husbands prefer their wives to keep within bounds.”
“Beryl may never marry,” said Lady Sellingworth, rather
thoughtfully. “She is an odd girl. I could imagine—”
She paused, but not dramatically.
“Yes?” he said, with gentle insinuation.
“I could imagine her choosing to live a life of her own.”
“What, like Caroline Briggs?” he said.
Lady Sellingworth moved, and her face changed, suddenly looked more
expressive.
“Ah, Caroline!” she said. “I am very fond of her. She is one in a
thousand. But she and Beryl are quite different in character. Caroline
lives for self-respect, I think. And Beryl lives for life. Caroline
refuses, but Beryl accepts with both hands.”
“Then she will probably accept a husband some day.”
Suddenly Lady Sellingworth changed her manner. She leaned forward
towards the world's governess, smiled at him, and said, half
satirically, half confidentially:
“Now what is it you have in the back of your mind?”
Braybrooke was slightly taken aback. He coughed and half closed his
eyes, then gently pulled up his perfectly creased trousers, taking hold
of them just above the knees.
“I really don't think—” he began.
“You and I are old friends. Do tell me.”
He certainly had not come intending to be quite frank, and this
sudden attack rather startled him.
“You have formed some project,” she continued. “I know it. Now let
me guess what it is.”
“But I assure you—”
“You have found someone whom you think would suit Beryl as a
husband. Isn't that it?”
“Well, I don't know. I confess it had just occurred to me that with
her beauty, her cleverness, and her money—for one has to think of
money, unfortunately in these difficult days—she would be a very
desirable wife for a rising ambitious man.”
“No doubt. And who is he?”
It was against all Braybrooke's instincts to burst out abruptly into
the open. He scarcely knew what to do. But he was sufficiently sharp to
realize that Lady Sellingworth already knew the answer to her question.
So he made a virtue of necessity and replied:
“It had merely occurred to me, after noting young Craven's
enthusiasm about her beauty and cleverness, that he might suit her very
well. He must marry and marry well if he wishes to rise high in the
diplomatic career.”
“Oh, but some very famous diplomatists have been bachelors,” she
said, still smiling.
She mentioned two or three.
“Yes, yes, I know, I know,” he rejoined. “But it is really a great
handicap. If anyone needs a brilliant wife it is an ambassador.”
“You think Mr. Craven is destined to become an ambassador?”
“I don't see why not—in the fullness of time, of course. Perhaps
you don't know how ambitious and hard-working he is.”
“I know really very little about him.”
“His abilities are excellent. Learington has a great opinion of
him.”
“And so you think Beryl would suit him!”
“It just occurred to me. I wouldn't say more than that. I have a
horror of matchmaking.”
“Of course. Like all of us! Well, you may be right. She seemed to
like him. You don't want me to do anything, I suppose?”
“Oh, no—no!” he exclaimed, with almost unnecessary earnestness, and
looking even slightly embarrassed. “I only wished to know your opinion.
I value your opinion so very highly.”
She got up to stir the fire. He sprang, or rather got, up too,
rather quickly, to forestall her. But she persisted.
“I know my poker so well,” she said. “It will do things for me that
it won't do for anyone else. There! That is better.”
She remained standing by the hearth, looking tremendously tall.
“I don't think I have an opinion,” she said. “Beryl would be a
brilliant wife for any man. Mr. Craven seems a very pleasant boy. They
might do admirably together. Or they might both be perfectly miserable.
I can't tell. Now do tell me about Paris. Did you see Caroline Briggs?”
When Braybrooke left Berkeley Square that day he remembered having
once said to Craven that Lady Sellingworth was interested in everything
that was interesting except in love affairs, that she did not seem to
care about love affairs. And he had a vague feeling of having, perhaps,
for once done the wrong thing. Had he bored her? He hoped not. But he
was not quite sure.
When he had gone, and she was once more alone. Lady Sellingworth
rang the bell. A tall footman came in answer to it, and she told him
that if anyone else called he was to say, “not at home.” As he was
about to leave the room after receiving this order she stopped him.
“Wait a moment.”
“Yes, my lady.”
She seemed to hesitate; then she said:
“If Mr. Craven happens to call I will see him. He was here two
nights ago. Do you know him by sight?”
“I can't say I do, my lady.”
“Ah! You were not in the hall when he called the other day?”
“No, my lady.”
“He is tall with dark hair, about thirty years old. Murgatroyd is
not in to-day, is he?”
“No, my lady.”
“Then if anyone calls like the gentleman I have described just ask
him his name. And if it is Mr. Craven you can let him in.”
“Yes, my lady.”
The footman went out. A clock chimed in the distance, where the
piano stood behind the big azalea. It was half past five. Lady
Sellingworth made up the fire again, though it did not really need
mending; then she stood beside it with one narrow foot resting on the
low fender, holding her black dress up a little with her left hand.
Was Fate going to leave her alone? That was how she put it to
herself. Or was she once more to be the victim of a temperament which
she had sometimes hoped was dying out of her? In these last few years
she had suffered less and less from it.
She had made a grand effort of will. That was now ten years ago. It
had cost her more than anyone would ever know; it had cost her those
terrible tears of blood which only the soul weeps. But she had
persisted in her effort. A horrible incident, humiliating her to the
dust, had summoned all the pride that was left in her. In a sort of
cold frenzy of will she had flung life away from her, the life of the
woman who was vain, who would have worship, who would have the desire
of men, the life of the beauty who would have admiration. All that she
had clung to she had abandoned in that dreadful moment, had abandoned
as by night a terrified being leaves a dwelling that is in flames.
Feeling naked, she had gone out from it into the blackness. And for ten
years she had stuck to her resolution, had been supported by the
strength of her will fortified by a hideous memory. She had grasped her
nettle, had pressed it to her bosom. She had taken to her all the
semblance of old age, loneliness, dullness, had thrust away from her
almost everything which she had formerly lived by. For, like almost all
those who yield themselves to a terrific spasm of will, she had done
more than it was necessary for her to do. From one extreme she had gone
to another. As once she had tried to emphasize youth, she had
emphasized the loss of youth. She had cruelly exposed her disabilities
to an astonished world, had flung her loss of beauty, as it were, in
the faces of the “old guard.” She had called all men to look upon the
ravages Time had brought about in her. Few women had ever done what she
had done.
And eventually she had had a sort of reward. Gradually she had been
enclosed by the curious tranquillity that habit, if not foolish or
dangerous, brings to the human being. Her temperament, which had long
been her enemy, seemed at last to lie down and sleep. There were times
when she had wondered whether perhaps it would die. And she had come
upon certain compensations which were definite, and which she had
learnt how to value.
By slow degrees she had lost the exasperation of desire. The lust of
the eye, spoken of to her by Caroline Briggs in Paris on the evening
which preceded her enlightenment, had ceased to persecute her because
she had taught herself deliberately the custody of the eye. She had
eventually attained to self-respect, even to a quiet sense of personal
dignity, not the worldly dignity of the grande dame aware of her
aristocratic birth and position in the eyes of the world, but the
unworldly dignity of the woman who is keeping her womanhood from all
degradation, or possibility of degradation. Very often in those days
she had recalled her conversation with Caroline Briggs in the Persian
room of the big house in the Champs-Elysees. Caroline had spoken of the
women who try to defy the natural law, and had said that they were
unhappy women, laughed at by youth, even secretly jeered at. For years
she, Adela Sellingworth, had been one of those women. And often she had
been very unhappy. That misery at least was gone from her. Her nerves
had quieted down. She who had been horribly restless had learnt to be
still. Sometimes she was almost at peace. Often and often she had said
to herself that Caroline was right, that the price paid by those who
flung away their dignity of soul, as she had done in the past, was
terrible, too terrible almost for endurance. At last she could respect
herself as she was now; at last she could tacitly claim and hope to
receive the respect of others. She no longer decked out her bones in
jewels. Caroline did not know the reason of the great and startling
change in her and in her way of life, and probably supposed both to be
due to that momentous conversation. Anyhow, since then, whenever she
and Lady Sellingworth had met, she had been extraordinarily kind,
indeed, almost tender; and Lady Sellingworth knew that Caroline had
taken her part against certain of the “old guard” who had shown almost
acute animosity. Caroline Briggs now was perhaps Lady Sellingworth's
best friend. For at last they were on equal terms; and that fact had
strengthened their friendship. But Caroline was quite safe, and Lady
Sellingworth from time to time had realized that for her life might
possibly still hold peculiar dangers. There had been moments in those
ten years of temptation, of struggle, of a rending of the heart and
flesh, which nobody knew of but herself. But as the time went on, and
habit more and more asserted its sway, they had been less and less
frequent. Calm, resignation had grown within her. There was none of the
peace that passeth understanding, but sometimes there was peace. But
even when there was, she was never quite certain that she had
absolutely conquered herself.
Men and women may not know themselves thoroughly, but they usually
know very well whether they have finally got the better of a once
dominating tendency or vice, or whether there is still a possibility of
their becoming again its victim. In complete victory there is a
knowledge which nothing can shake from its throne. That knowledge Lady
Sellingworth had never possessed. She hoped, but she did not know. For
sometimes, though very seldom, the old wildness seemed to stir within
her like a serpent uncoiling itself after its winter's sleep. Then she
was frightened and made a great effort, an effort of fear. She set her
heel on the serpent, and after a time it lay still. Sometimes, too, the
loneliness of her life in her spacious and beautiful house became
almost intolerable to her. This was especially the case at night. She
did not care to show a haggard and lined face and white hair to her
world when it was at play. And though she had defied the “old guard,”
she did not love meeting all those women whom she knew so well, and who
looked so much younger and gayer than she did. So she had many lonely
evenings at home, when her servants were together below stairs, and she
had for company only the fire and a book.
The dinner in Soho had been quite an experience for her, and though
she had taken it so simply and casually, had seemed so thoroughly at
home and in place with her feet on the sanded floor, eating to the
sound of guitars, she had really been inwardly excited. And when she
had looked up and seen Craven gazing towards her she had felt an odd
thrill at the heart. For she had known Italy, too, as well as she had
know Paris, and had memories connected with Italy. And the guitars had
spoken to her of days and nights which her will told her not to think
of any more.
And now? Was Fate going to leave her alone? Or was she once more
going to be attacked? Something within her, no doubt woman's instinct,
scented danger.
Braybrooke's visit had disturbed her. She had known him for years,
and knew the type of man he was—careful, discreet, but often very
busy. He had a kind heart, but a brain which sometimes wove little
plots. On the whole he was a sincere man, except, of course, sometimes
socially, but now and then he found it necessary to tell little lies.
Had he told her a little lie that day about young Craven and Beryl Van
Tuyn? Had he been weaving the first strands of a little plot—a plot
like a net—and was it his intention to catch her in it? She knew he
had had a definite motive in coming to see her, and that the motive was
not connected with his visit to Paris.
His remarks about Craven had interested her because she was
interested in Craven, but it was not quite clear to her why Braybrooke
should suddenly concentrate on the young man's future, nor why he
should, with so much precaution, try to get at her opinion on the
question of Craven's marriage. When Braybrooke had first spoken to her
of Craven he had not implied that he and Craven were specially
intimate, or that he was deeply interested in Craven's concerns or
prospects. He had merely told her that Craven was a clever and
promising “boy,” with an interesting mind and a nice nature, who had a
great desire to meet her. And she had good-naturedly said that Craven
might call. It had all been very casual. But Braybrooke's manner had
now completely changed. He seemed to think he was almost responsible
for the young man. There had even been something furtive in his
demeanour when speaking about Craven to her, and when she had forced
him to explain and to say what was in his mind, for a moment he had
been almost confused.
What had it to do with her whether Craven married Beryl Van Tuyn or
did not marry her?
Although she had been interested when Braybrooke had spoken of
Craven's cleverness and energy, of his good prospects in his career,
and of the appreciation of Eric Learington—a man not given to undue
praises—she had been secretly irritated when he had come to the
question of Beryl Van Tuyn and the importance of Craven's marrying
well. Why should he marry at all? And if he must, why Beryl Van Tuyn?
Lady Sellingworth hated the thought of that marriage and the idea
that Braybrooke was probably intent on trying to bring it about, or at
any rate was considering whether he should make the endeavour, roused
in her resentment against him.
“Tiresome old man!” she said to herself, as she stood by the fire.
“Why won't he let things alone? What business is it of his?”
And then she felt as if Braybrooke were meditating a stroke against
her, and had practically asked her to help him in delivering the blow.
She felt that definitely. And immediately she had felt it she was
startled, and the strong sensation of being near to danger took hold of
her.
In all the ten years which had passed since the theft of her jewels
she had never once deliberately stretched out her hands to happiness.
Palliatives she had made the most of; compensations she had been
thankful for. She had been very patient, and considering what she had
been, very humble. But she had definitely given up the thought of ever
knowing again any intimate personal happiness. That book was closed. In
ten years she had never once tried to open it.
And now, suddenly, without even being definitely conscious of what
she was doing, she had laid her hands on it as if—
The change in her, the abrupt and dangerous change, had surely come
about two nights ago. And she felt now that something peculiar in
Craven, rather than something unusual in herself, had caused it.
Beryl Van Tuyn and she were friends because the girl had professed a
cult for her, had been very charming to her, and, when in London, had
persistently sought her out. Beryl had amused her. She had even been
interested in Beryl because she had noted in her certain traits which
had once been predominant in herself. And how she had understood
Beryl's vanity, Beryl's passion for independence and love of the
unconventional! Although they were so different, of different nations
and different breeds, there was something which made them akin. And she
had recognized it. And, recognizing it, she had sometimes felt a secret
pity and even fear for the girl, thinking of the inevitable fading of
that beauty, of the inevitable exasperation of that vanity with the
passing of the years. The vanity would grow and the beauty would
diminish as time went on. And then, some day, what would Beryl be? For
in her vanity there was already exaggeration. In it she had already
reached a stage which had only been gained by Lady Sellingworth at a
much later period in life. Already she looked in the highways and
byways for admiration. She sought for it even among Italian
hairdressers! Some day it would make her suffer.
Lady Sellingworth had seen young Craven go away from his visit to
her in Beryl's company with perhaps just a touch of half-ironical
amusement, mingled with just a touch of half-wistful longing for the
days that were over and done with. She knew so well that taking
possession of a handsome young man on a first meeting. There was
nothing in it but vanity. She had known and had done that sort of thing
when she was a reigning beauty. Craven had interested and pleased her
at once; she hardly knew why. There was something about him, about his
look, bearing and manner which was sympathetic to her. She had felt a
quiet inclination to know more of him. That was all. Seymour Portman
had liked him, too, and had said so when the door had closed behind the
young couple, leaving the old couple to themselves. He would come again
some day, no doubt. And while she and Sir Seymour had remained by the
fire talking quietly together, in imagination she had seen those two,
linked by their youth—that wonderful bond— walking through the London
twilight, chattering gaily, laughing at trifling jokes, realizing their
freemasonry. And she had asked herself why it was that she could not
feel that other freemasonry—of age. Seymour Portman had loved her for
many years, loved her now, had never married because of her, would give
up anything in London just to be quietly with her, would marry her now,
ravaged though she was, worn, twice a widow, with a past behind her
which he must know about, and which was not edifying. And yet she could
not love him, partly, perhaps chiefly, because there was still rooted
in her that ineradicable passion—it must be that, even now, a
passion—for youth and the fascination of youth. When at last he had
gone she had felt unusually bitter for a few minutes, had asked
herself, as human beings ask themselves every day, the eternal why.
“Why, why, why am I as I am? Why can't I care for the suitable? Why
can't I like the gift held out to me? Why doesn't my soul age with my
body? Why must I continue to be lonely just because of the taint in my
nature which forbids me to find companionship in one who finds perfect
companionship in me? Why—to sum up—am I condemned eternally to be
myself?”
There was no answer. The voice was not in the whirlwind. And
presently she had dismissed those useless, those damnable questions,
which only torture because they are never answered.
And then had come the night in Soho. And there for the first time
since they had known each other she had felt herself to be subtly
involved in a woman's obscure conflict with Beryl Van Tuyn. She was not
conscious of having taken up weapons. Nevertheless she had no doubt
about the conflict. And on her side any force brought into play against
her beautiful friend must have issued simply from her personality, from
some influence, perhaps from some charm, which she had not deliberately
used. (At least she thought she was being sincere with herself in
telling herself that.) Craven had been the cause of the conflict, and
certainly he had been fully aware of Beryl Van Tuyn's part in it. And
he had shown quiet determination, willfulness even. That willfulness of
his had pleased Lady Sellingworth more than anything had pleased her
for a very long time. It had even touched her. At first she had thought
that perhaps it had been prompted by chivalry, by something charmingly
old-fashioned, and delicately gentlemanly in Craven. Later on she had
been glad—intimately, warmly glad—to be quite sure that something
more personal had guided him in his conduct that night.
He had simply preferred her company to the company of Beryl Van
Tuyn. She was woman enough to rejoice in that fact. It was even rather
wonderful to her. And it had given Craven a place in her estimation
which no one had had for ten years.
Beryl's pressure upon him had been very definite. She had
practically told him, and asked him, to do a certain thing—to finish
the evening with her. And he had practically denied her right to
command, and refused her request. He had preferred to the Georgians and
their lively American contemporary, sincerely preferred, an Edwardian.
The compliment was the greater because the Edwardian had not
encouraged him. Indeed in a way he had really defied her as well as
Beryl Van Tuyn.
She had loved his defiance. When he had flatly told her he did not
intend to go back to the Cafe Royal she had felt thankful to him—just
that. And just before his almost boyish remark, made with genuine
vexation in his voice, about the driving of London chauffeurs had given
her a little happy thrill such as she had not known for years.
She had not had the heart to leave him on her doorstep.
But now, standing by the fire, she knew that it would have been
safer to have left him there. And it would be safer now to ring the
bell, summon the footman, and say that she was not at home to anyone
that afternoon. While she was thinking this the footman entered the
room. Hearing him she turned sharply.
“What is it?”
“Sir Seymour Portman has called, my lady. I told him you were not at
home. But he asked me to make quite sure.”
Lady Sellingworth hesitated. After a moment's pause she said, in a
dry voice:
“Not at home.”
The footman went out.
There are moments in life which are full of revelation. That was
such a moment for Lady Sellingworth. When she had heard the door open
her instinct had played her false. She had turned sharply feeling
certain that Craven had called. The reaction she felt when she heard
the name of Sir Seymour told her definitely that she was in danger. She
felt angry with herself, even disgusted, as well as half frightened.
“What a brute I am!”
She formed those words with her lips. An acute sense of
disappointment pervaded her because Craven had not come, though she had
no reason whatever to expect him. But she was angry because of her
feeling about Seymour Portman. It was horrible to have such a tepid
heart as hers was when such a long and deep devotion was given to it.
The accustomed thing then made scarcely any impression upon her, while
the thing that was new, untried, perhaps worth very little, excited in
her an expectation which amounted almost to longing!
“How can Seymour go on loving such a woman as I am?” she thought.
Stretching herself a little she was able to look into an oval
Venetian mirror above the high marble frame of the fireplace. She
looked to scourge herself as punishment for what she was feeling.
“You miserable, ridiculous old woman!” she said to herself, as she
saw her lined face which the mirror, an antique one, slightly
distorted.
“You ought to be thankful to have such a friendship as Seymour's!”
She said that, and she knew that if, disobeying her order to the
footman, he had come upstairs, her one desire would have been to get
rid of him, at all costs, to get him and his devotion out of the house,
lest Craven should come and she should not have Craven alone. If
Seymour knew that surely even his love would turn into hatred!
And if Craven knew!
She felt that day as if all the rampart of will, which ten years'
labour had built up between her and the dangers and miseries attendant
upon such a temperament as hers, were beginning before her eyes to
crumble into dust, touched by the wand of a maleficent enchanter.
And it was Craven's fault. He should have been like other young men,
obedient to the call of beauty and youth; he should have been wax in
Beryl Van Tuyn's pretty hands. Then this would never have happened,
this crumbling of will. He had done a cruel thing without being aware
of his cruelty. He had been carried away by something that was not
primarily physical. And in yielding to that uncommon impulse, which
proved that he was not typical, he had set in activity, in this hidden
and violent activity, that which had been sleeping so deeply as to seem
like something dead.
As Lady Sellingworth looked into the Venetian mirror, which made her
ugliness of age look uglier than it was, she regretted sharply that she
had allowed herself to grow old in this fearfully definite way. It was
too horrible to look like this and to be waiting eagerly, with an
almost deceiving eagerness, for the opening of a door, a footfall, the
sound of a voice that was young. Mrs. Ackroyd, Lady Archie Brook—they
looked surely twenty years younger than she did. She had been a fool!
She had been a passionate, impulsive fool!
No; she was being a fool now.
If only Caroline Briggs were in London! At that moment Lady
Sellingworth longed to be defended against herself. She felt that she
was near to the edge of a precipice, but that perhaps a strong hand
could pull her away from it into the safety she had known for ten
years.
“I am sixty. That settles it. There is nothing to be excited about,
nothing to look for, nothing to draw back from or refuse. The fact that
I am sixty and look as I do settles the whole matter.”
They were brave words, but unfortunately they altered nothing.
Feeling was untouched by them. Even conviction was not attained. Lady
Sellingworth knew she was sixty, but she felt like a woman of thirty at
that moment. And yet she was not deceived, was not deceiving herself.
She did know—or felt that she absolutely knew—that the curious spell
she had evidently been able, how she scarcely knew, to exert upon
Craven during his visit to her that night could not possibly be
lasting. He must be a quite unusual young man, perhaps even in some
degree abnormal. But even so the fascination he had felt, and had shown
that he felt, could not possibly be a lasting fascination. In such
matters she knew.
Therefore surely the way was plain before her. Ten years ago she had
made up her mind, as a woman seldom makes up her mind. She had seen
facts, basic facts, naked in a glare of light. Those facts had not
changed. But she had changed. She was ten years older. The horror of
passing into the fifties had died out in the cold resignation of
passing into the sixties. Any folly now would be ten times more foolish
than a folly of ten years ago. She told herself that, reiterated it.
The clock struck six. She heard it and turned from the fire.
Certainly Craven would not call now. It was too late. Only a very
intimate friend would be likely to call after six o'clock, and Craven
was not a very intimate friend, but only a new acquaintance whom she
had been with twice. When he had said good-bye to her after their long
talk by the fire on the night of the dinner in Soho she had said
nothing about his coming again. And he had not mentioned it. But she
had felt then that to speak of such a thing was quite unnecessary, that
it was tacitly understood between them that of course he would come
again, and soon. And she believed that he had felt as she did. For
despite her self-mockery, and even now when looking back, she had
known, and still knew, that they had gone quite a long way together in
a very short time.
That happens sometimes; but perhaps very seldom when one of the
travellers is sixty and the other some thirty years younger. Surely
something peculiar in Craven rather than something unusual in herself
had been at the root of the whole thing.
That night he had seemed so oddly at home in her house, and really
he had seemed so happy and at ease. They had talked about Italy, and he
had told her what Italy meant to him, quite simply and without any
pose, forgetting to be self-conscious in the English way. He had passed
a whole summer on the bay of Naples, and he had told her all about it.
And in the telling he had revealed a good deal of himself. The prelude
in Soho had no doubt prepared the way for such talk by carrying them to
Naples on wings of music. They would not have talked just like that
after a banal dinner at Claridge's or the Carlton. Craven had shown the
enthusiasm that was in him for the sun, the sea, life let loose from
convention, nature and beautiful things. The Foreign Office young
man—quiet, reserved, and rather older than his years—had been pushed
aside by a youth who had some Pagan blood in him, who had some
agreeable wildness under the smooth surface which often covers only
other layers of smoothness. He had told her of his envy of the sea
people and she had understood it; and, in return, she had told him of
an American boy whom she had known long ago, and who, fired by a book
about life on the bay of Naples which he had read in San Francisco, had
got hold of a little money, taken ship to Naples, gone straight to the
point at Posilpipo, and stayed there among the fishermen for nearly two
years, living their life, eating their food, learning to speak their
argot, becoming at length as one of them. So thoroughly indeed had he
identified himself with them that often he had acted as boatman to
English and American tourists, and never had his nationality been
discovered. In the end, of course, he had gone back to San Francisco,
and she believed, was now a lawyer in California. But at least he had
been wise enough to give up two years to a whim, and had bared his skin
to the sun for two glorious summers. And not everyone has the will to
adventure even so far as that.
Then they had talked about the passion for adventure, and Craven had
spoken of his love, not yet lost, for Browning's poem, “Waring”; how he
had read it when quite a boy and been fascinated by it as by few other
poems. He had even quoted some lines from it, and said them well,
taking pains and not fearing any criticism or ridicule from her. And
they had wondered whether underneath the smooth surface of Browning,
the persistent diner out, there had not been far down somewhere a brown
and half-savage being who, in some other existence, had known life
under lateen sails on seas that lie beyond the horizon line of
civilization. And they had spoken of the colours of sails, of the red,
the brown, the tawny orange-hued canvases, that, catching the winds
under sunset skies, bring romance, like some rare fruit from hidden
magical islands, upon emerald, bright-blue or indigo seas.
The talk had run on without any effort. They had been happily sunk
in talk. She had kept the fire from her face with the big fan. But the
fire had lit his face up sometimes and the flames had seemed to leap in
his eyes. And watching him without seeming to watch him the self-mockery had died out of her eyes. She had forgotten to mock at herself
and had let herself go down the stream: floating from subject to
subject, never touching bottom, never striking the bank, never brought
up short by an obstacle. It had been a perfect conversation. Even her
imp must have been quite absorbed in it. For he had not tormented her
during it.
But at last the clock had struck one, just one clear chiming blow.
And suddenly Craven had started up. His blue eyes were shining and a
dusky red had come into his cheeks. And he had apologized, had said
something about being “carried away” beyond all recollection of the
hour. She had stayed where she was and had bidden him good night
quietly from the sofa, shutting up her fan and laying it on a table.
And she had said: “I wonder what it was like with the Georgians!” And
then he had again forgotten the hour, and had stood there talking about
the ultra-modern young people of London as if he were very far away
from them, were much older, much simpler, even much more akin to her,
than they were. He had prefaced his remarks with the words, “I had
forgotten all about them!” and she had felt it was true. Beryl Van
Tuyn's name had not been mentioned between them. But she was not a
Georgian. Perhaps that fact accounted for the omission, or perhaps
there were other reasons for their not speaking of her just then. She
had done her best to prevent the evening intimacy which had been
theirs. And they both knew it. Perhaps that was why they did not speak
of her. Poor Beryl! Just then Lady Sellingworth had known a woman's
triumph which was the sweeter because of her disadvantages. Thirty-six
years older than the young and vivid beauty! And yet he had preferred
to end his evening with her! He must be an unusual, even perhaps a
rather strange man. Or else—no, the tremendous humiliation she had
endured ten years ago, acting on a nature which had always been
impaired by a secret diffidence, had made her too humble to believe any
longer that she had within herself the conqueror's power. He was not
like other young men. That was it. She had come upon an exceptional
nature. Exceptional natures love, hate, are drawn and repelled in
exceptional ways. The rules which govern others do not apply to them.
Craven was dangerous because he was, he must be, peculiar.
When at last he had left her that night it had been nearly half-past
one. But he had not apologized again. In going he had said: “Thank God
you refused to go to the Cafe Royal!”
Nearly half-past one! Lady Sellingworth now looked at the clock. It
was nearly half-past six.
She had a lonely dinner, a lonely evening before her.
Suddenly all her resignation seemed to leave her, to abandon her, as
if it had had enough of her and could not bear to be with her for
another minute. She saw her life as a desert, without one flower, one
growing green thing in it. How had she been able to endure it for so
long? It was a monstrous injustice that she should be condemned to this
horrible, unnerving loneliness. What was the use of living if one was
entirely alone? What was the use of money, of a great and beautiful
house, of comfort and leisure, if nobody shares them with you? People
came to see her, of course. But what is the use of visitors, of people
who drop in, and drop out just when you most need someone to help you
in facing life, in the evenings and when deep night closes in? At that
moment she felt, in her anger and rebellion, that she had never had
anything in her life, that all the women she knew—except perhaps
Caroline Briggs—had had more than herself, had had a far better time
than she had had. During the last ten years her brilliant past had
faded until now she could scarcely believe in it. It had become like a
pale aquarelle. Her memory retained events, of course, but they seemed
to have happened in the life of someone she had known intimately rather
than of herself. They were to her like things told rather than like
things lived. There were times when she even felt innocent. So much had
she changed during the last ten years. And now she revolted, like a
woman who had never lived and wanted to live for the first time, like a
woman who had never had anything and who demanded possession. She even
got up and stood out in the big room, saying to herself:
“What shall I do to-night? I can't stay here all alone. I must go
out. I must do something unusual to take me out of myself. Mere
stagnation here will drive me mad. I've got to do something to get away
from myself.”
But what could she do? An elderly well-known woman cannot break out
of her house in the night, like an unknown young man, and run wild in
the streets of London, or wander in the parks, seeking distractions and
adventures.
Ten years ago in Paris she had felt something of the same angry
desire for the freedom of a man, something of the same impotence. Her
curbed wildness then had tortured her. It tortured her now. Life was in
violent activity all about her. Even the shop girls had something to
look forward to. Soon they would be going out with their lovers. She
knew something of the freedom of the modern girl. Women were beginning
to take what men had always had. But all that freedom was too late for
her! (She forgot that she had taken it long ago in Paris and felt that
she had never had it. And that feeling made part of her anger.)
The clock struck the half-hour.
Just then the door was opened and the footman appeared before she
had had time to move. He looked faintly surprised at seeing her
standing facing him in the middle of the room.
“Mr. Craven has called my lady.”
“Mr. Craven! But I told you to let him in. Have you sent him away?”
“No, my lady. But Mr. Craven wouldn't come up till I had seen your
ladyship. He said it was so late. He asked me first to tell your
ladyship he had called, and whether he might see you just for a minute,
as he had a message to give your ladyship.”
“A message! Please ask him to come up.”
The footman went out, and Lady Sellingworth went to sit down near
the fire. She now looked exactly as usual, casual, indifferent, but
kind, not at all like a woman who would ever pity herself. In a moment
the footman announced “Mr. Craven,” and Craven walked in with an eager
but slightly anxious expression on his face.
“I know it is much too late for a visit,” he said. “But I thought I
might perhaps just speak to you.”
“Of course. I hear you have a message for me. Is it from Beryl?”
He looked surprised.
“Miss Van Tuyn? I haven't seen her.”
“Yes?”
“I only wanted—I wondered whether, if you are not doing anything
to-night, I could persuade you to give me a great pleasure. . . . Could
I?”
“But what is it?”
“Would you dine with me at the Bella Napoli?”
Lady Sellingworth thought of the shop girls again, but now how
differently!
“I would come and call for you just before eight. It's a fine night.
It's dry, and it will be clear and starry.”
“You want me to walk?”
He slightly reddened.
“Or shall we dress and go in a taxi?” he said.
“No, no. But I haven't said I can come.”
His face fell.
“I will come,” she said. “And we will walk. But what would Mr.
Braybrooke say?”
“Have you seen him? Has he told you?”
“What?”
“About our conversation in the club?”
“I have seen him, and I don't think he is quite pleased about
Shaftesbury Avenue. But never mind. I cannot live to please Mr.
Braybrooke. Au revoir. Just before eight.”
When he had gone Lady Sellingworth again looked in the glass.
“But it's impossible!” she said to herself. “It's impossible!”
She hated her face at that moment, and could not help bitterly
regretting the fierce impulse of ten years ago. If she had not yielded
to that impulse she might now have been looking, not at a young woman
certainly, but a woman well preserved. Now she was frankly a wreck. She
would surely look almost grotesque dining alone with young Craven.
People would think she was his grandmother. Perhaps it would be better
not to go. She was filled with a sense of painful hesitation. She came
away from the glass. No doubt Craven was “on the telephone.” She might
communicate with him, tell him not to come, that she had changed her
mind, did not feel very well. He would not believe her excuse whatever
it was, but that could not be helped. Anything was better than to make
a spectacle of herself in a restaurant. She had not put Craven's
address and telephone number in her address book, but she might perhaps
have kept the note he had written to her before their first meeting.
She did not remember having torn it up. She went to her writing-table,
but could not find the note. She found his card, but it had only his
club address on it. Then she went downstairs to a morning room she had
on the ground floor. There was another big writing-table there. The
telephone was there too. After searching for several minutes she
discovered Craven's note, the only note he had ever written to her.
Stamped in the left-hand corner of the notepaper was a telephone
number.
She was about to take down the receiver when she remembered that
Craven had not yet had time to walk back to his flat from her house,
even if he were going straight home. She must wait a few minutes. She
came away from the writing-table, sat down in an armchair, and waited.
Night had closed in. Heavy curtains were drawn across the tall
windows. One electric lamp, which she had just turned on, threw a
strong light on the writing-table, on pens, stationery, an address
book, a telephone book, a big blue-and-gold inkstand, some photographs
which stood on a ledge protected by a tiny gilded rail. The rest of the
room was in shadow. A low fire burned in the grate.
Lady Sellingworth did not take up a book or occupy herself in any
way. She just sat still in the armchair and waited. Now and then she
heard a faint footfall, the hoot of a motor horn, the slight noise of a
passing car. And loneliness crept upon her like something gathering her
into a cold and terrible embrace.
It occurred to her that she might ask Craven presently through the
telephone to come and dine in Berkeley Square. No one would see her
with him if she did that, except her own servants.
But that would be a compromise. She was not fond of compromises.
Better one thing or the other. Either she would go with him to the
restaurant or she would not see him at all that night.
If Caroline Briggs were only here! And yet if she were it would be
difficult to speak about the matter to her. If she were told of it,
what would she say? That would depend upon how she was told. If she
were told all the truth, not mere incidents, but also the feelings
attending them, she would tell her friend to give the whole thing up.
Caroline was always drastic. She always went straight to the point.
But Caroline was in Paris.
Lady Sellingworth looked at her watch. Craven lived not far off. He
might be at home by now. But perhaps she had better give him, and
herself, a little more time. For she was still undecided, did not yet
know what she was going to do. Impulse drove her on, but something
else, reason perhaps, or fear, or secret, deep down, painfully acquired
knowledge, was trying to hold her back. She remembered her last stay in
Paris, her hesitation then, her dinner with Caroline Briggs, the
definite decision she had come to, her effort to carry it out, the
terrible breakdown of her decision at the railway station and its
horrible result.
Disaster had come upon her because she had yielded to an impulse ten
years ago. Surely that should teach her not to yield to an impulse now.
But the one was so different from the other, as different as that
horrible man in Paris had been from young Craven. That horrible man in
Paris! He had disappeared out of her life. She had never seen him
again, had never mentioned him to anybody. He had gone, as mysteriously
as he had come, carrying his booty with him, all those lovely things
which had been hers, which she had worn on her neck and arms and bosom,
in her hair and on her hands. Sometimes she had wondered about him,
about the mentality and the life of such a man as he was, a creature of
the underworld, preying on women, getting up in the morning, going to
bed at night, with thoughts of crime in his mind, using his gift of
beauty loathsomely. She had wondered, too, how it was that such
loathsomeness as his was able to hide itself, how it was that he could
look so manly, so athletic, even so wistful and eager for sympathy.
But Seymour Portman had seen through him at a first glance.
Evidently that type of man had a power to trick women's instincts, but
was less successful with men. Perhaps Caroline was right, and the whole
question was simply one of the lust of the eye.
Young Craven was good-looking too. But surely she had not been
attracted to him, brought into sympathy with him merely because of
that. She hoped not. She tried hard to think not. A woman of her age
must surely be beyond the lure of mere looks in a man unconnected with
the deeper things which make up personality.
And yet ten years ago she had been lured towards a loathsome and
utterly abominable personality by mere looks. Certainly her nature
inclined her to be a prey to just that—the lust of the eye.
(Caroline Briggs was horribly apposite in some of her remarks.)
She tried to reconstitute her evenings with Craven in her
imagination, keeping the conversation exactly as it had been, but
giving him a thoroughly plain face, a bad complexion, mouse-coloured
feeble hair, undistinguished features, ordinary eyes, and a short broad
figure. Certainly it would have made a difference. But how much
difference? Perhaps a good deal. But he had enjoyed the conversation as
much as she had, and there was nothing in her appearance now to arouse
the lust of the eye. Suddenly it occurred to her that she possessed now
at least one advantage. If a young man were attracted by her it must be
her personality, herself in fact, which attracted him. It could not be
her looks. And surely it is better to attract by your personality than
by your looks.
A woman's voice whispered within her just then, “It is better to
attract by both. Then you are safe.”
She moved uneasily. Then she got up and went to the telephone. The
chances were in favour of Craven's being in his flat by now.
As she put her hand on the receiver, but before she took it down,
Lady Sellingworth thought of the Paris railway station, of what had
happened there, of the stern resolution she had come to that day, of
the tears of blood that had sealed it, of the will that had enabled her
to stick to it during ten years. And she thought, too, of that phrase
of Caroline Briggs's concerning the lust of the eye.
“I won't go!” she said to herself.
And she took the receiver down.
Almost immediately she was put through, and heard Craven's voice at
the other end, the voice which had recited those lines from Browning's
“Waring” by the fire, saying:
“Yes? Who is it?”
“Lady Sellingworth,” she replied.
The sound of the voice changed at once, became eager as it said:
“Oh—Lady Sellingworth! I have only just come in. I know what it
is.”
“But how can you?”
“I do. You want me to dress for dinner. And we are to go in a cab
and be very respectable instead of Bohemian. Isn't that it?”
She hesitated. Then she said:
“No; it isn't that.”
“Do tell me then!”
“I think—I'm afraid I can't come.”
“Oh, no—it can't be that! But I have reserved the table in the
corner for us. And we are going to have gnocchi done in a special way
with cheese. Gnocchi with cheese! Please—please don't disappoint me.”
“But I haven't been very well the last two days, and I'm rather
afraid of the cold.”
“I am so sorry. But it's absolutely dry under foot. I swear it is!”
A pause. Then his voice added:
“Since I came in I have refused an invitation to dine out to-night.
I absolutely relied on you.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. It was from Miss Van Tuyn, to dine with her at the Bella
Napoli.”
“I'll come!” said Lady Sellingworth. “Good-bye.”
And she put up the receiver.
CHAPTER V
Miss Van Tuyn had not intended to stay long in London when she came
over from Paris. But now she changed her mind. She was pulled at by
three interests—Lady Sellingworth, Craven and the living bronze. A
cold hand had touched her vanity on the night of the dinner in Soho.
She had felt angry with Craven for not coming back to the Cafe Royal,
and angrier still with Lady Sellingworth for keeping him with her.
Although she did not positively know that Craven had spent the last
part of the evening in the drawing-room at Berkeley Square, she felt
certain that he had done so. Probably Lady Sellingworth had pressed him
to go in. But perhaps he had been glad to go, perhaps he had submitted
to an influence which had carried him for the time out of his younger,
more beautiful friend's reach.
Miss Van Tuyn resolved definitely that Craven must at once be added
to the numerous men who were mad about her. So much was due to her
vanity. Besides, she liked Craven, and might grow to like him very much
if she knew him better. She decided to know him better, much better,
and wrote her letter to him. Craven had puzzled a little over the final
sentence of that letter. There were two reasons for its apparently
casual insertion. Miss Van Tuyn wished to whip Craven into alertness by
giving his male vanity a flick. Her other reason was more subtle. Some
instinct seemed to tell her that in the future she might want to use
the stranger as a weapon in connexion with Craven. She did not know how
exactly. But in that sentence of her letter she felt that she was
somehow preparing the ground for incidents which would be brought about
by destiny, or which chance would allow to happen.
That she would some day know “the living bronze” she felt certain.
For she meant to know him. Garstin's brutal comment on him had
frightened her. She did not believe it to be just. Garstin was always
brutal in his comments. And he lived so perpetually among shady, or
more than shady, people that it was difficult for him to believe in the
decency of anybody who was worth knowing. For him the world seemed to
be divided into the hopelessly dull and conventional, who did not
count, and the definitely outrageous, who were often interesting and
worthy of being studied and sometimes painted. It must be obvious to
anyone that the living bronze could not be numbered among the merely
dull and conventional. Naturally enough, then, Garstin supposed him to
be a successful blackmailer. Miss Van Tuyn was not going to allow
herself to be influenced by the putrescence of Garstin's mind. She had
her own views on everything and usually held to them. She had quite
decided that she would get to know the living bronze through Garstin,
who always managed to know anyone he was interested in. Being totally
unconventional and not, as he said, caring a damn about the
proprieties, if he wished to speak to someone he spoke to him, if he
wished to paint him he told him to come along to the studio. There was
a simplicity about Garstin's methods which was excused in some degree
by his fame. But if he had not been famous he would have acted in just
the same way. No shyness hindered him; no doubts about himself ever
assailed him. He just did what he wanted to do without arriere
pensee. There was certainly strength in Garstin, although it was
not moral strength.
The morning after the dinner in Soho Miss Van Tuyn telegraphed to
Fanny Cronin to come over at once, with Bourget's latest works, and
engaged an apartment at Claridge's. Although she sometime dined in the
shadow of Vesuvius, she preferred to issue forth from some lair which
was unmistakably smart and comfortable. Claridge's was both, and
everybody came there. Miss Cronin wired obedience and would be on the
way immediately. Meanwhile Miss Van Tuyn received Craven's note in
answer to hers.
She grasped all its meaning, surface and subterranean, immediately.
It meant a very polite, very carefully masked, withdrawal from the
sphere of her influence. The passage about Soho was perfectly clear to
her mind, although to many it might have seemed to convey an agreeably
worded acceptance of her suggestion, only laying its translation into
action in a rather problematical future, the sort of future which would
become present when “neither of us has an engagement.”
Craven had evidently been “got at” by Adela Sellingworth.
On the morning after Miss Van Tuyn's telegram to Paris Fanny Cronin
arrived, with Bourget's latest book in her hand, and later they settled
in at Claridge's. Miss Cronin went to bed, and Miss Van Tuyn, who had
no engagement for that evening, went presently to the telephone.
Although in her note to Craven by implication she had left it to him to
suggest a tete-a-tete dinner in Soho, she was now resolved to ask him.
She was a girl of the determined modern type, not much troubled by the
delicacies or inclined to wait humbly on the pleasure of men. If a man
did not show her the way, she was quite ready to show the way to him.
Without being precisely of the huntress type, she knew how to take bow
and arrow in her hand.
She rang up Craven, and the following dialogue took place at the
telephone.
“Yes? Yes?”
“Is Mr. Craven there?”
“Yes, I am Alick Craven. Who is it, please?”
“Don't you know?”
“One minute! Is it—I'm afraid I don't.”
“Beryl Van Tuyn.”
“Of course! I knew the voice at once, but somehow I couldn't place
it. How are you, Miss Van Tuyn?”
“Dangerously well.”
“That's splendid.”
“And you?”
“I'm what dull people call very fit and cheery.”
“How dreadful! Now, tell me—are you engaged to-night? I'm sure you
aren't, because I want you to take me to dine at the Bella Napoli. We agreed to tell each other when we were free. So I take you at your
word.”
“Oh, I'm awfully sorry!”
“What?”
“I'm ever so sorry.”
“Why?”
“I have a dinner engagement to-night.”
“What a bore! But surely you can get out of it?”
“I'm afraid not. No, really I can't.”
“Send an excuse! Say you are ill.”
“I can't honestly. It's—it's rather important. Besides, the fact
is, I'm the host.”
“Oh!”
The timbre of Miss Van Tuyn's voice changed slightly at this crisis
in the conversation.
“Oh—if you're the host, of course. . . . You really are the
host?”
“Yes, I really am. So you see!”
“No, but I hear and understand. Never mind. Ask me another night.”
“Yes—that's it. Another night. Thank you so much. By the way, does
the living bronze—”
“What? The living what?”
“Bronze! . . . The living bronze—”
“Oh, yes. Well, what about it?”
“Does it wear petticoats or trousers?”
“Trousers.”
“Then I think I rather hate it.”
“You—”
But at this point the exchange intervened. Then something happened;
and then Craven heard a voice saying:
“No, darling! It's the teeth—the teeth on the left-hand side. You
know when we were at the Carlton I was in agony. Tell Annie not to—”
It was useless to persist. Besides, he did not want to. So he put up
the receiver. Almost immediately afterwards he was rung up by Lady
Sellingworth, hung on the edge of disappointment for an instant, and
then was caught back into happiness.
When he finally left the telephone and went to his bedroom to change
his clothes, but not to “dress,” he thanked God for having clinched
matters so swiftly. Lady Sellingworth had certainly meant to let him
down. Some instinct had told him what to say to her to make her change
her mind. At least, he supposed so. For she had abruptly changed her
mind after hearing of Miss Van Tuyn's invitation. But why had she meant
to give up the dinner? What had happened between his exit from her
house and her ringing him up? For he could not believe in the excuse of
ill-health put forward by her. He was puzzled. Women certainly were
difficult to understand. But it was all right now. His audacity—for he
thought it rather audacious of him to have asked Lady Sellingworth to
dine alone with him at the Bella Napoli—was going to be rewarded.
As he changed his clothes he hummed to himself:
“O Napoli! Bella Napoli!”
At Claridge's meanwhile Miss Van Tuyn was not humming. As she came
away from the telephone she felt in a very bad temper. Things were not
going well for her just now in London, and she was accustomed to things
going well. As in Craven's letter, so just now at the telephone, she
had been aware of resistance, of a distinct holding back from her
influence. This was a rare experience for her, and she resented it. She
believed Craven's excuse for not dining with her. It was incredible
that a young man who had nothing to do would refuse to pass an evening
in her company. No; he was engaged. But she had felt at the telephone
that he was not sorry he was engaged; she still felt it. He was going
to do something which he preferred doing to dining with her. The
tell-tale line showed itself in her low white forehead.
Fanny Cronin had gone to bed; otherwise they might have dined
downstairs in the restaurant, where they would have been sure of
meeting people whom Miss Van Tuyn knew. She did not choose to go down
and dine alone. A lonely dinner followed by a lonely evening upstairs
did not appeal to her; for a moment, like Lady Sellingworth in Berkeley
Square, she felt the oppression of solitude. She went to the window of
her sitting-room, drew the curtain back, pulled aside the blind, and
looked out. The night was going to be fine; the sky was clear and
starry; the London outside drew her. For a moment she thought of
telephoning to Garstin to come out somewhere and dine with her. He was
rude to her, seldom paid her a compliment, and never made love to her.
But he was famous and interesting. They could always get on in a
tete-a-tete conversation. And then there was now that link between them
of the living bronze and her plan with which Garstin was connected. She
meant to know that man; she meant it more strongly now that Craven was
behaving so strangely. She dropped the blind, drew the curtains
forward, went to the fire, and lit a cigarette.
She wondered where Craven was dining. At some delightful restaurant
with someone he liked very much. She was quite sure of that; or—
perhaps he had told her a lie! Perhaps he was dining at Number 18A,
Berkeley Square! Suddenly she felt certain that she had hit on the
truth. That was it! He was dining in Berkeley Square with Adela
Sellingworth. They were going to have another evening together.
Possessed by this conviction, and acting on an almost fierce impulse—
for her vanity was now suffering severely—she went again to the
telephone and rang up Lady Sellingworth. When she was put through, and
heard the characteristic husky voice of her so-called friend at the
other end of the line, she begged Lady Sellingworth to come and dine at
Claridge's that night and have a quiet talk over things. As she had
expected, she got a refusal. Lady Sellingworth was engaged. Miss Van
Tuyn, with a discreet half-question, half-expression of disappointment,
elicited the fact that Lady Sellingworth was dining out, not having
people at home. The conversation concluded at both ends with charming
expressions of regret, and promises to be together as soon as was
humanly possible.
Again Miss Van Tuyn believed an excuse; again her instinct told her
that she had invited someone to dine who was glad to be engaged. There
was only one explanation of the two happy refusals. She was now
absolutely positive that Lady Sellingworth and Craven were going to
dine together, and not in Berkeley Square, and Craven was going to be
the host, as he had said. He had invited Lady Sellingworth to go out
and dine somewhere alone with him, and she had consented to do so.
Where would they go? She thought of the Bella Napoli. It was
very unlikely that they would meet anyone there whom they both knew,
and they had met at the Bella Napoli. Perhaps they—or perhaps
she— had romantic recollections connected with it! Perhaps they had
arranged the other evening to dine there again—and without Beryl Van
Tuyn this time! If so, the intervention at the telephone must have
seemed an ironic stroke to them both.
For a moment Miss Van Tuyn's injured vanity made her feel as if they
were involved in a plot directed against her and her happiness, as if
they had both behaved abominably to her. She had always been so
charming to Lady Sellingworth, had always praised her, had taken her
part, had even had quite a cult for her! It was very disgusting. It
showed Miss Van Tuyn how right she had been in generally cultivating
men instead of women. For, of course, Craven could not get out of
things with an experienced rusee woman of the world like Adela
Sellingworth. Women of that type always knew how to “corner” a man,
especially if he were young and had decent instincts. Poor Craven!
But at the telephone Miss Van Tuyn had felt that Craven was glad to
be engaged that evening, that he was looking forward to something.
After sitting still for a few minutes, always with the tell-tale
line in her forehead, Miss Van Tuyn got up with an air of purpose. She
went to a door at the end of the sitting-room, opened it, crossed a
lobby, opened double doors, and entered a bedroom in which a large,
mild- looking woman, with square cheeks, chestnut-coloured smooth hair,
large, chestnut-coloured eyes under badly painted eyebrows, and a mouth
with teeth that suggested a very kind and well-meaning rabbit, was
lying in bed with a cup and a pot of camomile tea beside her, and
Bourget's “Mensonges” in her hand. This was Fanny Cronin,
originally from Philadelphia, but now largely French in a simple and
unpretending way. The painted eyebrows must not be taken as evidence
against her. They were the only artificiality of which Miss Cronin was
guilty; and as an unkind fate had absolutely denied her any eyebrows of
her own, she had conceived it only decent to supply their place.
“I've got back to 'Mensonges,' Beryl,” she said, as she saw
Miss Van Tuyn. “After all, there's nothing like it. It bites right into
one, even on a third reading.”
“Dear old Fanny! I'm so glad you're being bitten into. I know how
you love it, and I'm not going to disturb you. I only came to tell you
that I'm going out this evening, and may possibly come back late.”
“I hope you will enjoy yourself, dear, and meet pleasant people.”
Miss Cronin was thoroughly well trained, and seldom asked any
questions. She had long ago been carefully taught that the duty of a
dame de compagnie consisted solely in being alive in a certain
place —the place selected for her by the person she was dame de
compagnie to. It was, after all, an easy enough profession so long
as a beneficent Providence permitted your heart to beat and your lungs
to function. The place at present was Claridge's Hotel. She had nothing
to do except to lie comfortably in bed there. And this small feat, well
within her competence, she was now accomplishing with complete
satisfaction to herself. She took a happy sip of her camomile tea and
added:
“But I know you always do that. You have such a wide choice and are
so clever in selection.”
Miss Van Tuyn slightly frowned.
“There isn't such a wide choice in London as there is in Paris,” she
said rather morosely.
“I dare say not. Paris is much smaller than London, but much
cleverer, I think. Where would you find an author like Bourget among
the English? Which of them could have written 'Mensonges
'? Which of them could—”
“I know, dear, I know! They haven't the bite. That is what you mean.
They have only the bark.”
“Exactly! And when one sits down to a book—”
“Just so, dear. The dog that can only bark is a very dull dog. I saw
a wonderful dog the other day that looked as if it could bite.”
“Indeed! In London?”
“Yes. But I'm sure it wasn't English.”
“Was it a poodle?”
“No, quite the contrary.”
Fanny Cronin looked rather vague. She was really trying to think
what dog was quite the contrary of a poodle, but, after the Channel,
her mind was unequal to the effort. So she took another sip of the
camomile tea and said:
“What colour was it?”
“It was all brown like a brown bronze. Well, good night, Fanny.”
“Good night, dear. I really wish you would read 'Mensonges'
again when I have finished with it. One cannot read over these
masterpieces too often.”
“You shall lend it me.”
She went out of the room, and Fanny Cronin settled comfortably down
once more to the competent exercise of her profession.
It was now nearly eight o'clock. Miss Van Tuyn went to her bedroom.
She had a maid with her, but she did not ring for the woman. Instead
she shut her door, and began to “do” things for herself. She began by
taking off her gown and putting on a loose wrapper. Then she sat down
before the dressing-table and changed the way in which her corn-coloured hair was done, making it sit much closer to the head than
before, and look much less striking and conspicuous. The new way of
doing her hair changed her appearance considerably, made her less like
a Ceres and more like a Puritan. When she was quite satisfied with her
hair she got out of her wrapper, and presently put on an absolutely
plain black coat and skirt, a black hat which came down very low on her
forehead, a black veil and black suede gloves. Then she took a tightly
furled umbrella with an ebony handle out of her wardrobe, picked up her
purse, unlocked her door and stepped out into the lobby.
Her French maid appeared from somewhere. She was a rather elderly
woman with a clever, but not unpleasantly subtle, face. Miss Van Tuyn
said a few words to her in a low voice, opened the lobby door and went
out.
She took the lift, glided down, walked slowly and carelessly across
the hall and passed out by the swing door.
“A taxi, madam?” said the commissionaire in livery.
She shook her head and walked away down Brook Street in the
direction of Grosvenor Square.
As Craven had predicted it was a fine clear night, dry underfoot,
starry overhead. If Miss Van Tuyn had had with her a chosen companion
she would have enjoyed her walk. She was absolutely self-possessed, and
thoroughly capable of taking care of herself. No terrors of London
affected her spirit. But she was angry and bored at being alone. She
felt almost for the first time in her life neglected and even injured.
And she was determined to try to find out whether her strong suspicions
about Lady Sellingworth and Craven were well founded. If really Craven
was giving a dinner somewhere, and Lady Sellingworth was dining with
friends somewhere else, she had no special reason for irritation. She
might possibly be mistaken in her unpleasant conviction that both of
them had something to do which they preferred to dining with her. But
if they were dining together and alone she would know exactly how
things were between them. For neither of them had done what would
surely have been the natural thing to do if there were no desire for
concealment; neither of them had frankly stated the truth about the
dinner.
“If they are dining together they don't wish me to know it,” Miss
Van Tuyn said to herself, as she walked along Grosvenor Square and
turned down Carlos Place. “For if I had known it they might have felt
obliged to invite me to join them, as I was inviting them, and as I was
the one who introduced Adela Sellingworth to the Bella Napoli.”
And as she remembered this she felt more definitely injured. For she
had taken a good deal of trouble to persuade Lady Sellingworth to dine
out in Soho, had taken trouble about the food and about the music, had,
in fact, done everything that was possible to make the evening
entertaining and delightful to her friend. It was even she, by the way,
who had beckoned Craven to their table and had asked him to join them
after dinner.
And in return for all this Adela Sellingworth had carried him off,
and perhaps to-night was dining with him alone at the Bella Napoli
!
“These old beauties are always the most unscrupulous women in the
world,” thought Miss Van Tuyn, as she came into Berkeley Square. “They
never know when to stop. They are never satisfied. It's bad enough to
be with a greedy child, but it's really horrible to have much to do
with a greedy old person. I should never have thought that Adela
Sellingworth was like this.”
It did not occur to her that perhaps some day she would be an old
beauty herself, and even then would perhaps still want a few pleasures
and joys to make life endurable to her.
In passing through Berkeley Square she deliberately walked on the
left side of it, and presently came to the house where Lady
Sellingworth lived. The big mansion was dark. As Miss Van Tuyn went by
it she felt an access of ill-humour, and for an instant she knew
something of the feeling which had often come to its owner—the feeling
of being abandoned to loneliness in the midst of a city which held
multitudes who were having a good time.
She walked on towards Berkeley, thought of Piccadilly, retraced her
steps, turned up Hay Hill, crossed Bond Street, and eventually came
into Regent Street. There were a good many people here, and several
loitering men looked hard at her. But she walked composedly on, keeping
at an even steady pace. At the main door of the Cafe Royal three or
four men were lounging. She did not look at them as she went by. But
presently she felt that she was being followed. This did not disturb
her. She often went out alone in Paris on foot, though not at night,
and was accustomed to being followed. She knew perfectly well how to
deal with impertinent men. In Shaftesbury Avenue the man who was
dogging her footsteps came nearer, and presently, though she did not
turn her head, she knew that he was walking almost level with her, and
that his eyes were fixed steadily on her. Without altering her pace she
took a shilling out of the purse she was carrying and held it in her
hand. The man drew up till he was walking by her side. She felt that he
was going to speak to her. She stopped, held out the hand with the
shilling in it, and said:
“Here's a shilling! Take it. I'm sorry I can't afford more than
that.”
As she finished speaking for the first time she looked at her
pursuer, and met the brown eyes of the living bronze. He stood for an
instant gazing at her veil, and then turned round and walked away in
the direction of Regent Street. The shilling dropped from her hand to
the pavement. She did not try to find it, but at once went on.
It was very seldom that her self-possession was shaken. It was not
exactly shaken now. But the recognition of the stranger whom she had
been thinking about in the man who had followed her in the street had
certainly startled her. For a moment a strong feeling of disgust
overcame her, and she thought of Garstin's brutal comment upon this
man. Was he then really one of the horrible night loungers who abound
in all great cities, one of the night birds who come out when the
darkness falls with vague hopes of doing evil to their own advantage?
It was possible. He must have been hanging about near the door of the
Cafe Royal when she passed and watching the passers-by. He must have
seen her then. Could he have recognized her? In that case perhaps he
was merely an adventurous fellow who had been pushed to the doing of an
impertinent thing by his strong admiration of her. As she thought this
she happened to be passing a lit-up shop, a tobacconist's, which had
mirrors fixed on each side of the window. She stopped and looked into
one of the mirrors. No, he could not have recognized her through the
veil she was wearing. She felt certain of that. But he might have been
struck by her figure. He might have noticed it that night at the Cafe
Royal, have fancied he recognized it to-night, and have followed her
because he was curious to know whether, or not, she was the girl he had
already seen and admired. And of course, as she was walking in Regent
Street alone at night, he must have thought her a girl who would not
mind being spoken to. It was her own fault for being so audacious, so
determined always to do what she wanted to do, however unconventional,
even outrageous—according to commonplace ideas—it was.
She forgave the man his impertinence and smiled as she thought of
his abrupt departure. If he were really a night bird he would surely
have stood his ground. He would not have been got rid of so easily. No;
he would probably have coolly pocketed the shilling, and then have
entered into conversation with her, have chaffed her vulgarly about her
methods with admirers, and have asked her to go to a cafe or somewhere
with him, and to spend the shilling and other shillings in his company.
No doubt he had been waiting for a friend at the door of the Cafe
Royal, had seen her go by, and had yielded to an impulse prompting him
to an adventure. He was not an Englishman or an American. She felt
certain of that. And she knew very well the views many foreigners,
especially Latins, even of good birth hold about the propriety of
showing their admiration for women in the street.
She was glad she had had a thick veil on. If later she made
acquaintance with this man, she did not wish him to know that she and
the girl who had offered him a shilling were one and the same. If he
knew she might be at a certain disadvantage with him.
She turned into Soho and was immediately conscious of a slightly
different atmosphere. There were fewer people about and the street was
not so brightly lit up, or at any rate seemed to her darker. She heard
voices speaking Italian in the shadows. The lights of small restaurants
glimmered faintly on the bone-dry pavement. She was nearing the
Bella Napoli. Soon she heard the distant sound of guitars.
Where she was walking at this moment there was no one. She stood
still for an instant considering. If Lady Sellingworth and Craven were
really dining together, as she suspected, and at the Bella Napoli, she could see them from the street if they had a table near the
window. If they were not seated near the window she might not be able
to see them. In that case, what was she going to do?
After a moment's thought she resolved that if she did not see them
from the street she would go into the restaurant and dine there alone.
They would see her of course, if they were there, and would no doubt be
surprised and decidedly uncomfortable. But that could not be helped.
Having come so far she was determined not to go back to the hotel
without making sure whether her suspicion was correct. If, on the other
hand, they were dining at a table near the window she resolved not to
enter the restaurant.
Having come to this decision she walked on.
The musicians were playing “O Sole mio!” And as the music grew more
distinct in her ears she felt more solitary, more injured and more
ill-humoured. Music of that type makes youth feel that the world ought
of right to belong to it, that the old are out of place in the regions
of adventure, romance and passion. That they should not hang about
where they are no longer wanted, like beggars about the door of a house
in which happy people are feasting.
“Such music is for me not for Adela Sellingworth,” thought Miss Van
Tuyn. “Let her listen to Bach and Beethoven, or to Brahms if she likes.
She can have the classics and the intellectuals. But the songs of
Naples are for me, not for her.”
And at that moment she felt very hard, even cruel.
She came up to the restaurant. The window was lighted up
brilliantly. No blind was drawn over it. There was opaque glass at the
bottom, but not at the top. She was tall and could look through the
glass at the top. She did so, and at once saw Lady Sellingworth and
Craven.
They were sitting at her table—the table which was always
reserved for her when she dined at the Bella Napoli, and at
which she had entertained Lady Sellingworth; and they were
talking—confidentially, eagerly, she thought. Lady Sellingworth looked
unusually happy and animated, even perhaps a little younger than usual.
Yes! Very old, but younger than usual! They were not eating at the
moment, but were no doubt waiting for a course. Craven was leaning
forward to his companion. The guitars still sounded. But these two had
apparently so much to say to one another that they had neither time or
inclination to listen to the music.
Miss Van Tuyn stood very still on the pavement staring into the
restaurant.
