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diff --git a/6616-h/6616-h.htm b/6616-h/6616-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b7bcff7 --- /dev/null +++ b/6616-h/6616-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,30648 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + December Love, by Robert Hichens + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of December Love, by Robert Hichens + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: December Love + +Author: Robert Hichens + +Release Date: April 22, 2006 [EBook #6616] +Last Updated: September 24, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DECEMBER LOVE *** + + + + +Produced by Dagny; John Bickers; David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + DECEMBER LOVE + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Robert Hichens + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <big><b>DECEMBER LOVE</b></big> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART1"> <b>PART ONE</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART2"> <b>PART TWO</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART3"> <b>PART THREE</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER VI</a> <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART4"> <b>PART FOUR</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART5"> <b>PART FIVE</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART6"> <b>PART SIX</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XVIII </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <br /> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + DECEMBER LOVE + </h1> + <h3> + By Robert Hichens + </h3> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART1" id="link2H_PART1"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART ONE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + 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, Francis 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know Lady Sellingworth.” + </p> + <p> + Braybrooke sat for a moment in silence looking at Craven over his + carefully trimmed grey and brown beard. + </p> + <p> + “How very strange!” he said at last. + </p> + <p> + “Why is it strange?” + </p> + <p> + “All these years in London and not know Adela Sellingworth!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Adela Sellingworth a back number!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well—but,” Craven protested. “But surely she long ago retired from + the fray! Isn’t she over sixty?” + </p> + <p> + “She is about sixty. But that is nothing nowadays.” + </p> + <p> + “No doubt she had a terrific career.” + </p> + <p> + “Terrific! What do you mean exactly by terrific?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “A woman told you that, no doubt.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think it was a woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Anything else?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no. There is something in it.” + </p> + <p> + He looked meditative. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Were they?” said Craven. + </p> + <p> + “Were they!” + </p> + <p> + Braybrooke’s tone just then really did rather suggest the world’s + governess. + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow—yes, they were, to the tune of about fifty thousand + pounds.” + </p> + <p> + “What a dreadful business! Did she get them back?” + </p> + <p> + “No. She never even tried to. But, of course, it came out eventually.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a mystery. I have wondered why—often,” said Braybrooke, gently + stroking his beard. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Sir Seymour, the general?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “How were her jewels stolen?” Craven asked. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And nothing was done?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Bothered!—about such a loss?” + </p> + <p> + “And, what’s more, she got rid of the maid.” + </p> + <p> + “Very odd!” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>old</i> woman in London.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, is she charming?” + </p> + <p> + “Is she charming!” + </p> + <p> + Braybrooke raised his thick eyebrows and looked really pitiful. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps that is because she has abdicated.” + </p> + <p> + Braybrooke looked at Craven with rather sharp inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Ah?” + </p> + <p> + Braybrooke was silent. Then, lighting a cigarette, he remarked: + </p> + <p> + “Youth is very charming, but one must say that it is set free from + cruelty.” + </p> + <p> + “I agree with you. But what about the old guard?” Craven asked. “Is that + always so very kind?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Decidedly he wanted to know her! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.) + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth got up to receive him. As she did so he was almost + startled by her height. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She introduced him to Miss Van Tuyn and the general, made him sit next to + her, and gave him tea. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Craven glanced at her. She was smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Surely you loved Paris, didn’t you?” said Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + “Very much, and understood it very well.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—that! She understands everything, doesn’t she, Sir Seymour?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And—the art of dying?” Lady Sellingworth said, with a lightly + mocking sound in her voice. + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn opened her violet eyes very wide. + </p> + <p> + “But is there an art of dying? Living—yes; for that is being and is + continuous. But dying is ceasing.” + </p> + <p> + “And there is an art of ceasing, Beryl. Some day you may know that.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “We must remember that that duchess was an American,” observed Sir + Seymour. + </p> + <p> + “You mean that we Americans are more determined not to cease than you + English?” she asked. “That we are very persistent?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps we are.” + </p> + <p> + She turned and laid a hand gently, almost caressingly, on Lady + Sellingworth’s. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Passing through or staying—do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Staying.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth was silent for an instant, and Craven saw the half sad, + half mocking expression in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t stayed in Paris for ten years,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She glanced at Sir Seymour, who slightly bent his curly head as if in + assent. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>dame de compagnie</i>, who was always in one room + with a cold reading the novels of Paul Bourget. (“Bourget keeps on writing + for <i>her</i>!” the gay girl said, not without malice.) + </p> + <p> + But Lady Sellingworth evaded her gently. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But it’s <i>your</i> age, too!” cried Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + “No, dear. I was an Edwardian.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I had known you then!” said Miss Van Tuyn impulsively. + </p> + <p> + “You would not have known <i>me</i> then,” returned Lady Sellingworth, + with the slightest possible stress on the penultimate word. + </p> + <p> + Then she changed the conversation. Craven felt that she was not fond of + talking about herself. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + That day Craven walked away from Lady Sellingworth’s house with Miss Van + Tuyn, leaving Sir Seymour Portman behind him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do!” she said in her frank and very conscious way. “I’m afraid of London + on a Sunday.” + </p> + <p> + “Afraid!” + </p> + <p> + “As I’m afraid of a heavy, dull person with a morose expression. Please + don’t be angry.” + </p> + <p> + Craven smiled. + </p> + <p> + “I know! Paris is much lighter in hand than London on a Sunday.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it? But there are people in London! Isn’t <i>she</i> a precious + person?” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Sellingworth?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Would you fall in love with her?” Craven interposed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no!” + </p> + <p> + She shot a blue glance at him. + </p> + <p> + “But I should love her—if only she would let me. But she wouldn’t. I + feel that.” + </p> + <p> + “I never saw her till to-day. She charmed me.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. But she didn’t try to.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably not.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible!” + </p> + <p> + “They do.” + </p> + <p> + “Who do?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand,” said Craven. “She has betrayed the ‘old guard.’ She has + disobeyed the command inscribed on their banner. She has given up.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. They will never pardon her, never!” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder what made her do it?” said Craven. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “And since then—from that moment—she has betrayed the ‘old + guard.’” + </p> + <p> + “How? I don’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + When he had finished she said: + </p> + <p> + “No attempt to recover the lost jewels, the desertion of Paris, the sudden + change into old age! What do you make of it?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean—go back to the Edwardian youthfulness she had abandoned?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. It would frighten people. But—it wasn’t that.” + </p> + <p> + “No?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose she would.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Just what I have thought,” said Craven. + </p> + <p> + After a short silence he added: + </p> + <p> + “Could Lady Sellingworth possibly have known who had stolen the jewels, do + you think?” + </p> + <p> + “What! And refrained from denouncing the thief!” + </p> + <p> + “She might have had a reason.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn’s keen though still girlish eyes looked sharply into + Craven’s for an instant. + </p> + <p> + “I believe you men, you modern men are very apt to think terrible things + about women,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Craven warmly defended himself against this abrupt accusation. + </p> + <p> + “Well, but what did you mean?” persisted Miss Van Tuyn. “Now, go against + your sex and be truthful for once to a woman.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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’?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She said, ‘You would not have known <i>me</i> then.’” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She walked on quickly with her light, athletic step. Just as they were + passing Hyde Park Corner she said: + </p> + <p> + “I think I shall go to one of the ‘old guard.’” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” asked Craven. + </p> + <p> + “You ask questions to which you know the answers,” she retorted. + </p> + <p> + And then they talked of other things. + </p> + <p> + When they reached the hotel and Craven was about to say good-bye, Miss Van + Tuyn said to him: + </p> + <p> + “Are you coming to see me one day?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I want to,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Then do give me your card.” + </p> + <p> + He gave it to her. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Craven looked into her animated eyes, which were strongly searching him + for admiration. He took her hand and held it for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I want to know Lady Sellingworth’s secret if she doesn’t + wish me to know it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Now—is that true?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, with a genuine earnestness which seemed to amuse her. + “Really, really it is true.” + </p> + <p> + She sent him a slightly mocking glance. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “One can learn devotion very quickly,” he said, pressing her hand before + he let it go. + </p> + <p> + “In an afternoon?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, in an afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “Happy Lady Sellingworth!” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “After all, in spite of the charm that won’t die,” he thought, “there’s + nothing like youth for calling you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He felt almost angry with himself as he walked away, and he muttered under + his breath: + </p> + <p> + “Damn the animal in me!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I have seen the ‘old guard,’” she said, after she had let him hold and + press her hand for two or three seconds. + </p> + <p> + “What, the whole regiment?” said Craven. + </p> + <p> + She sat down on a sofa by a basket of roses. He sat down near her. + </p> + <p> + “No; only two or three of the leaders.” + </p> + <p> + “Do I know them?” + </p> + <p> + “Probably. Mrs. Ackroyde?” + </p> + <p> + “I know her.” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Archie Brook?” + </p> + <p> + “Her, too.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve also seen Lady Wrackley.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “They are wonderful teeth, aren’t they?” + </p> + <p> + “Astonishing!” + </p> + <p> + “And they are her own—not by purchase.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure she doesn’t owe for them?” + </p> + <p> + “Positive; except, of course, to her Creator. Isn’t it wonderful to think + that those three women are contemporaries of Lady Sellingworth?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed it is! But surely you didn’t let them know that you knew they + were? Or shall I say know they are?” + </p> + <p> + She smiled, showing perfect teeth, and shook her corn-coloured head. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>they</i> were buds then.” + </p> + <p> + “And they accepted the implication?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, they are women of the world! They just swallowed it very quietly, as + a well-bred person swallows a small easy-going bonbon.” + </p> + <p> + Craven could not help laughing. As he did so he saw in Miss Van Tuyn’s + eyes the thought: + </p> + <p> + “You think me witty, and you’re not far out.” + </p> + <p> + “And did you glean any knowledge of Lady Sellingworth?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; quite a good deal. Mrs. Ackroyde showed me a photograph of her + as she was about eleven years ago.” + </p> + <p> + “A year before the plunge!” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally!” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—yes, I think perhaps I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Sellingworth in the photograph has that on the pounce expression.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s rather awful, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; because, of course, one can see she isn’t really at all young. It’s + only a <i>fausse jeunesse</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + Craven did not inquire what Miss Van Tuyn meant exactly by that. Instead, + he asked: + </p> + <p> + “And did these ladies of the ‘old guard’ speak kindly of the white-haired + traitress?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet the deluge never came.” + </p> + <p> + “It never does. I could almost wish it would.” + </p> + <p> + “Now?” + </p> + <p> + “No; after me.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It’s difficult to think of an after you,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + She tried to look pathetic, and succeeded better than Craven had expected. + </p> + <p> + “I shall put up my <i>en tout cas</i> then,” said Craven very seriously. + </p> + <p> + Still looking pathetic, she allowed her eyes to stray to a neighbouring + mirror, waited for a moment, then smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Time’s a brute, but there’s still plenty of him for me,” she said. “And + for you, too.” + </p> + <p> + “He isn’t half so unpleasant to men as to women,” said Craven. “He makes a + very unfair distinction between the sexes.” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally—because he’s a man.” + </p> + <p> + “What did Lady Wrackley say?” asked Craven, returning to their subject. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you ask specially what she said?” + </p> + <p> + “Because she has a reputation, a bad one, for speaking her mind.” + </p> + <p> + “She certainly was the least guarded of the ‘old guard.’ But she said she + loved Lady Sellingworth now, because she was so changed.” + </p> + <p> + “Physically, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “She didn’t say that. She said morally.” + </p> + <p> + “That wasn’t stupid of her.” + </p> + <p> + “Just what I thought. She said a moral revolution had taken place in Lady + Sellingworth after the jewels were stolen.” + </p> + <p> + “That sounds almost too tumultuous to be comfortable.” + </p> + <p> + “Like ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ happening in one’s interior.” + </p> + <p> + “And what did she attribute such a phenomenon to?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she took almost a clerical view of the matter.” + </p> + <p> + “How very unexpected!” + </p> + <p> + “She said she believed that Adela—she called her Adela—that + Adela took the loss of her jewels as a punishment for her sins.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say she used the word sins?” + </p> + <p> + “No; she said ‘many lapses.’ But that’s what she meant.” + </p> + <p> + “Lapses from what?” + </p> + <p> + “She didn’t exactly say. But I’m afraid she meant from a strict moral + code.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lord!” said Craven, thinking of Lady Wrackley’s smile. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you say that?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Apparently. She said that Addie—she called her Addie then—that + Addie bowed her head.” + </p> + <p> + “Not beneath the rod! Don’t tell me she used the word rod!” + </p> + <p> + “But she did!” + </p> + <p> + “Priceless!” + </p> + <p> + “Wasn’t it? But women are like that when they belong to the ‘old guard.’ + Do you think she can be right?” + </p> + <p> + “If it is so, Lady Sellingworth must be a very unusual sort of woman.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + She paused, looking thoughtful at the mirror. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said Craven gently. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Does any woman ever do that?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>She</i> must have! And you say to yourself, ‘<i>C’est fini!</i>’ 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.” + </p> + <p> + “When?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” said Craven. + </p> + <p> + She sent him a sharp, questioning glance. + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever wonder before you went to Berkeley Square?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps not.” + </p> + <p> + A slight shadow seemed to pass over Miss Van Tuyn’s face. + </p> + <p> + “I believe there was a famous French actress who was loved after she was + seventy,” said Craven. + </p> + <p> + “Then the man must have been a freak.” + </p> + <p> + “Lots of us are freaks.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think you are,” she said provocatively. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “I have my little private reasons,” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + He looked at her eyebrows. They were dark and beautifully shaped and made + an almost unnerving contrast with her corn-coloured hair. + </p> + <p> + “I know what you are thinking,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Impossible!” + </p> + <p> + “You are thinking that I darken them. But I don’t.” + </p> + <p> + And then Craven gave up and became frankly foolish. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <p> + Though ordinary enough in her youthful egoism, and entirely <i>du jour</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, abione 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “Ecco, signorino!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + An Italian voice near to Craven remarked loudly, with a sort of coarse + sentimentality: + </p> + <p> + “<i>Che bella ragassa!</i>” + </p> + <p> + Another Italian voice replied: + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ha ragione di venire qui con quella povera vecchia! Com’e brutta la + vecchiezza!</i>” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>old</i> woman in London.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + As he prepared to sit down on the chair placed ready for him with his back + to the window, Miss Van Tuyn said: + </p> + <p> + “One minute! Please give the musicians this!” + </p> + <p> + She put five shillings into his hand. + </p> + <p> + “And ask them to play the Sicilian Pastorale, and ‘A Mezzanotte,’ and the + Barcarola di Sorrento, and <i>not</i> to play ‘Funiculi, Funicula.’ Do you + mind?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not! But do let me—” + </p> + <p> + “No, no! This is my little treat to Lady Sellingworth. She has never been + here before.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I often come here,” she added. “You’re surprised, I can see.” + </p> + <p> + “I must say I am,” said Craven. “I thought your beat lay rather in the + direction of the Carlton, the Ritz, and Claridge’s.” + </p> + <p> + “You see how little he knows me!” she said, turning to Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + “Beryl does not always tread beaten paths,” said Lady Sellingworth to + Craven. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “It is the best I have drunk for a long while outside my own house,” Lady + Sellingworth answered. + </p> + <p> + Then she turned to Craven. + </p> + <p> + “Are you really going to smoke a Toscana?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s an artist,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “He knows it’s the only cigar that + really goes with Vesuvius. Do light up!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn held up a hand and formed “Sh!” with her rosy lips. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the Barcarola di Sorrento!” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The music stopped, and, after some applause, conversation broke out again. + </p> + <p> + “Have you given up Italy as you have given up Paris?” Miss Van Tuyn asked + of Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, long ago. I only go to Aix now for a cure, and sometimes in the + early spring to Cap Martin.” + </p> + <p> + “The hotel?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; the hotel. I like the pine woods.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth laughed. + </p> + <p> + “But I don’t seek romance when I leave London.” + </p> + <p> + “No?” + </p> + <p> + She looked oddly doubtful for a moment. Then she said: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Craven, will you tell us the truth?” + </p> + <p> + “It depends. What about?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, a very simple matter.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll do my best, but all men are liars.” + </p> + <p> + “We only ask you to do your best.” + </p> + <p> + “We!” he said, with a glance at Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes,” she said. “I go solid with my sex.” + </p> + <p> + “Then—what is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you ever go travelling—ever, without a secret hope of romance + meeting you on your travels, somewhere, somehow, wonderfully, suddenly? Do + you?” + </p> + <p> + He thought for a moment. Then he said: + </p> + <p> + “Honestly, I don’t think I ever do.” + </p> + <p> + “There!” said Miss Van Tuyn triumphantly. “Nor do I.” + </p> + <p> + She looked half defiantly, half inquisitively at Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Beryl!” said the latter, “for all these lacks in your temperament + you must wait.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait? For how long?” + </p> + <p> + “Till you are fifty, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “I know I shall want romance at fifty.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us say sixty, then.” + </p> + <p> + “Or,” interrupted Craven, “until you are comfortably married.” + </p> + <p> + “Comfortably married!” she cried. “<i>Quelle horreur!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “I had no idea Americans were so romantic,” said Lady Sellingworth, with + just a touch of featherweight malice. + </p> + <p> + “Americans! I believe the longing for romance covers both sexes and all + the human race.” + </p> + <p> + She let her eyes go into Craven’s. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “A man in Sorrento!” said Miss Van Tuyn, suddenly and sharply on the + alert. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What task, dearest?” + </p> + <p> + “Acting in connexion with the soul—his word that—as a + thoroughly efficient substitute for his body as a pleasure giver.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The dear boys! They are asking if they shall play the Pastorale for me. + Look at their eyes!” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I should fall out of my <i>assiette</i> there!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth looked for a moment at Craven. + </p> + <p> + “May I escort you home?” he said. “At any rate, let me get you a taxi.” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Sellingworth, may I introduce Ambrose Jennings,” said Miss Van Tuyn + in a rather firm voice at this moment. + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth bent kindly to the little man far down below her. After + a word or two she said: + </p> + <p> + “Now I must go.” + </p> + <p> + “Must you really? Then Mr. Craven will get you a taxi.” + </p> + <p> + “If it’s fine, I will walk. It seems more suitable to walk home after + dining here.” + </p> + <p> + “Walk! Then let us all walk together, and we’ll persuade you into the Cafe + Royal.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He looked plaintively yet critically at Lady Sellingworth, and pulled his + little black beard with fingers covered with antique rings. + </p> + <p> + “Dear little bloodthirsty thing!” he added to Lady Sellingworth. “You + would like her. I know it.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And then Mr. Craven will get you a taxi,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “Shall we + go?” + </p> + <p> + They fared forth into the London night—Craven last. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you genuinely wish Lady Sellingworth to finish the evening at the Cafe + Royal?” he asked of his companion. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. They would love her there. She would bring a new note.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably. But would she love them?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think you quite understand her,” said Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + “I’m quite sure I don’t. Still—” + </p> + <p> + “In past years I am certain she has been to all the odd cafes of Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps. But one changes. And you yourself said there were—or was + it had been?—two Adela Sellingworths, and that you only knew one.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But perhaps at the Cafe Royal I should get to know the other.” + </p> + <p> + “May she not be dead?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It may be so. But what a difference the moss and the creepers make. Some + may be climbing roses.” + </p> + <p> + Craven felt the shrewd girlish eyes were looking at him closely. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The left wing of Ambrose Jennings’s cloak flew out as he whirled into + Regent Street by Lady Sellingworth’s side. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <p> + At the door of the Cafe Royal they stopped, and Miss Van Tuyn laid a hand + on Lady Sellingworth’s arm. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I admire it very much.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure it would be a very great privilege to see Mr. Garstin drunk. But + I must go home. Good night, dear Beryl.” + </p> + <p> + “But the little Bolshevik! You must meet the little Bolshevik!” cried + Jennings. + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth shook her deer-like head, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Good night, Mr. Craven.” + </p> + <p> + “But he is going to get you a taxi,” said Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and if you will allow me I am going to leave you at your door,” said + Craven, with decision. + </p> + <p> + A line appeared in Miss Van Tuyn’s low forehead, but she only said: + </p> + <p> + “And then you will come back and join us.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Craven. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What a lovely girl Beryl Van Tuyn is!” said Lady Sellingworth, as they + drove off. + </p> + <p> + “She is—very lovely.” + </p> + <p> + “And she has a lot of courage, moral courage.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it?” he could not help saying. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She lives as she chooses to live. And yet she isn’t married.” + </p> + <p> + “Would marriage make it all easier for her?” + </p> + <p> + “Much, if she married the man who suited her.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder what sort of a man that would be.” + </p> + <p> + “So does she, I think. But she’s a strange girl. I should not be surprised + if she were never to marry at all.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think she would fall in love?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Here is Berkeley Square.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He got out. She followed him, looking immensely tall in the dimness. + </p> + <p> + “I am not going back to the Cafe Royal,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “But it will be amusing. And I think they are certainly expecting you.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not going there.” + </p> + <p> + She rang. Instantly the door was opened by the handsome middle-aged + butler. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I would much rather have tea and lemon, please,” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Craven opened the great mahogany door and went in. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “<i>Musiciens d’aujourd’hui</i>,” by Romain Rolland. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that you’ve got?” she asked. “Oh—my book!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She sat down by the fire, opened the fan, and held it between her face and + the flames. + </p> + <p> + “I read all sorts of things.” + </p> + <p> + “Novels?” + </p> + <p> + “I very seldom read a novel now. Here is our tea. But I know you would + rather have a whisky-and-soda.” + </p> + <p> + “As a rule I should, but not to-night. I want to drink what you are + drinking.” + </p> + <p> + “And to smoke what I am smoking?” she said, with a faintly ironic smile. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—please.” + </p> + <p> + She held out a box of cigarettes. The butler went out of the room. + </p> + <p> + “I love this house,” said Craven abruptly. “I love its atmosphere.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t a modern atmosphere, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Neither distinctively modern, nor in the least old-fashioned. I think the + right adjective for it would be perhaps—” + </p> + <p> + He paused and sat silent for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “I hardly know. There’s something remote, distinguished and yet very warm + and intimate about it.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her and added, almost with hardihood. + </p> + <p> + “It’s not a cold, or even a reserved house.” + </p> + <p> + “Coldness and unnecessary reserve are tiresome—indeed, I might + almost say abhorrent—to me.” + </p> + <p> + She had given him his tea and lemon and taken hers. + </p> + <p> + “But not aloofness?” + </p> + <p> + “You have travelled?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I know all about that.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I think it would probably be called so by some.” + </p> + <p> + “By whom?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, by mental gooseflesh-givers!” + </p> + <p> + She laughed, laughed quite out with a completeness which had something + almost of youth in it. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” he added rather ruefully, after the pause which the laugh had + filled up, “I wonder whether I am one of them?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think you are.” + </p> + <p> + “And Ambrose Jennings?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a clever man!” was her reply. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But I much prefer the creators,” she presently said. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “You are thinking of the Cafe Royal?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Do you know it?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t tell Beryl—but I have never been in it. Nevertheless, I know + exactly what it is like.” + </p> + <p> + “By hearsay?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. In years gone by I have been into many of the cafes in Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “And did you like them and the life in them?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Is drab!” + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed! Dim purple, perhaps, or deepest green.” + </p> + <p> + “You couldn’t bear it for long. You would soon begin longing for vermilion + again.” + </p> + <p> + “You seem to think me very young. I am twenty-nine.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you ceased to love wildness already?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he answered truthfully. “But there is something there which makes me + feel as if it were almost vulgar.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I have read some of his poems.” + </p> + <p> + “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—‘” + </p> + <p> + She stopped and held her fan a little higher. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But if the heart wants to remain?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “After all,” he thought, “it isn’t the envelope that matters; it is the + letter inside.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The truth of the matter was this. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART TWO + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” she said. “I know they can’t go just because they want to. + But why do they <i>want</i> to stay?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” he said, “I think lots of old ladies enjoy themselves immensely in + their own way.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I can’t understand it!” she said. + </p> + <p> + And she spoke the truth. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Then began her real reign. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It was at this time that she became very familiar with Paris. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>nth</i> + degree, had been familiar to her years and years ago, before Beryl Van + Tuyn and Enid Blunt had been in their cradles. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At the age of thirty-five, after some years of brilliant and even of + despotic widowhood, she married again—Lord Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Adela, you have never looked better than you do now. Do you know what you + remind me of?” + </p> + <p> + The woman was an American. Lady Sellingworth replied carelessly: + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t the slightest idea.” + </p> + <p> + “You remind me of our wonderful Indian summers that come in October. How + do you manage it?” + </p> + <p> + That come in October? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “How do you manage it?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>fausse jeunesse</i>, 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 <i>fausse jeunesse</i> Lady Sellingworth was at her + worst. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But she had not yet reached that turning in the path of her life. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I must not long for peace or anything of that kind!” she said to herself. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless the lack of all mental peace ravages the body. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Presently a tragic episode occurred in her life. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The “old guard” were <i>in excelsis</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + A girl’s light voice said: + </p> + <p> + “Have you heard the name Cora Wellingborough has given to this ball?” + </p> + <p> + (The Duchess of Wellingborough was one of the hostesses.) + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied a voice, which Lady Sellingworth recognized as the voice of + young Rocheouart. “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth heard Rocheouart’s strong, manly young laugh. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The girl laughed, and she and Rocheouart passed Lady Sellingworth without + noticing her and went into the ballroom. + </p> + <p> + She looked at them as they began to dance; then she looked at the Duchess + of Wellingborough, who was also dancing. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But that night Lady Sellingworth almost hated her. + </p> + <p> + The Hags’ Hop! + </p> + <p> + That terrible name stuck in Lady Sellingworth’s mind and seemed to fasten + there like a wound in a body. + </p> + <p> + As Rocheouart’s partner had foretold, the name went all over London. The + duchess’s <i>mot</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She soon forgot Louis de Rocheouart, but his place was not long left + empty. She fell in love with another young man. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But would he be able to love her? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But she was still very handsome—with difficulty. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Laus Deo</i> and let the deluge close over her head. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Really through it all she was on the watch, was seeking the possible + husband. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + After a pause he added: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Without exactly saying so, Lady Sellingworth implied that she would see + what she could do for Rupert. + </p> + <p> + From that moment Lord Blyston pushed “the lad” perpetually towards 18A + Berkeley Square. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Lord Blyston replied that there were many women far older than Adela + Sellingworth, to which his son answered: + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow, she’s as active as a cat, so why don’t you marry her?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s twenty years too young for me,” said Lord Blyston. “I should bore + her to death.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Other people, however, noticed the new development in her life. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + What was he doing when he was not with her? Who was he making love to? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She lay awake often, when she badly needed sleep, wondering where Rupert + was and what he was doing. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Two or three days later Louth called, mounted on one of her horses, to + take her for a ride in the park. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For a moment she thought of flight. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Mother Hubbard! Mother Hubbard! I’m just Mother Hubbard to him and to + that horrible girl!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The Duchess of Wellingborough said often at this time: “Addie Sellingworth + has the stuff in her of a leader of forlorn hopes!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Time passed on. Lady Sellingworth went about everywhere with a smiling + carefully-made-up face and a heart full of dust and ashes. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But what the imp could not achieve was eventually achieved by a man, whose + name Lady Sellingworth did not know. + </p> + <p> + This was how it happened. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + “Well, he must know who you are.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “He seemed deeply interested in you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “We shall probably all know him in a week or two,” said someone. “A man of + that type is certain to have brought introductions.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + And thereupon she told the “old guard” of the stranger’s evident interest + in Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And yet it seemed that no young man would ever want to marry her. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Towards the end of lunch the woman on Sir Seymour’s other side said to + him: + </p> + <p> + “Do you know who that man is—the young man opposite to that funny + South American-looking old woman with the black wig?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour looked for a moment at the brown man with his cool, direct, + summing-up, soldier’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he answered. “I’ve never set eyes on him before.” + </p> + <p> + “I think he is the best-looking man I have ever seen,” said the woman. + </p> + <p> + “No doubt—very good-looking, very good-looking!” said her host; “but + on the wrong side of the line, I should say.” + </p> + <p> + “The wrong side of the line? What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “The shady side,” said Sir Seymour. + </p> + <p> + And then he turned to speak to Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you agree with me!” Sir Seymour said, looking suddenly pleased. + “That’s good! Men and women are seldom at one on such matters.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth shot a glance at the man discussed and felt absurdly + like a traitor. + </p> + <p> + Soon afterwards Sir Seymour’s lunch party broke up. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>convenances</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + And if he spoke to her? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Was he an outsider? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Rupert Louth had married a Crouch! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + When Lady Sellingworth mused on them her sense of the equality before God + of all human creatures decidedly weakened. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + And nobody knew of her fact. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But if he only knew how she was pining for the insult! + </p> + <p> + And yet if he had spoke to her perhaps she would have been angry. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I shall go over to Paris on Thursday morning next. I shall stay at the + Ritz Hotel.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Paris! He was going to Paris on Thursday! + </p> + <p> + She was quite positive that he had wished her to know that. Why? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And yet to-morrow she would be fifty! + </p> + <p> + He was quite young. He could not be more than five-and-twenty. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Once again she was driven by her wildness. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The journey was not eventful. But to Lady Sellingworth it was an + adventure. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In any case she knew he was going to the Ritz. + </p> + <p> + The train flew on towards the sea while she mused over possibilities and + imagined events in Paris. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + She could not divine. But she thought that perhaps the old woman was the + mother of the man she wished to know. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In the Paris <i>rapide</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In the evening she dined alone, and she went to bed early. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The clocks of Paris were striking three before at last she fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They met at the Ritz at one o’clock. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + And presently the man came into the restaurant, accompanied by the eternal + old woman in the black wig. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>pudeur</i> which was almost like the <i>pudeur</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + Then at last she could keep silence no longer, and she said: + </p> + <p> + “The people one sees in Paris seem to become more and more extraordinary! + Many of them one can’t place at all.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Briggs, who had lived in Paris for quite thirty years, remarked: + </p> + <p> + “Do you think they are more extraordinary than the people one sees about + London?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” replied Lady Sellingworth carelessly. “You don’t know her then?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he’s her son.” + </p> + <p> + “He may be her husband.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—but the difference in their ages! She must be seventy at least, + if not more.” + </p> + <p> + “She may be very rich, too,” said Miss Briggs dryly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we go?” said Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + Miss Briggs assented, and they left the restaurant. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And you won’t be dull all alone?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Come and dine with me to-morrow night in my house. I shall be quite + alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Caroline.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke rather doubtfully and paused. But finally she said: + </p> + <p> + “I will with pleasure. What time?” + </p> + <p> + “Half-past eight.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + That was something. + </p> + <p> + And—Lady Sellingworth was sure of it—Caroline was not ravaged + by the Furies who attack “foolish” middle-aged women. + </p> + <p> + What did Caroline Briggs think of her? What must she think? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She needed help, for she was abominably devoid of moral courage. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And yet—was it possible? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + On the following day she was still miserable, even tormented, and quite + undecided as to what she was going to do. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + At moments she felt enraged. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At half-past eight that night she walked into Caroline’s wonderful house + in the Champs-Elysees. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Now and then, but not often at night,” said Miss Briggs, with serene + self-possession. + </p> + <p> + “You are an extraordinary woman!” said Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + “Extraordinary! Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because you always seem so satisfied to live quite alone. I hate + solitude. I’m afraid of it.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she felt that she must be partially frank with her hostess. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we are all so different, so dreadfully different, one from another.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be very much duller if we weren’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Even as it is life can be very dull.” + </p> + <p> + “I should certainly not call your life dull,” said Miss Briggs. + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow, it’s dreadful!” said Lady Sellingworth, with sudden abandonment. + </p> + <p> + “Why is it dreadful?” + </p> + <p> + “Caroline, I was fifty a few days ago.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Were you? Well, I shall be fifty-eight in a couple of months.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t look it.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps that’s because I haven’t looked young for the last thirty years.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want me to advise you about something?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “It would have to be an elderly man, wouldn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope so.” + </p> + <p> + “I—I shouldn’t care to marry an elderly man. I don’t want to.” + </p> + <p> + “Then don’t do it.” + </p> + <p> + “You think if I were to marry a comparatively young man—” + </p> + <p> + She paused, looking almost pleadingly at the uncompromising Miss Briggs. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Caroline, you are so dreadfully frank!” + </p> + <p> + “I say just what I think.” + </p> + <p> + “But you think so drastically. And you are so free from sentiment.” + </p> + <p> + “What is called sentiment is very often nothing but what is described in + the Bible as the lust of the eye.” + </p> + <p> + This shaft, perhaps not intended to be a shaft, went home. Lady + Sellingworth reddened and looked down. + </p> + <p> + “I dare say it is,” she murmured. “But—no doubt some of us are more + subject to temptation than others.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure that is so.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Briggs’s rather plain, but very intelligent, face softened. + </p> + <p> + “Adela, my dear,” she said, “I understand a great deal more than you have + cared to hint at to me.” + </p> + <p> + “I know you do.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth sat very still. There was a long silence between the two + friends. When they spoke again they spoke of other things. + </p> + <p> + That night Lady Sellingworth told her maid to pack up, as she was + returning to London by the morning express on the following day. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She bought a book and some papers; then she walked to the train. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to get in, my lady?” said the maid. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You can put in the jewel-case.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She sat still, not reading, but thinking. The maid went away to her + second-class carriage. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Should she let him have that word? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He was gone. + </p> + <p> + “<i>En voiture!</i>” cried a hoarse voice. + </p> + <p> + She stood still. + </p> + <p> + “<i>En voiture! En voiture!</i>” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + What had happened to him? What was the meaning of it all? Was he + travelling to England too? Had he got into the train? + </p> + <p> + She sat down wondering, almost confused. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The jewel-case was gone. + </p> + <p> + Instantly her feeling of confusion was swept away; instantly she + understood. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + When the train stopped at the harbour station her maid appeared in the + corridor. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I take the jewel-case, my lady?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Whatever is it, my lady?” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind about the jewel-case!” said Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + “But—” + </p> + <p> + “It’s gone!” + </p> + <p> + “Gone, my lady!” said the maid, looking aghast. “Gone where?” + </p> + <p> + “It was taken at the station in Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “I know—I know! Don’t say anything more about it. It’s gone, and we + shall never see it again.” + </p> + <p> + The maid stared, horrified, and scenting a mystery. + </p> + <p> + “Get that porter! Make haste!” + </p> + <p> + They got down from the train. Lady Sellingworth turned to make her way to + the ship. + </p> + <p> + “But, my lady, surely we ought to speak to the police? All your beautiful + jewels—” + </p> + <p> + “The police could do nothing. It is too late! I should only have endless + trouble, and no good would come of it.” + </p> + <p> + “But your ladyship was in the carriage with them!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know! Now don’t say any more about the matter!” + </p> + <p> + There was something in her tone which struck the maid to silence. She said + not another word till they were on the ship. + </p> + <p> + Then Lady Sellingworth went to the cabin which she had telegraphed for. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to lie down,” she said. “You can leave me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + After arranging things in the cabin the maid was about to go when Lady + Sellingworth said: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, my lady, indeed you have. I would do anything for your + ladyship.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady. But surely the police—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady. Certainly, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + The maid was obviously horrified and puzzled. But she left her mistress + without another word. + </p> + <p> + They arrived in Berkeley Square in the evening. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And she stood alone, staring at them. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Poor old Adela Sellingworth! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She would never do that again. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>herself</i>. This woman before + her was only a counterfeit, a marvellously clever artificiality. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But she had wanted to be not the orchid but really the rose. And so she + was down in the dust. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART3" id="link2H_PART3"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART THREE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + That was unnecessary. It was even very strange. For she, Beryl Van Tuyn, + was at least thirty-six years younger than Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Or perhaps Lady Sellingworth had defied it for him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps Lady Sellingworth had made him go in against his will. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Never. Why should I have? I hate society women.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The painter gave her a sort of deep and melancholy attention, keeping the + two pin-points of light directed steadily upon her. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He did not trouble, or perhaps did not choose, to answer her question, but + instead made the statement: + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>toupet</i>. + But”—he flung a large hand stained with pigments out in an ugly, + insolent gesture—“any one of these <i>fleurs du mal</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I suppose the gutter is full of it,” said Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Cora—a free woman, by God!” he observed, lighting another of his + small but deadly cigars. + </p> + <p> + 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 not know; nobody knew or cared. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke with a touch of irritation. Somehow things seemed to be going + vaguely wrong for her to-night. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I am not near enough to the gutter yet,” she added. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I want to ask you something about Lady Sellingworth,” she continued. + “Come a little nearer.” + </p> + <p> + Garstin shifted his chair. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Dick, don’t be a bore! If you would only listen occasionally, + instead of continually—” + </p> + <p> + “Go ahead, young woman! And bend down a little more. Why don’t you take + off your hat?” + </p> + <p> + “I will.” + </p> + <p> + She did so quickly, and bent her lovely head nearer to him. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Again the tell-tale mark appeared above the bridge of Miss Van Tuyn’s + charming nose. + </p> + <p> + “I painted by a Royal Academician!” she exclaimed. “Thank you, Dick!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what is it, Dick, what is it?” said the sculptor in a thin voice, + with high notes which came surprisingly through the thicket of tangled + hair about the cavern of his mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Who shall paint Beryl as Ceres?” + </p> + <p> + “I refuse to be painted by anyone as Ceres!” said Miss Van Tuyn, almost + viciously. + </p> + <p> + “It ought to have been Leighton. But he’s been translated. I suggested + McEvoy.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lord! He’d take the substance out of her, make her transparent!” + </p> + <p> + “I have it then! Orpen! It shall be Orpen! Then she will be hung on the + line.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What for, my girl?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Let them all make fools of themselves for my benefit,” was her + comfortable thought as she listened to the chatter of tongues. + </p> + <p> + Even Garstin was being thoroughly absurd, although his adherents stood + round catching his vociferations as if they were so many precious jewels. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure you will. But now walk with me to the Hyde Park Hotel. It’s on + your way to Chelsea.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, Beryl!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You are going to walk back with me?” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure I am. He is devilish good looking, but he ought to be out of + those clothes.” + </p> + <p> + “Dick!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Then take a cab home and I’ll walk.” + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you. I’d rather endure your abominable intelligence.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled, curling up the left corner of his sensual mouth. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Catch on tight! Let’s get across and down to Piccadilly.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “So you remember that I had begun—” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you ever miss anything—let anything escape you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. Well, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Social! Oh, Lord!” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Dick, don’t be a snob. You are a snob in your pretended hatred of + all decent people.” + </p> + <p> + “D’you call your society dames decent?” + </p> + <p> + “Be quiet if you can! You’re worse than a woman.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You are listening?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What do you make of it?” she asked, when she had finished. + </p> + <p> + “Make of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Does your little mind find it mysterious?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, isn’t it rather odd for a woman who loses fifty thousand pounds’ + worth of jewels never to try to get them back?” + </p> + <p> + “Not if they were stolen by a lover.” + </p> + <p> + “You think—” + </p> + <p> + “It’s as obvious as that Martin, R.A., can’t paint and I can.” + </p> + <p> + “But I believe they were stolen at the <i>Gare du Nord</i>. Now does that + look like a lover?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t say the <i>Gare du Nord</i> looked like a lover.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be utterly ridiculous.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you are right.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I am right.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “That man—” she said abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you know by this time, Dick, that I don’t care in the least + what you think of me.” + </p> + <p> + “The only reason I bother about you is because you are a thoroughly + independent cuss and have a damned fine head.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you paint me?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t you think him a wonderful type?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me! If you want to paint someone, what do you do?” + </p> + <p> + “Do? Go up and tell him or her to come along to the studio.” + </p> + <p> + “Whether you know them or not?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “You ought to paint that man.” + </p> + <p> + “Just because you want me to pick hum up and then introduce him to you. I + don’t paint for reasons of that kind.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever seen him before to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I saw him last night.” + </p> + <p> + “For the first time?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “At the Cafe Royal?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you think he is?” + </p> + <p> + “Probably a successful blackmailer.” + </p> + <p> + For some obscure reason Miss Van Tuyn felt outraged by this opinion of + Garstin. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And the <i>a propos</i> of all this?” asked Garstin + </p> + <p> + “You are beginning to see the morphia maniac, the drunkard, the cocaine + fiend, the prostitute, the—” + </p> + <p> + “Blackmailer?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But I honestly do believe the man you want me to pick up and then + introduce to you to be a successful blackmailer.” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Do you know anything about him?” + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Then your supposition about him is absurd and rather disgusting.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t a supposition.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it then?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you don’t realize, my girl, that I’m highly sensitive.” + </p> + <p> + “You seldom seem so. But, of course, I realize that you couldn’t paint as + you do unless you were.” + </p> + <p> + “Instead of using the word supposition in connexion with a fellow like + myself your discrimination should have led you to choose the word + instinct.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh?” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s cross over. Catch on!” + </p> + <p> + They crossed to the side of the road next to Hyde Park. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He left her on the doorstep of the hotel and tramped off towards Chelsea. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + 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 Italy, especially when his + ambassador had taken him to Naples in summer-time. But that was all over + now. It might be a long time before he was again attached to an embassy. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>laudator temporis + acti</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Wasn’t I right?” said Braybrooke. “Could Adela Sellingworth ever be a + back number? I think that was <i>your</i> expression.” + </p> + <p> + Craven slightly reddened. + </p> + <p> + “Was it?” + </p> + <p> + “I think so,” said Braybrooke, gently but firmly. + </p> + <p> + “I was a—a young fool to use it.” + </p> + <p> + “I fancy it’s a newspaper phrase that has pushed its way somehow into the + language.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Braybrooke looked extremely pleased, almost touched. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know her?” + </p> + <p> + Braybrooke raised his eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “Know her? How should I not know her when I am constantly running over to + Paris?” + </p> + <p> + “Then I suppose she’s very much ‘in it’ there?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She is criticized, of course. She lives very unconventionally, + although Fanny Cronin is always officially with her.” + </p> + <p> + “Fanny Cronin?” + </p> + <p> + “Her <i>dame de compagnie</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the lady who reads Paul Bourget!” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think I do. She is lovely and very good company.” + </p> + <p> + “Frenchmen rave about her.” + </p> + <p> + “And Frenchwomen?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “She seems very fond of Lady Sellingworth. She wants to get her over to + Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “Adela Sellingworth won’t go.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “She seems to hate Paris now. It is years since she had stayed there.” + </p> + <p> + After a pause Craven said: + </p> + <p> + “Lady Sellingworth is something of a mystery, I think. I wonder—I + wonder if she feels lonely in that big house of hers.” + </p> + <p> + “Far more people feel lonely than seem lonely,” said Braybrooke. + </p> + <p> + “I expect they do. But I think that somehow Lady Sellingworth seems + lonely. And yet she is full of mockery.” + </p> + <p> + “Mockery?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I feel it.” + </p> + <p> + “But didn’t you find her very kind?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. I meant of self-mockery.” + </p> + <p> + Braybrooke looked rather dubious. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m?” + </p> + <p> + Braybrooke pulled at his grey-and-brown beard. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but it never does!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “You will join me, Craven? Let it be dry Martinis. Eh? Yes! Two dry + Martinis.” + </p> + <p> + As the attendant went away Braybrooke added: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Craven laughed and felt suddenly younger. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “D’you know the <i>Ristorante Bella Napoli</i>?” he asked Braybrooke. + “Vesuvius all over the walls, and hair-dressers playing Neapolitan tunes?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + He pulled himself up short. + </p> + <p> + “These Martinis are surely very strong!” he murmured into his beard + reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think so.” + </p> + <p> + “My doctor tells me that all cocktails are rank poison. They set up + fermentation.” + </p> + <p> + “In the mind?” asked Craven. + </p> + <p> + “No—no—in the—they cause indigestion, in fact. How poor + Adela Sellingworth must have hated it!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It must have been a long time ago. And in Paris it is all so different. + And you sat with them?” + </p> + <p> + Craven recounted the tale of the previous evening. When he came to the + Cafe Royal suggestion the world’s governess looked really outraged. + </p> + <p> + “Adela Sellingworth at the Cafe Royal!” he said. “How could Beryl Van + Tuyn? And with a Bolshevik, a Turkish refugee—from Smyrna too!” + </p> + <p> + “There were the Georgians for chaperons.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? But Lady Sellingworth is definitely not one.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me! It isn’t that at all.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then—oh, our dry Martinis! How much is it, waiter?” + </p> + <p> + “Two shillings, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What an—what an extraordinary statement!” said Braybrooke, drinking + down his second cocktail at a gulp. + </p> + <p> + “She said she was—or rather, had been—an Edwardian. She would + not have it that she belonged to the present day at all.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean the ‘old guard,’ I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “No, she didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank God for that!” said the world’s governess, looking immensely + relieved. + </p> + <p> + “I escorted her to Berkeley Square.” + </p> + <p> + “Good! good!” + </p> + <p> + “But we walked to the door of the Cafe Royal.” + </p> + <p> + “What—down Shaftesbury Avenue?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” + </p> + <p> + “Past the Cafe Monico and—Piccadilly Circus?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” + </p> + <p> + “What time was it?” + </p> + <p> + “Well after ten.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid scores of people did!” + </p> + <p> + “No, no! I mean people she knows—women especially.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think she would care.” + </p> + <p> + “Her friends would care <i>for</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “It would, in fact, be old wildness,” said Craven, with a faint touch of + sarcasm. + </p> + <p> + “Old wildness! What a very strange expression!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Braybrooke looked suddenly surprised and then alertly observant. + </p> + <p> + “Less dignity?” he queried, after a slight but significant pause. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “But can a <i>grande dame</i>, as she is, ever have too much dignity of + the soul?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Nausea!” interrupted Braybrooke, in an almost startled voice. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Has she told you so?” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens—no. But she never would.” + </p> + <p> + “She need not be alone,” observed Braybrooke. “She could have a companion + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t imagine her with a Fanny Cronin.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mean a <i>dame de compagnie</i>. I mean a husband.” + </p> + <p> + Craven’s ardent blue eyes looked a question. + </p> + <p> + “Seymour Portman is always there waiting and hoping.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir Seymour?” cried Craven. + </p> + <p> + “Well, why not?” said Braybrooke, almost with severity. “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “But his age!” + </p> + <p> + The world’s governess, who was older than Sir Seymour, though not a soul + knew it, looked more severe. + </p> + <p> + “His age would be in every way suitable to Adele Sellingworth’s,” he said + firmly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but—” + </p> + <p> + “Go on!” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t see an old man like Sir Seymour as <i>her</i> husband. Oh, no! It + wouldn’t do. She would never marry such an old man. I am certain of that.” + </p> + <p> + Braybrooke pinched his lips together and felt for his beard. + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And what if it did? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Ristorante Bella Napoli</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + When he got home from the Club he found on his table a note from Beryl Van + Tuyn: + </p> + <p> + HYDE PARK HOTEL, Thursday. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>our</i> + lips. + </p> + <p> + By the way, coming out of the Cafe Royal last night I saw a living bronze.—Yours, + </p> + <p> + BERYL VAN TUYN. + </p> + <p> + 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 “<i>our</i>” + 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. + </p> + <p> + No wonder that men are conceited when women so swiftly take up arms on + their account! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 women mocked at themselves and so + many mocked at others. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + What did it all mean? + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Beryl Van Tuyn came into his mind. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 unconventional 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + His laudable intention was to play Providence. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>that</i> + way! It did really seem utterly impossible. + </p> + <p> + In answer to his inquiry, Lady Sellingworth acknowledged that she had not + been feeling very well during the last two days. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you have been doing too much?” he suggested. + </p> + <p> + The mocking look came into her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “But what do I ever do now?” she said. “I lie quietly on my shelf. That + surely can’t be very exhausting.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He paused—it was his conception of the pause dramatic—then + added: + </p> + <p> + “At the foot of a volcano!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! you have heard about Vesuvius!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What a marvellous gatherer of news you are! Beryl Van Tuyn?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I happened to meet young Craven at the St. James’s Club, and he told + me of your excursion into Bohemia.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It tired you? The atmosphere in those places is so mephitic.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I didn’t mind that. Besides, we blew it away by walking home, at + least part of the way home.” + </p> + <p> + “Down Shaftesbury Avenue? That was surely rather dangerous.” + </p> + <p> + “Dangerous! Why?” + </p> + <p> + “The sudden change from stuffiness to cold and damp. Craven spoke of + Toscanas. And those cheap restaurants are so very small and badly + ventilated.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we enjoyed our walk.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s good. Craven was quite enthusiastic about the evening.” + </p> + <p> + Again the pause dramatic! + </p> + <p> + “He’s a nice boy. I hope you liked him. I feel a little responsible—” + </p> + <p> + “Do you? But why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I ventured to introduce him to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don’t worry. I assure you I like him very much.” + </p> + <p> + Her tone was very casual, but quite cordial. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He told me so.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope he will. I like to see clever young men get on. And he certainly + has something in him.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think so too. By the way, he seems tremendously taken with Miss + Van Tuyn.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “She may grow out of it in time.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope she won’t,” said Lady Sellingworth, rather decisively. “If she did + she would lose a great deal of her charm.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, but when she marries?” + </p> + <p> + “Is she thinking of marrying?” + </p> + <p> + “Girls of her age usually are, I fancy.” + </p> + <p> + “If she marries the right man he won’t mind her unconventionality. He may + even enjoy it.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I think most husbands prefer their wives to keep within bounds.” + </p> + <p> + “Beryl may never marry,” said Lady Sellingworth, rather thoughtfully. “She + is an odd girl. I could imagine—” + </p> + <p> + She paused, but not dramatically. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” he said, with gentle insinuation. + </p> + <p> + “I could imagine her choosing to live a life of her own.” + </p> + <p> + “What, like Caroline Briggs?” he said. + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth moved, and her face changed, suddenly looked more + expressive. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Then she will probably accept a husband some day.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Lady Sellingworth changed her manner. She leaned forward towards + the world’s governess, smiled at him, and said, half satirically, half + confidentially: + </p> + <p> + “Now what is it you have in the back of your mind?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I really don’t think—” he began. + </p> + <p> + “You and I are old friends. Do tell me.” + </p> + <p> + He certainly had not come intending to be quite frank, and this sudden + attack rather startled him. + </p> + <p> + “You have formed some project,” she continued. “I know it. Now let me + guess what it is.” + </p> + <p> + “But I assure you—” + </p> + <p> + “You have found someone whom you think would suit Beryl as a husband. + Isn’t that it?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “No doubt. And who is he?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but some very famous diplomatists have been bachelors,” she said, + still smiling. + </p> + <p> + She mentioned two or three. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You think Mr. Craven is destined to become an ambassador?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I know really very little about him.” + </p> + <p> + “His abilities are excellent. Learington has a great opinion of him.” + </p> + <p> + “And so you think Beryl would suit him!” + </p> + <p> + “It just occurred to me. I wouldn’t say more than that. I have a horror of + matchmaking.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She got up to stir the fire. He sprang, or rather got, up too, rather + quickly, to forestall her. But she persisted. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She remained standing by the hearth, looking tremendously tall. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a moment.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + She seemed to hesitate; then she said: + </p> + <p> + “If Mr. Craven happens to call I will see him. He was here two nights ago. + Do you know him by sight?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t say I do, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! You were not in the hall when he called the other day?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “He is tall with dark hair, about thirty years old. Murgatroyd is not in + to-day, is he?