But suddenly Craven, as if attracted by something, turned abruptly
half round towards the window. Instantly Miss Van Tuyn moved away. He
could not have seen her. But perhaps he had felt that she—or rather of
course that someone—was there. For he could not possibly have felt
that she, Beryl Van Tuyn, was there looking in.
After drawing back Miss Van Tuyn walked slowly away. She was
considering something, debating something within herself. Should she go
in and dine alone in the restaurant? By doing so she would certainly
make those two who had treated her badly uncomfortable; she would
probably spoil the rest of their evening. Should she do that? Some
indelicate devil prompted her, urged her, to do it. It would “serve
them right,” she thought. Adela Sellingworth especially deserved a
touch of the whip. But it would be an undignified thing to do. They
would never know of course why she had come alone to the Bella
Napoli! They would think that, being audaciously unconventional,
she had just drifted in there because she had nothing else to do, as
Craven had drifted in alone the other night. She wanted to do it. Yet
she hesitated to do it.
Finally she gave up the idea. She felt malicious, but she could not
quite make up her mind to dine alone where they would see her. Probably
they would feel obliged to ask her to join them. But she would not join
them. Nothing could induce her to do that. And was she to come over to
them when coffee was brought, as Craven had come at her invitation? No;
that would be a condescension unworthy of her beauty and youth. Her
fierce vanity forbade it, even though her feeling of malice told her to
do it.
Her vanity won. She walked on and came into Shaftesbury Avenue.
“I know what I'll do,” she said to herself. “I'll go and dine
upstairs at the Cafe Royal, and go into the cafe downstairs afterwards.
Garstin is certain to be there.”
Garstin—and others!
This time she obeyed her inclination. Not many minutes later she was
seated at a table in a corner of the restaurant at the Cafe Royal, and
was carefully choosing a dinner.
CHAPTER VI
The more he thought over his visit to Adela Sellingworth the more
certain did Francis Braybrooke become that it had not gone off well.
For once he had not played his cards to the best advantage. He felt
sure that inadvertently he had irritated his hostess. Her final
dismissal of the subject of young Craven's possible happiness with
Beryl Van Tuyn, if circumstances should ever bring them together, had
been very abrupt. She had really almost kicked it out of the
conversation.
But then, she had never been fond of discussing love affairs.
Braybrooke had noticed that.
As he considered the matter he began to feel rather uneasy. Was it
possible that Adela Sellingworth—his mind hesitated, then took the
unpleasant leap—that Adela Sellingworth was beginning to like young
Craven in an unsuitable way?
Craven certainly had behaved oddly when Adela Sellingworth had been
discussed between them, and when Craven had been the subject of
discussion with Adela Sellingworth she had behaved curiously. There was
something behind it all. Of that Braybrooke was convinced. But his
perplexity and doubt increased to something like agitation a few days
later when he met a well-born woman of his acquaintance, who had “gone
in for” painting and living her own life, and had become a bit of a
Bohemian. She had happened to mention that she had seen his friend,
“that wonderful-looking Lady Sellingworth,” dining at the Bella
Napoli on a recent evening. Naturally Braybrooke supposed that the
allusion was to the night of Lady Sellingworth's dinner with Beryl Van
Tuyn, and he spoke of the lovely girl as Lady Sellingworth's companion.
But his informant, looking rather surprised, told him that Lady
Sellingworth had been with a very handsome young man, and, on discreet
inquiry being made, gave an admirable description from the painter's
point of view, of Craven.
Braybrooke said nothing, but he was secretly almost distressed. He
though it such a mistake for his distinguished friend to go wandering
about in Soho alone with a mere boy. It was undignified. It was not the
thing. He could not understand it unless really she was losing her
head. And then he remembered her past. Although he never spoke of it,
and now seldom thought about it, Braybrooke knew very well what sort of
woman Adela Sellingworth had been. But her dignified life of ten years
had really almost wiped her former escapades out of his recollection.
There seemed to be a gulf fixed between the professional beauty and the
white-haired recluse of Berkeley Square. When he looked at her, sat
with her now, if he ever gave a thought to her past it was accompanied,
or immediately followed, by a mental question: “Was it she who
did that?” or “Can she ever have been like that?”
But now Braybrooke uneasily began to remember Lady Sellingworth's
past reputation and to think of the “old guard.”
If she were to fall back into folly now, after what she had done ten
years ago, the “old guard” would show her no mercy. Her character would
be torn to pieces. He regretted very much his introduction of Craven
into her life. But how could he have thought that she would fascinate a
boy?
After much careful thought—for he took his social responsibilities
and duties very seriously—he resolved to take action on the lines
which had occurred to him when he first began to be anxious about
Craven's feeling towards Adela Sellingworth; he resolved to do his best
to bring Beryl Van Tun and Craven together.
The first step he took was to call on Miss Cronin when Beryl Van
Tuyn was out. He went to Claridge's in inquire for Miss Van Tuyn. On
ascertaining that she was not at home he sent up his name to Miss
Cronin, who was practically always in the house. At any rate,
Braybrooke, who had met her several times at Miss Van Tuyn's apartment
in Paris, had understood so from herself. If Miss Van Tuyn needed her
as a chaperon she was, of course, to be counted upon to risk taking air
and exercise. Otherwise, as she frankly said, she preferred to stay
quietly at home. By nature she was sedentary. Her temperament inclined
her to a sitting posture, which, however, she frequently varied by
definitely lying down.
On this occasion Miss Cronin was as usual in the house, and begged
that Mr. Braybrooke would come up. He found her in an arm-chair—she
had just vacated a large sofa—with Bourget's “Le Disciple” in
her hand. Her eyebrows were rather dim, for she had caught a slight
London cold which had led her to neglect them. But she was looking
mildly cheerful, and was very glad to have a visitor. Though quite
happy alone with Bourget she was always ready for a comfortable gossip;
and she liked Francis Braybrooke.
After a few words about the cold, Bourget and Paris, Braybrooke
turned the conversation to Miss Van Tuyn. He had understood that she
meant only to make a short stay in London, and rather wondered about
the change of plans which had brought Miss Cronin across the Channel.
Miss Cronin, he soon discovered, was rather wondering too.
“Beryl seems to have been quite got hold of by London,” she observed
with mild surprise.
After a pause she added:
“It may be—mind I don't say it is, but it may be—the Wallace
Collection.”
“The Wallace Collection?” said Braybrooke.
“I believe she goes there every day. It is in Manchester Square,
isn't it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then I think it must be that. Because two or three times lately I
have heard her mention Manchester Square as if it were very much on her
mind. Once I remember her saying that Manchester Square was worth all
the rest of London put together! And another time she said that
Manchester square ought to be in Paris. That struck me as very strange,
but after making inquiries I found that the Wallace Collection was
situated there, or near there.”
“Hertford House is in the Square.”
“Then it is that. You know how wrapped up Beryl is in that kind of
thing. And, of course, she knows all the Paris collections by heart. Is
the Wallace Collection large? Does it contain much?”
“It contains innumerable priceless treasures,” returned Braybrooke.
“Innumerable! Dear me!” murmured Fanny Cronin, managing to lift the
dimly painted eyebrows in a distinctively plaintive manner. “Then I
dare say we shall be here for months.”
“You don't think,” began Braybrooke with exquisite caution, “you
don't think that possibly she may have a more human reason for
remaining in London?”
Fanny Cronin made a rabbit's mouth and looked slightly bemused.
“Human!” she said. “You think Beryl could have a human reason?”
“Oh, surely, surely!”
“But she prefers bronzes to people. I assure you it is so. I have
heard her say that you can never be disappointed by a really good
bronze, but that men and women often distress you by their absurdities
and follies.”
“That sort of thing is only the outcome of a passing mood of
youthful cynicism.”
“Is it? I sometimes think that a born collector, like Beryl, sees
more in bronze and marble than in flesh and blood. She is very sweet,
but she has quite a passion for possessing.”
“Is not the greatest possession of all the possession of another's
human heart?” said Braybrooke impressively, and with sentiment.
“I dare say it is, but really I cannot speak from experience,” said
Fanny Cronin, with remarkable simplicity.
“Has it never occurred to you,” continued Braybrooke, “that your
lovely charge is not likely to remain always Beryl Van Tuyn?”
Miss Cronin looked startled, and slightly moved her ears, a curious
habit which she sometimes indulged in under the influence of sudden
emotion, and which was indicative of mental stress.
“But if Beryl ever marries,” she said, “I might have to give up
living in Paris! I might have to go back to America!”
She leaned forward, with her small, plump, and conspicuously
freckled hands grasping the arms of her chair.
“You don't think, Mr. Braybrooke, that Beryl is not here for the
Wallace Collection? You don't think that she is in love with someone in
London?”
Francis Braybrooke was decidedly taken aback by this abrupt
emotional outburst. He had not meant to provoke it. Indeed, in his
preoccupation with Craven's affairs and Adela Sellingworth's possible
indiscretions —really he knew of no gentler word to apply to what he
had in mind— he had entirely forgotten that Fanny Cronin's charming
profession of sitting in deep arm-chairs, reposing on luxurious sofas,
and lying in perfect French beds, might, indeed would, be drastically
interfered with by Miss Van Tuyn's marriage. It was very careless of
him. He was inclined to blame himself almost severely.
“My dear Miss Cronin,” he hastily exclaimed. “If you were ever to
think of changing your—your”—he could not find the word; “condition"
would not do; “state of life” suggested the Catechism; “profession” was
preposterous, besides, he did not mean that—“your sofa”—he had got
it—“your sofa in the Avenue Henri Martin for a sofa somewhere else, I
know of at least a dozen charming houses in Paris which would gladly, I
might say thankfully, open their doors to receive you.”
This was really a lie. At the moment Braybrooke did not know of one.
But he hastily made up his mind to be “responsible” for Fanny Cronin if
anything should occur through his amiable machinations.
“Thank you, Mr. Braybrooke. You are kindness itself. So, then, Beryl
is going to marry! And she never hinted it to me, although we
talked over marriage only yesterday, when I gave her Bourget's views on
it as expressed in his 'Physiologie de l'amour moderne.' She
never said one word. She never—”
But at this point Braybrooke felt that an interruption, however
rude, was obligatory.
“I have no reason whatever to suppose that Miss Van Tuyn is thinking
of marriage at this moment,” he said, in an almost shrill voice.
“But surely you would not frighten me without a reason,” said Fanny
Cronin with mild severity, sitting back again in her chair.
“Frighten you, dear Miss Cronin! I would not do that for the world.
What have I said to frighten you?”
“You talked of my changing my sofa for a sofa somewhere else! If
Beryl is not going to marry why should I think of changing?”
“But nothing lasts for ever. The whole world is in a state of flux.”
“Really, Mr. Braybrooke! I am quite sure I am not in a state
of flux!” said Miss Cronin with unusual dignity. “We American women,
you must understand, have our principles and know how to preserve
them.”
“On my honour, I only meant that life inevitably brings with it
changes. I am sure you will bear me out in that.”
“I don't know about bearing you out,” said Miss Cronin, looking
rather helplessly at Francis Braybrooke's fairly tall and
well-nourished figure. “But why should Beryl want to change? She is
very happy as she is.”
“I know—I know. But surely such a lovely girl is certain to marry
some day. And can we wish it otherwise? Some day a man will come who
knows how to appreciate her as she deserves, who understands her
nature, who is ready to devote his life to fulfilling her deepest
needs.”
Miss Cronin suddenly looked intelligent and at the same time like a
dragon. Never before had Braybrooke seen such an expression upon her
face, such a stiffening of dignity to her ample figure. She sat
straight up, looked him full in the face, and observed:
“I understand your meaning, Mr. Braybrooke. You wish to marry Beryl.
Well, you must forgive me for saying that I think you are much too old
for her.”
Braybrooke had not blushed for probably at least forty years, but he
blushed scarlet now, and seized his beard with a hand that looked
thoroughly unstrung.
“My dear Miss Cronin!” he said, in a voice which was almost hoarse
with protest. “You absolutely misunderstood me. It is much too la—I
mean that I have no intention whatever of changing my condition. No,
no! Let us talk of something else. So you are reading 'Le Disciple
'“ (he picked it up). “A very striking book! I always think it one of
Bourget's very best.”
He poured forth an energetic cataract of words in praise of Miss
Cronin's favourite author, and presently got away without any further
quite definite misunderstanding. But when he was out in the corridor on
his way to the lift he indulged himself in a very unwonted expression
of acrimonious condemnation.
“Damn these red-headed old women!” he muttered in his beard.
“There's no doing anything with them! The idea of my going to her to
propose for Miss Van Tuyn! What next, I wonder?”
When he was out in Brook Street he hesitated for a moment, then took
out his watch and looked at it. Half-past three! He thought of the
Wallace Collection. It seemed to draw him strangely just then. He put
his watch back and walked towards Manchester Square.
He had gained the Square and was about to enter the enclosure before
Hertford House by the gateway on the left, when he saw Miss Van Tuyn
come out by the gateway on the right, and walk slowly towards Oxford
Street in deep conversation with a small horsey-looking man, whose face
he could not see, but whose back and legs, and whose dress and
headgear, strongly suggested to him the ring at Newmarket and the
Paddock at Ascot.
Braybrooke hesitated. The attraction of the Wallace Collection no
longer drew him. Besides, it was getting late. On the other hand, he
scarcely liked to interrupt an earnest tete-a-tete. If it had not been
that he was exceptionally strung up at that moment he would probably
have gone quietly off to one of his clubs. But who knew what that
foolish old woman at Claridge's might say to Miss Van Tuyn when she
reached her hotel? It really was essential in the sacred interest of
truth that he should forestall Fanny Cronin. The jockey—if it was a
jockey—Miss Van Tuyn was with must put up with an interruption. But
the interruption must be brought about naturally. It would not do to
come up behind them. That would seem too intrusive. He must manage to
skip round deftly when the occasion offered, and by a piece of masterly
strategy to come upon them face to face.
Seized of this intention Braybrooke did a thing he had never done
before; he “dogged” two human beings, walking with infinite precaution.
His quarry presently turned into the thronging crowds of Oxford
Street and made towards the Marble Arch, keeping to the right-hand
pavement. Braybrooke saw his opportunity. He dodged across the road to
an island, waited there till a policeman, extending a woollen thumb,
stopped the traffic, then gained the opposite pavement, hurried
decorously on that side towards the Marble Arch, and after a sprint of
perhaps a couple of hundred yards recrossed the street almost at the
risk of his life, and walked warily back towards Oxford Circus, keeping
his eyes wide open.
Before many minutes had passed he discerned the graceful and
athletic figure of Miss Van Tuyn coming towards him; then, immediately
afterwards, he caught a glimpse of a blue shaven face with an aquiline
nose beside her, and realized that the man he had taken for a jockey
was Dick Garstin, the famous painter.
As Braybrooke knew everyone, he, of course, knew Garstin, and he
wondered now why he had not recognized his back at Manchester Square.
Perhaps his mind had been too engrossed with Fanny Cronin and the
outrage at Claridge's. He only knew the painter slightly, just
sufficiently to dislike him very much. Indeed, only the acknowledged
eminence of the man induced Braybrooke to have anything to do with him.
But one has to know publicly acclaimed geniuses or consent to be
thoroughly out of it. So Braybrooke included Garstin in the enormous
circle of his acquaintances, and went to his private views.
But now the recognition gave him pause, and he almost wished he had
not taken so much trouble to meet Miss Van Tuyn and her companion. For
he could say nothing he wanted to say while Garstin was there. And the
man was so damnably unconventional, in fact, so downright rude, and so
totally devoid of all delicacy, all insight in social matters, that
even if he saw that Braybrooke wanted a quiet word with Miss Van Tuyn
he would probably not let him have it. However, it was too late now to
avoid the steadily advancing couple. Miss Van Tuyn had seen Braybrooke,
and sent him a smile. In a moment he was face to face with them, and
she stopped to greet him.
“I have been spending an hour at the Wallace Collection with Mr.
Garstin,” she said. “And quarrelling with him all the time. His views
on French art are impossible.”
“Ah! how are you?” said Braybrooke, addressing the painter with
almost exaggerated cordiality.
Garstin nodded in his usual offhand way. He did not dislike
Braybrooke. When Braybrooke was there he perceived him, having eyes,
and having ears heard his voice. But hitherto Braybrooke had never
succeeded in conveying any impression to the mind of Garstin. On one
occasion when Braybrooke had been discussed in Garstin's presence, and
Garstin had said: “Who is he?” and had received a description of
Braybrooke with the additional information: “But he comes to your
private views! You have known him for years!” he had expressed his
appreciation of Braybrooke's personality and character by the
exclamation: “Oh, to be sure! The beard with the gentleman!” Braybrooke
did not know this, or he would certainly have disliked Garstin even
more than he did already.
As Garstin's nod was not followed by any other indication of
humanity Braybrooke addressed Miss Van Tuyn, and told her of his call
at Claridge's.
“And as you were not to be found I paid a visit to Miss Cronin.”
“She must have bored you very much,” was the charming girl's
comment. “She has the most confused mind I know.”
What an opening for Braybrooke! But he could not take it because of
Garstin, who stood by cruelly examining the stream of humanity which
flowed past them hypnotized by the shops.
“May I—shall I be in the way if I turn back with you for a few
steps?” he ventured, with the sort of side glance at Garstin that a
male dog gives to another male dog while walking round and round on a
first meeting. “It is such a pleasure to see you.”
Here he threw very definite admiration into the eyes which he fixed
on Miss Van Tuyn.
She responded automatically and begged him to accompany them.
“Dick is leaving me at the Marble Arch,” she said. “The reason he
gives is that he is going to take a Turkish Bath in the Harrow Road.
But that is a lie that even an American girl brought up in Paris is
unable to swallow. What are you really going to do, Dick?”
As she spoke she walked on, having Garstin on one side of her and
Francis Braybrooke on the other.
“I'm going to have a good sweat in the Harrow Road.”
Braybrooke was disgusted. It was not that he really minded the word
used to indicate the process which obtains in a Turkish Bath. No; it
was Garstin's blatant way of speaking it that offended his
susceptibilities. The man was perpetually defying the decencies and
delicacies which were as perfume in Braybrooke's nostrils.
“The doctors say that it is an excellent thing to open the pores,”
said Braybrooke discreetly.
Garstin cast a glance at him, as if he now saw him for the first
time.
“Do you mean to tell us you believe in doctors?” he said.
“I do, in some doctors,” said Braybrooke. “There are charlatans in
all professions unfortunately.”
“And some of them are R.A.'s,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “By the way, Dick
is going to paint me.”
“Really! How very splendid!” said Braybrooke, again with exaggerated
cordiality. “With such a subject I'm sure—”
But here he was interrupted by Garstin, who said:
“She tells everyone I'm going to paint her because she hopes by
reiteration to force me to do it. But she isn't the type that interests
me.”
“My dear Dick, I'll gladly take to morphia or drink if it will
help,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “I can easily get the Cafe Royal expression.
One has only to sit with a glass of something the colour of absinthe in
front of one and look sea-sick. I'm perfectly certain that with a week
or two's practice I could look quite as degraded as Cora.”
“Cora?” said Braybrooke, alertly, hearing a name he did not know.
“She's a horror who goes to the Cafe Royal and whom Dick calls a
free woman.”
“Free from all the virtues, I suppose!” said Braybrooke smartly.
“Good-bye both of you!” said Garstin at this juncture.
“But we haven't got to the Marble Arch!”
“What's that got to do with it? I'm off.”
He seemed to be going, then stopped, and directed the two pin-points
of light at Miss Van Tuyn.
“I flatly refuse to make an Academy portrait of you, so don't hope
for it,” he said. “But if you come along to the studio to-morrow
afternoon you may possibly find me at work on a blackmailer.”
“Dick!” said Miss Van Tuyn, in a voice which startled Braybrooke.
“I don't promise,” said the painter. “I don't believe in promises,
unless you break 'em. But it's just on the cards.”
“You are painting a blackmailer!” said Braybrooke, with an air of
earnest interest. “How very original!”
“Original! “Why is it original to paint a blackmailer?”
“Oh—well, one doesn't often run across them. They—they seem to
keep so much to themselves.”
“I don't agree with you. If they did some people would be a good
deal better off than they are now.”
“Ah, to be sure! That's very true. I had never looked at it in that
light.”
“What time, Dick?” said Miss Van Tuyn, rather eagerly.
“You might look in about three.”
“I will. That's a bargain.”
Garstin turned on his heel and tramped away towards Berkeley Street.
“You are going home by Park Lane?” said Braybrooke, feeling greatly
relieved, but still rather upset.
“Yes. But why don't you take me somewhere to tea?”
“Nothing I should like better. Where shall we go?”
“Let's go to the Ritz. I had meant to walk, but let us take a taxi.”
There was suddenly a change in Miss Van Tuyn. Braybrooke noticed it
at once. She seemed suddenly restless, almost excited, and as if she
were in a hurry.
“There's one!” she added, lifting her tightly furled umbrella.
The driver stopped, and in a moment they were on their way to the
Ritz.
“You like Dick Garstin?” said Braybrooke, pulling up one of the
windows and wondering what Miss Cronin would say if she could see him
at this moment.
“I don't like him,” returned Miss Van Tuyn. “No one could do that.
But I admire him, and he interests me. He is almost the only man I know
who is really indifferent to opinion. And he has occasional moments of
good nature. But I don't wish him to be soft. If he were he would be
like everyone else.”
“I must confess I find it very difficult to get on with him.”
“He's a wonderful painter.”
“No doubt—in his way.”
“I think it a great mistake for any creative artist to be wonderful
in someone else's way,” said Miss Van Tuyn.
“I only meant that his way is sometimes rather startling. And then
his subjects! Drugged women! Dram drinking men! And now it seems even
blackmailers.”
“A blackmailer might have a wonderful face.”
“Possibly. But it would be likely to have a disgusting expression.”
“It might. On the other hand, I could imagine a blackmailer looking
like Chaliapine as Mephistopheles.”
“I don't like distressing art,” said Braybrooke, rather firmly. “And
I think there is too much of it nowadays.”
“Anything is better than the merely nice. And you have far too much
of that in England. Men like Dick Garstin are a violent protest against
that, and sometimes they go to extremes. He has caught the secret of
evil, and when he had done with it he may quite possibly catch the
secret of good.”
“And then,” said Braybrooke, “I am sure he will paint you.”
It was meant to be a very charmingly turned compliment. But Miss Van
Tuyn received it rather doubtfully.
“I don't know that I want to wait quite so long as that,” she
murmured. “Besides—I think I rather come in between. At least, I hope
so.”
At this point in the conversation the cab stopped before the Ritz.
To Francis Braybrooke's intense astonishment—and it might almost be
added confusion—the first person his eyes lit on as they walked
towards the tea-tables was Fanny Cronin, comfortably seated in an
immense arm-chair, devouring a muffin in the company of an old lady,
whose determined face was completely covered with a criss-cross of
wrinkles, and whose withered hands were flashing with magnificent
rings. He was so taken aback that he was guilty of a definite start,
and the exclamation, “Miss Cronin!” in a voice that suggested alarm.
“Oh, old Fanny with Mrs. Clem Hodson!” said Miss Van Tuyn. “She's a
school friend of Fanny's from Philadelphia. Let us go to that table in
the far corner. I'll just speak to them while you order tea.”
“But I thought Miss Cronin never went out.”
“She never does, except with Mrs. Clem, unless I want her.”
“How singularly unfortunate I am to-day!” thought Braybrooke, as he
bowed to Miss Cronin in a rather confused manner and went to do as he
was told.
He ordered tea, then sat down anxiously to wait for Miss Van Tuyn.
From his corner he watched her colloquy with the two school friends
from Philadelphia, and it seemed to him that something very important
was being told. For Fanny Cronin looked almost animated, and her manner
approached the emphatic as she spoke to the standing girl. Mrs. Hodson
seemed to take very little part in the conversation, but sat looking
very determined and almost imperious as she listened. And presently
Braybrooke saw her extremely observant dark eyes—small, protuberant
and round as buttons—turn swiftly, with even, he thought, a darting
movement, in his direction.
“I shall be driven, really driven, to make the matter quite clear,”
he thought, almost with desperation. “Otherwise—”
But at this moment Miss Van Tuyn came away to him, and their tea was
brought by a waiter.
He thought she cast a rather satirical look at him as she sat down,
but she only said;
“Dear old things! They are very happy together. Mrs. Clem is
extraordinarily proud of having 'got Fanny out,' as she calls it. A boy
who had successfully drawn a badger couldn't be more triumphant. Now
let's forget them!”
This was all very well, and Braybrooke asked for nothing better; but
he was totally unable to forget the two cronies, whom he saw in the
distance with their white and chestnut heads alarmingly close together,
talking eagerly, and, he was quite sure, not about the dear old days in
Philadelphia. What had they—or rather what had Miss Cronin said to
Miss Van Tuyn? He longed to know. It really was essential that he
should know. Yet he scarcely knew how to approach the subject. It was
rather difficult to explain elaborately to a beautiful girl that you
had not the least wish to marry her. He was certainly not at his best
as he took his first cup of tea and sought about for an opening. Miss
Van Tuyn talked with her usual assurance, but he fancied that her
violet eyes were full of inquiry when they glanced at him; and he began
to feel positive that the worst had happened, and that Fanny Cronin had
informed her—no, misinformed her —of what had happened at Claridge's.
Now and then, as he met Miss Van Tuyn's eyes, he thought they were
searching his with an unusual consciousness, as if they expected
something very special from him. Presently, too, she let the
conversation languish, and at last allowed it to drop. In the silence
that succeeded Braybrooke was seized by a terrible fear that perhaps
she was waiting for him to propose. If he did propose she would refuse
him of course. He had no doubt about that. But though to be accepted by
her, or indeed by anyone, would have caused him acute distress, on the
other hand no one likes to be refused.
He thought of Craven. Was it possible to make any use of Craven to
get him out of his difficulty? Dare he hint at the real reason of his
visit to Miss Cronin? He had intended delicately to “sound” the
chaperon on the subject of matrimony, to find out if there was anything
on the tapis in Paris, if Miss Van Tuyn had any special man
friend there, in short to make sure of his ground before deciding to
walk on it. But he could hardly explain that to Miss Van Tuyn. To do so
would be almost brutal, and quite against all his traditions.
Again he caught her eye in the desperate silence. Her gaze seemed to
say to him: “When are you going to begin?” He felt that he must say
something, even though it were not what she was probably expecting.
“I was interested,” he hurriedly began, clasping his beard and
looking away from his companion, “to hear the other day that a young
friend of mine had met you, a very charming and promising young fellow,
who has a great career before him, unless I am much mistaken.”
“Who?” she asked; he thought rather curtly.
“Alick Craven of the Foreign Office. He told me he was introduced to
you at Adela Sellingworth's.”
“Oh yes, he was,” said Miss Van Tuyn.
And she said no more.
“He was very enthusiastic about you,” ventured Braybrooke, wondering
how to interpret her silence.
“Really!”
“Yes. We belong to the same club, the St. James's. He entertained me
for more than an hour with your praises.”
Miss Van Tuyn looked at him with rather acute inquiry, as if she
could not make up her mind about something with which he was closely
concerned.
“He would like to meet you again,” said Braybrooke, with soft
firmness.
“But I have met him again two or three times. He called on me.”
“And I understand you were together in a restaurant in—Soho, I
think it was.”
“Yes, we were.”
“What did you think of him?” asked Braybrooke.
As he put the question he was aware that he was being far from
subtle. The vision in the distance—now eating plum cake, but still
very observant—upset his nervous system and deprived him almost
entirely of his usual savoir faire.
“He seems quite a nice sort of boy,” said Miss Van Tuyn, still
looking rather coldly inquisitive, as if she were secretly puzzled but
intended to emerge into complete understanding before she had done with
Braybrooke. “His Foreign Office manner is rather against him. But
perhaps some day he'll grow out of that—unless it becomes
accentuated.”
“If you knew him better I feel sure you would like him. He had no
reservations about you—none at all. But, then, how could he have?”
“Well, at any rate I haven't got the Foreign Office manner.”
“No, indeed!” said Braybrooke, managing a laugh that just indicated
his appreciation of the remark as an excellent little joke. “But it
really means nothing.”
“That's a pity. One's manner should always have a meaning of some
kind. Otherwise it is an absolute drawback to one's personality.”
“That is perhaps a fault of the Englishman. But we must remember
that still waters run deep.”
“Do you think so? But if they don't run at all?”
“How do you mean?”
“There is such a thing as the village pond.”
“How very trying she is this afternoon!” thought poor Braybrooke,
endeavouring mentally to pull up his socks.
“I half promised Craven the other day,” he lied, resolutely ignoring
her unkind comparison of his protege to the abomination which is too
often veiled with duckweed, “to contrive another meeting between you
and him. But I fear he has bored you. And in that case perhaps I ought
not to hold to my promise. You meet so many brilliant Frenchmen that I
dare say our slower, but really I sometimes think deeper, mentality
scarcely appeals to you.”
(At this point he saw Fanny Cronin leaning impressively towards Mrs.
Clem Hodson, as if about to impart some very secret information to that
lady, who bent to receive it.)
“Again those deep waters!” said Miss Van Tuyn, this time with
unmistakable satire. “But perhaps you are right. I remember a very
brilliant American, who knew practically all the nations of Europe,
telling me that in his opinion you English were the subtlest—I'm
afraid he was rude enough to say the most artful—of the lot.”
As she spoke the word “artful” her fine eyes smiled straight into
Braybrooke's, and she pinched her red lips together very expressively.
“But I must confess,” she added, “that at the moment we were
discussing diplomats.”
“Artful was rather unkind,” murmured Braybrooke. “I—I hope you
don't think my friend Craven is one of that type?”
“Oh, I wasn't thinking of Mr. Craven.”
The implication was fairly obvious, and Braybrooke did not miss it,
although he was not in possession of his full mental powers.
“Perhaps it is our own fault,” he said. “But I think we English are
often misunderstood.”
As he spoke he shot a rather poignant glance in the direction of
Fanny Cronin, who had now finished her tea, and was gathering her fur
cloak about her as if in preparation for departure.
“In fact,” he added, “I am sure of it. This very day even—”
He paused, wondering how to put it, yet feeling that he really must
at all costs make matters fairly clear to his companion.
“Yes?” said Miss Van Tuyn sweetly.
“To-day, this afternoon, I think that your dear Miss Cronin failed
once or twice to grasp my full meaning when I was talking with her.”
“Oh, Fanny! But she's an old fool! Of course she's a dear, and I'm
very fond of her, but she is essentially nebulous. And what was it that
you think she misunderstood?”
Braybrooke hesitated. It really was very difficult to put what he
wanted to say into words. Scarcely ever before had he felt himself so
incapable of dealing adequately with a socially awkward situation. If
only he knew what Miss Cronin had said to Miss Van Tuyn while he was
ordering tea!
“I could scarcely say I know. I really could not put my finger upon
it,” he said at last. “There was a general atmosphere of confusion, or
so it seemed to me. We—we discussed marriage.”
“I hope the old dear didn't think you were proposing to her?”
“Good heavens—oh, no! no! I don't quite know what she thought.” (He
lowered his eyes.) “But it wasn't that.”
“That's a mercy at any rate!”
Braybrooke still kept his eyes on the ground, but a dogged look came
into his face, and he said, speaking more resolutely:
“I'm afraid I alarmed dear Miss Cronin.”
“How perfectly splendid!” said Miss Van Tuyn.
“She is very fond of you.” ' “Much fonder of Bourget!”
“I don't think so,” he said, with emphasis. “She is so devoted to
you that quite inadvertently I alarmed her. After all, we were—we
were”— nobly he decided to take the dreadful plunge—“we were two
elderly people talking together as elderly people will, I thought quite
freely and frankly, and I ventured—do forgive me—to hint that a great
many men must wish to marry you; young men suited to you, promising
men, men with big futures before them, anxious for a brilliant and
beautiful wife.”
“That was very charming and solicitous of you,” said Miss Van Tuyn
with a smile. “But I don't know that they do!”
“Do what?” said Braybrooke, almost losing his head, as he saw the
vision in the distance, now cloaked and gloved, rustling in an evident
preparation for something, which might be departure or might on the
other hand be approach.
She observed him with a definite surprise, which she seemed desirous
of showing.
“I was alluding to the promising men,” she said.
“Which men?” asked Braybrooke, still hypnotized by the vision.
“The men with big futures before them who you were kind enough to
tell Fanny were longing to marry me.”
“Oh, yes!” (With a great effort he pulled himself together.) “Those
men to be sure!”
The vision was now standing up and apparently disputing the bill,
for it was evidently talking at great length to a man in livery, who
had a slip of paper in his hand, and who occasionally pointed to it in
a resentful manner and said something, whereupon the vision made
negative gestures and there was much tossing and shaking of heads.
Resolutely Braybrooke looked away. It was nothing to do with him even
if the Ritz was trying to make an overcharge for plum cake.
“I just hinted that there must be men who—but you understand?”
Miss Van Tuyn smiled unembarrassed assent.
“And then Miss Cronin”—he lowered his voice—“seemed thoroughly
upset. I scarcely knew what she thought I meant, but whatever it was I
had not meant it. That is certain. But the fact is she is so devoted to
you that the mere fact of your some day doing what all lovely and
charming women are asked to do and usually consent to do—but—but Miss
Cronin seems to—I think she wants to say something to you.”
Miss Van Tuyn looked suddenly rather rebellious. She did not glance
towards the Philadelphia school friends, but turned her shoulder
towards them and said:
“Naturally my marriage would make a great difference to Fanny, but I
have never known her to worry about it.”
“She is worrying now!” said poor Braybrooke, with earnest
conviction. “But really she—I am sure she wishes to speak to you.”
The line showed itself in Miss Van Tuyn's forehead.
“Will you be kind and just go and ask her what she wants? Please
tell her that I am not coming back yet as I am going to call on Lady
Sellingworth when I leave here.”
Braybrooke got up, trying to conceal his reluctance to obey. Miss
Cronin, entrenched as it were behind her old school friend, and with
dawnings of the dragon visible beneath her feathered hat, and even,
strangely, mysteriously, underneath her long cloak of musquash, was
endeavouring by signs and wonders to attract her Beryl's attention,
while Mrs. Clem Hodson stood looking imperious, and ready for any
action that would prove her solidarity with her old schoolmate.
“What she wants—and you are going to call on Lady Sellingworth!”
said Braybrooke.
“Yes; and to-night I'm dining out.”
“Dining out to-night—just so.”
There was no further excuse for delay, and he went towards the two
old ladies, a grievous ambassador. It really had been the most
unpleasant afternoon he remembered to have spent. He began to feel
almost in fault, almost as if he had done—or at the least had
contemplated doing—something outrageous, something for which he
deserved the punishment which was now being meted out to him. As he
slowly approached Miss Cronin he endeavoured resolutely to bear himself
like a man who had not proposed that day for Miss Van Tuyn's hand. But
preposterously, Miss Cronin's absurd misconception seemed to have power
over his conscience, and that again over his appearance and gait. He
was fully aware, as he went forward to convey Miss Van Tuyn's message,
that he made a very poor show of it. In fact, he was just then living
up to Dick's description of him as “the beard with the gentleman.”
“Oh, Mr. Braybrooke,” said Miss Cronin as he came up, “so you are
here with Beryl!”
“Yes; so I am here with Miss Van Tuyn!”
Miss Cronin exchanged a glance with Mrs. Clem Hodson.
“You didn't tell me when you called that you were taking her out to
tea!”
“No, I didn't!” said Braybrooke.
“This is my old schoolmate, Mrs. Clem Hodson. Suzanne, this is Mr.
Braybrooke, a friend of Beryl's.”
Mrs. Clem Hodson bowed from the waist, and looked at Braybrooke with
the expression of one who knew a great deal more about him than his own
mother knew.
“This hotel overcharges,” she said firmly.
“Really! I should have scarcely have thought—”
“There were two pieces of plum cake on the bill, and we only ate
one.”
“Oh, I've just remembered,” said Miss Cronin, as if irradiated with
sudden light.
“What, dear?”
“I did have two slices. One was before the muffin, while we
were waiting for it, and the other was after. And I only remembered the
second.”
“In that case, dear, we've done the waiter an injustice and libelled
the hotel.”
“I will make it all right if you will allow me,” said Braybrooke
almost obsequiously. “I'm well known here. I will explain to the
manager, a most charming man.”
He turned definitely to face Fanny Cronin.
“Miss Van Tuyn asked me to tell you what she wants.”
“Indeed! Does she want something?”
“No. I mean she told me to ask you what you want.”
Miss Cronin looked at Mrs. Clem Hodson, hesitated, and then made a
very definite rabbit's mouth.
“I don't know that I want anything, thank you, Mr. Braybrooke. But
if Beryl is going—she is not going?”
“I really don't know exactly.”
“She hasn't finished her tea, perhaps?”
“I don't know for certain. But she asked me to tell you she wasn't
coming back yet”—the two old ladies exchanged glances which Braybrooke
longed to contradict—“as she is going to call on Lady Sellingworth
presently.”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Clem Hodson, gazing steadily at Fanny Cronin.
“In Berkeley Square!” added Braybrooke emphatically. “And to-night
she is dining out.”
“Did she say where?” asked Miss Cronin, slightly moving her ears.
“No; she didn't.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Cronin. “Good-bye, Mr. Braybrooke.”
She held out her hand like one making a large and difficult
concession to her own Christianity. Mrs. Clem Hodson bowed again from
the waist and also made a concession. She muttered, “Very glad to have
met you!” and then cleared her throat, while the criss-cross of
wrinkles moved all over her face.
“I will make it all right with the manager,” said Braybrooke, with
over-anxious earnestness, and feeling now quite definitely that he must
really have proposed to Miss Cronin for Miss Van Tuyn's hand that
afternoon, and that he must have just lied about the disposal of her
time until she had to dress for dinner.
“The manager?” said Miss Cronin.
“What manager?” said Mrs. Clem Hodson.
“About the plum cake! Surely you remember?”
“Oh—the plum cake!” said Mrs. Hodson, looking steadily at Fanny
Cronin. “Thank you very much indeed! Very good of you!”
“Thank you,” said Miss Cronin, with a sudden piteous look. “I did
eat two slices. Come, Suzanne! Good-bye again, Mr. Braybrooke.”
They turned to go out. As Braybrooke watched the musquash slowly
vanishing he knew in his bones that, when he did not become engaged to
Miss Van Tuyn, Fanny Cronin, till the day of her death, would feel
positive that he had proposed to her that afternoon and had been
rejected. And he muttered in his beard:
“Damn these red-headed old women! I will not make it all
right with the manager about the plum cake!”
It was a poor revenge, but the only one he could think of at the
moment.
“Is anything the matter?” asked Miss Van Tuyn when he rejoined her.
“Has old Fanny been tiresome?”
“Oh, no—no! But old Fan—I beg your pardon, I mean Miss
Cronin—Miss Cronin has a peculiar—but she is very charming. I gave
her your message, and she quite understood. We were talking about plum
cake. That is why I was so long.”
“I see! A fascinating subject like that must be difficult to get
away from.”
“Yes—very! What a delightful woman Mrs. Hodson is.”
“I think her extremely wearisome. Her nature is as wrinkled as her
face. And now I must be on my way to Adela Sellingworth's.”
“May I walk with you as far as her door?”
“Of course.”
When they were out in Piccadilly he said:
“And now what about my promise to Mr. Craven?”
“I shall be delighted to meet him again,” said Miss Van Tuyn in a
careless voice. “And I would not have you break a promise on my
account. Such a sacred thing!”
“But if he bores you—”
“He doesn't bore me more than many young men do.”
“Then I will let you know. We might have a theatre party.”
“Anything you like. And why not ask Adela Sellingworth to make a
fourth?”
This suggestion was not at all to Braybrooke's liking, but he
scarcely knew what to say in answer to it. Really, it seemed as if this
afternoon was to end as it had begun—in a contretemps.
“I am so fond of her,” continued Miss Van Tuyn. “And I'm sure she
would enjoy it.”
“But she so seldom goes out.”
“All the more reason to try to persuade her out of her shell. I
believe she will come if you tell her I and Mr. Craven make up the rest
of the party. We all got on so well together in Soho.”
“I will certainly ask her,” said Braybrooke.
What else could he say?
At the corner of Berkeley Square Miss Van Tuyn stopped and rather
resolutely bade him good-bye.
When Braybrooke was alone he felt almost tired out. If he had been
an Italian he would probably have believed that someone had looked on
him that day with the evil eye. He feared that he had been almost
maladroit. His social self-confidence was severely shaken. And yet he
had only meant well; he had only been trying to do what he considered
his duty. It had all begun with Miss Cronin's preposterous mistake.
That had thoroughly upset him, and from that moment he had not been in
possession of his normal means. And now he was let in for a party
combining Adela Sellingworth with Miss Van Tuyn and Craven. It was
singularly unfortunate. But probably Lady Sellingworth would refuse the
invitation he now had to send her. She really went out very seldom. He
could only hope for a refusal. That, too, was tragic. He could not
remember ever before having actively wished that an invitation of his
should be declined.
He was so reduced in self-confidence and spirits that he turned into
the St. James's Club, sank down alone in a remote corner, and called
for a dry Martini, although he knew quite well that it would set up
fermentation.
PART FOUR
CHAPTER I
Lady Sellingworth was “not at home” when Miss Van Tuyn called,
though no doubt she was in the house, and the latter left her card, on
which she wrote in pencil, “So sorry not to find you. Do let us meet
again soon. I may not be in London much longer.” When she wrote the
last sentence she was really thinking of Paris with a certain
irritation of desire. In Paris she always had a good, even a splendid,
time. London was treating her badly. Perhaps it was hardly worth while
to stay on. She had many adorers in Paris, and no elderly women there
ever got in her way. Frenchmen never ran after elderly women. She could
not conceive of any young Frenchman doing what Craven had done if
offered the choice between a girl of twenty-two and a woman of sixty.
Englishmen really were incomprehensible. Was it worth while to bother
about them? Probably not. But she was by nature combative as well as
vain, and Craven's behaviour had certainly given him a greater value in
her estimation. If he had done the quite ordinary thing, and fallen in
love with her at once, she might have been pleased and yet have thought
very little of him. He would then have been in a class with many
others. Now he was decidedly in a class by himself. If he loved he
would not be an ordinary lover. She was angry with him. She intended
some day to punish him. But he puzzled her, and very definitely now he
attracted her.
No; really she would not go back to Paris of the open arms and the
comprehensible behaviour without coming to conclusions with Craven. To
do so would be to retreat practically beaten from the field, and she
had never yet acknowledged a defeat.
Besides, she had something in prospect, something that for the
moment, at any rate, would hold her in London even without the
attraction, half repellent, of Craven. Evidently Dick Garstin, for
whatever reason, had done something, or was about to do something, for
her. Always he managed to be irritating. It was just like him to spend
two hours alone with her without saying one word about the living
bronze, and then to rouse her curiosity when it was impossible that it
should be gratified owing to the presence of Braybrooke. Garstin could
never do anything in a pleasant and comfortable way. He must always,
even in kindness, be semi-malicious. There was at times something
almost Satanic in his ingenious avoidance of the common humanities. But
it seemed that he was about to comply with her expressed whim. He had
surely spoken to the Cafe Royal man, and had perhaps already received
from him a promise to visit the studio.
She had not seen the stranger again. He had not been at the Cafe
Royal on the night when she had dined there alone. But Garstin must
have seen him again, unless, indeed, Garstin was being absolutely
disgusting, was condescending to a cheap and vulgar hoax.
That was just possible. But somehow she believed in Garstin this
time. She felt almost sure that he had done what she wished, and that
to-morrow afternoon in Glebe Place she would meet the man to whom she
had offered the shilling.
That would be distinctly amusing. She felt on the edge of a rather
uncommon adventure.
On the following day, very soon after three, she pushed the bell
outside Garstin's studio door in Glebe Place. It was not answered
immediately, and, feeling impatient, she rang again without waiting
long. Garstin opened the door, and smiled rather maliciously on seeing
her.
“What a hurry you're in!” he said. “Come along in, my girl.”
As he shut the heavy door behind her she turned in the lobby and
said:
“Well, Dick?”
“I'm working in the upstairs studio,” he returned blandly.
“What are you at work on?”
“Go up and you'll see for yourself.”
She hastened through the studio on the ground floor, which was hung
with small landscapes, and sketches in charcoal, and audacious
caricatures of various well-known people. At the end of it was a short
and wide staircase. She mounted it swiftly, and came into another large
studio built out at the back of the building. Here Garstin worked on
his portraits, and here she expected to come face to face with the
living bronze. As she drew near to the entrance of the studio she felt
positive that he was waiting for her. But when she reached it and
looked quickly and expectantly round she saw at once that the great
room was empty. Only the few portraits on easels and on the pale walls
looked at her with the vivid eyes which Garstin knew how to endow with
an almost abnormal life.
Evidently Garstin had stopped below for a moment in the ground floor
studio, but she now heard his heavy tramp on the stairs behind her and
turned almost angrily.
“Dick, is this intended for a joke?”
“What do you mean by 'this'?”
“You know! Have you brought me here under false pretences? You know
quite well why I came.”
“Why don't you take off your hat?”
But for once Miss Van Tuyn's vanity was not on the alert; for once
she did not care whether Garstin admired her head or not.
“I shall not take off my hat,” she said brusquely. “I don't intend
to stay unless there is the reason which I expected and which induced
me to come here. Have you seen that remarkable-looking man again or
not?”
“I have,” said Garstin with a mischievous smile.
Miss Van Tuyn looked slightly mollified, but still uncertain.
“Did you speak to him?” she asked.
“I did.”
“What did he say?”
“I told him to come along to the studio.”
“You did! And—?”
“Why don't you take off your hat?”
“Because it suits me particularly well. Now tell me at once, don't
be malicious and tiresome—are you expecting him?”
“I couldn't say that.”
“You are not expecting him!”
“My good girl, we expect from those we rely on. What do I know about
this fellow's character? I told him who I was, and what I wanted with
him, and that I wanted it with him at three this afternoon. He's got
the address. But whether we have any reason to expect him is more than
I can say.”
She looked quickly at the watch on her wrist.
“It is past three. I was late.”
After an instant of silence she sat down on an old-fashioned sofa
covered with dull green and red silk. Just behind it on an easel stood
a half-finished portrait of the Cora woman, staring with hungry eyes
over an empty tumbler.
“Give me a cigarette, Dick,” she said. “Did he say he would come?”
The painter went over to an old Spanish cabinet and rummaged for a
box of cigarettes, with his horsey-looking back turned towards her.
“Did he?” she repeated. “Can't you tell me what happened when you
spoke to him? Why force me to cross-examine you in this indelicate
way?”
“Here you are!” said Garstin, turning round with a box of
cigarettes.
“Thank you.”
“I gave him my name.”
“He knew it, of course?”
“He didn't say so. There was no celebrity-start of pleasure. I had
to explain that I occasionally painted portraits and that I wished to
make a study of his damned remarkable head. Upon that he handed me his
card. Here it is.”
And Garstin drew out of a side pocket a visiting-card, which he gave
to Miss Van Tuyn.
She read: “Nicolas Arabian.”
There was no address in the corner.
“What a curious name!”
She sat gazing at the card and smoking her cigarette.
“Do you know where he is staying?”
“No.”
“Did you speak English to him?”
“I did.”
“And he spoke good English?”
“Yes, with a foreign accent of some kind.”
At this moment an electric bell sounded below.
“There he is!” said Miss Van Tuyn, quickly giving back the card to
Garstin, who dropped it into his pocket. “Do go down quickly and let
him in, or he may think it is all a hoax and go away.”
The painter stood looking at her keenly, with his hands in his
pockets and his strong, thin legs rather wide apart.
“Well, at any rate you're damned unconventional!” he said. “At this
moment you even look unconventional. What are your eyes shining about?”
“Dick—do go!”
She laid a hand on his arm. There was a strong grip in her fingers.
“This is a little adventure. And I love an adventure,” she said.
“I only hope it ends badly,” said Garstin, as he turned towards the
staircase. “He's more patient than you. He hasn't rung twice.”
“I believe he's gone away,” she said, almost angrily as he
disappeared down the stairs.
She got up. There was a grand piano in the studio at the far end.
She moved as if she were going towards it, then returned and went to
the head of the stairs. She heard the front door open and listened.
Dick Garstin's big bass voice said in an offhand tone:
“Halloh! Thought you weren't coming! Glad to see you. Come along
in!”
“I know I am late,” said a warm voice—the voice of a man. “For me
this place has been rather difficult to find. I am not well acquainted
with the painters' quarter of London.”
A door banged heavily. Then Miss Van Tuyn heard steps, and again the
warm voice saying:
“I see you do caricatures. Or are these not by you?”
“Every one of them!” said Garstin. “Except that. That's a copy I
made of one of Leonardo's horrors. It's fine. It's a thing to live
with.”
“Leonardo—ah, yes!” said the voice.
“I wonder if that man has ever heard of Leonardo?” was Miss Van
Tuyn's thought just then.
“Up those stairs right ahead of you,” said Garstin.
Miss Van Tuyn quickly drew back and sat down again on the sofa. An
instant after she had done so the living bronze appeared at the top of
the stairs, and his big brown eyes rested on her. No expression either
of surprise, or of anything else, came into his face as he saw her. And
she realized immediately that whatever else this man was he was
supremely self-possessed. Yet he had turned away from her shilling. Why
was that? In that moment she began to wonder about him. He stood still,
waiting for Garstin to join him. As he did this he looked formal but
amazingly handsome, though there were some lines about his eyes which
she had not noticed in the Cafe Royal. He was dressed in a dark town
suit and wore a big double-breasted overcoat. He was holding a black
bowler hat, a pair of thick white gloves and a silver-topped stick. As
Garstin joined him, Miss Van Tuyn slowly got up from her sofa.
“A friend of mine—Beryl Van Tuyn,” said Garstin. “Come to have a
look round at what I'm up to.” (He glanced at Miss Van Tuyn.) “Mr.
Arabian,” he added. “Take off your coat, won't you? Throw it anywhere.”
Arabian bowed to Miss Van Tuyn, still looking formal and as if she
were a total stranger whom he had never set eyes on before. She bowed
to him. As she did so she thought that he was a little older than she
had supposed. He was certainly over thirty. She wondered about his
nationality and suspected that very mixed blood ran in his veins.
Somehow, in spite of his quite extraordinary good looks, she felt
almost certain that he was not a pure type of any nation. In her mind
she dubbed him on the spot “a marvellous mongrel.”
He obeyed Garstin's suggestion, took off his coat, and laid it with
his hat, gloves and stick on a chair close to the staircase. Then for
the first time he spoke to Miss Van Tuyn, who was still standing.
“I always love a studio, mademoiselle,” he said, “and when Mr. Dick
Garstin”—he pronounced the name with careful clearness—“was good
enough to invite me to his I was very thankful. His pictures are
famous.”
“You've been getting me up,” said Garstin bluntly. “Reading 'Who's
Who'!”
Arabian raised his eyebrows.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don't be absurd and put on false modesty, Dick,” said Miss Van
Tuyn. “As if you weren't known to everyone!”
It was the first time she had spoken in Arabian's hearing since the
episode in Shaftesbury Avenue, and, as she uttered her first words, she
thought she detected a faint and fleeting look of surprise—it was like
a mental start made visible—slip over his face, like a ray of pale
light slipping over a surface. Immediately afterwards a keen expression
came into his eyes, and he looked rather more self- possessed than
before, rather harder even.
“Everyone, of course, knows your name, Mr. Dick Garstin, as
mademoiselle says.”
“Right you are!” said Garstin gruffly. “Glad to hear it!”
He now directed the two pin-points of light to the new visitor,
stared at him with almost cruel severity, and yet with a curiously
inward look, frowning and lifting his long pursed lips, till the upper
lip was pressed against the bottom of his beaked nose.
“Are you going to allow me to paint you?” he said. “That's what I'm
after. I should like to do a head and bust of you. I could make
something of it—something—yes!”
He still stared with concentrated attention, and suddenly a faint
whistle came from his lips. Without removing his eyes from Arabian he
whistled several times a little tune of five notes, like the song of a
thrush. Arabian meanwhile returned his gaze rather doubtfully, slightly
smiling.
“Ever been painted?” said Garstin at last.
“No, never. Once I have sat to a sculptor for the figure. But that
was when I was very young. I was something of an athlete as a boy.”
“I should say so,” said Garstin. “Well, what do you think, eh?”
Miss Van Tuyn had sat down on the sofa again, and was lighting
another cigarette. She looked at the two men with interest. She now
knew that what Garstin had done he had really done for himself, not for
her. As he had said, he did not paint for the pleasure of others, but
only for reasons of his own. Apparently he would never gratify her
vanity. But he gratified something else in her, her genuine love of
talent and the ruthlessness of talent. There was really something of
the great man in Garstin, and she appreciated it. She admired him more
than she liked him. Even in her frequent irritation against him she
knew what he genuinely was. At this moment something in her was sharply
disappointed. But something else in her was curiously satisfied.
In reply to Garstin's question Arabian asked another question.
“You wish to make a portrait of me?”
“I do—in oils.”
“Will it take long?”
“I couldn't say. I might be a week over it, or less, or more. I
shall want you every day.”
“And when it is done?” said Arabian. “What happens to it?”
“If it's up to the mark—my mark—I shall want to exhibit it.”
Arabian said nothing for a moment. He seemed to be thinking rather
seriously, and presently his large eyes turned towards Miss Van Tuyn
for an instant, almost, she thought, as if they wished to consult her,
to read in her eyes something which might help him to a decision. She
felt that the man was flattered by Garstin's request, but she felt also
that something—she did not know what—held him back from granting it.
And again she wondered about him.
What was he? She could not divine. She looked at him and felt that
she was looking at a book not one of whose pages she could read. And
yet she thought he had what is sometimes called an “open” face. There
was nothing sly in the expression of his eyes. They met other eyes
steadily, sometimes with a sort of frank audacity, sometimes with—
apparently—an almost pleading wistfulness.
Finally, as if coming to a conclusion as to what he considered it
wise to do for the moment, Arabian said:
“Excuse me, but are these pictures which I see portraits painted by
you?”
“Every one of them,” said Garstin, rather roughly and impatiently.
“Will you allow me to look at them?”
“They're there to be looked at.”
Again Arabian glanced at Miss Van Tuyn. She got up from the sofa
quickly.
“I will show Mr. Arabian the pictures,” she said.
She had noticed the cloud lowering on Garstin's face and knew that
he was irritated by Arabian's hesitation. As Garstin had once said to
her he could be “sensitive,” although his manners were often rough, and
his face was what is usually called a “hard” face. And he was quite
unaccustomed to meet with any resistance, even with any hesitation,
when he was disposed to paint anyone, man or woman. Besides, the fact
of Arabian's arrival at the studio had naturally led Garstin to expect
compliance with his wish already expressed at the Cafe Royal. He was
now obviously in a surly temper, and Miss Van Tuyn knew from experience
that when resisted he was quite capable of an explosion. How, she
wondered, would Arabian face an outburst from Garstin? She could not
tell. But she thought it wise if possible to avoid anything
disagreeable. So she came forward smiling.
“That will be very kind,” said Arabian, in his soft and warm voice,
and with his marked but charming foreign accent. “I am not expert in
these matters.”
Garstin pushed up his lips in a sort of sneer. Miss Van Tuyn sent
him a look, and for once he heeded a wish of hers.
“I'll be back in a minute,” he said. “Have a good stare at my stuff,
and if you don't like it—why, damn it, you're free to say so.”
Miss Van Tuyn's look had sent him away down the stairs to the ground
floor studio. Arabian had not missed her message, but he was apparently
quite impassive, and did not show that he had noticed the painter's ill
humour.
For the first time Miss Van Tuyn was quite alone with the living
bronze.
“Do you know much about pictures?” she asked him.
“Not very much,” he answered, with a long, soft look at her. “I have
only one way to judge them.”
“And what way is that?”
“If they are portraits, I mean.”
“Yes?”
“I judge them by their humanity. One does not want to be made worse
than one is in a picture.”
“I'm afraid you won't like Dick Garstin's work,” she said
decisively.
She was rather disappointed. Had this audaciously handsome man a
cult for the pretty-pretty?
“Let us see!” he replied, smiling.
He looked round the big studio. As he did so she noticed that he had
an extraordinarily quick and all-seeing glance, and realized that in
some way, in some direction, he must be clever, even exceptionally
clever. There were some eight to ten portraits in the studio, a few
finished, others half finished or only just begun. Arabian went first
to stand before the finished portrait of a girl of about eighteen,
whose face was already plainly marked—blurred, not sharpened—by vice.
Her youth seemed obscured by a faint fog of vice—as if she had
projected it, and was slightly withdrawn behind it. Arabian looked at
her in silence. Miss Van Tuyn watched him, standing back, not quite
level with him. And she saw on his face an expression that suggested to
her a man contemplating something he was very much at home with.
“That is a bad girl!” was his only comment, as he moved on to the
next picture.
This was also the portrait of a woman, but of a woman well on in
life, an elderly and battered siren of the streets, wrecked by men and
by drink. Only the head and bust were shown, a withered head crowning a
bust which had sunken in. There was an old pink hat set awry on the
head. From beneath it escaped coarse wisps of almost orange-coloured
hair. The dull, small eyes were deep-set under brows which looked
feverish. A livid spot of red glowed almost like a torch-end on each
high cheek-bone. The mouth had fallen open.
Arabian examined this tragedy, which was one of Garstin's finest
bits of work in Miss Van Tuyn's estimation, with careful and close
attention, but without showing the faintest symptom of either pity or
disgust.
“In my opinion that is well painted,” was his comment. “They do get
to be like that. And then they starve. And that is because they have no
brains.”
“Garstin swears that woman must once have been very beautiful,” said
Miss Van Tuyn.
“Oh—quite possible,” said Arabian.
“Well, I can't conceive it.”
He turned and gave her a long, steady look, full of softness and
ardour.
“It would be very sad if you could,” he said. “Excuse me, but are
you American?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Americans never get like that. They are too practical.”
“And not romantic—do you mean?” she said, not without irony.
“They can be romantic, but they save themselves from disaster with
their practical sense. I hope I put it right.”
She smiled at him.
“You speak very good English. What do you think of this?”
“But I have seen her!” he said.
They had come to the easel on which was the half-finished portrait
of Cora, staring across her empty glass.
“She goes to the Cafe Royal.”
He looked again at Miss Van Tuyn.
“Do you ever go there?” he asked gravely.
“No, never,” she said with calm simplicity, returning his gaze.
“Well she—that woman—sits there alone just like that. She has a
purpose. She is waiting for someone to come in who will come some
night. And she knows that, and will wait, like a dog before a hole
which contains something he intends to kill. This Mr. Dick Garstin is
very clever. He is more than a painter; he is an understander.”
“Ah!” she said, intimately pleased by this remark. “You do
appreciate him! Garstin is great because he paints not merely for the
eye that looks for a sort of painted photograph, but for the eye that
demands a summing up of character.”
Arabian looked sideways at her.
“What is that—of character, mademoiselle?”
“A summing up! That is a presentation of the sum total of the
character.”
“Oh, yes.”
He looked again at Cora.
“One knows what she is by that,” he said.
Then, standing still, he looked rapidly all round the studio,
glancing first at one portrait then at another, with eyes which despite
their lustrous softness, seemed to make a sort of prey of whatever they
lighted on.
“But they are all women and all of a certain world!” he said, almost
suspiciously. “Why is that?”
“Garstin is passing through a phase just now. He paints from the
Cafe Royal.”
“Oh!”
He paused, and his brown face took on a look of rather hard
meditation.
“Does he never paint what they call decent people?” he inquired.
“One may occasionally spend an hour at the Cafe Royal—especially if
one is not English—without belonging to the bas-fonds. I do not
know whether Mr. Dick Garstin understands that.”
“Of course he does,” she said, instantly grasping the meaning of his
hesitation. “But there is one portrait—of a man—which I don't think
you have looked at.”
“Where?”
“On that big easel with its back to us. If you want a decent
person”— she spoke with a slightly ironical intonation—“go and see
what Garstin can do with decency.”
“I will.”
And he walked over to the side of the room opposite to the grand
piano, and went to stand in front of the easel she had indicated. She
stood where she was and watched him. For two or three minutes he looked
at the picture in silence, and she thought his expression had become
slightly hostile. His audacious and rather thick lips were set together
firmly, almost too firmly. His splendid figure supple, athletic and
harmonious, looked almost rigid. She wondered what he was feeling,
whether he disliked the portrait of the judge of the Criminal Court at
which he was looking. Finally he said:
“I think Mr. Dick Garstin is a humorist. Do not you?”
“But—why?”
“To put this gentleman in the midst of all the law breakers.”
Miss Van Tuyn crossed the room and joined him in front of the
picture, which showed the judge seated in his wig and robes.
“And that is not all,” added Arabian. “This man's business is to
judge others, naughty people who do God knows what, and, it seems, have
to be punished sometimes. Is it not?”
“Yes, to be sure.”
“But Mr. Dick Garstin when painting him is saying to himself all the
time, 'And he is naughty, too! And who is going to put on wig and red
clothes and tell him he, too, deserves a few months of prison?' Now is
not that true, mademoiselle? Is not that man bad underneath the judge's
skin? And has not Mr. Dick Garstin found this out, and does not he use
all his cleverness to show it?”
Miss Van Tuyn looked at Arabian with a stronger interest than any
she had shown yet. It was quite true. Garstin had a peculiar faculty
for getting at the lower parts of a character and for bringing it to
the surface in his portraits. Perhaps in the exercise of this faculty
he showed his ingrained cynicism, sometimes even his malice. Arabian
had, it seemed, immediately discovered the painter's predominant
quality as a psychologist of the brush.