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>grande dame</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 known 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + What had it to do with her whether Craven married Beryl Van Tuyn or did + not marry her? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She had not had the heart to leave him on her doorstep. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Sir Seymour Portman has called, my lady. I told him you were not at home. + But he asked me to make quite sure.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth hesitated. After a moment’s pause she said, in a dry + voice: + </p> + <p> + “Not at home.” + </p> + <p> + The footman went out. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What a brute I am!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “How can Seymour go on loving such a woman as I am?” she thought. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You miserable, ridiculous old woman!” she said to herself, as she saw her + lined face which the mirror, an antique one, slightly distorted. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to be thankful to have such a friendship as Seymour’s!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + And if Craven knew! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + No; she was being a fool now. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>knew</i>. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Nearly half-past one! Lady Sellingworth now looked at the clock. It was + nearly half-past six. + </p> + <p> + She had a lonely dinner, a lonely evening before her. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.) + </p> + <p> + The clock struck the half-hour. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Craven has called my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Craven! But I told you to let him in. Have you sent him away?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “A message! Please ask him to come up.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I know it is much too late for a visit,” he said. “But I thought I might + perhaps just speak to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. I hear you have a message for me. Is it from Beryl?” + </p> + <p> + He looked surprised. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Van Tuyn? I haven’t seen her.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “But what is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Would you dine with me at the <i>Bella Napoli</i>?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth thought of the shop girls again, but now how + differently! + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You want me to walk?” + </p> + <p> + He slightly reddened. + </p> + <p> + “Or shall we dress and go in a taxi?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No, no. But I haven’t said I can come.” + </p> + <p> + His face fell. + </p> + <p> + “I will come,” she said. “And we will walk. But what would Mr. Braybrooke + say?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen him? Has he told you?” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “About our conversation in the club?” + </p> + <p> + “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. <i>Au + revoir</i>. Just before eight.” + </p> + <p> + When he had gone Lady Sellingworth again looked in the glass. + </p> + <p> + “But it’s impossible!” she said to herself. “It’s impossible!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But Caroline was in Paris. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + (Caroline Briggs was horribly apposite in some of her remarks.) + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + A woman’s voice whispered within her just then, “It is better to attract + by both. Then you are safe.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I won’t go!” she said to herself. + </p> + <p> + And she took the receiver down. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Yes? Who is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Sellingworth,” she replied. + </p> + <p> + The sound of the voice changed at once, became eager as it said: + </p> + <p> + “Oh—Lady Sellingworth! I have only just come in. I know what it is.” + </p> + <p> + “But how can you?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated. Then she said: + </p> + <p> + “No; it isn’t that.” + </p> + <p> + “Do tell me then!” + </p> + <p> + “I think—I’m afraid I can’t come.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But I haven’t been very well the last two days, and I’m rather afraid of + the cold.” + </p> + <p> + “I am so sorry. But it’s absolutely dry under foot. I swear it is!” + </p> + <p> + A pause. Then his voice added: + </p> + <p> + “Since I came in I have refused an invitation to dine out to-night. I + absolutely relied on you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It was from Miss Van Tuyn, to dine with her at the <i>Bella Napoli</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll come!” said Lady Sellingworth. “Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + And she put up the receiver. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>arriere pensee</i>. There was + certainly strength in Garstin, although it was not moral strength. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Craven had evidently been “got at” by Adela Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She rang up Craven, and the following dialogue took place at the + telephone. + </p> + <p> + “Yes? Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Is Mr. Craven there?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am Alick Craven. Who is it, please?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you know?” + </p> + <p> + “One minute! Is it—I’m afraid I don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Beryl Van Tuyn.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course! I knew the voice at once, but somehow I couldn’t place it. How + are you, Miss Van Tuyn?” + </p> + <p> + “Dangerously well.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s splendid.” + </p> + <p> + “And you?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m what dull people call very fit and cheery.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>Bella Napoli</i>. + We agreed to tell each other when we were free. So I take you at your + word.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m awfully sorry!” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m ever so sorry.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I have a dinner engagement to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “What a bore! But surely you can get out of it?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid not. No, really I can’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Send an excuse! Say you are ill.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t honestly. It’s—it’s rather important. Besides, the fact is, + I’m the host.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + The timbre of Miss Van Tuyn’s voice changed slightly at this crisis in the + conversation. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—if you’re the host, of course. . . . You really <i>are</i> the + host?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I really am. So you see!” + </p> + <p> + “No, but I hear and understand. Never mind. Ask me another night.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—that’s it. Another night. Thank you so much. By the way, does + the living bronze—” + </p> + <p> + “What? The living what?” + </p> + <p> + “Bronze! . . . The living bronze—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. Well, what about it?” + </p> + <p> + “Does it wear petticoats or trousers?” + </p> + <p> + “Trousers.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I think I rather hate it.” + </p> + <p> + “You—” + </p> + <p> + But at this point the exchange intervened. Then something happened; and + then Craven heard a voice saying: + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Bella Napoli</i>—was going to be rewarded. As he changed his + clothes he hummed to himself: + </p> + <p> + “<i>O Napoli! Bella Napoli</i>!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Bella + Napoli</i>. It was very unlikely that they would meet anyone there whom + they both knew, and they had met at the <i>Bella Napoli</i>. Perhaps they—or + perhaps <i>she</i>—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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 “<i>Mensonges</i>” + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got back to ‘<i>Mensonges</i>,’ 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope you will enjoy yourself, dear, and meet pleasant people.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Cronin was thoroughly well trained, and seldom asked any questions. + She had long ago been carefully taught that the duty of a <i>dame de + compagnie</i> consisted solely in being alive in a certain place—the + place selected for her by the person she was <i>dame de compagnie</i> 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: + </p> + <p> + “But I know you always do that. You have such a wide choice and are so + clever in selection.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn slightly frowned. + </p> + <p> + “There isn’t such a wide choice in London as there is in Paris,” she said + rather morosely. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>them</i> could have written ‘<i>Mensonges</i>’? Which of <i>them</i> + could—” + </p> + <p> + “I know, dear, I know! They haven’t the bite. That is what you mean. They + have only the bark.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly! And when one sits down to a book—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! In London?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But I’m sure it wasn’t English.” + </p> + <p> + “Was it a poodle?” + </p> + <p> + “No, quite the contrary.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “What colour was it?” + </p> + <p> + “It was all brown like a brown bronze. Well, good night, Fanny.” + </p> + <p> + “Good night, dear. I really wish you would read ‘<i>Mensonges</i>’ again + when I have finished with it. One cannot read over these masterpieces too + often.” + </p> + <p> + “You shall lend it me.” + </p> + <p> + She went out of the room, and Fanny Cronin settled comfortably down once + more to the competent exercise of her profession. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She took the lift, glided down, walked slowly and carelessly across the + hall and passed out by the swing door. + </p> + <p> + “A taxi, madam?” said the commissionaire in livery. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head and walked away down Brook Street in the direction of + Grosvenor Square. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>Bella Napoli</i>.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And in return for all this Adela Sellingworth had carried him off, and + perhaps to-night was dining with him alone at the <i>Bella Napoli</i>! + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Here’s a shilling! Take it. I’m sorry I can’t afford more than that.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Bella Napoli</i>. + Soon she heard the distant sound of guitars. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Bella Napoli</i>, 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Having come to this decision she walked on. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + And at that moment she felt very hard, even cruel. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They were sitting at <i>her</i> table—the table which was always + reserved for her when she dined at the <i>Bella Napoli</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn stood very still on the pavement staring into the + restaurant. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Bella Napoli</i>! 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Her vanity won. She walked on and came into Shaftesbury Avenue. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Garstin—and others! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But then, she had never been fond of discussing love affairs. Braybrooke + had noticed that. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Bella Napoli</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + Braybrooke said nothing, but he was secretly almost distressed. He thought + 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 <i>she</i> who did that?” or “Can <i>she</i> ever have + been like that?” + </p> + <p> + But now Braybrooke uneasily began to remember Lady Sellingworth’s past + reputation and to think of the “old guard.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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 Tuyn and Craven together. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 “<i>Le Disciple</i>” 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Beryl seems to have been quite got hold of by London,” she observed with + mild surprise. + </p> + <p> + After a pause she added: + </p> + <p> + “It may be—mind I don’t say it is, but it may be—the Wallace + Collection.” + </p> + <p> + “The Wallace Collection?” said Braybrooke. + </p> + <p> + “I believe she goes there every day. It is in Manchester Square, isn’t + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Hertford House is in the Square.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “It contains innumerable priceless treasures,” returned Braybrooke. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Fanny Cronin made a rabbit’s mouth and looked slightly bemused. + </p> + <p> + “Human!” she said. “You think Beryl could have a human reason?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, surely, surely!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That sort of thing is only the outcome of a passing mood of youthful + cynicism.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Is not the greatest possession of all the possession of another’s human + heart?” said Braybrooke impressively, and with sentiment. + </p> + <p> + “I dare say it is, but really I cannot speak from experience,” said Fanny + Cronin, with remarkable simplicity. + </p> + <p> + “Has it never occurred to you,” continued Braybrooke, “that your lovely + charge is not likely to remain always Beryl Van Tuyn?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But if Beryl ever marries,” she said, “I might have to give up living in + Paris! I might have to go back to America!” + </p> + <p> + She leaned forward, with her small, plump, and conspicuously freckled + hands grasping the arms of her chair. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Mr. Braybrooke. You are kindness itself. So, then, Beryl <i>is</i> + 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 ‘<i>Physiologie de l’amour moderne</i>.’ She never said + one word. She never—” + </p> + <p> + But at this point Braybrooke felt that an interruption, however rude, was + obligatory. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “But surely you would not frighten me without a reason,” said Fanny Cronin + with mild severity, sitting back again in her chair. + </p> + <p> + “Frighten you, dear Miss Cronin! I would not do that for the world. What + have I said to frighten you?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “But nothing lasts for ever. The whole world is in a state of flux.” + </p> + <p> + “Really, Mr. Braybrooke! I am quite sure <i>I</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.” + </p> + <p> + “On my honour, I only meant that life inevitably brings with it changes. I + am sure you will bear me out in that.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 ‘<i>Le Disciple</i>’” (he + picked it up). “A very striking book! I always think it one of Bourget’s + very best.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Seized of this intention Braybrooke did a thing he had never done before; + he “dogged” two human beings, walking with infinite precaution. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! how are you?” said Braybrooke, addressing the painter with almost + exaggerated cordiality. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “And as you were not to be found I paid a visit to Miss Cronin.” + </p> + <p> + “She must have bored you very much,” was the charming girl’s comment. “She + has the most confused mind I know.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Here he threw very definite admiration into the eyes which he fixed on + Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + She responded automatically and begged him to accompany them. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke she walked on, having Garstin on one side of her and Francis + Braybrooke on the other. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to have a good sweat in the Harrow Road.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The doctors say that it is an excellent thing to open the pores,” said + Braybrooke discreetly. + </p> + <p> + Garstin cast a glance at him, as if he now saw him for the first time. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to tell us you believe in doctors?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I do, in some doctors,” said Braybrooke. “There are charlatans in all + professions unfortunately.” + </p> + <p> + “And some of them are R.A.‘s,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “By the way, Dick is + going to paint me.” + </p> + <p> + “Really! How very splendid!” said Braybrooke, again with exaggerated + cordiality. “With such a subject I’m sure—” + </p> + <p> + But here he was interrupted by Garstin, who said: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Cora?” said Braybrooke, alertly, hearing a name he did not know. + </p> + <p> + “She’s a horror who goes to the Cafe Royal and whom Dick calls a free + woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Free from all the virtues, I suppose!” said Braybrooke smartly. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye both of you!” said Garstin at this juncture. + </p> + <p> + “But we haven’t got to the Marble Arch!” + </p> + <p> + “What’s that got to do with it? I’m off.” + </p> + <p> + He seemed to be going, then stopped, and directed the two pin-points of + light at Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Dick!” said Miss Van Tuyn, in a voice which startled Braybrooke. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t promise,” said the painter. “I don’t believe in promises, unless + you break ‘em. But it’s just on the cards.” + </p> + <p> + “You are painting a blackmailer!” said Braybrooke, with an air of earnest + interest. “How very original!” + </p> + <p> + “Original! Why is it original to paint a blackmailer?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—well, one doesn’t often run across them. They—they seem to + keep so much to themselves.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t agree with you. If they did some people would be a good deal + better off than they are now.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, to be sure! That’s very true. I had never looked at it in that + light.” + </p> + <p> + “What time, Dick?” said Miss Van Tuyn, rather eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “You might look in about three.” + </p> + <p> + “I will. That’s a bargain.” + </p> + <p> + Garstin turned on his heel and tramped away towards Berkeley Street. + </p> + <p> + “You are going home by Park Lane?” said Braybrooke, feeling greatly + relieved, but still rather upset. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But why don’t you take me somewhere to tea?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing I should like better. Where shall we go?” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s go to the Ritz. I had meant to walk, but let us take a taxi.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “There’s one!” she added, lifting her tightly furled umbrella. + </p> + <p> + The driver stopped, and in a moment they were on their way to the Ritz. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I must confess I find it very difficult to get on with him.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s a wonderful painter.” + </p> + <p> + “No doubt—in his way.” + </p> + <p> + “I think it a great mistake for any creative artist to be wonderful in + someone else’s way,” said Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “A blackmailer might have a wonderful face.” + </p> + <p> + “Possibly. But it would be likely to have a disgusting expression.” + </p> + <p> + “It might. On the other hand, I could imagine a blackmailer looking like + Chaliapine as Mephistopheles.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like distressing art,” said Braybrooke, rather firmly. “And I + think there is too much of it nowadays.” + </p> + <p> + “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 has done with it he may quite possibly catch the secret of good.” + </p> + <p> + “And then,” said Braybrooke, “I am sure he will paint you.” + </p> + <p> + It was meant to be a very charmingly turned compliment. But Miss Van Tuyn + received it rather doubtfully. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + At this point in the conversation the cab stopped before the Ritz. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But I thought Miss Cronin never went out.” + </p> + <p> + “She never does, except with Mrs. Clem, unless I want her.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I shall be driven, really driven, to make the matter quite clear,” he + thought, almost with desperation. “Otherwise—” + </p> + <p> + But at this moment Miss Van Tuyn came away to him, and their tea was + brought by a waiter. + </p> + <p> + He thought she cast a rather satirical look at him as she sat down, but + she only said; + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>tapis</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Who?” she asked; he thought rather curtly. + </p> + <p> + “Alick Craven of the Foreign Office. He told me he was introduced to you + at Adela Sellingworth’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, he was,” said Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + And she said no more. + </p> + <p> + “He was very enthusiastic about you,” ventured Braybrooke, wondering how + to interpret her silence. + </p> + <p> + “Really!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. We belong to the same club, the St. James’s. He entertained me for + more than an hour with your praises.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He would like to meet you again,” said Braybrooke, with soft firmness. + </p> + <p> + “But I have met him again two or three times. He called on me.” + </p> + <p> + “And I understand you were together in a restaurant in—Soho, I think + it was.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we were.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you think of him?” asked Braybrooke. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, at any rate I haven’t got the Foreign Office manner.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That is perhaps a fault of the Englishman. But we must remember that + still waters run deep.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think so? But if they don’t run at all?” + </p> + <p> + “How do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “There is such a thing as the village pond.” + </p> + <p> + “How very trying she is this afternoon!” thought poor Braybrooke, + endeavouring mentally to pull up his socks. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + (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.) + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke the word “artful” her fine eyes smiled straight into + Braybrooke’s, and she pinched her red lips together very expressively. + </p> + <p> + “But I must confess,” she added, “that at the moment we were discussing + diplomats.” + </p> + <p> + “Artful was rather unkind,” murmured Braybrooke. “I—I hope you don’t + think my friend Craven is one of that type?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I wasn’t thinking of Mr. Craven.” + </p> + <p> + The implication was fairly obvious, and Braybrooke did not miss it, + although he was not in possession of his full mental powers. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it is our own fault,” he said. “But I think we English are often + misunderstood.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “In fact,” he added, “I am sure of it. This very day even—” + </p> + <p> + He paused, wondering how to put it, yet feeling that he really must at all + costs make matters fairly clear to his companion. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said Miss Van Tuyn sweetly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope the old dear didn’t think you were proposing to her?” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens—oh, no! no! I don’t quite know what she thought.” (He + lowered his eyes.) “But it wasn’t that.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a mercy at any rate!” + </p> + <p> + Braybrooke still kept his eyes on the ground, but a dogged look came into + his face, and he said, speaking more resolutely: + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I alarmed dear Miss Cronin.” + </p> + <p> + “How perfectly splendid!” said Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + “She is very fond of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Much fonder of Bourget!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That was very charming and solicitous of you,” said Miss Van Tuyn with a + smile. “But I don’t know that they do!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + She observed him with a definite surprise, which she seemed desirous of + showing. + </p> + <p> + “I was alluding to the promising men,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Which men?” asked Braybrooke, still hypnotized by the vision. + </p> + <p> + “The men with big futures before them who you were kind enough to tell + Fanny were longing to marry me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes!” (With a great effort he pulled himself together.) “Those men to + be sure!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I just hinted that there must be men who—but you understand?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn smiled unembarrassed assent. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn looked suddenly rather rebellious. She did not glance + towards the Philadelphia school friends, but turned her shoulder towards + them and said: + </p> + <p> + “Naturally my marriage would make a great difference to Fanny, but I have + never known her to worry about it.” + </p> + <p> + “She is worrying now!” said poor Braybrooke, with earnest conviction. “But + really she—I am sure she wishes to speak to you.” + </p> + <p> + The line showed itself in Miss Van Tuyn’s forehead. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What she wants—and you are going to call on Lady Sellingworth!” + said Braybrooke. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and to-night I’m dining out.” + </p> + <p> + “Dining out to-night—just so.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mr. Braybrooke,” said Miss Cronin as he came up, “so you are here + with Beryl!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; so I am here with Miss Van Tuyn!” + </p> + <p> + Miss Cronin exchanged a glance with Mrs. Clem Hodson. + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t tell me when you called that you were taking her out to tea!” + </p> + <p> + “No, I didn’t!” said Braybrooke. + </p> + <p> + “This is my old schoolmate, Mrs. Clem Hodson. Suzanne, this is Mr. + Braybrooke, a friend of Beryl’s.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “This hotel overcharges,” she said firmly. + </p> + <p> + “Really! I should have scarcely have thought—” + </p> + <p> + “There were two pieces of plum cake on the bill, and we only ate one.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’ve just remembered,” said Miss Cronin, as if irradiated with sudden + light. + </p> + <p> + “What, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “I <i>did</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “In that case, dear, we’ve done the waiter an injustice and libelled the + hotel.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He turned definitely to face Fanny Cronin. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Van Tuyn asked me to tell you what she wants.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! Does she want something?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I mean she told me to ask you what you want.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Cronin looked at Mrs. Clem Hodson, hesitated, and then made a very + definite rabbit’s mouth. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know that I want anything, thank you, Mr. Braybrooke. But if + Beryl is going—she is not going?” + </p> + <p> + “I really don’t know exactly.” + </p> + <p> + “She hasn’t finished her tea, perhaps?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Mrs. Clem Hodson, gazing steadily at Fanny Cronin. + </p> + <p> + “In Berkeley Square!” added Braybrooke emphatically. “And to-night she is + dining out.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she say where?” asked Miss Cronin, slightly moving her ears. + </p> + <p> + “No; she didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Miss Cronin. “Good-bye, Mr. Braybrooke.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “The manager?” said Miss Cronin. + </p> + <p> + “What manager?” said Mrs. Clem Hodson. + </p> + <p> + “About the plum cake! Surely you remember?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—the plum cake!” said Mrs. Hodson, looking steadily at Fanny + Cronin. “Thank you very much indeed! Very good of you!” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Miss Cronin, with a sudden piteous look. “I did eat two + slices. Come, Suzanne! Good-bye again, Mr. Braybrooke.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Damn these red-headed old women! I will <i>not</i> make it all right with + the manager about the plum cake!” + </p> + <p> + It was a poor revenge, but the only one he could think of at the moment. + </p> + <p> + “Is anything the matter?” asked Miss Van Tuyn when he rejoined her. “Has + old Fanny been tiresome?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I see! A fascinating subject like that must be difficult to get away + from.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—very! What a delightful woman Mrs. Hodson is.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “May I walk with you as far as her door?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + When they were out in Piccadilly he said: + </p> + <p> + “And now what about my promise to Mr. Craven?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “But if he bores you—” + </p> + <p> + “He doesn’t bore me more than many young men do.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I will let you know. We might have a theatre party.” + </p> + <p> + “Anything you like. And why not ask Adela Sellingworth to make a fourth?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I am so fond of her,” continued Miss Van Tuyn. “And I’m sure she would + enjoy it.” + </p> + <p> + “But she so seldom goes out.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I will certainly ask her,” said Braybrooke. + </p> + <p> + What else could he say? + </p> + <p> + At the corner of Berkeley Square Miss Van Tuyn stopped and rather + resolutely bade him good-bye. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART4" id="link2H_PART4"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART FOUR + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + That would be distinctly amusing. She felt on the edge of a rather + uncommon adventure. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What a hurry you’re in!” he said. “Come along in, my girl.” + </p> + <p> + As he shut the heavy door behind her she turned in the lobby and said: + </p> + <p> + “Well, Dick?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m working in the upstairs studio,” he returned blandly. + </p> + <p> + “What are you at work on?” + </p> + <p> + “Go up and you’ll see for yourself.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Dick, is this intended for a joke?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by ‘this’?” + </p> + <p> + “You know! Have you brought me here under false pretences? You know quite + well why I came.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you take off your hat?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I have,” said Garstin with a mischievous smile. + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn looked slightly mollified, but still uncertain. + </p> + <p> + “Did you speak to him?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I did.” + </p> + <p> + “What did he say?” + </p> + <p> + “I told him to come along to the studio.” + </p> + <p> + “You did! And—?” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you take off your hat?” + </p> + <p> + “Because it suits me particularly well. Now tell me at once, don’t be + malicious and tiresome—are you expecting him?” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t say that.” + </p> + <p> + “You are not expecting him!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She looked quickly at the watch on her wrist. + </p> + <p> + “It is past three. I was late.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Give me a cigarette, Dick,” she said. “Did he say he would come?” + </p> + <p> + The painter went over to an old Spanish cabinet and rummaged for a box of + cigarettes, with his horsey-looking back turned towards her. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Here you are!” said Garstin, turning round with a box of cigarettes. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “I gave him my name.” + </p> + <p> + “He knew it, of course?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + And Garstin drew out of a side pocket a visiting-card, which he gave to + Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + She read: “Nicolas Arabian.” + </p> + <p> + There was no address in the corner. + </p> + <p> + “What a curious name!” + </p> + <p> + She sat gazing at the card and smoking her cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know where he is staying?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you speak English to him?” + </p> + <p> + “I did.” + </p> + <p> + “And he spoke good English?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, with a foreign accent of some kind.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment an electric bell sounded below. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The painter stood looking at her keenly, with his hands in his pockets and + his strong, thin legs rather wide apart. + </p> + <p> + “Well, at any rate you’re damned unconventional!” he said. “At this moment + you even look unconventional. What are your eyes shining about?” + </p> + <p> + “Dick—do go!” + </p> + <p> + She laid a hand on his arm. There was a strong grip in her fingers. + </p> + <p> + “This is a little adventure. And I love an adventure,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe he’s gone away,” she said, almost angrily as he disappeared + down the stairs. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Halloh! Thought you weren’t coming! Glad to see you. Come along in!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + A door banged heavily. Then Miss Van Tuyn heard steps, and again the warm + voice saying: + </p> + <p> + “I see you do caricatures. Or are these not by you?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Leonardo—ah, yes!” said the voice. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if that man has ever heard of Leonardo?” was Miss Van Tuyn’s + thought just then. + </p> + <p> + “Up those stairs right ahead of you,” said Garstin. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve been getting me up,” said Garstin bluntly. “Reading ‘Who’s Who’!” + </p> + <p> + Arabian raised his eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be absurd and put on false modesty, Dick,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “As + if you weren’t known to everyone!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Everyone, of course, knows your name, Mr. Dick Garstin, as mademoiselle + says.” + </p> + <p> + “Right you are!” said Garstin gruffly. “Glad to hear it!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Ever been painted?” said Garstin at last. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I should say so,” said Garstin. “Well, what do you think, eh?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In reply to Garstin’s question Arabian asked another question. + </p> + <p> + “You wish to make a portrait of me?” + </p> + <p> + “I do—in oils.” + </p> + <p> + “Will it take long?” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t say. I might be a week over it, or less, or more. I shall want + you every day.” + </p> + <p> + “And when it is done?” said Arabian. “What happens to it?” + </p> + <p> + “If it’s up to the mark—my mark—I shall want to exhibit it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Finally, as if coming to a conclusion as to what he considered it wise to + do for the moment, Arabian said: + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, but are these pictures which I see portraits painted by you?” + </p> + <p> + “Every one of them,” said Garstin, rather roughly and impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “Will you allow me to look at them?” + </p> + <p> + “They’re there to be looked at.” + </p> + <p> + Again Arabian glanced at Miss Van Tuyn. She got up from the sofa quickly. + </p> + <p> + “I will show Mr. Arabian the pictures,” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For the first time Miss Van Tuyn was quite alone with the living bronze. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know much about pictures?” she asked him. + </p> + <p> + “Not very much,” he answered, with a long, soft look at her. “I have only + one way to judge them.” + </p> + <p> + “And what way is that?” + </p> + <p> + “If they are portraits, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “I judge them by their humanity. One does not want to be made worse than + one is in a picture.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid you won’t like Dick Garstin’s work,” she said decisively. + </p> + <p> + She was rather disappointed. Had this audaciously handsome man a cult for + the pretty-pretty? + </p> + <p> + “Let us see!” he replied, smiling. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “That is a bad girl!” was his only comment, as he moved on to the next + picture. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Garstin swears that woman must once have been very beautiful,” said Miss + Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—quite possible,” said Arabian. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I can’t conceive it.” + </p> + <p> + He turned and gave her a long, steady look, full of softness and ardour. + </p> + <p> + “It would be very sad if you could,” he said. “Excuse me, but are you + American?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Americans never get like that. They are too practical.” + </p> + <p> + “And not romantic—do you mean?” she said, not without irony. + </p> + <p> + “They can be romantic, but they save themselves from disaster with their + practical sense. I hope I put it right.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled at him. + </p> + <p> + “You speak very good English. What do you think of this?” + </p> + <p> + “But I have seen her!” he said. + </p> + <p> + They had come to the easel on which was the half-finished portrait of + Cora, staring across her empty glass. + </p> + <p> + “She goes to the Cafe Royal.” + </p> + <p> + He looked again at Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + “Do you ever go there?” he asked gravely. + </p> + <p> + “No, never,” she said with calm simplicity, returning his gaze. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Arabian looked sideways at her. + </p> + <p> + “What is that—of character, mademoiselle?” + </p> + <p> + “A summing up! That is a presentation of the sum total of the character.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes.” + </p> + <p> + He looked again at Cora. + </p> + <p> + “One knows what she is by that,” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But they are all women and all of a certain world!” he said, almost + suspiciously. “Why is that?” + </p> + <p> + “Garstin is passing through a phase just now. He paints from the Cafe + Royal.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + He paused, and his brown face took on a look of rather hard meditation. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>bas-fonds</i>. I do not know + whether Mr. Dick Garstin understands that.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I will.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I think Mr. Dick Garstin is a humorist. Do not you?” + </p> + <p> + “But—why?” + </p> + <p> + “To put this gentleman in the midst of all the law breakers.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn crossed the room and joined him in front of the picture, + which showed the judge seated in his wig and robes. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, to be sure.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You are quite right,” she said. “One feels that someone ought to judge + that judge.” + </p> + <p> + “That is more than a portrait of one man,” said Arabian. “It is a portrait + of the world’s hypocrisy.” + </p> + <p> + In saying this his usually soft voice suddenly took on an almost biting + tone. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you be afraid to be painted by him?” she said. + </p> + <p> + He cast a sharp glance at her with eyes which looked suddenly vigilant. + </p> + <p> + “I did not say that.” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll be furious if you refuse.” + </p> + <p> + “I see he is accustomed generally to have what he wishes.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. And he would make a magnificent thing of you. I am certain of that.” + </p> + <p> + She saw vanity looking out of his eyes, and her vanity felt suddenly + almost strangely at home with it. + </p> + <p> + “It is a compliment, I know, that he should wish to paint me,” said + Arabian. “But why does he?” + </p> + <p> + The question sounded to Miss Van Tuyn almost suspicious. + </p> + <p> + “He admires your appearance,” she answered. “He thinks you a very striking + type.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! A type! But what of?” + </p> + <p> + “He didn’t tell me,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + Arabian was silent for a moment; then he said: + </p> + <p> + “Does Mr. Dick Garstin get high prices for his portraits? Are they worth a + great deal?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah—indeed!” + </p> + <p> + “Let him paint you! There he is—coming back.” + </p> + <p> + As Garstin reappeared Arabian turned to him with a smile that looked + cordial and yet that seemed somehow wanting in real geniality. + </p> + <p> + “I have seen them all.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you? Well, let’s have a drink.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn wondered again whether he had ever heard of Leonardo. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He’s a glorious fellow, isn’t he?” he said in his loud bass voice to + Arabian. “You know his ‘Pont Neuf,’ of course?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Work—it’s <i>the</i> 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!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “And the love of women betrays,” continued Garstin. “But work never lets + you down.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. They are beauties and not too strong.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got a damned strong constitution if you can say that. You have + been like me; you have fortified it by work.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Like poor me!” said Miss Van Tuyn, feeling suddenly relieved. + </p> + <p> + “I pity you both!” said Garstin. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You have the throat of one of those bronzes,” he said bluntly, “and + should never wear that cursed abomination, a starched linen collar.” + </p> + <p> + “What is one to do in London?” murmured Arabian, suddenly stretching his + brown throat and lifting his strong chin. + </p> + <p> + “Show it something worth looking at,” said Garstin. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “All right, my girl! I’ve done! I’ve done! But I always forget you’re not + a young man.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ma foi!</i>” said Arabian, almost under his breath. + </p> + <p> + Garstin looked across at him + </p> + <p> + “She’s a Tartar. She’d keep the devil himself in order.” + </p> + <p> + “He deserves restraint far less than you do,” said Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I never said that,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “I said you were a painter of the + underworld, and so you are.” + </p> + <p> + “But Mr. Dick Garstin also paints judges, mademoiselle,” said Arabian. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, lord! Drop the Mister! I’m Dick Garstin <i>tout court</i> or I’m + nothing. Now, Arabian, you know the reason, part of the reason, why I want + to stick you on canvas.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean because—” + </p> + <p> + He seemed to hesitate, and touched his little Guardsman’s moustache. + </p> + <p> + “Because you’re a jolly fine subject and nothing to do with the darlings + that live in the sewers.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Thank you!” said Arabian. “But you paint judges.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give you the thing! Now what do you say? Is it a bargain?” + </p> + <p> + “But how can I accept?” said Arabian, quickly adding: “And how can I + refuse? Mr.—” + </p> + <p> + “Drop the Mister, I say.” + </p> + <p> + “Dick Garstin then.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s better.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Arabian made some remarkably cute remarks about the portraits, Dick,” + she said in reply to the glance. + </p> + <p> + “I care for a fine painting so much that really I do not know how to + refuse the temptation you offer me—Dick Garstin.” + </p> + <p> + Garstin poured himself out another whisky. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll start on it to-morrow,” he said, staring hard at the man who had now + become definitely his subject. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He seized the box. + </p> + <p> + “Did you see his eyes when I said I’d give him the picture?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I was looking at you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you missed revelation. I had diagnosed him all right.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me your diagnosis.” + </p> + <p> + “I told it you long ago. That fellow is a being of the underworld.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn slightly reddened. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder!” she said. “I’m not at all sure that you’re right, Dick.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you gather when I put him through his paces just now?” he asked, + sending out clouds of strong-smelling smoke. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t know! Not very much. He seems to have been about, to have + plenty of money.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know whether you are right, Dick.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “You are really going to give him the portrait?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, when I’ve exhibited it. Not before, of course. The gentleman isn’t + going to have it all his own way.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn looked rather thoughtful, even preoccupied. Almost + immediately afterwards she got up to go. + </p> + <p> + “Coming to-morrow?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “What—to see you paint?” + </p> + <p> + “Coming?” + </p> + <p> + “You really mean that I may?” + </p> + <p> + “I do. You’ll help me.” + </p> + <p> + She looked rather startled, and then, immediately, keenly curious. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see how.” + </p> + <p> + “No reason you should! Now off with you! I’ve got things to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Then good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + As she was going away she stopped for a moment before the portrait of the + judge. + </p> + <p> + “He found out why you painted that portrait.” + </p> + <p> + “Arabian?” said Garstin. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. And he said something about it that wasn’t stupid.” + </p> + <p> + “What was that?” + </p> + <p> + “He said it was more than a portrait of one man, that it was a portrait of + the world’s hypocrisy.” + </p> + <p> + “Damned good!” said Garstin with a sonorous chuckle. “And his portrait + will be more than the portrait of one man.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” she said, looking eagerly at him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Bella + Napoli</i> 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He rang the bell, which was answered by his valet. + </p> + <p> + “Please fetch the theatre ticket, Walter. It is in the drawer of my + writing-table in the library. A box for the Shaftesbury Theatre.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “A very remarkable play, sir. I think you will enjoy it.” + </p> + <p> + “What! Have you seen it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, <i>The Great Lover</i>. 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “How old is the singer?” he inquired anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear! Dear!” + </p> + <p> + “But as my wife says, sir, with a man it’s not such a great matter. But + with a woman—well!” + </p> + <p> + He pursed his narrow lips and half-shut his small grey eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Braybrooke, feeling extremely uncomfortable. “Good night, + Walter. You needn’t sit up.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, sir. Good night, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Really the evil eye must have looked at me!” thought Braybrooke, as he + went downstairs. “I’m thoroughly out of luck.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing like being in form with one’s drive for bucking one up!” + he acknowledged. + </p> + <p> + And he broke out into an almost boyish paean in praise of golf. + </p> + <p> + “But I always thought you preferred lawn tennis!” said Braybrooke. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, but my dear boy you’re not in the sixties yet!” + </p> + <p> + “No. But I wasn’t thinking about myself.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is Adela Sellingworth coming?” she asked instantly, as Braybrooke took + her hand. + </p> + <p> + “She promised to come. I’m expecting her.” + </p> + <p> + He made a movement, but she stood still, though they where close to the + doorway. + </p> + <p> + “And what are we going to see?” + </p> + <p> + “A play called <i>The Great Lover</i>. Here is Alick Craven.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment Craven joined them. Seeing Miss Van Tuyn standing still + with a certain obstinacy he came up and took her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Nice to meet you again,” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, there is Adela Sellingworth!” said Braybrooke. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Where is she?” said Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + “She’s just gone into the ladies’ cloak-room,” answered Braybrooke. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Or—don’t you think that kind of thing may be instinctive?” said + Craven. + </p> + <p> + She sought his eyes with a sort of soft hardihood which was very alluring. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Now you are maligning yourself,” he said, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “No. For I haven’t quite got to the age of calculation yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—I see.” + </p> + <p> + “Here she comes!” said Braybrooke. + </p> + <p> + And he went towards the door, leaving “our young friends” for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “But what has she done to herself?” said Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + “Done! Lady Sellingworth?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Or is it only her hair?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “She is unusual!” he thought. “And so am I; and our friendship is unusual + too. There has never before been anything quite like it.” + </p> + <p> + And he glowed with a warming sense of difference from ordinary life. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He was drawn, I believe, from a famous baritone.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “And yourself?” said Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + “I!” he said, and looking up saw Lady Sellingworth’s brilliant eyes fixed + on him. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know them?” + </p> + <p> + “I have felt jealousy certainly, but never yet as I could feel it.” + </p> + <p> + “What! You are conscious of a great capacity for feeling jealous, a + capacity which has never yet had its full fling?” said the girl. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said. + </p> + <p> + And his lips were smiling, but there was a serious look in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + And they discussed the causes of jealousy. + </p> + <p> + “We shall see it to-night on the stage in its professional form,” said + Craven. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In answer to the last remark Miss Van Tuyn said: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! But Beryl, in how many people in the course of a lifetime can one + have <i>complete confidence</i> I have scarcely met one. What do you say?” + </p> + <p> + She turned her head towards Braybrooke. He looked suddenly rather + plaintive, like a man who realizes unexpectedly how lonely he is. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + At that moment she thought of Sir Seymour Portman. + </p> + <p> + “You think it is doubt which breeds fascination?” said Craven. + </p> + <p> + “Alas for us if it is so,” she answered, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is wise to cultivate irony,” said Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + “You have,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “One often sees it in your eyes. Isn’t it + true?” + </p> + <p> + She turned to Craven; but he did not choose to agree with her. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You will come some day,” she said, with a sort of almost ruthless + obstinacy. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” said Lady Sellingworth. “I have been very happy in Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet you have deserted it for years and years! You are an enigma. + Isn’t she, Mr. Braybrooke?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “What a dinky little party! And where are you all going afterwards?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I shall die if I don’t have a good dinner at once,” said Mrs. + Ackroyde. “Is that a Doucet frock, Beryl?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Count Kalinsky designed it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—Igor Kalinsky! Adela, we are in Box B. We must have a powwow + between the acts.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Presently they got up to go to the theatre, leaving the other quartet + behind them, quite willing to be late. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Braybrooke told her the number of their box. + </p> + <p> + “We are just opposite to you then,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Mind you behave prettily, Adela!” said Lady Wrackley. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + And she turned and led the way out of the restaurant, nodding to people + here and there whom she knew. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “What a contrast to our walk that night!” + </p> + <p> + “This way of travelling?” said Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Which do you prefer, the life of Soho and the streets and raw + humanity, or the Rolls-Royce life?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t like your little experience the other night enough to repeat + it?” said Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + As she spoke Craven saw her eyes gazing at him in the shadow. They looked + rather hard and searching, he thought. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, some day I’ll go to the <i>Bella Napoli</i> again with you, Beryl, if + you like.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, dearest,” said Miss Van Tuyn, rather drily. + </p> + <p> + And again Craven saw her eyes fixed upon him with a hard, steady look. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The talk was all about singers, contracts, the opera. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth leaned well forward with her eyes fixed on the stage, + and seemed interested as the play developed. + </p> + <p> + “They are just like that!” she whispered presently, half turning to + Craven. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of it?” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + “The operatic types aren’t bad.” + </p> + <p> + She leaned with an elbow on the edge of the box and looked vaguely about + the house. + </p> + <p> + “I shall insist on a change of seats after the interval!” thought + Braybrooke. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “<i>That</i> man can act!” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn had spoken. + </p> + <p> + “He gets you merely by coming on. That is acting!” + </p> + <p> + And immediately she was intent on the stage. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a character study, simply that,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “The persistent + lover who can’t leave off—” + </p> + <p> + “Trying to love!” interposed Lady Sellingworth. “Following the great + illusion.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What mystery, dearest?” said Miss Van Tuyn, not without irony. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “May we come in? Is there room?” said Mrs. Ackroyde. + </p> + <p> + There was plenty of room. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Come and see me,” said Mrs. Ackroyde, getting up. “You never come near + me. And come down to Coombe to lunch one Sunday.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you very much. I will.” + </p> + <p> + “And bring Adela with you!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You must sit in front through this act.” + </p> + <p> + Braybrooke spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but—” + </p> + <p> + “No, really—I insist! You don’t see properly behind.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “It was I who insisted on a party of four to-night.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth and Braybrooke were talking together, and Craven + answered: + </p> + <p> + “To Mr. Braybrooke?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “She knows too—damn her!” thought Craven, impolitely. + </p> + <p> + He set his teeth. + </p> + <p> + “They know everything, these women! It’s useless to try to have the + smallest secret from them!” + </p> + <p> + And then he said to himself what so many have said: + </p> + <p> + “What does it matter what they know, what they think, what they say? I + don’t care!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But it comes out of Russia, I suppose,” said Lady Sellingworth. “Poor, + wonderful, horrible, glorious Russia!” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me for a moment,” said Braybrooke. “Lady Wrackley seems to want + me.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn said she might stay on for some time, and explained that she + was having lessons in painting. + </p> + <p> + “In London! I didn’t know you painted, and surely the best school of + painting is in Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And you watch him at work?” said Craven. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + She fixed her eyes on him, and added: + </p> + <p> + “He is painting a living bronze.” + </p> + <p> + “Somebody very handsome?” said Lady Sellingworth, glancing across the + house to the trio in the box opposite. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a man called Nicolas Arabian.” + </p> + <p> + “What a curious name!” said Lady Sellingworth, still looking towards the + opposite box. “Is it an Englishman?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I don’t know his nationality. But he makes a magnificent model.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he’s a model!” said Craven, also looking at the box opposite. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She said the last words to Lady Sellingworth, who replied: + </p> + <p> + “I very seldom make new acquaintances now.” + </p> + <p> + “You made Mr. Craven’s!” said Miss Van Tuyn, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “But that was by special favour. I owe Mr. Braybrooke that!” said Craven. + “And I shall be eternally grateful to him.” + </p> + <p> + His eyes met Lady Sellingworth’s, and he immediately added, turning to + Miss Van Tuyn: + </p> + <p> + “I have to thank him for two delightful new friends—if I may use + that word.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Braybrooke is a great benefactor,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “I wonder how + this play is going to end.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>arriere + pensee</i>. 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn and Craven, standing up in the box, applauded vigorously. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + And she looked from Craven to Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + Moscovitch bowed many times. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you say about it, dearest?” she said, as Craven helped her to put + on her cloak. + </p> + <p> + (Braybrooke was attending to Lady Sellingworth.) + </p> + <p> + “It’s a great piece of acting!” + </p> + <p> + “And horribly true! Don’t you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say it is,” Lady Sellingworth answered. + </p> + <p> + She turned quickly and led the way out of the box. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I am so glad you have performed the miracle, Mr. Craven.” + </p> + <p> + He looked round and saw Mrs. Ackroyde’s investigating eyes fixed upon him. + </p> + <p> + “But what miracle?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “You have pulled Adela Sellingworth out of the shell in which she has been + living curled up for over ten years.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You are a prodigy!” said Lady Wrackley, showing her teeth. + </p> + <p> + “But I’m afraid I can’t claim that triumph. I’m afraid it’s due to Mr. + Braybrooke’s diplomacy.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no!” Mrs. Ackroyde said calmly. “Adela would never yield to his + cotton-glove persuasions. Besides, his diplomacy would shy away from + Soho.” + </p> + <p> + “Soho!” said Craven, startled. + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but Miss Van Tuyn performed that miracle!” said Craven, recovering + himself. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Damn the women!” muttered Craven, as he pushed through the crowd into the + ugly freedom of Shaftesbury Avenue. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Ten,” said Mrs. Ackroyde, who was blessed with a sometimes painfully + retentive memory. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it’s Zotos,” observed Lady Wrackley. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s Zotos?” inquired young Leving of the turned-up nose and the larky + expression. + </p> + <p> + “A Greek who’s a genius and who lives in South Moulton Street.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s he do?” + </p> + <p> + “Things that men shouldn’t be allowed to know anything about. Talk to + Bobbie for a minute, will you?” + </p> + <p> + She turned again to Mrs. Ackroyde. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “She will be much more foolish now if she really begins again,” said Mrs. + Ackroyde in her cool, common-sense way. + </p> + <p> + The young men were talking, and after a moment she continued: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He must be at least twenty-eight years younger than she is.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I know. I often wonder who it was. Someone <i>we</i> don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “So have we all. But we shall never know. Adela is very clever.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he likes white hair. There are boys who do.” + </p> + <p> + “But not for long. Beryl was furious.” + </p> + <p> + “It is hardly a compliment to her. I expect her cult for Adela will + diminish rapidly.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember when she tried to live up to Rupert Louth as an Amazon?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She nearly killed herself over it; but I must say she stuck to it + splendidly. She has plenty of courage.” + </p> + <p> + “Is Alick Craven athletic? I scarcely know him.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he’s never been a rough rider like Rupert Louth; but I believe he’s + a sportsman, does all the usual things.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I dare say we shall soon see Adela on the links and at Kings’.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ask me that Sunday. I wonder how long it will last.” + </p> + <p> + “Not long. It can’t.” + </p> + <p> + “And then she’ll go crash again. It must be awful to have a temperament + like hers.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + But at this moment the motor drew up at the Carlton, and a huge man in + uniform opened the door. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + There must be something quite extraordinary in Craven. He must be utterly + unlike other young men. She began to wonder about him intensely. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You look as if you had been up all night,” she said as he let her in. + </p> + <p> + “So I have!” + </p> + <p> + She did not ask him what he had been doing. He would probably refuse to + tell her. Instead she remarked: + </p> + <p> + “Will you be able to paint?” + </p> + <p> + “Probably not. But perhaps the fellow won’t come.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not. He always—” She stopped; then said quickly, “So he was up + all night too?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know you knew him out of the studio.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I know him wherever I meet him. What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know you did meet him.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In the strong light of the studio Garstin’s unusual appearance of fatigue + was more noticeable, and Miss Van Tuyn could not help saying: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I played poker all night,” said Garstin. + </p> + <p> + “With Arabian?” + </p> + <p> + “And two other fellows—picked them up at the Cafe Royal.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I hope you won.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I didn’t. Both Arabian and I lost a lot. We played here.” + </p> + <p> + “Here!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He went to stand in front of the sketch, which was in oils, and stared at + it with lack-lustre eyes. + </p> + <p> + “What d’you think of it?” he said at last. + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn was rather surprised by the question. Garstin was not in the + habit of asking other people’s opinions about his work. + </p> + <p> + “It’s rather difficult to say,” she said, with some hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “That means you think it’s rotten.” + </p> + <p> + “No. But it isn’t finished and—I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I hate it.” + </p> + <p> + He turned away, sat down on a divan, and let his big knuckly hands drop + down between his knees. + </p> + <p> + “Fact is, I haven’t got at the fellow’s secret,” he said meditatively. “I + got a first impression—” + </p> + <p> + He paused. + </p> + <p> + “I know!” said Miss Van Tuyn, deeply interested. “You told me what it + was.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “That’s why I sat up all night playing poker with him.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” she said, beginning to understand + </p> + <p> + She sat down beside him, turned towards him, and said eagerly: + </p> + <p> + “You wanted to get really to know him?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but I didn’t. The fellow’s an enigma. He’s bad. And that’s + practically all I know about him.” + </p> + <p> + He glanced with distaste at the sketch he had made. + </p> + <p> + “And it isn’t enough. It isn’t enough by a damned long way.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he a good loser?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “The best I ever saw. Never turned a hair, and went away looking as fresh + as a well-watered gardenia, damn him!” + </p> + <p> + “Who were the others?” + </p> + <p> + “Two Americans I’ve seen now and then at the Cafe Royal. I believe they + live mostly in Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “Friends of his?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he isn’t bad,” she said; “and perhaps that’s why you can’t paint + him.” + </p> + <p> + “What d’you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean because you have made up your mind that he is. I think you have a + fixed idea about that.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Now, now! There you are at it again! I’ll paint you if I ever feel like + it—not a minute before.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, d’you mean that you have the <i>toupet</i> to tell me there is + nothing horrible in you?” + </p> + <p> + “Now we are getting away from Arabian,” she said, with cool + self-possession. + </p> + <p> + “Owing to your infernal egoism, my girl!” + </p> + <p> + “Override it, then, with your equally infernal altruism, my boy!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You called him a king in the underworld.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You must help me!” he said at last. + </p> + <p> + “I!” she exclaimed, with almost sharp surprise. “How can I help you?” + </p> + <p> + He turned, and she saw the pin-points of light. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of the fellow?” he said. “After all, you asked me to + paint him. What do you think of him?” + </p> + <p> + “I think he’s magnificently handsome.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Arabian is a very difficult man to understand, and I don’t understand + him.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you like him?” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t exactly say that.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you hate him?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + Garstin suddenly looked almost maliciously sly. + </p> + <p> + “I can tell you something that you feel about him.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “You are afraid of him.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn’s silky fair skin reddened. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not afraid of anyone,” she retorted. “If I have one virtue, I think + it’s courage.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I really?” said the girl, recovering from her surprise and facing him + hardily. “And how have you found that out?” + </p> + <p> + “You took a fancy to the fellow the first time you saw him.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not take a fancy. I am not an under-housemaid.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s not really a particle of difference between an under-housemaid + and a super-lady when it comes to a good-looking man.” + </p> + <p> + “Dick, you’re a great painter, but you’re also a great vulgarian!” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “The heavens will certainly fall before you become obedient.” + </p> + <p> + “—and asked him here. Then I asked you. You came. He came. I started + painting. How many sittings have I had?” + </p> + <p> + “Three.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you’ve met him here four times?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And why have you always let him go away alone from the studio?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That’ll do, Dick!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow, he’s far more presentable than I am.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course he’s presentable, as you call it. He’s very well dressed and + very good-looking, but still—” + </p> + <p> + At that moment she thought of Craven, and in her mind quickly compared the + two men. + </p> + <p> + “But still you’re afraid of him. Where is your frankness? Why don’t you + acknowledge what I already know?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t that enough to go upon?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I wasn’t sure, and I’m not sure now.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me God’s own truth, Beryl. Come on!” + </p> + <p> + He came up to her, put one hand on her left shoulder, and looked down into + her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you a bit afraid of the fellow?” + </p> + <p> + She met his eyes steadily. + </p> + <p> + “There’s something—” She paused. + </p> + <p> + “Go ahead, I tell you!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “An atmosphere! Now we’re getting at it.” + </p> + <p> + He took his heavy hand away from her shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “A woman feels that sort of thing more sensitively than a man does. Sex! + Go on! What about it?” + </p> + <p> + “But I scarcely know what I mean—really, Dick. No! But it’s—it’s + an unsafe atmosphere.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Find out!” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Sacrifice!” he said. “Who talked of sacrificing you? Who wishes to + sacrifice you? I only want—” + </p> + <p> + “One doesn’t know—with a man like that one doesn’t know where it + would lead to.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t say he’s bad. He may not be bad.” + </p> + <p> + “Fact is, as I said, you’re in a mortal funk of him.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well then, what’s to prevent you proving it to me, my girl?” + </p> + <p> + “I will!” + </p> + <p> + She lifted her chin and looked suddenly impudent. + </p> + <p> + “What do you wish me to do to prove it?” she asked him defiantly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. I will.” + </p> + <p> + “Good!” said Garstin sonorously, and looking suddenly much less tired and + morose. + </p> + <p> + “But why do you think <i>I</i> could get to know him?” + </p> + <p> + “Because he’s—but you know why better than I do.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Arabian’s in love with you, my girl. By Jove! There he is!” + </p> + <p> + The bell had sounded below. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Dick!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all right!” + </p> + <p> + He threw the knife down. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll do better than that by a long way.” + </p> + <p> + He got hold of her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Stick to your word, my girl, and I’ll paint you yet—and not an + Academy portrait. But you’ve got to <i>live</i>. Just now, with your + cheeks all in patches you looked stunning.” + </p> + <p> + The bell went again. + </p> + <p> + “Now for him!” + </p> + <p> + He hurried downstairs. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And she was sixty! + </p> + <p> + What was to be done? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>persona + grata</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know! I don’t know!” she whispered to herself. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Another tablet of aspirin—and sleep! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Why not I?” Lady Sellingworth thought that day. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 about 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 thought: “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But there was no one by the fire, and the butler said: + </p> + <p> + “I will tell her ladyship that you are here, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Murgatroyd,” said Sir Seymour. + </p> + <p> + And he went to the fireplace, turned round, and began to warm his flat + back. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Look at him once more and then decide.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “Look at him as the man who is going to be your husband!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I will do it!” she said to herself. “Merely his happiness will be enough + reward.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But—her liberty? + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Grande Dame</i>, the mistress, and looked + with appraising eyes at the stark woman. + </p> + <p> + She would never know. + </p> + <p> + She opened the door and instantly assumed her usual carelessly friendly + look. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + He looked up, made a twitching movement; his pince-nez fell to his black + coat, and he got up alertly. + </p> + <p> + “Adela!” + </p> + <p> + She shut the door and went towards him, and as she did so she thought: + </p> + <p> + “If I had seen Alick Craven sitting there reading!” + </p> + <p> + “I was having a look at this.” + </p> + <p> + He held up the book. It was Baudelaire’s “<i>Les Fleurs du Mal</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Not the book for you!” she said. “Though your French is so good.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + He laid it down, and she noticed the tangle of veins on his hand. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + As he spoke he gently took her hand, and she thought, “If Alick Craven + were taking my hand!” + </p> + <p> + The touch of his skin was warm and very dry. It gave her a woman’s + thoughts, not to be told of. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Very gently she released her hand, and as she did so she looked on it + almost sternly. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” she said. “Do I look unhappy—or what? Sit down, Seymour + dear.” + </p> + <p> + She seemed to add the last word with a sort of pressure, with almost + self-conscious intention. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “Unhappy!” he said, in his quiet and strong, rather deep voice. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I think too much,” she said. “Living alone, one thinks—and + thinks. You have so much to do and I so little.” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes I think of retiring,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “From the court?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but they would never let you!” + </p> + <p> + “My place could be filled easily enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, it couldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + And she added, leaning forward now, and looking at him differently: + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Now, now, Adela!” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Ah—that’s just it! I dare say it will be better to die in harness.” + </p> + <p> + “Die!” she said, as if startled. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You are very strong and healthy, Seymour,” she said, “I think you will + live to be very old.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably. Palaces usually contain a few dodderers. But is anything the + matter, Adela? The old dog is very persistent, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been feeling a little depressed.” + </p> + <p> + “You stay alone too much, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t that. I was out at the theatre with a party only last night. We + went to <i>The Great Lover</i>. But he wasn’t like you. You are a really + great lover.” + </p> + <p> + And again she leaned forward towards him, trying to feel physically what + surely she was feeling in another way. + </p> + <p> + “The greatest in London, I am sure.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” he said, very simply. “But certainly I have the gift of + faithfulness, if it is a gift.” + </p> + <p> + “We had great discussions on love and jealousy last night.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you? Whom were you with?” + </p> + <p> + “I went with Beryl Van Tuyn and Francis Braybrooke.” + </p> + <p> + “An oddly uneven pair!” + </p> + <p> + “Alick Craven was with us, too.” + </p> + <p> + “The boy I met here one Sunday.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth felt an almost fierce flash of irritation as she heard + him say “boy.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s hardly a boy,” she said. “He must be at least thirty, and I think he + seems even older than he is.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The intense irritation grew in Lady Sellingworth. She felt as if she were + being pricked by a multitude of pins. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Adela?” again he said, gently. “Can’t I help you?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, you can’t!” she answered, almost with desperation, no longer able + to control herself thoroughly. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she felt as if she were losing her head, as if she might break + down before him, let him into her miserable secret. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But what is the matter, my dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Life—life!” she said, and there was a fierce exasperation in her + voice. “I cannot understand the unfairnesses of life, the cruel + injustices.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’m really just like one of them!” was her thought. “Trimmed up as a + lady!” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + Her face suddenly twisted. In all her life she thought she had never felt + so utterly hopeless before. + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour stretched out a hand to put it on hers, but she drew away. + </p> + <p> + “No, no—don’t! I’m not—you can’t do anything, Seymour. It’s no + use!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You can turn up another light, Murgatroyd,” she said, instantly + recovering herself sufficiently to speak in a natural voice. + </p> + <p> + And she walked back down the room to Sir Seymour, carrying with her a + little silver vase full of very large white carnations. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + When the servants were gone she said: + </p> + <p> + “You must think me half crazy, Seymour.” + </p> + <p> + “No; but I don’t understand what has happened.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> have happened, I and my miserable disgusting mind and brain and + temperament. That’s all!” + </p> + <p> + “You are very severe on yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sometimes,” he answered gravely. + </p> + <p> + She felt suddenly rather cold, and she knew that his answer had surprised + her. She had certainly expected him to say, “Never, my dear!” + </p> + <p> + “I thought so,” she said. + </p> + <p> + And, while saying it, she was scarcely conscious that she was telling a + lie. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—I don’t know!” she said in a rather hard voice. “Everything can + change, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you have often disapproved of things I have done?” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes I have.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “What is the good of entering upon that?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; do tell me! I want to know.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “But if you married an ungovernable creature?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there? But in the army you deal with men. And we are so utterly + different.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I should have found the way.” + </p> + <p> + “Could he find the way now?” she thought. “Shall I do it? Shall I risk + it?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + She did not answer, but gave him his tea and sat back on her sofa. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Adela, if you cannot trust the old dog whom can you trust?” + </p> + <p> + “I know—I know!” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “You said just now that you had sometimes been hard on me in your mind,” + she said abruptly. “What about?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all long ago.” + </p> + <p> + “How long ago?” + </p> + <p> + “Years and years.” + </p> + <p> + “Ten years?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—quite.” + </p> + <p> + “You have—you have respected me for ten years?” + </p> + <p> + “And loved you for a great many more.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind about love! You have respected me for ten years.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Adela.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me—have you loved me more since you have been able to respect + me?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I have. To respect means a great deal with me.” + </p> + <p> + “I must have often disgusted you very much before ten years ago. I expect + you have often wondered very much about me, Seymour?” + </p> + <p> + “It is difficult to understand the great differences between your own + temperament and another’s, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Adela!” + </p> + <p> + His deep voice sounded terribly hurt. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Adela, what is exasperating you to-day? Can’t you tell me?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The silence seemed long. At last he broke it. For he had seen an + expression of despair come into her face. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, what is it? You must tell me!” + </p> + <p> + But suddenly the look of despair gave place to a mocking look which he + knew very well. + </p> + <p> + “It’s only boredom, Seymour. I have had too much of Berkeley Square. I + think I shall go away for a little.” + </p> + <p> + “To Cap Martin?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps. Where does one go when one wants to run away from oneself?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I will remain free, but henceforth I will be my own mistress in freedom, + not the slave of myself.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART5" id="link2H_PART5"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART FIVE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is her ladyship at home?” + </p> + <p> + “Her ladyship has gone out of town, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “When will she be back?” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t say, sir. Her ladyship has gone abroad.” + </p> + <p> + Craven stood for a moment without speaking. He was amazed, and felt as if + he had received a blow. Finally, he said: + </p> + <p> + “Do you think she will be long away?” + </p> + <p> + “Her ladyship has gone for some time, sir, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + The young man’s face, firm, with rosy cheeks and shallow, blue eyes, was + strangely inexpressive. Craven hesitated, then said: + </p> + <p> + “Do you know where her ladyship has gone? I—I wish to write a note + to her.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe it’s some place near Monte Carlo, sir. Her ladyship gave orders + that no letters were to be forwarded for the present.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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” to + Braybrooke, and probably to others as well, to Lady Wrackley, Mrs. + Ackroyde, and perhaps even to Miss Van Tuyn. And to Lady Sellingworth! + </p> + <p> + 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 misunderstanding. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He spoke of the struggle for bread, of materialism, of the illusions of + sensuality, of the Universal Intelligence, of the blind cruelty of + existence. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + A tall soldier who was standing near Craven looked down at the plump girl + beside him and said: + </p> + <p> + “How’s that, Lil? We’re both jolly miserable, ain’t we?” + </p> + <p> + “Go along with yer! Not me!” was the response, with an impudent look. + </p> + <p> + “Then let’s get on where it’s quieter. What ho!” + </p> + <p> + They moved demurely away. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + At this point in the discourse Craven turned away, feeling that + edification was scarcely to be found by him here. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I had just asked for you,” he said, taking off his hat. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! How nice of you!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Come upstairs and we’ll have a talk in my sitting-room.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been out all day,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes? Are you still having painting lessons?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s it—painting lessons. Dick is an extraordinary man.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean Dick Garstin. I don’t know him.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s absolutely unscrupulous, but a genius. I believe genius always is + unscrupulous. I am sure of it. It cannot be anything else.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a pity.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know that it is.” + </p> + <p> + “But how does Dick Garstin show his unscrupulousness?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn looked suddenly wary. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What a delightful individual!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!—you don’t understand genius.” + </p> + <p> + Craven felt rather nettled. He cared a good deal for the arts, and had no + wish to be set among the Philistines. + </p> + <p> + “And—do you?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you do understand!” he acknowledged, remembering her enthusiasm at + the theatre. “But I think <i>you</i> are unscrupulous, too.” + </p> + <p> + He said it hardily, looking straight at her, and wondering what she had + been doing that afternoon before she arrived at the hotel. + </p> + <p> + She smiled, making her eyes narrow. + </p> + <p> + “Then perhaps I am half-way to genius.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you be willing to sacrifice all the moral qualities if you could + have genius in exchange?” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t expect me to say so. But it would be grand to have power over + men.” + </p> + <p> + “You have that already.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him satirically. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know you’re a terrible humbug?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “And are not you?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I think I show myself very much as I really am.” + </p> + <p> + “Can a woman do that?” he said, with sudden moodiness. + </p> + <p> + “It depends. Mrs. Ackroyde can and Lady Wrackley can’t.” + </p> + <p> + “And—Lady Sellingworth?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid she is a bit of a humbug,” said Miss Van Tuyn, without venom. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder when she’ll be back?” + </p> + <p> + “Back? Where from?” + </p> + <p> + “Surely you know she had gone abroad?” + </p> + <p> + The look of surprise in Miss Van Tuyn’s face was so obviously genuine that + Craven added: + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t? Well, she has gone away for some time.” + </p> + <p> + “Where to?” + </p> + <p> + “Somewhere on the Riviera, I believe. Probably Cap Martin. But letters are + not to be forwarded.” + </p> + <p> + “At this time of year! Has she gone away alone?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn looked at him with a sort of cold, almost hostile + shrewdness. + </p> + <p> + “And she told you she was going?” + </p> + <p> + “Why should she tell me?” he said, with a hint of defiance. + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn left that at once. + </p> + <p> + “So Adela has run away!” she said. + </p> + <p> + She sat for a moment quite still, like one considering something + carefully. + </p> + <p> + “But she will come back,” she said presently, looking up at him, “bringing + her sheaves with her.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you remember—in the Bible?” + </p> + <p> + “But what has that to do with Lady Sellingworth?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you’ll understand when she comes back.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you joined with me in adoring her.” + </p> + <p> + “Adoration isn’t the word. And you know it.” + </p> + <p> + “And letters are not to be forwarded?” said Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + “I heard so.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! when you went to call on her!” + </p> + <p> + “Now you are merely guessing!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you must commit suicide at that age.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. The old women in hotels!” + </p> + <p> + She shivered, and it seemed to him that her body shook naturally, as if it + couldn’t help shaking. + </p> + <p> + “But—remember—she’ll come back with her sheaves!” she added, + looking at him. “And then the ‘old guard’ will fall upon her.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He only said: + </p> + <p> + “I may be very stupid, but I don’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Bella Napoli</i>. + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Morning + Post</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose she let you know she was going?” he hazarded. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. I happened to call and the footman gave me the news.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope she isn’t ill,” said Braybrooke with sudden gravity. + </p> + <p> + “Ill? Why should you think—?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “But near Monte Carlo!” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Is</i> it near Monte Carlo?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Is</i> it Monte Carlo?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the row?” Garstin had said, with almost insolent defiance. “I + destroyed it because it’s damned bad. I hadn’t got you.” + </p> + <p> + And then he had taken the canvas from the easel and had thrown it + contemptuously into a corner of the studio. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Surely Arabian was a greedy man. + </p> + <p> + 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. + <i>Pazienza!</i> And he had enlarged upon patience. And Arabian had + listened politely, had looked as if he were trying to understand. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + And then Miss Van Tuyn had seen Arabian’s eyes turn to her as he had said, + but rather doubtfully: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know whether I am.” + </p> + <p> + Garstin’s eyes had said to her with sharp imperativeness: + </p> + <p> + “Keep him! You’re not to let him go!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But we are not painters and writers!” Arabian had said. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless they had gone there, and had lunched in a quiet corner, and + she had left him about three o’clock. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And in the midst of all this had come Craven with his changed manner and + his news about Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>reculer pour mieux sauter</i>. + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Quartier Latin</i>. 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 <i>Galleria</i> 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? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn could see him with smart <i>cocottes</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>convenances</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + She was strangely excited. And now Craven came to her. And he attracted + her, too, but in such a different way! + </p> + <p> + Suddenly London was interesting! And “I don’t know when we shall go back + to Paris!” she said to Miss Cronin. + </p> + <p> + “Is it the Wallace Collection, Beryl?” murmured “Old Fanny,” with + plaintive suspicion over her cup of camomile tea. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it’s the Wallace Collection,” said Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + And she went away to dress for her dinner with Dick Garstin. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>The Westminster Gazette</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s—Dick!” + </p> + <p> + An angry look came into her face. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you do that?” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” + </p> + <p> + He stared at her almost as if fascinated. + </p> + <p> + “By Jove . . . you look wonderful!” + </p> + <p> + “I forbid you to touch me like that! I hate being pawed, and you know it.” + </p> + <p> + He glanced at the pale green paper. + </p> + <p> + “The sea-green incorruptible!” + </p> + <p> + He stretched out his hand, but she quickly moved the paper out of his + reach. + </p> + <p> + “Let us dine. You’ve kept me waiting for ages.” + </p> + <p> + Garstin sent a look to his waiter, and sat down opposite to Miss Van Tuyn + with his back to the room. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll buy a <i>Westminster</i> going back,” he observed. “Bisque! Bring a + bottle of the Lanson, Raoul.” + </p> + <p> + He addressed the waiter in French. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Oui, m’sieu</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Well iced!” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Certainement</i>, Monsieur Garstin.” + </p> + <p> + “Better tempered now, Beryl?” + </p> + <p> + “You always make out that I have the temper of a fiend. I hate being + startled. That’s all.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re awfully nervy these days.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t care.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you would. You love being worshipped and run after.” + </p> + <p> + “Good soup, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + She made no answer to this. After a silence she said: + </p> + <p> + “Why were you so late?” + </p> + <p> + “To give you time to study the evening paper.” + </p> + <p> + “Were you working?” + </p> + <p> + “No—cursing.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “This damned portrait’s going to be no good either!” + </p> + <p> + “Then you’d better give it up.” + </p> + <p> + He shot a piercing glance at her. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That was only a whim. You didn’t take it seriously.” + </p> + <p> + “I do now, though.” + </p> + <p> + “But if you’re baffled?” + </p> + <p> + “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 times—and + then do a masterpiece.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think he’ll wait long enough. Another stab of the palette knife + and you’ll probably see the last of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah—he didn’t like it, did he?” + </p> + <p> + “He was furious.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he say anything about it afterwards to you?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a word. But he was furious. You stabbed money!” + </p> + <p> + Garstin smiled appreciatively. Raoul was pouring out the champagne. + Garstin lifted his glass and set it down half empty. + </p> + <p> + “Had you told him—” + </p> + <p> + He paused. + </p> + <p> + “He knows everything you do is worth money, a lot of money.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s got the hairy heel. I always knew that. We’ll get to his secret yet, + you and I between us.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “If you like I’ll pay the bill.” + </p> + <p> + She reddened. + </p> + <p> + “Do you really think that if I were to go he—Arabian—” + </p> + <p> + “He’d follow you by the next boat.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure he wouldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not half so vain as I thought you were.” + </p> + <p> + “When we are alone he never attempts to make love to me. We talk + platitudes. I know him no better than I did before.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s a wary bird. But the dawn must come and with it his crow.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Dick, I tell you frankly that I may go back to Paris any day.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + He drank again and ate heartily. He was a voracious eater at times. But + there were days when he ate nothing and worked incessantly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn happened to see this action, and a vagrant thought slipped + through her mind. “Then we are not the last!” + </p> + <p> + “My nerves are certainly not fiddle strings,” she said. “But I have + interests which pull me towards Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “Greater interests here. Have some more champagne! Raoul!” + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu!” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t deceive me, Beryl.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Arabian fascinates you.” + </p> + <p> + “He doesn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What nonsense, Dick!” + </p> + <p> + “Raoul!” + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “This is beyond bearing, Dick, even from you!” + </p> + <p> + She was looking really indignant. Her cheeks and forehead had reddened, + her eyes seemed to spit fire at him, and her hands trembled. + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Then she went out, followed by Raoul, who seemed rather agitated, and + whose back looked appealing. + </p> + <p> + “Black hair with blue lights in it!” said Garstin. “What a beauty!” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn sighed. + </p> + <p> + “Why wouldn’t she stay?” + </p> + <p> + He was still sitting half turned towards the door. + </p> + <p> + “A table with flowers all ready for her! And she goes! Was she alone? Ah—who + was with her?” + </p> + <p> + “Arabian!” said Miss Van Tuyn, coldly. + </p> + <p> + “And he—” + </p> + <p> + “He saw us!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He chuckled over his wine. + </p> + <p> + “Did he know that you saw him?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “So—you’ve taught him timidity! He doesn’t want you to know of his + under life.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Like a sea monster, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “He is horrible. I always knew it.” + </p> + <p> + “Come, now! You told me—” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t matter what I told you. He is horrible.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu!” + </p> + <p> + Garstin was evidently enjoying himself. + </p> + <p> + “I know those women! Arabian’s catching it like the devil in Conduit + Street. She’s giving him something he’ll remember.” + </p> + <p> + “No!” said Miss Van Tuyn, with hard emphasis. + </p> + <p> + “What d’you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, Beryl. What do you really think of Wyndham Lewis? You know his + portrait of Ezra Pound?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think it’s a masterpiece?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you? I can never get at your real ideas about modern painting.” + </p> + <p> + “And I thought I wore them all down in my own pictures.” + </p> + <p> + “You certainly don’t sit on the fence when you paint.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Madame—” he began. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>The Westminster Gazette</i>. What had she + been reading so intently? What was it in the paper that had got on her + nerves? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Was that her secret? And his? Arabian’s? + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + As the writer of the article pointed out, the play was a Grand Guignol + piece produced away from its proper environment. It was called <i>The Lure + of Destruction</i>. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “In the underworld—but is the fellow a king?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + 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 <i>Bella Napoli</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + He still did not know where Lady Sellingworth was. Nothing had appeared in + the <i>Morning Post</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Fanny!” she said. “I want you.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it, dear?” said Miss Cronin, sitting forward a little in her + chair and laying aside her book. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve brought back a friend, and I want you to know him. Come into my + sitting-room.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Cronin got up obediently and remembering Mrs. Clem’s words, looked at + Beryl’s cheek-bones and eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Is it Mr. Craven?” she asked in a quavering voice. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Craven—no! You know him already.” + </p> + <p> + “I have seen him once, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Come along!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The stranger bowed, and then pressed Miss Cronin’s freckled right hand + gently, but strongly too. + </p> + <p> + “I have been hoping to meet you,” he said, in a strong but gentle voice + which had, Miss Cronin thought, almost caressing inflexions. + </p> + <p> + “Very glad to meet you, indeed!” said the companion. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Miss Van Tuyn has told me what you are to her.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + This must be the Wallace Collection! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The weather—it is really terrible, is it not? You are wise to stay + in the warm.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + When he had gone Miss Van Tuyn said carelessly: + </p> + <p> + “Fanny, darling, what do you think of him?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I think Mr. Arabian is the most—the most—he is fascinating. + He is a charming man. And how very good-looking!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he’s a handsome fellow. And so you liked him?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “A friend of Dick Garstin, the painter. And so he attracted you?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “So—so you find nothing repellent in him?” + </p> + <p> + “Repellent!” said Miss Cronin, almost with fear. “Do you mean to say—then + don’t you like him?” + </p> + <p> + “I like him well enough. But, as you ought to know, I’m not given to + raving about men.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Miss Cronin almost severely, “Mr. Arabian—Is that his + true name?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I told you so.” + </p> + <p> + “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 understands me, and that shows he has + sympathy. I am sure Suzanne would like him too.” + </p> + <p> + “Really, you quite rave about him!” said Miss Van Tuyn, with a light touch + of sarcasm. + </p> + <p> + But her eyes looked pleased, and that evening she was exceptionally kind + to old Fanny. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Her connexion with Craven was peculiar. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Arabian troubled her increasingly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But since that night Miss Van Tuyn had been persecuted by a secret + jealousy such as she had never known till now. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And then—the depths? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” Miss Van Tuyn had asked. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “He only wants the picture,” she had said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Le Sacre du Printemps</i>, <i>The Nightingale</i>, and other + works. Arabian had sat smoking in discreet silence, till she had said to + him bluntly: + </p> + <p> + “Do you care about music?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + And then Arabian had given them a piece of information. + </p> + <p> + “I was brought up among palm trees.” + </p> + <p> + “Florida?” Garstin had said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + That day, later on, he had not actually said, but had implied that some + Spanish blood ran in his veins. + </p> + <p> + “But I belong to no country,” he had added quickly. “I am a <i>gamin</i> + of the world.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a citizen?” she had said. + </p> + <p> + “No; I am the eternal <i>gamin</i>. I shall never be anything else.” + </p> + <p> + All very well! But at moments she was convinced that there was a very hard + and a very wary man in Arabian. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps sitting under the singing palm tree there was a savage! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Westminster Gazette</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + He was gentle and charming. Old Fanny liked him immensely, said he had a + kind heart. And Fanny was sensitive. + </p> + <p> + Yet again she thought of the savage sitting under the palm tree and of + Dick Garstin’s allusion to a king in the underworld. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I love hard sands and the wind and the lines upon lines of surf!” she + said. “The wind blows away some of my civilization.” + </p> + <p> + “I know!” said Craven, looking at her with admiration. + </p> + <p> + He liked her strength and energy, the indefatigable youth of her. + </p> + <p> + “<i>En route!</i>” + </p> + <p> + Soon the car stopped. They got out, and over the sandy hill, with its + rough sea-grasses, they made their way to the sands. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Let us turn our backs on Rye!” said the girl. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Let us turn!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “All right!” + </p> + <p> + Those were the first words they had spoken. + </p> + <p> + “Let us go and sit down in a sand-bank and see the twilight come.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “And I suppose <i>the</i> one person is for all places.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you feel at home with me here?” she asked him, rather abruptly and + with a searching look at him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, quite—since our game. A good game is a link, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “For bodies.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that means a good deal. We live in the body.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Bodies—minds! And what about hearts?” asked Craven. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Craven looked at her with a dawning of surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean of a German soldier, for instance?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No, no! Of course not. Of anyone you have known personally; afraid of + anyone as an individual? That’s what I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t remember that I ever have.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think it possible to love someone who inspires you at moments with + unreasoning dread?” + </p> + <p> + “No; candidly I don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “I think there can be attraction in repulsion.” + </p> + <p> + “I should be very sorry for myself if I yielded to such an attraction.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I think it would probably lead to disaster.” + </p> + <p> + “How soberly you speak!” said Miss Van Tuyn, almost with an air of + distaste. + </p> + <p> + After a moment of silence she added: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe an Englishman has the power to lose his head.” + </p> + <p> + Craven sat a little nearer to her. + </p> + <p> + “Would you like to see me lose mine?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t say that. But I should like you to be able to.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>they</i> + lose their heads easily?” + </p> + <p> + “No. That’s why—” + </p> + <p> + She stopped abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “What is it you want to say to me? What are you trying to say?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing!” she answered. + </p> + <p> + And her voice sounded almost sulky. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Craven stretched out his hand and took one of hers and held it. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you do that?” she said. “You don’t care for me really.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “They are having their Sunday out,” she said, with a slight, cold laugh. + “And we have had ours!” + </p> + <p> + And she got up and shook the sand grains from her rough skirt. + </p> + <p> + “And that’s happiness!” she added, almost with a sneer. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + What must be must be. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + And she said to Craven: + </p> + <p> + “Come!” + </p> + <p> + It was rapidly getting dark. The ground was uneven and rough, the sand + loose and crumbling. + </p> + <p> + “Do take my arm!” he said, but rather coldly, with constraint. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Somewhat as Lady Sellingworth had thought of Seymour Portman, Beryl Van + Tuyn thought of Craven, who would certainly not have enjoyed knowledge of + it. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “How Adela Sellingworth would have enjoyed all this if she had been here + to-day instead of me!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Lady Sellingworth!” said Craven, as if startled. “What made you think of + her just then?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. Stop a moment!” + </p> + <p> + She stood very still. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “About five weeks, I should think.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you be glad if she were back?” + </p> + <p> + “It would make very little difference to me,” he said in a casual voice. + “Now put on your coat.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They drove through the darkness towards London, Lady Sellingworth and + Arabian. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Please tell her ladyship that her friend, Miss Van Tuyn, will call on her + this afternoon about five o’clock,” said Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + Soon afterwards she put on her hat and fur coat and set off on her way to + Chelsea. + </p> + <p> + A little before five she turned into Berkeley Square on foot, coming from + Carlos Place. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>cap-a-pie</i> for conquest. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Bella Napoli</i>. 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? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Arabian had taken a flat in Chelsea looking over the river. Evidently he + was going to settle down in London. + </p> + <p> + “But I live in Paris!” thought Miss Van Tuyn, as she pushed Lady + Sellingworth’s bell. + </p> + <p> + Her ladyship was at home, and Miss Van Tuyn mounted the stairs full of + expectation. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Dear Beryl! It’s good of you to come to see me so soon. I only arrived on + Saturday.” + </p> + <p> + “Dearest! How dark it is! I can scarcely see you.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The sheaves! The sheaves! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Where have I been?” said Lady Sellingworth. “In the place of the swans—in + Geneva.” + </p> + <p> + “Geneva! We thought you had gone to the Riviera, probably to Cap Martin.” + </p> + <p> + “I did go to the Riviera first.” + </p> + <p> + “It must have been a desert.” + </p> + <p> + “Not quite. Cannes would have been quite pleasant. But I had to go on to + Geneva to see a friend.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “Did you stay long at the Beau Rivage?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I did.” + </p> + <p> + “We have missed you.” + </p> + <p> + “I like to think that.” + </p> + <p> + “London loses its most characteristic note for me when you are not in it.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Everyone has been wondering where you were,” she said. “Mr. Braybrooke + was quite in a turmoil. Does he know you are back?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t told him. But he gets to know everything in less than five + minutes. And what have you been doing?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got a lot to tell you,” she said, “if you won’t be bored.” + </p> + <p> + “You never bore me, Beryl.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t believe I do. Well, first I must tell you how good Dick + Garstin has been to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Garstin the painter?