“You are quite right,” she said. “One feels that someone ought to
judge that judge.”
“That is more than a portrait of one man,” said Arabian. “It is a
portrait of the world's hypocrisy.”
In saying this his usually soft voice suddenly took on an almost
biting tone.
“The question is,” he added, “whether one wishes to be painted as
bad when perhaps one is not so bad. Many people, I think, might fear to
be painted by this very famous Mr. Dick Garstin.”
“Would you be afraid to be painted by him?” she said.
He cast a sharp glance at her with eyes which looked suddenly
vigilant.
“I did not say that.”
“He'll be furious if you refuse.”
“I see he is accustomed generally to have what he wishes.”
“Yes. And he would make a magnificent thing of you. I am certain of
that.”
She saw vanity looking out of his eyes, and her vanity felt suddenly
almost strangely at home with it.
“It is a compliment, I know, that he should wish to paint me,” said
Arabian. “But why does he?”
The question sounded to Miss Van Tuyn almost suspicious.
“He admires your appearance,” she answered. “He thinks you a very
striking type.”
“Ah! A type! But what of?”
“He didn't tell me,” she answered.
Arabian was silent for a moment; then he said:
“Does Mr. Dick Garstin get high prices for his portraits? Are they
worth a great deal?”
“Yes,” she said, with a sudden light touch of disdain, which she
could not forego. “The smallest sketch of a head painted by him will
fetch a lot of money.”
“Ah—indeed!”
“Let him paint you! There he is—coming back.”
As Garstin reappeared Arabian turned to him with a smile that looked
cordial and yet that seemed somehow wanting in real geniality.
“I have seen them all.”
“Have you? Well, let's have a drink.”
He went over to the Spanish cabinet and brought out of it a flagon
of old English glass ware, soda-water, and three tall tulip-shaped
glasses with long stems.
“Come on. Let's sit down,” he said, setting them down on a table.
“I'll get the cigars. Squat here, Beryl. Here's a chair for you,
Arabian. Help yourselves.”
He moved off and returned with a box of his deadly cigars. Arabian
took one without hesitation, and accepted a stiff whisky and soda.
While he had been downstairs Garstin had apparently recovered his good
humour, or had deliberately made up his mind to take a certain line
with his guest from the Cafe Royal. He said nothing about his pictures,
made no further allusion to his wish to paint Arabian's portrait, but
flung himself down, lit a cigar, and began to drink and smoke and talk,
very much as if he were in the bar of an inn with a lot of good
fellows. When he chose Garstin could be human and genial, at times even
rowdy. He was genial enough now, but Miss Van Tuyn, who was very sharp
about almost everything connected with people, thought of a patient's
first visit to a famous specialist, and of the quarter of an hour so
often apparently wasted by the great physician as he talks about topics
unconnected with symptoms to his anxious visitor. She was certain that
Garstin was determined to paint Arabian whether the latter was willing
to be painted or not, and she was equally certain that already Garstin
had begun to work on his sitter, not with brushes but with the mind.
For his own benefit, and incidentally for hers, Garstin was carelessly,
but cleverly, trying to find out things about Arabian, not things about
his life, but things about his education, and his mind and his
temperament. He did not ask him vulgar questions. He just talked, and
watched, and occasionally listened in the midst of the cigar smoke, and
often with the whisky at his lips.
She had refused to take any whisky, but smoked cigarette after
cigarette quickly, nervously almost. She was enjoying herself
immensely, but she felt unusually excited, mentally restless, almost
mentally agitated. Her usual coolness of mind had been changed into a
sort of glow by Garstin and the living bronze. She always liked being
alone with men, hearing men talk among themselves or talking with them
free from the presence of women. But to-day she was exceptionally
stimulated for she was exceptionally curious. There was something in
Arabian which vaguely troubled her, and which also enticed her almost
against her will. And now she was following along a track, pioneered by
a clever and cunning leader.
Garstin talked about London, which Arabian apparently knew fairly
well, though he said he had never lived long in London; then about
Paris, which Arabian also knew and spoke of like a man who visited it
now and then for purposes of pleasure. Then Garstin spoke of the art he
followed, of the old Italian painters and of the Galleries of Italy.
Arabian became very quiet. His attitude and bearing were those of one
almost respectfully listening to an expert holding forth on a subject
he had made his own. Now and then he said something non- committal.
There was no evidence that he had any knowledge of Italian pictures,
that he could distinguish between a Giovanni Bellini and a Raphael,
tell a Luini from a Titian.
Miss Van Tuyn wondered again whether he had ever heard of Leonardo.
Garstin mentioned some Paris painters of the past, but of more
recent times than those of the grand old Italians, spoke of Courbet, of
Manet, of Renoir, Guilaumin, Sisley, the Barbizon school, Cezanne and
his followers. Finally he came to the greatest of the French
Impressionist painters, to Pissaro, for whom, as Miss Van Tuyn knew, he
had an admiration which amounted almost to a cult.
“He's a glorious fellow, isn't he?” he said in his loud bass voice
to Arabian. “You know his 'Pont Neuf,' of course?”
He did not wait for an answer, but drove on with immense energy,
puffing away at his cigar and turning his small, keen eyes swiftly from
Arabian to Miss Van Tuyn and back again. The talk, which was now a
monologue, fed by frequent draughts of the excellent whisky, included a
dissertation on Pissaro's oil paintings, his water-colours, his
etchings and lithographs, his pupils, Cezanne, Van Gogh and Gauguin,
his friendships, his troubles, and finally a paean on his desperate
love of work, which was evidently shared by the speaker.
“Work—it's the thing in life!” roared Garstin. “It's the
great consolation for all the damnableness of the human existence. Work
first and the love of women second!”
“Thank you very much for your chivalry, Dick,” said Miss Van Tuyn,
sending one of her most charming blue glances to the living bronze, who
returned it, almost eagerly, she thought.
“And the love of women betrays,” continued Garstin. “But work never
lets you down.”
He flung out his right arm and quoted sonorously from Pissaro: “I
paint portraits because doing it helps me to live!” he almost shouted.
“Another cigar!” He turned to Arabian.
“Thank you. They are beauties and not too strong.”
“You've got a damned strong constitution if you can say that. You
have been like me; you have fortified it by work.”
“I fear not,” he said with a smile. “I have been a flaneur, an
idler. It has been my great misfortune to have enough money for what I
want without working.”
“Like poor me!” said Miss Van Tuyn, feeling suddenly relieved.
“I pity you both!” said Garstin.
And he branched away to literature, to music, to sculpture. Lowering
his big voice suddenly he spoke of the bronzes of the Naples Museum,
half shutting his eyes till they were two narrow slits, and looking
intently at Arabian.
“You have the throat of one of those bronzes,” he said bluntly, “and
should never wear that cursed abomination, a starched linen collar.”
“What is one to do in London?” murmured Arabian, suddenly stretching
his brown throat and lifting his strong chin.
“Show it something worth looking at,” said Garstin.
And he returned to the subject of women, and spoke on it so freely
and fully that Miss Van Tuyn presently pulled him up. Rather to her
surprise he showed unusual meekness under her interruption.
“All right, my girl! I've done! I've done! But I always forget
you're not a young man.”
“Ma foi!” said Arabian, almost under his breath.
Garstin looked across at him
“She's a Tartar. She'd keep the devil himself in order.”
“He deserves restraint far less than you do,” said Miss Van Tuyn.
“She won't leave me alone,” continued Garstin, flinging one leg over
the arm of his easy chair. “She even attacks me about my painting, says
I only paint the rats of the sewers.”
“I never said that,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “I said you were a painter
of the underworld, and so you are.”
“But Mr. Dick Garstin also paints judges, mademoiselle,” said
Arabian.
“Oh, lord! Drop the Mister! I'm Dick Garstin tout court or
I'm nothing. Now, Arabian, you know the reason, part of the reason, why
I want to stick you on canvas.”
“You mean because—”
He seemed to hesitate, and touched his little Guardsman's moustache.
“Because you're a jolly fine subject and nothing to do with the
darlings that live in the sewers.”
“Ah! Thank you!” said Arabian. “But you paint judges.”
“I only put that red-faced old ruffian here as a joke. Directly I
set eyes on him I knew he ought to have been in quod himself! Come now,
what do you say? Look here! I'll make a bargain with you. I'll give you
the thing when it's done.”
Miss Van Tuyn looked at Garstin in amazement, and missed the sudden
gleam of light that came into Arabian's eyes. But Garstin did not miss
it and repeated:
“I'll give you the thing! Now what do you say? Is it a bargain?”
“But how can I accept?” said Arabian, quickly adding: “And how can I
refuse? Mr.—”
“Drop the Mister, I say.”
“Dick Garstin then.”
“That's better.”
“I wish to tell you that I am not a connoisseur of art. On the other
hand, please, I have an eye for what is fine. Mademoiselle, I hope,
will say it is so?”
He looked at Miss Van Tuyn.
“Mr. Arabian made some remarkably cute remarks about the portraits,
Dick,” she said in reply to the glance.
“I care for a fine painting so much that really I do not know how to
refuse the temptation you offer me—Dick Garstin.”
Garstin poured himself out another whisky.
“I'll start on it to-morrow,” he said, staring hard at the man who
had now become definitely his subject.
Soon afterwards Arabian got up and said he must go. As he said this
he looked pleadingly at Miss Van Tuyn. But she sat still in her chair,
a cigarette between her lips. He said “good-bye” to her formally.
Garstin went down with Arabian to let him out, and was away for three
or four minutes. From her chair Miss Van Tuyn heard a murmur of voices,
then presently a loud bass: “To-morrow morning at eleven sharp,” then
the bang of a door. A minute later Garstin bounded up the stairs
heavily, yet with a strong agility.
“I've got him, my girl! He's afraid of it like the devil, but I've
got him. I hit on the only way. I found the only bait which my fish
would take. Now for another cigar.”
He seized the box.
“Did you see his eyes when I said I'd give him the picture?”
“No; I was looking at you.”
“Then you missed revelation. I had diagnosed him all right.”
“Tell me your diagnosis.”
“I told it you long ago. That fellow is a being of the underworld.”
Miss Van Tuyn slightly reddened.
“I wonder!” she said. “I'm not at all sure that you're right, Dick.”
“What did you gather when I put him through his paces just now?” he
asked, sending out clouds of strong-smelling smoke.
“Oh, I don't know! Not very much. He seems to have been about, to
have plenty of money.”
“And no education. He doesn't know a thing about pictures, painters.
Just at first I thought he might have been a model. Not a bit of it!
Books mean nothing to him. What that chap has studied is the
pornographic book of life, my girl. He has no imagination. His feeling
runs straight in the direction of sensuality. He's as ignorant and as
clever as they're made. He's never done a stroke of honest work in his
life, and despises all those who are fools enough to toil, me among
them. He is as acquisitive as a monkey and a magpie rolled into one.
His constitution is made of iron, and I dare say his nerves are made of
steel. He's a rare one, I tell you, and I'll make a rare picture of
him.”
“I don't know whether you are right, Dick.”
Garstin seemed quite unaffected by her doubt of his power to read
character. Perhaps at that moment he was coolly reading hers, and
laughing to himself about women. But if so, he did not show it. And she
said in a moment:
“You are really going to give him the portrait?”
“Yes, when I've exhibited it. Not before, of course. The gentleman
isn't going to have it all his own way.”
Miss Van Tuyn looked rather thoughtful, even preoccupied. Almost
immediately afterwards she got up to go.
“Coming to-morrow?” he said.
“What—to see you paint?”
“Coming?”
“You really mean that I may?”
“I do. You'll help me.”
She looked rather startled, and then, immediately, keenly curious.
“I don't see how.”
“No reason you should! Now off with you! I've got things to do.”
“Then good-bye.”
As she was going away she stopped for a moment before the portrait
of the judge.
“He found out why you painted that portrait.”
“Arabian?” said Garstin.
“Yes. And he said something about it that wasn't stupid.”
“What was that?”
“He said it was more than a portrait of one man, that it was a
portrait of the world's hypocrisy.”
“Damned good!” said Garstin with a sonorous chuckle. “And his
portrait will be more than the portrait of one man.”
“Yes?” she said, looking eagerly at him.
But he would not say anything more, and she went away full of deep
curiosity, but thankful that she had decided to stay on in London.
CHAPTER II
Two days after the visit of Arabian to Dick Garstin's studio Lady
Sellingworth received a note from Francis Braybrooke, who invited her
to dine with him at the Carlton on the following evening, and to visit
a theatre afterwards. “Our young friends, Beryl Van Tuyn and Alick
Craven” would be of the party, he hoped. Lady Sellingworth had no
engagement. She seldom left home in the evening. Yet she hesitated to
accept this invitation. She had not seen Miss Van Tuyn since the
evening in Soho, nor Braybrooke since his visit to Berkeley Square to
tell her about his trip to Paris, but she had seen Craven three times,
and each time alone. Their intimacy had deepened with a rapidity which
now almost startled her as she thought of it, holding Braybrooke's
unanswered note. Already it seemed very strange to recall the time when
she had not known Craven, when she had never seen him, had never heard
of him. Sixty years she had lived without this young man in her life.
She could hardly believe that. And now, with this call to meet him in
public, before very watchful eyes, and in the company of two people who
she was sure were in different ways hostile to her intimacy with him,
she felt the cold touch of fear. And she doubted what course to take.
She wondered why Braybrooke had asked her and suspected a purpose.
In a moment she believed that she had guessed what that purpose was.
Braybrooke was meditating a stroke against her. She had felt that in
her drawing-room with him. For some reason—perhaps only that of a
social busybody—he wanted to bring about a match between Craven and
Miss Van Tuyn. He had said with emphasis that Craven had almost raved
about the lovely American. Lady Sellingworth did not believe that
assertion. She felt sure that when he had made it Braybrooke had told
her a lie. Craven had amply proved to her his indifference towards Miss
Van Tuyn. Braybrooke's lie surely indicated a desire to detach his old
friend's attention from the young man he had introduced into her life,
and must mean that he was a little afraid of her influence. It had been
practically a suggestion to her that youth triumphant must win in any
battle with old age; yet it had implied a doubt, if not an actual
uneasiness. And now came this invitation to meet “our young friends.”
Lady Sellingworth thought of the contrast between herself and Beryl Van
Tuyn. She had not worried about it in the Bella Napoli when she
and the young friends were together. But now—things were different
now. She had, or believed she had, something to lose. And she did not
want to lose it. It would be horrible to lose it!
Perhaps Braybrooke wished Craven to see her with Beryl Van Tuyn in
the glare of electric light. Perhaps that was the reason of this
unexpected invitation. If so, it was an almost diabolically cruel
reason.
She resolved to refuse the invitation. But again a voice through the
telephone caused her to change her mind. And again it was Craven's
voice. It asked her whether she had received an invitation from
Braybrooke, and on her replying that she had, it begged her to accept
it if she had not done so already. And she yielded. If Craven wished
her to go she would go. Why should she be afraid? In her ugliness
surely she triumphed as no beauty could ever triumph. She told herself
that and for a moment felt reassured, more than reassured, safe and
happy. For the inner thing, the dweller in the temple, felt that it,
and it alone, was exercising intimate power. But then a look into the
glass terrified her. And she sat down and wrote two notes. One was to
Francis Braybrooke accepting the invitation; the other was to a man
with a Greek name and was addressed to a house in South Moulton Street.
Francis Braybrooke felt rather uneasy about his party when the day
came, but he was a man of the world, and resolved to “put a good face
on it.” No more social catastrophes for him! Another fiasco would, he
was certain, destroy his nerve and render him quite unfit to retain his
place in society. He pulled himself together, using his will to the
uttermost, and dressed for dinner with a still determination to carry
things through with a high hand. The worst of it was that he had an
uneasy feeling—quite uncalled for, he was sure of that—of being a
false friend. For Lady Sellingworth was his friend. He had known her
for many years, whereas Craven and Beryl Van Tuyn were comparatively
new-comers in his life. And yet he was engaged in something not quite
unlike a conspiracy against this old friend. Craven had said she was
lonely. Perhaps that was true. Women who lived by themselves generally
felt lonelier than men in a like situation. Craven, perhaps, was
bringing a little solace into this lonely life. And now he, Braybrooke,
was endeavouring to make an end of that solace. For he quite understood
that, women being as they are, a strong friendship between Adela
Sellingworth and Craven was quite incompatible with a love affair
between Craven and Beryl Van Tuyn. He hoped he was not a traitor as he
carefully arranged his rather large tie. But anything was better than a
tragedy. And with women of Adela Sellingworth's reputed temperament one
never knew quite what might happen. Her emergence, after ten years,
into Shaftesbury Avenue and Soho had severely shaken Braybrooke's faith
in her sobriety, fostered though it had been, created even, by her ten
years of distinguished retirement. Damped-down fires sometimes blaze
forth unexpectedly and rage with fury. He hoped he was doing the right
thing. Anyhow, it was not his fault that Lady Sellingworth was to be of
his party tonight. Miss Van Tuyn was responsible for that.
He rang the bell, which was answered by his valet.
“Please fetch the theatre ticket, Walter. It is in the drawer of my
writing-table in the library. A box for the Shaftesbury Theatre.”
“Yes, sir.”
Walter went out and returned in a moment with the ticket. He was an
old servant and occasionally exchanged ideas with his master. As he
gave Braybrooke the envelope containing the ticket, he said:
“A very remarkable play, sir. I think you will enjoy it.”
“What! Have you seen it?”
“Yes, sir, The Great Lover. My wife would go. She liked the
name, sir. About a singer, sir, who kept on loving like a young man
when the age for it was really what one might call over, sir. But it
seems that for some it never is over, sir.”
“Good heavens, have I done the wrong thing again?” thought
Braybrooke, who had chosen the play almost at random, without knowing
much about it except that an actor unknown to him, one Moscovitch, was
said to be very fine in it.
“How old is the singer?” he inquired anxiously.
“I couldn't say for certain, sir. But somewhere in the forties, I
should think, and nearing fifty. He loses his voice, sir, but still
answers to young women at the telephone.”
“Dear! Dear!”
“But as my wife says, sir, with a man it's not such a great matter.
But with a woman—well!”
He pursed his narrow lips and half-shut his small grey eyes.
“Ah!” said Braybrooke, feeling extremely uncomfortable. “Good night,
Walter. You needn't sit up.”
“Thank you, sir. Good night, sir.”
“Really the evil eye must have looked at me!” thought Braybrooke, as
he went downstairs. “I'm thoroughly out of luck.”
He arrived in good time at the Carlton and waited for his guests in
the Palm Court. Craven was the first to arrive. He looked cheerful and
eager as he came in, and, Braybrooke thought, very young and handsome.
He had got away from the F. O. that afternoon, he said, and had been
down at Beaconsfield playing golf. Apparently his game had been
unusually good and that fact had put him into spirits.
“There's nothing like being in form with one's drive for bucking one
up!” he acknowledged.
And he broke out into an almost boyish paean in praise of golf.
“But I always thought you preferred lawn tennis!” said Braybrooke.
“Oh, I don't know! Yes, I'm as keen as ever on tennis, but anyone
can play golf. Mrs. Sandhurst was out to-day playing a splendid game,
and she's well over sixty. That's the best of golf. People can play,
and play decently, too, up to almost any age.”
“Well, but my dear boy you're not in the sixties yet!”
“No. But I wasn't thinking about myself.”
Braybrooke looked at him rather narrowly, and wondered of whom he
had been thinking. But he said nothing more, for at this moment Miss
Van Tuyn appeared in the doorway at the end of the court. Braybrooke
went to meet her, but Craven stayed were he was.
“Is Adela Sellingworth coming?” she asked instantly, as Braybrooke
took her hand.
“She promised to come. I'm expecting her.”
He made a movement, but she stood still, though they where close to
the doorway.
“And what are we going to see?”
“A play called The Great Lover. Here is Alick Craven.”
At this moment Craven joined them. Seeing Miss Van Tuyn standing
still with a certain obstinacy he came up and took her hand.
“Nice to meet you again,” he said.
Braybrooke thought of Miss Van Tuyn's remark about the Foreign
Office manner, and hoped Craven was going to be at his best that
evening. It seemed to him that there was a certain dryness in the young
people's greeting. Miss Van Tuyn was looking lovely, and almost
alarmingly youthful and self-possessed, in a white dress. Craven, fresh
from his successes at golf, looked full of the open-air spirit and the
robustness of the galloping twenties. In appearance the two were
splendidly matched. The faint defiance which Braybrooke thought he
detected in their eyes suited them both, giving to them just a touch of
the arrogance which youth and health render charming, but which in old
people is repellent and ugly. They wore it like a feather set at just
the right rakish angle in a cap. Nevertheless, this slight dryness must
be got rid of if the evening were to be a success, and Braybrooke set
himself to the task of banishing it. He talked of golf. Like many
American girls, Miss Van Tuyn was at home in most sports and games. She
was a good whip, a fine skater and lawn tennis player, had shot and
hunted in France, liked racing, and had learnt to play golf on the
links at Cannes when she was a girl of fifteen. But to-night she was
not enthusiastic about golf, perhaps because Craven was. She said it
was an irritating game, that playing it much always gave people a
worried look, that a man who had sliced his first drive was a bore for
the rest of the day, that a woman whom you beat in a match tried to do
you harm as long as you and she lived. Finally she said it was
certainly a fine game, but a game for old people. Craven protested, but
she held resolutely to her point. In other games— except croquet,
which she frankly loathed in spite of its scientific possibilities—you
moved quickly, were obliged to be perpetually on the alert. In tennis
and lawn tennis, in racquets, in hockey, in cricket, you never knew
what was going to happen, when you might have to do something, or make
a swift movement, a dash here or there, a dive, a leap, a run. But in
golf half your time was spent in solemnly walking—toddling, she chose
to call it—from point to point. This was, no doubt, excellent for the
health, but she preferred swiftness. But then she was only a
light-footed girl, not an elderly statesman.
“When I play golf much I always begin to feel like a gouty Prime
Minister who has been ordered to play for the good of the country,” she
said. “But when I'm an old woman I shall certainly play regularly for
the sake of my figure and my complexion. When I am sixty you will
probably see me every day on the links.”
Braybrooke saw a cloud float over Craven's face as she said this,
but it vanished as he looked away towards the hall. There, through the
glass of the dividing screen, Lady Sellingworth's tall and thin figure,
wrapped in a long cloak of dark fur, was visible, going with her
careless, trampish walk to the ladies' cloak-room.
“Ah, there is Adela Sellingworth!” said Braybrooke.
Miss Van Tuyn turned quickly, with a charming, youthful grace, made
up of a suppleness and litheness which suggested almost the movement of
a fluid. Craven noted it with a little thrill of unexpected pleasure,
against which an instant later something in him rebelled.
“Where is she?” said Miss Van Tuyn.
“She's just gone into the ladies' cloak-room,” answered Braybrooke.
“But not to powder her face!” said Miss Van Tuyn. “She keeps us
waiting, like the great prima donna in a concert, just long enough to
give a touch of excitement to her appearance. Dear Lady Sellingworth!
She has a wonderful knowledge of just how to do things. That only comes
out of a vast experience.”
“Or—don't you think that kind of thing may be instinctive?” said
Craven.
She sought his eyes with a sort of soft hardihood which was very
alluring.
“Women are not half as instinctive as men think them,” she said.
“I'll tell you a little secret. They calculate more than a senior
wrangler does.”
“Now you are maligning yourself,” he said, smiling.
“No. For I haven't quite got to the age of calculation yet.”
“Oh—I see.”
“Here she comes!” said Braybrooke.
And he went towards the door, leaving “our young friends” for a
moment.
“But what has she done to herself?” said Miss Van Tuyn.
“Done! Lady Sellingworth?”
“Yes. Or is it only her hair?”
Craven wondered, too, as Lady Sellingworth joined them, accompanied
by her host. For there was surely some slight, and yet definite, change
in her appearance. She looked, he thought, younger, brighter, more
vivid than she generally looked. Her white hair certainly was arranged
differently from the way he was now accustomed to. It seemed thicker;
there seemed to be more of it than usual. It looked more alive, too,
and it marked in, he thought, an exquisite way the beautiful shape of
her head. A black riband was cleverly entangled in it, and a big
diamond shone upon the riband in front above her white forehead, weary
with the years, but uncommonly expressive. She wore black as usual, and
had another broad black riband round her throat with a fine diamond
broach fastened to it. Her gown was slightly open at the front. There
were magnificent diamond earrings in her ears. They made Craven think
of the jewels stolen long ago at the station in Paris. This evening the
whiteness of her hair seemed wonderful, as the whiteness of thickly
powdered hair sometimes seems. And her eyes beneath it were amazingly
vivid, startlingly alive in their glancing brightness. They looked
careless and laughingly self-possessed as she came up to greet the girl
and young man, matching delightfully her careless and self-possessed
movement.
At that moment Craven realized, as he had certainly never realized
before, what a beauty—in his mind he said what a “stunning beauty”—
Lady Sellingworth must once have been. Even her face seemed to him in
some way altered to-night, though he could not have told how.
Certainly she looked younger than usual. He was positive of that:
still positive when he saw her standing by Miss Van Tuyn and taking her
hand. Then she turned to him and gave him a friendly and careless,
almost haphazard, greeting, still smiling and looking ready for
anything. And then at once they went into the restaurant up the broad
steps. And Craven noticed that everyone they passed by glanced at Lady
Sellingworth.
At that moment he felt very proud of her friendship. He even felt a
touch of romance in it, of a strange and unusual romance far removed
from the sort of thing usually sung of by poets and written of by
novelists.
“She is unusual!” he thought. “And so am I; and our friendship is
unusual too. There has never before been anything quite like it.”
And he glowed with a warming sense of difference from ordinary life.
But Miss Van Tuyn was claiming his urgent attention, and a waiter
was giving him Whitstable oysters, and Chablis was being poured into
his glass, and the band was beginning to play a selection from the
music of Grieg, full of the poetry and the love of the North, where
deep passions come out of the snows and last often longer than the
loves of the South. He must give himself up to it all, and to the
wonderful white-haired woman, too, with the great diamonds gleaming in
her ears.
It really was quite a buoyant dinner, and Braybrooke began to feel
more at ease. He had told them all where they were going afterwards,
but had said nothing about Walter's description of the play. None of
them had seen it, but Craven seemed to know all about it, and said it
was an entertaining study of life behind the scenes at the opera, with
a great singer as protagonist.
“He was drawn, I believe, from a famous baritone.”
During a great part of her life Lady Sellingworth had been an ardent
lover of the opera, and she had known many of the leading singers in
Paris and London.
“They always seemed to me to be torn by jealousy,” she said, “and
often to suffer from the mania of persecution! Really, they are like a
race apart.”
And the conversation turned to jealousy. Braybrooke said he had
never suffered from it, did not know what it was. And they smiled at
him, and told him that then he could have no temperament. Craven
declared that he believed almost the whole human race knew the ugly
intimacies of jealousy in some form or other.
“And yourself?” said Miss Van Tuyn.
“I!” he said, and looking up saw Lady Sellingworth's brilliant eyes
fixed on him.
“Do you know them?”
“I have felt jealousy certainly, but never yet as I could feel it.”
“What! You are conscious of a great capacity for feeling jealous, a
capacity which has never yet had its full fling?” said the girl.
“Yes,” he said.
And his lips were smiling, but there was a serious look in his eyes.
And they discussed the causes of jealousy.
“We shall see it to-night on the stage in its professional form,”
said Craven.
“And that is the least forgivable form,” said Lady Sellingworth.
“Jealousy which is not bound up with the affections is a cold and
hideous thing. But I cannot understand a love which is incapable of
jealousy. In fact, I don't think I could believe it to be love at all.”
This remark, coming from those lips, surprised Braybrooke. For Lady
Sellingworth was not wont to turn any talk in which she took part upon
questions concerned with the heart. He had frequently noticed her
apparent aversion from all topics connected with deep feeling.
To-night, it seemed, this aversion had died out of her.
In answer to the last remark Miss Van Tuyn said:
“Then, dear, you rule out perfect trust in a matter of love, do you?
All the sentimentalists say that perfect love breeds perfect trust. If
that is so, how can great lovers be jealous? For jealousy, I suppose—
I have never felt it myself in that way—is born out of doubt, but can
never exist side by side with complete confidence.”
“Ah! But Beryl, in how many people in the course of a lifetime can
one have complete confidence I have scarcely met one. What do
you say?”
She turned her head towards Braybrooke. He looked suddenly rather
plaintive, like a man who realizes unexpectedly how lonely he is.
“Oh, I hope I know a few such people,” he rejoined rather anxiously.
“I have been very lucky in my friends. And I like to think the best of
people.”
“That is kind,” said Lady Sellingworth. “But I prefer to know the
truth of people. And I must say I think most of us are quicksands. The
worst of it is that so often when we do for a moment feel we are on
firm ground we find it either too hard for our feet or too flat for our
liking.”
At that moment she thought of Sir Seymour Portman.
“You think it is doubt which breeds fascination?” said Craven.
“Alas for us if it is so,” she answered, smiling.
“The human race is a very unsatisfactory race,” said Miss Van Tuyn.
“I am only twenty-four and have found that out already. It is very
clever of the French to cultivate irony as they do. The ironist always
wears clothes and an undershirt of mail. But the sentimentalist goes
naked in the east wind which blows through society. Not only is he
bound to take cold, but he is liable to be pierced by every arrow that
flies.”
“Yes, it is wise to cultivate irony,” said Lady Sellingworth.
“You have,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “One often sees it in your eyes.
Isn't it true?”
She turned to Craven; but he did not choose to agree with her.
“I'm a sentimentalist,” he said firmly. “And I never look about for
irony. Perhaps that's why I have not found it in Lady Sellingworth.”
Miss Van Tuyn sent him a glance which said plainly, but prettily,
“You humbug!” But he did not mind. Once he had discussed Lady
Sellingworth with Miss Van Tuyn. They had wondered about her together.
They had even talked about her mystery. But that seemed to Craven a
long time ago. Now he would far rather discuss Miss Van Tuyn with Lady
Sellingworth than discuss Lady Sellingworth with Miss Van Tuyn. So he
would not even acknowledge that he had noticed the mocking look in Lady
Sellingworth's eyes. Already he had the feeling of a friend who does
not care to dissect the mentality and character of his friend with
another. Something in him even had an instinct to protect Lady
Sellingworth from Miss Van Tuyn. That was surely absurd; unless,
indeed, age always needs protection from the cruelty of youth.
Francis Braybrooke began to speak about Paris, and again Miss Van
Tuyn said that she would never rest till she had persuaded Lady
Sellingworth to renew her acquaintance with that intense and apparently
light-hearted city, which contains so many secret terrors.
“You will come some day,” she said, with a sort of almost ruthless
obstinacy.
“Why not?” said Lady Sellingworth. “I have been very happy in
Paris.”
“And yet you have deserted it for years and years! You are an
enigma. Isn't she, Mr. Braybrooke?”
Before Braybrooke had time to reply to this direct question an
interruption occurred. Two ladies, coming in to dinner accompanied by
two young men, paused by Braybrooke's table, and someone said in a
clear, hard voice:
“What a dinky little party! And where are you all going afterwards?”
Craven and Braybrooke got up to greet two famous members of the “old
guard,” Lady Wrackley and Mrs. Ackroyde. Lady Sellingworth and Miss Van
Tuyn turned in their chairs, and for a moment there was a little
disjointed conversation, in the course of which it came out that this
quartet, too, was bound for the Shaftesbury Theatre.
“You are coming out of your shell, Adela! Better late than never!”
said Lady Wrackley to Lady Sellingworth, while Miss Van Tuyn quietly
collected the two young men, both of whom she knew, with her violet
eyes. “I hear of you all over the place.”
She glanced penetratingly at Craven with her carefully made-up eyes,
which were the eyes of a handsome and wary bird. Her perfectly arranged
hair was glossy brown, with glints in it like the colour of a
horse-chestnut. She showed her wonderful teeth in the smile which came
like a sudden gleam of electric light, and went as if a hand had turned
back the switch.
“I'm becoming dissipated,” said Lady Sellingworth. “Three evenings
out in one month! If I have one foot in the grave, I shall have the
other in the Shaftesbury Theatre to-night.”
One of the young men, a fair, horsey-looking boy, with a yellow
moustache, a turned-up nose, and an almost abnormally impudent and
larky expression, laughed in a very male and soldierly way; the other,
who was dark, with a tall figure and severe grey eyes, looked
impenetrably grave and absent minded.
“Well, I shall die if I don't have a good dinner at once,” said Mrs.
Ackroyde. “Is that a Doucet frock, Beryl?”
“No. Count Kalinsky designed it.”
“Oh—Igor Kalinksy! Adela, we are in Box B. We must have a powwow
between the acts.”
She looked from Lady Sellingworth to Craven and back again. Short,
very handsome, always in perfect health, with brows and eyes which
somehow suggested a wild creature, she had an honest and quite
unaffected face. Her manner was bold and direct. There was something
lasting—some said everlasting—in her atmosphere.
“I cannot conceive of London without Dindie Ackroyde,” said
Braybrooke, as Mrs. Ackroyde led the way to the next table and sat down
opposite to Craven.
And they began to talk about people. Craven said very little. Since
the arrival of the other quartet he had begun to feel sensitively
uncomfortable. He realized that already his new friendship for Lady
Sellingworth had “got about,” though how he could not imagine. He was
certain that the “old guard” were already beginning to talk of Addie
Sellingworth's “new man.” He had seen awareness, that strange feminine
interest which is more than half hostile, in the eyes of both Lady
Wrackley and Mrs. Ackroyde. Was it impossible, then, in this horrible
whispering gallery of London, to have any privacy of the soul? (He
thought that his friendship really had something of the soul in it.) He
felt stripped by the eyes of those two women at the neighbouring table,
and he glanced at Lady Sellingworth almost furtively, wondering what
she was feeling. But she looked exactly as usual, and was talking with
animation, and he realized that her long habit of the world enabled her
to wear a mask at will. Or was she less sensitive in such matters than
he was?
“How preoccupied you are!” said Miss Van Tuyn's voice in his ear.
“You see I was right. Golf ruins the social qualities in a man.”
Then Craven resolutely set himself to be sociable. He even acted a
part, still acutely conscious of the eyes of the “old guard,” and
almost made love to Miss Van Tuyn, as a man may make love at a dinner
table. He was sure Lady Sellingworth would not misunderstand him.
Whether Miss Van Tuyn misunderstood him or not did not matter to him at
that moment. He saw her beauty clearly; he was able to note all the
fluid fascination of her delicious youthfulness; the charm of it went
to him; and yet he felt no inclination to waver in his allegiance to
Lady Sellingworth. It was as if a personality enveloped him, held his
senses as well as his mind in a soft and powerful grasp. Not that his
senses were irritated to alertness, or played upon to exasperation.
They were merely inhibited from any activity in connexion with another,
however beautiful and desirable. Lady Sellingworth roused no physical
desire in Craven, although she fascinated him. What she did was just
this: she deprived him of physical desire. Miss Van Tuyn's arrows were
shot all in vain that night. But Craven now acted well, for women's
keen eyes were upon him.
Presently they got up to go to the theatre, leaving the other
quartet behind them, quite willing to be late.
“Moscovitch doesn't come on for some time,” said Mrs. Ackroyde. “And
we are only going to see him. The play is nothing extraordinary. Where
are you sitting?”
Braybrooke told her the number of their box.
“We are just opposite to you then,” she said.
“Mind you behave prettily, Adela!” said Lady Wrackley.
“I have almost forgotten how to behave in a theatre,” she said. “I
go to the play so seldom. You shall give me some hints on conduct, Mr.
Craven.”
And she turned and led the way out of the restaurant, nodding to
people here and there whom she knew.
Her big motor was waiting outside, and they all got into it.
Braybrooke and Craven sat on the small front seats, sideways, so that
they could talk to their companions; and they flashed through the busy
streets, coming now and then into the gleam of lamplight and looking
vivid, then gliding on into shadows and becoming vague and almost
mysterious. As they crossed Piccadilly Circus Miss Van Tuyn said:
“What a contrast to our walk that night!”
“This way of travelling?” said Lady Sellingworth.
“Yes. Which do you prefer, the life of Soho and the streets and raw
humanity, or the Rolls-Royce life?”
“Oh, I am far too old, and far too fixed in my habits to make any
drastic change in my way of life,” said Lady Sellingworth, looking out
of the window.
“You didn't like your little experience the other night enough to
repeat it?” said Miss Van Tuyn.
As she spoke Craven saw her eyes gazing at him in the shadow. They
looked rather hard and searching, he thought.
“Oh, some day I'll go to the Bella Napoli again with you,
Beryl, if you like.”
“Thank you, dearest,” said Miss Van Tuyn, rather drily.
And again Craven saw her eyes fixed upon him with a hard, steady
look.
The car sped by the Monico, and Braybrooke, glancing with distaste
at the crowd of people one could never wish to know outside it,
wondered how the tall woman opposite to him with the diamonds flashing
in her ears had ever condescended to push her way among them at night,
to rub shoulders with those awful women, those furtive and evil-looking
men. “But she must have some kink in her!” he thought, and thanked God
because he had no kink, or at any rate knew of none which disturbed
him. The car drew up at the theatre, and they went to their box. It was
large enough for three to sit in a row in the front, and Craven
insisted on Braybrooke taking the place between the two women, while he
took the chair in the shadow behind Lady Sellingworth.
The curtain was already up when they came in, and a large and
voluble man, almost like a human earthquake, was talking in broken
English interspersed with sonorous Italian to a worried-looking man who
sat before a table in a large and gaudily furnished office.
The talk was all about singers, contracts, the opera.
Craven glanced across the theatre and saw a big, empty box on the
opposite side of the house. The rest of the house was full. He saw many
Jews.
Lady Sellingworth leaned well forward with her eyes fixed on the
stage, and seemed interested as the play developed.
“They are just like that!” she whispered presently, half turning to
Craven.
Miss Van Tuyn looked round. She seemed bored. Paris, perhaps, had
spoiled her for the acting in London, or the play so far did not
interest her. Braybrooke glanced at her rather anxiously. He did not
approve of the way in which he and his guests were seated in the box,
and was sure she did not like it. Craven ought to be beside her.
“What do you think of it?” he murmured.
“The operatic types aren't bad.”
She leaned with an elbow on the edge of the box and looked vaguely
about the house.
“I shall insist on a change of seats after the interval!” thought
Braybrooke.
A few minutes passed. Then the door of the box opposite was opened
and Lady Wrackley appeared, followed by Dindie Ackroyde and the two
young men who had dined with them. Lady Wrackley, looking—Craven
thought— like a remarkably fine pouter pigeon, came to the front of
the box and stared about the house, while the young man with the
turned-up nose gently, yet rather familiarly, withdrew from her a long
coat of ermine. Meanwhile Mrs. Ackroyde sat down, keeping on her cloak,
which was the colour of an Indian sky at night, and immediately became
absorbed in the traffic of the stage. It was obvious that she really
cared for art, while Lady Wrackley cared about the effect she was
creating on the audience. It seemed a long time before she sat down,
and let the two young men sit down too. But suddenly there was applause
and no one was looking at her. Moscovitch had walked upon the stage.
“That man can act!”
Miss Van Tuyn had spoken.
“He gets you merely by coming on. That is acting!”
And immediately she was intent on the stage.
When the curtain fell Braybrooke got up resolutely and stood at the
back of the box. Craven, too stood up, and they all discussed the play.
“It's a character study, simply that,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “The
persistent lover who can't leave off—”
“Trying to love!” interposed Lady Sellingworth. “Following the great
illusion.”
And they debated whether the great singer was an idealist or merely
a sensualist, or perhaps both. Miss Van Tuyn thought he was only the
latter, and Braybrooke agreed with her. But Lady Sellingworth said no.
“He is in love with love, I think, and everyone who is in love with
love is seeking the flame in the darkness. We wrong many people by
dubbing them mere sensualists. The mystery has a driving force which
many cannot resist.”
“What mystery, dearest?” said Miss Van Tuyn, not without irony.
But at this moment there was a tap at the door of the box, and
Craven opened it to find Mrs. Ackroyde and the young man with the
severe eyes waiting outside.
“May we come in? Is there room?” said Mrs. Ackroyde.
There was plenty of room.
“Lena will be happier without us,” Mrs. Ackroyde explained, without
a smile, and looking calmly at Lady Sellingworth. “If I sit quite at
the back here I can smoke a cigarette without being stopped. Bobbie you
might give me a match.”
The severe young man, who looked like a sad sensualist, one of those
men who try to cloak intensity with grimness, did as he was bid, and
they renewed the discussion which had been stopped for a moment,
bringing the newcomers into it. Lady Sellingworth explained that the
mystery she had spoken of was the inner necessity to try to find love
which drives many human beings. She spoke without sentimentality,
almost with a sort of scientific coldness as one stating facts not to
be gainsaid. Mrs. Ackroyde said she liked the theory. It was such a
comfortable one. Whenever she made a sidestep she would now be able to
feel that she was driven to it by an inner necessity, planted in her
family by the Immanent Will, or whatever it was that governed humanity.
As she spoke she looked at the man she had called Bobbie, who was Sir
Robert Syng, private secretary to a prominent minister, and when she
stopped speaking he said he had never been able to believe in free
will, though he always behaved as if he thought he possessed it.
Miss Van Tuyn thereupon remarked that as some people are born with
tempers and intellects and some without them, perhaps it was the same
with free will. She was quite positive she had a free will, but the
very first time she had seen Sir Robert she had had her doubts about
his having that precious possession. This sally, designed to break up
the general conversation and to fasten Sir Robert's attention on
herself, led to an animated discussion between her and Mrs. Ackroyde's
“man.” But Mrs. Ackroyde, though her large dark eyes showed complete
understanding of the manoeuvre, did not seem to mind, and, turning her
attention to Craven, she began to speak about acting. Meanwhile Lady
Sellingworth went out into the corridor with Braybrooke to “get a
little air.”
While Mrs. Ackroyde talked Craven felt that she was thinking about
him with an enormously experienced mind. She had been married twice,
and was now a widow. No woman knew more about life and the world in a
general way than she did. Her complete but quiet self-possession, her
rather blunt good nature, and her perfect health, had carried her
safely, and as a rule successfully, through multifarious experiences
and perhaps through many dangers. It was impossible to conceive of her
being ever “knocked out” by any happening however untoward it might be.
She was one of the stalwarts of the “old guard.” Craven certainly did
not dislike her. But now he felt almost afraid of her. For he knew her
present interest in him arose from suspicions about him and Lady
Sellingworth which were floating through her brain. She had heard
something; had been informed of something; someone had hinted; someone
had told. How do such things become suspected in a city like London?
Craven could not imagine how the “old guard” had come already to know
of his new friendship with Lady Sellingworth. But he was now quite sure
that he had been talked about, and that Mrs. Ackroyde was considering
him, his temperament, his character, his possibilities in connexion
with the famous Adela, once of the “old guard,” but long since
traitress to it.
And he felt as if he were made of glass beneath those experienced
and calmly investigating eyes, as he talked steadily about acting till
the bell went for the second act, and Lady Sellingworth and Braybrooke
returned to the box.
“Come and see me,” said Mrs. Ackroyde, getting up. “You never come
near me. And come down to Coombe to lunch one Sunday.”
“Thank you very much. I will.”
“And bring Adela with you!”
With a casual nod or two, and a “Come, Bobbie, I am sure you have
flirted quite enough with Beryl by this time!” she went out of the box,
followed by her grim but good-looking cavalier.
“You must sit in front through this act.”
Braybrooke spoke.
“Oh, but—”
“No, really—I insist! You don't see properly behind.”
Craven took the chair between the two women. As he did so he glanced
at Miss Van Tuyn. His chair was certainly nearer to hers than to Lady
Sellingworth's, much nearer. Syng had sat in it and must have moved it.
As she half turned and said something to Craven her bare silky arm
touched his sleeve, and their faces were very near together. Her eyes
spoke to him definitely, called him to be young again with her. And as
the curtain went up she whispered:
“It was I who insisted on a party of four to-night.”
Lady Sellingworth and Braybrooke were talking together, and Craven
answered:
“To Mr. Braybrooke?”
“Yes; so that we might have a nice little time. And Adela and he are
old friends and contemporaries! I knew they would be happy together.”
Craven shrank inwardly as he heard Miss Van Tuyn say “Adela,” but he
only nodded and tried to return adequately the expression in her eyes.
Then he looked across the theatre, and saw Mrs. Ackroyde speaking to
Lady Wrackley. After a moment they both gazed at him, and, seeing his
eyes fixed on her, Lady Wrackley let go her smile at him and made a
little gesture with her hand.
“She knows too—damn her!” thought Craven, impolitely.
He set his teeth.
“They know everything, these women! It's useless to try to have the
smallest secret from them!”
And then he said to himself what so many have said:
“What does it matter what they know, what they think, what they say?
I don't care!”
But he did care. He hated their knowing of his friendship with Lady
Sellingworth, and it seemed to him that they were scattering dust all
over the dew of his feeling.
The second act of the play was more interesting than the first, but,
as Miss Van Tuyn said, the whole thing was rather a clever character
study than a solidly constructed and elaborately worked out play. It
was the fascination of Moscovitch which held the audience tight and
which brought thunders of applause when the curtain fell.
“If that man acted in French he could have enormous success in
Paris,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “You have chosen well,” she added, turning
to Braybrooke. “You have introduced us to a great temperament.”
Braybrooke was delighted, and still more delighted when Lady
Sellingworth and Craven both said that it was the best acting they had
seen in London for years.
“But it comes out of Russia, I suppose,” said Lady Sellingworth.
“Poor, wonderful, horrible, glorious Russia!”
“Forgive me for a moment,” said Braybrooke. “Lady Wrackley seems to
want me.”
Indeed, the electric-light smile was being turned on and off in the
box opposite with unmistakable intention, and, glancing across, Craven
noticed that the young men had disappeared, no doubt to smoke
cigarettes in the foyer. Lady Wrackley and Mrs. Ackroyde were alone,
and, seeing them alone, it was easier to Craven to compare their
appearance with Lady Sellingworth's.
Lady Wrackley looked shiningly artificial, seemed to glisten with
artificiality, and her certainly remarkable figure suggested to him an
advertisement for a corset designed by a genius with a view to the
concealment of fat. Mrs. Ackroyde was far less artificial, and though
her hair was dyed it did not proclaim the fact blatantly. Certainly it
was difficult to believe that both those ladies, whom Braybrooke now
joined, were much the same age as Lady Sellingworth. And yet, in
Craven's opinion, to-night she made them both look ordinary,
undistinguished. There was something magnificent in her appearance
which they utterly lacked.
Braybrooke sat down in their box, and Craven was sure they were all
talking about Lady Sellingworth and him. He saw Braybrooke's broad-fingered hand go to his beard and was almost positive his old friend
was on the defensive. He was surely saying, “No, really, I don't think
so! I feel convinced there is nothing in it!” Craven's eyes met Lady
Sellingworth's, and it seemed to him at that moment that she and he
spoke together without the knowledge of Miss Van Tuyn. But immediately,
and as if to get away from their strange and occult privacy, she said:
“What have you been doing lately, Beryl? I hear Miss Cronin has come
over. But I thought you were not staying long. Have you changed your
mind?”
Miss Van Tuyn said she might stay on for some time, and explained
that she was having lessons in painting.
“In London! I didn't know you painted, and surely the best school of
painting is in Paris.”
“I don't paint, dearest. But one can take lessons in an art without
actually practising the art. And that is what I am doing. I like to
know even though I cannot, or don't want to, do. Dick Garstin is my
master. He has given me the run of his studio in Glebe Place.”
“And you watch him at work?” said Craven.
“Yes.”
She fixed her eyes on him, and added:
“He is painting a living bronze.”
“Somebody very handsome?” said Lady Sellingworth, glancing across
the house to the trio in the box opposite.
“Yes, a man called Nicolas Arabian.”
“What a curious name!” said Lady Sellingworth, still looking towards
the opposite box. “Is it an Englishman?”
“No. I don't know his nationality. But he makes a magnificent
model.”
“Oh, he's a model!” said Craven, also looking at the box opposite.
“He isn't a professional model. Dick Garstin doesn't pay him to sit.
I only mean that he is a marvellous subject for a portrait and sits
well. Dick happened to see him and asked him to sit. Dick paints the
people he wants to paint, not those who want to be painted by him. But
he's a really big man. You ought to know him.”
She said the last words to Lady Sellingworth, who replied:
“I very seldom make new acquaintances now.”
“You made Mr. Craven's!” said Miss Van Tuyn, smiling.
“But that was by special favour. I owe Mr. Braybrooke that!” said
Craven. “And I shall be eternally grateful to him.”
His eyes met Lady Sellingworth's, and he immediately added, turning
to Miss Van Tuyn:
“I have to thank him for two delightful new friends—if I may use
that word.”
“Mr. Braybrooke is a great benefactor,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “I
wonder how this play is going to end.”
And then they talked about Moscovitch and the persistence of a
ruling passion till Braybrooke came back. He looked rather grave and
preoccupied, and Craven felt sure that the talk in the opposite box had
been about Lady Sellingworth and her “new man,” himself, and, unusually
self-conscious, or moved, perhaps, by an instinct of self-preservation, he devoted himself almost with intensity to Miss Van Tuyn
till the curtain went up. And after it went up he kept his chair very
close to hers, sat almost “in her pocket,” and occasionally murmured to
her remarks about the play.
The last act was a panorama of shifting moods, and although there
was little action they all followed it with an intense interest which
afterwards surprised them. But a master hand was playing on the
audience, and drew at will from them what emotions he chose. Now and
then, during the progress of this act, Braybrooke sent an anxious
glance to Lady Sellingworth. All this about loss, though it was the
loss of a voice, about the end of a great career, about age and
desertion, was dangerous ground. The love-scene between Moscovitch and
the young girl seriously perturbed Braybrooke. He hoped, he sincerely
hoped, that Adela Sellingworth would not be upset, would not think that
he had chosen the Shaftesbury Theatre for their place of entertainment
with any arriere pensee. He fancied that her face began to look
rather hard and “set” as the act drew near its end. But he was not
sure. For the auditorium was rather dark; he could not see her quite
clearly. And he looked at Craven and Miss Van Tuyn and thought, rather
bitterly, how sane and how right his intentions had been. Youth should
mate with youth. It was not natural for mature, or old, age to be
closely allied with youth in any passionate bond. In such a bond youth
was at a manifest disadvantage. And it seemed to Braybrooke that age
was sometimes, too often indeed, a vampire going about to satisfy its
appetite on youth, to slake its sad thirst at the well-spring of youth.
He looked, too, at the women in the box opposite, and at the young men
with them, and he regretted that so many human beings were at grips
with the natural. He at any rate, although he carefully concealed his
age, never did unsuitable things, or fell into anything undignified.
Yet was he rewarded for his intense and unremitting carefulness in
life?
A telephone bell sounded on the stage, and the unhappy singer,
bereft of romance, his career finished, decadence and old age staring
him in the face, went to answer the call. But suddenly his face
changed; a brightness, an alertness came into it and even,
mysteriously, into all his body. There was a woman at the other end of
the wire, and she was young and pretty, and she was asking him to meet
her. As he was replying gaily, with smiling lips, and a greedy look in
his eyes that was half child-like, half satyr-like, the curtain fell.
The play was at an end, leaving the impression upon the audience that
there is no end to the life of a ruling passion in a man while he
lives, that the ruling passion can only die when he dies.
Miss Van Tuyn and Craven, standing up in the box, applauded
vigorously.
“That's a true finish!” the girl said. “He's really a modern Baron
Hulot. When he's seventy he'll creep upstairs to a servant girl. We
don't change, I've always said it. We don't change!”
And she looked from Craven to Lady Sellingworth.
Moscovitch bowed many times.
“Well, Mr. Braybrooke,” said Miss Van Tuyn, “I've seen some acting
in London to-night that I should like to show to Paris. Thank you!”
She was more beautiful and more human than Craven had ever seen her
before in her genuine enthusiasm. And he thought, “Great art moves her
as nothing else moves her.”
“What do you say about it, dearest?” she said, as Craven helped her
to put on her cloak.
(Braybrooke was attending to Lady Sellingworth.)
“It's a great piece of acting!”
“And horribly true! Don't you think so?”
“I dare say it is,” Lady Sellingworth answered.
She turned quickly and led the way out of the box.
In the hall they encountered the other quartet and stood talking to
them for a moment, and Craven noticed how Miss Van Tuyn had been
stirred up by the play and how silent Lady Sellingworth was. He longed
to go back to Berkeley Square alone with the latter, and to have a long
talk; but something told him to get away from both the white- haired
woman and the eager girl. And when the motor came up he said very
definitely that he had an engagement and must find a cab. Then he bade
them good-bye and left them in the motor with Braybrooke. As he was
turning away to get out of the crowd a clear, firm voice said to him:
“I am so glad you have performed the miracle, Mr. Craven.”
He looked round and saw Mrs. Ackroyde's investigating eyes fixed
upon him.
“But what miracle?” he asked.
“You have pulled Adela Sellingworth out of the shell in which she
has been living curled up for over ten years.”
“Yes. You are a prodigy!” said Lady Wrackley, showing her teeth.
“But I'm afraid I can't claim that triumph. I'm afraid it's due to
Mr. Braybrooke's diplomacy.”
“Oh, no!” Mrs. Ackroyde said calmly. “Adela would never yield to his
cotton-glove persuasions. Besides, his diplomacy would shy away from
Soho.”
“Soho!” said Craven, startled.
“Yes!”
“Oh, but Miss Van Tuyn performed that miracle!” said Craven,
recovering himself.
“I don't think so. You are too modest. But now, mind, I expect you
to come down to Coombe to lunch on the first fine Sunday, and to bring
Adela with you. Good night! Bobbie, where are you?”
And she followed Lady Wrackley and the young man with the turned-up
nose to a big and shining motor which had just glided noiselessly up.
“Damn the women!” muttered Craven, as he pushed through the crowd
into the ugly freedom of Shaftesbury Avenue.
CHAPTER III
Miss Van Tuyn and the members of the “old guard” went home to bed
that night realizing that Lady Sellingworth had had “things” done to
herself before she came out to the theatre party.
“She's beginning again after—how many years is it?” said Lady
Wrackley to Mrs. Ackroyde in the motor as they drove away from
Shaftesbury.
“Ten,” said Mrs. Ackroyde, who was blessed with a sometimes
painfully retentive memory.
“I suppose it's Zotos,” observed Lady Wrackley.
“Who's Zotos?” inquired young Leving of the turned-up nose and the
larky expression.
“A Greek who's a genius and who lives in South Moulton Street.”
“What's he do?”
“Things that men shouldn't be allowed to know anything about. Talk
to Bobbie for a minute, will you?”
She turned again to Mrs. Ackroyde.
“It must be Zotos. But even he will be in a difficulty with her if
she wants to have very much done. She made the mistake of her life when
she became an old woman. I remember saying at the time that some day
she would repent in dust and ashes and want to get back, and that then
it would be too late. How foolish she was!”
“She will be much more foolish now if she really begins again,” said
Mrs. Ackroyde in her cool, common-sense way.
The young men were talking, and after a moment she continued:
“When a thing's once been thoroughly seen by everyone and recognized
for what it is, it is worse than useless to hide it or try to hide it.
Adela should know that. But I must say she looked remarkably well
to-night—for her. He's a good-looking boy.”
“He must be at least twenty-eight years younger than she is.”
“More, probably. But she prefers them like that. Don't you remember
Rochecouart? He was a mere child. When we gave our hop at Prince's she
was mad about him. And afterwards she wanted to marry Rupert Louth. It
nearly killed her when she found out he had married that awful girl who
called herself an actress. And there was someone else after Rupert.”
“I know. I often wonder who it was. Someone we don't know.”
“Someone quite out of our world. Anyhow, he must have broken her
heart for the time. And it's taken ten years to mend. Do you think that
she sold her jewels secretly to pay that man's debts, or gave them to
him, and that then he threw her over? I have often wondered.”
“So have we all. But we shall never know. Adela is very clever.”
“And now it's another boy! And only twenty-eight or so. He can't be
more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Poor old Adela!”
“Perhaps he likes white hair. There are boys who do.”
“But not for long. Beryl was furious.”
“It is hardly a compliment to her. I expect her cult for Adela will
diminish rapidly.”
“Oh, she'll very soon get him away. Even Zotos won't be able to do
very much for Adela now. She burnt all her boats ten years ago. Her
case is really hopeless, and she'll very soon find that out.”
“Do you remember when she tried to live up to Rupert Louth as an
Amazon?”
“Yes. She nearly killed herself over it; but I must say she stuck to
it splendidly. She has plenty of courage.”
“Is Alick Craven athletic? I scarcely know him.”
“Well, he's never been a rough rider like Rupert Louth; but I
believe he's a sportsman, does all the usual things.”
“Then I dare say we shall soon see Adela on the links and at
Kings'.”
“Probably. I'll get them both down to Coombe and see if she'll play
tennis on my hard court. I shouldn't wonder. She has pluck enough for
anything.”
“Ask me that Sunday. I wonder how long it will last.”
“Not long. It can't.”
“And then she'll go crash again. It must be awful to have a
temperament like hers.”
“Her great mistake is that apparently she puts some heart into it
every time. I can't think how she manages it, but she does. Do you
remember twelve years ago, when she was crazy about Harry Blake?
Well—”
But at this moment the motor drew up at the Carlton, and a huge man
in uniform opened the door.
Mrs. Ackroyde was right in her comment on Miss Van Tuyn. In spite of
Craven's acting that night Miss Van Tuyn had thoroughly understood how
things really were. She had persuaded Braybrooke to invite Lady
Sellingworth to make a fourth in order that she might find out whether
any link had been forged between Craven and Lady Sellingworth, whether
there was really any secret understanding between them, or whether that
tete-a-tete dinner in Soho had been merely a passing pleasure, managed
by Lady Sellingworth, meaning little, and likely to lead to nothing.
And she had found out that there certainly was a secret understanding
between Lady Sellingworth and Craven from which she was excluded.
Craven had preferred Adela Sellingworth to herself, and Adela
Sellingworth was fully aware of it.
It was characteristic of Miss Van Tuyn that though her vanity was so
great and was now severely wounded she did not debate the matter within
herself, did not for a moment attempt to deceive herself about it. And
yet really she had very little ground to go upon. Craven had been
charming to her, had replied to her glances, had almost made love to
her at dinner, had sat very close to her during the last act of the
play. Yes; but it had all been acting on his part. Quite coolly she
told herself that. And Lady Sellingworth had certainly wished him to
act, had even prompted him to it.
Miss Van Tuyn felt very angry with Lady Sellingworth. She was less
angry with Craven. Indeed, she was not sure that she was angry with him
at all. He was several years older than herself, but she began to think
of him as really very young, as much younger in mind and temperament
than she was. He was only a clever boy, susceptible to flattery, easily
influenced by a determined will, and probably absurdly chivalrous. She
knew the sort of chivalry which was a symptom really of babyhood in the
masculine mind. It was characteristic of sensitive natures, she
believed, and it often led to strange aberrations. Craven was only a
baby, although a baby of the world, and Adela Sellingworth with her
vast experience had, of course, seen that at a glance and was now
busily playing upon baby's young chivalry. Miss Van Tuyn could almost
hear the talk about being so lonely in the big house in Berkeley
Square, about the freedom of men and the difficulty of having any real
freedom when one is a solitary woman with no man to look after you,
about the tragedy of being considered old when your heart and your
nature are really still young, almost as young as ever they were. Adela
Sellingworth would know how to touch every string, would be an adept at
calling out the music she wanted. How easily experienced women played
upon men! It was really pathetic! And as Craven had thought of
protecting Lady Sellingworth against Miss Van Tuyn, so now Miss van
Tuyn felt inclined to protect Alick Craven against Lady Sellingworth.
She did not want to see a nice and interesting boy make a fool of
himself. Yet Craven was on the verge of doing that, if he had not
already done it. Lady Wrackley and Mrs. Ackroyde had seen how things
were, had taken in the whole situation in a moment. Miss Van Tuyn knew
that, and in her knowledge there was bitterness. These two women had
seen Lady Sellingworth preferred before her by a mere boy, had seen her
beauty and youth go for nothing beside a woman of sixty's fascination.
There must be something quite extraordinary in Craven. He must be
utterly unlike other young men. She began to wonder about him
intensely.
On the following morning, as usual, she went to Glebe Place to take
what she had called her “lesson” from Dick Garstin. She arrived rather
early, a few minutes before eleven, and found Garstin alone, looking
tired and irritable.
“You look as if you had been up all night,” she said as he let her
in.
“So I have!”
She did not ask him what he had been doing. He would probably refuse
to tell her. Instead she remarked:
“Will you be able to paint?”
“Probably not. But perhaps the fellow won't come.”
“Why not. He always—” She stopped; then said quickly, “So he was up
all night too?”
“Yes.”
“I didn't know you knew him out of the studio.”
“Of course I know him wherever I meet him. What do you mean?”
“I didn't know you did meet him.”
Garstin said nothing. She turned and went up the staircase to the
big studio. On an easel nearly in the middle of the room, and not very
far from the portrait of the judge, there was a sketch of Nicolas
Arabian's head, neck and shoulders. No collar or clothes were shown.
Garstin had told Arabian flatly that he wasn't going to paint a
magnificent torso like his concealed by infernal linen and serge, and
Arabian had been quite willing that his neck and shoulders should be
painted in the nude.
In the strong light of the studio Garstin's unusual appearance of
fatigue was more noticeable, and Miss Van Tuyn could not help saying:
“What on earth have you been doing, Dick? You always seem made of
iron. But to-day you look like an ordinary man who has been
dissipating.”
“I played poker all night,” said Garstin.
“With Arabian?”
“And two other fellows—picked them up at the Cafe Royal.”
“Well, I hope you won.”
“No, I didn't. Both Arabian and I lost a lot. We played here.”
“Here!”
“Yes. And I haven't had a wink since they left. I don't suppose
he'll turn up. And if he does I shan't be able to do anything at it.”
He went to stand in front of the sketch, which was in oils, and
stared at it with lack-lustre eyes.
“What d'you think of it?” he said at last.
Miss Van Tuyn was rather surprised by the question. Garstin was not
in the habit of asking other people's opinions about his work.
“It's rather difficult to say,” she said, with some hesitation.
“That means you think it's rotten.”
“No. But it isn't finished and—I don't know.”
“Well, I hate it.”
He turned away, sat down on a divan, and let his big knuckly hands
drop down between his knees.
“Fact is, I haven't got at the fellow's secret,” he said
meditatively. “I got a first impression—”
He paused.
“I know!” said Miss Van Tuyn, deeply interested. “You told me what
it was.”
“The successful blackmailer. Yes. But now I don't know. I can't make
him out. He's the hardest nut to crack I ever came across.”
He moved his long lips from side to side three or four times, then
pursed them up, lifted his small eyes, which had been staring between
his feet at a Persian rug on the parquet in front of the divan, looked
at Miss Van Tuyn, who was standing before him, and said:
“That's why I sat up all night playing poker with him.”
“Ah!” she said, beginning to understand
She sat down beside him, turned towards him, and said eagerly:
“You wanted to get really to know him?”
“Yes; but I didn't. The fellow's an enigma. He's bad. And that's
practically all I know about him.”
He glanced with distaste at the sketch he had made.
“And it isn't enough. It isn't enough by a damned long way.”
“Is he a good loser?” she asked.
“The best I ever saw. Never turned a hair, and went away looking as
fresh as a well-watered gardenia, damn him!”
“Who were the others?”
“Two Americans I've seen now and then at the Cafe Royal. I believe
they live mostly in Paris.”
“Friends of his?”
“I don't think so. He said they came and sat down at his table in
the cafe and started talking. I suggested the poker. They didn't. So it
wasn't a plant.”
“Perhaps he isn't bad,” she said; “and perhaps that's why you can't
paint him.”
“What d'you mean?”
“I mean because you have made up your mind that he is. I think you
have a fixed idea about that.”
“What?”
“You have painted so many brutes, that you seek for the brute in
everyone who sits to you. If you were to paint me you'd—”
“Now, now! There you are at it again! I'll paint you if I ever feel
like it—not a minute before.”
“I was only going to say that if you ever painted me you'd try to
find something horrible in me that you could drag to the surface.”
“Well, d'you mean that you have the toupet to tell me there
is nothing horrible in you?”
“Now we are getting away from Arabian,” she said, with cool self-possession.
“Owing to your infernal egoism, my girl!”
“Override it, then, with your equally infernal altruism, my boy!”
Garstin smiled, and for a moment looked a little less fatigued, but
in a moment his almost morose preoccupation returned. He glanced again
towards the sketch.
“I should like to slit it up with a palette knife!” he said. “The
devil of it is that I felt I could do a really great thing with that
fellow. I struck out a fine phrase that night. D'you remember?”
“Yes. You called him a king in the underworld.”
Abruptly he got up and began to walk about the studio, stopping now
here, now there, before his portraits. He paused for quite a long time
before the portraits of Cora and the judge. Then he came back to the
sketch of Arabian.
“You must help me!” he said at last.
“I!” she exclaimed, with almost sharp surprise. “How can I help
you?”
He turned, and she saw the pin-points of light.
“What do you think of the fellow?” he said. “After all, you asked me
to paint him. What do you think of him?”
“I think he's magnificently handsome.”
“Blast his envelope!” Garstin almost roared out. “What do you think
of his nature? What do you think of his soul? I'm not a painter of
surfaces.”
Miss Van Tuyn sat for a moment looking steadily at him. She was
unusually natural and unself-conscious, like one thinking too strongly
to bother about herself. At last she said:
“Arabian is a very difficult man to understand, and I don't
understand him.”
“Do you like him?”
“I couldn't exactly say that.”
“Do you hate him?”
“No.”
Garstin suddenly looked almost maliciously sly.
“I can tell you something that you feel about him.”
“What?”
“You are afraid of him.”
Miss Van Tuyn's silky fair skin reddened.
“I'm not afraid of anyone,” she retorted. “If I have one virtue, I
think it's courage.”
“You're certainly not a Miss Nancy as a rule. In fact, your cheek is
pretty well known in Paris. But you're afraid of Arabian.”
“Am I really?” said the girl, recovering from her surprise and
facing him hardily. “And how have you found that out?”
“You took a fancy to the fellow the first time you saw him.”
“I did not take a fancy. I am not an under-housemaid.”
“There's not really a particle of difference between an under-housemaid and a super-lady when it comes to a good-looking man.”
“Dick, you're a great painter, but you're also a great vulgarian!”
“Well, my father was a national schoolmaster and my mother was a
butcher's daughter. I can't help my vernacular. You took a fancy to
this fellow in the Cafe Royal, and you begged me to paint him so that
you might get to know him. I obeyed you—”
“The heavens will certainly fall before you become obedient.”
“—and asked him here. Then I asked you. You came. He came. I
started painting. How many sittings have I had?”
“Three.”
“Then you've met him here four times?”
“Yes.”
“And why have you always let him go away alone from the studio?”
“Why should I go with him? I much prefer to stay on here and have a
talk with you. You are far more interesting than Arabian is. He says
very little. Probably he knows very little. I can learn from you.”
“That's all very well. I will say you're damned keen on acquiring
knowledge. But Arabian interests you in a way I certainly don't; in a
sex way.”
“That'll do, Dick!”
“And directly a woman gets to that all the lumber of knowledge can
go to the devil for her! When Nature drives the coach brain interests
occupy the back seat. That is a rule with women to which I've never yet
found an exception. Every day you're longing to go away from here with
Arabian; every day he does his level best to get you to go. Yet you
don't go. Why's that? You're held back by fear. You're afraid of the
fellow, my girl, and it's not a bit of use your denying it. When I see
a thing I see it—it's there. I don't deal in hallucinations.”
All this time his small eyes were fixed upon her, and the fierce
little lights in them seemed to touch her like the points of two pins.
“You talk about fear! Does it never occur to you that Arabian's a
man you picked up at the Cafe Royal, that we neither of us know
anything about him, that he may be—”
“Anyhow, he's far more presentable that I am.”
“Of course he's presentable, as you call it. He's very well dressed
and very good-looking, but still—”
At that moment she thought of Craven, and in her mind quickly
compared the two men.
“But still you're afraid of him. Where is your frankness? Why don't
you acknowledge what I already know?”
Miss Van Tuyn looked down and sat for a moment quite still without
speaking. Then she began to take off her gloves. Finally, she lifted
her hands to her head, took off her hat, and laid it on the divan
beside her.
“It isn't that I am afraid of Arabian,” she then said, at last
looking up. “But the fact is I am like you. I don't understand him. I
can't place him. I don't even know what his nationality is. He knows
nobody I do. I feel certain of that. Yet he must belong somewhere, have
some set of friends, some circle of acquaintances, I suppose. He isn't
at all vulgar. One couldn't call him genteel, which is worse, I think.
It's all very odd. I'm not conventional. In Paris I'm considered even
terribly unconventional. I've met all sorts of men, but I've never met
a man like Arabian. But the other day—don't you remember?—you summed
him up. You said he had no education, no knowledge, no love of art or
literature, that he was clever, sensual, idle, acquisitive, made of
iron, with nerves of steel. Don't you remember?”
“To be sure I do.”
“Isn't that enough to go upon?”
“For the painting? No, it isn't. Besides, you said you weren't sure
I was right in my diagnosis of the chap's character and physical part.”
“I wasn't sure, and I'm not sure now.”
“Tell me God's own truth, Beryl. Come on!”
He came up to her, put one hand on her left shoulder, and looked
down into her eyes.
“Aren't you a bit afraid of the fellow?”
She met his eyes steadily.
“There's something—” She paused.
“Go ahead, I tell you!”
“I couldn't describe it. It's more like an atmosphere than anything
else. It seems to hang about him. I've never felt anything quite like
it when I've been with anyone else.”
“An atmosphere! Now we're getting at it.”
He took his heavy hand away from her shoulder.
“A woman feels that sort of thing more sensitively than a man does.
Sex! Go on! What about it?”
“But I scarcely know what I mean—really, Dick. No! But it's—it's
an unsafe atmosphere.”
“Ah!”
“One doesn't know where one is in it. At least, I don't. Once in
London I was lost for a little while in Regents Park in a fog. It's—
it's something like that. I couldn't see the way, and I heard steps and
voices that sounded strange and—I don't know.”
“Find out!”
“That's all very well. You are terribly selfish, Dick. You don't
care what happens so long as you can paint as you wish to paint. You'd
sacrifice me, anyone—”
The girl seemed strangely uneasy. Her usual coolness had left her.
The hot blood had come back to her cheeks and glowed there in uneven
patches of red. Garstin gazed at her with profound and cruel interest.
“Sacrifice!” he said. “Who talked of sacrificing you? Who wishes to
sacrifice you? I only want—”
“One doesn't know—with a man like that one doesn't know where it
would lead to.”
“Then you think he's a thundering blackguard? And yet you defended
him just now, said perhaps I couldn't paint him just because I'd made
up my mind he was a brute. You're a mass of contradictions.”
“I don't say he's bad. He may not be bad.”
“Fact is, as I said, you're in a mortal funk of him.”
“I am not!” she said, with sudden anger. “No one shall say I'm
afraid of any man. You can ask anyone who knows me really well, and you
will always hear the same story. I'm afraid of no one and nothing, and
I've proved it again and again.”
“Well then, what's to prevent you proving it to me, my girl?”
“I will!”
She lifted her chin and looked suddenly impudent.
“What do you wish me to do to prove it?” she asked him defiantly.
“If Arabian does come to-day go away with him when he goes. Get to
know him really. You could, I believe. But ever since he's come here to
sit he has shut up the box which contains the truth of what he is,
locked it, and lost the key. His face is a mask, and I don't paint
masks.”
“Very well. I will.”
“Good!” said Garstin sonorously, and looking suddenly much less
tired and morose.
“But why do you think I could get to know him?”
“Because he's—but you know why better than I do.”
“I don't.”
“Arabian's in love with you, my girl. By Jove! There he is!”
The bell had sounded below.
With a swift movement Garstin got hold of a palette knife, sprang at
the sketch of Arabian, and ripped up the canvas from top to bottom.
Miss Van Tuyn uttered a cry.
“Dick!”
“That's all right!”
He threw the knife down.
“We'll do better than that by a long way.”
He got hold of her hand.
“Stick to your word, my girl, and I'll paint you yet—and not an
Academy portrait. But you've got to live. Just now, with your
cheeks all in patches you looked stunning.”
The bell went again.
“Now for him!”
He hurried downstairs.
CHAPTER IV
Lady Sellingworth was afraid. In spite of her many triumphs in the
past she had a deep distrust of life. Since the tragedies of her middle
age her curious natural diffidence, which the habit of the world had
never been able to subdue, had increased. In ten years of retirement,
in the hundreds of hours of solitude which those ten years had held for
her, it had grown within her. And now it began to torment her.
Life brings gifts to almost everyone, and often the gift-bearer's
approach is absolutely unexpected. So it had been in Lady
Sellingworth's case. She had had no premonition that a change was
preparing for her. Nothing had warned her to be on the alert when young
feet turned into Berkeley Square on a certain Sunday in autumn and made
towards her door. Abruptly, after years of neglect, it seemed as if
life suddenly remembered that there was a middle-aged woman, with lungs
which still mechanically did their work, and a heart which still
obstinately persisted in beating, living in Berkeley Square, and that
scarcely a bare bone had been thrown to her for some thousands of days.
And then life brought her Craven, with an unusual nature, with a surely
romantic mind, with a chivalrous sense that was out of the fashion,
with faculties making for friendship; life offered, or seemed to offer
her Craven, to whisper in her ear, “You have been starving alone for a
long time. To tell the truth, I had forgotten all about you. I did not
remember you were there. I don't quite know why you persist in being
there. But, as you do, and as you are wearing thin for want of
sustenance, here is something for you!”
And now, because of what life had done, Lady Sellingworth was
afraid. When she had parted from her friends after the theatre party,
and was once more alone in her big house, she knew thoroughly,
absolutely, for the first time what life had done.
All the calm, the long calm of her years of retirement from the
world, had gone. She now knew how strangely safe she had felt in her
loneliness. She had felt surely something of the safety of a nun of one
of the enclosed orders. In her solitude she had learnt to understand
how dangerous the great world is, how full of trials for the nerves,
the temper, the flesh, the heart. The woman who goes into it needs to
be armed. For many weapons thrust at her. She must be perpetually on
the alert, ready to hold her own among the attacking eyes and tongues.
And she must not be tired, or dull, or sad, must not show, or follow,
her varying moods, must not quietly rest in sincerity. When she had
lived in the world Lady Sellingworth had scarcely realized all this.
But in her long retirement she had come fully to realize it. There had
been a strange and embracing sense of safety permeating her solitary
life. She had got up in the morning, she had gone to bed at night,
feeling safe. For the storms of the passions were stilled, and though
desire might stir sometimes, it soon slept again. For she never took
her desire into danger. She did not risk the temptations of the world.
But now all the old restlessness, all the old anxiety and furtive
uneasiness of the mind, had returned. She was again what she had often
been more than ten years ago—a woman tormented. And—for she knew
herself now—she knew what was in store for her if she gave herself
again to life and her own inclinations.
For it had all come back; the old greedy love of sympathy and
admiration, the old worship of strength and youth and hot blood and
good looks, the old longing for desire and love, the old almost
irritable passion to possess, to dominate, to be first, to submerge
another human being in her own personality.
After ten years she was in love again, desperately in love. But she
was an elderly woman now, so elderly that many people would no doubt
think that it was impossible that she should be in love. How little
such people knew about human nature! The evening had been almost as
wonderful and as exciting to her as it could have been to a girl. When
she had come into the hall of the Carlton and had seen Craven through
the glass, had seen his tall figure, smooth, dark hair, and animated
face glowing with health after the breezes and sunrays of Beaconsfield,
she had known a feeling that a girl might have understood and shared.
And she was sixty!
What was to be done?
Craven was certainly fond of her already. Quietly she had triumphed
that night. Three women had seen and had quite understood her little
triumph. Probably all of them had wondered about it, had been secretly
irritated by it. Certainly Beryl had been very much irritated. But in
spite of that triumph, Lady Sellingworth felt almost desperately afraid
that night when she was alone. For she knew how great the difference
was between her feeling for Craven and his feeling for her. And with
greater intimacy that difference, she felt sure, must even increase.
For she would want from him what he would never want or even dream of
wanting, from her. He would be satisfied in their friendship while she
would be almost starving. He would never know that cruel longing to
touch which marks the difference between what is love and what is
friendship.
If she now let herself go, took no drastic step, just let life carry
her on, she could have a strange and unusual, and, in its way,
beautiful friendship, a friendship which to a woman with a different
nature from hers might seem perfect. She could have that—and what
would it be to her?
She longed to lay violent hands on herself; she longed to tear
something that was an essential part of her to pieces, to scatter it to
a wind, and let the wind whirl it away.
She knelt down that night before getting into bed and prayed. And
when she did that she thought of Sellingworth and of his teachings and
opinions. How he would have laughed at her if he had ever seen her do
that! She had not wanted to do it in the years when she had been with
him. But now, if his opinions had been well founded, he was only dust
and perhaps a few fragments of bone. He could not laugh at her now. And
she felt a really desperate need of prayer.
She did not pray to have something that she wanted. She knew that
would be no use. Even if there was a God who attended to individuals,
he would certainly not give her what she wanted just then. To do so
would be deliberately to interfere with the natural course of things,
arbitrarily to change the design. And something in Lady Sellingworth's
brain prevented her from being able even for a moment to think that God
would ever do that. She prayed, therefore, that she might cease to want
what she wanted; she prayed that she might have strength to do a
tremendously courageous thing quickly; she prayed that she might be
rewarded for doing it by afterwards having physical and mental peace;
she prayed that she might be permanently changed, that she might, after
this last trial, be allowed to become passionless, that what remained
of the fiercely animal in her might die out, that she might henceforth
be as old in nature as she already was in body. “For,” she said to
herself, “only in that oldness lies safety for me! Unless I can be all
old—mind and nature, as well as body—I shall suffer horribly again.”
She prayed that she might feel old, so old that she might cease from
being attracted by youth, from longing after youth in this dreadful
tormenting way.
When she got up from her knees it was one o'clock. She took two
tablets of aspirin and got into bed. And directly she was in bed an
idea seemed to hit her mind, and she trembled slightly, as if she had
really received a blow. She had just been praying for something
earnestly, almost violently, and she had prayed with clear
understanding, with the understanding that a long and fully lived life
brings to every really intelligent human being. Did she really want her
prayer to be answered, or had she been trying to humbug herself? She
had thought of a test which would surely prove whether she was genuine
in her desire to escape from the torment that was lying in wait for her
or not. Instead of receiving a visit from her Greek to-morrow, instead
of being at home to Craven in the late afternoon, instead of giving
herself up to the lure which must, she knew, certainly lead her on to
emotional destruction, she might do this: she might telephone to Sir
Seymour Portman to come to her and tell him that she would reward his
long faithfulness.
It would be a way out. If she could bring herself to do it she would
make herself safe. For though Seymour Portman had been so faithful, and
she had never rewarded him, he was not a man any woman would dare to
play with. Lady Sellingworth knew that she would never break a promise
to him, would never play fast and loose with him. He was strong and he
was true, and he had very high ideals and an almost stern code of
honour. In accepting him as her husband she would shut a door of steel
between herself and her past, with its sins and its many follies. She
would begin again, as an old woman with a devoted husband who would
know—none better—how to make himself respected, how to hold by his
rights.
People might smile at such a marriage, but it would be absolutely
suitable. Seymour was a few years older than she was. But he was still
strong and upright, could still sit a horse as well as any man, still
had a steady hand with his gun. He was not a ruin. She would be able to
rest on him. A more perfect support for a woman than Seymour, if he
loved, was surely not created. He was a gentleman to the core, and
totally incapable of insincerity. He was fearless. He belonged to her
world. He was persona grata at Court and in society. And he
loved her in that extraordinary and very rare way—as the one woman.
All he needed in a woman quite evidently he found in her. How? Why? She
did not know, could not understand. But so it was. She would absolutely
satisfy his desires.
The aspirin was stilling her nerves. She lay without moving. Had she
been a humbug when she prayed? Had she prayed knowing quite well that
her prayer was not going to be answered, not intending, or wishing,
really, that it should be answered? Had she prayed without any belief
in a Being who had the power and probably the will to give her what she
asked for? Would she have prayed at all had she been sure that if she
offered up a petition to be made old in nature as well as in body it
would certainly be granted?
“I don't know! I don't know!” she whispered to herself.
The darkness of the big room suddenly seemed very strange. And she
thought how odd it was that human beings need in every twenty-four
hours a long period of blackness, that they make blackness by turning
out light, and stretch themselves out in it as if getting ready for
burial.
“Burial! If I'm not a humbug, if really I wish for peace, to-morrow
I shall send for Seymour,” she said to herself. “Through him I can get
peace of mind. He will protect me against myself, without even knowing
that he is doing it. I have only to speak a sentence to him and all
possibility of danger, torment and wildness will be over for ever.”
And then she thought of the safety of a prison. But anything was
surely better than misery of mind and body, than wanting terribly from
someone what he never wants to give you, what he never wants from you.
Torment in freedom, or stagnant peace in captivity behind the prison
door—which was the more desirable? Craven's voice through the
telephone—their conversation about Waring—Seymour's long
faithfulness—if he were here now! How would it be? And if Craven—No!
No!
Another tablet of aspirin—and sleep!
Lady Sellingworth did not pray the next morning. But she telephoned
to Seymour Portman, and said she would be at home about five in the
afternoon if he cared for an hour's talk. She gave no hint that she had
any special reason for asking him to come. If he only knew what was in
her mind! His firm, quiet, soldier's voice replied through the
telephone that of course he would come. Somehow she guessed that he had
had an engagement and was going to give it up for her. What would he
not give up for her? And yet he was a man accustomed to command, and to
whom authority was natural. But he was also accustomed to obey. He was
the perfect courtier, devoted to the monarchy, yet absolutely free from
the slave instinct. Good kings trust such men. Many women love them.
“Why not I?” Lady Sellingworth thought that day.
And it seemed to her that perhaps even love might be subject to will
power, that a determined effort of will might bring it or banish it.
She had never really tested her will in that way in connexion with
love. But the time had come for the test to be made.
“Perhaps I can love Seymour!” she said to herself. “Perhaps I could
have loved him years ago if I had chosen. Perhaps I have only to use my
will to be happy with him. I have never controlled my impulses. That
has been my curse and the cause of all my miseries.”
At that moment she entirely forgot the ten years of self-control
which were behind her. The sudden return to her former self had
apparently blotted them out from her memory.
After telephoning to Seymour Portman she wrote a little note to
Craven and sent it round to the Foreign Office. In the note she
explained briefly that she was not able to see him that afternoon as
had been arranged between them. The wording of the note was cold. She
could not help that. She wrote it under the influence of what she
thought of just then as a decision. If she did what she believed she
intended to do that afternoon she would have to be cold to Craven in
the future. With her temperament it would be impossible to continue her
friendship with Craven if she were going to marry Sir Seymour. She knew
that. But she did not know how frigid, how almost brusque, her note to
Craven was.
When he read it he felt as if he had received a cold douche. It
startled him and hurt him, hurt his youthful sensitiveness and pride.
And he wondered very much why Lady Sellingworth had written it, and
what had happened to make her write to him like that. She did not even
ask him to call on her at some other time on some other day. And it had
been she who had suggested a cosy talk that afternoon. She had been
going to show him a book of poems by a young American poet in whose
work she was interested. And they would have talked over the little
events of the preceding evening, have discussed Moscovitch, the play,
the persistence of love, youth, age, everything under the sun.
Craven was severely disappointed. He even felt rather angry and
hurt. Something in him was up in arms, but something else was
distressed and anxious. It was extraordinary how already he had come to
depend upon Lady Sellingworth. His mother was dead. He certainly did
not think of Lady Sellingworth as what is sometimes called “a second
mother.” There was nothing maternal about her, and he was fully aware
of that. Besides, she did not fascinate him in the motherly way. No;
but owing to the great difference in their ages he felt that he could
talk to her as he could talk to nobody else. For he was in no intimate
relation with any other woman so much older than himself. And to young
women somehow one can never talk so freely, so companionably. Even in
these modern days sex gets in the way. Craven told himself that as he
folded up Lady Sellingworth's letter. She was different. He had felt
that for him there was quite a beautiful refuge in Berkeley Square. And
now! What could have happened? She must surely be vexed about something
he had done, or about something which had occurred on the previous
evening. And he thought abut the evening carefully and minutely. Had
she perhaps been upset by Lady Wrackley and Mrs. Ackroyde? Was she
self-conscious as he was, and had she observed their concentration upon
herself and him? Or, on the other hand, could she had misunderstood his
manner with Miss Van Tuyn? He knew how very sensitive women are about
each other. And Lady Sellingworth, of course, was old, although he
never bothered, and seldom thought, about her age. Elderly women were
probably in certain ways even more sensitive than young women. He could
well understand that. And he certainly had rather made love to Miss Van
Tuyn because of the horribly observing eyes of the “old guard.” And
then, too, Miss Van Tuyn had finally almost required it of him. Had she
not told him that she had insisted on Lady Sellingworth's being asked
to the theatre to entertain Braybrooke so that Craven and she, the
young ones, might have a nice little time? After that what could he do
but his duty? But perhaps Lady Sellingworth had not understood. He
wondered, and felt now hurt and angry, now almost contrite and inclined
to be explanatory.
When he left the Foreign Office that day and was crossing the Mall
he was very depressed. A breath of winter was in the air. There was a
bank of clouds over Buckingham Palace, with the red sun smouldering
just behind their edges. The sky, as it sometimes does, held
tenderness, anger and romance, and was full of lures for the
imagination and the soul. Craven looked at it as he walked on with a
colleague, a man called Marshall, older than himself, who had just come
back from Japan, and was momentarily translated. He voyaged among the
clouds, and was carried away across that cold primrose and delicate
green, and his journey was into the ineffable, and beyond the rim of
the horizon towards the satisfaction of the unexpressed, because
inexpressible, desires. And Marshall talked about Japanese art and
presently about geishas, not stupidly, but with understanding. And
Craven though: “If only I were going to Berkeley Square!” He had come
down to earth, but in the condition which yearns for an understanding
mind. Lady Sellingworth understood him. But now—he did not know. And
he went with Marshall drearily to the St. James's Club and went on
hearing about geishas and Japanese art.
The bell sounded in Berkeley Square, and a footman let in Sir
Seymour Portman, who was entirely unconscious that Fate had been
working apparently with a view to the satisfaction of his greatest
desire. He had long ago given up hope of being Adela Sellingworth's
husband. Twice that hope had died—when she had married Lord Manham,
and when she had married Sellingworth. Adela could not care for him in
that way. But now for many years she had remained unmarried, had joined
him, as it were, in the condition of being lonely. That fact had helped
him along the road. He could go to her and feel that he was in a
certain degree wanted. That was something, even a good deal, in the old
courtier's life. He valued greatly the welcome of the woman whom he
still loved with an undeviating fidelity. He was thankful, selfishly,
no doubt—he often said so to himself—for her loneliness, because he
believed himself able to cheer it and to alleviate it. And at last he
had ceased to dread any change in her way of life. His Adela had
evidently at last “settled down.” Her vivacious temperament, her almost
greedy love of life, were abated. He had her more or less to himself.
As he mounted the staircase with his slow, firm step, holding his
soldierly figure very upright, he was looking forward to one of the
usual quiet, friendly conversations with Adela which were his greatest
enjoyments, and as he passed through the doorway of the drawing-room
his eyes turned at once towards the sofa near the big fireplace,
seeking for the tall figure of the woman who so mysteriously had
captured his heart in the long ago and who had never been able to let
it out of her keeping.
But there was no one by the fire, and the butler said:
“I will tell her ladyship that you are here, sir.”
“Thank you, Murgatroyd,” said Sir Seymour.
And he went to the fireplace, turned round, and began to warm his
flat back.
He stood there thus till his back was quite warm. Adela was rather
slow in coming. But he did not mind that. It was happiness for him to
be in her house, among her things, the sofas and chairs she used, the
carpet her feet pressed every day, the books she read, the flowers she
had chosen. This house was his idea of a home who had never had a home
because of her.
Meanwhile upstairs, in a big bedroom just overhead, Lady
Sellingworth was having a battle with herself of which her friend was
totally unconscious. She did not come down at once because she wanted
definitely and finally to finish that battle before she saw again the
man by the fire. But something said to her: “Don't decide till you have
seen him again. Look at him once more and then decide.” She walked
softly up and down the room after Murgatroyd had told her who was
waiting for her, and she felt gnawed by apprehension. She knew her fate
was in the balance. All day she had been trying to decide what she was
going to do. All day she had been saying to herself: “Now, this moment,
I will decide, and once the decision is made there shall be no going
back from it.” It was within her power to come to a decision and to
stick to it; or, if it were not within her power, then she was not a
sane but an insane woman. She knew herself sane. Yet the decision was
not arrived at when Sir Seymour rang the bell. Now he was waiting in
the room underneath and the matter must be settled. An effort of will,
the descent of a flight of stairs, a sentence spoken, and her life
would be made fast to an anchor which would hold. And for her there
would be no more drifting upon dangerous seas at the mercy of tempests.
“Look at him once more and then decide.”
The voice persisted within her monotonously. But what an absurd
injunction that was. She knew Seymour by heart, knew every feature of
him, every expression of his keen, observant, but affectionate eyes,
the way he held himself, the shapes of his strong, rather broad hands
—the hands of a fine horseman and first-rate whip—every trick of him,
every attitude. Why look at him, her old familiar friend, again before
deciding what she was now going to do?
“Look at him as the man who is going to be your husband!”
But that was surely a deceiving insidious voice, suggesting to her
weakness, uncertainty, hesitation, further mental torment and further
debate. And she was afraid of it.
She stood still near the window. She must go down. Seymour had
already been waiting some time, ten minutes or more. He must be
wondering why she did not come. He was not the sort of man one cares to
keep waiting —although he had waited many years scarcely daring to
hope for something he longed for. She thought of his marvellous
happiness, his wonderful surprise, if she did what she meant—or did
she mean it—to do. Surely it would be a splendid thing to bring such a
flash of radiance into a life of twilight. Does happiness come from
making others happy? If so, then—
She must go down.
“I will do it!” she said to herself. “Merely his happiness will be
enough reward.”
And she went towards the door. But as she did so her apprehension
grew till her body tingled with it. A strange sensation of being
physically unwell came upon her. She shrank, as if physically, from the
clutching hands of the irrevocable. If in a hurry, driven by her demon,
she were to say the words she had in her mind there would be no going
back. She would never dare to unsay them. She knew that. But that was
just the great advantage she surely was seeking—an irrevocable safety
from herself, a safety she would never be able to get away from, break
out of.
In a prison there is safety from all the dangers and horrors of the
world outside the prison. But what a desperate love of the state she
now called freedom burned within her! Freedom for what, though? She
knew and felt as if her soul were slowly reddening. It was monstrous
that thought of hers. Yet she could not help having it. It was surely
not her fault if she had it. Was she a sort of monster unlike all other
women of her age? Or did many of them, too, have such thoughts?
She must go down. And she went to the door and opened it. And
directly she saw the landing outside and the descending staircase she
knew that she had not yet decided, that she could not decide till she
had looked at Seymour once more, looked at him with the almost terrible
eyes of the deeply experienced woman who can no longer decide a thing
swiftly in ignorance.
“I shall do it,” she said to herself. “But I must be reasonable, and
there is no reason why I should force myself to make up my mind finally
up here. I have sent for Seymour and I know why. When I see him, when I
am with him, I shall do what I intended to do when I asked him to
come.”
She shut her bedroom door and began to go downstairs, and as she
went she imagined Seymour settled in that house with her. (For, of
course, he would come to live in Berkeley Square, would leave the set
of rooms he occupied now in St. James's Palace.) She had often longed
to have a male companion living with her in that house, to smell cigar
smoke, to hear a male voice, a strong footstep in the hall and on the
stairs, to see things that implied a man's presence lying about, caps,
pipes, walking sticks, golf clubs, riding crops. The whole atmosphere
of the house would be changed if a man came to live with her there, if
Seymour came.
But—her liberty?
She had gained the last stair and was on the great landing before
the drawing-room door. Down below she heard a faint and discreet murmur
of voices from Murgatroyd and the footman in the hall. And as she
paused for a moment she wondered how much those two men knew of her and
of her real character, whether they had any definite knowledge of her
humanity, whether they had perhaps realized in their way what sort of
woman she was, sometimes stripped away the Grande Dame, the
mistress, and looked with appraising eyes at the stark woman.
She would never know.
She opened the door and instantly assumed her usual carelessly
friendly look.
Sir Seymour had left the fire, and was sitting in an armchair with a
book in his hand reading when she came in; and as she had opened the
door softly, and as it was a long way from the fireplace he did not
hear her or instantly realize that she was there. She had an instant in
which to contemplate him as he sat there, like a man quietly at home.
Only one lamp was lit. It stood on a table behind him and threw light
on his rather big head thickly covered with curly and snow-white hair,
the hair which he sometimes smilingly called his “cauliflower.” The
light fell, too, aslant on his strong-featured manly face, the slightly
hooked nose, large-lipped, firm mouth, shaded by a moustache in which
some dark hairs were mingled with the white ones, and chin with a deep
dent in the middle of it. His complexion was of that weather-beaten red
hue which is often seen in oldish men who have been much out in all
weathers. There were many deep lines in the face, two specially deep
ones slanting downwards from the nose on either side of the mouth.
Above the nose there was a sort of bump, from which the low forehead
slightly retreated to the curves of strong white hair. The ears were
large but well shaped. In order to read he had put on pince- nez with
tortoise-shell rimmed glasses, from which hung a rather broad black
riband. His thin figure looked stiff even in an arm-chair. His big
brown-red hands held the book up. His legs were crossed, and his feet
were strongly defined by the snowy white spats which partially
concealed the varnished black boots. He looked a distinguished old man
as he sat there—but he looked old.
“Is it possible that I look at all that sort of age?” was Lady
Sellingworth's thought as, for a brief instant, she contemplated him,
with an intensity, a sort of almost fierce sharpness which she was
scarcely aware of.
He looked up, made a twitching movement; his pince-nez fell to his
black coat, and he got up alertly.
“Adela!”
She shut the door and went towards him, and as she did so she
thought:
“If I had seen Alick Craven sitting there reading!”
“I was having a look at this.”
He held up the book. It was Baudelaire's “Les Fleurs du Mal.”
“Not the book for you!” she said. “Though your French is so good.”
“No.”
He laid it down, and she noticed the tangle of veins on his hand.
“The dandy in literature doesn't appeal to me. I must say many of
these poets strike me as decadent fellows, not helped to anything like
real manliness by their gifts.”
She sat down on the sofa, just where she had sat to have those long
talks with Craven about Waring and Italy, the sea people, the colours
of the sails on those ships which look magical in sunsets, which move
on as if bearing argosies from gorgeous hidden lands of the East.
“But never mind Baudelaire,” he continued, and his eyes, heavily
lidded and shrouded by those big bushy eyebrows which seem to sprout
almost with ardent violence as the body grows old, looked at her with
melting kindness. “What have you been doing, my dear? The old dog wants
to know. There is something on your mind, isn't there?”
Lady Sellingworth had once said to Sir Seymour that he reminded her
of a big dog, and he had laughed and said that he was a big dog
belonging to her. Since that day, when he wrote to her, he had often
signed himself “the old dog.” And often she had thought of him almost
as one thinks of a devoted dog, absolutely trustworthy, ready for
instant attack on your enemies, faithful with unquestioning
faithfulness through anything.
As he spoke he gently took her hand, and she thought, “If Alick
Craven were taking my hand!”
The touch of his skin was warm and very dry. It gave her a woman's
thoughts, not to be told of.
“What is it?” he asked.
Very gently she released her hand, and as she did so she looked on
it almost sternly.
“Why?” she said. “Do I look unhappy—or what? Sit down, Seymour
dear.”
She seemed to add the last word with a sort of pressure, with almost
self-conscious intention.
He drew the tails of his braided morning coat forward with both
hands and sat down, and she thought, “How differently a young man sits
down!”
“Unhappy!” he said, in his quiet and strong, rather deep voice.
He looked at her with the scrutinizing eyes of affection, whose gaze
sometimes is so difficult to bear. And she felt that something within
her was writhing under his eyes.
“I don't think you often look happy, Adela. No; it isn't that. But
you look to-day as if you had been going through something which had
tried your nerves—some crisis.”
He paused. She remained silent and looked at his hands and then at
his eyelids and eyebrows. And there was a terrible coldness in her
scrutiny, which she did not show to him, but of which she was painfully
aware. His nails were not flat, but were noticeably curved. For a
moment the thought in her mind was simply, “Could I live with those
nails?” She hated herself for that thought; she despised herself for
it; she considered herself almost inhuman and certainly despicable, and
she recalled swiftly what Seymour was, the essential beauty and
fineness of his character, his truth, his touching faithfulness. And
almost simultaneously she thought, “Why do old men get those terribly
bushy eyebrows, like thickets?”
“Perhaps I think too much,” she said. “Living alone, one thinks—and
thinks. You have so much to do and I so little.”
“Sometimes I think of retiring,” he said.
“From the court?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, but they would never let you!”
“My place could be filled easily enough.”
“Oh, no, it couldn't.”
And she added, leaning forward now, and looking at him differently:
“Don't you ever realize how rare you are, Seymour? There is scarcely
anyone left like you, and yet you are not old-fashioned. Do you know
that I have never yet met a man who really was a man—”
“Now, now, Adela!”
“No, I will say it! I have never met a real man who, knowing you,
didn't think you were rare. They wouldn't let you go. Besides, what
would you retire to?”
Again she looked at him with a scrutiny which she felt to be morally
cruel. She could not refrain from it just then. It seemed to come
inevitably from her own misery and almost desperation. At one moment
she felt a rush of tenderness for him, at another an almost stony
hardness.
“Ah—that's just it! I dare say it will be better to die in
harness.”
“Die!” she said, as if startled.
At that moment the thought assailed her, “If Seymour were suddenly
to die!” There would be a terrible gap in her life. Her loneliness then
would be horrible indeed unless—she pulled herself up with a sort of
fierce mental violence. “I won't! I won't!” she cried out to herself.
“You are very strong and healthy, Seymour,” she said, “I think you
will live to be very old.”
“Probably. Palaces usually contain a few dodderers. But is anything
the matter, Adela? The old dog is very persistent, you know.”
“I've been feeling a little depressed.”
“You stay alone too much, I believe.”
“It isn't that. I was out at the theatre with a party only last
night. We went to The Great Lover. But he wasn't like you. You
are a really great lover.”
And again she leaned forward towards him, trying to feel physically
what surely she was feeling in another way.
“The greatest in London, I am sure.”
“I don't know,” he said, very simply. “But certainly I have the gift
of faithfulness, if it is a gift.”
“We had great discussions on love and jealousy last night.”
“Did you? Whom were you with?”
“I went with Beryl Van Tuyn and Francis Braybrooke.”
“An oddly uneven pair!”
“Alick Craven was with us, too.”
“The boy I met here one Sunday.”
Lady Sellingworth felt an almost fierce flash of irritation as she
heard him say “boy.”
“He's hardly a boy,” she said. “He must be at least thirty, and I
think he seems even older than he is.”
“Does he? He struck me as very young. When he went away with that
pretty girl it was like young April going out of the room with all the
daffodils. They matched.”
The intense irritation grew in Lady Sellingworth. She felt as if she
were being pricked by a multitude of pins.
“Beryl is years and years younger than he is!” she said. “I don't
think you are very clever about ages, Seymour. There must be nearly ten
years difference between them.”
Scarcely had she said this than her mind added, “And about thirty
years' difference between him and me!” And then something in her—she
thought of it as the soul—crumpled up, almost as if trying to die and
know nothing more.
“What is it, Adela?” again he said, gently. “Can't I help you?”
“No, no, you can't!” she answered, almost with desperation, no
longer able to control herself thoroughly.
Suddenly she felt as if she were losing her head, as if she might
break down before him, let him into her miserable secret.
“The fact is,” she continued, fixing her eyes upon him, as a
criminal might fix his eyes on his judge while denying everything. “The
fact is that none of us really can help anyone else. We may think we
can sometimes, but we can't. We all work out our own destinies in
absolute loneliness. You and I are very old friends, and yet we are far
away from each other, always have been and always shall be. No, you
haven't the power to help me, Seymour.”
“But what is the matter, my dear?”
“Life—life!” she said, and there was a fierce exasperation in her
voice. “I cannot understand the unfairnesses of life, the cruel
injustices.”
“Are you specially suffering from them to-day?” he asked, and for a
moment his eyes were less soft, more penetrating, as they looked at
her.
“Yes!” she said.
A terrible feeling of “I don't care!” was taking possession of her,
was beginning to drive her. And she thought of the women of the streets
who, in anger or misery, vomit forth their feelings with reckless
disregard of opinion in a torrent of piercing language.
“I'm really just like one of them!” was her thought. “Trimmed up as
a lady!”
“Some people have such happy lives, years and years of happiness,
and others are tortured and tormented, and all their efforts to be
happy, or even to be at peace, without any real happiness, are in vain.
It is of no use rebelling, of course, and rebellion only reacts on the
rebel and makes everything worse, but still—”
Her face suddenly twisted. In all her life she thought she had never
felt so utterly hopeless before.
Sir Seymour stretched out a hand to put it on hers, but she drew
away.
“No, no—don't! I'm not—you can't do anything, Seymour. It's no
use!”
She got up from the sofa, and walked away down the long
drawing-room, trying to struggle with herself, to get back
self-control. It was like madness this abrupt access of passion and
violent despair, and she did not know how to deal with it, did not feel
capable of dealing with it. She looked out of the window into Berkeley
Square, after pulling back curtain and blind. Always Berkeley Square!
Berkeley Square till absolute old age, and then death came! And she
seemed to see her own funeral leaving the door. Good-bye to Berkeley
Square! She let the blind drop, the curtain fall into its place.
Sir Seymour had got up and was standing by the fire. She saw him in
the distance, that faithful old man, and she wished she could love him.
She clenched her hands, trying to will herself to love him and to want
to take him into her intimate life. But she could not bring herself to
go back to him just then, and she did not know what she was going to
do. Perhaps she would have left the room had not an interruption
occurred. She heard the door open and saw Murgatroyd and the footman
bringing in tea.
“You can turn up another light, Murgatroyd,” she said, instantly
recovering herself sufficiently to speak in a natural voice.
And she walked back down the room to Sir Seymour, carrying with her
a little silver vase full of very large white carnations.
“These are the flowers I was speaking about,” she said to him. “Have
you ever seen any so large before? They look almost unnatural, don't
they?”
When the servants were gone she said:
“You must think me half crazy, Seymour.”
“No; but I don't understand what has happened.”
“I have happened, I and my miserable disgusting mind and
brain and temperament. That's all!”
“You are very severe on yourself.”
“Tell me—have you ever been severe on me in your mind? You don't
really know me. Nobody does or ever will. But you know me what is
called well. Have you ever been mentally severe, hard on me?”
“Yes, sometimes,” he answered gravely.
She felt suddenly rather cold, and she knew that his answer had
surprised her. She had certainly expected him to say, “Never, my dear!”
“I thought so,” she said.
And, while saying it, she was scarcely conscious that she was
telling a lie.
“But you must not think that such thoughts about you ever make the
least difference in my feeling for you,” he said. “That has never
changed, never could change.”
“Oh—I don't know!” she said in a rather hard voice. “Everything can
change, I think.”
“No.”
“I suppose you have often disapproved of things I have done?”
“Sometimes I have.”
“Tell me, if—if things had been different, and you and I had come
together, what would you have done if you had disapproved of my
conduct?”
“What is the good of entering upon that?”
“Yes; do tell me! I want to know.”
“I hope I should find the way to hold a woman who was mine,” he
said, with a sort of decisive calmness, but with a great temperateness.
“But if you married an ungovernable creature?”
“I doubt if anybody is absolutely ungovernable. In the army I have
had to deal with some stiff propositions; but there is always a way.”
“Is there? But in the army you deal with men. And we are so utterly
different.”
“I think I should have found the way.”
“Could he find the way now?” she thought. “Shall I do it? Shall I
risk it?”
“Why do you look at me like that?” he asked; “almost as if you were
looking at me for the first time and were trying to make me out?”
She did not answer, but gave him his tea and sat back on her sofa.
“You sent for me for some special reason. You had some plan, some
project in your mind,” he continued. “I did not realize that at first,
but now I am sure of it. You want me to help you in some way, don't
you?”
She was still companioned by the desperation which had come upon her
when she had made that, for her, terrible comparison between Beryl Van
Tuyn's age and Craven's. Somehow it had opened her eyes—her own
remark. In hearing it she had seemed to hear other voices, almost a sea
of voices, saying things about herself, pitying things, sneering
things, bitter things; worst of all, things which sent a wave of
contemptuous laughter through the society to which she belonged. Ten
years multiplied by three! No, it was impossible! But there was only
one way out. She was almost sure that if she were left to herself, were
left to be her own mistress in perfect freedom, her temperament would
run away with her again as it had so often done in the past. She was
almost sure that she would brave the ridicule, would turn a face of
stone to the subtle condemnation, would defy the contempt of the “old
guard,” the sorrow and pity of Seymour, the anger of Beryl Van Tuyn,
even her own self-contempt, in order to satisfy the imperious driving
force within her which once again gave her no rest. Seymour could save
her from all that, save her almost forcibly. Safety from it was there
with her in the room. Rocheouart, Rupert Louth, other young men were
about her for a moment. The brown eyes of the man who had stolen her
jewels looked down into hers pleading for—her property. After all her
experiences could she be fool enough to follow a marshlight again? But
Alick Craven was different from all these men. She gave him something
that he really seemed to want. He would be sorry, he would perhaps be
resentful, if she took it away.
“Adela, if you cannot trust the old dog whom can you trust?”
“I know—I know!”
But again she was silent. If Seymour only knew how near he perhaps
was to his greatest desire's fulfilment! If he only knew the conflict
which was raging in her! At one moment she was on the edge of giving
in, and flinging herself into prison and safety. At another she
recoiled. How much did Seymour know of her? How well did he understand
her?
“You said just now that you had sometimes been hard on me in your
mind,” she said abruptly. “What about?”
“That's all long ago.”
“How long ago?”
“Years and years.”
“Ten years?”
“Yes—quite.”
“You have—you have respected me for ten years?”
“And loved you for a great many more.”
“Never mind about love! You have respected me for ten years.”
“Yes, Adela.”
“Tell me—have you loved me more since you have been able to respect
me?”
“I think I have. To respect means a great deal with me.”
“I must have often disgusted you very much before ten years ago. I
expect you have often wondered very much about me, Seymour?”
“It is difficult to understand the great differences between your
own temperament and another's, of course.”
“Yes. How can faithfulness be expected to understand its opposite?
You have lived like a monk, almost, and I—I have lived like a
courtesan.”
“Adela!”
His deep voice sounded terribly hurt.
“Oh, Seymour, you and I—we have always lived in the world. We know
all its humbug by heart. We are both old—old now, and why should we
pretend to each other? You know how lots of us have lived, no one
better. And I suppose I have been one of the worst. But, as you say,
for ten years now I have behaved myself.”
She stopped. She longed to say, “And, my God, Seymour, I am sick of
behaving myself!” That would have been the naked truth. But even to
him, after what she had just said, she could not utter it. Instead, she
added after a moment:
“A great many lies have been lifted up as guiding lamps to men in
the darkness. One of them is the saying: 'Virtue is its own reward.' I
have behaved for ten years, and I know it is a lie.”
“Adela, what is exasperating you to-day? Can't you tell me?”
Once more she looked at him with a sharp and intense scrutiny. She
thought it was really a final look, and one that was to decide her
fate; his too, though he did not know it. She knew his worth. She knew
the value of the dweller in his temple, and had no need to debate about
that. But she was one of those to whom the temple means much. She could
not dissociate dweller from dwelling. The outside had always had a
tremendous influence upon her, and time had not lessened that
influence. Perhaps Sir Seymour felt that she was trying to come to some
great decision, though he did not know, or even suspect, what that
decision was. For long ago he had finally given up all hope of ever
winning her for his wife. He sat still after asking this question. The
lamplight shone over his thick, curly white hair, his lined,
weather-beaten, distinguished old face, broad, cavalryman's hands,
upright figure, shone into his faithful dog's eyes. And she looked and
took in every physical detail, as only a woman can when she looks at a
man whom she is considering in a certain way.
The silence seemed long. At last he broke it. For he had seen an
expression of despair come into her face.
“My dear, what is it? You must tell me!”
But suddenly the look of despair gave place to a mocking look which
he knew very well.
“It's only boredom, Seymour. I have had too much of Berkeley Square.
I think I shall go away for a little.”
“To Cap Martin?”
“Perhaps. Where does one go when one wants to run away from
oneself?”
And then she changed the conversation and talked, as she generally
talked to Sir Seymour, of the life they both knew, of the doings at
Court, of politics, people, the state of the country, what was likely
to come to old England.
She had decided against Seymour. But she had not decided for Craven.
After a moment of despair, of feeling herself lost, she had suddenly
said to herself, or a voice had said in her, a voice coming from she
knew not where:
“I will remain free, but henceforth I will be my own mistress in
freedom, not the slave of myself.”
And then mentally she had dismissed both Seymour and Craven out of
her life, the one as a possible husband, the other as a friend.
If she could not bring herself to take the one, then she would not
keep the other. She must seek for peace in loneliness. Evidently that
was her destiny. She gave herself to it with mocking eyes and despair
in her heart.
PART FIVE
CHAPTER I
Three days later, soon after four o'clock, Craven rang the bell at
Lady Sellingworth's door. As he stood for a moment waiting for it to be
answered he wondered whether she would be at home to him, how she would
greet him if she chose to see him. The door was opened by a footman.
“Is her ladyship at home?”
“Her ladyship has gone out of town, sir.”
“When will she be back?”
“I couldn't say, sir. Her ladyship has gone abroad.”
Craven stood for a moment without speaking. He was amazed, and felt
as if he had received a blow. Finally, he said:
“Do you think she will be long away?”
“Her ladyship has gone for some time, sir, I believe.”
The young man's face, firm, with rosy cheeks and shallow, blue eyes,
was strangely inexpressive. Craven hesitated, then said:
“Do you know where her ladyship has gone? I—I wish to write a note
to her.”
“I believe it's some place near Monte Carlo, sir. Her ladyship gave
orders that no letters were to be forwarded for the present.”
“Thank you.”
Craven turned away and walked slowly towards Mayfair. He felt
startled and hurt, even angry. So this was friendship! And he had been
foolish enough to think that Lady Sellingworth was beginning to value
his company, that she was a lonely woman, and that perhaps his visits,
his sympathy, meant something, even a great deal to her. What a young
fool he had been! And what a humbug she must be! Suddenly London seemed
empty. He remembered the coldness in the wording of the note she had
sent him saying that she could not see him the day after the theatre
party. She had put forward no excuse, no explanation. What had
happened? He felt that something must have happened which had changed
her feeling towards him. For though he told himself that she must be a
humbug, he did not really feel that she was one. Perhaps she was angry
with him, and that was why she had not chosen to tell him that she was
going abroad before she started. But what reason had he given her for
anger? Mentally he reviewed the events of their last evening together.
It had been quite a gay evening. Nothing disagreeable had happened
unless—Lady Wrackley and Mrs. Ackroyde came to his mind. He saw them
before him with their observant, experienced eyes, their smiling,
satirical lips. They had made him secretly uncomfortable. He had felt
undressed when he was with them, and had realized that they knew of and
were probably amused by his friendship for Lady Sellingworth. And he
had hated their knowledge. Perhaps she had hated it too, although she
had not shown a trace of discomfort. Or, perhaps, she had disliked his
manner with Miss Van Tuyn, assumed to hide his own sensitiveness. And
at that moment he thought of his intercourse with Miss Van Tuyn with
exaggeration. It was possible that he had acted badly, had been
blatant. But anyhow Lady Sellingworth had been very unkind. She ought
to have told him that she was going abroad, to have let him see her
before she went.
He felt that this short episode in his life was quite over. It had
ended abruptly, undramatically. It had seemed to mean a good deal, and
it had really meant nothing. What a boy he had been through it all! His
cheeks burned at the thought. And he had prided himself on being a
thorough man of the world. Evidently, despite his knowledge of life,
his Foreign Office training, his experience of war—he had been a
soldier for two years—he was really something of a simpleton. He had
“given himself away” in Braybrooke, and probably to others as well, to
Lady Wrackley, Mrs. Ackroyde, and perhaps even to Miss Van Tuyn. And to
Lady Sellingworth!
What had she thought of him? What did she think of him? Nothing
perhaps. She had belonged to the “old guard.” Many men had passed
through her hands. He felt at that moment acute hostility to women.
They were treacherous, unreliable, even the best of them. They had not
the continuity which belonged to men. Even elderly women—he was
thinking of women of the world—even they were not to be trusted. Life
was warfare even when war was over. One had to fight always against the
instability of those around you. And yet there was planted in a man—at
any rate there was planted in him—a deep longing for stability, a need
to trust, a desire to attach himself to someone with whom he could be
quite unreserved, to whom he could “open out” without fear of criticism
or of misunderstand.
He had believed that in Lady Sellingworth he had found such an one,
and now he had been shown his mistake. He reached the house in which he
lived, but although he had walked to it with the intention of going in
he paused on the threshold, then turned away and went on towards Hyde
Park. Night was falling; the damp softness of late autumn companioned
him wistfully. The streets were not very full. London seemed unusually
quiet that evening. But when he reached the Marble Arch he saw people
streaming hither and thither, hurrying towards Oxford Street, pouring
into the Edgware Road, climbing upon omnibuses which were bound for
Notting Hill, Ealing and Acton, drifting towards the wide and gloomy
spaces of the Park. He crossed the great roadway and went into the
Park, too. Attracted by a small gathering of dark figures he joined
them, and standing among nondescript loungers he listened for a few
minutes to a narrow-chested man with a long, haggard face, a wispy
beard and protruding, decayed teeth, who was addressing those about him
on the mysteries of life.
He spoke of the struggle for bread, of materialism, of the illusions
of sensuality, of the Universal Intelligence, of the blind cruelty of
existence.
“You are all unhappy!” he exclaimed, in a thin but carrying voice,
which sounded genteel and fanatical. “You rush here and there not
knowing why or wherefore. Many of you have come into this very Park
to-night without any object, driven by the wish for something to take
you out of your miseries. Can you deny it, I say?”
A tall soldier who was standing near Craven looked down at the plump
girl beside him and said:
“How's that, Lil? We're both jolly miserable, ain't we?”
“Go along with yer! Not me!” was the response, with an impudent
look.
“Then let's get on where it's quieter. What ho!”
They moved demurely away.
“Can you deny,” the narrow-chested man continued, sawing the air
with a thin, dirty hand, “that you are all dissatisfied with life, that
you wonder about it, as Plato wondered, as Tolstoi wondered, as the
Dean of St. Paul's wonders, as I am wondering now? From this very Park
you look up at the stars, when there are any, and you ask yourselves—”
At this point in the discourse Craven turned away, feeling that
edification was scarcely to be found by him here.
Certainly at this moment he was dissatisfied with life. But that was
Lady Sellingworth's fault. If he were sitting with her now in Berkeley
square the scheme of things would probably not seem all out of gear. He
wondered where she was, what she was doing! The footman had said he
believed she was near Monte Carlo. Craven remembered once hearing her
say she was fond of Cap Martin. Probably she was staying there. It
occurred to him that possibly she had told some of her friends of her
approaching departure, though she had chosen to conceal it from him.
Miss Van Tuyn might have known of it. He resolved to go to Brook Street
and find out whether the charming girl had been in the secret.
Claridge's was close by. It would be something to do. If he could not
see Lady Sellingworth he wanted to talk about her. And at that moment
his obscure irritation made him turn towards youth. Old age had cheated
him. Well, he was young; he would seek consolation!
At Claridge's he inquired for Miss Van Tuyn, and was told she was
out, had been out since the morning. Craven was pulling his card-case
out of his pocket when he heard a voice say: “Are there any letters for
me?” He swung round and there stood Miss Van Tuyn quite near him. For
an instant she did not see him, and he had time to note that she looked
even unusually vivid and brilliant. An attendant handed her some
letters. She took them, turned and saw Craven.
“I had just asked for you,” he said, taking off his hat.
“Oh! How nice of you!”
Her eyes were shining. He felt a controlled excitement in her. Her
face seemed to be trying to tell something which her mind would not
choose to tell. He wondered what it was, this secret which he divined.
“Come upstairs and we'll have a talk in my sitting-room.”
She looked at him narrowly, he thought, as they went together to the
lift. She seemed to have a little less self-possession than usual, even
to be slightly self-conscious and because of that watchful.
When they were in her sitting-room she took off her hat, as if
tired, put it on a table and sat down by the fire.
“I've been out all day,” she said.
“Yes? Are you still having painting lessons?”
“That's it—painting lessons. Dick is an extraordinary man.”
“You mean Dick Garstin. I don't know him.”
“He's absolutely unscrupulous, but a genius. I believe genius always
is unscrupulous. I am sure of it. It cannot be anything else.”
“That's a pity.”
“I don't know that it is.”
“But how does Dick Garstin show his unscrupulousness?”
Miss Van Tuyn looked suddenly wary.
“Oh—in all sorts of ways. He uses people. He looks on people as
mere material. He doesn't care for their feelings. He doesn't care what
happens to them. If he gets out of them what he wants it's enough.
After that they may go to perdition, and he wouldn't stretch out a
finger to save them.”
“What a delightful individual!”
“Ah!—you don't understand genius.”
Craven felt rather nettled. He cared a good deal for the arts, and
had no wish to be set among the Philistines.
“And—do you?” he asked.
“Yes, I think so. I'm not creative, but I'm very comprehending.
Artists of all kinds feel that instinctively. That's why they come
round me in Paris.”
“Yes, you do understand!” he acknowledged, remembering her
enthusiasm at the theatre. “But I think you are unscrupulous,
too.”
He said it hardily, looking straight at her, and wondering what she
had been doing that afternoon before she arrived at the hotel.
She smiled, making her eyes narrow.
“Then perhaps I am half-way to genius.”
“Would you be willing to sacrifice all the moral qualities if you
could have genius in exchange?”
“You can't expect me to say so. But it would be grand to have power
over men.”
“You have that already.”
She looked at him satirically.
“Do you know you're a terrible humbug?” she said.
“And are not you?”
“No; I think I show myself very much as I really am.”
“Can a woman do that?” he said, with sudden moodiness.
“It depends. Mrs. Ackroyde can and Lady Wrackley can't.”
“And—Lady Sellingworth?” he asked.
“I'm afraid she is a bit of a humbug,” said Miss Van Tuyn, without
venom.
“I wonder when she'll be back?”
“Back? Where from?”
“Surely you know she had gone abroad?”
The look of surprise in Miss Van Tuyn's face was so obviously
genuine that Craven added:
“You didn't? Well, she has gone away for some time.”
“Where to?”
“Somewhere on the Riviera, I believe. Probably Cap Martin. But
letters are not to be forwarded.”
“At this time of year! Has she gone away alone?”
“I suppose so.”
Miss Van Tuyn looked at him with a sort of cold, almost hostile
shrewdness.
“And she told you she was going?”
“Why should she tell me?” he said, with a hint of defiance.
Miss Van Tuyn left that at once.
“So Adela has run away!” she said.
She sat for a moment quite still, like one considering something
carefully.
“But she will come back,” she said presently, looking up at him,
“bringing her sheaves with her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don't you remember—in the Bible?”
“But what has that to do with Lady Sellingworth?”
“Perhaps you'll understand when she comes back.”
“I am really quite in the dark,” he said, with obvious sincerity.
“And it's nothing to me whether Lady Sellingworth comes back or stops
away.”
“I thought you joined with me in adoring her.”
“Adoration isn't the word. And you know it.”
“And letters are not to be forwarded?” said Miss Van Tuyn.
“I heard so.”
“Ah! when you went to call on her!”
“Now you are merely guessing!”
“It must be terrible to be old!” said Miss Van Tuyn, with a change
of manner. “Just think of going off alone to the Riviera in the autumn
at the age of sixty! Beauties ought to die at fifty. Plain women can
live to a hundred if they like, and it doesn't really matter. Their
tragedy is not much worse then than it is at thirty-five. But beauties
should never live beyond fifty—at the very latest.”
“Then you must commit suicide at that age.”
“Thank you. The old women in hotels!”
She shivered, and it seemed to him that her body shook naturally, as
if it couldn't help shaking.
“But—remember—she'll come back with her sheaves!” she added,
looking at him. “And then the 'old guard' will fall upon her.”
For a moment she looked cruel, and though he did not understand her
meaning Craven realized that she would not have much pity for Lady
Sellingworth in misfortune. But Lady Sellingworth was cruel, too, had
been cruel to him. And he saw humanity without tenderness, teeth and
claws at work, barbarity coming to its own through the varnish.
He only said:
“I may be very stupid, but I don't understand.”
And then he changed the subject of conversation. Miss Van Tuyn
became gradually nicer to him, but he felt that she still cherished a
faint hostility to him. Perhaps she thought he regarded her as a
substitute. And was not that really the fact? He tried to sweep the
hostility away. He laid himself out to be charming to her. The Lady
Sellingworth episode was over. He would give himself to a different
side of his nature, a side to which Miss Van Tuyn appealed. She did not
encourage him at first, and he was driven to force the note slightly.
When he went away they had arranged to play golf together, to dine
together one night at the Bella Napoli. It was he who had
suggested, even urged these diversions. For she had almost made him
plead to her, had seemed oddly doubtful about seeing more of him in
intimacy. And when he left her he was half angry with himself for
making such a fuss about trifles. But the truth was—and perhaps she
suspected it—that he was trying to escape from depression, caused by a
sense of injury, through an adventure. He felt Miss Van Tuyn's great
physical attraction, and just then he wished that it would overwhelm
him. If it did he would soon cease from minding what Lady Sellingworth
had done. A certain recklessness possessed him.
He dined with a friend at the club and stayed there rather late.
When he was leaving about half past eleven Braybrooke dropped in after
a party, and he told Braybrooke of Lady Sellingworth's departure for
the Continent. The world's governess showed even more surprise than
Miss Van Tuyn had shown. He had had no idea that Adela Sellingworth was
going abroad. She must have decided on it very abruptly. He had seen
nothing in the Morning Post. Had she gone alone? And no letters
to be forwarded! Dear me! It was all very odd and unexpected. And she
had gone on the Riviera at this time of year! But it was a desert; not
a soul one knew would be there. The best hotels were not even open, he
believed.
As he made his comments he observed Craven closely with his small
hazel eyes, but the young man showed no feeling, and Braybrooke began
to think that really perhaps he had made a mountain out of a molehill,
that he had done Adela Sellingworth an injustice. If she had really
been inclined to any folly about his young friend she would certainly
not have left London in this mysterious manner.