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It must be absorbingly interesting to watch such a man at work,” Lady + Sellingworth said presently. + </p> + <p> + “It is. It’s fascinating.” + </p> + <p> + “And so that is the reason why you are staying so long in smoky old + London?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Adela, it isn’t. At least, that’s not the only reason.” + </p> + <p> + The words were spoken slowly and were followed by a curiously conscious, + almost, indeed, embarrassed look from the girl’s violet eyes. + </p> + <p> + “No?” + </p> + <p> + After a long pause Beryl said: + </p> + <p> + “You know I have always looked upon you as a book of wisdom.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s very difficult to be wise,” said Lady Sellingworth, with a touch of + bitterness. “And sometimes very dull.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>feels</i> you + have been round the world when one is with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Does one?” said Lady Sellingworth, rather drily. “But I fancied nowadays + the young thought all the wisdom lay with them.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t. And, besides, I think you are marvellously discreet.” + </p> + <p> + “Wise! Discreet! I begin to feel as if I ought to sit on the Bench!” + </p> + <p> + Again there was the touch of bitterness in the voice. A very faint smile + hovered for an instant about Miss Van Tuyn’s lips. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow, I have no wish to do it. But—you were going to tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “In confidence.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. The book of wisdom never opens its leaves to the mob.” + </p> + <p> + “I want very much to know your opinion of young Alick Craven.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Of Mr. Craven!” she said, with sudden severe reserve. “Why? Why?” + </p> + <p> + Directly she had spoken she regretted the repetition. Her mind felt stiff, + unyielding. And all her body felt stiff too. + </p> + <p> + “That’s what I want to tell you,” said Miss Van Tuyn, speaking with some + apparent embarrassment. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Craven is scarcely a boy, I think!” + </p> + <p> + “But we call them boys!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes!” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “No, no. Besides, I know you Americans do all these things with no + sentiment at all, merely <i>pour passer le temps</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sometimes. But he isn’t an American.” + </p> + <p> + Again she looked slightly embarrassed and seemed to hesitate. + </p> + <p> + “You mean—you think that he—?” + </p> + <p> + “It was that evening . . . last night only, in fact—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, of course it was last night. To-day is Monday.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I feel since last night that things are different between Alick and me.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you engaged to him—to Mr. Craven?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I doubt it, Beryl. I see scarcely anyone now. You live in Paris + surrounded by clever men and—” + </p> + <p> + “But you have had decades more of experience than I have. In fact, <i>you</i> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + “Sir Seymour Portman!” said Murgatroyd’s heavy voice at the door. + </p> + <p> + And the old courtier entered almost eagerly, his dark eyes shining under + the thatch of eyebrows and the white gleam of the “cauliflower.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Can she have tried monkey glands too?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + When it began to get dark Craven had wanted to hold Beryl’s hand. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She had gone abroad to fight, and had come back having lost her battle. + And already she was being scourged for her failure. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She had as it were got out of the train once more. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She had told herself that, and finally she had decided to return to + London. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And now she had come back with her sheaves and had been met on the + threshold by Beryl with her hideous confidences. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Grande Dame</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Craven, with apparent indifference. “Have you seen her?” + </p> + <p> + Braybrooke replied that he had seen her, and that she was looking, in his + opinion, remarkably well, even somewhat younger than usual. + </p> + <p> + “She seems to have had an excellent time on the Riviera and in + Switzerland.” + </p> + <p> + “In Switzerland!” said Craven, thinking of Braybrooke’s remarks about + Catherine Bewdley and Lausanne. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed! By the way, who is Beryl Van Tuyn’s extraordinarily + good-looking young friend? Do you happen to know?” + </p> + <p> + “What friend?” asked Craven, with sudden sharpness. + </p> + <p> + “The tall man she has been seen about with lately.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + After a slight pause, very intentional on Braybrooke’s part, Craven + replied: + </p> + <p> + “Miss Van Tuyn knows such lots of people.” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure! And Lady Archie, though a dear woman, is perhaps a little + inclined to gossip.” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Archie Brooke?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t pretend you are working overtime at the F.O. to-morrow,” she + said. + </p> + <p> + Craven replied that the F.O. kept him very long even on Saturdays. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter? What are you angry about?” asked Miss Van Tuyn through + the telephone. + </p> + <p> + Craven intended to make a quietly evasive reply, but he found himself + saying: + </p> + <p> + “If I work overtime at the F.O., are there not others who do much the same—in + Glebe Place?” + </p> + <p> + After a pause Miss Van Tuyn said: + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t an idea what you mean.” + </p> + <p> + Craven said nothing. Already he was angry with himself, and regretted his + impulsiveness. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” retorted Craven, feeling rather absurd. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He made up his mind not to go. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Now she was anticipating the coming interview with an uneasiness which she + could only conceal by a strong effort. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The change had occurred on the day of Miss Van Tuyn’s conversation through + the telephone with Craven, a Friday. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry, but I cannot help it, Dick Garstin,” Arabian had said. + </p> + <p> + And after a pause he had added: + </p> + <p> + “I hope I have not shown impatience all this long time?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Finished!” he said in his loud bass voice. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Finished!” she exclaimed. “Do you mean—” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “May I see, Dick?” asked Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + “No, you mayn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you satisfied?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s coming out more as I want him this time.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think you have found his secret?” + </p> + <p> + “Or yours, eh? What is happening in you, my girl?” + </p> + <p> + Before she could answer a telephone bell rang below. + </p> + <p> + “Damn!” said Garstin, going towards the staircase. + </p> + <p> + Before he went down he turned round and said: + </p> + <p> + “You’re travelling fast.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Beryl!” + </p> + <p> + She started, turned, and went to the head of the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “The telephone’s for you. Come along down!” + </p> + <p> + “Coming!” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” she said, as she saw him standing by the telephone with the + receiver in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Some old woman, by the voice. She says she must speak to you. Here—take + it, my girl!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She took the receiver out of his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I’m here! Who is it? Do make haste. I’m in a hurry.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Beryl, there’s bad news!” + </p> + <p> + “Bad news! What news?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t tell you like this.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense! Tell me at once!” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t! I simply cannot. Oh, my dear, get into a taxi and come back at + once.” + </p> + <p> + “I insist on your telling me what is the matter!” said Miss Van Tuyn + sharply. + </p> + <p> + Her nerves were already on edge, and something in the sound of the voice + through the telephone frightened her. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me at once what it is! Now speak plainly!” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause; then the agitated voice said: + </p> + <p> + “A cable has come from the Bahamas.” + </p> + <p> + “The Bahamas! Well? Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Your poor father has—” + </p> + <p> + The voice failed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do tell me! For Heaven’s sake, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Your poor father is dead. Oh, Beryl!” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn stood quite still for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “My father—dead!” she thought. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Fanny. I shall be home very soon. Of course, I shall leave the + studio at once. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She found the two men standing together in the studio. Arabian had on his + overcoat and gloves, and was holding his hat and umbrella. + </p> + <p> + “It was only Fanny Cronin!” she said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I must go,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I will walk with you to a taxi if you kindly allow me,” said Arabian, + getting her fur coat. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Dick!” she said in an offhand voice. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye!” he said. “Take care of her, Arabian.” + </p> + <p> + She sent him a look full of intense and hostile inquiry. He met it with a + half-amused smile. + </p> + <p> + “I shall do better now,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Ah?” said Arabian, looking polite and imperturbable. + </p> + <p> + “Come along!” said Miss Van Tuyn. “It must be getting late.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Anything the matter?” asked Garstin, gazing at her with keen attention + and curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said coldly. “Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + And she went down the stairs followed by Arabian. + </p> + <p> + Garstin did not accompany them. He had gone to stand before his picture of + Arabian. + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn opened the door. A soft gust of wind blew some small rain + into her face. + </p> + <p> + “Let me hold my umbrella over you, please,” said Arabian. “Do take my arm + while we look for a taxi.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no!” + </p> + <p> + She walked on. + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing the matter, I hope?” + </p> + <p> + “I had some bad news through the telephone.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My father is dead,” she added. + </p> + <p> + As she spoke she looked up at him, and she saw a sharp quiver distort his + lips for an instant. + </p> + <p> + “Did you know him?” she exclaimed, standing still. + </p> + <p> + “I? Indeed no! Why should you suppose so?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought—I don’t know!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not normal to-day,” she thought. + </p> + <p> + “I am deeply grieved, deeply. Please accept from me my most full + sympathy.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. I scarcely ever saw my father, but naturally this news has + upset me. He died in the Bahamas.” + </p> + <p> + “How very sad! So far away!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What does this man not know?” she thought. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we—?” said Arabian. + </p> + <p> + And they walked on slowly together. + </p> + <p> + “May I make a suggestion, Miss Van Tuyn,” he said gently. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + He made a signal with his left hand. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The cab stopped beside them. + </p> + <p> + “No, I must really go home,” she said, with an attempt at determination. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But really I must—” + </p> + <p> + “Four, Rose Tree Gardens! You know them?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Good!” + </p> + <p> + The taxi glided away from the kerb. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + When the cab stopped, she said: + </p> + <p> + “I can only stay five minutes.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly! Dear Mademoiselle Cronin will expect you. Please wait for the + lady!” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn was vaguely glad to hear him say that to the chauffeur. + </p> + <p> + She got out and looked upwards. She saw a big block of flats towering up + in front of her. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Please!” he said, standing back for Miss Van Tuyn to pass in. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Please bring tea for two at once,” said Arabian in Spanish. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, in a moment,” said the man, also in Spanish. + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn stepped in, and the door was gently shut behind her by + Arabian’s manservant. + </p> + <p> + Arabian opened the second door on the left of the hall. + </p> + <p> + “This is my little salon,” he said. “May I—” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know why I came!” she said bluntly, angrily almost. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He bent down and poked the fire, then stood beside it, looking down at her + as she sat in the chair. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I rent it furnished,” said Arabian, evidently guessing her thought. + </p> + <p> + “Are you here for long?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not quite know. That depends.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want with me?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + His reserve almost terrified her. That was the truth. + </p> + <p> + The dark man with the light eyes brought in tea on a large silver tray. + She began to drink it hastily. + </p> + <p> + “You—forgive me for asking—you will not leave London because + of this sad news?” said Arabian. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean for America?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You will not go to America without telling me?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No, no. Of course not.” + </p> + <p> + “You told me first of your sorrow!” + </p> + <p> + “Why—why did I?” she thought, wondering. + </p> + <p> + “And you did not tell Dick Garstin.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “And you came here to me.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no! With you!” + </p> + <p> + “To my rooms in spite of your grief. We are friends from to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “To-night . . . but it is afternoon!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It gets dark so early now,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Dark! As he said it she thought, “That’s his word! That’s his word!” + Everyone has his word, and dark was Arabian’s. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I will take you down.” + </p> + <p> + Quietly and very naturally, he let her hand go. And at once she had a + sensation of being out in the cold. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Miss Van Tuyn!” she said, stopping. + </p> + <p> + She held out her hand, looking from Miss Van Tuyn to Arabian. + </p> + <p> + “How are you?” + </p> + <p> + Her light eyes were searching and inquisitive. She had an evening paper in + her hand. + </p> + <p> + “I—I am so grieved,” she added, again looking at Arabian. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Arabian—Mrs. Birchington!” Miss Van Tuyn felt obliged to say. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Birchington and Arabian bowed. + </p> + <p> + “Grieved!” said Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I have just seen the sad news about your father in the paper.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Thank you for your sympathy. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Birchington bowed again to Arabian, swept him with her sharp + inquisitive eyes, and stepped into the lift. + </p> + <p> + “She lives here,” he said, “in the apartment opposite to mine.” + </p> + <p> + As Miss Van Tuyn drove away towards Claridge’s she wondered whether + Arabian was glad because of that fortuitous meeting. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And her father was dead! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She still seemed to feel the pulse beating in his warm hand as she drove + through the rain and the darkness. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART6" id="link2H_PART6"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART SIX + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And now came this invitation, putting it in her power to meet Craven again + naturally. Should she go? + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And what would Alick Craven think? + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless she put a little more red on her lips, called her maid, had + something done to her hair. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>soupcon</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “You think not, Cecile?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “<i>La vieillesse!</i>” she murmured. “<i>La vieillesse amoureuse! Quelle + horreur!</i>” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What will they say? What will he think? What will happen to me to-day?” + </p> + <p> + The car turned into a big gravel sweep between tall, red-brick walls, and + drew up before Mrs. Ackroyde’s door. + </p> + <p> + 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; Francis 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 <i>poupee</i>; 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And who is Lily Bright?” said Lady Sellingworth in her most offhand way. + </p> + <p> + “A dear little New Englander, Knickerbocker to the bone.” + </p> + <p> + She turned away composedly to meet another guest. + </p> + <p> + Francis Braybrooke began to talk to Lady Sellingworth, and almost + immediately Lady Wrackley and Mrs. Birchington joined them. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Francis Braybrooke was looking shocked. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot believe that Miss Van Tuyn—” he began. + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Birchington interrupted him. + </p> + <p> + “But I was there!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon!” said Braybrooke. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible!” said Lady Wrackley. “She couldn’t!” + </p> + <p> + “I assure you she did! But she introduced me to him.” + </p> + <p> + “She cannot have heard of her father’s death,” said Braybrooke. + </p> + <p> + “But she had! For I expressed my sympathy and she thanked me.” + </p> + <p> + Braybrooke looked very ill at ease and glanced plaintively towards the + place where Craven was sitting with the pretty American. + </p> + <p> + “No doubt she had been to visit old friends,” he said, “American friends.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s he like?” asked Lady Wrackley. + </p> + <p> + “Marvellously handsome! A <i>charmeur</i> if ever there was one. Beryl + certainly had good taste, but—” + </p> + <p> + At this moment there was a general movement. The butler had murmured to + Mrs. Ackroyde that lunch was ready. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’m lucky enough to be beside you!” he said. “This is a rare occasion. + One never meets you now.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Adela . . . Adela!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes? How are you, Cora?” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, as I always am. Isn’t Lavallois a marvel?” + </p> + <p> + “He is certainly very clever.” + </p> + <p> + “You are proud of it, my dear. Have you heard what the Bolshevist envoy + said to the Prime Minister when—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “How are you, Lady Sellingworth?” + </p> + <p> + She had not turned her head, but now she did, and met Craven’s hard, + uncompromising blue eyes and deliberately smiling lips. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it’s you! How nice!” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “This is her second debut,” she said. “I’m bringing her out again. They + are all amazed.” + </p> + <p> + “What about?” said Sir Robert, in his grim and very masculine voice. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it doing a young thing to accept a luncheon invitation from you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—for <i>her</i> reason.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that’s beyond me.” + </p> + <p> + “How indifferent you are!” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her in silence. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>arriere pensee</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “Nicolas might possibly be Greek or Russian. But what are we to make of + Arabian?” + </p> + <p> + It was still the voice of the Baron—full, energetic, intensely + un-English. + </p> + <p> + “Have you heard the name before, Lady Sellingworth?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Really! What country does it belong to? Surely not to our England?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What—he’s a model! But with a flat in Rose Tree Gardens!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know him?” asked the Baron, with sharp curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! I have never set eyes upon him. Beryl told me.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Van Tuyn! We all thought she was trying to keep the whole matter a + secret.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she told me quite openly. You were there, weren’t you?” + </p> + <p> + She turned rather abruptly to Craven. He started. + </p> + <p> + “What? I beg your pardon. I didn’t catch what you were saying.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s lying!” she thought. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “We were speaking about Beryl,” she began. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It seems that—they are all saying—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It’s nothing but stupid gossip,” she said. “And you and I have never + dealt in that together, have we?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I enjoy hearing about my neighbours,” he answered, “or I shouldn’t + come here.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What are they saying about Miss Van Tuyn?” he added. “Anything amusing?” + </p> + <p> + “No. And in any case it’s not the moment to talk nonsense about her, just + when she is in deep mourning.” + </p> + <p> + With an almost bitter smile she continued, after a slight hesitation: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What does it matter? They fire at us all the year round. The carnage is + mutual.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you turned cynic?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I was ever a sentimentalist.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps not. But must one be either the one or the other?” + </p> + <p> + “I am quite sure you are not the latter.” + </p> + <p> + “I should be sorry to be the former,” she said, with unusual earnestness. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Craven was speaking to Mrs. Farringdon; Lady Sellingworth heard her + saying, in her curiously muffled, contralto voice: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, why did I come?” Lady Sellingworth thought, as she turned again to + the Baron. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + As she went towards the drawing-room Mrs. Ackroyde joined her. + </p> + <p> + “You were rather unkind to Alick Craven, Adela,” she murmured. “Has he + offended you?” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary. I think he’s a charming boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t punish him all the afternoon then.” + </p> + <p> + “But I am not going to be here all the afternoon. I have ordered the car + for half-past three.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s that now.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then I must be going almost directly.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But you told me he had accepted when you asked me.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well at any rate you are honest in confession.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She beckoned to him. With a reluctant air, and looking severe, he came + across to her. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to play bridge?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think so.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She paused, then added: + </p> + <p> + “And a little quiet.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” he said stiffly. + </p> + <p> + “Does he hate me?” she thought, with a sinking of despair. He went to + fetch her wrap. They met in the hall. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you two going?” + </p> + <p> + Dindie Ackroyde’s all-seeing eyes had perceived them. + </p> + <p> + “Only to get a breath of air in the garden,” said Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + “How sensible!” + </p> + <p> + She gave them a watchful smile and spoke to Eve Colton, who was hunting + for the right kind of bridge, stick in hand. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll find Melville for you. Jennie and Sir Arthur are waiting in the + card-room.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope you don’t mind coming out for a moment?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth’s unconquerable diffidence was persecuting her. She + spoke almost with timidity to Craven on the doorstep. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. I am delighted.” + </p> + <p> + His young voice was carefully frigid. + </p> + <p> + “More motors!” she said. “The whole of London will be here by tea time.” + </p> + <p> + “Great fun, isn’t it? Such a squash of interesting people.” + </p> + <p> + “And I am taking you away from them!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all right!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what an Eton’s boy’s voice!” she thought. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Let us go through this door in the wall. It must lead to the gardens.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t let us go round the corner before all the drawing-room windows.” + </p> + <p> + “No?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Unless you prefer—” + </p> + <p> + “I will go wherever you like.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought—what about this path?” + </p> + <p> + “Shall we do down it?” + </p> + <p> + “I think it looks rather tempting.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Bella + Napoli</i>, 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 about people. But this time surely she had made a + mistake. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, there’s the hard court!” Lady Sellingworth said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “It looks a beauty.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you play?” + </p> + <p> + “I used to. But I have given it up.” + </p> + <p> + After a silence she added: + </p> + <p> + “You know I have given up everything. There comes a time—” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you will not believe it, but I feel very strange here with all + these people.” + </p> + <p> + “But you know them all, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Nearly all. But they mean nothing to me now.” + </p> + <p> + They were walking slowly up and down the long terrace. + </p> + <p> + “One passes away from things,” she said, “as one goes on. It is rather a + horrible feeling.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, moved by an impulse that was almost girlish, she stopped on the + path and said: + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter with you to-day? Why are you angry with me?” + </p> + <p> + Craven flushed. + </p> + <p> + “Angry! But I am not angry!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you are. Tell me why.” + </p> + <p> + “How could I—I’m really not angry. As if I could be angry with you!” + </p> + <p> + “Then why are you so different?” + </p> + <p> + “In what way am I different?” + </p> + <p> + She did not answer, but said: + </p> + <p> + “Did you hear what the baron and I were talking about at lunch?” + </p> + <p> + “Just a few words.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope you didn’t think I wished to join in gossip about Beryl Van Tuyn?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not.” + </p> + <p> + “I hate all such talk. If that offended you—” + </p> + <p> + She was losing her dignity and knew it, but a great longing to overcome + his rigidity drove her on. + </p> + <p> + “If you think—” + </p> + <p> + “It wasn’t that!” he said. “I have no reason to mind what anyone says + about Miss Van Tuyn.” + </p> + <p> + “But she’s your friend!” + </p> + <p> + “Is she? I think a friend is a very rare thing. You have taught me that.” + </p> + <p> + “I? How?” + </p> + <p> + “You went abroad without letting me know.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that it?” she said. + </p> + <p> + And there was a strange note, like a note of joy, in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “I think you might have told me. And you put me off. I was to have seen + you—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I went away quite unexpectedly,” she said. “I had to go like that.” + </p> + <p> + “I—I hope you weren’t ill?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “No, I haven’t been ill. It wasn’t that,” she said. + </p> + <p> + The thought of Camber persisted, and now persecuted her. + </p> + <p> + “I am quite sure you didn’t miss me,” she said, with a colder voice. + </p> + <p> + “But I did!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “For how long?” + </p> + <p> + The mocking look he knew so well had come into her eyes. How much did she + know? + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen Miss Van Tuyn since you came back?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. She paid me a visit soon after I arrived.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen Beryl since her father’s death?” said Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said. “At least—yes, I suppose I have.” + </p> + <p> + “You suppose?” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes had not lost their mocking expression. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Is he so very handsome, as they say?” + </p> + <p> + She could not help saying this, and watching him as she said it. + </p> + <p> + “I should say he was a good-looking chap,” answered Craven frigidly. “But + he looks like a wrong ‘un.” + </p> + <p> + “It is difficult to tell what people are at a glance.” + </p> + <p> + “Some people—yes. But I think with others one look is enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s true,” she said, thinking of him. “Shall we go a little + farther towards the woods?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; let us.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall never be able to explain it. But if I could you would realize at + once that my friendship for you was unaltered.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, but you didn’t let me know you were back. You did not ask me to + come to see you.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not think you would care to come.” + </p> + <p> + “But—why?” + </p> + <p> + “I—perhaps you—I don’t find it easy now to think that anyone + can care much to be bothered with me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—Lady Sellingworth!” + </p> + <p> + “That really is the truth. Believe it or not, as you like. You see, I am + out of things now.” + </p> + <p> + “You need never be out of things unless you choose.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the world goes on and leaves one behind. Don’t you remember my + telling you and Beryl once that I was an Edwardian?” + </p> + <p> + “If that means un-modern I think I prefer it to modernity. I think perhaps + I have an old-fashioned soul.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But these visits, and especially Dindie Ackroyde’s, had deepened the + nervous pre-occupation which was beginning seriously to alarm old Fanny. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn felt angry and disgusted, even indignant, but she also felt + saddened and almost alarmed. + </p> + <p> + 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 was 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Any answer?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “No, mum.” + </p> + <p> + She took the note, and at once recognized Dick Garstin’s enormous + handwriting. Quickly she opened it and read. + </p> + <p> + GLEBE. + </p> + <p> + Wed. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + D. G. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She did not answer Garstin’s note. That was not necessary. She knew she + would see him on the morrow. + </p> + <p> + Directly after lunch on the following day she walked to Glebe Place, + wondering whether Arabian would be there. + </p> + <p> + As usual, Garstin answered the door and covered her with a comprehensive + glance as she stood on the doorstep. + </p> + <p> + “Black suits you,” he said. “You ought never to go out of mourning.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled as he shut the door. + </p> + <p> + “You tartar!” he said. “Be careful you don’t develop into a shrew as you + get on in life.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Evidently coming into money hasn’t had a softening influence upon you,” + he added. + </p> + <p> + To her surprise he took her into the ground floor studio and sat down on + the big divan there. + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t we going upstairs?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “In a minute. Don’t be in such a blasted hurry, my girl!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, but—” + </p> + <p> + She followed his example and sat down. + </p> + <p> + “Is anyone up there?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a soul. Who should there be?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t know. I thought perhaps—” + </p> + <p> + “Old Nick was there? Well, he isn’t!” + </p> + <p> + “How absurd you are!” she said, almost with confusion, and looking away + from him. “I only wondered whether you had a model with you.” + </p> + <p> + “I know, I know!” + </p> + <p> + After a rather long pause she said: + </p> + <p> + “What are we waiting here for?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—just to rest!” + </p> + <p> + “But I’m not tired.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t suppose you were.” + </p> + <p> + Again there was a pause, in which Miss Van Tuyn felt a tingling of + impatient irritation. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He sent her an odd look that was almost boyish in its half mischievous, + half wistful roguishness. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Dick!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You are afraid of me! But no—I can’t believe it!” + </p> + <p> + “Ha!” + </p> + <p> + He got up. + </p> + <p> + “It is finished?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, at last it’s done.” + </p> + <p> + “Has—have you shown—I suppose he has seen it?” + </p> + <p> + Garstin shook his head, and a dark lock of hair fell over his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I am the first?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you are the first.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Dick,” she said soberly. “May I go up now?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, come on!” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “Now then!” + </p> + <p> + But Garstin still hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Sit here!” + </p> + <p> + She obeyed, and sat down on a sofa with the window behind her. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll have a smoke.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Now then—a drink!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Dick!” she breathed. + </p> + <p> + But she made no other protest. + </p> + <p> + “Will you?” + </p> + <p> + “No!” she said sharply. + </p> + <p> + Then she gazed at him and said: + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + He poured out whisky for her and himself, added some soda water, and + lifted his glass. + </p> + <p> + “To Arabian!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Why should we drink to Mr. Arabian?” + </p> + <p> + “He has done me a good turn.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Your hand trembles, my girl!” said Garstin. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense! It does not! Now please show me the portrait. I will not wait + any longer.” + </p> + <p> + “Here you are then!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “There he is!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe it!” she said. “I don’t believe it!” + </p> + <p> + “Like the man when he saw a giraffe for the first time? But he was wrong, + my girl, for nature does turn out giraffes.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Dick! It’s too bad!” + </p> + <p> + Her cheeks were flaming with red. + </p> + <p> + “Too bad! Don’t you think it’s well painted?” + </p> + <p> + “Well painted? Of course it’s well—it’s magnificently painted!” + </p> + <p> + He chuckled contentedly behind her. + </p> + <p> + “Then what’s the matter? What’s the trouble?” + </p> + <p> + “You know what’s the matter. You know quite well.” + </p> + <p> + She turned sharply round on the sofa and faced him with angry eyes. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He shall have it and put a knife through it if he likes. But”—he + snapped out the word with sudden fierce emphasis—“<i>but</i> I’ll + exhibit it first.” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll never let you!” Miss Van Tuyn almost cried out. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t he? That was the bargain!” + </p> + <p> + “He didn’t promise. I remember quite well all that was said. He didn’t + promise.” + </p> + <p> + “It was understood. I told him I should exhibit the picture and that + afterwards I’d hand it over to him.” + </p> + <p> + “When is he going to see it?” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you ask? Do you want to be here when he does?” + </p> + <p> + She did not answer. She was staring at the portrait, and now the hot + colour had faded from her face. + </p> + <p> + “If you do you can be here. I don’t mind.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe it,” she repeated slowly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But I shall. This man, Arabian, isn’t known.” + </p> + <p> + “How can we tell that?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know a living creature he knows or who knows him?” + </p> + <p> + “Everyone has acquaintances. Everyone almost has friends. He must + certainly have both.” + </p> + <p> + “God knows who or where they are.” + </p> + <p> + “You cannot exhibit it,” she repeated obstinately. + </p> + <p> + “I hate art in kid gloves. But this is too merciless. It is more. It is a + libel.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s just where you’re wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Beryl, my girl, you are lying. That’s no use with me.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not lying!” she said with hot anger. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she felt that tears had come into her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “How hateful you are!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Garstin came abruptly round the sofa and sat down by her side. + </p> + <p> + “What’s up?” he said in a kinder voice. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you paint like that? It’s abominable!” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Beryl,” he said almost solemnly, “believe it or not, as you can, that <i>is</i> + Arabian!” + </p> + <p> + He pointed at the picture as he spoke. His keen eyes, half shut, were + fixed upon it. + </p> + <p> + “That <i>is</i> the real man, and what you see is only the appearance he + chooses to give of himself.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know? How can you know that?” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t I the power to show men and women as in essence they are?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t I? And don’t you know it?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no!” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I never felt colder, more completely master of myself and my passions, + than when I painted that portrait.” + </p> + <p> + “But you asked me to find out his secret. You pushed me into his company + that I might find it out and help you.” + </p> + <p> + “I did!” + </p> + <p> + “Well!” she said, almost triumphantly, “I have never found it out.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, you have.” + </p> + <p> + “No. He is the most reserved, uncommunicative man I have ever known.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He looked hard into her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Beryl, my girl, your sex has intuitions. One of them, one of yours, I + have painted. And there it is!” + </p> + <p> + The bell sounded below. + </p> + <p> + “Ha!” said Garstin, turning his head sharply. + </p> + <p> + He listened for an instant. Then he said: + </p> + <p> + “I’ll bet you anything you like that’s the king himself.” + </p> + <p> + “The king?” + </p> + <p> + “In the underworld. Did you walk here?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “He must have seen you. He’s followed you. What a lark!” + </p> + <p> + His eyes shone with a sort of malicious glee. + </p> + <p> + “There goes the bell again! Beryl, I’ll have him up. We’ll show him + himself.” + </p> + <p> + He put a finger to his lips and went down, leaving her alone with the + portrait. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <h3> + “Come up! Come up, my boy! I’ve something to show you!” + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Van Tuyn! I did not know you were here.” + </p> + <p> + She saw Garstin smiling ironically. Arabian took her hand and pressed it. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to see you again.” + </p> + <p> + His look, his pressure, were full of ardent sympathy. + </p> + <p> + “I have been thinking often of you and your great sorrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you!” she said, almost stammering. + </p> + <p> + “And what is it I am to see?” said Arabian, turning to Garstin. + </p> + <p> + “Stand away, Beryl!” said Garstin roughly. + </p> + <p> + She moved. What else could she do? Arabian saw the portrait and said: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my picture at last!” + </p> + <p> + Then he took a step forward, and there was a silence in the studio. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed slightly, uneasily, she thought. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the verdict?” + </p> + <p> + “One moment—please!” said Arabian in an unusually soft voice. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I think it is very like,” said Arabian. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lord—like!” exclaimed Garstin, on an angry gust of breath. “I’m + not a damned photographer!” + </p> + <p> + “Should not a portrait be like?” said Arabian, still in the very soft + voice. “Am I wrong, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not!” said Miss Van Tuyn, frowning at Garstin. + </p> + <p> + At that moment absolutely, and without any reserve, she hated him. + </p> + <p> + “Then you’re satisfied?” jerked out Garstin. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed—yes, Dick Garstin. This is a valuable possession for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Possession?” said Garstin, as if startled. “Oh, yes, to be sure! You’re + to have it—presently!” + </p> + <p> + “Quite so. I am to have it. It is indeed very fine. Do not you think so, + Miss Van Tuyn?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You do not say! Surely this is a very fine picture?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It is a magnificent piece of painting,” she forced herself to say. + </p> + <p> + But she said it coldly, reluctantly. + </p> + <p> + “Then I am not wrong.” + </p> + <p> + He looked pleased. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “May I ask for a cigar, Dick Garstin?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon!” said Garstin gruffly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Light up, old chap! Have a drink!” + </p> + <p> + There was surely reluctant admiration in his voice. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Presently Miss Van Tuyn got up to go. + </p> + <p> + “Going already?” said Garstin. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I must.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well—” + </p> + <p> + “I will accompany you,” said Arabian. + </p> + <p> + She looked away from him and said nothing. Garstin went with them + downstairs and opened the door. + </p> + <p> + “Bye-bye!” he said in a loud voice. “See you again soon. Good luck to + you!” + </p> + <p> + Arabian held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn nodded without speaking. Garstin shut the door noisily. + </p> + <p> + They walked down Glebe Place in silence. When they got to the corner + Arabian said: + </p> + <p> + “Are you in a hurry to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “No, not specially.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall we take a little walk? It is not very late.” + </p> + <p> + “A walk? Where to?” + </p> + <p> + “Shall we go along by the river?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “This way will take us to the river.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know,” she said, “But—” + </p> + <p> + “I am fond of the river,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—but in winter!” + </p> + <p> + “Let us go. Or will you come back to—” + </p> + <p> + “No, I will go. I like it too. London looks its best from the waterside.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He has never painted anything more finely that I have seen.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! That is indeed lucky for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall send and fetch it away.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is that you say, please?” + </p> + <p> + “I only—I thought it was arranged that the picture was to be + exhibited,” she said, falteringly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. I shall not permit Dick Garstin to exhibit that picture.” + </p> + <p> + Now intense curiosity was born in her and seemed for the moment to + submerge her uneasiness and fear. + </p> + <p> + “But wasn’t it understood?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Please, what do you say was understood?” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t Mr. Garstin say he meant to exhibit the picture and afterwards + give it to you?” + </p> + <p> + “But I say that I shall not permit Dick Garstin to exhibit my picture.” + </p> + <p> + “Why won’t you allow it?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you not know?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No! How can I know such a thing? How can I know what is in your mind + unless you tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but I will tell you then! I will not let Dick Garstin exhibit that + picture because it is a lie about me.” + </p> + <p> + “A lie? How can that be?” + </p> + <p> + “A man can speak a lie. Is it not so?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Cannot a man write a lie?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And a man can paint a lie. Dick Garstin has painted a lie about me.” + </p> + <p> + “But then—if it is so—” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly it is so.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But, then, do you wish to possess the picture? Do you wish to possess a + lie?” + </p> + <p> + “Is it not right that I possess it rather than someone else?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, perhaps it is.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly it is. I shall take that picture away.” + </p> + <p> + “But Dick Garstin intends to exhibit it. I know that. I know he will not + let you have it till it has been shown.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t think it is.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “But I have nothing to do with it.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you not?” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes gave way before his and looked down. + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow,” he said, “I will not do it. I have a will as well as he.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she thought. “You have a will, a tremendous will.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry. I told Dick Garstin—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes? What?” + </p> + <p> + “Before you came I told him he ought not to exhibit the picture.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Thank you! Thank you!” + </p> + <p> + He smiled, and the lustrously soft look came into his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “A woman—she always knows what a man is!” he said, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “It is cold standing here!” she said. + </p> + <p> + She shivered as she spoke and looked at the water. + </p> + <p> + “We will go to my flat,” he said, with a sudden air of authority. “There + is a big fire there.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, I can’t!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? You have been there.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but I ought not to have gone. I am in mourning.” + </p> + <p> + “You go to Dick Garstin. What is the difference?” + </p> + <p> + “People are so foolish. They talk.” + </p> + <p> + “But you go to Dick Garstin!” + </p> + <p> + He had turned, and now made her walk back by his side along the river bank + among the whirling leaves. + </p> + <p> + “People have begun to talk about us,” she said, almost desperately. “That + women, Mrs. Birchington, who lives opposite to you—she’s a gossip.” + </p> + <p> + “And do you mind such people?” he asked, with an air of surprised + contempt. + </p> + <p> + “A girl has to be careful what she does.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “Please come once more. I want you to help me.” + </p> + <p> + “I! How can I help you?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see how.” + </p> + <p> + “By the fire I will tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I ought to come.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + It is too late now. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>is</i> 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? + </p> + <p> + “Please!” said Arabian, holding open the door. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot come in,” she said, in a dull, low voice. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I cannot come in.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how d’you do? Glad to meet you again!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you do that?” + </p> + <p> + “Beg pardon!” he said, gently, and looking surprised. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you shut the front door? That—Mrs. Birchington must have + seen me. I know she has seen me!” + </p> + <p> + “I had no time. I could not refuse to speak to her, could I? I could not + be rude to a lady.” + </p> + <p> + “But I didn’t wish her to see me!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she see me?” + </p> + <p> + “Really I do not know.” + </p> + <p> + He shut the sitting-room door. + </p> + <p> + “I hope,” he said, “that you are not ashamed to be acquainted with me.” + </p> + <p> + His voice sounded hurt, and now an expression of acute vexation had come + into his face. + </p> + <p> + “Really after what has happened with Dick Garstin to-day I—” + </p> + <p> + His face now had an expression almost of pain. + </p> + <p> + “I am really not <i>canaille</i>,” he said. “I am not accustomed to be + thought of and treated as if I were <i>canaille</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right,” she said. “But—you see my mourning! I am in deep + mourning, and I ought not—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I want you to help me about Dick Garstin,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “How? What can I do? I have no influence with him.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, you have. A lady like you has always influence with a man.” + </p> + <p> + “Not with him.” + </p> + <p> + “But I say you have.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want me to do?” + </p> + <p> + “I want you to tell him what I have said to you to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “That you won’t have the picture exhibited?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll only laugh.” + </p> + <p> + “Beg him for your sake to yield.” + </p> + <p> + “But what have I to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + “Very much, I think. It will be better that he yields—really.” + </p> + <p> + She raised her eyes to his. + </p> + <p> + “We do not want a scandal, do we?” + </p> + <p> + “But—” + </p> + <p> + “If it should come to a fight between Dick Garstin and me there might be a + scandal.” + </p> + <p> + “But my name wouldn’t—” + </p> + <p> + Again she was silent. + </p> + <p> + “I might try. But it wouldn’t be any use.” + </p> + <p> + He put out a hand and took one of hers. + </p> + <p> + “But it all came through you. Didn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “But—but you said you had never seen Dick Garstin till he came up + and asked you to sit to him.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll do what I can,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He pressed her hand softly. + </p> + <p> + “You are not one of those who are afraid,” he said. “You do what you + choose—even at night.” + </p> + <p> + She thought of the episode in Shaftesbury Avenue. + </p> + <p> + “Then you—you—” + </p> + <p> + “But I do not need to take a shilling from a lady!” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t know me that night!” she said defiantly. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but when I heard you speak in the studio I knew!” + </p> + <p> + “And you follow women like that at night!” + </p> + <p> + She tried to draw away her hand, but he would not let her. + </p> + <p> + “You drew me after you—not knowing. It was what they call occult.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why did you go away?” + </p> + <p> + “I felt that I had been wrong, that you didn’t wish me to speak to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean when I—that you suspected what I was?” + </p> + <p> + “Something said to me, ‘This is a lady. She does strange things, she is + not like others, but she is a lady. Go away.’” + </p> + <p> + “And in the studio—” + </p> + <p> + “When you spoke I knew.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you really respect me?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Have I not shown it in all these days? Have I ever done anything a + lady could object to?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Are you evil?” her eyes were asking him. + </p> + <p> + And his eyes, looking straight down into hers, seemed steadily and simply + to deny it. + </p> + <p> + “Do you believe the lie of Dick Garstin?” they said to her. + </p> + <p> + And she no longer knew whether she believed it or not. + </p> + <p> + He drew a little nearer to her. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But—but you—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + Her lips trembled. Again jealousy seized her. + </p> + <p> + “I saw you that night in Conduit Street,” she said. “You thought I didn’t, + but I did.” + </p> + <p> + He still looked perfectly calm and untroubled. + </p> + <p> + “You were dining with Dick Garstin. May I not dine with someone?” + </p> + <p> + “Then why did you leave the restaurant?” + </p> + <p> + “I did not want you to see me.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you might not understand.” + </p> + <p> + “I do understand. I understand perfectly!” + </p> + <p> + She drew her hand sharply away from his. + </p> + <p> + “Are you angry with me?” + </p> + <p> + “Angry? No! What does it matter to me?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why didn’t you stay in the restaurant?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you—have you seen her again?” + </p> + <p> + “She is in Paris. She has been in Paris for many days. But she is nothing. + Why speak of such people?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. But I hate—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you care then?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Care?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you care what I do?” + </p> + <p> + “No, of course not!” + </p> + <p> + “But—you do care!” he said. + </p> + <p> + He said it without any triumph of the male, quite simply, almost as a boy + might have said it. + </p> + <p> + “You do care!” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + And very gently, slowly, he put his arm round her, drew her close to him, + bent down and gave her a long kiss. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It was he who broke the physical spell. He lifted his lips from hers and + she heard the words: + </p> + <p> + “I want you to marry me. Will you?” + </p> + <p> + Instantly she was released. A flood of thoughts, doubts, wonderings, + flowed through her. She felt terribly startled. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + To be the wife of Arabian! + </p> + <p> + He let her go directly he felt the surprise in her body. + </p> + <p> + “Marry you!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “It could not be anything else,” he said, very simply. “Could it?” + </p> + <p> + She flushed as if he had punished her by his respect for her. + </p> + <p> + “But—but we scarcely know each other!” she stammered. + </p> + <p> + “You say that now!” + </p> + <p> + Again she felt rebuked, as if she were lighter than he and as if he were + surprised by her lightness. + </p> + <p> + “But we are only—I mean—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He stopped. She said nothing; could not say anything. + </p> + <p> + “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: ‘<i>She</i>, 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course! I never—you mustn’t suppose—” + </p> + <p> + “I do not suppose. I know you as now you know me.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Westminster Gazette</i> 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She might shut her eyes again. He might even make her do that. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Now, shall I sing to you?” he said, fixing his eyes upon her. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, please do,” she answered, looking away from him into the fire. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him again. Always he was playing softly, improvising. + </p> + <p> + “Have you really never done any work?” + </p> + <p> + “Never. Unfortunately, perhaps, I have always had enough money to be + idle.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s not poor!” she thought. + </p> + <p> + And then she felt glad, suddenly remembering how rich she was now, since + the death of her father. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “With that man I could never be dull!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But he was like a palm tree singing. Even Garstin had been forced to say + that of him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “How beautiful you are! Mon Dieu! how beautiful you are!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Still holding her shoulders he said: + </p> + <p> + “Do something for me to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it? What do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, only a very simple thing.” + </p> + <p> + She felt disappointed, but she said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “Let us dine together to-night! Afterwards I will take you to your hotel + and leave you to think.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled down at her. + </p> + <p> + “I am no longer afraid to let you think. Will you come?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Where was it you were walking to that night when I was so rude as to + follow after you?” + </p> + <p> + “To a restaurant in Soho.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “To the <i>Bella Napoli</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Napoli</i>!” + </p> + <p> + He half shut his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I love Naples. Is it Italian?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Really Italian?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us go there. And before we go I will sing you a street song of + Naples.” + </p> + <p> + “You—you are not a Neapolitan?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “No. I come from South America. But I know Naples very, very well. + Listen!” + </p> + <p> + And almost laughing, and looking suddenly buffo, he spoke a few sentences + in the Neapolitan patois. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>Bella Napoli</i>.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “Do you say yes?” he asked. “Or must you go back to dear Mademoiselle + Cronin?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Then what do you say?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’ll go there with you,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + If <i>they</i> were there! She remembered Craven’s look at Arabian. She + remembered, too, the change in Arabian’s face as Craven had passed them. + </p> + <p> + But Craven had gone back to Adela Sellingworth. Arabian, perhaps, had been + the cause of that return. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you look like that? What are you thinking of?” + </p> + <p> + “Naples,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He left her, and went once more to the piano. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He would have been not a little surprised had he been able to see his + Adela at this moment. + </p> + <p> + 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, “<i>comme deux lampes</i>.” 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In that moment she was feeling afraid. + </p> + <p> + She had arranged to dine with Alick Craven once more at the <i>Bella + Napoli</i>. 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. “<i>Miladi est merveilleusement + belle ce soir, mais vraiment belle!</i>” 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 + woman can be with a man much younger than herself. And that love made her + afraid. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He doesn’t think of me in <i>that</i> way! No man will ever think of me + in <i>that</i> way again!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For Time galloped now. She often felt herself rushing towards the abyss of + the seventies. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Am I a palliative?” she thought as she gazed into the glass. + </p> + <p> + And then came the terrible question: + </p> + <p> + “How can I be anything else?” + </p> + <p> + She heard the door opening behind her, took her hands from the + mantelpiece, and turned round quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Craven, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re all ready? Capital! I say, am I late?” + </p> + <p> + “No. It’s only a little past seven.” + </p> + <p> + He had taken her hand. She longed to press his, but she did not press it. + He looked at her, she thought, rather curiously. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got a taxi at the door. It’s rather a horrid night. You’re not + dressed for walking?” + </p> + <p> + Again his look seemed to question her. + </p> + <p> + She put up a hand to her face, near the mouth, nervously. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He seemed now slightly constrained. His eyes did not rest upon her quite + naturally, she thought. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we go down?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, do let us.” + </p> + <p> + As she moved to go she looked into the glass. She could not help doing + that. He noticed it, and thought: + </p> + <p> + “I wonder why she has begun making her face up like this?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But she was certainly looking very handsome. + </p> + <p> + She put on a fur. They got into the cab and drove to Soho. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>padrona</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “Let me take off your fur!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll sit with my back to the window,” she said. She sat down, and he sat + on her left facing the entrance. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Gnocchi—we must have gnocchi!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “But wait, though! There are ravioli! It would hardly do to have both, I + suppose, would it?” + </p> + <p> + “No; they are too much alike.” + </p> + <p> + “Then which shall we have?” + </p> + <p> + She was going to say, “I don’t mind!” but remembered her role and said: + </p> + <p> + “Please, ravioli for me.” + </p> + <p> + And she believed that she said it with gusto, as if she really did care. + </p> + <p> + “For me too!” said Craven. + </p> + <p> + And he went on considering and asking, with his dark head bent over the + menu and his blue eyes fixed upon it. + </p> + <p> + “There! That ought to be a nice dinner!” he said, at last. “And for wine + Chianti, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Chianti Rosso,” she answered, with the definiteness, she hoped, of + the epicure. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + One of the musicians came up to their table, and inquired whether the <i>signora</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Anything you like!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “They are all much the same,” she added to Craven. + </p> + <p> + “But I thought you were so fond of the songs of Naples and the Bay. Don’t + you remember that first evening when—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And not only Neapolitan desires, I should say,” said Craven. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—there’s Beryl!” she said. + </p> + <p> + Her heart sank as she looked at Craven. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Did she see me?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. Probably she did. But she seemed in a hurry.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Whom is she with?” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>Sole + mio</i>!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I am sure I know that man’s face!” Lady Sellingworth thought. + </p> + <p> + And she expressed her thought to Craven. + </p> + <p> + “If that is Nicolas Arabian I think I must have seen him about London,” + she said. “His side face seems familiar to me somehow.” + </p> + <p> + Why would not Beryl look at her? + </p> + <p> + “I wonder whether Beryl saw me when she came in,” continued Lady + Sellingworth. “She saw you, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she saw me.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + To an Italian she must certainly seem an old wreck of a woman, “<i>una + vecchia</i>,” 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. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a thrill shot through her. It was like a sharp physical pain, a + sword-thrust of agony. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Beryl had spoken of “a living bronze.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it getting very hot?” she said quickly. + </p> + <p> + “It is rather hot. Shall I ask them to open the window a little? But it is + just behind you.” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t matter. I have brought my fan.” + </p> + <p> + She picked the fan up and began to use it unsteadily. + </p> + <p> + “The room is so very crowded to-night,” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. No wonder with such cooking. Here is the Zabaione.” + </p> + <p> + The waitress put two large glasses before them filled with the thick + yellow custard, then brought them a plate of biscuits. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Are you tired of it?” + </p> + <p> + Craven had spoken to her. + </p> + <p> + “Of what?” she asked, as if almost startled. + </p> + <p> + “That—Santa Lucia?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—is it?” + </p> + <p> + He looked astonished. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—yes, I must say I am rather sick of it!” she said quickly. + </p> + <p> + She laid down her spoon. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you like the Zabaione?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it’s delicious. But I have had enough. You ordered such a very good + dinner!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to smoke a Toscana?” she said, forcing herself to smile. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think I will. Do let me give you a cigarette.” + </p> + <p> + He drew out his case and offered it to her. She took a cigarette, lit it, + and began to smoke. Their coffee was brought. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it’s too hot to drink!” she said, almost irritably. + </p> + <p> + “But we aren’t in a hurry, are we?” he said, looking at her with surprise. + </p> + <p> + “No, of course not.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + As she was looking down she did not see something which just then happened + in the room. It was this: + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “There are two friends of mine at the table in the corner by the window.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” he said. + </p> + <p> + And he turned his head to look. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I want to introduce you to them if possible,” said Miss Van Tuyn. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn was looking at him just then and not at Arabian. + </p> + <p> + Craven came up, looking stiff, almost awkward, and markedly more English + than usual. At least she thought so. + </p> + <p> + “How d’you do, Miss Van Tuyn? How are you?” + </p> + <p> + She gave him her hand with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Arabian got up and bowed. + </p> + <p> + “Pleased to meet you!” he said in a formal voice. + </p> + <p> + “Good evening!” said Craven, staring hard at him. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + At this moment Arabian made a movement and opened his lips as if about to + say something. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” she said, looking at him. + </p> + <p> + “I was only going to say that these tables are so very small. Is it not + so? How should we manage?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we can tuck in somehow.” + </p> + <p> + She turned again to Craven. + </p> + <p> + “Do ask her. Or we might come over to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well!” said Craven, still stiffly. + </p> + <p> + He glanced round towards the window and started. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn leaned forward and looked. + </p> + <p> + There was no longer anyone sitting at the table by the window. + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth had disappeared. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <h3> + “What has become of Adela?” exclaimed Miss Van Tuyn. + </h3> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + He glanced from Miss Van Tuyn to Arabian, who was still standing up + stiffly, with a rigidly polite expression on his face. + </p> + <p> + “I must just see!” + </p> + <p> + He turned away and walked down the restaurant. + </p> + <p> + When he got to the counter where the <i>padrona</i> sat enthroned he found + their waitress standing near it. + </p> + <p> + “Where is the signora?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “The signora took her fur and went out, signorino,” said the woman. + </p> + <p> + “The bill, please!” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ecco, signorino!</i>” + </p> + <p> + The woman presented the bill. Craven paid it, tipped her, got his coat and + hat, and went hurriedly out. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + As his footsteps rang on the pavement the woman turned round, and showed + the white face and luminous eyes of Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + “You have given me quite a turn, as the servants say!” he exclaimed, + coming up to her. “What is the matter? Are you ill?” + </p> + <p> + He looked anxiously at her. + </p> + <p> + “What made you go away so suddenly? You didn’t mind my—” + </p> + <p> + “No, no!” she interrupted. “But I do feel unwell. I feel very unwell.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m most awfully sorry! Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me leave + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Beryl wanted you.” + </p> + <p> + “It was only—she only wanted to suggest our all having coffee + together.” + </p> + <p> + Her mouth went awry. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do take my arm!” he exclaimed. “What is it? Are you suffering?” + </p> + <p> + After a pause she said: + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + There seemed to him something ominous in the sound of the word as she + spoke it. + </p> + <p> + “I’m horribly sorry. I must find you a cab.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, please do.” + </p> + <p> + “But in Soho, it’s so difficult! Can you manage—can you walk a + little way?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Directly we get into Shaftesbury Avenue we are sure to see one. It’s only + a step.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a taxi!” said Craven. “One minute!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Mayn’t I? Don’t you wish me to come with you?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “But do let me see you home. If you are ill you really oughtn’t to be + alone.” + </p> + <p> + “But I’m spoiling your evening. Why not go back?” + </p> + <p> + “Go back?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—go back to Beryl?” + </p> + <p> + He stiffened, and the hard look came into his face. She saw his jaw quiver + slightly. + </p> + <p> + “To Miss Van Tuyn? But she is with someone.” + </p> + <p> + “But she asked you!” + </p> + <p> + “She asked both of us. I shall certainly not go back alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Really, I wish you would! Go back and—and see Beryl home.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her in astonishment. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I couldn’t possibly do that! There was no suggestion—I couldn’t + do that, really. I wonder you ask me to. Well—” + </p> + <p> + She took her hand away from the door and he shut it. But he remained + beside it—did not give the chauffeur her address. + </p> + <p> + “Why won’t you let me take you back?” he said. “I don’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled, and he thought it was the saddest smile he had ever seen. + </p> + <p> + “One is only a bore to others when one is ill,” she said. “Good-bye. Tell + the man, please.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He shivered again. The expression of her eyes haunted him. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>convenances</i>, 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! + </p> + <p> + Did she—could she know something about Arabian? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Get you a kib, gentleman?” said a soft cockney voice in Craven’s ear. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Tea, please, Murgatroyd!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + She passed by him and ascended the big staircase. He heard her go into the + drawing-room and shut the door. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I shall want nothing more. Good night.” + </p> + <p> + “Good night, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + He went towards the door. When he was just going out he heard her say, + “Murgatroyd!” and turned. + </p> + <p> + “My lady!” + </p> + <p> + “Please let Cecile know I shan’t want her to-night. She is not to sit up + for me. I’ll manage for myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “Make it quite understood, please.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + He went out and shut the door. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She wrote first at the top of the sheet in the left-hand corner, “Strictly + private,” and underlined the words. Then she wrote: + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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, + </p> + <p> + “ADELA SELLINGWORTH.