“I suppose she let you know she was going?” he hazarded.
“Oh, no. I happened to call and the footman gave me the news.”
“I hope she isn't ill,” said Braybrooke with sudden gravity.
“Ill? Why should you think—?”
“There are women who hate it to be known when they are ill.
Catherine Bewdley went away without a word and was operated on at
Lausanne, and not one of us knew of it till it was all over. I don't
quite like the look of things. Letters not being forwarded—ha!”
“But near Monte Carlo!”
“Is it near Monte Carlo?”
He pursed his lips and went into the club looking grave, while
Craven went out into the night. It was black and damp. The pavement
seemed sweating. The hands of both autumn and winter were laid upon
London. But soon the hands of autumn would fail and winter would have
the huge city as its possession.
“Is it Monte Carlo?”
Braybrooke's question echoed in Craven's mind. Could he have done
Lady Sellingworth a wrong? Was there perhaps something behind her
sudden departure in silence which altogether excused it? She might be
ill and have disappeared without a word to some doctor's clinic, as
Braybrooke had suggested. Women sometimes had heroic silences. Craven
thought she could be heroic. There was something very strong in her, he
thought, combined perhaps with many weaknesses. He wished he knew where
she was, what she was doing, whom she was with or whether she was
alone. His desire trailed after her against his will. Undoubtedly he
missed her, and felt oddly homeless now she was gone.
CHAPTER II
Miss Van Tuyn believed that things were coming her way after all.
Young Craven was suddenly released, and another very strong interest
was dawning in her life. Craven had not been wrong in thinking that she
was secretly excited when he met her in the hall at Claridge's. She had
fulfilled her promise to Dick Garstin, driven to fulfilment by his
taunt. No one should say with truth that she was afraid of anyone, man
or woman. She would prove to Garstin that she was not afraid of the man
he was trying to paint. So, on the day of their conversation in the
studio, she had left Glebe Place with Arabian. For the first time she
had been alone with him for more than a few minutes.
She had gone both eagerly and reluctantly; reluctantly because there
was really something in Arabian which woke in her a sort of frail and
quivering anxiety such as she had never felt before in any man's
company; eagerly because Garstin had put into words what had till then
been only a suspicion in her mind. He had told her that Arabian was in
love with her. Was that true? Even now she was not sure. That was part
of the reason why she was not quite at ease with Arabian. She was not
sure of anything about him except that he was marvellously handsome.
But Garstin was piercingly sharp. What he asserted about anyone was
usually the fact. He could hardly be mistaken. Yet how could a woman be
in doubt about such a thing? And she was still, in spite of her vanity,
in doubt.
When Arabian had come into the studio that day, and had seen the
sketch of him ripped up by the palette knife, he had looked almost
fierce for a moment. He had turned towards Garstin with a sort of
hauteur like one demanding, and having the right to demand, an
explanation.
“What's the row?” Garstin had said, with almost insolent defiance.
“I destroyed it because it's damned bad. I hadn't got you.”
And then he had taken the canvas from the easel and had thrown it
contemptuously into a corner of the studio.
Arabian had said nothing, but there had been a cloud on his face,
and Miss Van Tuyn had known that he was angry, as a man is angry when
he sees a bit of his property destroyed by another. And she had
remembered her words to Arabian, that the least sketch by Garstin was
worth a great deal of money.
Surely Arabian was a greedy man.
No work had been done in the studio that morning. They had sat and
talked for a while. Garstin had said most. He had been more agreeable
than usual, and had explained to Arabian, rather as one explains to a
child, that a worker in an art is sometimes baffled for a time, a
writer by his theme, a musician by his floating and perhaps half-nebulous conception, a painter by his subject. Then he must wait,
cursing perhaps, damning his own impotence, dreading its continuance.
But there is nothing else to be done. Pazienza! And he had
enlarged upon patience. And Arabian had listened politely, had looked
as if he were trying to understand.
“I'll try again!” Garstin had said. “You must give me time, my boy.
You're not in a hurry to leave London, are you?”
And then Miss Van Tuyn had seen Arabian's eyes turn to her as he had
said, but rather doubtfully:
“I don't know whether I am.”
Garstin's eyes had said to her with sharp imperativeness:
“Keep him! You're not to let him go!”
And she had kept her promise; she had gone away from the studio with
Arabian leaving Garstin smiling at the door. And at that moment she had
almost hated Garstin.
Arabian had asked her to lunch with him. She had consented. He had
suggested a cab, and the Savoy or the Carlton, or the Ritz if she
preferred it. But she had quickly replied that she knew of a small
restaurant close to Sloane Square Station where the food was very good.
Many painters and writers went there.
“But we are not painters and writers!” Arabian had said.
Nevertheless they had gone there, and had lunched in a quiet corner,
and she had left him about three o'clock.
On the day of Craven's call at Claridge's she had been with Arabian
again. Garstin had begun another picture, and had worked on through the
lunch hour. Later they had had some food, a sort of picnic, in the
studio, and then she had walked away with Arabian. She had just left
him when she met Craven in the hall of the hotel. Garstin had not
allowed either her or Arabian to look at what he had done. He had, Miss
Van Tuyn thought, seemed unusually nervous and diffident about his
work. She did not know how he had gone on, and was curious. But she was
going to dine with him that night. Perhaps he would tell her then, or
perhaps he had only asked her to dinner that she might tell him about
Arabian.
And in the midst of all this had come Craven with his changed manner
and his news about Lady Sellingworth.
Decidedly things were taking a turn for the better. To Miss Cronin's
increasingly plaintive inquiries as to when they would return to Paris
Miss Van Tuyn gave evasive replies. She was held in London, and had
almost forgotten her friends in Paris.
She wondered why Adela had gone away so abruptly. Although she had
half hinted to Craven that she guessed the reason of this sudden
departure, and had asserted that Adela would presently come back
bringing sheaves with her, she was not at all sure that her guess was
right. Adela might return mysteriously rejuvenated and ready to plunge
once more into the fray, braving opinion. It might be a case of
reculer pour mieux sauter. On the other hand, it might be a flight
from danger. Miss Van Tuyn was practically certain that Adela had
fallen in love with Alick Craven. Was she being sensible and
deliberately keeping out of his way, or was she being mad and trying to
be made young at sixty in order to return armed for his captivation.
Time would show. Meanwhile the ground was unexpectedly clear. Craven
was seeking her, and she, by Garstin's orders and in the strict service
of art, was pushing her way towards a sort of intimacy with Arabian.
But the difference between the two men!
Craven's visit to Claridge's immediately after the hours spent with
Arabian had emphasized for her the mystery of the latter. Her
understanding of Craven underlined her ignorance about Arabian. The
confidence she felt in Craven—a confidence quite independent of his
liking, or not liking her—marked for her the fact that she had no
confidence in Arabian. Craven was just an English gentleman. He might
have done all sorts of things, but he was obviously a thoroughly
straight and decent fellow. A woman had only to glance at him to know
the things he could never do. But when she looked at Arabian—well,
then, the feeling was rather that Arabian might do anything. Craven
belonged obviously to a class, although he had a strong and attractive
individuality. English diplomacy presented many men of his type to the
embassies in foreign countries. But to what class did Arabian belong?
Even Dick Garstin was quite comprehensible, in spite of his
extraordinary manners and almost violent originality. He was a
Bohemian, with touches of genius, touches of vulgarity. There were
others less than him, yet not wholly unlike him, men of the studios, of
the painting schools, smelling as it were of Chelsea and the
Quartier Latin. But Arabian seemed to stand alone. When with him
Miss Van Tuyn could not tell what type of man must inevitably be his
natural comrade, what must inevitably be his natural environment. She
could see him at Monte Carlo, in the restaurants of Paris, in the
Galleria at Naples, in Cairo, in Tunis, in a dozen places. But she
could not see him at home. Was he the eternal traveller, with plenty of
money, a taste for luxury and the wandering spirit? Or had he some
purpose which drove him about the world?
After Craven had left her that day at Claridge's she had a sudden
wish to bring him and Craven together, to see how they got on together,
to hear Craven's opinion of Arabian. Perhaps she could manage a meeting
between the two men presently. Why not?
Arabian had not attempted to make love to her on either of the two
occasions when she had been with him alone. Only his eyes had seemed to
tell her that he admired her very much, that he wanted something of
her. His manner had been noncommittal. He had seemed to be on his
guard.
There was something in Arabian which suggested to Miss Van Tuyn
suspicion. He was surely a man who, despite his “open” look, his bold
features, his enormously self-possessed manner, was suspicious of
others. He had little confidence in others. She was almost certain of
that. There was nothing cat-like in his appearance, yet at moments when
with him she thought of a tomcat, of its swiftness, suppleness, gliding
energies and watchful reserve. She suspected claws in his velvet, too.
And yet surely he looked honest. She thought his look was honest, but
that his “atmosphere” was not. Often he had a straight look—she could
not deny that to herself. He could gaze at you and let you return his
gaze. And yet she had not been able to read what he was in his eyes.
He was not very easy to get on with somehow, although there was a
great deal of charm in his manner and although he was full of self-confidence and evidently accustomed to women. But to what women was he
accustomed? That was a question which Miss Van Tuyn asked herself.
Craven was obviously at home in the society of ordinary ladies and of
women of the world. You knew that somehow directly you were with him.
But—Arabian?
Miss Van Tuyn could see him with smart cocottes. He would
surely be very much at ease with them. And many of them would be ready
to adore such a man. For there was probably a strain of brutality
somewhere under his charm. And they would love that. She could even see
him, or fancied that she could, with street women. For there was surely
a touch of the street in him. He must have been bred up in cities. He
did not belong to any fields or any woods that she knew or knew of.
And—other women? Well, she was numbered among those other women. And
how was he with her so far? Charming, easy, bold—yes; but also
reserved, absolutely non-committal. She was not at all sure whether she
was going to be of much use to Dick Garstin, except perhaps in her own
person. Instead of delivering to him the man he wanted to come at
perhaps she would end by delivering a woman worth painting—herself.
For there was something in Arabian that was certainly dangerous to
her, something in him that excited her, that lifted her into an unusual
vitality. She did not quite know what it was. But she felt it
definitely. When she was with him alone she seemed to be in an
adventure through which a current of definite danger was flowing. No
other man had ever brought a sensation like that into her life,
although she had met many types of men in Paris, had known well
talented men of acknowledged bad character, reckless of the
convenances, men who snapped their fingers at all the prejudices of
the orthodox, and who made no distinction between virtues and vices,
following only their own inclinations.
Such a man was Dick Garstin. Yet Miss Van Tuyn had never with him
had the sensation of being near to something dangerous which she had
with Arabian. Yet Arabian was scrupulously polite, was quiet, almost
gentle in manner, and had a great deal of charm.
She remembered his following her in the street at night. What would
he be like with women of that sort? Would his gentleness be in evidence
with them, or would a totally different individual rise to the surface
of him, a beast of prey perhaps with the jungle in its eyes?
Something in her shrank from Arabian as she had never yet shrunk
from a human being. But something else was fascinated by him. She had
the American woman's outlook on men. She expected men to hold their own
in the world with other men, to be self-possessed, cool-headed, and
bold in their careers, but to be subservient in their relations with
women. To be ruled by a husband would have seemed to her to be quite
unnatural, to rule him quite natural. She felt sure that no woman would
be likely to rule Arabian. She felt sure that his outlook on women was
absolutely unlike that of the American man. When she looked at him she
thought of the rape of the Sabines. Surely he was a primitive under his
mask of almost careful smartness and conventionality. There was
something primitive in her, too, and she became aware of that now.
Hitherto she had been inclined to believe that she was essentially
complex, cerebral, free from any trace of sentimentality, quiveringly
responsive to the appealing voices of the arts, healthily responsive to
the joys of athleticism almost in the way of a Greek youth in the early
days of the world, but that she was free from all taint of animalism.
Men had told her that, in spite of her charm and the fascination they
felt in her, she lacked one thing— what they chose to call
temperament. That was why, they said, she was able to live as she did,
audaciously, even eccentrically, without being kicked out of society as
“impossible.” She was saved from disaster by her interior coldness. She
lived by the brain rather than by the senses. And she had taken this
verdict to herself as praise. She had felt refinement in her freedom
from ordinary desire. She had been proud of worshipping beauty without
any coarse longing. To her her bronzes had typified something that she
valued in herself. Her immense vanity had not been blended with those
passions which shake many women, which had devastated Lady
Sellingworth. A coarseness in her mind made her love to be physically
desired by men, but no coarseness of body made her desire them. And she
had supposed that she represented the ultra modern type of woman, the
woman who without being cold—she would not acknowledge that she was
cold—was free from the slavish instinct which makes all the ordinary
women sisters in the vulgar bosom of nature.
But since she had seen Arabian she felt less highly civilized; she
knew that in her, too, lurked the horrible primitive. And that troubled
and at the same time fascinated her.
Was that why when she had seen Arabian for the first time she had
resolved to get to know him? She had called him a living bronze, but
she had thought of him from the first, perhaps, with ardour as flesh
and blood.
And yet at moments he repelled her. She, who was so audacious, did
not want to show herself with him at the Ritz, to walk down Piccadilly
with him in daylight. As she had said to Dick Garstin, an atmosphere
seemed to hang about Arabian—an unsafe atmosphere. She did not know
where she was in it. She lost her bearings, could not see her way,
heard steps and voices that sounded strange. And the end of it all was
—“I don't know.” When she thought of Arabian always that sentence was
in her mind—“I don't know.”
She was strangely excited. And now Craven came to her. And he
attracted her, too, but in such a different way!
Suddenly London was interesting! And “I don't know when we shall go
back to Paris!” she said to Miss Cronin.
“Is it the Wallace Collection, Beryl?” murmured “Old Fanny,” with
plaintive suspicion over her cup of camomile tea.
“Yes, it's the Wallace Collection,” said Miss Van Tuyn.
And she went away to dress for her dinner with Dick Garstin.
She met him at a tiny and very French restaurant in Conduit Street,
where the cooking was absolutely first rate, where there was no sound
of music, and where very few English people went. There were only some
eight or ten tables in the cosy, warm little room, and when Miss Van
Tuyn entered it there were not a dozen people dining. Dick Garstin was
not there. It was just like him to be late and to keep a woman waiting.
But he had engaged a table in the corner of the room on the right, away
from the window. And Miss Van Tuyn was shown to it by a waiter, and sat
down. On the way she had bought The Westminster Gazette. She
opened it, lit a cigarette, and began to glance at the news. There
happened to be a letter from Paris in which the writer described a new
play which had just been produced in an outlying theatre. Miss Van Tuyn
read the account. She began reading in a casual mood, but almost
immediately all her attention was grasped and held tight. She forgot
where she was, let her cigarette go out, did not see Garstin when he
came in from the street. When he came up and laid a hand on her arm she
started violently.
“Who's—Dick!”
An angry look came into her face.
“Why did you do that?”
“What's the matter?”
He stared at her almost as if fascinated.
“By Jove . . . you look wonderful!”
“I forbid you to touch me like that! I hate being pawed, and you
know it.”
He glanced at the pale green paper.
“The sea-green incorruptible!”
He stretched out his hand, but she quickly moved the paper out of
his reach.
“Let us dine. You've kept me waiting for ages.”
Garstin sent a look to his waiter, and sat down opposite to Miss Van
Tuyn with his back to the room.
“I'll buy a Westminster going back,” he observed. “Bisque!
Bring a bottle of the Lanson, Raoul.”
He addressed the waiter in French.
“Oui, m'sieu.”
“Well iced!”
“Certainement, Monsieur Garstin.”
“Better tempered now, Beryl?”
“You always make out that I have the temper of a fiend. I hate being
startled. That's all.”
“You're awfully nervy these days.”
“I think you are the cruellest man I know. If it weren't for your
painting no one would have anything to do with you.”
“I shouldn't care.”
“Yes, you would. You love being worshipped and run after.”
“Good soup, isn't it?”
She made no answer to this. After a silence she said:
“Why were you so late?”
“To give you time to study the evening paper.”
“Were you working?”
“No—cursing.”
“Why?”
“This damned portrait's going to be no good either!”
“Then you'd better give it up.”
He shot a piercing glance at her.
“It isn't my way to give things up once I've put my hand to them,”
he observed drily. “And you seem to forget that you put me up to it.”
“That was only a whim. You didn't take it seriously.”
“I do now, though.”
“But if you're baffled?”
“For the moment. I've nearly always found that the best work comes
hardest. One has to sweat blood before one reaches the big thing. I may
begin on him half a dozen times, cut him to ribbons half a dozen
time—and then do a masterpiece.”
“I don't think he'll wait long enough. Another stab of the palette
knife and you'll probably see the last of him.”
“Ah—he didn't like it, did he?”
“He was furious.”
“Did he say anything about it afterwards to you?”
“Not a word. But he was furious. You stabbed money!”
Garstin smiled appreciatively. Raoul was pouring out the champagne.
Garstin lifted his glass and set it down half empty.
“Had you told him—”
He paused.
“He knows everything you do is worth money, a lot of money.”
“He's got the hairy heel. I always knew that. We'll get to his
secret yet, you and I between us.”
“I am not sure that I can stay over here very much longer, Dick.
Paris is my home, and I can't waste my money at Claridge's for ever.”
“If you like I'll pay the bill.”
She reddened.
“Do you really think that if I were to go he—Arabian—”
“He'd follow you by the next boat.”
“I'm sure he wouldn't.”
“You're not half so vain as I thought you were.”
“When we are alone he never attempts to make love to me. We talk
platitudes. I know him no better than I did before.”
“He's a wary bird. But the dawn must come and with it his crow.”
“Well, Dick, I tell you frankly that I may go back to Paris any
day.”
“I knew you were nervy to-night. I wish I could find a woman who was
a match for a man in the nervous system. But there isn't one. That's
why we are so superior. We've got steel where you've all got fiddle
strings. Raoul!”
He drank again and ate heartily. He was a voracious eater at times.
But there were days when he ate nothing and worked incessantly.
They had begun dinner late, and the little restaurant was getting
empty. Three sets of diners had gone out since they had sat down. The
waiters were clearing some of the tables. A family party, obviously
French, lingered at a round table in the middle of the room over their
coffee. A pale man sat alone in a corner eating pressed duck with
greedy avidity. And Raoul, leaving Miss Van Tuyn and Garstin, placed a
large vase of roses on a table close to the window near the door.
Miss Van Tuyn happened to see this action, and a vagrant thought
slipped through her mind. “Then we are not the last!”
“My nerves are certainly not fiddle strings,” she said. “But I have
interests which pull me towards Paris.”
“Greater interests here. Have some more champagne! Raoul!”
“M'sieu!”
“You can't deceive me, Beryl.”
“Your pose of omniscience bores me. Apart from your gift you're a
very ordinary man, Dick, if you could only be brought to see it.”
“Arabian fascinates you.”
“He doesn't.”
“And that's why you're afraid of him. You're afraid of his power
because you don't trust him. He's doing a lot for you. You're waking
up. You're becoming interesting. A few days ago you were only a
beautiful spoilt American girl, as cool and as hard as ice, brainy,
vain, and totally without temperament as far as one could see. Your
torch was unlit. Now this blackguard's put the match to it.”
“What nonsense, Dick!”
“Raoul!”
“M'sieu?”
“That's all very well. But my intention is to paint him, not you.
Why don't you get to work hard? Why don't you put your back into it?”
“This is beyond bearing, Dick, even from you!”
She was looking really indignant. Her cheeks and forehead had
reddened, her eyes seemed to spit fire at him, and her hands trembled.
“Your absolute lack of decent consideration is—you're canaille!
Because you're impotent to paint I am to—no, it's too much! Canaille!
Canaille! That's what you are! I shall go back to Paris. I shall—”
Suddenly she stopped speaking and stared. The red faded out of her
face. A curiously conscious and intent look came into her eyes. She
began to move her head as if in recognition of some one, stopped and
sat rigid, pressing her lips together till her mouth had a hard grim
line. Garstin, who could only see her and the wall at her back, watched
all this with sharp interest, then, growing curious, turned round. As
he did so he saw a tall, very handsome dark girl, who had certainly not
been in the room when he entered it, going slowly, and as if
reluctantly, towards the doorway. She was obviously a woman of the
demi-monde and probably French. As she reached the door she turned her
smart, impudent head and covered Miss Van Tuyn with an appraising look,
cold, keen, vicious in its detached intensity, a look such as only a
woman can send to another woman.
Then she went out, followed by Raoul, who seemed rather agitated,
and whose back looked appealing.
“Black hair with blue lights in it!” said Garstin. “What a beauty!”
Miss Van Tuyn sighed.
“Why wouldn't she stay?”
He was still sitting half turned towards the door.
“A table with flowers all ready for her! And she goes! Was she
alone? Ah—who was with her?”
“Arabian!” said Miss Van Tuyn, coldly.
“And he—”
“He saw us!”
“And took her away! What a lark! Too timid to face us! The naughty
boy caught out in an escapade! I'll chaff him to-morrow. All their
dinner wasted, and I'll bet it was a good one.”
He chuckled over his wine.
“Did he know that you saw him?”
“I don't know. He was behind her. He barely showed himself, saw us
and vanished. He must have called to her, beckoned from the hall. She
went quite up to the table.”
“So—you've taught him timidity! He doesn't want you to know of his
under life.”
“Oh, for heaven's sake let us talk of something else!” said Miss Van
Tuyn, with an almost passionate note of exasperation. “You bore me,
bore me, bore me with this man! He seems becoming an obsession with
you. Paint him, for God's sake, and then let there be an end of him as
far as we are concerned. There are lots of other men better-looking
than he is. But once you have taken an idea into your head there is no
peace until you have worked it out on canvas. Genius it may be, but
it's terribly tiresome to everyone about you. Paint the man—and then
let him sink back into the depths!”
“Like a sea monster, eh?”
“He is horrible. I always knew it.”
“Come, now! You told me—”
“It doesn't matter what I told you. He is horrible.”
“What! Just because he comes out to dine with a pretty girl of a
certain class? I had no idea you were such a Puritan. Raoul!”
“M'sieu!”
Garstin was evidently enjoying himself.
“I know those women! Arabian's catching it like the devil in Conduit
Street. She's giving him something he'll remember.”
“No!” said Miss Van Tuyn, with hard emphasis.
“What d'you mean?”
“I mean that Arabian is the sort of man who can frighten women. Now
if you don't talk of something else I shall leave you here alone.
Another word on that subject and I go!”
“Tell me, Beryl. What do you really thing of Wyndham Lewis? You know
his portrait of Ezra Pound?”
“Of course I do.”
“Don't you think it's a masterpiece?”
“Do you? I can never get at your real ideas about modern painting.”
“And I thought I wore them all down in my own pictures.”
“You certainly don't sit on the fence when you paint.”
And then they talked pictures. Perhaps Garstin at that moment for
once laid himself out to be charming. He could fascinate Miss Van
Tuyn's mind when he chose. She respected his brain. It could lure her.
As a worker she secretly almost loved Garstin, and she believed that
the world would remember him when he was gone to the shadows and the
dust.
Two champagne bottles had been emptied when they got up to go. The
little room was deserted and had a look of being settled in for the
night. Raoul took his tip and yawned behind his big yellow hand. As
Miss Van Tuyn was about to leave the restaurant he bent down to the
floor and picked up a paper which had fallen against the wall near her
seat.
“Madame—” he began.
Miss Van Tuyn, who was on her way to the door, did not hear him, and
Garstin swiftly and softly took the paper and slipped it into the
pocket of his overcoat. When he had said good-bye to Beryl he went back
to Glebe Place. He mounted the stairs to the studio on the first floor,
turned on the lights, went to the Spanish cabinet, poured himself out a
drink, lit one of the black cigars, then sat down in a worn arm-chair,
put his feet on the sofa, and unfolded The Westminster Gazette.
What had she been reading so intently? What was it in the paper that
had got on her nerves?
The political news, the weather, the leading article, notes, reviews
of new books. He looked carefully at each of the reviews. Not there!
Then he began to read the news of the day, but found nothing which
seemed to him capable of gripping Beryl's attention. Finally, he turned
to the last page but one of the paper, saw the heading, “Our Paris
Letter,” and gave the thrush's call softly. Paris—Beryl! This was sure
to be it. He began to read, and almost immediately was absorbed. His
brows contracted, his lips went up towards his long, hooked nose. A
strong light shone in his hard, intelligent eyes, eyes surely endowed
with the power to pierce into hidden places. Presently he put the paper
down. So that was it! That was why Beryl had been so startled when he
touched her in the restaurant!
He got up and walked to the easel on which was the new sketch for
Arabian's portrait, stood before it and looked at it for a very long
time. And all the time he stood there what he had just read was in his
mind. Fear! The fascination of fear! There were women who could only
love what they could also fear. Perhaps Beryl was one of them. Perhaps
underneath all her audacity, her self-possession, her “damned cheek,”
her abnormal vanity, there was the thing that could shrink, and quiver,
and love the brute.
Was that her secret? And his? Arabian's?
Garstin threw himself down presently and looked at the paper again.
The article which he felt sure had gripped Miss Van Tuyn's attention
described a new play which had just made a sensation in Paris. A woman,
apparently courageous almost to hardness, self-engrossed, beautiful and
cold, became in this play fascinated by a man about whom she knew
nothing, whom she did not understand, who was not in her circle of
society, who knew none of her friends, who came from she knew not
where. Her instinct hinted to her that there was in him something
abominable. She distrusted him. She was even afraid of him. But he made
an enormous impression upon her. And she said of him to a man who
warned her against him, “But he means a great deal to me and other men
mean little or nothing. There is something in him which speaks to me
and in others there is nothing but silence. There is something in him
which leads me along a path and others leave me standing where I am.”
Eventually, against the warning of her own instinct, and, as it
were, in spite of herself, she gave herself up to the man, and after a
very short association with him—only a few days—he strangled her. She
had a long and very beautiful neck. Hidden in him was a homicidal
tendency. Her throat had drawn his hands, and, behind his hands, him.
And she? Apparently she had been drawn to the murderer hidden in him,
to the strong, ruthless, terribly intent, crouching thing that wanted
to destroy her.
As the writer of the article pointed out, the play was a Grand
Guignol piece produced away from its proper environment. It was called
The Lure of Destruction.
How Beryl had started when a hand had touched her in the restaurant!
And how angry she had been afterwards! Garstin smiled as he remembered
her anger. But she had looked wonderful. She might be worth painting
presently. He did not really care to paint a Ceres. But she was rapidly
losing the Ceres look.
Before he went to bed he again stood in front of the scarcely begun
sketch for the portrait of Arabian, and looked at it for a long time.
His face became grim and set as he looked. Presently he moved his lips
as if he were saying something to a listener within. And the listener
heard:
“In the underworld—but is the fellow a king?”
CHAPTER III
Francis Braybrooke was pleased. Young Craven and Beryl were
evidently “drawing together” now Adela Sellingworth was happily out of
the way. He heard of them dining together at the Bella Napoli,
playing golf together at Beaconsfield—or was it Chorley Wood? He was
not quite sure. He heard of young Craven being seen at Claridge's going
up in the lift to Miss Van Tuyn's floor. All this was very encouraging.
Braybrooke's former fears were swept away and his confidence in his
social sense was re-established upon its throne. Evidently he had been
quite mistaken, and there had been nothing in that odd friendship with
Adela Sellingworth. This would teach him not to let himself go to
suspicion in the future.
He still did not know where Lady Sellingworth was. Nothing had
appeared in the Morning Post about her movements. Nobody seemed
to know anything about her. He met various members of the “old guard"
and made inquiry, but “Haven't an idea” was the invariable reply. Even,
and this was strangest of all, Seymour Portman did not know where she
was. Braybrooke met him one day at the Marlborough and spoke of the
matter, and Seymour Portman, with his most self-contained and reserved
manner, replied that he believed Lady Sellingworth had gone abroad to
“take a rest,” but that he was not sure where she was “at the moment.”
She was probably moving about.
Why should she take a rest? She never did anything specially
laborious. It really was quite mysterious. One day Braybrooke inquired
discreetly in Berkeley Square, alleging a desire to communicate with
Lady Sellingworth about a charity bazaar in which he was interested;
but the footman did not know where her ladyship was or when she was
coming back to town. And still letters were not being forwarded.
Meanwhile Fanny Cronin felt that Paris was drifting quite out of her
ken. The autumn was deepening. The first fogs of winter had made a
premature appearance, and the spell of the Wallace Collection was
evidently as strong as ever on Beryl. But was it the Wallace
Collection? Miss Cronin never knew much about what Beryl was doing.
Still, she was a woman and had her instincts, rudimentary though they
were. Mr. Braybrooke must certainly have received his conge. Mrs. Clem
Hodson quite agreed with Miss Cronin on that point. Beryl had probably
refused the poor foolish old man that day at the Ritz when there had
been that unpleasant dispute about the plum cake. But now there was
this Mr. Craven! Miss Cronin had found him once with Beryl in the
latter's sitting-room; she had reason to believe they had played golf
together. The young man was certainly handsome. And then Beryl had
seemed quite altered just lately. Her temper was decidedly uncertain.
She was unusually restless and preoccupied. Twice she had been
exceedingly cross about Bourget. And she looked different, too; even
Suzanne Hodson had noticed it. There was something in her face—“a sort
of look,” Miss Cronin called it, with an apt feeling for the choice of
words—which was new and alarming. Mrs. Clem declared that Beryl had
the expression of a woman who was crazy about a man.
“It's the eyes and the cheek-bones that tell the tale, Fanny!” she
had observed. “They can't deceive a woman. Don't talk to me about the
Wallace Collection.”
Poor Miss Cronin was very uneasy. The future looked almost as dark
as the London days. As she lay upon the French bed, or reclined upon
the sofa, or sat deep in her arm-chair, she envisaged an awful change,
when the Avenue Henri Martin would know her no more, when she might
have to return to the lair in Philadelphia from which Miss Van Tuyn had
summoned her to take charge of Beryl.
One day, when she was almost brooding over the fire, between five
and six o'clock in the afternoon, the door opened and Beryl appeared.
She had been out since eleven in the morning. But that was nothing new.
She went out very often about half-past ten and scarcely ever came back
to lunch.
“Fanny!” she said. “I want you.”
“What is it, dear?” said Miss Cronin, sitting forward a little in
her chair and laying aside her book.
“I've brought back a friend, and I want you to know him. Come into
my sitting-room.”
Miss Cronin got up obediently and remembering Mrs. Clem's words,
looked at Beryl's cheek-bones and eyes.
“Is it Mr. Craven?” she asked in a quavering voice.
“Mr. Craven—no! You know him already.”
“I have seen him once, dear.”
“Come along!”
Miss Cronin followed her into the lobby. The door of the
sitting-room was open, and by the fire was standing a stalwart-looking
man in a dark blue overcoat. As Miss Cronin came in he gazed at her,
and she thought she had never before seen such a pair of matching brown
eyes. Beryl introduced him as Mr. Arabian.
The stranger bowed, and then pressed Miss Cronin's freckled right
hand gently, but strongly too.
“I have been hoping to meet you,” he said, in a strong but gentle
voice which had, Miss Cronin thought, almost caressing inflexions.
“Very glad to meet you, indeed!” said the companion.
“Yes. Miss Van Tuyn has told me what you are to her.”
“Forgive me for a minute!” said Miss Van Tuyn. “I must take off my
things. They all feel as if they were full of fog. Fanny, entertain Mr.
Arabian until I come back. But don't talk about Bourget. He's never
read Bourget, I'm sure.”
She looked at Fanny Cronin and went out of the room. And in that
look old Fanny, slow in the uptake though she undoubtedly was, read a
tremendous piece of news.
This must be the Wallace Collection!
That was how her mind put it. This must be the great reason of
Beryl's lingering in London, this total stranger of whom she had never
heard till this moment. Her instinct had not deceived her. Beryl had at
last fallen in love. And probably Mr. Braybrooke had been aware of it
when he had called that afternoon and talked so persistently about the
changes and chances of life. In that case Miss Cronin had wronged him.
And he had perhaps come to plead the cause of another.
“The weather—it is really terrible, is it not? You are wise to stay
in the warm.”
So the conversation began between Miss Cronin and Arabian, and it
continued for quite a quarter of an hour. Then Miss Van Tuyn came back
in a tea gown, looking lovely with her uncovered hair and her shining,
excited eyes, and some twenty minutes later Arabian went away.
When he had gone Miss Van Tuyn said carelessly:
“Fanny, darling, what do you think of him?”
Fanny, darling! That was not Beryl's usual way of putting things.
Miss Cronin was much shaken. She felt the ground of her life, as it
were, rocking beneath her feet, and yet she answered—she could not
help it:
“I think Mr. Arabian is the most—the most—he is fascinating. He is
a charming man. And how very good-looking!”
“Yes, he's a handsome fellow. And so you liked him?”
“No one has ever been so charming to me as he was—that I can
remember. He must have a most sympathetic make-up. Who is he?”
“A friend of Dick Garstin, the painter. And so he attracted you?”
“I think him certainly most attractive. I should imagine he must
have a very kind heart. There is something almost childlike about him,
so simple!”
“So—so you find nothing repellent in him?”
“Repellent!” said Miss Cronin, almost with fear. “Do you mean to
say— then don't you like him?”
“I like him well enough. But, as you ought to know, I'm not given to
raving about men.”
“Well,” said Miss Cronin almost severely, “Mr. Arabian—Is that his
true name?”
“Yes. I told you so.”
“It's such an odd name! Mr. Arabian is a most kind and warm-hearted
man. I am certain of that. And he is not above being charming and
thoughtful to an ordinary old woman like me. He understand me, and that
shows he has sympathy. I am sure Suzanne would like him too.”
“Really, you quite rave about him!” said Miss Van Tuyn, with a light
touch of sarcasm.
But her eyes looked pleased, and that evening she was exceptionally
kind to old Fanny.
She had not yet brought Arabian and Alick Craven together. Somehow
she shrank from that far more than she had shrunk from the test with
Fanny. Craven was very English, and Englishmen are apt to be intolerant
about men of other nations. And Craven was a man, and apparently was
beginning to like her very much. He would not be a fair judge.
Undoubtedly he would be prejudiced.
And at this point in her mental communings Miss Van Tuyn realized
that she was losing her independence of mind. What did it matter if
Fanny thought this and Alick Craven that? What did it matter what
anyone thought but herself?
But she was surely confused, was walking in the clouds. Dick Garstin
had given her a lead that night of the meeting of the Georgians. She
had certainly been affected by his words. Perhaps he had even infected
her with his thought. Thought can infect, and Garstin had a powerful
mind. And now she was seeking to oppose to Garstin's thought the
opinion of others. How terribly weak that was! And she had always
prided herself on her strength. She was startled, even angered, by the
change in herself.
Her connexion with Craven was peculiar.
Ever since Lady Sellingworth's abrupt departure from England he had
persistently sought her out, had shown a sort of almost obstinate
desire to be in her company. Remembering what had happened when Lady
Sellingworth was still in Berkeley Square, Miss Van Tuyn had been on
her guard. Craven had hurt her vanity once. She did not quite
understand him. She suspected him of peculiarity. She even wondered
whether he had had a quarrel with Adela which had been concealed from
her, and which might account for Adela's departure and for Craven's
present assiduity. Possibly, but for one reason, her injured vanity
would have kept Craven at a distance—at any rate, for a time. It would
have been pleasant to deal out suitable punishment to one who certainly
deserved it. But there was the reason for the taking of the other
course—Arabian.
An obscure instinct drove her into intimacy with Craven because of
Arabian. She was not sure that she wanted Craven just now, but she
might want him, perhaps very much, later. She knew he was not really in
love with her, but they were beginning to get on well together. He
admired her; she held out a hand to his youth. There was something of
comradeship in their association. And their minds understood each other
rather well, she thought. For they were both genuinely interested in
the arts, though neither of them was an artist. And she felt very safe
with Alick Craven. So she forgave Craven for his behaviour with Adela
Sellingworth. She let him off his punishment. She relied upon him as
her friend. And she needed to rely upon someone. For the calm
self-possession of her nature was beginning to be seriously affected.
She was losing some of her hitherto immense self- assurance. Her faith
in the coolness and dominating strength of her own temperament was
shaken.
Arabian troubled her increasingly.
That night at the restaurant in Conduit Street she had felt that she
hated him, and when she had left Garstin she had realized something,
that the measure of her nervous hatred was the measure of something
else. Why should she mind what Arabian did? What was his way of life to
her? Other men could do what they chose and her well-poised, well-disciplined brain retained its normal calm. So long as they gave her
the admiration which her vanity needed, she was not persecuted by any
undue anxieties about the secret conduct of their lives. But she was
tormented by the memory of that girl in the restaurant. And she
remembered the conversation about jealousy round the dinner table at
the Carlton. She was jealous now. That was why she had been so angry
with Garstin. That was why she had lain awake that night.
And yet the next morning she had gone to the studio in Glebe Place.
She had greeted Arabian as usual. She had never let him know that she
had seen him in the restaurant, and she had persuaded Dick Garstin to
say nothing about it. No doubt Arabian supposed that he had been too
quick for them, and that they did not know he was with the woman who
had come in and had almost immediately gone out.
But since that night Miss Van Tuyn had been persecuted by a secret
jealousy such as she had never known till now.
Let him sink back to the depths! She had said that, but she did not
want him to disappear out of her life. She had said, too, that he was
horrible. The words were spoken in a moment of intense nervous
irritation. But were they true? She thought of him as a night bird. Yet
she brought him to Claridge's and introduced him to Fanny, and sought
Fanny's opinion of him, and been pleased that it was favourable. And
she saw him almost daily. And she knew she would go on seeing him
till—what?
She could not foresee the end of this adventure brought about by her
own audacious wilfulness. Some day she supposed Dick Garstin would be
satisfied with his work. A successful portrait of Arabian would stand
on the easel in Glebe Place. Garstin was not at all satisfied yet. She
knew that. He had put aside two more beginnings angrily, had started
again, had paused, taken up other work, taken a rest, sent for Arabian
once more. But this strange impotence of Garstin to satisfy himself
would surely not last for ever. Either he would succeed, or he would
abandon the attempt to succeed, or—a third possibility presented
itself to Miss Van Tuyn's mind—his model would get tired of the
conflict and refuse to “sit” any more.
And then—the depths?
Till now Arabian's patience had been remarkable. Evidently Garstin's
obstinacy was matched by an obstinacy in him. Although he had once
perhaps been secretly reluctant to sit, had been tempted to become
Garstin's model by the promise of the finished picture, he now seemed
determined to do his part, endured Garstin's irritability,
dissatisfaction, abandoned and renewed attempts to “make a first-rate
job of him” with remarkable good temper. He was evidently resolved not
to give up this enterprise without his reward. There was fixed purpose
in his patience.
“By God he's a stayer!” Garstin had said of him in a puffing breath
one day when the palette knife had been angrily used once more. “Either
he's waiting for the money value of a portrait by me like a cat for a
mouse, or he's afraid of the finish.”
“Why?” Miss Van Tuyn had asked.
“Well, you're in the thing! Perhaps he's afraid that when he says
good-bye to my studio he says good-bye to you too. Or perhaps the two
reasons govern him—love of money, love of woman. Anyhow he's a
sticker!”
“He only wants the picture,” she had said.
But that remark had been made for the benefit of Garstin. By this
time she knew that Arabian had a further purpose, and that it was
connected with herself. She was sure that he was intent on her. And she
wondered very much what he would do when at last the picture was
finished. Surely then something definite must happen. She both longed
for and dreaded that moment. She knew Garstin, and she knew that once
he had achieved what he was trying—“sweating blood,” he called it—to
achieve his interest in Arabian would almost certainly cease. Arabian
would then be nothing but used material of no more value in Garstin's
life. The picture would be exhibited, and then handed over to Arabian,
and Garstin would be off on some other track.
She had now been with Arabian probably as many times as she had been
with Craven. Yet she thoroughly understood the essential qualities of
the Englishman, or believed that she did, and she still knew very
little about Arabian. She did not even know what race he belonged to.
He had evidently travelled a great deal. Sometimes he casually
mentioned having been here or there. He spoke of America as one who had
often been in New York. Once he had mentioned San Francisco as if he
were very familiar with it. Miss Van Tuyn had relatives there, and had
asked him if he knew them. But he had not known them. Whom did he know?
She often wondered. He must know somebody besides that horrible girl
she had seen for a moment in the restaurant in Conduit Street. But she
did not like to ask him direct questions. To do that would be to show
too much interest in him. And something else, too, prevented her from
questioning him. She had no faith in his word. She felt that he was a
man who would say anything which suited his purpose. She had never
caught him out in a direct lie, but she was quite certain he would not
mind telling one. Of course she had often known men about whom she knew
really very little. But she could not remember ever having known a man
about whose character, position, education and former life she was so
ignorant as she was about Arabian's.
He was still a vague sort of Cosmopolitan to her, a floating foreign
man whom she could not place. He was still the magnificent mongrel
belonging to no known breed.
Certain things about him she did know, however. She knew he was at
present living at the Charing Cross Hotel, though he said he was
looking for a flat in the West End. He spoke several languages;
certainly English, French, German and Spanish. He had some knowledge of
horseflesh, and evidently took an interest in racing. He seemed
interested, too, in finance. And he played the piano and sang.
That gift of his had surprised her. One day in the studio, when
Garstin had finished painting, and they had lingered smoking and
talking, the conversation had turned on music, and Garstin, who had
some knowledge of all the arts, had spoken about Stravinsky, whom he
knew, and whose music he professed to understand. Miss Van Tuyn had
joined in, and had given her view on Le Sacre du Printemps,
The Nightingale, and other works. Arabian had sat smoking in
discreet silence, till she had said to him bluntly:
“Do you care about music?”
And then Arabian had said that he was very fond of music, and played
and sang a little himself, but that he had been too lazy to study
seriously and had an uneducated ear.
Garstin had told him bluntly to go to the piano and show them what
he could do. And Arabian had surprised Miss Van Tuyn by at once
complying with this request, which had sounded like an order.
His performance had been the sort of thing she, having “advanced"
views on musical matters, was generally inclined to sneer at or avoid.
He had played two or three coon songs and a tango. But there had been
in his playing a sheer “musicalness,” as she had called it afterwards,
which had enticed her almost against her will. And when he had sung
some little Spanish songs she had been conquered, though she had not
said so.
His voice was a warm and soft tenor, and he had sung very naturally,
carelessly almost. But everything had been just right. When he had
stolen time, when he had given it back, the stealing and repayment had
been right. His expression had been charming and not overdone. There
had been at moments a delightful impudence in his singing. The touches
of tenderness had been light as a feather, but they had had real
meaning. Through his last song he had kept a cigarette alight in his
mouth. He had merely hummed the melody, but it had been quite
delicious. Even Garstin had approved, and had said: “The stuff was
sheer rot, but it was like a palm tree singing.”
And then Arabian had given them a piece of information.
“I was brought up among palm trees.”
“Florida?” Garstin had said.
But somehow the question had not been answered. Perhaps she—Beryl—
had spoken just then. She was not sure. But she had been “got at” by
the music. And at that moment she had realized why Arabian was
dangerous to her. Not only his looks appealed to her. He had other,
more secret weapons. Charm, suppleness of temperament, heat and desire
were his. Otherwise he could not have sung and played that rubbish as
he had done.
That day, later on, he had not actually said, but had implied that
some Spanish blood ran in his veins.
“But I belong to no country,” he had added quickly. “I am a gamin
of the world.”
“Not a citizen?” she had said.
“No; I am the eternal gamin. I shall never be anything else.”
All very well! But at moments she was convinced that there was a
very hard and a very wary man in Arabian.
Perhaps sitting under the singing palm tree there was a savage!
She wanted to know what Arabian was. She began to feel that she must
know. For, in spite of her ignorance, their intimacy was deepening. And
now people were beginning to talk. Although she had been so careful not
to show herself with Arabian in any smart restaurants, not to walk with
him in the more frequented parts of the West End, they had been seen
together. On the day when she had brought him to Claridge's some
American friends had seen them pass through the hall, and afterwards
had asked her who he was. Another day, when she was coming away with
him from the studio, she had met Lady Archie Brooke at the corner of
Glebe Place. She had not stopped to speak. But Lady Archie had stared
at Arabian. And Miss Van Tuyn knew what that meant. The “old guard"
would be told of Beryl's wonderful new man.
She felt nervously sensitive about Arabian. And yet she had been
about Paris with all sorts of men, and had not cared what people had
thought or said. But those men had been clever, workers in the arts,
men with names that were known, or that would be known presently.
Arabian was different. She felt oddly shy about being seen with him.
Her audacity seemed fading away in her. She realized that and felt
alarmed. If only she knew something definite about Arabian, who he was,
what his people were, where he came from, she would feel much easier.
She began to worry about the matter. She lay awake at night. At moments
a sort of desperation came upon her like a wave. Sometimes she said to
herself, “I wish I had never met him.” And yet she knew that she did
not want to get rid of him. But she wished no one to know of her
friendship; with this man—if it were a friendship.
Garstin was watching her through it all. She hated his eyes. He did
not care what was happening to her. He only cared what appearance it
caused; how it affected her eyes, her manner, her expression, the line
of her mouth, the movements of her hands. He had said that she was
waking up. But—to what?
All this time she seemed to be aware of an almost fatal growing
intention in Arabian. Nevertheless, he waited. She had never been able
to forget the article she had read in the Westminster Gazette.
When she had read about the woman in the play she had instinctively
compared herself with that woman. And then something in her revolted.
She had thought of it as her Americanism, which loathed the idea of
slavery in any form. But nevertheless, she had been aware of alarming
possibilities within her. She was able to understand the woman in the
play. And that must surely be because she was obscurely akin to her.
And she knew that when she had read the article the man in the play had
made her think of Arabian. That, of course, was absurd. But she
understood why it was. That woman had been attracted by a man of whom
she knew nothing. She, Beryl Van Tuyn, was in the same situation. But
of course she did not compare poor Arabian in her mind with a homicidal
maniac.
He was gentle and charming. Old Fanny liked him immensely, said he
had a kind heart. And Fanny was sensitive.
Yet again she thought of the savage sitting under the palm tree and
of Dick Garstin's allusion to a king in the underworld.
She resented being worried. She resented having her nerves on edge.
She was angry with Dick Garstin, and even angry with herself. In bed at
night, when she could not sleep, she read books on New Thought, and
tried to learn how to govern her mind and to control her thought
processes. But she was not successful in the attempt. Her mind
continually went to Arabian, and then she was filled with anxiety, with
suspicion, with jealousy, and with a strange sort of longing
mysteriously combined with repulsion and dread. And underneath all her
feelings and thoughts there was a basic excitement which troubled her
and which she could not get rid of.
One morning she got up full of restlessness. That day Dick Garstin
was not painting. It was a Sunday, and he had gone into the country to
stay with some friends. Miss Van Tuyn had made no arrangement to see
Arabian. Indeed, she never saw him except on the painting days, for she
still kept up the pretence that he was merely an acquaintance, and that
she only met him because of her interest in Garstin's work and her wish
to learn more of the technique of painting. The day was free before
her. She went to the telephone and called up Alick Craven.
It was a fine morning, cold and crisp, with a pale sun. She longed
to be out of town, and she suggested to Craven to join her in hiring a
Daimler car, to run down to Rye, and to have a round of golf on the
difficult course by the sea. She had a friend close to Rye who would
introduce them as visiting players. They would take a hamper and lunch
in the car on the way down.
Craven agreed with apparent eagerness. By ten they were off. Soon
after one they were on the links. They played the full round, eighteen
holes, and Craven beat her. Then they had tea in the house below the
club-house on the left-hand side of the road as you go towards Camber
Sands.
After tea Miss Van Tuyn suggested running a little farther on in the
car and taking a walk on the sands before starting on the journey back
to London.
“I love hard sands and the wind and the lines upon lines of surf!”
she said. “The wind blows away some of my civilization.”
“I know!” said Craven, looking at her with admiration.
He liked her strength and energy, the indefatigable youth of her.
“En route!“
Soon the car stopped. They got out, and over the sandy hill, with
its rough sea-grasses, they made their way to the sands.
The tide was low. There was room and to spare on the hard, level
expanse. Lines of white surf stretched to right and left far as the
eyes could see. The piercing cries of the gulls floating on the eddying
wind were relieved against the blooming diapason of the sea. And the
solitude was as the solitude of some lost island of the main. They
descended, sinking in the loose, fine sand of the banks, and the soft,
pale sand that edged them, and made their way to the yellow and vast
sands that extended to the calling monster, whose voice filled their
ears, and seemed to be summoning them persistently, with an almost
tragic arrogance, away from all they knew, from all that was trying to
hold and keep them, to the unknown, to the big things that lie always
far off over the edge of the horizon.
“Let us turn our backs on Rye!” said the girl.
They swung round with the wind behind them, and walked on easily
side by side, helped by the firm and delicate floor under their feet.
She was wearing a wine-coloured “jumper,” a short skirt of a rough
heathery material, a small brown hat pinned low on her head, pressed
down on her smooth forehead. Her cheeks were glowing. The wind sent the
red to them. She stepped along with a free, strongly athletic movement.
There was a hint of the Amazon in her. On her white neck some wisps of
light yellow hair, loosened by the wind's fingers, quivered as if
separately alive and wilful with energy.
Craven, striding along in knickerbockers beside her, felt the animal
charm of her as he had never felt it in London. She had thrust her
gloves away in some hidden pocket. Her right hand grasped a stick
firmly. The white showed at the knuckles. He felt through her silence
that she was giving herself heart and soul to the spirit of the place,
to the sweeping touch of the wind, to the eternal sound in the voice of
the sea.
They walked on for a long time into the far away. There was a dull
lemon light over the sea pushing through the grey, hinting at sunset. A
flock of gulls tripped jauntily on some wet sand near to them, in which
radiance from the sky was mysteriously retained. A film of moving
moisture from the sea spread from the nearest surf edge, herald of the
turning tide. Miss Van Tuyn raised her arms, shook them, cried out with
all her force. And the gulls rose, easily, strongly, and flew
insolently towards their element.
“Let us turn!” she said.
“All right!”
Those were the first words they had spoken.
“Let us go and sit down in a sand-bank and see the twilight come.”
“Yes.”
They sat down presently among the spear-like blades of the spiky
grass, facing the tides and the evening sky, and Craven, with some
difficulty, lit his pipe and persuaded it to draw, while she looked at
his long-fingered brown hands.
“I couldn't sit here with some people I know,” she said. “Desolation
like this needs the right companion. Isn't it odd how some people are
only for certain places?”
“And I suppose the one person is for all places.”
“Do you feel at home with me here?” she asked him, rather abruptly
and with a searching look at him.
“Yes, quite—since our game. A good game is a link, isn't it?”
“For bodies.”
“Well, that means a good deal. We live in the body.”
“Some people marry through games, or hunting. They're the bodily
people. Others marry through the arts. Music pulls them together, or
painting, or literature. They are mental.”
“Bodies—minds! And what about hearts?” asked Craven.
“The tide's coming in. Hearts? They work in mystery, I believe. I
expect when you love someone who hasn't a taste in common with you your
heart must be hard at work. Perhaps it is only opposites who can really
love, those who don't understand why. If you understand why you are on
the ground, you have no need of wings. Have you ever been afraid of
anyone?”
Craven looked at her with a dawning of surprise.
“Do you mean of a German soldier, for instance?” he said.
“No, no! Of course not. Of anyone you have known personally; afraid
of anyone as an individual? That's what I mean.”
“I can't remember that I ever have.”
“Do you think it possible to love someone who inspires you at
moments with unreasoning dread?”
“No; candidly I don't.”
“I think there can be attraction in repulsion.”
“I should be very sorry for myself if I yielded to such an
attraction.”
“Why?”
“Because I think it would probably lead to disaster.”
“How soberly you speak!” said Miss Van Tuyn, almost with an air of
distaste.
After a moment of silence she added:
“I don't believe an Englishman has the power to lose his head.”
Craven sat a little nearer to her.
“Would you like to see me lose mine?” he asked.
“I don't say that. But I should like you to be able to.”
“And you? You are an American girl. Don't you pride yourself on your
coolness, your self-control, your power to deal with any situation? If
Englishmen are sober minded, what about American women? Do they
lose their heads easily?”
“No. That's why—”
She stopped abruptly.
“What is it you want to say to me? What are you trying to say?”
“Nothing!” she answered.
And her voice sounded almost sulky.
The bar of lemon light over the sea narrowed. Clouds, with gold
tinted edges, were encroaching upon it. The tide had turned, and,
because they knew it, the voice of the sea sounded louder to them.
Already they could imagine those sands by night, could imagine their
bleak desolation, could almost feel the cold thrill of their
loneliness.
Craven stretched out his hand and took one of hers and held it.
“Why do you do that?” she said. “You don't care for me really.”
He pressed her hand. He wanted to kiss her at that moment. His
youth, the game they had played together, this isolation and nearness,
the oncoming night—they all seemed to be working together, pushing him
towards her mysteriously. But just at that moment on the sands close to
them two dark figures appeared, a fisherman in his Sunday best walking
with his girl. They did not see Miss Van Tuyn and Craven on the
sandbank. With their arms spread round each other's waists, and
slightly lurching in the wind, they walked slowly on, sinking at each
step a little in the sand. Their red faces looked bovine in the
twilight.
Almost mechanically Craven's fingers loosened on Miss Van Tuyn's
hand. She, too, was chilled by this vision of Sunday love, and her hand
came away from his.
“They are having their Sunday out,” she said, with a slight, cold
laugh. “And we have had ours!”
And she got up and shook the sand grains from her rough skirt.
“And that's happiness!” she added, almost with a sneer.
Like him she felt angry and almost tricked, hostile to the working
of sex, vulgarized by the sight of that other drawing together of two
human beings. Oh! the ineptitude of the echoes we are! Now she was
irritated with Craven because he had taken her hand. And yet she had
been on the edge of a great experiment. She knew that Craven did not
love her—yet. Perhaps he would never really love her. Certainly she
did not love him. And yet that day she had come out from London with a
desire to take refuge in him. It almost amounted to that. When they
started she had not known exactly what she was going to do. But she had
set Craven, the safe man, the man whom she could place, could
understand, could certainly trust up to a point, in her mind against
Arabian, the unsafe man, whom she could not place, could not
understand, could not trust. And, mentally, she had clung to Craven.
And if those two bovine sentimentalists had not intruded flat-footed
upon the great waste of Camber and the romance of the coming night, and
Craven had yielded to his impulse and had kissed her, she might have
clung to him in very truth. And then? She might have been protected
against Arabian. But evidently it was not to be. At the critical moment
Fate had intervened, had sent two human puppets to change the
atmosphere.
She had really a sense of Fate upon her as she shook the sand from
her skirt. And the voice of the slowly approaching sea sounded in her
ears like the voice of the inevitable.
What must be must be.
The lemon in the sky was fast fading. The gold was dying away from
the edges of the clouds. The long lines of surf mingled together in a
blur of tangled whiteness. She looked for a moment into the gathering
dimness, and she felt a menace in it; she heard a menace in the cry of
the tides. And within herself she seemed to be aware of a menace.
“It's all there in us, every bit of it!” she said to herself.
“That's the horrible thing. It doesn't come upon us. It's in us.”
And she said to Craven:
“Come!”
It was rapidly getting dark. The ground was uneven and rough, the
sand loose and crumbling.
“Do take my arm!” he said, but rather coldly, with constraint.
She hesitated, then took it. And the feeling of his arm, which was
strong and muscular, brought back to her that strange desire to use him
as a refuge.
Somewhat as Lady Sellingworth had thought of Seymour Portman, Beryl
Van Tuyn thought of Craven, who would certainly not have enjoyed
knowledge of it.
When they had scrambled down to the road, and saw the bright eyes of
the car staring at them from the edge of the marshes, she dropped his
arm.
“How Adela Sellingworth would have enjoyed all this if she had been
here to-day instead of me!” she said.
“Lady Sellingworth!” said Craven, as if startled. “What made you
think of her just then?”
“I don't know. Stop a moment!”
She stood very still.
“I believe she has come back to London,” she said. “Perhaps she sent
the thought to me from Berkeley Square. How long has she been away?”
“About five weeks, I should think.”
“Would you be glad if she were back?”
“It would make very little difference to me,” he said in a casual
voice. “Now put on your coat.”
He helped her into the car, and they drove away from the sands and
the links, from the sea and their mood by the sea.
They drove through the darkness towards London, Lady Sellingworth
and Arabian.
CHAPTER IV
On the following day Miss Van Tuyn, remembering her feeling at
Camber in the twilight, went to the telephone and called up Number 18A,
Berkeley Square. The solemn voice of a butler—she knew at once a
butler was speaking—replied inquiring her business. She gave her name
and asked whether Lady Sellingworth had returned to London. The answer
was that her ladyship had arrived in London from the Continent on
Saturday evening.
“Please tell her ladyship that her friend, Miss Van Tuyn, will call
on her this afternoon about five o'clock,” said Miss Van Tuyn.
Soon afterwards she put on her hat and fur coat and set off on her
way to Chelsea.
A little before five she turned into Berkeley Square on foot, coming
from Carlos Place.
She felt both curious and slightly hostile. She wondered very much
why Adela had gone away so mysteriously; she wondered where Adela had
been and whether she had returned changed. When Miss Van Tuyn had
alluded to the sheaves the thought in her mind had been markedly
feminine. It had occurred to her that Adela might have stolen away to
have “things” done to her; that she might come back to London
mysteriously rejuvenated. Such a thing was possible even at sixty. Miss
Van Tuyn had known of waning beauties who had vanished, and who had
returned to the world looking alarmingly young. Certainly she had never
known of a woman as old in appearance as Adela becoming transformed.
Nevertheless in modern days, when the culture of beauty counts in its
service such marvellous experts, almost all things are possible. If
Adela had gone quite mad about Alick Craven the golden age might be
found suddenly domiciled in Number 18A. Then Adela's intention would be
plain. She would have returned from abroad armed cap-a-pie for
conquest.
The knowledge that Adela was in London had revived in Miss Van Tuyn
the creeping hostility which she had felt before her friend's
departure. She remembered her lonely walk to Soho, what she had seen
through the lit-up window of the Bella Napoli. The sensation of
ill treatment returned to her. She would have scorned to acknowledge
even to herself that she was afraid of Adela, that she dreaded Adela's
influence on a man. But when she thought of Craven she was conscious of
a strange fluttering of anxiety. She wanted to keep Craven as a friend.
She wanted him to be her special friend. This he had been, but only
since Lady Sellingworth had been out of London. Now she had come back.
Over there shone the light above the door of the house in which she was
at this moment. How would it be now?
A hard, resolute look came into Miss Van Tuyn's face as she walked
past the block of flats at the top of the square. She had a definite
and strong feeling that she must keep Craven as her friend, that she
might need him in the future. And of what use is a man who belongs to
another woman?
Arabian had told her that day that he had found a flat which suited
him in Chelsea looking over the river, and that he was leaving the
Charing Cross Hotel. For some reason the news had startled her. He had
spoken in a casual way, but his eyes had not been casual as they looked
into hers. And she had felt that Arabian had taken a step forward, that
he was moving towards some project with which she was connected in his
mind, and that the taking of this flat was part of the project.
She must not lose Craven as a friend. If she did she would lose one
on whom she was beginning to rely. Women are of no use in certain
contingencies, and a beautiful woman can seldom thoroughly trust
another woman. Miss Van Tuyn absolutely trusted no woman. But she
trusted Craven. She thought she must be very fond of him. And yet she
had none of the feeling for him which persecuted her now when she was
with Arabian. Arabian drew her in an almost occult way. She felt his
tug like the mysterious tug of water when one stands near a weir in a
river. When she was with him she sometimes had a physical impulse to
lean backward. And that came because of another strong and opposing
impulse which seemed mental.
Adela should not entice Craven back to her. She was long past the
age of needing trusty comrades and possible helpers, in Beryl's
opinion. Whatever she did, or hoped, or wanted, or strove for, life was
really over for her, the life that is life, with its unsuspected turns,
and intrigues, and passions and startling occurrences. Even if for a
time such a man as Craven were hypnotized by a woman's strong
will-power, such an unnatural condition could not possibly last. But
Beryl made up her mind that she would not suffer even a short interim
of power exercised by Adela. Even for poor Adela's own sake such an
interim was undesirable. It would only lead to suffering. And while it
lasted she, Beryl, might need something and lack it. That must not be.
Adela was finished, and she must learn to understand that she was
finished. No woman ought to seek to prolong her reign beyond a certain
age. If Adela had come back with her sheaves they must be resolutely
scattered to the winds—by somebody.
Arabian had taken a flat in Chelsea looking over the river.
Evidently he was going to settle down in London.
“But I live in Paris!” thought Miss Van Tuyn, as she pushed Lady
Sellingworth's bell.
Her ladyship was at home, and Miss Van Tuyn mounted the stairs full
of expectation.
When she came into the big drawing-room she noticed at once how
dimly lit it was. Besides the firelight there was only one electric
lamp turned on, and that was protected by a rather large shade, and
stood on a table at some distance from Lady Sellingworth's sofa. A tall
figure got up from this sofa as Miss Van Tuyn made her way towards the
fire, and the well-remembered and very individual husky voice said:
“Dear Beryl! It's good of you to come to see me so soon. I only
arrived on Saturday.”
“Dearest! How dark it is! I can scarcely see you.”
“I love to give the firelight a chance. Didn't you know that? Come
and sit down and tell me what you have been doing. You have quite given
up Paris?”
“Yes, for the time. I've become engrossed in painting. Dick Garstin
has given me the run of his studio. But where have you been?”
As she put the question Miss Van Tuyn looked closely at her friend,
and, in spite of the dimness, she noticed a difference in her
appearance. The white hair still crowned the beautifully shaped head,
but it looked thicker, more alive than formerly. The change which
struck her most, however, was in the appearance of the face. It seemed,
she thought, markedly younger and fresher, smoother than she remembered
it, firmer in texture. Surely some, many even, of the wrinkles had
disappeared. And the lips, once so pale and weary, were rosy now—if
the light was not deceiving her. The invariable black dress, too, had
vanished. Adela wore a lovely gown of a deep violet colour and had a
violet band in her hair. She sat very upright. Her tall figure seemed
almost braced up. And surely she looked less absolutely natural than
usual. There was something—a slight hardness, perhaps, a touch of
conscious imperviousness in look and manner, a watchful
something—which made Miss Van Tuyn for a moment think of a photograph
she had seen on a member of the “old guard's” table.
The sheaves! The sheaves!
But the girl longed for more light. She knew she was not deceived
entirely by the dimness, but she longed for crude revelation. Already
her mind was busily at work on the future. She felt, although she had
only been in the room for two or three minutes, that the Lady
Sellingworth who had just come back to London must presently be her
enemy. And she wished to get in the first blow, since blows there would
have to be.
“Where have I been?” said Lady Sellingworth. “In the place of the
swans—in Geneva.”
“Geneva! We thought you had gone to the Riviera, probably to Cap
Martin.”
“I did go to the Riviera first.”
“It must have been a desert.”
“Not quite. Cannes would have been quite pleasant. But I had to go
on to Geneva to see a friend.”
Miss Van Tuyn thought of Lausanne, of doctors. Many women whom she
knew in Paris swore by the doctors of Berne and Lausanne. There were
wonderful treatments now for old women. Extraordinary things were done
with monkey glands and other mysterious preparations and inoculations.
Was not Adela's manner changed? Did she not diffuse an atmosphere of
intention, of vigour, which had not been hers before? Did she not seem
younger?
“Did you stay long at the Beau Rivage?” she asked.
“Yes, I did.”
“We have missed you.”
“I like to think that.”
“London loses its most characteristic note for me when you are not
in it.”
Miss Van Tuyn's curiosity was becoming intense, but how could she
gratify it? She sought about for an opening, but found none. For it was
seldom her way to be quite blunt with women, though with men she was
often blunt.
“Everyone has been wondering where you were,” she said. “Mr.
Braybrooke was quite in a turmoil. Does he know you are back?”
“I haven't told him. But he gets to know everything in less than
five minutes. And what have you been doing?”
This simple question suddenly gave Miss Van Tuyn the idea for a plan
of campaign. It sprang into her brain, flashed upon it like an
inspiration. For a moment she was rigid. Her body was strongly
influenced. Then as the idea made itself at home in her she became
supple and soft again.
“I've got a lot to tell you,” she said, “if you won't be bored.”
“You never bore me, Beryl.”
“No, I don't believe I do. Well, first I must tell you how good Dick
Garstin has been to me.”
“Garstin the painter?”
“Yes.”
And she enlarged upon her intense interest in painting, her
admiration for Garstin's genius, her curiosity about his methods and
aims, her passion for understanding the arts although she could not
create herself. Lady Sellingworth, who knew the girl's genuine interest
in all art developments, listened quite convinced of Beryl's sincerity.
Arabian was never mentioned. Miss Van Tuyn did not go into details. She
spoke only of models, of Garstin's varying moods, of his way of getting
a thing on to canvas, of his views on colour and technique.
“It must be absorbingly interesting to watch such a man at work,”
Lady Sellingworth said presently.
“It is. It's fascinating.”
“And so that is the reason why you are staying so long in smoky old
London?”
“No, Adela, it isn't. At least, that's not the only reason.”
The words were spoken slowly and were followed by a curiously
conscious, almost, indeed, embarrassed look from the girl's violet
eyes.
“No?”
After a long pause Beryl said:
“You know I have always looked upon you as a book of wisdom.”
“It's very difficult to be wise,” said Lady Sellingworth, with a
touch of bitterness. “And sometimes very dull.”
“But you are wise, dearest. I feel it. You have known and done so
much, and you have had brains to understand, to seek out the truth from
experience. You have lived with understanding. You are not like the
people who travel round the world and come back just the same as if
they had been from Piccadilly Circus to Hampstead Heath and back. One
feels you have been round the world when one is with you.”
“Does one?” said Lady Sellingworth, rather drily. “But I fancied
nowadays the young thought all the wisdom lay with them.”
“Well, I don't. And, besides, I think you are marvellously
discreet.”
“Wise! Discreet! I begin to feel as if I ought to sit on the Bench!”
Again there was the touch of bitterness in the voice. A very faint
smile hovered for an instant about Miss Van Tuyn's lips.
“Judging the foolish women! Well, I think you are one of the few who
would have a right to do that. You are so marvellously sensible.”
“Anyhow, I have no wish to do it. But—you were going to tell me?”
“In confidence.”
“Of course. The book of wisdom never opens its leaves to the mob.”
“I want very much to know your opinion of young Alick Craven.”
As she heard the word “young” Lady Sellingworth had great difficulty
in keeping her face still. Her mouth wanted to writhe, to twist to the
left. She had the same intense shooting feeling that had hurt her when
Seymour Portman had called Alick Craven a boy.
“Of Mr. Craven!” she said, with sudden severe reserve. “Why? Why?”
Directly she had spoken she regretted the repetition. Her mind felt
stiff, unyielding. And all her body felt stiff too.
“That's what I want to tell you,” said Miss Van Tuyn, speaking with
some apparent embarrassment.
And immediately Lady Sellingworth knew that she did not want to
hear, that it would be dangerous, almost deadly, for her to hear. She
longed to spread out her hands in the protesting gesture of one keeping
something off, away from her, to say, “Don't! Don't! I won't hear!” And
she sat very still, and murmured a casual “Yes?”
And then Miss Van Tuyn shot her bolt very cleverly, her aim being
careful and good, her hand steady as a rock, her eyes fixed
undeviatingly on the object she meant to bring down. She consulted Lady
Sellingworth about her great friendship with Craven, told Lady
Sellingworth how for some time, “ever since the night we all went to
the theatre,” Craven had been seeking her out persistently, spoke of
his visits, their dinners together, their games of golf at
Beaconsfield, finally came to Sunday, “yesterday.”
“In the morning the telephone rang and we had a little talk. A
Daimler car was suggested and a run down to Rye. You know my American
ideas, Adela. A long day alone in the country with a boy—”
“Mr. Craven is scarcely a boy, I think!”
“But we call them boys!”
“Oh, yes!”
“With a boy means nothing extraordinary to a girl with my ideas. But
I think he took it rather differently. Anyhow, we spent the whole day
out playing golf together, and in the evening, when twilight was coming
on, we drove to Camber Sands. Do you know them?”
“No.”
“They are vast and absolutely deserted. It was rather stormy, but we
took a long walk on them, and then sat on a sand bank to watch the
night coming on. I dare say it all sounds very ridiculous and
sentimental to you! I am sure it must!”
“No, no. Besides, I know you Americans do all these things with no
sentiment at all, merely pour passer le temps.”
“Yes, sometimes. But he isn't an American.”
Again she looked slightly embarrassed and seemed to hesitate.
“You mean—you think that he—?”
“It was that evening . . . last night only, in fact—”
“Oh, yes, of course it was last night. To-day is Monday.”
“That I began to realize that we were getting into a rather
different relation to each other. When it began to get dark he wanted
to hold my hand and—but I needn't go into all that. It would only seem
silly to you. You see, we are both young, though, of course, he is
older than I. But he is very young, quite a boy in feeling and even in
manner very often. I have seen him lately in all sorts of
circumstances, so I know.”
She stopped as if thinking. Lady Sellingworth sat very upright on
her sofa, with her head held rather high, and her hands, in their long
white gloves, quite still. And there was a moment of absolute silence
in the drawing-room. At last Miss Van Tuyn spoke again.
“I feel since last night that things are different between Alick and
me.”
“Are you engaged to him—to Mr. Craven?”
“Oh, no. He hasn't asked me to be. But I want to know what you think
of him. It would help me. I like him very much. But you know far more
about men than I do.”
“I doubt it, Beryl. I see scarcely anyone now. You live in Paris
surrounded by clever men and—”
“But you have had decades more of experience than I have. In fact,
you have been round the world and I have, so to speak, only crossed
the Channel. Do help me, Adela. I am full of hesitation and doubt, and
yet I am getting very fond of Alick. And I don't want to hurt him. I
think I hurt him a little yesterday, but—”
“Sir Seymour Portman!” said Murgatroyd's heavy voice at the door.
And the old courtier entered almost eagerly, his dark eyes shining
under the thatch of eyebrows and the white gleam of the “cauliflower.”
And very soon Miss Van Tuyn went away, without the advice which she
was so anxious to have. As she walked through Berkeley Square she felt
more at ease than when she had come into it. But she was puzzled about
something. And she said to herself:
“Can she have tried monkey glands too?”
CHAPTER V
Lady Sellingworth of course understood Beryl's purpose in visiting
her so soon and in being so unreserved to her. The girl's intention was
absolutely clear to her mind horribly experienced in the cruel ways of
women. Nevertheless she believed that Beryl had spoken the truth about
what had happened at Camber.
When it began to get dark Craven had wanted to hold Beryl's hand.
Lady Sellingworth felt that she hated Beryl, hated Alick Craven. And
herself? She did not want to contemplate herself. It seemed to her that
she was fastened up with, chained to, a being she longed to ignore, to
be without knowledge of. Something of her was struggling to be away
from something else of her that was hideous. Battle, confusion, dust,
dying cries, flying, terror-stricken feet! She was aware of tumult and
despair in the silence of her beautiful house. And she was aware also
of that slow and terrible creeping of hatred, the thing that did harm
to her, that set her far away from any nobility she possessed.
She had gone abroad to fight, and had come back having lost her
battle. And already she was being scourged for her failure.
When she had been striving alone these two had evidently forgotten
her existence. Directly she had passed for a short time out of their
lives they had come together. Youth had instinctively sought out youth,
and she, the old woman, had been as one dead to them. If she had stayed
away for years, if she had never come back, it would not have mattered
to them.
Beryl's lack of all affection for her did not seriously trouble her.
She knew the dryness of vanity; she knew that it was practically
impossible for a girl so vain as Beryl to care deeply, or at all
unselfishly, for another woman. But Craven's conduct was not what she
had looked for. It seemed to stamp him as typical, and she had supposed
him to be exceptional. When Beryl had told her about Camber— so little
and yet so much—she had been struck to the heart; and yet she had seen
a vision of servants, the footman out in the dark with the under
housemaid.
Seymour Portman's observant old eyes, the terrible eyes of
affection, took in the change in her, not quite as a woman's eyes would
have done, but in their own adequate way. His Adela looked different.
Something had happened to her. The envelope had been touched up in
some, to him, quite mysterious manner. And he did not like it. It even
gave him a mild sort of shock. The touch of artificiality was cold on
this amazingly straightforward old man. He loved his Adela with all the
wrinkles, with the sagging skin, and the lined throat, and the
curiously experienced weariness about the temples. She lived for him in
the brilliant eyes, and was loved by him in them. And why should she
suddenly try to change her appearance? It had certainly not been done
for him—this Something. She was looking handsomer than usual, and yet
he seemed to be aware that beneath the improved surface there was a
tragic haggardness which had come into existence while she had been
away.
He did not reproach her for the mystery of her absence, or for her
silence; he did not ask her questions about where she had been, what
she had done; he just sat with her and loved her. And his love made her
horribly uneasy that day. She could not be still under it. She felt as
if the soul of her kept shifting about, as a child shifts about under
the watchful eyes of an elder. She felt the physical tingle of guilt.
And she was thankful when at last Seymour went away and left her alone
with her hatred.
All those weeks! She had deliberately left the ground free to Beryl
for all those weeks, and she had returned with no expectation of the
thing that of course had happened. And yet she had believed that she
had an excellent knowledge of life and of human beings. No doubt she
had been so concentrated upon herself, and the struggle within herself
that she had been unable to make any use of that knowledge. And so now
she was full of hatred and of profound humiliation.
When she had abruptly left England she had made up her mind to “have
done with it,” that is to have done with love, to have done even with
sentimental friendship. She had resolved to plunge into complete
loneliness. Since she could not take Seymour into her intimate life,
since she now knew that was absolutely impossible, she must somehow
manage to get along permanently with nothing. And so, yielding to a
desperate impulse, she had resolved to seek an unaccustomed solitude.
She had fled from London. But she had stopped in Paris; although she
had intended to pass through it and to go straight on to Marseilles and
the Riviera. When the train had run in to the Gare du Nord she had told
her surprised maid that she was tired and would not go on that night.
Suddenly she had decided to seek out Caroline Briggs, to make a
confession, to ask for help and sympathy. And she had sent her maid to
a hotel, and had driven to Caroline's house.
But Caroline was not in Paris. A blue-cheeked, close-shaven French
footman had informed her that his mistress had been obliged to sail for
America three days before.
It had been a great blow to her. Confession, the cry for help, had
been almost on her lips as she had stood at the door before the keen-eyed young man. And she had gone away feeling strangely lost and
abandoned.
On the following morning she had left Paris and had travelled to the
Riviera. And, there, she had fought against herself and had lost the
battle.
Perhaps if she had been able to see Caroline the issue would have
been different. She almost believed that if she had once told the
absolute truth about herself to someone she might have found the
courage to put personal dignity in its right place at the head of her
life as the arbiter of what must not be done. Although she had defied
Caroline ten years ago, and had been punished for her defiance, she
still had a deep belief in Caroline's strength of character and clear
insight. And she knew that Caroline was really fond of her.
But Fate had removed her friend from her. And was it not because of
that removal that she had lost her battle? The sense of loneliness, of
a cold finality, had been too great for her. She had had too much time
for remembrance. And she had remembered certain hours with Craven by
the fire, had remembered the human warmth of them, till the longing for
happiness had overpowered everything else in her. They had been very
happy together. She had been able to make him happy. His eager eyes had
shown it. And their joy had been quite innocent; there had been no harm
in it at all. Why should she deliberately forego such innocent
contentment? Walking alone on the sea front at Cannes in the warm and
brilliant weather she had asked herself that question. If Craven were
there! And in the long loneliness she had begun presently, as often
before, to try to cheat herself. The drastic heart of London had seemed
to change into another heart. And at last she had followed the example
of a woman in Paris some ten years ago.
She had as it were got out of the train once more.
She had not, perhaps, been fully conscious of the terrible
repetition brought about by a temperament which apparently refused to
change. She had no doubt tried to deceive herself though she had not
deceived herself ten years ago at the Gare du Nord. She had even lied
to herself, saying that in London she had given way to a foolish and
morbid mood of fear, induced in her by memories of disasters in the
past, that she had imagined danger where no danger existed. In London
panic had seized her. But now in a different atmosphere and
environment, quite alone and able, therefore, to consider things
carefully and quietly, to see them in their true light, she had told
herself that it was preposterous to give up an innocent joy merely
because long ago she had been subject to folly. Ten years had elapsed
since her last fit of folly. She must have changed since then. It was
inevitable that she had changed. She had lied to herself in London when
she had told herself that Craven would be satisfied in their
friendship, while she would be almost starving. Her subsequent prayer
had been answered. Passion was dead in her. A tender, almost a motherly
feeling—that really was what she felt and would always feel for Alick
Craven. She need not fear such a feeling. She would not fear it.
Morbidity had possessed her. The sunshine of Cannes had driven it away.
She had presently been glad that she had not found Caroline in Paris.
For if she had made that confession she would have put an obstacle in
the path which she now resolved to tread.
She had told herself that, and finally she had decided to return to
London.
But she had gone first to Geneva, and had put herself there into the
hands of a certain specialist, whose fame had recently reached the ears
of a prominent member of the “old guard,” no other than the Duchess of
Wellingborough.
And now she had come back with her sheaves and had been met on the
threshold by Beryl with her hideous confidences.
She had not yet told Craven of her return. For the moment she was
glad that she had not given way to her impulse and telephoned to him on
the Sunday. She might have caught him with her message just as he was
starting for Rye with Beryl. That would have been horrible. Of course
she would not telephone to him now. She resolved to ignore him. He had
forgotten all about her. She would seem to forget about him. There was
nothing else to be done. Pride, the pride of the Grande Dame
which she had never totally lost, rose up in her, hot, fiery even; it
mingled with an intense jealousy, and made her wish to inflict
punishment. She was like a wounded animal that longs to strike, to tear
with its claws, to lacerate and leave bleeding. Nevertheless she had no
intention of taking action against either of those who had hurt her.
Beryl should have her triumph. Youth should be left in peace with its
own cruelty.
Two days passed before Craven knew of Lady Sellingworth's return to
Berkeley Square. Braybrooke told him of it in the club, and added the
information that she had arrived on the previous Saturday.
“Oh!” said Craven, with apparent indifference. “Have you seen her?”
Braybrooke replied that he had seen her, and that she was looking,
in his opinion, remarkably well, even somewhat younger than usual.
“She seems to have had an excellent time on the Riviera and in
Switzerland.”
“In Switzerland!” said Craven, thinking of Braybrooke's remarks
about Catherine Bewdley and Lausanne.
“Yes, but I don't think she has been ill. I ventured to—just to say
a word as to doctors, and she assured me she had been perfectly well
all the time she was away. Are you going to see her?”
“I've got a good deal to do just now,” said Craven, coldly and with
a slight rise of colour. “But of course I hope to see Lady Sellingworth
again some day. She is a charming woman. It's always a pleasure to have
a talk with her.”
“Yes, indeed! By the way, who is Beryl Van Tuyn's extraordinarily
good-looking young friend? Do you happen to know?”
“What friend?” asked Craven, with sudden sharpness.
“The tall man she has been seen about with lately.”
“I don't know.”
After a slight pause, very intentional on Braybrooke's part, Craven
replied:
“Miss Van Tuyn knows such lots of people.”
“To be sure! And Lady Archie, though a dear woman, is perhaps a
little inclined to gossip.”
“Lady Archie Brooke?”
“Yes. She has met Miss Van Tuyn two or three times in Glebe Place,
it seems, walking with a man whom she describes as a marvel of good
looks. But there's Antring. I must have a word with him. He is just
over from Paris.”
And Braybrooke walked away with his usual discreet gait. He was
feeling decidedly satisfied. Young Craven had certainly not been
pleased with the information so casually imparted. It had aroused—
Braybrooke was convinced of it—a sensation of jealousy which promised
well for the future. Braybrooke was almost sure now that his young
friend had fallen thoroughly in love with Beryl Van Tuyn. The coldness
about Adela Sellingworth, the sudden touch of heat about Beryl Van
Tuyn, surely indicated that. Braybrooke was not seriously upset about
Lady Archie's remarks. She really was a tremendous gossip, although of
course a delightful woman. And Miss Van Tuyn was always surrounded by
men. Nevertheless he was decidedly curious about the good-looking
stranger who had been seen in Glebe Place. He had a retentive memory,
and had not forgotten Dick Garstin's extraordinary remark about the
blackmailer.
Braybrooke was not mistaken about Craven. The information about
Adela Sellingworth had renewed Craven's hot sense of injury. Braybrooke
did not understand that. But the subsequent remark about Beryl Van Tuyn
had added fuel to the fire, and the sharp jealousy of sensitive youth
mingled with the feeling of injury. Craven had been hurt by the elderly
woman. Was he now to be hurt by the girl? Braybrooke's news had made
him feel really angry. Yet he knew he had no right to be angry. He
began to wish that he had never gone to Berkeley Square on that autumn
afternoon, had never met the two women who were beginning to complicate
his life. For a moment he thought of dropping them both. But had not
one of them already dropped him? He would certainly not call again in
Berkeley Square. If Lady Sellingworth did not ask him to go there he
would not attempt to see her. He was not going to fight for her
friendship. And as to Beryl Van Tuyn—
The curious name—Nicolas Arabian—came into his mind and a
conversation at a box at a theatre. Miss Van Tuyn had told him about
this magnificently handsome man, this “living bronze,” but somehow he
had never thought of her as specially intimate with a fellow who
frequented the Cafe Royal, and who apparently sat as a model to
painters. But now he realized that this must be the man of Glebe Place,
and he felt more angry, more injured than before.
Yet he was not in love with Beryl Van Tuyn. Or had he fallen in love
with her without being aware of it? She attracted him very much
physically at times. She amused him, interested him. He liked being
with her. He was angry at the thought of another man's intimacy with
her. He wanted her to be fond of him, to need him, to prefer him to all
other men. But he often felt critical about her, about her character,
though not about her beauty. A lover surely could not feel like that. A
lover just loved, and there was an end of it.
He could not understand his own feelings. But when he thought of
Beryl Van Tuyn he felt full of the fighting instinct, and ready to take
the initiative. He would never fight to retain Lady Sellingworth's
friendship, but he would fight to assert himself with the beautiful
American. She should not take him up and use him merely as a means to
amusement without any care for what was due to him. Lady Sellingworth
was old, and in a sense famous. Such a woman could do as she pleased.
With her, protest would be ridiculous. But he would find a way with
Beryl Van Tuyn.
On that day and the next Craven did not see Miss Van Tuyn. No
message came to him from Lady Sellingworth. Evidently the latter wished
to have nothing more to do with him. She had now been in London for
nearly a week without letting him know it. Miss Van Tuyn had telephoned
once suggesting a meeting. But Craven had charmingly put her off,
alleging a tiresome engagement. He did not choose now to seem eager to
meet her. He was considering what he would do. If he could manage to
meet her in Glebe Place! But how to contrive such an encounter? While
he was meditating about this he was again rung up by Miss Van Tuyn, who
suggested that he should play golf with her at Beaconsfield on the
following day, Saturday.
“You can't pretend you are working overtime at the F.O. to-morrow,”
she said.
Craven replied that the F.O. kept him very long even on Saturdays.
“What's the matter? What are you angry about?” asked Miss Van Tuyn
through the telephone.
Craven intended to make a quietly evasive reply, but he found
himself saying:
“If I work overtime at the F.O., are there not others who do much
the same—in Glebe Place?”
After a pause Miss Van Tuyn said:
“I haven't an idea what you mean.”
Craven said nothing. Already he was angry with himself, and
regretted his impulsiveness.
“Well?” said Miss Van Tuyn.
“Well?” retorted Craven, feeling rather absurd.
Again there was a pause. Then, speaking quickly, Miss Van Tuyn said:
“If you can escape from the F.O. you might be in Glebe Place about five
on Monday. Good-bye!”
And she rang off, leaving Craven with the pleasant sensation that,
as often before, he had “given himself away.” Certainly he had shown
Miss Van Tuyn his jealousy. She must have guessed what his mention of
Glebe Place meant. And yet she had asked him to go there on the
following Monday. If he did not go perhaps that neglect would cancel
his imprudence at the telephone.
He made up his mind not to go.
Nevertheless, when he left the Foreign Office on the Monday about
half-past four, instead of going towards Mayfair he found himself
walking quickly in the direction of Chelsea.
CHAPTER VI
Miss Van Tuyn was in Garstin's studio on that day. Although
apparently calm and self-possessed she was in a condition of acute
nervous excitement. Craven's mention of Glebe Place through the
telephone had startled her. At once she had understood. People had
begun to gossip, and the gossip had reached Craven's ears. She had
reddened as she stood by the telephone. A definite sensation of anxiety
mingled with shame had crept in her. But it had been succeeded by a
decisive feeling more really characteristic of her. As Craven now
evidently knew of her close acquaintance with Arabian the two men
should meet. She would conquer her reluctance, and put Arabian to the
test with Craven. For a long time she had wished to know what Craven
would think of Arabian; for a long time, too, she had been afraid to
know. But now she would hesitate no more. Dick Garstin was to have a
sitting from Arabian on the Monday afternoon. It ought to be over about
half-past four. She could easily manage to prolong matters in the
studio till five, so that Craven might have time to get to Glebe Place
from the Foreign Office. Of course, he might not choose to come. But if
he were really jealous she thought he would come.
Now she was anticipating the coming interview with an uneasiness
which she could only conceal by a strong effort.
At last, after repeated failures, Garstin was beginning to work with
energy and real satisfaction. Of late he had been almost venomous. His
impotence to do what he wished to do had made him more disagreeable,
more brutal even than usual. His habitual brusqueness had often
degenerated into downright rudeness. But suddenly a change had come,
one of those mysterious changes in the mood and powers of an artist
which neither he nor anyone else can understand. Abruptly the force
which had abandoned him had returned.
The change had occurred on the day of Miss Van Tuyn's conversation
through the telephone with Craven, a Friday.
Arabian had refused to sit on the Saturday and Sunday. He said he
was moving into his Chelsea flat, and had many things to do. He could
not come to the studio again till the Monday afternoon at half-past
two. Garstin had been furious, but he had been met by a will apparently
as inflexible as his own.
“I am sorry, but I cannot help it, Dick Garstin,” Arabian had said.
And after a pause he had added:
“I hope I have not shown impatience all this long time?”
Garstin had cursed, but he had not persisted. Evidently he had
realized that persistence would be useless. On the Monday he had
received Arabian with frigid hauteur, but soon he had become intent on
his work and had apparently forgotten his grievance.
Half-past four struck—then the quarter to five. Garstin had been
painting for more than two hours. Now he put down his brush and
frowned, still looking at Arabian, who was sitting in an easy, almost
casual position, with his magnificent brown throat and shoulders
exposed.
“Finished!” he said in his loud bass voice.
Miss Van Tuyn, who was curled up on a divan in a corner of the
studio, moved and put down a book which she had been pretending to
read. Garstin had forbidden her to come near to him that day while he
was painting.
“Finished!” she exclaimed. “Do you mean—”
“No, damn it, I don't!” said Garstin, with exasperation. “I don't!
Do you take me for a magician, or what? I have finished for to-day! Now
then!”
He began to move the easel. Miss Van Tuyn got up, and Arabian,
without saying a word, stretched himself, looked at her steadily for a
moment, then pulled up his silk vest and carefully buttoned it with his
strong-looking fingers. Then he too got up, and went away to the
dressing-room to put on his shirt, waistcoat, collar and tie.
“May I see, Dick?” asked Miss Van Tuyn.
“No, you mayn't.”
“Are you satisfied?”
“He's coming out more as I want him this time.”
“Do you think you have found his secret?”
“Or yours, eh? What is happening in you, my girl?”
Before she could answer a telephone bell rang below.
“Damn!” said Garstin, going towards the staircase.
Before he went down he turned round and said:
“You're travelling fast.”
And he disappeared. She heard him below tramping to the telephone.
Then she went to a small square window in the studio, pushed it open,
and looked out. There was a tiny space of garden below. She saw a plane
tree shivering in the wind, yellow leaves on the rain-sodden ground. A
sparrow flitted by and perched on the grimy coping of a low wall. And
she shivered like the plane tree.
“Beryl!”
She started, turned, and went to the head of the stairs.
“What is it?”
“The telephone's for you. Come along down!”
“Coming!” she answered.
“Who is it?” she said, as she saw him standing by the telephone with
the receiver in his hand.
“Some old woman, by the voice. She says she must speak to you.
Here— take it, my girl!”
“It must be old Fanny!” said Miss Van Tuyn, with a touch of
irritation. “Nobody else would know I was here. But I stupidly told
Fanny.”
She took the receiver out of his hand.
“I'm here! Who is it? Do make haste. I'm in a hurry.”
She was thinking of Craven. It was nearly five o'clock, and she did
not want to be late in Glebe Place, though she dreaded the encounter
she expected there.
“Oh, Beryl, there's bad news!”
“Bad news! What news?”
“I can't tell you like this.”
“Nonsense! Tell me at once!”
“I can't! I simply cannot. Oh, my dear, get into a taxi and come
back at once.”
“I insist on your telling me what is the matter!” said Miss Van Tuyn
sharply.
Her nerves were already on edge, and something in the sound of the
voice through the telephone frightened her.
“Tell me at once what it is! Now speak plainly!”
There was a pause; then the agitated voice said:
“A cable has come from the Bahamas.”
“The Bahamas! Well? Well?”
“Your poor father has—”
The voice failed.
“Oh, do tell me! For Heaven's sake, what is it?”
“Your poor father is dead. Oh, Beryl!”
Miss Van Tuyn stood quite still for a moment.
“My father—dead!” she thought.
She felt surprised. She felt shocked. But she was not conscious of
any real sorrow. She very seldom saw her father. Since he had married
again—he had married a woman with whom he was very much in love—his
strongly independent daughter had faded into the background of his
life. Beryl had not set her eyes upon him during the last eighteen
months. It was impossible that she could miss him much, a father with
whom she had spent for years so little of her time. She knew that she
would not miss him. Yet she had had a shock. After an instant she said:
“Thank you, Fanny. I shall be home very soon. Of course, I shall
leave the studio at once. Good-bye.”
She hung up the receiver and went upstairs slowly. And as she went
she resolved not to say anything about what had happened to Dick
Garstin. He was incapable of expressing conventional sympathy, and
would probably say something bizarre which would jar on her nerves if
she told him.
She found the two men standing together in the studio. Arabian had
on his overcoat and gloves, and was holding his hat and umbrella.
“It was only Fanny Cronin!” she said.
As she spoke she looked narrowly at Garstin. Could Fanny have told
him the news? The casual expression on his face set her mind at ease on
that point. She was certain that he knew nothing.
“I must go,” she said.
“I will walk with you to a taxi if you kindly allow me,” said
Arabian, getting her fur coat.
“Thank you!”
As he stood behind her helping her to get into the coat she was
conscious of a strange and terrible feeling of fear mingled with an
intense desire to give herself up to the power in this man. Was Craven
outside? Something in her hoped, almost prayed, that he might be. It
was surely the part of her that was afraid.
“Good-bye, Dick!” she said in an offhand voice.
“Good-bye!” he said. “Take care of her, Arabian.”
She sent him a look full of intense and hostile inquiry. He met it
with a half-amused smile.
“I shall do better now,” he said.
“Ah?” said Arabian, looking polite and imperturbable.
“Come along!” said Miss Van Tuyn. “It must be getting late.”
As she spoke a clock in the room began striking five. For a moment
she felt confused and almost ill. Her brain seemed too full of rushing
thoughts for its holding capacity. Her head throbbed. Her legs felt
weak.
“Anything the matter?” asked Garstin, gazing at her with keen
attention and curiosity.
“No,” she said coldly. “Good-bye.”
And she went down the stairs followed by Arabian.
Garstin did not accompany them. He had gone to stand before his
picture of Arabian.
Miss Van Tuyn opened the door. A soft gust of wind blew some small
rain into her face.
“Let me hold my umbrella over you, please,” said Arabian. “Do take
my arm while we look for a taxi.”
“No, no!”
She walked on.
“There is nothing the matter, I hope?”
“I had some bad news through the telephone.”
She felt impelled to say this to him, though she had said nothing to
Garstin. Her brain still felt horribly overcharged, and an impulse had
come to her to seek instant relief.
“My father is dead,” she added.
As she spoke she looked up at him, and she saw a sharp quiver
distort his lips for an instant.
“Did you know him?” she exclaimed, standing still.
“I? Indeed no! Why should you suppose so?”
“I thought—I don't know!”
He was now looking so calm, so earnestly sympathetic, that she
almost believed that her eyes had played her a trick and that his face
had not changed at her news.
“I'm not normal to-day,” she thought.
“I am deeply grieved, deeply. Please accept from me my most full
sympathy.”
“Thank you. I scarcely ever saw my father, but naturally this news
has upset me. He died in the Bahamas.”
“How very sad! So far away!”
“Yes.”
They were still standing together, and he was holding his umbrella
over her head and gazing down at her earnestly, when Craven turned the
corner of the road and came up to them. Miss Van Tuyn flushed. Although
she had asked Craven to come, she felt startled when she saw him, and
her confusion of mind increased. She did not feel competent to deal
with the situation which she had deliberately brought about. Craven had
come upon them too suddenly. She had somehow not expected him just at
that moment, when she and Arabian were standing still. Before she was
able to recover her normal self-possession, Craven had taken off his
hat to her and gone rapidly past them. She had just time to see the
grim line of his lips and the hard, searching glance he sent to her
companion. Arabian, she noticed, looked after him, and she saw that,
while he looked, his large eyes lost all their melting gentleness. They
had a cruel, almost menacing expression in them, and they were horribly
intelligent at that moment.
“What does this man not know?” she thought.
He might have little, or no, ordinary learning, but she was positive
that he had an almost appallingly intimate knowledge of many chapters
in the dark books of life.
“Shall we—?” said Arabian.
And they walked on slowly together.
“May I make a suggestion, Miss Van Tuyn,” he said gently.
“What is it?”
“My little flat is close by, in Rose Tree Gardens. It is not quite
arranged, but tea will be ready. Let me please offer you a cup of tea
and a cigarette. There is a taxi!”
He made a signal with his left hand.
“We will keep it at the door, so that you may at once leave when you
feel refreshed. You have had this bad shock. You need a moment to
recover.”
The cab stopped beside them.
“No, I must really go home,” she said, with an attempt at
determination.
“Of course! But please let me have the privilege. You have told me
first of all of your grief. This is real friendship. Let me then be
also friendly, and help you to recover yourself.”
“But really I must—”
“Four, Rose Tree Gardens! You know them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good!”
The taxi glided away from the kerb.
And Miss Van Tuyn made no further protest. She had a strange feeling
just then that her will had abandoned her. Fanny Cronin's message must
have had an imperious effect upon her. Yet she still felt no real
sorrow at her father's death. She seemed to be enveloped in something
which made mental activity difficult, indeed almost impossible.
When the cab stopped, she said:
“I can only stay five minutes.”
“Certainly! Dear Mademoiselle Cronin will expect you. Please wait
for the lady!”
Miss Van Tuyn was vaguely glad to hear him say that to the
chauffeur.
She got out and looked upwards. She saw a big block of flats
towering up in front of her.
“On the other side they face the river Thames,” said Arabian. “All
my windows except three look out that way. We will go up in the
elevator.”
They passed through a handsome hall and stepped into the lift, which
carried them up to the fourth floor of the building. Arabian put a
latch-key into a polished mahogany door with a big letter M in brass
nailed to it.
“Please!” he said, standing back for Miss Van Tuyn to pass in.
But she hesitated. She saw a pretty little hall, a bunch of roses in
a vase on a Chippendale table, two or three closed doors. She was aware
of a very faint and pleasant odour, like the odour of flowers not
roses, and guessed that someone had been burning some perfume in the
flat. There was certainly nothing repellent in this temporary home of
Arabian. Yet she felt with a painful strength that she had better go
away without entering it. While she paused, but before she had said
anything, she heard a quiet step, and a thin man of about thirty with a
very dark narrow face and light, grey eyes appeared.
“Please bring tea for two at once,” said Arabian in Spanish.
“Yes, sir, in a moment,” said the man, also in Spanish.
Miss Van Tuyn stepped in, and the door was gently shut behind her by
Arabian's manservant.
Arabian opened the second door on the left of the hall.
“This is my little salon,” he said. “May I—”
“No, thank you. I'll keep on my coat. I must go home in a minute. I
shall have a good deal to do. Really I oughtn't to be here at all. If
anyone—after such news—”
She looked at Arabian. She had just had news of the death of her
father, and she had come out to tea with this man. Was she crazy?
“I don't know why I came!” she said bluntly, angrily almost.
“Do please sit down,” he said, pushing forward a large arm-chair.
“If these curtains were not drawn we could see the river Thames from
here. It is a fine view.”
He bent down and poked the fire, then stood beside it, looking down
at her as she sat in the chair.
She glanced round the room. It was well furnished and contained two
or three good pieces, but there was nothing in it which showed
personality, a thoughtful guiding mind and taste; there was nothing in
it even which marked it definitely as the home of a woman rather than a
man, or vice versa.
“I rent it furnished,” said Arabian, evidently guessing her thought.
“Are you here for long?”
“I do not quite know. That depends.”
His large eyes were fixed upon her as he said this, and she longed
to ask him what intentions he had with regard to her. He had never made
love to her. He had never even been what is sometimes called “foolish"
with her. Not a word to which she could object had ever come from his
lips. By no action had he ever claimed anything from her. And yet she
felt that in some way he was governing her, was imposing his will on
her. Certainly he had once followed her in the street. But on that
occasion he had not known who she was. Now, as he gazed at her, she
felt certain that he had formed some definite project with regard to
her, and meant to carry it out at whatever cost. Garstin said he,
Arabian, was in love with her. Probably he was. But if he was in love
with her, why did he never hint at it when they were alone together
except by the expression in his eyes? She asked herself why she was
afraid of him, and the answer she seemed to get was that his reticence
frightened her. There was something in his continued inaction which
alarmed her. It was a silence of conduct which lay like a weight upon
her. She felt it now as he stared at her.
“What do you want with me?”
That was what she longed, and yet was afraid, to say to him. Did he
know how violently she was attracted by him and how fiercely he
sometimes repelled her? No doubt he did. No doubt he knew that at times
she believed him to be horrible, suspected him of nameless things, of
abominable relationships; no doubt he knew that she was degradingly
jealous of him. When his eyes were thus fixed upon her she felt that he
knew everything that was going on in her with which he had to do. Yet
he never spoke of his knowledge.
His reserve almost terrified her. That was the truth.
The dark man with the light eyes brought in tea on a large sliver
tray. She began to drink it hastily.
“You—forgive me for asking—you will not leave London because of
this sad news?” said Arabian.
“Do you mean for America?”
“Yes.”
Miss Van Tuyn had not thought of such a possibility till he alluded
to it. She could not, of course, be at her father's funeral. That was
impossible. But suddenly it occurred to her that she had no doubt come
into a very large fortune. There might be business to do. She might
have to cross the Atlantic. At the thought of this possibility her
sense of confusion and almost of mental blackness increased, and yet
she realized more vividly than before the death of her father.
“I don't know. I don't think so. No, thank you. I won't smoke. I
must go. I ought never to have come after receiving such news.”
She stood up. He took her hand. His was warm and strong, and a great
deal of her personality seemed to her to be in its clasp—too much
indeed. His body fascinated hers, made her realize in a startling way
that the coldness of which some men had complained had either been
overcome by something that could burn and be consumed, or perhaps had
never existed.
“You will not go to America without telling me?” he said.
“No, no. Of course not.”
“You told me first of your sorrow!”
“Why—why did I?” she thought, wondering.
“And you did not tell Dick Garstin.”
“No.”
“And you came here to me.”
“No, no! With you!”
“To my rooms in spite of your grief. We are friends from to-night.”
“To-night . . . but it is afternoon!”
He still had her hand in his. She felt, or fancied she felt, a pulse
beating in his hand. It gave her a sense of terrible intimacy with him,
as if she were close to the very sources of his being. And yet she knew
nothing about him.
“It gets dark so early now,” he said.
Dark! As he said it she thought, “That's his word! That's his word!”
Everyone has his word, and dark was Arabian's.
“Good-bye!” she said.
“I will take you down.”
Quietly and very naturally, he let her hand go. And at once she had
a sensation of being out in the cold.
They went down together in the lift. Just as they left it, and were
in the hall, a woman whom Miss Van Tuyn knew slightly, a Mrs.
Birchington, an intimate of the Ackroyde and Lady Wrackley set, met
them coming from the entrance.
“Oh, Miss Van Tuyn!” she said, stopping.
She held out her hand, looking from Miss Van Tuyn to Arabian.
“How are you?”
Her light eyes were searching and inquisitive. She had an evening
paper in her hand.
“I—I am so grieved,” she added, again looking at Arabian.
“Mr. Arabian—Mrs. Birchington!” Miss Van Tuyn felt obliged to say.
Mrs. Birchington and Arabian bowed.
“Grieved!” said Miss Van Tuyn.
“Yes. I have just seen the sad news about your father in the paper.”
Miss Van Tuyn realized at once that she was caught, unless she lied.
But she did not choose to lie before Arabian. Something—her pride of a
free American girl, perhaps—forbade that. And she only said:
“Thank you for your sympathy. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye!”
Mrs. Birchington bowed again to Arabian, swept him with her sharp
inquisitive eyes, and stepped into the lift.
“She lives here,” he said, “in the apartment opposite to mine.”
As Miss Van Tuyn drove away towards Claridge's she wondered whether
Arabian was glad because of that fortuitous meeting.
Because of it her close intimacy with him—it would certainly now be
called, and thought of, as that—would very soon be public property.
All those women would hear about it. How crazy she had been to visit
Arabian's flat at such a moment! She was angry with herself, and yet
she believed that in like circumstances she would do the same thing
again. Her power of will had deserted her, or this man, Arabian, had
the power to inhibit her will. And Craven? What could he be thinking
about her? She knew he was a sensitive man. What must he be thinking?
That she had asked him to come all the way to Glebe Place merely in
order that he might see her in deep conversation with another man. And
she had not even spoken to him. He would be furious. She remembered his
face. He was furious. By what she had done she had certainly alienated
Craven.
And her father was dead!
She leaned back in the darkness of the cab, feeling weak and
miserable, almost terrified. Surely Fate had her in a tight grip. She
remembered Arabian's question: would it be necessary for her to go to
America? Her father was very rich. She was his only child. He must
certainly have left her a great deal of his money, for his second wife
was wealthy and would not need it. There might be business to do which
would necessitate her presence in New York. At that moment she almost
wished for an urgent summons from the New World. A few hours in a
train, the crossing of a gang-plank, the hoot of a siren, and she would
be free from all these complications! The sea would lie between her and
Arabian—Adela Sellingworth—Craven. She would stay away for months.
She would not come back at all.
But this man, Arabian, would he let her go without a word, without
doing something? Would his strange and horrible reserve last till her
ship was at sea? She could not believe it. If she made up her mind to
sail, and he knew it, he would speak, act. Something would happen.
There would be some revelation of character, of intention. She was sure
of it. Arabian was a man who could wait—but not for ever.
She still seemed to feel the pulse beating in his warm hand as she
drove through the rain and the darkness.
PART SIX
CHAPTER I
Mrs. Ackroyde had a pretty little house in Upper Grosvenor Street,
but she spent a good deal of her time in a country house which she had
bought at Coombe close to London. She was always there from Saturday to
Monday, when she was not paying visits or abroad, and Coombe Hall, as
her place was called, was a rallying ground for members of the “old
guard.” Invariably guests came down on the Sunday to lunch and tea.
Bridge was the great attraction for some. For others there were lawn
tennis and golf. And often there was good music. For Mrs. Ackroyde was
an excellent musician as well as an ardent card-player.
Lady Sellingworth had occasionally been to Coombe Hall, but for
several years now she had ceased from going there. She did not care to
show her white hair and lined face in Mrs. Ackroyde's rooms, which were
always thronged with women she knew too well and with men who had
ceased from admiring her. And she was no longer deeply interested in
the gossip of a world in which formerly she had been one of the ruling
spirits. She was, therefore, rather surprised at receiving a note from
Mrs. Ackroyde soon after her return from Geneva urging her to motor to
Coombe on the following Sunday for lunch.
“I suppose there will be the usual crowd,” Mrs. Ackroyde wrote. “And
I've asked Alick Craven and two or three who don't often come. What do
you think of Beryl Van Tuyn's transformation into an heiress? I hear
she's come into over three million dollars. I suppose she'll be more
unconventional than ever now. Minnie Birchington met her just after her
father's death, in fact the very day his death was announced in the
papers. She'd just been to tea with a marvellously good-looking man
called something Arabian, who has taken a flat in Rose Tree Gardens
opposite to Minnie's. Evidently this is the newest way of going into
deep mourning.”
Lady Sellingworth hesitated for some time before answering this
note. Probably, indeed almost certainly, she would have refused the
invitation but for the last three sentences about Beryl Van Tuyn. She
did not want to see the girl again, for she could not help hating her.
She had, of course, sent a note of sympathy to Claridge's, and had
received an affectionate reply, which she had torn up and burnt after
reading it. But she had not gone to tell her regret at this death to
Beryl, and Beryl had expressed no wish to see her.
In her heart Lady Sellingworth hated humbug, and she knew, of
course, that any pretence of real friendship between Beryl and her
would be humbug in an acute form. She might in the future sometimes
have to pretend, but she was resolved not to rush upon insincerity. If
Beryl sought her out again she would play her part of friend gallantly
to conceal her wounds. But she would certainly not seek out Beryl.
She had not seen Craven since her return to London. In spite of her
anger against him, which was complicated by a feeling of almost
contemptuous disgust, she longed to see him again. Each day, when she
had sat in her drawing-room in the late afternoon and had heard
Murgatroyd's heavy step outside and the opening of the door, her heart
beat fast, and she had thought, “Can it be he?” Each day, after the
words “Sir Seymour Portman!” her heart had sunk and she had felt bitter
and weary.
And now came this invitation, putting it in her power to meet Craven
again naturally. Should she go?
She read Dindie Ackroyde's note once more carefully, and a strange
feeling stung her. She had been angry with Beryl for being fond of
Craven. (For she had supposed a real fondness in Beryl.) Now she was
angry with Beryl for a totally different reason. It was evident to her
that Beryl was behaving badly to Craven. As she looked at the note in
her hand she remembered a conversation in a box at the theatre.
Arabian! That was the name of the man Dick Garstin was painting, or had
been painting. Dindie Ackroyde called him “Something Arabian.” Lady
Sellingworth's mind supplied the other name. It was Nicolas. Beryl had
described him as “a living bronze.”
She had gone out to tea with him in a flat on the day her father's
sudden death had been announced in the papers. And yet she had
pretended that she was hovering on the verge of love for Alick Craven.
She had even implied that she was thinking of marrying him. Lady
Sellingworth saw Beryl as a treacherous lover, as well as an unkind
friend and a heartless daughter, and suddenly her anger against Craven
died in pity. She had believed for a little while that she hated him,
but now she longed to protect him from pain, to comfort him, to make
him happy, as surely she had once made him happy, if only for an hour
or two. She forgot her pride and her sense of injury in a sudden rush
of feeling that was new to her, that perhaps, really, had something of
motherliness in it. And she sat down quickly and wrote an acceptance to
Mrs. Ackroyde.
When Sunday came she felt excited and eager, absurdly so for a woman
of sixty. But her secret diffidence troubled her. She looked into her
mirror and thought of the piercing eyes of the “old guard,” of those
merciless and horribly intelligent women who had marked with amazement
her sudden collapse into old age ten years ago, who would mark with a
perhaps even greater amazement this bizarre attempt at a partial return
towards what she had once been.
And what would Alick Craven think?
Nevertheless she put a little more red on her lips, called her maid,
had something done to her hair.
“It has been a great success!” said the little Frenchwoman. “Miladi
looks wonderful to-day. Black and white is much better than unrelieved
black for miladi. And the soupcon of blue on the hat and in the
earrings of miladi lights up the whole personality. Miladi never did a
wiser thing than when she visited Switzerland.”
“You think not, Cecile?”
“Indeed yes, miladi. There is no specialist even in Paris like
Monsieur Paulus. And as to the Doctor Lavallois, he is a marvel. Every
woman who is no longer a girl should go to him.”
Lady Sellingworth picked up a big muff and went down to the motor,
leaving Cecile smiling behind her. As she disappeared down the stairs
Cecile, who was on the bright side of thirty, with a smooth, clear skin
and chestnut-coloured hair, pushed out her under-lip slowly and shook
her head.
“La vieillesse!” she murmured. “La vieillesse amoureuse!
Quelle horreur!“
Lady Sellingworth had never given the maid any confidence about her
secret reasons for doing this or that. But Cecile was a Parisian. She
fully understood the reason for their visit to Geneva. Miladi had
fallen in love.
Lady Sellingworth's excitement increased as she drove towards
Coombe. It was complicated by a feeling of shyness. To herself she said
that she was like an old debutante. She had been out of the world for
so long, and now she was venturing once more among the merciless women
of the world that never rests from amusing itself, from watching the
lives of others, from gossiping about them, from laughing at them. She
had been a leader of this world until she had denied it, had shut
herself away from it. And now she was venturing back—because of a man.
As she drove on swiftly through the wintry and dull-looking streets,
streets that seemed to grow meaner, more dingy, more joyless, as she
drew near to the outskirts of London, she looked back over the past.
And she saw always the same reason for the important actions of her
life. All of them had been committed because of a man. And now, even at
sixty—
Presently she saw by the look of the landscape that she was nearing
Coombe, and she drew a little mirror out of her muff and gazed into it
anxiously.
“What will they say? What will he think? What will happen to me
to-day?”
The car turned into a big gravel sweep between tall, red-brick
walls, and drew up before Mrs. Ackroyde's door.
In the long drawing-room, with its four windows opening on to a
terrace, from which Coombe Woods could be seen sunk in the misty
winter, Lady Sellingworth found many cheerful people whom she knew.
Mrs. Ackroyde gave her blunt, but kindly, greeting, with her strange
eyes, fierce and remote, yet notably honest, taking in at a glance the
results of Geneva. Lady Wrackley was there in an astonishing black hat
trimmed with bird of paradise plumes. Glancing about her while she
still spoke to Dindie Ackroyde carelessly, Lady Sellingworth saw young
Leving; Sir Robert Syng; the Duchess of Wellingborough, shaking her
broad shoulders and tossing up her big chin as she laughed at some
joke; Jennie Farringdon, with her puffy pale cheeks and parrot-like
nose, talking to old Hubert Mostine, the man of innumerable weddings,
funerals and charity fetes, with his blinking eyelids and moustaches
that drooped over a large and gossiping mouth; Magdalen Dearing, whose
Mona Lisa smile had attracted three generations of men, and who had
managed to look sad and be riotous for at least four decades; Frances
Braybrooke, pulling at his beard; Mrs. Birchington; Lady Anne Smith,
wiry, cock-nosed, brown, ugly, but supremely smart and self-assured;
Eve Colton, painted like a wall, and leaning, with an old hand blazing
with jewels, on a stick with a jade handle; Mrs. Dews, the witty
actress, with her white, mobile face, and the large irresponsible eyes
which laughed at herself, the critics and the world; Lord Alfred
Craydon, thin, high church and political, who loved pretty women but
receded farther and farther from marriage as the years spun by; and
Lady Twickenham, a French poupee; and Julian Lamberhurst, the
composer, who looked as if he had grown up to his six foot four in one
night, like the mustard seed; and Hilary Lane, the friend of poets;
and—how many more! For Dindie Ackroyde loved to gather a crowd for
lunch, and had a sort of physical love of noise and human
complications.
At the far end of the room there was a section which was raised a
few inches above the rest. Here stood two Steinway grand pianos, tail
to tail, their dark polished cases shining soberly in the pale light of
November. There were some deep settees on this species of dais, and,
looking towards it, over the heads of the crowd in the lower part of
the room, Lady Sellingworth saw Craven again.
He was sitting beside a pretty girl, whom Lady Sellingworth did not
know, and talking. His face looked hard and bored, but he was leaning
towards the girl as if trying to seem engrossed, intent, on the
conversation and on her.
Francis Braybrooke came up. Lady Sellingworth was busy, greeting and
being greeted. Once more she made part of the regiment. But the ranks
were broken. There was no review order here. Only for an instant had
she been aware of formality, of the “eyes right” atmosphere—when she
had entered the room. Then the old voices hummed about her. And she saw
the well-known and experienced eyes examining her. And she had to
listen and to answer, to be charming, to “hold her own.”
“I'm putting Alick Craven next to you at lunch, Adela. I know you
and he are pals. He's over there with Lily Bright.”
“And who is Lily Bright?” said Lady Sellingworth in her most offhand
way.
“A dear little New Englander, Knickerbocker to the bone.”
She turned away composedly to meet another guest.
Francis Braybrooke began to talk to Lady Sellingworth, and almost
immediately Lady Wrackley and Mrs. Birchington joined them.
“How marvellous you look, Adela!” said Lady Wrackley, staring with
her birdlike eyes. “You will cut us all out. I must go to Geneva. Have
you heard about Beryl? But of course you have. She was so delighted at
coming into a fortune that she rushed away to Rose Tree Gardens to
celebrate the event with a man without even waiting till she had got
her mourning. Didn't she, Minnie?”
Francis Braybrooke was looking shocked.
“I cannot believe that Miss Van Tuyn—” he began.
But Mrs. Birchington interrupted him.
“But I was there!” she said.
“I beg your pardon!” said Braybrooke.
“It was the very day the death of her father was in the evening
papers. I came back from the club with the paper in my hand, and met
Beryl Van Tuyn getting out of the lift in Rose Tree Gardens with the
man who lives opposite to me. She absolutely looked embarrassed.”
“Impossible!” said Lady Wrackley. “She couldn't!”
“I assure you she did! But she introduced me to him.”
“She cannot have heard of her father's death,” said Braybrooke.
“But she had! For I expressed my sympathy and she thanked me.”
Braybrooke looked very ill at ease and glanced plaintively towards
the place where Craven was sitting with the pretty American.
“No doubt she had been to visit old friends,” he said, “American
friends.”
“But this man, Nicolas Arabian, lives alone in his flat. And I'm
sure he's not an American. Lady Archie has seen him several times with
Beryl.”
“What's he like?” asked Lady Wrackley.
“Marvellously handsome! A charmeur if ever there was one.
Beryl certainly had good taste, but—”
At this moment there was a general movement. The butler had murmured
to Mrs. Ackroyde that lunch was ready.
Lady Sellingworth was among the first few women who left the
drawing- room, and was sitting at a round table in the big,
stone-coloured dining-room when Baron de Melville, an habitue at
Coombe, bent over her.
“I'm lucky enough to be beside you!” he said. “This is a rare
occasion. One never meets you now.”
He sat down on her right. The place on her left was vacant. People
were still coming in, talking, laughing, finding their seats. The
Duchess of Wellingborough, who was exactly opposite to Lady
Sellingworth, leaned forward to speak to her.
“Adela . . . Adela!”
“Yes? How are you, Cora?”
“Very well, as I always am. Isn't Lavallois a marvel?”
“He is certainly very clever.”
“You are proud of it, my dear. Have you heard what the Bolshevist
envoy said to the Prime Minister when—”
But at this moment someone spoke to the duchess, who was already
beginning to laugh at the story she was intending to tell and Lady
Sellingworth was aware of a movement on her left. She felt as if she
blushed, though no colour came into her face.
“How are you, Lady Sellingworth?”
She had not turned her head, but now she did, and met Craven's hard,
uncompromising blue eyes and deliberately smiling lips.
“Oh, it's you! How nice!”
She gave him her hand. He just touched it coldly. What a boy he
still was in his polite hostility! She thought of Camber Sands and the
darkness falling over the waste, and, in spite of her self-control and
her pity for him, there was an unconquerable feeling of injury in her
heart. What reason, what right, had he to greet her so frigidly? How
had she injured him?
A roar of conversation had begun in the room. Everyone seemed in
high spirits. Mrs. Ackroyde, who was at the same table as Lady
Sellingworth, with Lord Alfred Craydon on her right and Sir Robert Syng
on her left, looked steadily round over the multitude of her guests
with a comprehensive glance, the analyzing and summing-up glance of one
to whom everything social was as an open book containing no secrets
which her eyes did not read. Those eyes travelled calmly, and presently
came to Craven and Adela Sellingworth. She smiled faintly and spoke to
Robert Syng.
“This is her second debut,” she said. “I'm bringing her out again.
They are all amazed.”
“What about?” said Sir Robert, in his grim and very masculine voice.
“Bobbie, you know as well as I do. I had a bet with Anne that she
would accept. I'm five pounds to the good. Adela is a creature of
impulses, and that sort of creature does young things to the day of its
death.”
“Is it doing a young thing to accept a luncheon invitation from
you?”
“Yes—for her reason.”
“Well, that's beyond me.”
“How indifferent you are!”
He looked at her in silence.
Lady Sellingworth talked to the baron till half-way through lunch.
He was a financier of rather obscure origin, long naturalized as an
Englishman, and ardently patriotic. The noble words “we British people"
were often upon his strangely foreign-looking lips. Many years ago the
“old guard” had taken him to their generous bosoms. For he was
enormously rich, and really not a bad sort. And he had been clever
enough to remain unmarried, so hope attended him with undeviating
steps.
Miss Van Tuyn was presently the theme of his discourse. Evidently he
did not know anything about her and Alick Craven. For he discussed her
and her change of fortune without embarrassment or any arriere
pensee, and he, too, spoke of the visit to Rose Tree Gardens.
Evidently all the Coombe set was full of this mysterious visit, paid to
an Adonis whom nobody knew, in the shadow of a father's death.
The baron greatly admired Miss Van Tuyn, not only for her beauty but
for her daring. And he was not at all shocked at what she had done.
“She never lived with her father. Why should she pretend to be upset
at his death? The only difference it makes to her is an extremely
agreeable one. If she celebrates it by a mild revel over the tea cups
with an exceptionally good-looking man, who is to blame her? The fact
is, we Britishers are all moral humbugs. It seems to be in the blood,”
etc.
He ran on with wholly un-English vivacity about Beryl and her
wonderful man. Everybody wished to know who he was and all about him,
but he seemed to be a profound mystery. Even Minnie Birchington, who
lived opposite to him, knew little more than the rest of them. Since
she had been introduced to him she had never set eyes on him, although
she knew from her maid that he was still in the flat opposite, which he
had rented furnished for three months with an option for a longer
period. He had a Spanish manservant in the flat with him, but whether
he, too, was Spanish Mrs. Birchington did not know. Where had Beryl Van
Tuyn picked him up, and how had she come to know him so well? All the
women were asking these questions. And the men were intrigued because
of the report, carried by Lady Archie, and enthusiastically confirmed
by Mrs. Birchington, of the fellow's extraordinary good looks.
Lady Sellingworth listened to all this with an air of polite, but
rather detached, interest, wondering all the time whether Craven could
overhear what was being said. Craven was sometimes talking to his
neighbour, Mrs. Farringdon, but occasionally their conversation
dropped, and Lady Sellingworth was aware of his sitting in silence. She
wished, and yet almost feared, to talk to him, but she knew that she
was interested in no one else in the room. Now that she was again with
Craven she realized painfully how much she had missed him. Among all
these people, many of them talented, clever, even fascinating, she was
only concerned about him. To her he seemed almost like a vital human
being in the midst of a crowd of dummies endowed by some magic with the
power of speech. She only felt him at this moment, though she was
conscious of the baron, Mrs. Ackroyde, Bobbie Syng, the duchess, and
others who were near her. This silent boy—he was still a boy in
comparison with her—crumbling his bread, wiped them all out. Yet he
was no cleverer than they were, no more vital than they. And half of
her almost hated him still.
“Oh, why do I worry about him?” she thought, while she leaned
towards the baron and looked energetically into his shifting dark eyes.
“What is there in him that holds me and tortures me? He's only an
ordinary man—horribly ordinary, I know that.”
And she thought of Camber Sands and the twilight, and saw Craven
seeking for Beryl's hand—footman and housemaid. What had she, Adela
Sellingworth, with her knowledge and her past, her great burden of
passionate experiences—what had she to do with such an ordinary young
man?
“Nicolas might possibly be Greek or Russian. But what are we to make
of Arabian?”
It was still the voice of the Baron—full, energetic, intensely un-English.
“Have you heard the name before, Lady Sellingworth?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Really! What country does it belong to? Surely not to our England?”
“No.”
Craven was not speaking at this moment, and she felt that he was
listening to them. She remembered how Beryl had hurt her and, speaking
with deliberate clearness, she added:
“Garstin, the painter, has had this man, Nicolas Arabian, as a
sitter for a long time, certainly for a good many weeks. And Beryl is
just now intensely interested in portrait painting.”
“What—he's a model! But with a flat in Rose Tree Gardens!”
“He is evidently not an ordinary model. I believe Mr. Garstin picked
him up somewhere, saw him by chance, probably at the Cafe Royal or some
place of that kind, and asked him to sit.”
“Do you know him?” asked the Baron, with sharp curiosity.
“Oh, no! I have never set eyes upon him. Beryl told me.”
“Miss Van Tuyn! We all thought she was trying to keep the whole
matter a secret.”
“Well, she told me quite openly. You were there, weren't you?”
She turned rather abruptly to Craven. He started.
“What? I beg your pardon. I didn't catch what you were saying.”
“He's lying!” she thought.
The Baron was addressed by his neighbour, Magdalen Dearing, whose
husband he was supposed, perhaps quite wrongly, to finance, and Lady
Sellingworth was left free for a conversation with Craven.
“We were speaking about Beryl,” she began.
Suddenly she felt hard, and she wanted to punish Craven, as we only
wish to punish those who can make us suffer because they have made us
care for them.
“It seems that—they are all saying—”
She paused. She wanted to repeat the scandalous gossip about Beryl's
visit to this mystery man, Arabian, immediately after her father's
death. But she could not do it. No, she could not punish him with such
a dirty weapon. He was worthy of polished steel, and this would be
rusty scrap-iron.
“It's nothing but stupid gossip,” she said. “And you and I have
never dealt in that together, have we?”
“Oh, I enjoy hearing about my neighbours,” he answered, “or I
shouldn't come here.”
She felt a sharp thrust of disappointment. His voice was cold and
full of detachment; the glance of his blue eyes was hard and
unrelenting. She had never seen him like this till to-day.
“What are they saying about Miss Van Tuyn?” he added. “Anything
amusing?”
“No. And in any case it's not the moment to talk nonsense about her,
just when she is in deep mourning.”
With an almost bitter smile she continued, after a slight
hesitation:
“There is a close time for game during which the guns must be
patient. There ought to be a close time for human beings in sorrow. We
ought not to fire at them all the year round.”
“What does it matter? They fire at us all the year round. The
carnage is mutual.”
“Have you turned cynic?”
“I don't think I was ever a sentimentalist.”
“Perhaps not. But must one be either the one or the other?”
“I am quite sure you are not the latter.”
“I should be sorry to be the former,” she said, with unusual
earnestness.
Something in his voice made her suddenly feel very sad, with a
coldness of sorrow that was like frost binding her heart. She looked
across the big table. A long window was opposite to her. Through it she
saw distant tree-tops rising into the misty grey sky. And she thought
of the silence of the bare woods, so near and yet so remote. Why was
life so heartless? Why could not he and she understand each other? Why
had she nothing to rest on? Winter! She had entered into her winter,
irrevocable, cold and leafless. But the longing for warmth would not
leave her. Winter was terrible to her, would always be terrible.
How the Duchess of Wellingborough was laughing! Her broad shoulders
shook. She threw up her chin and showed her white teeth. To her life
was surely a splendid game, even in widowhood and old age. The crowd
was enough for her. She fed on good stories. And so no doubt she would
never go hungry. For a moment Lady Sellingworth thought that she envied
the Duchess. But then something deep down in her knew it was not so. To
need much—that is greater and better, even if the need brings that
sorrow which perhaps many know nothing of. At that moment she connected
desire with aspiration, and felt released from her lowest part.
Craven was speaking to Mrs. Farringdon; Lady Sellingworth heard her
saying, in her curiously muffled, contralto voice:
“Old Bean is a wonderful horse. I fancy him for the next Derby. But
some people say he is not a stayer. On a hard course he might crack up.
Still, he's got a good deal of bone. The Farnham stable is absolutely
rotten at present. Don't go near it.”
“Oh, why did I come?” Lady Sellingworth thought, as she turned again
to the Baron.
She had lost the habit of the world in her long seclusion. In her
retreat she had developed into a sentimentalist. Or perhaps she had
always been one, and old age had made the tendency more definite, had
fixed her in the torturing groove. She began to feel terribly out of
place in this company, but she knew that she did not look out of place.
She had long ago mastered the art of appearance, and could never forget
that cunning. And she gossiped gaily with the Baron until luncheon at
last was over.
As she went towards the drawing-room Mrs. Ackroyde joined her.
“You were rather unkind to Alick Craven, Adela,” she murmured. “Has
he offended you?”
“On the contrary. I think he's a charming boy.”
“Don't punish him all the afternoon then.”
“But I am not going to be here all the afternoon. I have ordered the
car for half-past three.”
“It's that now.”
“Well, then I must be going almost directly.”
“You must stay for tea. A lot of people are coming, and we shall
have music. Alick Craven only accepted because I told him you would be
here.”
“But you told me he had accepted when you asked me.”
“That's how I do things when I really want people who may not want
to come. I lied to both of you, and here you both are.”
“Well at any rate you are honest in confession.”
“I will counterorder your car. Henry, please tell Lady
Sellingworth's chauffeur that he will be sent for when he is wanted.
Oh, Anne, welcome the wandering sheep back to the social fold!”
She threaded her way slowly through the crowd, talking calmly to one
and another, seeing everything, understanding everything, tremendously
at home in the midst of complications.
Lady Sellingworth talked to Lady Anne, who had just come back from
Mexico. It was her way to dart about the world, leaving her husband in
his arm-chair at the Marlborough. She brought gossip with her from
across the seas, gossip about exotic Presidents and their mistresses,
about revolutionary generals and explorers, about opera singers in
Havana, and great dancers in the Argentine. In her set she was called
“the peripatetic pug,” but she had none of the pug's snoring laziness.
Presently someone took her away to play bridge, and for a moment Lady
Sellingworth was standing alone. She was close to a great window which
gave on to the terrace at the back of the house facing the falling
gardens and the woods. She looked out, then looked across the room.
Craven was standing near the door. He had just come in with a lot of
men from the dining-room. He had a cigar in his hand. His cheeks were
flushed. He looked hot and drawn, like a man in a noisy prison of heat
which excited him, but tormented him too. His eyes shone almost
feverishly. As she looked at him, not knowing that he was being watched
he drew a long breath, almost like a man who feared suffocation.
Immediately afterwards he glanced across the room and saw her.
She beckoned to him. With a reluctant air, and looking severe, he
came across to her.
“Are you going to play bridge?” she said.
“I don't think so.”
“Dindie has persuaded me to stay on for the music. Shall we take a
little walk in the garden? I am so unaccustomed to crowds that I am
longing for air.”
She paused, then added:
“And a little quiet.”
“Certainly,” he said stiffly.
“Does he hate me?” she thought, with a sinking of despair. He went
to fetch her wrap. They met in the hall.
“Where are you two going?”
Dindie Ackroyde's all-seeing eyes had perceived them.
“Only to get a breath of air in the garden,” said Lady Sellingworth.
“How sensible!”
She gave them a watchful smile and spoke to Eve Colton, who was
hunting for the right kind of bridge, stick in hand.
“I'll find Melville for you. Jennie and Sir Arthur are waiting in
the card-room.”
“I hope you don't mind coming out for a moment?”
Lady Sellingworth's unconquerable diffidence was persecuting her.
She spoke almost with timidity to Craven on the doorstep.
“Oh, no. I am delighted.”
His young voice was carefully frigid.
“More motors!” she said. “The whole of London will be here by tea
time.”
“Great fun, isn't it? Such a squash of interesting people.”
“And I am taking you away from them!”
“That's all right!”
“Oh, what an Eton's boy's voice!” she thought.
But she loved it. That was the truth. His youngness was so apparent
in his coldness that he was more dangerous than ever to her who had an
unconquerable passion for youth.
“Let us go through this door in the wall. It must lead to the
gardens.”
“Certainly!”
He pushed it open. They passed through and were away from the
motors, standing on a broad terrace which turned at right angles and
skirted the back of the house.
“Don't let us go round the corner before all the drawing-room
windows.”
“No?” he said.
“Unless you prefer—”
“I will go wherever you like.”
“I thought—what about this path?”
“Shall we do down it?”
“I think it looks rather tempting.”
They walked slowly on, descending a slight incline, and came to a
second long terrace on a lower level. There was a good deal of brick-work in Mrs. Ackroyde's garden, but there were some fine trees, and in
summer the roses were wonderful. Now there were not many flowers, but
at least there were calm and silence, and the breath of the winter
woods came to Lady Sellingworth and Craven.
Craven said nothing, and walked stiffly beside his companion looking
straight ahead. He seemed entirely unlike the man who had talked so
enthusiastically in her drawing-room after the dinner in the Bella
Napoli, and again on that second evening when they had dined
together without the company of Beryl Van Tuyn. But Dindie Ackroyde had
said he had come down that day because he had been told he would meet
her. And Dindie was scarcely ever wrong abut people. But this time
surely she had made a mistake.
“Oh, there's the hard court!” Lady Sellingworth said.
“Yes.”
“It looks a beauty.”
“Do you play?”
“I used to. But I have given it up.”
After a silence she added:
“You know I have given up everything. There comes a time—”
She hesitated.
“Perhaps you will not believe it, but I feel very strange here with
all these people.”
“But you know them all, don't you?”
“Nearly all. But they mean nothing to me now.”
They were walking slowly up and down the long terrace.
“One passes away from things,” she said, “as one goes on. It is
rather a horrible feeling.”
Suddenly, moved by an impulse that was almost girlish, she stopped
on the path and said:
“What is the matter with you to-day? Why are you angry with me?”
Craven flushed.
“Angry! But I am not angry!”
“Yes, you are. Tell me why.”
“How could I—I'm really not angry. As if I could be angry with
you!”
“Then why are you so different?”
“In what way am I different?”
She did not answer, but said:
“Did you hear what the baron and I were talking about at lunch?”
“Just a few words.”
“I hope you didn't think I wished to join in gossip about Beryl Van
Tuyn?”
“Of course not.”
“I hate all such talk. If that offended you—”
She was losing her dignity and knew it, but a great longing to
overcome his rigidity drove her on.
“If you think—”
“It wasn't that!” he said. “I have no reason to mind what anyone
says about Miss Van Tuyn.”
“But she's your friend!”
“Is she? I think a friend is a very rare thing. You have taught me
that.”
“I? How?”
“You went abroad without letting me know.”
“Is that it?” she said.
And there was a strange note, like a note of joy, in her voice.
“I think you might have told me. And you put me off. I was to have
seen you—”
“Yes, I know.”
She was silent. She could not explain. That was impossible. Yet she
longed to tell him how much she had wished to see him, how much it had
cost her to go without a word. But suddenly she remembered Camber. He
was angry with her, but he had very soon consoled himself for her
departure.
“I went away quite unexpectedly,” she said. “I had to go like that.”
“I—I hope you weren't ill?”
He recalled Braybrooke's remarks about doctors. Perhaps she had
really been ill. Perhaps something had happened abroad, and he had done
her a wrong.
“No, I haven't been ill. It wasn't that,” she said.
The thought of Camber persisted, and now persecuted her.
“I am quite sure you didn't miss me,” she said, with a colder voice.
“But I did!” he said.
“For how long?”
The mocking look he knew so well had come into her eyes. How much
did she know?
“Have you seen Miss Van Tuyn since you came back?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. She paid me a visit soon after I arrived.”
Craven looked down. He realized that something had been said, that
Miss Van Tuyn had perhaps talked injudiciously. But even if she had,
why should Lady Sellingworth mind? His relation with her was so utterly
different from his relation with the lovely American. It never occurred
to him that this wonderful elderly woman, for whom he had such a
peculiar feeling, could care for him at all as a girl might, could
think of him as a woman thinks of a man with whom she might have an
affair of the heart. She fascinated him. Yes! But she did not fascinate
that part of him which instinctively responded to Beryl Van Tuyn. And
that he fascinated her in any physical way simply did not enter his
mind. Nevertheless, at that moment he felt uncomfortable and, absurdly
enough, almost guilty.
“Have you seen Beryl since her father's death?” said Lady
Sellingworth.
“No,” he said. “At least—yes, I suppose I have.”
“You suppose?”
Her eyes had not lost their mocking expression.
“I happened to see her in Glebe Place with that fellow they are all
chattering about, but I didn't speak to her. I believe her father was
dead then. But I didn't know it at the time.”
“Oh! Is he so very handsome, as they say?”
She could not help saying this, and watching him as she said it.
“I should say he was a good-looking chap,” answered Craven frigidly.
“But he looks like a wrong 'un.”
“It is difficult to tell what people are at a glance.”
“Some people—yes. But I think with others one look is enough.”
“Yes, that's true,” she said, thinking of him. “Shall we go a little
farther towards the woods?”
“Yes; let us.”
She knew he was suffering obscurely that day, perhaps in his pride,
perhaps in something else. She hoped it was in his pride. Anyhow, she
felt pity for him in her new-found happiness. For she was happier now
in comparison with what she had been. And with that happiness came a
great longing to comfort him, to draw him out of his cold reserve, to
turn him into the eager and almost confidential boy he had been with
her. As they passed the red tennis court and walked towards the end of
the garden which skirted the woods she said:
“I want you to understand something. I know it must have seemed
unfriendly in me to put you off, and then to leave England without
letting you know. But I had a reason which I can't explain.”
“Yes?”
“I shall never be able to explain it. But if I could you would
realize at once that my friendship for you was unaltered.”
“Well, but you didn't let me know you were back. You did not ask me
to come to see you.”
“I did not think you would care to come.”
“But—why?”
“I—perhaps you—I don't find it easy now to think that anyone can
care much to be bothered with me.”
“Oh—Lady Sellingworth!”
“That really is the truth. Believe it or not, as you like. You see,
I am out of things now.”
“You need never be out of things unless you choose.”
“Oh, the world goes on and leaves one behind. Don't you remember my
telling you and Beryl once that I was an Edwardian?”
“If that means un-modern I think I prefer it to modernity. I think
perhaps I have an old-fashioned soul.”
He was smiling now. The hard look had gone from his eyes; the ice in
his manner had melted. She felt that she was forgiven. And she tried to
put the thought of Camber out of her mind. Beryl was unscrupulous.
Perhaps she had exaggerated. And, in any case, surely she had treated,
was treating, him badly.
She felt that he and she were friends again, that he was glad to be
with her once more. There was really a link of sympathy between them.
And he had been angry because she had gone abroad without telling him.
She thought of his anger and loved it.
That day, after tea, while the music was still going on in Dindie
Ackroyde's drawing-room, they drove back to London together, leaving
their reputations quite comfortably behind them in the hand of the “old
guard.”
CHAPTER II
Beryl Van Tuyn found that it was not necessary for her to cross the
ocean on account of her father's sudden death. He had left all his
affairs in excellent order, and the chief part of his fortune was
bequeathed to her. She had always had plenty of money. Now she was
rich. She went into mourning, answered suitably the many letters of
condolence that poured in upon her, and then considered what she had
better do.
Miss Cronin pleaded persistently for an immediate return to Paris.
What was the good of staying on in London now? The winter was dreary in
London. The flat in Paris was far more charming and elegant than any
hotel. Beryl had all her lovely things about her there. Her chief
friends were in Paris. She could see them quietly at home. And it was
quite impossible for her to go about London now that she was plunged in
mourning. What would they do there? She, Miss Cronin, could go on as
usual, of course. She never did anything special. But Beryl would
surely be bored to death living the life of a hermit in Claridge's.
Miss Van Tuyn listened to all that old Fanny had to say, and made no
attempt to refute her arguments or reply to her exhortations. She
merely remarked that she would think the matter over.
“But what is there to think over, darling?” said Miss Cronin,
lifting her painted eyebrows. “There is nothing to keep us here. You
never go to the Wallace Collection now.”
“Do please allow me to be the judge of what I want to do with my
life, Fanny,” said Miss Van Tuyn, curtly. “When I wish to pack up I'll
tell you.”
And old Fanny collapsed like a pricked bladder. She could not
understand Beryl any longer. The girl seemed to be quite beyond her
reach. She thought of Alick Craven and of the man in the blue overcoat
with the strange name. Nicolas Arabian. She had seen neither of them
again. Beryl never mentioned them. But Fanny was sure that one, or
both, of them held her in London. Something must be in the wind,
something dangerous to any companion. She felt on the threshold of an
alarming, perhaps disastrous, change. As she went nowhere she knew
nothing of Beryl's visit to Rose Tree Gardens and of the gossip it had
set going in certain circles in London. But she had never been able to
forget the impression she had had when Beryl had introduced her to the
man with the melting brown eyes. Beryl was surely in love. Yet she did
not look happy. Certainly her father's death might have upset her. But
Miss Cronin did not think that was sufficient to account for the change
in the girl. She had something on her mind besides that. Miss Cronin
was certain of it. Beryl's cool self-assurance was gone. She was
restless. She brooded. She seemed quite unable to settle to anything or
to come to any decision.
Old Fanny began to be seriously alarmed. Mrs. Clem Hodson had gone
back to Philadelphia. She had no one to consult, no one to apply to.
She felt quite helpless. Even Bourget could give her no solace. She had
a weak imagination, but it now began to trouble her. As she lay upon
her sofa, she, always feebly, imagined many things. But oftenest she
saw a vague vision of Mr. Craven and Mr. Arabian fighting a duel
because of Beryl. They were in a forest clearing near Paris in early
morning. It was a duel with revolvers, as Bourget might have described
it. She saw their buttoned-up coats, their stretched-out arms. Which
did she wish to be the victor? And which would Beryl wish to return
unwounded to Paris? Surely Mr. Arabian. He was so kind, so enticingly
gentle; he had such beautiful eyes. And yet—and at this point old
Fanny's imagination ceased to function, and something else displayed a
certain amount of energy, her knowledge of the world. What would Mr.
Arabian be like as a husband? He was charming, seductive even,
caressingly sympathetic—yes, caressingly! But—as a husband? And old
Fanny felt mysteriously that something in her recoiled from the idea of
Arabian as the husband of Beryl, whereas she could think of Mr. Craven
in that situation quite calmly. It was all very odd, and it made her
very uncomfortable. It even agitated her, and she felt her solitude
keenly. There had never been a real link between Beryl and her, and she
knew it. But now she felt herself strangely alone in the midst of
perhaps threatening dangers. If only Beryl would become frank, would
speak out, would consult her, ask her advice! But the girl was enclosed
in a reserve that was flawless. There was not a single breach in the
wall. And the dark winter had descended on London.
One evening Miss Van Tuyn felt almost desperate. Enclosed in her
reserve she longed for a confidante; she longed to talk things over, to
take counsel with someone. She had even a desire to ask for advice. But
she knew no one in London to whom she could unbosom herself. Fanny did
not count. Old Fanny was a fool and quite incapable of being useful
mentally to anyone with good brains. And to what other woman could she
speak, she, Beryl Van Tuyn, the notoriously clever, notoriously
independent, young beauty, who had always hitherto held the reins of
her own destiny? If only she could speak to a man! But there the sex
question intruded itself. No man would be impartial unless he were
tremendously old. And she had no tremendously old man friend, having
always preferred those who were still in possession of all their
faculties.
No young man could be impartial, least of all Alick Craven, and yet
she wished intensely that she had not lost her head that day in Glebe
Place, that she had carried out her original intention and had
introduced Craven to Arabian.
She knew what people were saying of her in London. Although she was
in deep mourning and could not go about, several women had been to see
her. They had come to condole with her, and had managed to let her
understand what people were murmuring. Lady Archie had been with her.
Mrs. Birchington had looked in. And two days after Lady Sellingworth's
visit to Coombe Dindie Ackroyde had called. From her Miss Van Tuyn had
heard of Craven's walk in the garden with Adela Sellingworth and early
departure to London in Adela's motor. In addition to this piece of
casually imparted news, Mrs. Ackroyde had frankly told Miss Van Tuyn
that she was being gossiped about in a disagreeable way and that, in
spite of her established reputation for unconventionality, she ought to
be more careful. And Miss Van Tuyn—astonishingly—had not resented
this plain speaking. Mrs. Ackroyde, of course, had tried to find out
something about Nicolas Arabian, but Miss Van Tuyn had evaded the not
really asked questions, and had treated the whole matter with an almost
airy casualness which had belied all that was in her mind.
But these visits, and especially Dindie Ackroyde's, had deepened the
nervous pre-occupation which was beginning seriously to alarm old
Fanny.
If she took old Fanny's advice and left London? If she returned to
Paris? She believed, indeed she felt certain, that to do that would not
be to separate from Arabian. He would follow her there. If she took the
wings of the morning and flew to the uttermost parts of the earth there
surely she would find him. She began to think of him as a hound on the
trail of her. And yet she did not want him to lose the trail. She
combined fear with desire in a way that was inexplicable to herself,
that sometimes seemed to her like a sort of complex madness. But her
reason for remaining in London was not to be found in Arabian's
presence there. And she knew that. If she went to Paris she would be
separated from Alick Craven. She did not want to be separated from him.
And now Dindie Ackroyde's news intensified her reluctance to yield to
old Fanny's persuasions and to return to her bronzes. Her clever visit
to Adela Sellingworth had evidently not achieved its object. In spite
of her so deliberate confession to Adela the latter had once more taken
possession of Craven.
Miss Van Tuyn felt angry and disgusted, even indignant, but she also
felt saddened and almost alarmed.
Knowing men very well, being indeed an expert in male psychology,
she realized that perhaps, probably even, her own action had driven
Craven back to his friendship with Adela. But that fact did not make
things more pleasant for her. She knew that she had seriously offended
Craven. She remembered the look in his face as he passed quickly by her
and Arabian in Glebe Place. He had not been to see her since, and had
not written to condole with her. She knew that she had outraged his
pride, and perhaps something else. Yet she could not make up her mind
to leave England and drop out of his life. To do that would be like a
confession of defeat. But it was not only her vanity which prompted her
to stay on. She had a curious and strong liking for Craven which was
very sincere. It was absolutely unlike the painful attraction which
pushed her towards Arabian. There was trust in it, a longing for escape
from something dangerous, something baleful, into peace and security.
There was even a moral impulse in it such as she had never felt till
now.
What was she to do? She suffered in uncertainty. Her nerves were all
on edge. She felt irritable, angry, like someone being punished and
resenting the punishment. And she felt horribly dull. Her mourning
prohibited her from seeking distractions. People were gossiping about
her unpleasantly already. She remembered Dindie Ackroyde's warning, and
knew she had better heed it. She felt heartless because she was unable
to be really distressed about the death of her father. Old Fanny bored
her when she did not actively worry her. She was terribly sorry for
herself.
In the evening, while she was sitting alone in her room listlessly
reading a book on modern painting by an author with whose views she did
not agree, and looking forward to a probably sleepless night, there was
a knock on the door, and a rose cheeked page boy, all alertness and
buttons, tripped in with a note on a salver.
“Any answer?” she said.
“No, mum.”
She took the note, and at once recognized Dick Garstin's enormous
handwriting. Quickly she opened it and read.
GLEBE.
Wed.
Dear B.—Does your mourning prevent you from looking at a damned
good picture? If not, come round to the studio to-morrow any time
after lunch and have a squint at a king in the underworld.
D. G.
At once her feeling of acute boredom left her, was replaced by a
keen sense of excitement. She realized immediately that at last Garstin
had finished his picture, that at last he had satisfied himself. She
had not seen Garstin since the day when she had heard of her father's
death. Nor had she seen Arabian. Characteristically, Garstin had not
taken the trouble to send her a letter of condolence. He never bothered
to do anything conventional. If he had written he would probably had
congratulated her on coming into a fortune. Arabian's sympathy had
already been expressed. Naturally, therefore, he had not written to
her. But he had made no sign in all these days, had not left a card,
had not attempted to see her. Day after day she had wondered whether he
would do something, give some evidence of life, of intention. Nothing!
He had just let her alone. But in his inaction she had felt him
intensely, far more than she felt other men in their actions. He had,
as it were, surrounded her with his silence, had weighed upon her by
his absence. She feared and was fascinated by his apparent
indifference, as formerly, when with him, she had feared and been
fascinated by his reticence of speech and of conduct. Only once had he
taken the initiative with her, when he had ordered the taxi-cab driver
to go to Rose Tree Gardens. And even then, when he had had her there
alone in his flat, nothing had happened. And he had let her go without
any attempt to detain her.
In his passivity there was something hypnotic which acted upon her.
She felt it charged with power, with intention, even almost with
brutality. There was a great cry for her in his silence.
She did not answer Garstin's note. That was not necessary. She knew
she would see him on the morrow.
Directly after lunch on the following day she walked to Glebe Place,
wondering whether Arabian would be there.
As usual, Garstin answered the door and covered her with a
comprehensive glance as she stood on the doorstep.
“Black suites you,” he said. “You ought never to go out of
mourning.”
“Thank you for your kind sympathy, Dick,” she answered. “One can
always depend on you for delicacy of feeling and expression in time of
trouble.”
He smiled as he shut the door.
“You tartar!” he said. “Be careful you don't develop into a shrew as
you get on in life.”
She noticed at once that he was looking unusually happy. There was
even something almost of softness in his face, something almost of
kindness, certainly of cordiality, in his eyes.
“Evidently coming into money hasn't had a softening influence upon
you,” he added.
To her surprise he took her into the ground floor studio and sat
down on the big divan there.
“Aren't we going upstairs?” she said.
“In a minute. Don't be in such a blasted hurry, my girl!”
“Well, but—”
She followed his example and sat down.
“Is anyone up there?”
“Not a soul. Who should there be?”
“Well, I don't know. I thought perhaps—”
“Old Nick was there? Well, he isn't!”
“How absurd you are!” she said, almost with confusion, and looking
away from him. “I only wondered whether you had a model with you.”
“I know, I know!”
After a rather long pause she said:
“What are we waiting here for?”
“Oh—must to rest!”
“But I'm not tired.”
“I didn't suppose you were.”
Again there was a pause, in which Miss Van Tuyn felt a tingling of
impatient irritation.
“I suppose you are doing this merely to whet my appetite,” she said
presently, unable to bear the unnatural silence. “Of course I know you
have finished the picture at last. You have asked me to come here to
see it. Then why on earth not let me see it? All this waiting can't
come from timidity. I know you don't care for opinion so long as your
own is satisfied.”
He sent her an odd look that was almost boyish in its half
mischievous, half wistful roguishness.
“My girl, you speak about a painter with great assurance, and, let
me add, with great ignorance. I'll tell you the plain truth for once.
I've been keeping you down here out of sheer diffidence. Now then!”
“Dick!”
His lean blue cheeks slightly reddened as he looked at her. She knew
he had spoken the truth, and was touched. She got up quickly, went to
him, and put one hand on his shoulder.
“You are afraid of me! But no—I can't believe it!”
“Ha!”
He got up.
“It is finished?”
“Yes, at last it's done.”
“Has—have you shown—I suppose he has seen it?”
Garstin shook his head, and a dark lock of hair fell over his
forehead.
“He doesn't even know it is finished, the ruffian! He's given me a
damned lot of trouble. I'll keep him on the gridiron a bit longer.
Grilling will do him good.”
“Then I am the first?”
“Yes, you are the first.”
“Thank you, Dick,” she said soberly. “May I go up now?”
“Yes, come on!”
He went before her and mounted the stairs, taking long strides. She
followed him eagerly, yet with a feeling of apprehension. What would it
be—this portrait finished at last? Dick Garstin was cruelly fond of
revelation. She thought of his judge who ought to be judged, of other
pictures of his. Had he caught and revealed the secret of Arabian?
“Now then!”
But Garstin still hesitated.
“Sit here!”
She obeyed, and sat down on a sofa with the window behind her.
“I'll have a smoke.”
“Oh!”
He went to the Spanish cabinet, and stood with his back to her,
apparently searching. He lifted things, put them back. She glowed with
almost furious impatience. At last he found the cigars. Probably he had
never had to seek for them. He lit up.
“Now then—a drink!”
“Oh, Dick!” she breathed.
But she made no other protest.
“Will you?”
“No!” she said sharply.
Then she gazed at him and said:
“Yes.”
He poured out whisky for her and himself, added some soda water, and
lifted his glass.
“To Arabian!” he said.
“Why should we drink to Mr. Arabian?”
“He has done me a good turn.”
There was a look in his eyes now which she did not like, a very
intelligent and cruel look. She knew it well. It expressed almost
blatantly the man's ruthlessness. She did not inquire what the good
turn was, but raised her glass slowly and drank.
“Your hand trembles, my girl!” said Garstin.
“Nonsense! It does not! Now please show me the portrait. I will not
wait any longer.”
“Here you are then!”
He went over to a distant easel, pulled it forward with its back to
them, then, when it was near to the sofa, turned it round.
“There he is!”
Miss Van Tuyn sat very still and gazed. After turning the easel Dick
Garstin had gone to stand behind the sofa and her. She heard him making
a little “t'p! t'p!” with his lips, getting rid, perhaps, of an
adherent scrap of tobacco leaf. After what seemed to both of them a
very long time she spoke.
“I don't believe it!” she said. “I don't believe it!”
“Like the man when he saw a giraffe for the first time? But he was
wrong, my girl, for nature does turn out giraffes.”
“No, Dick! It's too bad!”
Her cheeks were flaming with red.
“Too bad! Don't you think it's well painted?”
“Well painted? Of course it's well—it's magnificently painted!”
He chuckled contentedly behind her.
“Then what's the matter? What's the trouble?”
“You know what's the matter. You know quite well.”
She turned sharply round on the sofa and faced him with angry eyes.
“There was a great actor once whose portrait was painted by a great
artist, an artist as great as you are. It was exhibited and then handed
over to the actor. From that moment it disappeared. No one ever saw it.
The actor never mentioned it. And yet it was a masterpiece. When the
actor died a search was made for the portrait, and it was found hidden
in an attic of his house. It had been slashed almost to pieces with a
knife. Till to-day I could not understand such a deed as that—the
killing of a masterpiece. But now I can understand it.”
“He shall have it and put a knife through it if he likes. But”—he
snapped out the word with sudden fierce emphasis—“but I'll
exhibit it first.”
“He'll never let you!” Miss Van Tuyn almost cried out.
“Won't he? That was the bargain!”
“He didn't promise. I remember quite well all that was said. He
didn't promise.”
“It was understood. I told him I should exhibit the picture and that
afterwards I'd hand it over to him.”
“When is he going to see it?”
“Why do you ask? Do you want to be here when he does?”
She did not answer. She was staring at the portrait, and now the hot
colour had faded from her face.
“If you do you can be here. I don't mind.”
“I don't believe it,” she repeated slowly.
All that she had sometimes fancied, almost dimly, and feared about
Arabian was expressed in Garstin's portrait of him. The man was
magnificent on the canvas, but he was horrible. Evil seemed to be
subtly expressed all over him. That was what she felt. It looked out of
his large brown eyes. But that was not all. Somehow, in some curious
and terrible way, Garstin had saturated his mouth, his cheeks, his
forehead, even his bare neck and shoulders with the hideous thing.
Danger was everywhere, the warning that the living man surely did not
give, or only gave now and then for a fleeting instant.
In Garstin's picture Arabian was unmistakably a being of the
underworld, a being of the darkness, of secret places and hidden deeds,
a being of unspeakable craft, of hideous knowledge, of ferocious
cynicism. And yet he was marvellously handsome and full of force, even
of power. It could not be said that great intellect was stamped on his
face, but a fiercely vital mentality was there, a mentality that could
frighten and subdue, that could command and be sure of obedience. In
the eyes of a tiger there is a terrific mentality. Miss Van Tuyn
thought of that as she gazed at the portrait.
In her silence now she was trying to get a strong hold on herself.
The first shock of astonishment, and almost of horror, had passed. She
was more sharply conscious now of Garstin in connexion with herself. At
last she spoke again.
“Of course you realize, Dick, that such a portrait as that is an
outrage. It's a master work, I believe, but it is an outrage. You
cannot exhibit it.”
“But I shall. This man, Arabian, isn't known.”
“How can we tell that?”
“Do you know a living creature he knows or who knows him?”
“Everyone has acquaintances. Everyone almost has friends. He must
certainly have both.”
“God knows who or where they are.”
“You cannot exhibit it,” she repeated obstinately.
“I hate art in kid gloves. But this is too merciless. It is more. It
is a libel.”
“That's just where you're wrong.”
“No.”
“Beryl, my girl, you are lying. That's no use with me.”
“I am not lying!” she said with hot anger.
Suddenly she felt that tears had come into her eyes.
“How hateful you are!” she exclaimed.
She felt frightened under the eyes of the portrait. Garstin's
revelation had struck upon her like a blow. She felt dazed by it. Yet
she longed to hit back. She wanted to defend Arabian, perhaps because
she felt that she needed defence.
Garstin came abruptly round the sofa and sat down by her side.
“What's up?” he said in a kinder voice.
“Why do you paint like that? It's abominable!”
“Tell me the honest truth—God's own truth, as they call it, I don't
know why—is that picture fine, is it my best work, or isn't it?”
“I've told you already. It's a technical masterpiece and a moral
outrage. You have taken a man for a model and painted a beast.”
“Beryl,” he said almost solemnly, “believe it or not, as you can,
that is Arabian!”
He pointed at the picture as he spoke. His keen eyes, half shut,
were fixed upon it.
“That is the real man, and what you see is only the
appearance he chooses to give of himself.”
“How do you know? How can you know that?”
“Haven't I the power to show men and women as in essence they are?”
His eyes travelled round the big studio slowly, travelled from
canvas to canvas, from the battered old siren of the streets to the
girl who was dreaming of sins not yet committed; from Cora waiting for
her prey to the judge who had condemned his.
“Haven't I? And don't you know it?”
“You are wrong this time,” she said with mutinous determination, but
still with the tears in her eyes. “You couldn't sum up Arabian. You
tried and tried again. And now at last you have forced yourself to
paint him. You have got angry. That's it. You have got furious with
yourself and with him, because of your own impotence, and you have
painted him in a passion.”
“Oh, no!”
He shook his head.
“I never felt colder, more completely master of myself and my
passions, than when I painted that portrait.”
“But you asked me to find out his secret. You pushed me into his
company that I might find it out and help you.”
“I did!”
“Well!” she said, almost triumphantly, “I have never found it out.”
“Oh, yes, you have.”
“No. He is the most reserved, uncommunicative man I have ever
known.”
“Subconsciously you have found it out, and you have conveyed it to
me. And that is the result. I suspected what the man was the first time
I laid eyes on him. When I got him here I seemed to get off the track
of him. For he's very deceptive—somehow. Yes, he's damned deceptive.
But then you put me wise. Your growing terror of him put me wise.”
He looked hard into her eyes.
“Beryl, my girl, your sex has intuitions. One of them, one of yours,
I have painted. And there it is!”
The bell sounded below.
“Ha!” said Garstin, turning his head sharply.
He listened for an instant. Then he said:
“I'll bet you anything you like that's the king himself.”
“The king?”
“In the underworld. Did you walk here?”
“Yes.”
“He must have seen you. He's followed you. What a lark!”
His eyes shone with a sort of malicious glee.
“There goes the bell again! Beryl, I'll have him up. We'll show him
himself.”
He put a finger to his lips and went down, leaving her alone with
the portrait.
CHAPTER III
“Come up! Come up, my boy! I've something to show you!”
She heard steps mounting the stairs, and got up from the sofa. She
looked once more at the portrait, then turned round to meet the two
men, standing so that she was directly in front of it. Just then she
had a wish to conceal it from Arabian, to delay, if only for a moment,
his knowledge of what had been done.
Arabian came into the studio and saw her in her mourning facing him.
At once he came up to her with Dick Garstin behind him. He looked
grave, sympathetic, almost reverential. His brown eyes held a tender
expression of kindness.
“Miss Van Tuyn! I did not know you were here.”
She saw Garstin smiling ironically. Arabian took her hand and
pressed it.
“I am glad to see you again.”
His look, his pressure, were full of ardent sympathy.
“I have been thinking often of you and your great sorrow.”
“Thank you!” she said, almost stammering.
“And what is it I am to see?” said Arabian, turning to Garstin.
“Stand away, Beryl!” said Garstin roughly.
She moved. What else could she do? Arabian saw the portrait and
said:
“Oh, my picture at last!”
Then he took a step forward, and there was a silence in the studio.
Miss Van Tuyn looked at the floor at first. Then, as the silence
continued, she raised her eyes to Arabian's. She did not know what she
expected to see, but she was surprised at what she did see. Standing
quite still immediately in front of the picture, with his large eyes
fixed upon it, Arabian was looking very calm. There was, indeed,
scarcely any expression in his face. He had thrust both hands into the
pockets of his overcoat. Miss Van Tuyn wondered whether those hands
would betray any feeling if she could see them. In the calmness of his
face she thought there was something stony, but she was not quite sure.
She was, perhaps, too painfully moved, too violently excited just then
to be a completely accurate observer. And she was aware of that. She
wished Arabian would speak. When was he going to speak?
“Well?” said Garstin at last, perhaps catching her feeling. “What do
you think of the thing? Are you satisfied with it? I've been a long
time over it, but there it is at last.”
He laughed slightly, uneasily, she thought.
“What's the verdict?”
“One moment—please!” said Arabian in an unusually soft voice.
Miss Van Tuyn was again struck, as she had been struck, when she
first met Arabian in the studio, by the man's enormous self-possession.
She felt sure that he must be feeling furiously angry, yet he did not
show a trace of anger, of surprise, of any emotion. Only the marked
softness of his voice was unusual. He seemed to be examining the
picture with quiet interest and care.
“Well? Well?” said Garstin at last, with a sort of acute impatience
which betrayed to her that he was really uneasy. “Let's hear what you
think, though we know you don't set up for being a judge of painting.”
“I think it is very like,” said Arabian.
“Oh, Lord—like!” exclaimed Garstin, on an angry gust of breath.
“I'm not a damned photographer!”
“Should not a portrait be like?” said Arabian, still in the very
soft voice. “Am I wrong, then?”
“Of course not!” said Miss Van Tuyn, frowning at Garstin.
At that moment absolutely, and without any reserve, she hated him.
“Then you're satisfied?” jerked out Garstin.
“Indeed—yes, Dick Garstin. This is a valuable possession for me.”
“Possession?” said Garstin, as if startled. “Oh, yes, to be sure!
You're to have it—presently!”
“Quite so. I am to have it. It is indeed very fine. Do not you think
so, Miss Van Tuyn?”
For the first time since he had seen the portrait he looked away
from it, and his eyes rested on her. She felt that she trembled under
those eyes, and hoped that he did not see it.
“You do not say! Surely this is a very fine picture?”
He seemed to be asking her to tell him whether or not the portrait
ought to be admired. There was just then an odd simplicity, or pretence
of simplicity, in his manner which was almost boyish. And his eyes
seemed to be appealing to her.
“It is a magnificent piece of painting,” she forced herself to say.
But she said it coldly, reluctantly.
“Then I am not wrong.”
He looked pleased.
“My eye is not very educated. I fear to express my opinion before
people such as you”—he looked towards Garstin, and added—“and you,
Dick Garstin.”
And then he turned away from the picture with the manner of a man
who had done with it. She was amazed at his coolness, his perfect ease
of manner.
“May I ask for a cigar, Dick Garstin?” he said.
“Pardon!” said Garstin gruffly.
Miss Van Tuyn noticed that he seemed very ill at ease. His rough
self- possession had deserted him. He looked almost shy and awkward.
Before going to the cabinet he went to the easel and noisily wheeled it
away. Then he fetched the cigar and poured out a drink for Arabian.
“Light up, old chap! Have a drink!”
There was surely reluctant admiration in his voice.
Arabian accepted the drink, lit the cigar, sat down, and began to
talk about his flat. At that moment he dominated them both. Miss Van
Tuyn felt it. He talked much more than she had ever before heard him
talk in the studio, and expressed himself better, with more fluency
than usual. Garstin said very little. There was a fixed flush on his
cheek- bones and an angry light in his eyes. He sat watching Arabian
with a hostile, and yet half-admiring, scrutiny, smoking rapidly,
nervously, and twisting his large hands about.
Presently Miss Van Tuyn got up to go.
“Going already?” said Garstin.
“Yes, I must.”
“Oh, well—”
“I will accompany you,” said Arabian.
She looked away from him and said nothing. Garstin went with them
downstairs and opened the door.
“Bye-bye!” he said in a loud voice. “See you again soon. Good luck
to you!”
Arabian held out his hand.
“Good-bye.”
Miss Van Tuyn nodded without speaking. Garstin shut the door
noisily.
They walked down Glebe Place in silence. When they got to the corner
Arabian said:
“Are you in a hurry to-day?”
“No, not specially.”
“Shall we take a little walk? It is not very late.”
“A walk? Where to?”
“Shall we go along by the river?”
She hesitated. She was torn by conflicting feelings. She was very
angry with Garstin. She still continued to say, though now to herself,
“I don't believe it! I don't believe it!” And yet she knew that
Garstin's portrait had greatly increased her strange fear of Arabian.
“This way will take us to the river.”
She knew he was looking straight at her though she did not look at
him. At that moment a remembrance of Craven and Camber flashed through
her mind.
“Yes, I know,” she said, “But—”
“I am fond of the river,” he said.
“Yes—but in winter!”
“Let us go. Or will you come back to—”
“No, I will go. I like it too. London looks its best from the
waterside.”
And she walked on again with him. He said nothing more, and she did
not speak till they had crossed the broad road and were on the path by
the dark river, which flowed at full tide under a heavy blackish grey
sky. Then Arabian spoke again, and the peculiar softness she had
noticed that afternoon had gone out of his voice.
“I am fortunate, am I not,” he said, “to be the possessor of that
very fine picture by Dick Garstin? Many people would be glad to buy it,
I suppose.”
“Oh, yes!”
“Do you consider it one of Dick Garstin's best paintings? I know you
are a good judge. I wish to hear what you really think.”
“He has never painted anything more finely that I have seen.”
“Ah! That is indeed lucky for me.”
“Yes.”
“I shall send and fetch it away.”
“Oh, but—”
She stopped speaking. She was startled by his tone and also by what
he had said. She glanced at him, then looked away and across the dark
river. Dead leaves brushed against her feet with a dry, brittle noise.
“What is that you say, please?”
“I only—I thought it was arranged that the picture was to be
exhibited,” she said, falteringly.
“Oh, no. I shall not permit Dick Garstin to exhibit that picture.”
Now intense curiosity was born in her and seemed for the moment to
submerge her uneasiness and fear.
“But wasn't it understood?” she said.
“Please, what do you say was understood?”
“Didn't Mr. Garstin say he meant to exhibit the picture and
afterwards give it to you?”
“But I say that I shall not permit Dick Garstin to exhibit my
picture.”
“Why won't you allow it?” she asked.
In her curiosity she was at last regaining some of her usual self-possession. She scented a struggle between these two men, both of them
of tough fibre, both of them, she believed, far from scrupulous, both
of them likely to be enormously energetic and determined when roused.
“Do you not know?” he asked.
“No! How can I know such a thing? How can I know what is in your
mind unless you tell me?”
“Oh, but I will tell you then! I will not let Dick Garstin exhibit
that picture because it is a lie about me.”
“A lie? How can that be?”
“A man can speak a lie. Is it not so?”
“Of course.”
“Cannot a man write a lie?”
“Yes.”
“And a man can paint a lie. Dick Garstin has painted a lie about
me.”
“But then—if it is so—”
“Certainly it is so.”
There was now a hard sound in his voice, and, when she looked at
him, she saw that his face had changed. The quiet self-control which
had amazed her in the studio was evidently leaving him. Or he no longer
cared to exercise it.
“But, then, do you wish to possess the picture? Do you wish to
possess a lie?”
“Is it not right that I possess it rather than someone else?”
“Yes, perhaps it is.”
“Certainly it is. I shall take that picture away.”
“But Dick Garstin intends to exhibit it. I know that. I know he will
not let you have it till it has been shown.”
“What is the law in England that one man should paint a wicked
portrait of another man and that this other should be helpless to
prevent it from being shown to all the world? Is that just?”
“No, I don't think it is.”
He stopped abruptly and stood by the river wall. It was a cold and
dreary afternoon, menacing and dark. Few people were out in that place.
She stood still beside him.
“Miss Van Tuyn,” he said, looking hard at her with an expression
of— apparently—angry sincerity in his eyes. “This happens. I sit
quietly in the Cafe Royal, a public place. A strange man comes up.
Never have I seen him before. He says himself to be a painter. He asks
to paint me—he begs! I go to his studio, as you know. I hesitate when
I have seen his pictures—all of horrible persons, bad women and a
beastly old man. At last he persuades me to be painted, promising to
give me the picture when finished. He paints and paints, destroys and
destroys. I am patient. I give up nearly all my time to him. I sit
there day after day for hours. At last he has painted me. And when I
look I find he has made of me a beast, a monster, worse than all the
other horrible persons. And when I come in he is showing this monster
to you, a lady, my friend, one I respect and admire above all, and who,
perhaps, has thought of me with kindness, who has been to me in
trouble, to my flat, who has told me her sorrow and put trust in me as
in none other. 'Here he is!' says Dick Garstin. 'This beast, this
monster—it is he! Look at him. I introduce you to Nicolas Arabian!' Am
I, in return for such things, to say, 'All right! Now take this beast,
this monster, and show him to all the world and say, “There is Nicolas
Arabian!”' Do you say I should do this?”
“But I have nothing to do with it.”
“Have you not?”
Her eyes gave way before his and looked down.
“Anyhow,” he said, “I will not do it. I have a will as well as he.”
“Yes,” she thought. “You have a will, a tremendous will.”
“To you,” he said, “I show what I would not show to him, that I have
feelings and that I am very much hurt to-day.”
“I am sorry. I told Dick Garstin—”
“Yes? What?”
“Before you came I told him he ought not to exhibit the picture.”
“Ah! Thank you! Thank you!”
He smiled, and the lustrously soft look came into his eyes.
“A woman—she always knows what a man is!” he said, in a low voice.
“It is cold standing here!” she said.
She shivered as she spoke and looked at the water.
“We will go to my flat,” he said, with a sudden air of authority.
“There is a big fire there.”
“Oh, no, I can't!”
“Why not? You have been there.”
“Yes, but I ought not to have gone. I am in mourning.”
“You go to Dick Garstin. What is the difference?”
“People are so foolish. They talk.”
“But you go to Dick Garstin!”
He had turned, and now made her walk back by his side along the
river bank among the whirling leaves.
“People have begun to talk about us,” she said, almost desperately.
“That women, Mrs. Birchington, who lives opposite to you—she's a
gossip.”
“And do you mind such people?” he asked, with an air of surprised
contempt.
“A girl has to be careful what she does.”
As Miss Van Tuyn said this she marvelled at her own conventionality.
That she should be driven to such banality, she who had defied the
opinion of both Paris and London!
“Please come once more. I want you to help me.”
“I! How can I help you?”
“With Dick Garstin. I do not want to fight with that man. I am not
what he thinks, but I do not wish to quarrel. You can help.”
“I don't see how.”
“By the fire I will tell you.”
“I don't think I ought to come.”
“What is life if it is always what ought and what ought not? I do
not go by that. I am not able to think always of that. And do you? Oh,
no!”
He cast a peculiar glance at her, full of intense shrewdness. It
made her remember the Cafe Royal on the evening of her meeting with the
Georgians, her pressure put on Dick Garstin to make Arabian's
acquaintance, her lonely walk in the dark when Arabian had followed
her, her first visit to Garstin's studio, her pretended reason for many
subsequent visits there. This man must surely have understood always
the motive which had governed her in what she had done. His glance told
her that. It pierced through her pretences like a weapon and quivered
in the truth of her. He had always understood her. Was he at last going
to let her understand him? His eyes seemed to say, “Why pretend any
longer with me? You wanted to know me. You chose to know me. It is too
late now to play the conventional maiden with me.”
It is too late now.
Her will seemed to be dying out of her. She walked on beside him
mechanically. She knew that she was going to do what he wished, that
she was going to his flat again; and when they reached Rose Tree
Gardens without any further protest she got into the lift with him and
went up to his floor. But when he was putting the latchkey into the
door the almost solemn words of Dick Garstin came back to her: “Beryl,
believe it or not, as you can, that is Arabian!” And she
hesitated. An intense disinclination to go into the flat struggled with
the intense desire to yield herself to Arabian's will. Arabian was
before her eyes, standing there by the opening door, and Garstin's
portrait was before the eyes of her mind in all its magnificent
depravation. Which showed the real man and which the unreal? Garstin
said that he had painted her intuition about Arabian, that she knew
Arabian's secret and had conveyed it to him. Was that true?
“Please!” said Arabian, holding open the door.
“I cannot come in,” she said, in a dull, low voice.
Beyond the gap of the doorway there lay perhaps the unknown
territory called by Garstin the underworld. She remembered the
piercingly shrewd look Arabian had cast at her by the river, a look
which had surely included her with him in the region which lies outside
all the barriers. But she did not belong to that region. Despite her
keen curiosities, her resolute defiance of the conventions, her
intensely modern determination to live as she chose to live, she would
never belong to it. A horrible longing which she could not understand
fought with the fear which Garstin that day had dragged up from the
depths of her to the surface. But she now gave herself to the fear, and
she repeated doggedly:
“I cannot come in.”
But just at this moment her intention was changed, and her
subsequent action was determined in her by a trifling event, one of
those events which teach the world to believe in Fate. A door, the door
of Mrs. Birchington's flat, clicked behind her. Someone was coming out.
Instantly, driven by the thought “I mustn't be seen!” Miss Van Tuyn
stepped into Arabian's flat. She expected to hear the front door of it
close immediately behind her. But instead she heard Mrs. Birchington's
high soprano voice saying:
“Oh, how d'you do? Glad to meet you again!”
Quickly she opened the second door on the left and stepped into
Arabian's drawing-room. Why had he been so slow in shutting the front
door? She must have been seen. Certainly she had been seen by that
horrible Minnie Birchington. There would be more gossip. It would be
all over London that she was perpetually in this man's flat. Why had
not he shut the door directly she had stepped into the hall? Her
nervous tension found momentary relief in sudden violent anger against
him, and when at length she heard the door shut, and his footstep
outside, she turned round to meet him with fierce resolution.
“Why did you do that?”
“Beg pardon!” he said, gently, and looking surprised.
“Why didn't you shut the front door? That—Mrs. Birchington must
have seen me. I know she has seen me!”
“I had no time. I could not refuse to speak to her, could I? I could
not be rude to a lady.”
“But I didn't wish her to see me!”
She was losing her self-control and knew it. She was angry with
herself as well as with him, but she could not regain her self-possession.
“Why not?” he said, still very gently. “What is the harm? Are we
doing wrong? I cannot see it. I say again, I had no time to shut the
door.”
“Did she see me?”
“Really I do not know.”
He shut the sitting-room door.
“I hope,” he said, “that you are not ashamed to be acquainted with
me.”
His voice sounded hurt, and now an expression of acute vexation had
come into his face.
“Really after what has happened with Dick Garstin to-day I—”
His face now had an expression almost of pain.
“I am really not canaille,” he said. “I am not accustomed to
be thought of and treated as if I were canaille.”
“It's all right,” she said. “But—you see my mourning! I am in deep
mourning, and I ought not—”
She stopped. She felt the uselessness of her protest, the
ungraciousness of her demeanour. Without another word she went to the
sofa by one of the windows and sat down. He came and sat down beside
her.
“I want you to help me about Dick Garstin,” he said.
“How? What can I do? I have no influence with him.”
“Oh, yes, you have. A lady like you has always influence with a
man.”
“Not with him.”
“But I say you have.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to tell him what I have said to you to-day.”
“That you won't have the picture exhibited?”
“Yes.”
“He'll only laugh.”
“Beg him for your sake to yield.”
“But what have I to do with it?”
“Very much, I think. It will be better that he yields—really.”
She raised her eyes to his.
“We do not want a scandal, do we?”
“But—”
“If it should come to a fight between Dick Garstin and me there
might be a scandal.”
“But my name wouldn't—”
Again she was silent.
“I might try. But it wouldn't be any use.”
He put out a hand and took one of hers.
“But it all came through you. Didn't it?”
“But—but you said you had never seen Dick Garstin till he came up
and asked you to sit to him.”
“That was not true. I saw him with you that night at the Cafe Royal.
That is why I came to the studio. I knew I should meet you there. And
—you knew.”
Again the terribly shrewd glance came into his eyes. She saw it and
felt no strength for denial. From the first he must have thoroughly
understood her.
“You and I, we are not babies,” he said gently. “We wanted to know
each other, and so it happened. I have done all this for you. Now I ask
you to tell Dick Garstin for me.”
“I'll do what I can,” she said.
He pressed her hand softly.
“You are not one of those who are afraid,” he said. “You do what you
choose—even at night.”
She thought of the episode in Shaftesbury Avenue.
“Then you—you—”
“But I do not need to take a shilling from a lady!”
“You didn't know me that night!” she said defiantly.
“Ah, but when I heard you speak in the studio I knew!”
“And you follow women like that at night!”
She tried to draw away her hand, but he would not let her.
“You drew me after you—not knowing. It was what they call occult.”
“Then why did you go away?”
“I felt that I had been wrong, that you didn't wish me to speak to
you.”
“Do you mean when I—that you suspected what I was?”
“Something said to me, 'This is a lady. She does strange things, she
is not like others, but she is a lady. Go away.'“
“And in the studio—”
“When you spoke I knew.”
She felt degraded. She could not explain. And she felt confused. She
did not understand this man. His curious reticence that night, after
his audacity, was inexplicable to her. What could he think of her? What
must he think?
“I was going out that night to dine in a restaurant in Soho with
some friends,” she said, trying to speak very naturally. “I wanted some
fresh air, so I walked.”
“Why not? I beg you to forgive me for my rudeness. I feel very
ashamed of it now. I have learnt in all these days to respect you very
much.”
His voice sounded so earnest, so sincere, that she felt suddenly a
sense of relief. After all, he had always treated her with respect. He
had never been impertinent, or even really audacious, and yet he had
always known that she had wanted to meet him, that she had meant to
meet him! He had never taken advantage of that knowledge. If he were
really what Dick Garstin said he was, surely he would have acted
differently.
“Do you really respect me?” she said.
“Yes. Have I not shown it in all these days? Have I ever done
anything a lady could object to?”
“No.”
Her hand still lay in his, and his touch had aroused in her that
strange and intense desire to belong to him which seemed a desire
entirely of the body, something with which the mind had little or
nothing to do.
“Are you evil?” her eyes were asking him.
And his eyes, looking straight down into hers, seemed steadily and
simply to deny it.
“Do you believe the lie of Dick Garstin?” they said to her.
And she no longer knew whether she believed it or not.
He drew a little nearer to her.
“I respect you—yes,” he said. “But that is not all. I have another
feeling for you. I have had it ever since I first saw you that night,
when I was standing by the door in the Cafe Royal and you looked at
me.”
“But—but you—”
“Yes?”
Her lips trembled. Again jealousy seized her.
“I saw you that night in Conduit Street,” she said. “You thought I
didn't, but I did.”
He still looked perfectly calm and untroubled.
“You were dining with Dick Garstin. May I not dine with someone?”
“Then why did you leave the restaurant?”
“I did not want you to see me.”
“Ah!”
“I thought you might not understand.”
“I do understand. I understand perfectly!”
She drew her hand sharply away from his.
“Are you angry with me?”
“Angry? No! What does it matter to me?”
“I am a man. I live alone. My life is lonely. Must I give up
everything before I know that some day I shall have the only thing I
really wish? You know men. You know how we are. I do not defend. I only
say that I am not better than the other men. I want to be happy. If
that is not for me, then I want to make the time pass. I do not
pretend. Men generally pretend very much to beautiful girls. But you
would not believe such nonsense.”
“Then why didn't you stay in the restaurant?”
“Because I thought to do that would be like an insult for you. Such
girls as that—mud—they must not come into your life even by chance,
even for a few minutes. No man wishes to show himself with mud to a
lady he respects. I tell you just the truth.”
“Have you—have you seen her again?”
“She is in Paris. She has been in Paris for many days. But she is
nothing. Why speak of such people?”
“I don't know. But I hate—”
She moved restlessly. Then she got up and went to the fire. He
followed her. She could not understand her own jealousy. It humiliated
her as she had never been humiliated before. She felt jealous of this
man's absolute freedom, of his past. A sort of rage possessed her when
she thought of all the experiences he must certainly have had. She
almost hated him for those experiences. She wished she could lay hands
on them, tear them out of him, so that he should not have them any
longer in memory's treasury. And yet she knew that, without them, he
would probably attract her much less.
“Do you care then?” he said.
“Care?”
“Do you care what I do?”
“No, of course not!”
“But—you do care!” he said.
He said it without any triumph of the male, quite simply, almost as
a boy might have said it.
“You do care!” he repeated.
And very gently, slowly, he put his arm round her, drew her close to
him, bent down and gave her a long kiss.
For a moment she shut her eyes. She was giving herself up entirely
to physical sensation. Fear, thought, everything except bodily feeling,
seemed to cease in her entirely at that moment. Some fascination which
he possessed, an intense fascination for women, entirely mysterious and
inexplicable, a thing rooted in the body, absolutely overpowered her at
that moment.
It was he who broke the physical spell. He lifted his lips from hers
and she heard the words:
“I want you to marry me. Will you?”
Instantly she was released. A flood of thoughts, doubts, wonderings,
flowed through her. She felt terribly startled.
Marriage with this man! Marriage with Nicolas Arabian! In all her
thoughts of him she had never included the thought of marriage. Yet she
had imagined many situations in which he and she played their parts.
Wild dreams had come to her in sleepless nights, the dreams that visit
women who are awake under fascination. She had lived through romances
with him. She had been with him in strange places, had travelled with
him in sandy wastes, seen the night come with him in remote corners of
the earth, stood with him in great cities, watched the sea waves
slipping away with him on the decks of Atlantic liners. All this she
had done in imagination with him. But never had she seen herself as his
wife.
To be the wife of Arabian!
He let her go directly he felt the surprise in her body.
“Marry you!” she said.
“It could not be anything else,” he said, very simply. “Could it?”
She flushed as if he had punished her by his respect for her.
“But—but we scarcely know each other!” she stammered.
“You say that now!”
Again she felt rebuked, as if she were lighter than he and as if he
were surprised by her lightness.
“But we are only—I mean—”
“Let us not talk of it then now if you dislike. But I cannot take
such a thing any way but seriously, knowing what you are. I love you; I
would follow you anywhere. Naturally, therefore, I must think of
marriage with you, or that I am to have nothing.”
He stopped. She said nothing; could not say anything.
“With light women one is light. I do not pretend to be a very good
man, better than the others. Those so very good men, I do not believe
in them very much. But I know that many women are good. Just at first,
let me confess, I was not sure how you were. At the Cafe Royal that
night, seeing you with all those funny people, I made a mistake. I
thought, 'She is beautiful. She is audacious. She likes adventures. She
wishes an adventure with me.' And I came to Dick Garstin's thinking of
an adventure. But soon I knew—no! I heard you talk. I got to know your
cultivation, your very fine mind. And then you held back from me,
waiting till you should know me better. That pleased me. It taught me
the value of you. And when at last you did not hold back, were willing
to be alone with me, to lunch with me, to walk with me, I understood
you had made up your mind: 'He is all right!' But, best of all, you at
last asked me to your hotel, introduced me to the dear lady you live
with. I understood what was in your mind: 'She, too, must be
satisfied.' Then I knew it was not an adventure. And when you told me
first about your sorrow! Ah! That was the great day for me! I knew you
would not have told such a thing, kept from even Dick Garstin, unless
you put me in your mind away from the others. That was a very great day
for me!”
She shivered slightly by the fire. He was telling her things. She
could not in return tell him the truth of herself. Perhaps he really
believed all he had just said. And yet that shrewd glance he had given
her by the river and again in that room! What had it meant if now he
had spoken the truth?
“I knew then that you cared,” he said, quietly and with earnest
conviction. “I knew then that some day I could ask you to marry me.
Anything else—it is impossible between you and me.”
“Yes, of course! I never—you mustn't suppose—”
“I do not suppose. I know you as now you know me.”
He did not touch her again, though, of course, he must know—any man
must have known by this time—his physical power to charm, even to
overwhelm her. His power over himself amazed her. It proved to her the
strength in his character. The man was strong, and in two ways. She
worshipped strength, but his still made her afraid.
“Now let us leave it,” he said, with a change of manner. “It is
getting dark. It is dreary outside. I will shut the curtains. I will
sing to you in the firelight.”
He went over to the windows, drew down the blinds, pulled forward
the curtains. She watched him, sitting motionless, wondering at herself
and at him. For the moment he was certainly her master. He governed her
as much by what he did not do as by what he did. And it had always been
so ever since she had known him. The assurance in his quiet was
enormous. How many things he must have carried through in his life, the
life of which she knew absolutely nothing! But this—would he carry
through this? She tried to tell herself with certainty that he would
not. And yet, as she looked at him, she was not sure. Will can drown
will. Great power can overcome lesser power, mysteriously sometimes,
but certainly. That play of which she had read an account in the
Westminster Gazette was founded on the possibilities, was based
upon a solid foundation. To the ignorant it might seem grotesque,
incredible even, but not to those who had really studied life and the
eddying currents of life. In life, almost all that is said to be
impossible happens at times, though perhaps not often. And who knows,
who can say with absolute certainty, that he or she is not an
exception, was not born an exception?
As Miss Van Tuyn watched Arabian drawing the curtains across the
windows which looked upon the Thames she did not know positively that
she would not marry him. She remembered her sensation under his kiss.
It had been a sensation of absolute surrender. That was why she had
shut her eyes.
She might shut her eyes again. He might even make her do that.
After the curtains were drawn, and only the light from the fire lit
up the room, Arabian went over to the piano, a baby grand, and sat down
on the music-stool. He was looking very grave, almost romantically
grave, but quite un-self-conscious. She wondered whether, even now, he
cared what she thought about him. He showed none of the diffidence of
the not-yet-accepted lover, eager to please, anxious about the future.
But he showed nothing of triumph. The firelight played over his face as
he struck a few chords. She wondered whether his manservant was with
them in the flat, or whether they were quite alone—shut in together.
He had not offered her tea. Perhaps the man had gone out. She did not
feel afraid of Arabian at this moment. After what he had said she knew
she had no reason to be afraid of him just now. But if she gave herself
to him, if they ever were married? How would it be then? Life with him
would surely be an extraordinary business. She remembered her
solicitude about not being seen with him in public places. Already that
seemed long ago. Dick Garstin had told her she had travelled. No doubt
that was true. One may travel far perhaps in mind and in feeling
without being self-consciously aware of it. But when one was aware,
when one knew, it must surely be possible to stop. He had made to her a
tremendous suggestion. She could refuse to entertain it. And when she
refused, if she did refuse, what would happen? What would he say, do,
when he realized her determination? How would he take a determined
refusal? She could not imagine. But she knew that she could not imagine
Arabian ever yielding his will to hers in any big matter which would
seriously upset his life.
“Now, shall I sing to you?” he said, fixing his eyes upon her.
“Yes, please do,” she answered, looking away from him into the fire.
“You know how I sing. I am not a musician of cultivation, but I have
music in me. I have always had it. I have always sung, even as a boy.
It is natural to me. But I have been very idle in my life. I have never
been able to work, alas!”
She looked at him again. Always he was playing softly, improvising.
“Have you really never done any work?”
“Never. Unfortunately, perhaps, I have always had enough money to be
idle.”
“He's not poor!” she thought.
And then she felt glad, suddenly remembering how rich she was now,
since the death of her father.
He said nothing more, but played a short prelude and began to sing
in his small, but warm, tenor voice. And, sitting there by the fire,
she watched him while he sang, and wondered again, as she had wondered
in the studio, at the musical sense that was in him and that could show
itself so easily and completely, without apparently any strong effort.
The fascination she felt in him filled all his music, and appealed not
only to her senses but to her musical understanding. She had a genuine
passion for the right in all the arts, for the inevitable word in
literature, the inevitable touch of colour that lights up a painting,
fusing the whole into harmony, the inevitable emotional colouring of a
musical phrase, the slackening or quickening of time, which make a song
exactly what it should be. And to that passion he was able to appeal
with his gift. He sang two Italian songs, and she felt Italy in them.
Then he sang in French, and finally in Spanish—guitar songs. And
presently she gave herself entirely to him as a singer. He had
temperament, and she loved that. It meant, perhaps, too much to her.
That, no doubt, was what drew her to him more surely than his
remarkable physical beauty—temperament which has the keys of so many
doors, and can open them at will, showing glimpses of wonderful rooms,
and of gardens bathed in sunshine or steeped in mysterious twilight,
and of savage wastes, the wilderness, the windy tracts by the sea,
landscapes in snow, autumn breathing in mist; temperament which can
even simulate knowledge, and can rouse all the under-longings which so
often lie sleeping and unknown in women.
“With that man I could never be dull!”
That thought slipped through her while she listened. Where did he
come from? In how many lands had he lived? How had his life been
passed? She ought to know. Perhaps some day he would tell her. He must
surely tell her. One cannot do great things which affect one's life in
the dark.
Dark—that's his word! When had she thought that? She remembered. It
had been in that room. And since then she had seen Garstin's terrible
portrait.
But he was like a palm tree singing. Even Garstin had been forced to
say that of him.
When at last he stopped all the artistic part of her was under his
spell. He had, perhaps deliberately, perhaps at haphazard—she could
not tell—aroused in her a great longing for multifarious experiences
such as she had never yet suffered under or enjoyed. He had let her
recklessness loose from its tethering chain. Was she just then the same
woman who a short time ago had feared Minnie Birchington's curious
eyes? She could scarcely believe it.
He got up from the piano. She too got up. He came up to her, put his
hands on her shoulders gently, pressed them, contracting his strong
brown fingers, and said, looking down into her eyes:
“How beautiful you are! Mon Dieu! how beautiful you are!”
And her vanity was gratified as it had never been gratified before
by all the compliments she had received, by all the longings she had
aroused in men.
Still holding her shoulders he said:
“Do something for me to-night.”
“What is it? What do you want?”
“Oh, only a very simple thing.”
She felt disappointed, but she said nothing.
“Let us dine together to-night! Afterwards I will take you to your
hotel and leave you to think.”
He smiled down at her.
“I am no longer afraid to let you think. Will you come?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Where was it you were walking to that night when I was so rude as
to follow after you?”
“To a restaurant in Soho.”
“Yes?”
“To the Bella Napoli.”
“Napoli!”
He half shut his eyes.
“I love Naples. Is it Italian?”
“Yes.”
“Really Italian?”
“Yes.”
“Let us go there. And before we go I will sing you a street song of
Naples.”
“You—you are not a Neapolitan?” she asked.
“No. I come from South America. But I know Naples very, very well.
Listen!”
And almost laughing, and looking suddenly buffo, he spoke a few
sentences in the Neapolitan patois.
“Ah, they are rascals there! But one forgives them because they are
happy in their naughtiness, or at any rate they seem happy. And there
is nothing like happiness for getting forgiveness. We will be happy
to-night, and we shall get forgiven. We will go to the Bella Napoli.”
She did not say “yes” or “no.” She was thinking at that moment of
Craven and Adela Sellingworth. It was just possible that they might be
there. But if they were? What did it matter? Minnie Birchington had
seen her with Arabian. Lady Archie Brooke had seen her. Craven had seen
her. And why should she be ashamed. Ought and ought not! Had she ever
been governed in her life and her doing by fear of opinion?
“Do you say yes?” he asked. “Or must you go back to dear
Mademoiselle Cronin?”
She shook her head.
“Then what do you say?”
“Yes, I'll go there with you,” she answered.
But there was a sound of defiance in her voice, and at that moment
she had a feeling that she was going to do something more decisively
unconventional, even more dangerous, than she had ever yet done.
If they were there! She remembered Craven's look at Arabian.
She remembered, too, the change in Arabian's face as Craven had passed
them.
But Craven had gone back to Adela Sellingworth. Arabian, perhaps,
had been the cause of that return.
“Why do you look like that? What are you thinking of?”
“Naples,” she said.
“I will sing you the street song. And then, presently, we will go. I
know we must not be too late, or your dear Mademoiselle Cronin will be
frightened about you.”
He left her, and went once more to the piano.
CHAPTER IV
About seven o'clock that evening Lady Sellingworth was sitting alone
in her drawing-room. Sir Seymour Portman had been with her for an hour
and had left her at half past six, believing that she was going to
spend one of her usual solitary evenings, probably with a book by the
fire. He would gladly, even thankfully, have stayed to keep her
company. But no suggestion of that kind had been made to him. And,
beyond calling regularly at the hour when he believed that he was
welcome, he never pressed his company upon his dearly loved friend.
Even in his great affection he preserved a certain ceremoniousness.
Even in his love he never took a liberty. In modern days he still held
to the reserve of the very great gentleman, old-fashioned perhaps now,
but nevertheless precious in his sight.
He would have been not a little surprised had he been able to see
his Adela at this moment.
She had changed the plain black gown in which she had received him,
and was dressed in dark red velvet. She wore a black hat. Two big
rubies gleamed in her ears, and there was another, surrounded with
diamonds, at her throat. Her gown was trimmed with an edging of some
dark fur. As usual her hands were covered by loose white gloves. She
was shod for walking out. Her eyebrows had been carefully darkened.
There was some artificial red on her lips. Her white hair was fluffed
out under the hat brim, and looked very thick and vital. Her white skin
was smooth and even. Her eyes shone, as Cecile had just told her, “
comme deux lampes.” She was a striking figure as she sat on her sofa
very upright near a lamp, holding a book in her hand. She even looked
very handsome and, of course, very distinguished. But her face was
anxious, her bright eyes were uneasy, and there was a perceptible stamp
of artificiality upon her. A woman would have noticed it instantly.
Even an observant man would probably not have missed it.
She seemed to be reading at first, and presently there was a faint
rustle. She had turned a page. But soon she put the book down in her
lap, still keeping her hand on it, and sat looking about the room. The
clock chimed seven. She moved and sighed. Then again she sat very still
like one listening. After a while she lifted the book, glanced at it
again, and then put it down, got up and went to the fireplace. She
turned on the lights there, leaned forward and looked into the glass.
Her face became stern with intentness when she did that. She put up a
hand to her hair, turned her head a little to one side, smiled faintly,
then a little more, and looked grave, then earnest. Finally she put
both her hands on the mantelpiece, grasped it and stared into the
glass.
In that moment she was feeling afraid.
She had arranged to dine with Alick Craven once more at the Bella
Napoli. He would come for her in a few minutes. She was wondering
very much how exactly she would appear to him, how old, how good-looking—or plain. She had tried, with Cecile's help, to look her very
best. Cecile had declared the result was a success. “Miladi est
merveilleusement belle ce soir, mais vraiment belle!” But a maid,
of course, would not scruple to lie about such a matter. One could not
depend on a maid's word. She was in love with Alick Craven, desperately
in love as only an elderly women can be with a man much younger than
herself. And that love made her afraid.
There was a tiny mole on her face, near the mouth. She wished she
had had it removed in Geneva. Why had not she had that done? No doubt
because she was so accustomed to it that for years she had never
thought of it, had never even seen it. Now suddenly she saw it, and it
seemed to her noticeable, an ugly blemish. Anyone who looked at her
must surely look at it, think of it. For a moment she felt desperate
about it, and her whole body was suddenly hot as if a flame went over
it. Then the mocking look came into her eyes. She was trying to laugh
at herself.
“He doesn't think of me in that way! No man will ever think
of me in that way again!”
But the mocking expression died out and the fear did not go. She was
afraid of Craven's young eyes. It was terrible to feel so humble, so
full of trembling diffidence. Oh, for a moment of the conquering
sensation she had sometimes known in the years long ago when men had
made her aware of her power!
Since their meeting in Dindie Ackroyde's drawing-room her friendship
with Craven, renewed, had grown into something like intimacy. But there
was an uneasiness in it which she felt acutely. There were humbug and
fear in this friendship. Because she was desperately in love she was
forced to be insincere with Craven. Haunted perpetually by the fear of
losing what she had, the liking of a man who was not, and could never
be, in love with her, she had to give Craven the impression that she
was beyond the age of love, that the sensations of love were dead in
her beyond hope of resurrection. She had to play at detachment when her
one desire was to absorb and to be absorbed, had to sustain an
appearance of physical coldness while she was burning with physical
fever. She had to create a false atmosphere about her, and to do it so
cleverly that it seemed absolutely genuine, the emanation of her
personality in unstudied naturalness.
Her lack of all affection helped her to deceive. Though in moments
she might seem constrained, oddly remote, frigidly detached, she was
never affected. Now and then Craven had wondered about her, but he had
never guessed that she was acting a part. The charm of her was still
active about him, and it was the charm of apparent sincerity. To him so
far the false atmosphere seemed real, and he was not aware of the fear.
Lady Sellingworth feared being found out by Craven, and feared what
might happen if he found out that she was in love with him. She feared
her age and the addition each passing day made to it. She feared her
natural appearance, and now strove to conceal it as much as possible
without being unskilful or blatant. And she feared the future terribly.
For Time galloped now. She often felt herself rushing towards the
abyss of the seventies.
The worst of it all was that in humbug she was never at ease.
Instead of, like many women, living comfortably in insincerity, she
longed to be sincere. To love as she did and be insincere was
abominable to her. To her insincerity now seemed to be the direct
contradiction of love. Often when she was deceiving Alick Craven she
felt almost criminal. Perhaps if she had been much younger she might
not have been so troubled in the soul by the necessity for constant
pretence. But to those who are of any real worth the years bring a
growing need of sincerity, a growing hunger which only true things can
satisfy. And she knew that need and suffered that hunger.
She was feeling it now as she waited for Craven. She longed to be
able to let him see her as she was and to be accepted by him as she
was. But he would not accept her. She knew that. He did not want her as
she wanted him. He was satisfied with things as they were. She was at a
terrible disadvantage with him, for she was in his power, while he was
not in hers. He could ruin such happiness as she now had. But she could
not ruin his happiness. If he gave her up she would be broken, though
probably no one would know it. But if she gave him up he would not mind
very much, though no doubt his pride would be hurt. Perhaps, even now,
she was only a palliative in his life. Beryl Van Tuyn had evidently
treated him badly. He turned to others for some casual consolation.
Lady Sellingworth often wondered painfully what Craven felt about
the American girl. Was she only comforting Craven, playing a sort of
dear old mother's part to him? Did he come to her because he considered
her a skilful binder up of wounds? Could Beryl whenever she chose take
him away?
Lady Sellingworth's instinct told her that while she had been abroad
Craven and Beryl had travelled in their friendship. But she did not yet
know exactly how far Craven had gone. It seemed evident now that Beryl
had been suddenly diverted, no doubt by some strong influence, on to
another track; Lady Sellingworth knew that she and Craven were no
longer meeting. Something had happened which had interfered with their
intimacy. Rumour said that Beryl Van Tuyn was in love with another man,
with this Nicolas Arabian, whom nobody knew. Everyone in the Coombe set
was talking about it. How keenly did Craven feel this sudden defection?
That it had hurt his young pride Lady Sellingworth was certain. But she
was not certain whether it had seriously wounded his heart.
“Am I a palliative?” she thought as she gazed into the glass.
And then came the terrible question:
“How can I be anything else?”
She heard the door opening behind her, took her hands from the
mantelpiece, and turned round quickly.
“Mr. Craven, my lady.”
“You're all ready? Capital! I say, am I late?”
“No. It's only a little past seven.”
He had taken her hand. She longed to press his, but she did not
press it. He looked at her, she thought, rather curiously.
“I've got a taxi at the door. It's rather a horrid night. You're not
dressed for walking?”
Again his look seemed to question her.
She put up a hand to her face, near the mouth, nervously.
“We had better drive. In these winter evenings walking isn't very
pleasant. We must be a little less Bohemian in taste, mustn't we?”
He seemed now slightly constrained. His eyes did not rest upon her
quite naturally, she thought.
“Shall we go down?” she said.
“Yes, do let us.”
As she moved to go she looked into the glass. She could not help
doing that. He noticed it, and thought:
“I wonder why she has begun making her face up like this?”
He did not like it. He preferred her as she had been when he had
first come to her house on an autumn evening. To him there was
something almost distressing in this change which he noticed specially
to-night. And her look into the glass had shown him that she was
preoccupied about her appearance. Such a preoccupation on her part
seemed foreign to her character as he had conceived of it. Her greatest
charm had been her extraordinary lack, or apparent lack, of all self-consciousness. She had never seemed to bother about herself, to be
thinking of the impression she was making on others.
But she was certainly looking very handsome.
She put on a fur. They got into the cab and drove to Soho.
Craven had ordered the table in the window to be reserved for them.
The restaurant was fairly, but not quite, full. The musicians were in
their accustomed places looking very Italian. The lustrous padrona
smiled a greeting to them from her counter. Their bright-eyed waitress
hurried up and welcomed them in Italian. Vesuvius erupted at them from
the walls. There was a cozy warmth in the unpretentious room, an
atmosphere of careless intimacy and good fellowship.
“Let me take off your fur!”
She slipped out of it, and he hung it up on a hook among hats and
coats which looked as if they could never have anything to do with it.
“I'll sit with my back to the window,” she said. She sat down, and
he sat on her left facing the entrance.
Then the menu was brought, and they began to consult about what they
would eat. She did not care what it was, but she pretended to care very
much. To do that was part of the game. If only she could think of all
this as a game, could take it lightly, merrily! She resolved to make a
strong effort to conquer the underlying melancholy which had
accompanied her into this new friendship, and which she could not shake
off. It came from a lost battle, from a silent and great defeat. She
was afraid of it, for it was black and profound beyond all plumbing.
Often in her ten years of retirement she had felt melancholy. But this
was a new sort of sadness. There was an acrid edge to it. It had the
peculiar and subtle terror of a grief that was not caused only by
events, but also, and specially, by something within herself.
“Gnocchi—we must have gnocchi!”
“Oh, yes.”
“But wait, though! There are ravioli! It would hardly do to have
both, I suppose, would it?”
“No; they are too much alike.”
“Then which shall we have?”
She was going to say, “I don't mind!” but remembered her role and
said:
“Please, ravioli for me.”
And she believed that she said it with gusto, as if she really did
care.
“For me too!” said Craven.
And he went on considering and asking, with his dark head bent over
the menu and his blue eyes fixed upon it.
“There! That ought to be a nice dinner!” he said, at last. “And for
wine Chianti, I suppose?”
“Yes, Chianti Rosso,” she answered, with the definiteness, she
hoped, of the epicure.
This small fuss about what they were going to eat marked for her the
severing difference between Craven's mental attitude at this moment and
hers. For him this little dinner was merely a pleasant way of spending
a casual evening in the company of one who was kind to him, whom he
found sympathetic, whom he admired probably as a striking
representative of an era that was past, the Edwardian era. For her it
was an event full of torment and joy. The joy came from being alone
with him. But she was tortured by yearnings which he knew nothing of.
He was able to give himself out to her naturally. She was obliged to
hold herself in, to conceal the horrible fact that she was obsessed by
him, that she was longing to commit sacrifices for him, to take him as
her exclusive possession, to surround him with love and worship. He
wanted from her what she was apparently giving him and nothing more.
She wanted from him all that he was not giving her and would never give
her. The dinner would be a tranquil pleasure for him, and a quivering
torture for her, mingled with some moments of forgetfulness in which
she would have a brief illusion of happiness. She made the comparison
and thought with despair of the unevenness of Fate. Meanwhile she was
smiling and praising the vegetable soup sprinkled with Parmesan cheese.
One of the musicians came up to their table, and inquired whether
the signora would like any special thing played. Lady
Sellingworth shook her head. She was afraid of their songs of the
South, and dared not choose one.
“Anything you like!” she said.
“They are all much the same,” she added to Craven.
“But I thought you were so fond of the songs of Naples and the Bay.
Don't you remember that first evening when—”
“Yes, I remember,” she interrupted him, almost sharply. “But still
these songs are really all very much alike. They all express the same
sort of thing—Neapolitan desires.”
“And not only Neapolitan desires, I should say,” said Craven.
At that moment a hard look came into his eyes, a grimness altered
his mouth. His face completely changed, evidently under the influence
of some sudden and keen gust of feeling. He slightly bent his head, and
the colour rose in his cheeks.
Lady Sellingworth who, for the moment, had been wholly intent on
Craven, now looked to see what had caused this sudden and evidently
uncontrollable exhibition of feeling. She saw two people, a tall girl
and a man, walking down the restaurant towards the further end. The
girl she immediately recognized.
“Oh—there's Beryl!” she said.
Her heart sank as she looked at Craven.
“Yes,” he said.
“Did she see me?”
“I don't know. Probably she did. But she seemed in a hurry.”
“Oh! Whom is she with?”
“That fellow they are all talking about, Arabian. At least, I
suppose so. Anyhow, it's the fellow I saw in Glebe Place. Ah, there
they go with Sole mio!”
The musicians were beginning the melody of which Italians never seem
to weary. Lady Sellingworth listened to it as she looked down the long
and narrow room now crowded with people. Beryl Van Tuyn was standing by
a table near the wall. Lady Sellingworth saw her in profile. Her
companion stood beside her with his back to the room. Lady Sellingworth
noticed that he was tall with an athletic figure, that he was
broad-shouldered, that his head was covered with thickly growing brown
hair. He gave her the impression of a strong and good-looking man. She
gazed at him with an interest she scarcely understood at that moment,
an interest surely more intense than even the gossip she had heard
about him warranted.
He helped Miss Van Tuyn out of her coat, then took off his, and went
to hang them on a stand against the wall. In doing this he turned, and
for a moment showed his profile to Lady Sellingworth. She saw the line
of his brown face, his arm raised, his head slightly thrown back.
So that was Nicolas Arabian, the man all the women in the Coombe set
were gossiping about! She could not see him very well. He was rather a
long way off, and two moving people, a waitress carrying food, an
Italian man going to speak to a gesticulating friend, intervened and
shut him out from her sight while he was still arranging the coats. But
there was something in his profile, something in his movement and in
the carriage of his head which seemed familiar to her. And she drew her
brows together, wondering. Craven spoke to her through the music. She
looked at him, answered him. Then once more she glanced down the room.
Beryl and Arabian had sat down. Beryl was facing her. Arabian was at
the side. Lady Sellingworth still saw him in profile. He was talking to
the waitress.
“I am sure I know that man's face!” Lady Sellingworth thought.
And she expressed her thought to Craven.
“If that is Nicolas Arabian I think I must have seen him about
London,” she said. “His side face seems familiar to me somehow.”
Why would not Beryl look at her?
“I wonder whether Beryl saw me when she came in,” continued Lady
Sellingworth. “She saw you, of course.”
“Yes, she saw me.”
From the sound of Craven's voice, from the constraint of his manner,
Lady Sellingworth gathered the knowledge that her evening was spoilt. A
few minutes before she had been quivering with anxiety, had been
struggling to conquer the melancholy which, she knew, put her at a
disadvantage with Craven, had been seized with despair as she compared
her fate with his. Now she looked back at that beginning of the evening
and thought of it as happy. For Craven had seemed contented then. Now
he was obviously restless, ill at ease. He never looked down the room.
He devoted himself to her. He talked even more than usual. But she was
aware of effort in it all, and knew that his thoughts were with Beryl
Van Tuyn and the stranger who seemed vaguely familiar to her.
Formerly—with what intensity she remembered, visualized, the
occasions—Craven had been restless with Beryl Van Tuyn because he
wished to be with her; now he was restless with her. And she did not
need to ask herself why.
This remembrance made her feel angry in her despair. Her hatred of
Beryl revived. She recalled the girl's cruelty to her. Now Beryl had
been cruel to Craven. And yet Craven was longing after her. What was
the good of kindness, of the warm heart full of burning desires to be
of use, to comfort, to bring joy into a life? The cruel fascinated,
perhaps were even loved. Men were bored by any love that was wholly
unselfish.
But was her love unselfish? She put that question from her. She felt
injured, wounded. It was difficult for her any longer to conceal her
misery. But she tried to talk cheerfully, naturally. She forced her
lips to smile. She praised the excellence of the cooking, the efforts
of the musicians.
Nevertheless the conversation presently languished. There was no
spontaneity in it. All around them loud voices were talking volubly in
Italian. She glanced from table to table. It seemed to her that
everyone was feeling happy and at ease except herself and Craven. They
were ill matched. She became horribly self-conscious. She felt as if
people were looking at them with surprise, as if an undercurrent of
ridicule was creeping through the room. Surely many were wondering who
the painted old woman and the young man were, why they sat together in
the corner by the window! She saw one of the musicians smile and
whisper to the companion beside him, and felt certain he was speaking
about her, was smiling, at some ugly thought which he had just put into
words.
To an Italian she must certainly seem an old wreck of a woman, “
una vecchia,” an object of contempt, or of smiling pity. She looked
down at her red dress, remembered the jewels in her ears and at her
throat. How useless and absurd were her efforts to look her best! A
terrible phrase of Caroline Briggs came into her mind: “I feel as if I
were looking at bones decked out in jewels.” And again she was back in
Paris ten years ago; again she saw a contrast bizarre as the contrast
she and Craven now presented to the crowd in the restaurant. Before the
eyes of her mind there rose an old woman in a black wig and a
marvellously handsome young man.
Suddenly a thrill shot through her. It was like a sharp physical
pain, a sword-thrust of agony.
That profile which had seemed vaguely familiar to her just now, was
it not like his profile? She tried to reason with herself, to tell
herself that she was yielding to a crazy fancy, brought about by her
nervous excitement and by the mental pain she was suffering. Many men
slightly, sometimes markedly, resemble other men. One face seen in
profile is often very much like another. But the even dark brown of the
complexion! That was not very common, not the type of complexion one
sees every day.
She glanced at the men near to her. Most of them were Italians and
swarthy. But not one had that peculiar, almost bronze-like darkness.
Beryl had spoken of “a living bronze.”
Craven was speaking to her again. She forced herself to reply to
him, though she scarcely knew what she was saying. She saw a look of
surprise in the eyes which he fixed on her.
“Isn't it getting very hot?” she said quickly.
“It is rather hot. Shall I ask them to open the window a little? But
it is just behind you.”
“It doesn't matter. I have brought my fan.”
She picked the fan up and began to use it unsteadily.
“The room is so very crowded to-night,” she murmured.
“Yes. No wonder with such cooking. Here is the Zabaione.”
The waitress put two large glasses before them filled with the thick
yellow custard, then brought them a plate of biscuits.
Lady Sellingworth laid down the fan and picked up her spoon. She
must eat. But she did not know how she was going to force herself to do
it. Although she kept on saying to herself: “It's impossible!” she
could not get rid of the horrible suspicion which had assailed her. On
the contrary, it seemed to grow in her till it was almost a conviction.
She tried to eat tranquilly. She praised the Zabaione. She sipped her
Chianti Rosso. But she tasted nothing, and when the musicians struck up
another melody she did not know what they were playing.
“Are you tired of it?”
Craven had spoken to her.
“Of what?” she asked, as if almost startled.
“That—Santa Lucia?”
“Oh—is it?”
He looked astonished.
“Oh—yes, I must say I am rather sick of it!” she said quickly.
She laid down her spoon.
“Don't you like the Zabaione?”
“Yes, it's delicious. But I have had enough. You ordered such a very
good dinner!”
She began to use her fan again. The noise of voices in the room was
becoming like the noise of voices in a nightmare. She was longing to
confirm or banish her suspicion by a long look at Beryl's companion.
She felt sure now that if she looked again at Arabian she would be
absolutely certain, even from a distance, whether he was or was not the
man who had brought about the robbery of her jewels at the Gard du Nord
ten years ago. Her mind was fully awake now, and she would be able to
see. But, knowing that, she did not dare to look towards Arabian. She
was miserable in her uncertainty, but she was afraid of having her
horrible suspicion confirmed. She was a coward at that moment, and she
knew it.
Craven finished his Zabaione and put down his spoon. They had not
ordered another course. The dinner was over. But they had not had their
coffee yet, and he asked for it.
“Are you going to smoke a Toscana?” she said, forcing herself to
smile.
“Yes, I think I will. Do let me give you a cigarette.”
He drew out his case and offered it to her. She took a cigarette,
lit it, and began to smoke. Their coffee was brought.
“Oh, it's too hot to drink!” she said, almost irritably.
“But we aren't in a hurry, are we?” he said, looking at her with
surprise.
“No, of course not.”
Now she was gazing resolutely down at the tablecloth. She was afraid
to raise her eyes, was afraid of what they might see. Her whole mind
now was bent upon getting away from the restaurant as soon as possible.
She had decided to go without making sure whether Arabian was the man
who had robbed her or not. Even uncertainty would surely be better than
a certainty that might bring in its train necessities too terrible to
contemplate mentally.
As she was looking down she did not see something which just then
happened in the room. It was this:
Miss Van Tuyn, who had not said a word to Arabian of her friends who
were dining by the window, although she guessed that he had probably
noticed Alick Craven when they came in, resolved to take a bold step.
It was useless any longer to play for concealment. Since she came out
to dine in public with Arabian, since he had asked her to marry him and
she had not refused—though she had not accepted—since she knew very
well that she had not the will power to send him out of her life, she
resolved to do what she had not done in Glebe Place and introduce him
to Craven. She even decided that if it seemed possible that the two men
could get on amicably for a few minutes she would go a step farther;
she would introduce Arabian to Adela Sellingworth.
Adela should see that she, Beryl, was absolutely indifferent to what
Craven did, or did not do. And Craven should be made to understand that
she went on her way happily without him, and not with an old man,
though he had chosen as his companion an old woman. And, incidentally,
she would put Arabian to the test which had been missed in Glebe Place.
With this determination in her mind she said to Arabian:
“There are two friends of mine at the table in the corner by the
window.”
“Yes?” he said.
And he turned his head to look.
As he did so, perhaps influenced by his eyes, or by the fact that
the attention of two minds was at that moment concentrated on him,
Craven looked towards them.
“I want to introduce you to them if possible,” said Miss Van Tuyn.
And she made a gesture to Craven, beckoned to him to come to her. He
looked surprised, reluctant. She saw that he flushed slightly. But she
persisted in her invitation. She had lost her head in Glebe Place, but
now she would retrieve the situation. Vanity, fear, an obscure
jealousy, and something else pushed her on. And she beckoned again. She
saw Craven lean over and say something to Lady Sellingworth. Then he
got up and came down the room towards her, threading his way among the
many tables.
Miss Van Tuyn was looking at him just then and not at Arabian.
Craven came up, looking stiff, almost awkward, and markedly more
English than usual. At least she thought so.
“How d'you do, Miss Van Tuyn? How are you?”
She gave him her hand with a smile.
“Very well! You see, I've not forgotten my old haunts. And I see you
haven't, either. Let me introduce you to my friend, Mr. Arabian. Mr.
Craven—Mr. Arabian.”
Arabian got up and bowed.
“Pleased to meet you!” he said in a formal voice.
“Good evening!” said Craven, staring hard at him.
“I mustn't ask you to sit down,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “As you are
tied up with Adela. But”—she hesitated for an instant, then continued
with hardihood—“can't you persuade Adela to join us for coffee?”
At this moment Arabian made a movement and opened his lips as if
about to say something.
“Yes?” she said, looking at him.
“I was only going to say that these tables are so very small. Is it
not so? How should we manage?”
“Oh, we can tuck in somehow.”
She turned again to Craven.
“Do ask her. Or we might come over to you.”
“Very well!” said Craven, still stiffly.
He glanced round towards the window and started.
“What's the matter?”
Miss Van Tuyn leaned forward and looked.
There was no longer anyone sitting at the table by the window.
Lady Sellingworth had disappeared.
CHAPTER V
“What has become of Adela?” exclaimed Miss Van Tuyn.
“I haven't the least idea,” said Craven, looking uncomfortable.
“Perhaps—She complained of the heat just now. She may have gone to the
door to get some air. Please forgive me!”
He glanced from Miss Van Tuyn to Arabian, who was still standing up
stiffly, with a rigidly polite expression on his face.
“I must just see!”
He turned away and walked down the restaurant.
When he got to the counter where the padrona sat enthroned he
found their waitress standing near it.
“Where is the signora?” he asked.
“The signora took her fur and went out, signorino,” said the woman.
“The bill, please!”
“Ecco, signorino!“
The woman presented the bill. Craven paid it, tipped her, got his
coat and hat, and went hurriedly out.
He expected to find Lady Sellingworth on the doorstep, but no one
was there, and he looked down the street, first to the right, then to
the left. In the distance on the left he saw the tall figure of a woman
walking slowly near a lamp-post, and he hurried down the street.
As his footsteps rang on the pavement the woman turned round, and
showed the white face and luminous eyes of Lady Sellingworth.
“You have given me quite a turn, as the servants say!” he exclaimed,
coming up to her. “What is the matter? Are you ill?”
He looked anxiously at her.
“What made you go away so suddenly? You didn't mind my—”
“No, no!” she interrupted. “But I do feel unwell. I feel very
unwell.”
“I'm most awfully sorry! Why didn't you tell me? Why did you let me
leave you?”
“Beryl wanted you.”
“It was only—she only wanted to suggest our all having coffee
together.”
Her mouth went awry.
“Oh, do take my arm!” he exclaimed. “What is it? Are you suffering?”
After a pause she said:
“Yes.”
There seemed to him something ominous in the sound of the word as
she spoke it.
“I'm horribly sorry. I must find you a cab.”
“Yes, please do.”
“But in Soho, it's so difficult! Can you manage—can you walk a
little way?”
“Oh yes.”
“Directly we get into Shaftesbury Avenue we are sure to see one.
It's only a step.”
She had taken his arm, but she did not lean heavily on it, only just
touched it. He hardly felt the weight of her hand. Evidently she was
not feeling faint, or very weak. He wondered intensely what was the
matter. But she did not give any explanation. She had made that ominous
answer to his question, and there she left it. He did not dare to make
any further inquiry, and as she said nothing they walked on in silence.
As they were turning into Shaftesbury Avenue an empty taxicab passed
them with the flag up.
“There's a taxi!” said Craven. “One minute!”
He let her arm go and ran after it, while she stood waiting at the
corner. In a moment he came back followed by the cab, which drew up by
the kerb. He opened the door and she got in. He was preparing to follow
her when she leaned forward and put her hand on the door.
“Mayn't I? Don't you wish me to come with you?”
She shook her head.
“But do let me see you home. If you are ill you really oughtn't to
be alone.”
“But I'm spoiling your evening. Why not go back?”
“Go back?”
“Yes—go back to Beryl?”
He stiffened, and the hard look came into his face. She saw his jaw
quiver slightly.
“To Miss Van Tuyn? But she is with someone.”
“But she asked you!”
“She asked both of us. I shall certainly not go back alone.”
“Really, I wish you would! Go back and—and see Beryl home.”
He looked at her in astonishment.
“Oh, I couldn't possibly do that! There was no suggestion—I
couldn't do that, really. I wonder you ask me to. Well—”
She took her hand away from the door and he shut it. But he remained
beside it—did not give the chauffeur her address.
“Why won't you let me take you back?” he said. “I don't understand.”
She smiled, and he thought it was the saddest smile he had ever
seen.
“One is only a bore to others when one is ill,” she said. “Good-bye.
Tell the man, please.”
He obeyed her, then took off his hat. His face was grim and
perplexed. As she was driven away in the night she gave him a strange
look; tragic and pleading, he thought, a look that almost frightened
him, that sent a shiver through him.
“Is she horribly ill?” he asked himself. “What can it be? Perhaps
she did go to Switzerland to see a doctor. Perhaps . . . can he have
condemned her to death?”
He shivered again. The expression of her eyes haunted him.
He stood for a moment at the street corner, pondering over her
words. What could have induced her to ask him to go back to Beryl Van
Tuyn, to see Beryl Van Tuyn home? She wanted him to interfere between
Miss Van Tuyn and that man, Nicolas Arabian! She tried metaphorically
to push him towards Miss Van Tuyn. It was inexplicable. Lady
Sellingworth was a woman of the world, past mistress of all the
convenances, one in whom any breach of good manners was impossible,
unthinkable! And yet she had asked him to go back to the restaurant,
and to thrust himself into the company of a girl and a man who were
dining by themselves. She had even asked him, a young fellow, certainly
younger than Beryl Van Tuyn's escort, to play the part of chaperon to
the girl!
Did she—could she know something about Arabian?
Certainly she did not know him. In the restaurant she had inquired
who he was. But, later, she had said that his profile seemed familiar
to her, that perhaps she had seen him about London. Her departure from
the restaurant had been strangely abrupt. Perhaps—could she have
recognized Arabian after he, Craven, had left her alone and had gone to
speak to Miss Van Tuyn? The man looked a wrong 'un. Craven felt certain
he was a wrong 'un. But if so, surely Lady Sellingworth could not know
him, or even know anything about him. There was something so remote and
distinguished about her life, her solitary, retired life. She did not
come in contact with such people.
“Get you a kib, gentleman?” said a soft cockney voice in Craven's
ear.
He started, and walked on quickly. In Lady Sellingworth's conduct
that night, in the last look she had given him, there was mystery. He
was quite unable to fathom it, and he went home to his flat in the
greatest perplexity, and feeling very uneasy.
When Murgatroyd opened the door to his mistress it was not much
after nine, and he was surprised to see her back so early and alone.
“Tea, please, Murgatroyd!” she said.
“Yes, my lady.”
She passed by him and ascended the big staircase. He heard her go
into the drawing-room and shut the door.
When, a few minutes later, he brought in the tea, she was standing
by the fire. She had taken off her big hat and laid it on a table.
“I shall want nothing more. Good night.”
“Good night, my lady.”
He went towards the door. When he was just going out he heard her
say, “Murgatroyd!” and turned.
“My lady!”
“Please let Cecile know I shan't want her to-night. She is not to
sit up for me. I'll manage for myself.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Make it quite understood, please.”
“Certainly, my lady.”
He went out and shut the door.
When she was quite alone Lady Sellingworth stood for several minutes
by the fire quite still, with her head bent down and her hands folded
together. Then she went to the tea table, poured out a cup of tea, sat
down and sipped it slowly, looking into vacancy with the eyes of one
whose real gaze was turned inwards upon herself. She finished the tea,
sat still for a little while, then got up, went to the writing-table,
sat before it, took a pen and a sheet of note-paper, and began slowly
to write.
She wrote first at the top of the sheet in the left-hand corner,
“Strictly private,” and underlined the words. Then she wrote:
“DEAR BERYL,—Please consider this letter absolutely private and
personal. I rely on your never speaking of it to anyone, and I
ask
you to burn it directly you have read it. Although I hate more
than anything else interfering in the private affairs of another,
I feel that it is my absolute duty to send this to you. I am a
very much older woman than you—indeed, almost an old woman. I
know the world very well—too well—and I feel I can ask you to
trust me when I give you a piece of advice, however unpleasant it
may seem at the moment. You were dining to-night alone with a man
who is totally unfit to be your companion, or the companion of
any
decent woman. I cannot explain to you how I know this, nor can I
tell you why he is unfit to be in any reputable company. But I
solemnly assure you—I give you my word—that I am telling you
the
truth. That man is a blackguard in the full acceptation of the
word. I believe you met him by chance in a studio. I am quite
positive that you know nothing whatever about him. I do. I
know—”
She hesitated, leaning over the paper with the pen lifted, frowning
painfully and with a look of fear in her eyes. Then her face hardened
in an expression of white resolution, and she wrote:
“I know that he ought to be in prison. He is beyond the pale. You
must never be seen with him again. I have said nothing of this to
anyone. Mr. Craven has not a suspicion of it. Nor has anyone else
whom we know. Drop that man at once. I don't think he will ask
you
for your reason. His not doing so will help to prove to you that
I
am telling you the truth.—Yours sincerely,
“ADELA SELLINGWORTH.”
When she had finished this letter Lady Sellingworth read it over
carefully twice, then put it into an envelope and wrote on the envelope
Beryl's address, and in the corner “strictly private.” But having done
this she did not fasten the envelope, though she lit a red candle that
was on the table and took up a stick of sealing-wax. Again hesitation
seized her.
The written word remains. Might it not be very dangerous to send
this letter? Suppose Beryl did show it to that man who called himself
Nicolas Arabian? He might—it was improbable, but he might—bring an
action for libel against the writer. Lady Sellingworth sickened as she
thought of that, and rapidly she imagined a hideous scandal, all London
talking of her, the Law Courts, herself in the witness-box,
cross-examination. What evidence could she give to prove that the
accusation she had written was true?
But surely Beryl would not show the letter. It would be
dishonourable to show it, and though she could be very cruel Lady
Sellingworth did not believe that Beryl was a dishonourable girl. But
if she was in love with that man? If she was under his influence? Women
in love, women under a spell, are capable of doing extraordinary
things. Lady Sellingworth knew that only too well. She remembered her
own madnesses, the madnesses of women she had known, women of the “old
guard.” And Arabian had fascination. She had felt it long ago. And
Beryl was young and had wildness in her.
It might be very dangerous to send that letter.
But if she did not send it, what was she going to do? She could not
leave things as they were, could not just hold her peace. To do that
would be infamous. And she could not be infamous. She felt the
obligation of age. Beryl had been cruel to her, but she could not leave
the girl in ignorance of the character of Arabian. If she did something
horrible might happen, would almost certainly happen. Beryl was very
rich now, and no doubt that man knew it. The death of her father had
been put in all the papers. There had been public chatter about the
fortune he had left. Men like Arabian knew what they were about. They
worked with deliberation, worked according to plan. And Beryl was
beautiful as well as rich.
Things could not be left as they were.
If she did not send that letter Lady Sellingworth told herself that
she would have to see Beryl and speak to her. She would have to say
what she had written. But that would be intolerable. The girl would ask
questions, would insist on explanations, would demand to be
enlightened. And then—
As she sat by the writing-table, plunged in thought, Lady
Sellingworth lost all count of time. But at last she took the
sealing-wax, put it to the candle flame, and sealed up the letter. She
had resolved that she would take the risk of sending it. Anything was
better than seeing Beryl, than speaking about this horror. And Beryl
would surely not be dishonourable.
Having sealed the letter Lady Sellingworth took it with her
upstairs. She had decided to leave it herself at Claridge's Hotel on
the morrow.
But after a wretched night she was again seized by hesitation. A
devil came and tempted her, asking her what business this was of hers,
why she should interfere in this matter. Beryl was audacious, self-possessed, accustomed to take her own way, to live as she chose, to
know all sorts and conditions of men. She was not an ignorant girl,
inexperienced in the ways of the world. She knew how to take care of
herself. Why not destroy the letter and just keep silence? She had
really no responsibility in this matter. Beryl was only an acquaintance
who had tried to harm her happiness. And then the tempter suggested to
her that by taking any action she must inevitably injure her own life.
He brought to her mind thoughts of Craven. If she let Beryl alone the
fascination of Arabian might work upon the girl so effectually that
Craven would mean nothing to her any more; but if she sent the letter,
or spoke, and Beryl heeded the warning, eventually, perhaps very soon,
Beryl would turn again to Craven.
By warning Beryl Lady Sellingworth would very probably turn a weapon
upon herself. And she realized that fully. For she had no expectation
of real gratitude from the girl expressing itself in instinctive
unselfishness.
“I should merely make an enemy by doing it,” she thought. “Or rather
two enemies.”
And she locked the letter up. She thought she would do nothing. But
as the day wore on she was haunted by a feeling of self-hatred. She had
done many wrong things in her life, but certain types of wrong things
she had never yet done. Her sins had been the sins of what is called
passion. There had been strong feeling behind them, prompting desire, a
flame, though not always the purest sort of flame. She had not been a
cold sinner. Nor had she been a contemptible coward. Now she was beset
by an ugly sensation of cowardice which made her ill at ease with
herself. She thought of Seymour Portman. He was able to love her, to go
on loving her. Therefore, in spite of all her caprices, in spite of all
she had done, he believed in that part of her which men have agreed to
call character. She could not love him as he wished, but she had an
immeasurable respect for him. And she knew that above all the other
virtues he placed courage, moral and physical. Noblesse oblige. He
would never fail. He considered it an obligation on those who were born
in what he still thought of as the ruling class to hold their heads
high in fearlessness. And in her blood, too, ran something of the same
feeling of obligation.
If she put her case before Seymour what would he tell her to do? To
ask that question was to answer it. He would not even tell. He would
not think it necessary to do that. She could almost hear his voice
saying: “There's only one thing to be done.”
She was loved by Seymour; she simply could not be a coward.
And she unlocked the box in which the letter was lying, and ordered
her car to come round.
“Please drive to Claridge's!” she said as she got into it.
On the way to the hotel she kept saying to herself: “Seymour!
Seymour! It's the only thing to do. It's the only thing to do.”
When the car stopped in front of the hotel she got out and went
herself to the bureau.
“Please give this to Miss Van Tuyn at once. It is very important.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Is she in?”
“I'm not sure, my lady, but I can soon—”
“No, no, it doesn't matter. But it is really important.”
“It shall go up at once my lady.”
“Thank you.”
As Lady Sellingworth got into her car she felt a sense of relief.
“I've done the right thing. Nothing else matters.”
CHAPTER VI
Miss Van Tuyn was not in the hotel when Lady Sellingworth called.
She did not come back till late, and when she entered the hall she was
unusually pale, and looked both tired and excited. She had been to Dick
Garstin on an unpleasant errand, and she had failed in achieving what
she had attempted to bring about. Garstin had flatly refused not to
exhibit Arabian's portrait. And she had been obliged to tell Arabian of
his refusal.
The man at the bureau gave her Lady Sellingworth's note, and she
took it up with her to her sitting-room. As she sat down to read it she
noticed the words on the envelope, “Strictly private,” and wondered
what it contained. She did not recognize the handwriting as Adela's.
She took the letter out of the envelope and saw again the warning
words.
“What can it be about?”
Before she read further she felt some unpleasant information was in
store for her, and for a moment she hesitated. Then she looked at the
address on the paper: “18A Berkeley Square.”
It was from Adela! She frowned. She felt hostile, already on the
defensive, though she had, of course, no idea what the letter was
about. But when she had read it her cheeks were scarlet, and she
crushed the paper up in her hand.
“How dare she write to me like that! I don't believe it. I don't
believe a word of it! She only wants to take him away from me as she is
trying to take Alick Craven.”
Instantly she had come to a conclusion about Adela's reason for
writing that letter. She remembered the strange episode in the Bella
Napoli on the previous evening—Adela's extraordinary departure
when Craven had come to speak to her and Arabian. She had not seen
Craven again. There had been no explanation of that flight. In this
letter, between the lines, she read the explanation. Adela must know
Arabian, must have had something to do with him in the past. They had,
perhaps, even been lovers. She did not know the age of Arabian, but she
guessed that he was about thirty-five, perhaps even thirty-eight. Adela
was sixty now. They might have been lovers when Arabian was quite
young, perhaps almost a boy. At that time Adela had been a brilliant
and conquering beauty, middle-aged certainly, over forty, but still
beautiful, still full of charm, still bent on conquest. Miss Van Tuyn
remembered the photograph of Adela which she had seen at Mrs.
Ackroyde's. Yes, that was it. Adela knew Arabian. They had been lovers.
And now, out of jealousy, she had written this abominable letter.
But the girl read it again, and began to wonder. It was strangely
explicit, even for a letter of a jealous and spiteful woman. It told
her that Arabian was beyond the pale, that he ought to be in prison. In
prison! That was going very far in attack. To write that, unless it
were true, was to write an atrocious libel. But a jealous woman would
do anything, risk anything to “get her own back.”
Nevertheless Miss Van Tuyn felt afraid. This strange and terrible
letter dovetailed with Dick Garstin's warning, and both fitted in as it
were with the underthings in her own mind, with those things which
Garstin had summed up in one word “intuition.”
Arabian had taken her news about Garstin quite coolly.
“I will see about that myself,” he had said. “But now—”
And then he had made passionate love to her. There had been—she had
noticed it all through her visit—a new pressure in his manner, a new
and, as she now began to think, almost desperate authority in his whole
demeanour. His long reticence, the reserve which had puzzled and
alarmed her, had given place to a frankness, a heat, which had almost
swept her away. She still tingled at the memory of what she had been
through. But now she began to think of it with a certain anxiety. In
spite of her anger against Adela her brain was beginning to work with
some of its normal calmness.
Arabian had been very slow in advances. But now was not he like a
man in great haste, like a man who wished to bring something to a
conclusion rapidly, if possible immediately? Passion for her, perhaps,
drove him on now that at last he had spoken, had held her in his arms.
But suppose he had another reason for haste? He had seen Lady
Sellingworth. He knew that she was a friend of the girl he wanted to
marry. Miss Van Tuyn remembered that he had not welcomed her suggestion
that the two couples, he and she, Lady Sellingworth and Craven, should
have coffee together. He had spoken of the smallness of the tables in
the Bella Napoli. But that might have been because he was
jealous of Craven.
She read the letter a third time, very slowly and carefully. Then
she put it back into its envelope and rang the bell.
A waiter came.
“It's about seven, isn't it?” she said.
“Half past seven, madam.”
“Please bring me up some dinner at once—anything. Bring me a sole
and an omelette. That will do. But I want it as soon as possible.”
“Yes, madame.”
The waiter went out. Then Miss Van Tuyn went to see old Fanny, and
explained that she must dine alone that evening as she was in a hurry.
“I have to go to Berkeley Square directly after dinner to visit a
friend, Lady Sellingworth.”
“Then I am to dine by myself, dear?” said Miss Cronin plaintively.
“Yes, you must dine alone. Good night, Fanny.”
“Shan't I see you when you come in?”
“I may be late. Don't bother about me.”
She went out and shut the door, leaving old Fanny distressed.
Something very serious was certainly happening. Beryl looked quite
unusual, so strung up, so excited. What could be the matter? If only
they could get back to Paris! There everything went so differently!
There Beryl was always in good spirits. The London atmosphere seemed to
hold poison. Even Bourget's spell was lessened in this city of darkness
and strange inexplicable perturbations.
That night, about a quarter to nine when Lady Sellingworth had just
finished her solitary dinner and gone up to the drawing-room, a footman
came in and said:
“Will you see Miss Van Tuyn, my lady? She has called and is in the
hall. She begs you to see her for a moment.”
Two spots of red appeared in Lady Sellingworth's white cheeks. For a
moment she hesitated. A feeling almost of horror had come to her, a
longing for instant flight. She had not expected this. She did not know
what exactly she had expected, but it had certainly not been this.
“Did you say I was in?” she said, at last.
The footman—a new man in the house—looked uncomfortable.
“I said your Ladyship was not out, but that I did not know whether
your Ladyship was at home to anyone.”
After another pause Lady Sellingworth said:
“Please ask Miss Van Tuyn to come up.”
As she spoke she got up from her sofa. She felt that she could not
receive Beryl sitting, that she must stand to confront what was coming
to her with the girl.
The footman went out and almost immediately returned.
“Miss Van Tuyn, my lady.”
“Do forgive me, Adela!” said Miss Van Tuyn, coming in with her usual
graceful self-possession and looking, Lady Sellingworth thought in that
first moment, quite untroubled. “This is a most unorthodox hour. But I
knew you were often alone in the evening, and I thought perhaps you
wouldn't mind seeing me for a few minutes.”
She took Lady Sellingworth's hand and started. For the hand was
cold. Then she looked round and saw that the footman had left the room.
The big door was shut. They were alone together.
“Of course you know why I've come, Adela,” she said. “I've had your
letter.”
As she spoke she drew it out of the muff she was carrying.
“I was obliged to write it,” said Lady Sellingworth. “It was my duty
to write it.”
“Yes?”
“But I don't want to discuss it.”
They were both still standing. Now Miss Van Tuyn said;
“Do you mind if I sit down?”
“No; do sit.”
“And may I take off my coat?”
Lady Sellingworth was obliged to say:
“Yes, do.”
Very composedly and rather slowly Miss Van Tuyn took off her fur
coat, laid aside her muff, and sat down near the fire.
“I'm very sorry, Adela, but really, we must discuss this letter,”
she said. “I don't understand it.”
“Surely it is explicit enough.”
“Yes. It is too explicit not to be discussed between us.”
“Beryl, I don't want to discuss it. I can't discuss it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it is too painful—a horrible subject. You must take my
word for it that I have written you the plain truth.”
“Please don't think I doubt your word, Adela.”
“No, of course not. And that being so let the matter end there. It
must end there.”
“But—where? I don't quite understand really.”
“I felt obliged to send you a warning, a very serious warning. I
greatly disliked, I hated doing it. But I couldn't do otherwise. You
are young—a girl. I am an—I am almost an old woman. We have been
friends. I saw you in danger. What could I do but tell you of it? I
knew of course you were quite innocent in the matter. I am putting no
blame whatever on you. You will do me that justice.”
“Oh, yes.”
“So there is nothing more to discuss. I have done what I was bound
to do, and I know you will heed my warning.”
She looked at the letter in Beryl's hand, and remembered her feeling
of danger when she wrote it.
“And now please burn that letter, Beryl. Throw it into the fire.”
As she spoke she pointed to the fire on the hearth. But Miss Van
Tuyn kept the letter in her hand.
“Please wait a minute, Adela!” she said.
And a mutinous look came into her face.
“You don't quite understand how things are. It's all very well to
think you can make me give up my friend—any friend of mine—at a
moment's notice and at a word from you. But I don't see things quite in
the same light.”
“That—that man isn't your friend. Don't say that.”
“But I do say it,” said the girl, with a now intense obstinacy.
“You met him in Mr. Garstin's studio, didn't you?”
“Perhaps I did. There is nothing against him in that.”
“I do not say there is. But I do say you know nothing about him.”
“But how do you know that? You assume a great deal, Adela.”
“Do you know anything about him?”
“Suppose I were to ask you questions in my turn?”
“Questions? But I have told you—”
“Yes, you have told me certain things, but you have explained
nothing. You seem to expect everything from me. Am I not to expect
anything from you?”
“Anything! But what?”
“An explanation, surely.”
Lady Sellingworth was silent. She was still standing. The two spots
of red still glowed in her white face. Her eyes looked like the eyes of
one who was in dread. They had lost their usual expression of self-command, and resembled the eyes of a creature being hunted. Miss Van
Tuyn saw that and wondered. A fierce animosity woke in her and made her
more obstinate, more determined to get at the truth of this mystery.
She would not leave this house until light was given to her. She had a
strong will. It was now fully roused, and she was ready to pit it
against Adela's will. And she had another weapon in her armoury. She
was now very angry, with an anger which she did not fully understand,
and which was made up of several elements. One of these elements was
certainly passion. This anger rendered her merciless.
“Well, Adela?” she said at length, as Lady Sellingworth did not
speak.
“What is it you want, Beryl?” said Lady Sellingworth, looking into
her eyes and then quickly away.
“But I have told you—an explanation.”
She unfolded the letter slowly.
“I can't give you one. I have told you the truth, and I ask you to
accept it, and I beg, I implore you to act upon it.”
“Suppose I were to make a violent attack on one of your friends, on
Mr. Craven for instance?”
“Please don't bracket Mr. Craven and that man together!” said Lady
Sellingworth sharply.
Beryl Van Tuyn flushed with anger.
“But I do!” she said. “I choose to do that for the sake of
argument.”
“Two such men have nothing in common, nothing! One is a gentleman,
the other is a blackguard!”
Miss Van Tuyn thought of the previous evening, when Lady
Sellingworth had dined with Craven while she had dined with Arabian,
and she was stung to the quick.
“I cannot allow you to speak like this of a friend of mine without
an explanation,” she said bitterly. “And now”—she spoke more
hurriedly, as if fearing to be interrupted—“I will finish what I was
going to say, if you will allow me. Suppose I were to make an attack
on, say, Mr. Craven, to tell you that I happened to know he was
thoroughly bad, immoral, a liar, anything you like. Do you mean to say
you would give him up at once without insisting on knowing from me my
exact reasons for branding him as unfit for your company? Of course you
wouldn't. And not only you! No one would do such a thing who had any
courage or any will in them.”
She lifted the letter.
“In this letter you say that Mr. Arabian is unfit to be the
companion of any decent woman, that he is a blackguard in the full
acceptance of the word, that he is beyond the pale, and finally, that
he ought to be in prison. Very well! I don't say for a moment that I
doubt your word, but I do ask you to justify it. Of course I know that
you easily can. Otherwise I am sure that you would never have written
such awful accusations against anyone. It would be too wicked, and I
know you are not wicked. Please tell me your exact reason for writing
this letter, Adela.”
“I can't.”
“You really mean that?”
“I won't. It's impossible.”
Miss Van Tuyn's face became very hard.
“Well, then, Adela—”
She paused. Suddenly there had come into her mind the thought of a
possible way of forcing the confidence which Lady Sellingworth refused
to give her. Should she take it? She hesitated. Arabian's will was upon
her even here in this quiet drawing-room. His large eyes seemed fixed
upon her. She still felt the long and soft touch of his lips clinging
to hers like the lips of a thirsty man. Would he wish her to take this
way? For a moment she felt afraid of him. But then her strong
independence of an American girl rose up to combat this imaginative,
almost occult, domination. Arabian himself, his fate perhaps, was
concerned in this matter. She could not, she would not allow even
Arabian, whose will imposed itself on hers, who had gathered her
strangely, mysteriously, into a grip which she felt almost like a thing
palpable upon her, to prevent her from finding out the truth which Lady
Sellingworth seemed resolved to keep from her. She still believed,
indeed she felt practically certain, that Lady Sellingworth and Arabian
in the past had been lovers. Her jealousy was furiously awake. She felt
reckless of consequences and ready to take any course which would bring
to her what she needed, full knowledge of what had led Adela
Sellingworth to send her that letter.
Lady Sellingworth was looking at her now steadily, with, she
thought, a sort of almost fierce pleading. But she cared very little
for Adela's feelings just then.
“You really refuse to tell me?”
“I must, Beryl.”
“I don't think that's fair. It isn't fair to me or to him.”
“I can't help that. Please don't ask me anything more. And please
destroy that letter. Or let me destroy it.”
She held out her hand, but Miss Van Tuyn sat quite still.
“I must tell you something,” she said. “If you will not explain to
me I think I ought to go for an explanation to someone else.”
“Someone else!” said Lady Sellingworth in a startled voice. “But—do
you know—to whom would you go?”
“I think I ought to go to him, to the man you accuse of nameless
things.”
“But you can't do that!”
“Why not? It would only be fair.”
“But what reason could you give?”
“Naturally I should have to say that you had warned me against him.”
“No—no, you mustn't do that.”
“Really? I am to be bound hand and foot while you—”
“You saw what I wrote in that letter.”
“Yes, of course. Naturally I will not show it. But I shall have to
say that you warned me to drop him.”
“I can't have my name mentioned to that man,” said Lady Sellingworth
desperately.
“And I can't drop him without telling him why.”
“Beryl, you haven't read to the end of my letter.”
“But I have!”
“Then have you forgotten it? Look! I wrote in it that I don't think
he will ask for your reason if you refuse to see him again.”
“That only proves how little you know about him. I shall not do it,
Adela. You are not very frank with me, but I am sincere with you.
Either you must give me an explanation of your reason for writing this
letter, or you must give me permission to tell Mr. Arabian of your
warning, or—if you won't do either the one or the other—I shall take
no action because of this letter. I shall behave as if I had never
received it and read it.”
“Beryl! What reason could I have for writing as I have written if I
had nothing against this man?”
“I don't know. It is very difficult to understand the reasons women
have for doing what they do. But I have come here to ask you what your
reason is. That's why I am here now.”
“Could I have a bad reason, a selfish reason?”
“How can I tell?”
“Then have you a bad opinion of me, of my character?”
“I have always admired you very much. You know that.”
“Once—once you called me a book of wisdom.”
“Did I?”
“Don't you remember?”
“I dare say I did.”
“And I think you meant of worldly wisdom. Then can't you, won't you,
trust my opinion of this man?”
“Oh if it's only your opinion!”
“But it is not. It is knowledge.”
“Then you know Mr. Arabian?”
“I didn't say that.”
“Do you know him?”
Lady Sellingworth turned away for a moment. She stood with her back
to Miss Van Tuyn and her face towards the fire, holding the mantelpiece
with her right hand. Miss Van Tuyn, motionless, stared at her tall
figure. She felt this was a real battle between herself and her friend,
or enemy. She was determined to win it somehow. She still had a weapon
in reserve, the weapon she had thought of just now when she had
resolutely put away her fear of Arabian. But perhaps she would not be
forced to use it, perhaps she could overcome Adela's extraordinary
resistance without it. As she looked at the woman turned from her she
began to think that might be possible. Adela was surely weakening. This
pause, this sudden moving away, this long hesitation suggested
weakness. At last Lady Sellingworth turned round.
“You ask me whether I know that man.”
“I asked you whether you knew Mr. Arabian!” said Miss Van
Tuyn, on a note of acute exasperation.
“I don't know him.”
“That is a lie!” said Miss Van Tuyn to herself.
To Lady Sellingworth she said:
“Then if you don't know Mr. Arabian you are only repeating hearsay.”
“No!”
“But you must be!”
“I am not.”
“Adela, you are incomprehensible, or else I must be densely stupid.
One or the other!”
“One may know things about a man's character and life without being
personally acquainted with him.”
“Then it's hearsay. I am not going to drop Mr. Arabian because of
hearsay, more especially when I don't even know what the hearsay is.”
“It is not hearsay.”
“It doesn't come from other people?”
“No.”
“Then”—a sudden thought struck her—“is it from the newspapers? Has
he ever been in some case, some scandal, that's been in the
newspapers?”
“Not that I know of. It isn't that.”
“Really this is like the 'Mysteries of Udolpho,'“ said Miss van
Tuyn, concealing her anger and her burning curiosity under a pretence
of petulance. “And I really can't take it seriously.”
“But you must, Beryl. You must!”
Lady Sellingworth came to her quickly and sat down beside her.
“I know my conduct must seem very strange.”
“It does, indeed!”
“And I dare say all sorts of suspicions, ugly suspicions perhaps,
have come into your mind. But try to put them away. Try to believe that
I am honestly doing my best to be a friend to you, a true friend.”
“Forgive me, Adela, for being brutally frank with you. But I don't
think you care very much for me.”
“I wrote that letter against my own desire simply because I thought
I ought to. I wrote it simply for your sake. I would have given a great
deal not to write it. I knew that there was even danger in writing it.”
“What danger?”
“It was possible that you might disregard my request and show my
letter. I felt practically certain you wouldn't, but you might have
done so.”
“And if I had?”
“If you had—then—but I only tell you this to prove that in this
instance I was trying to be a friend to you.”
“If I had shown this letter, or if I were to show it to Mr. Arabian
he might bring an action for libel on it, I should think.”
“I dare say he could do that.”
“Well—but if you could justify!”
“But I couldn't!”
“You couldn't! You write me a libel about a friend of mine which you
yourself say you couldn't justify!”
“I can't bear to hear you speak of that man as your friend.”
“He is my friend. I like him very much indeed. And I know him, have
known him for weeks, while you tell me you don't know him. I shall
venture to set my knowledge, my personal knowledge, against your
ignorance, Adela, and to go on with my friendship. But you need not be
afraid.” She smiled contemptuously. “I will not show Mr. Arabian this
cruel letter which you yourself say you couldn't justify.”
As she spoke she returned the letter to her muff, which was lying on
a table beside her.
“Well,” she added, “I don't know that there is anything more I need
say. I came here to have it out with you. That is my way, perhaps an
American way, of doing things. We don't care for underhand dealings. We
like things fair and square.”
She got up.
“You have your way of doing things and we have ours! I'll tell you
what mine would have been, Adela, if the situation had been reversed. I
should not have written at all. I should have come to see you, and if I
had had some grave, hideous charge to make I should have made it, and
fully explained my reasons for making it to you. I should have put you
in the same state of complete knowledge as I was in. That is my idea of
friendship and fair dealing. But you think otherwise. So what is the
good of our arguing any more about the matter?”
Lady Sellingworth was still sitting. For a moment she did not move,
but remained where she was looking up at the girl. Just then she was
assailed by a fierce temptation. After all, had not she done her part?
Had not she done all that anyone could expect from her, from any woman
under the existing circumstances? Had not she done even much more than
many women could have brought themselves to do? Beryl had not been very
kind to her. Beryl was really the enemy of her happiness, of her poor
little attempt after happiness. And yet she had taken a risk in order
to try and save Beryl from danger. And the girl would not be saved.
Headstrong, wilful, embittered, she refused to be saved. Then why not
let her go? She had been warned. She chose to defy the warning. That
was not Lady Sellingworth's fault.
“I've done enough! I've done all I can do.”
She said this to herself as she sat and looked at the girl.
“I can't do any more!”
Miss Van Tuyn reached out for her coat and began very deliberately
to put it on. Then she picked up the muff in which the letter lay
hidden.
“Well, good night, Adela!”
Lady Sellingworth got up slowly.
“I promise that I will not show your letter. So don't be afraid.”
“I'm not afraid.”
Miss Van Tuyn held out her hand.
“No doubt you have your reasons for doing what you have done. I
don't pretend to understand them. And I don't understand you. But women
are often incomprehensible to me. Perhaps that is why I usually prefer
men. They don't plunge you in subtleties. They let you understand
things.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Lady Sellingworth.
And there was a passion of acute irony in the exclamation.
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