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It might be very dangerous to send that letter. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Things could not be left as they were. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I should merely make an enemy by doing it,” she thought. “Or rather two + enemies.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + She was loved by Seymour; she simply could not be a coward. + </p> + <p> + And she unlocked the box in which the letter was lying, and ordered her + car to come round. + </p> + <p> + “Please drive to Claridge’s!” she said as she got into it. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + When the car stopped in front of the hotel she got out and went herself to + the bureau. + </p> + <p> + “Please give this to Miss Van Tuyn at once. It is very important.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she in?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not sure, my lady, but I can soon—” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, it doesn’t matter. But it is really important.” + </p> + <p> + “It shall go up at once my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + As Lady Sellingworth got into her car she felt a sense of relief. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve done the right thing. Nothing else matters.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What can it be about?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Instantly she had come to a conclusion about Adela’s reason for writing + that letter. She remembered the strange episode in the <i>Bella Napoli</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Arabian had taken her news about Garstin quite coolly. + </p> + <p> + “I will see about that myself,” he had said. “But now—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Bella Napoli</i>. But that might + have been because he was jealous of Craven. + </p> + <p> + She read the letter a third time, very slowly and carefully. Then she put + it back into its envelope and rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + A waiter came. + </p> + <p> + “It’s about seven, isn’t it?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Half past seven, madam.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, madame.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I have to go to Berkeley Square directly after dinner to visit a friend, + Lady Sellingworth.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I am to dine by myself, dear?” said Miss Cronin plaintively. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you must dine alone. Good night, Fanny.” + </p> + <p> + “Shan’t I see you when you come in?” + </p> + <p> + “I may be late. Don’t bother about me.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Did you say I was in?” she said, at last. + </p> + <p> + The footman—a new man in the house—looked uncomfortable. + </p> + <p> + “I said your Ladyship was not out, but that I did not know whether your + Ladyship was at home to anyone.” + </p> + <p> + After another pause Lady Sellingworth said: + </p> + <p> + “Please ask Miss Van Tuyn to come up.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The footman went out and almost immediately returned. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Van Tuyn, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you know why I’ve come, Adela,” she said. “I’ve had your + letter.” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke she drew it out of the muff she was carrying. + </p> + <p> + “I was obliged to write it,” said Lady Sellingworth. “It was my duty to + write it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “But I don’t want to discuss it.” + </p> + <p> + They were both still standing. Now Miss Van Tuyn said; + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind if I sit down?” + </p> + <p> + “No; do sit.” + </p> + <p> + “And may I take off my coat?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth was obliged to say: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, do.” + </p> + <p> + Very composedly and rather slowly Miss Van Tuyn took off her fur coat, + laid aside her muff, and sat down near the fire. + </p> + <p> + “I’m very sorry, Adela, but really, we must discuss this letter,” she + said. “I don’t understand it.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely it is explicit enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It is too explicit not to be discussed between us.” + </p> + <p> + “Beryl, I don’t want to discuss it. I can’t discuss it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Because it is too painful—a horrible subject. You must take my word + for it that I have written you the plain truth.” + </p> + <p> + “Please don’t think I doubt your word, Adela.” + </p> + <p> + “No, of course not. And that being so let the matter end there. It must + end there.” + </p> + <p> + “But—where? I don’t quite understand really.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “So there is nothing more to discuss. I have done what I was bound to do, + and I know you will heed my warning.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at the letter in Beryl’s hand, and remembered her feeling of + danger when she wrote it. + </p> + <p> + “And now please burn that letter, Beryl. Throw it into the fire.” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke she pointed to the fire on the hearth. But Miss Van Tuyn kept + the letter in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Please wait a minute, Adela!” she said. + </p> + <p> + And a mutinous look came into her face. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That—that man isn’t your friend. Don’t say that.” + </p> + <p> + “But I do say it,” said the girl, with a now intense obstinacy. + </p> + <p> + “You met him in Mr. Garstin’s studio, didn’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I did. There is nothing against him in that.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not say there is. But I do say you know nothing about him.” + </p> + <p> + “But how do you know that? You assume a great deal, Adela.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know anything about him?” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I were to ask you questions in my turn?” + </p> + <p> + “Questions? But I have told you—” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Anything! But what?” + </p> + <p> + “An explanation, surely.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Adela?” she said at length, as Lady Sellingworth did not speak. + </p> + <p> + “What is it you want, Beryl?” said Lady Sellingworth, looking into her + eyes and then quickly away. + </p> + <p> + “But I have told you—an explanation.” + </p> + <p> + She unfolded the letter slowly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I were to make a violent attack on one of your friends, on Mr. + Craven for instance?” + </p> + <p> + “Please don’t bracket Mr. Craven and that man together!” said Lady + Sellingworth sharply. + </p> + <p> + Beryl Van Tuyn flushed with anger. + </p> + <p> + “But I do!” she said. “I choose to do that for the sake of argument.” + </p> + <p> + “Two such men have nothing in common, nothing! One is a gentleman, the + other is a blackguard!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She lifted the letter. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t.” + </p> + <p> + “You really mean that?” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t. It’s impossible.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn’s face became very hard. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, Adela—” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You really refuse to tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “I must, Beryl.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think that’s fair. It isn’t fair to me or to him.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t help that. Please don’t ask me anything more. And please destroy + that letter. Or let me destroy it.” + </p> + <p> + She held out her hand, but Miss Van Tuyn sat quite still. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Someone else!” said Lady Sellingworth in a startled voice. “But—do + you know—to whom would you go?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I ought to go to him, to the man you accuse of nameless things.” + </p> + <p> + “But you can’t do that!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? It would only be fair.” + </p> + <p> + “But what reason could you give?” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally I should have to say that you had warned me against him.” + </p> + <p> + “No—no, you mustn’t do that.” + </p> + <p> + “Really? I am to be bound hand and foot while you—” + </p> + <p> + “You saw what I wrote in that letter.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course. Naturally I will not show it. But I shall have to say + that you warned me to drop him.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t have my name mentioned to that man,” said Lady Sellingworth + desperately. + </p> + <p> + “And I can’t drop him without telling him why.” + </p> + <p> + “Beryl, you haven’t read to the end of my letter.” + </p> + <p> + “But I have!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Beryl! What reason could I have for writing as I have written if I had + nothing against this man?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Could I have a bad reason, a selfish reason?” + </p> + <p> + “How can I tell?” + </p> + <p> + “Then have you a bad opinion of me, of my character?” + </p> + <p> + “I have always admired you very much. You know that.” + </p> + <p> + “Once—once you called me a book of wisdom.” + </p> + <p> + “Did I?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you remember?” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say I did.” + </p> + <p> + “And I think you meant of worldly wisdom. Then can’t you, won’t you, trust + my opinion of this man?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh if it’s only your opinion!” + </p> + <p> + “But it is not. It is knowledge.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you know Mr. Arabian?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t say that.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know him?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You ask me whether I know that man.” + </p> + <p> + “I asked you whether you knew <i>Mr. Arabian</i>!” said Miss Van Tuyn, on + a note of acute exasperation. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know him.” + </p> + <p> + “That is a lie!” said Miss Van Tuyn to herself. + </p> + <p> + To Lady Sellingworth she said: + </p> + <p> + “Then if you don’t know Mr. Arabian you are only repeating hearsay.” + </p> + <p> + “No!” + </p> + <p> + “But you must be!” + </p> + <p> + “I am not.” + </p> + <p> + “Adela, you are incomprehensible, or else I must be densely stupid. One or + the other!” + </p> + <p> + “One may know things about a man’s character and life without being + personally acquainted with him.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not hearsay.” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t come from other people?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Not that I know of. It isn’t that.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But you must, Beryl. You must!” + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth came to her quickly and sat down beside her. + </p> + <p> + “I know my conduct must seem very strange.” + </p> + <p> + “It does, indeed!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, Adela, for being brutally frank with you. But I don’t think + you care very much for me.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What danger?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And if I had?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say he could do that.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—but if you could justify!” + </p> + <p> + “But I couldn’t!” + </p> + <p> + “You couldn’t! You write me a libel about a friend of mine which you + yourself say you couldn’t justify!” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t bear to hear you speak of that man as your friend.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke she returned the letter to her muff, which was lying on a + table beside her. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She got up. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve done enough! I’ve done all I can do.” + </p> + <p> + She said this to herself as she sat and looked at the girl. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t do any more!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, good night, Adela!” + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth got up slowly. + </p> + <p> + “I promise that I will not show your letter. So don’t be afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not afraid.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn held out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” exclaimed Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + And there was a passion of acute irony in the exclamation. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” said Miss Van Tuyn, looking surprised, almost + startled. + </p> + <p> + But Lady Sellingworth did not tell her. + </p> + <p> + “If you will go like this, Beryl—go!” she said. “I cannot force you + to do, or not to do, anything. But”—she laid a hand on the girl’s + arm and pressed it till her hand almost hurt Beryl—“but I tell you + that you are in danger, in great danger. I dread to think of what may be + in store for you.” + </p> + <p> + Something in the grasp of her hand, in her manner, in her eyes, impressed + Miss Van Tuyn in spite of herself. Again fear, a fear mysterious and cold, + crept in her. Garstin had warned her in his way. Now Adela was warning + her. And she remembered that other warning whispered by something within + herself. She stood still looking into Lady Sellingworth’s eyes. Then she + looked down. She seemed to be considering something. At last she looked up + again and said: + </p> + <p> + “You said to me to-night that you did not know Mr. Arabian—now.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know him.” + </p> + <p> + “But have you known him? Did you know him long ago?” + </p> + <p> + “I have never known him.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I don’t understand. And—and I will not act in ignorance. It + isn’t fair to expect me to do that.” + </p> + <p> + “I have done all that I can do,” said Lady Sellingworth, with a sort of + despair, taking her hand from the girl’s arm. + </p> + <p> + “Very well.” + </p> + <p> + Beryl moved and went slowly towards the door. Lady Sellingworth stood + looking after her. She thought the hideous interview was over. But she did + not know Beryl even yet, did not realize even yet the passionate force of + curiosity which possessed Beryl at this moment. When the girl was not far + from the door, and when Lady Sellingworth was reaching out her hand to + touch the bell in order that the footman might know that her visitor was + leaving her, Beryl turned round. + </p> + <p> + “Adela!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you think that I have been very persistent to-night, that I have + almost cross-examined you.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t blame you. It is natural that you wished to know more.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is natural, because Mr. Arabian wants me to marry him.” + </p> + <p> + “To marry him!” + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth started forward impulsively. + </p> + <p> + “Marry? He wants—you—you—” + </p> + <p> + “He loves me. He has asked me to marry him.” + </p> + <p> + She turned away, and went to the door and opened it. + </p> + <p> + “Beryl, come here!” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Beryl!” + </p> + <p> + “But what is the good? You refuse to tell me anything, I tell you + everything. Now you understand why I feel angry at these horrible + accusations.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mean to tell me you have ever dreamed of marrying such a man!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t abuse him! I don’t wish to hear him abused. I hate it. I won’t have + it.” + </p> + <p> + “But—Beryl! But only a few days ago you as good as told me you cared + for Alick Craven. You—you gave me to understand that you liked him + very much, that you—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, this is intolerable!” said Miss Van Tuyn. “Really! Why do you + interfere in my life like this? What have I done to set you against me? + You talk of being my friend, but you do everything you can to upset my + happiness. It is enough that I like anyone for you to try to come between + us. First it was Alick Craven! Now it is Mr. Arabian! It is unbearable. + You have had your life. You have had a splendid life, everything any woman + could wish to have. I am a girl. I am only beginning. Why can’t you leave + me alone? Why can’t you let me have some happiness without thrusting + yourself in and trying to spoil everything for me? Won’t you ever have had + enough? Ever since I have known Mr. Craven you have tried to get him away + from me. And now you are doing your best to make me give up a man who + loves me and wants to marry me.” + </p> + <p> + “Beryl! Please!” + </p> + <p> + “No, I will not bear it. I will not! I admired you. I had a cult for you. + Everyone knew it. I went about praising you, telling everyone you were the + most wonderful woman I had ever known. You can ask anybody. People used to + laugh at me about my infatuation for you. I stood up for you always. They + told me—but I wouldn’t believe!” + </p> + <p> + “What did they tell you?” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind. But now I begin to believe it is true. You can’t bear to see + other women happy. That’s what it is.” + </p> + <p> + “Beryl, it isn’t that! No, it isn’t that!” + </p> + <p> + “You have had it all. But that doesn’t satisfy you. You want to prevent + other women from having any of the happiness that you can’t have now. It + is cruel. I never thought you were like that. I took you as a pattern of + what a woman of your age should be. I looked up to you. I would have come + to you for counsel, for advice. You were my book of wisdom. I thought you + were far above all the pettinesses that disfigure other women, the women + who hate us girls, who want to snatch everything from us. And now you are + trying to do me more harm than any other woman has ever tried to do me!” + </p> + <p> + “I—I will prove to you that it isn’t so!” said Lady Sellingworth. + “Please shut the door.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn obeyed. + </p> + <p> + “But—but—first tell me something.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me the absolute truth.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not a liar, Adela.” + </p> + <p> + “But sometimes—truth is difficult sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it you want to know?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you care for this—do you care for Mr. Arabian?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that you are really thinking of doing what he wishes you to + do?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t told him yet.” + </p> + <p> + “But you are thinking of marrying him?” + </p> + <p> + “I know nothing against him. He cares for me very much.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth was silent. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you don’t believe that? Perhaps you think that’s impossible?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! But—” + </p> + <p> + “I know exactly what you are thinking. You are thinking that I am rich now + that my father is dead. But he is rich too. He does not need my money. He + has never done any work. He has been an idler all his life. He has often + told me that he has had too much money and that it has done him harm, made + him an idler.” + </p> + <p> + “And you believe all that?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe that he cares for me very much. I know he does.” + </p> + <p> + “Once I thought that man—” + </p> + <p> + She stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Promise me one thing,” she said at last in a different voice. “Promise me + that you will not marry Mr. Arabian. I won’t ask anything else of you; + only that.” + </p> + <p> + “But I won’t promise. I can’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Because—because I don’t know what I am going to do, what I might + do.” She looked down, then added in a low voice; “He fascinates me.” + </p> + <p> + For the first time since she had come into the room there was a helpless + sound in Miss Van Tuyn’s voice, a sound that was wholly girlish, + absolutely, transparently sincere. Lady Sellingworth did not miss it. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t made up my mind,” she said. “But he fascinates me.” + </p> + <p> + And at that moment Lady Sellingworth knew she was speaking the truth. She + remembered her own madnesses, sunk away in the past, but still present to + her, gripped between the tentacles of memory. Beryl, too, was then capable + of the great follies which often exist side by side with great vanity. The + wild heart confronted Lady Sellingworth in another. And she felt suddenly + a deep sense of pity, a sense that seemed flooded with tears, the pity + that age sometimes feels for youth coming on into life, on into the + devious ways, with their ambushes, their traps, their pitfalls full of + darkness and fear. She was even conscious of a tenderness of age which + till now had been a rare visitor in her difficult nature. Seymour Portman + seemed near her, almost with her in the room. She could almost hear his + voice speaking of spring with all its daffodils. + </p> + <p> + Noblesse oblige. In her torn heart could she find a nobleness sufficient + for this occasion? Seymour’s eyes, the terrible eyes of affection, which + require so much and which sometimes, because of that, seem to be endowed + with creative power, forcing into life that which they long to see, were + surely upon her, watching for her nobility, asking for it, demanding it of + her. + </p> + <p> + She took Beryl Van Tuyn by the wrist and led her away from the shut door + back to the fire. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, Beryl,” she said. + </p> + <p> + The girl looked at her wondering, feeling a great change in her and not + understanding it. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I have something I must say to you.” + </p> + <p> + Beryl dropped her muff and sat down. Lady Sellingworth stood near her. + </p> + <p> + “Beryl,” she said, “you think I have been and am your enemy. I must show + you I am not. And there’s only one way. You say I can’t bear to see you + happy. I don’t think that’s true. I hope it isn’t. I don’t think I wish + unhappiness to others, but, even at my age, I still wish to have a little + happiness myself. There’s never a time in one’s life, I suppose, when one + doesn’t long to be happy. But I don’t want to interfere with your + happiness, I only want to interfere between you and a very great danger, + something which would certainly bring disaster into your life.” + </p> + <p> + She stopped speaking. She was looking grave, indeed almost tragically sad, + but calm and resolute. The spots of red had faded out of her cheeks. There + was no fever in her manner. Miss Van Tuyn’s wonder grew as she looked at + her former friend, who now dominated her, and began to extort from her a + strange and unwilling admiration, which recalled to her the admiration of + that past time when she had first met Alick Craven in this drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + After a long pause Lady Sellingworth continued, with a sort of strong + simplicity in which there was moral power: + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be angry with me, Beryl, when I tell you that you have one of my + dominant characteristics.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” Miss Van Tuyn asked, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “Vanity. You and I—we were both born with great vanity in us. Mine + has troubled me, tortured me, been a curse to me, all my life. It led me + at last into a very horrible situation, in which the—that man who + calls himself Nicolas Arabian was mixed up.” + </p> + <p> + “But you said you didn’t know him, that you had never known him!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s quite true. I have never spoken to him in my life. But it was he + who led me to change my life. You must have heard of it. You must have + heard how, ten years ago, I suddenly gave up everything and began to lead + a life of retirement.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “But for that man I should probably never have done that. But for him I + might have been going about London now with dyed hair, pretending to be + ten or fifteen years younger than I really am.” + </p> + <p> + “But—if you never knew him? I can’t understand!” + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever hear that about ten years ago I lost a great quantity of + jewels, that they were stolen out of a train at the Gare du Nord in + Paris?” + </p> + <p> + A look of fear, almost of horror, came into Beryl Van Tuyn’s eyes. She got + up from the sofa on which she was sitting. + </p> + <p> + “Adela!” + </p> + <p> + Already she knew what was coming, what Lady Sellingworth was going to tell + her. She even knew the very words Lady Sellingworth was about to say, and + when she heard them it was as if she herself had spoken them. + </p> + <p> + “That man stole them.” + </p> + <p> + “Adela!” + </p> + <p> + “You said that he had money, that he was not obliged to work. Now you know + why he has money and what his work is.” + </p> + <p> + “Adela! But—but why didn’t you—” + </p> + <p> + Her voice faded away. + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t. My hands were tied.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “He caught me in a trap. He laid a bait for my vanity, Beryl, and I took + the bait. + </p> + <p> + “But what was it?” + </p> + <p> + “He made me believe that he had fallen in love with me. I was a woman of + fifty and he made me believe that! That is how vanity leads us!” + </p> + <p> + And then she told the girl all the truth about Arabian and herself, all + the truth of ten years ago. Having made up her mind, having begun to do + what Seymour would have called “the right thing,” she did not hesitate, + did not spare herself. She went on to the bitter end. But the strange, the + wonderful thing was that it was less bitter than she had thought it must + be. While she was speaking, while she was exposing her own folly, her own + shame even, she began to feel a sense of relief. She gave the secret which + she had kept for ten years to this girl who had treated her cruelly, and + in the giving, instead of abject humiliation, she was conscious of + liberation. Her mind seemed to be released from a long bondage. Her soul + seemed to breathe more freely, like a live thing let out from a close + prison into the air. A strange feeling of being at peace with herself came + to her and comforted her. + </p> + <p> + “And that is all, Beryl!” she said at last. “Now, do you forgive me?” + </p> + <p> + Beryl had been standing quite still, with her eyes fixed on Lady + Sellingworth. She had listened without moving. Even her hands had been + still, folded together in front of her. But the colour had come and gone + in her face as she had listened, as it can only come and go in a face that + is young. She was very pale now. Even her lips looked much paler than + usual. She stood there and did not say anything. But her eyes were no + longer fastened on Lady Sellingworth’s face. She was looking down now. + Lady Sellingworth could not see her eyes, but only her white eyelids + fringed with long lashes which curled up at the ends. + </p> + <p> + “I had to tell you, Beryl.” + </p> + <p> + Still the girl said nothing and did not move. But Lady Sellingworth saw + two tears come from under her eyelids and fall down her face. Other tears + followed. She did not take out her handkerchief to wipe them away. She did + not seem to be aware of them, or of any necessity for trying to stop them + from coming. And then she began to shake. She shook from head to foot, + still keeping her hands folded. And that—the folded hands—made + her look like a tall doll shaking. There was something so peculiar and + horrible in the contrast between her attitude and the evident agony which + was convulsing her that for a moment Lady Sellingworth felt helpless, did + not dare to speak to her or to touch her. It was impossible to tell + whether she was shaken by anger, by self-pity, or by the despair of youth + deceived and outraged. But as she continued to weep, and as her body went + on trembling, Lady Sellingworth at last could not bear it any longer. She + felt that she must do something, must try to help her, and she put a hand + on the girl’s shoulder gently. + </p> + <p> + “Beryl!” she said. “Beryl! I didn’t want to hurt you, but I had to tell + you.” + </p> + <p> + The girl suddenly turned and caught her by the arms. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Adela!” she said, in a faltering voice. “No other woman would have—how + could you? Oh, how could you?” + </p> + <p> + Her face was distorted. She looked at Lady Sellingworth with eyes that + were bloodshot behind their tears. + </p> + <p> + “Both of us! Both of us!” she exclaimed. “It’s too horrible!” + </p> + <p> + She still held Lady Sellingworth’s arms. + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> couldn’t have done it! I should have let you go on. I shouldn’t + have written—I shouldn’t have spoken! And I have been alone with + him. I have let him—I have let him—” + </p> + <p> + “Beryl!” + </p> + <p> + “No, no! It isn’t too late! Don’t be afraid!” + </p> + <p> + “Thank God!” said Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + She had no feeling of self-pity now. All her compassion for herself was + obscured for the moment in compassion for the girl. The years at last were + helping her, those years which so often had brought her misery. + </p> + <p> + “But what am I to do? I’m afraid of him. Oh, do help me.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, Beryl! What can he do? There’s nothing to be afraid of.” + </p> + <p> + “But I’ve nobody. I’m all alone. Fanny is no use. And he means—he + won’t give it up. I know he won’t give it up. I was always afraid in a + way. I always had suspicions, but I trampled them down. Dick Garstin told + me, but I would not listen. Dick Garstin showed me what he was.” + </p> + <p> + “How could he?” + </p> + <p> + “He did. It’s there in the studio—that horrible picture, the real + man, the man I couldn’t see. But I must always have known what he was. + Something in me must always have known!” + </p> + <p> + She seemed to make a violent effort to recover her self-control. She + dropped her hands, took out a handkerchief and wiped the tears from her + eyes. Then she went to the sofa where her muff was lying, drew out the + letter that was in it, went over to the fireplace and threw the letter + into the flames. + </p> + <p> + “Adela,” she said, “I’ve been a beast to you. You know—my last visit + to you. You’re brave. I suppose I always felt there was something fine in + you, but I didn’t know how fine you could be. All I can do in return is + this—never to tell. It isn’t much, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s quite enough, Beryl.” + </p> + <p> + “There isn’t anything else I can do, is there?” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes were asking a question. Lady Sellingworth met them calmly, + earnestly. She knew what the girl was thinking at that moment. She was + thinking of Alick Craven. + </p> + <p> + “No, there isn’t anything else.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you quite sure, Adela? I owe you a great deal. I may forget it. One + never knows. And I suppose I’m horribly selfish. But if I make you a + promise now I’ll keep it. If you want me to promise anything, tell me + now.” + </p> + <p> + “But I don’t want anything from you,” said Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + She said it very quietly, without emotion. There was even a coldness in + her voice. + </p> + <p> + The great effort she had just made seemed to have changed her. By making + it she felt as if, unwittingly, she had built up an insurmountable barrier + between herself and youth. She had not known, perhaps, what she was doing, + but now, suddenly, she knew. + </p> + <p> + <i>I grow too old a comrade, let us part. Pass thou away!</i> + </p> + <p> + The words ran in her mind. How often she had thought of them! How often + she had struggled with that wild heart which God had given her, which in a + way she clung to desperately, and yet which, as she had long known, she + ought to give up. She was too old a comrade for that wild heart, and now + surely she was saying farewell to it—this time a final farewell. But + she had felt, had really felt as if in her very entrails, for a moment the + appeal of youth. And she could never forget that, and, having responded, + she knew that she could never struggle against youth again. + </p> + <p> + Beryl had conquered her without knowing it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <p> + The winter night was dark when Miss Van Tuyn stood in the hall of Lady + Sellingworth’s house waiting for the footman to find a taxicab for her. A + big fire was burning on the hearth; the old-fashioned hooded chair stood + beside it; and presently, as no taxicab came, she went to the chair and + sat down in it. She felt very tired. Her whole body seemed to have been + weakened by what she had just been through. But her mind was charged with + intense vitality. The thoughts galloped through it, and they were dark as + the night. The cold air of winter stole in through the doorway of the + hall. She felt it and shivered as she lay back in the great chair which, + with its walls and roof, was like a hiding-place; and for the first time + in her life she longed to hide herself. She had never before known acute + fear—fear that was based on ascertained facts. But she knew it now. + </p> + <p> + The young footman stood on the doorstep bareheaded, looking this way and + that into the blackness, and she sat waiting. In her independence she had + never before known what it was to feel abandoned to loneliness. She had + always enjoyed her freedom. Now she felt a great longing to cling to + someone, to be protected, to lean on somebody who was much stronger than + herself, and who would defend her against any attack. At that moment she + envied Lady Sellingworth safe above stairs in this silent and beautiful + house, which was like a stronghold. She even envied, or thought she did, + Lady Sellingworth for her years. In old age there was surely a security + that youth could never have. For the riot of life was over and the + greatest dangers were past. + </p> + <p> + She longed to stay with Adela that night. She thought of her as security. + But she dared not expect anything more from Adela. She had already + received a gift which she had surely not deserved, a gift which few women, + if indeed any other woman, would have given her. + </p> + <p> + She looked towards the open door and saw the footman’s flat back, and + narrow head covered with carefully plastered hair. He was calling now with + both hands to his mouth: “Taxi! Taxi!” + </p> + <p> + But there came no sound of wheels in the night, and she put her hands on + the sides of the chair and got up. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you find a cab?” + </p> + <p> + “No, ma’am. I’ve very sorry, but there doesn’t seem to be one about. Shall + I go to the nearest cab rank?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn hesitated. Then she determined to fight her fear. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t raining, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “No, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I’ll walk. It’s not far. I shall pick up a cab on the way probably.” + </p> + <p> + The young man looked relieved and stood aside to let her go out. He + watched her as she walked down the square towards the block of flats which + towered up where the pavement turned at right angles. The light from the + hall shone out and made a patch of yellow about his feet. He noticed + presently that the girl he was watching turned her head and looked back, + almost as if she were hesitating. Then she walked on resolutely, and he + stepped in and shut the door. + </p> + <p> + “Wonder if she’s afraid of going like that all by herself!” he thought. “I + only wish she was my class. I wouldn’t mind seeing her home.” + </p> + <p> + Just before she was out of sight of Lady Sellingworth’s house Miss Van + Tuyn looked back again. The light was gone. She knew that the door was + shut and she shivered. She felt shut out. What was she going to do? She + was going back to Claridge’s of course. But—after that? She longed + to take counsel with someone, with someone who was strong and clear + brained, and who really cared for her. But who did care for her? Perhaps + for the first time in her life she was the victim of sentimentality, of + what she would have thought of certainly as sentimentality in another. A + sort of yearning for affection came to her. A wave of self-pity swept over + her. Her independence of spirit was in abeyance or dead. Arabian, it + seemed, had struck her down to the ground. She felt humiliated, terrified, + and strangely, horribly young, like a child almost who had been cruelly + treated. She thought of her dead father. If he had been alive and near + could she have gone to him? No; for years he had not cared very much about + her. He had been kind, had given her plenty of money, but he had been + immersed in pleasures and had always been in the hands of some woman or + other. He had not really loved her. No one, she thought with desperation, + had ever really loved her. She did not ask herself whether that was her + fault, whether she had ever given to anyone what she wanted so terribly + now, whether she had any right to expect generosity of feeling when she + herself was niggardly. She was stricken in her vanity and, because of + that, she had come down to the dust. + </p> + <p> + It was frightful to her to think, to be obliged to think, that Arabian all + this time had looked upon her as a prey, had marked her down as a prey. + She understood everything now, his fixed gaze at her in the Cafe Royal + when she had seen him for the first time, his coming to Garstin’s studio, + his subtle acting through the early days of their acquaintance. She + understood his careful self-repression, his reticence, his evident + reluctance to be painted, overcome no doubt by two desires—the + desire to become intimate with her, and the desire to possess eventually a + piece of work that would be worth a great deal of money. She understood + the determination not to allow his portrait to be exhibited. She + understood the look in his face when she had told him of her father’s + sudden death, the change in his demeanour to her since he had known the + fact, the desire to hurry things on, to sweep her off her feet. She + understood—ah, how she understood!—why he had not wished Adela + to join them in the restaurant! She remembered a hundred things about him + now, all mixed up together, in no coherent order, little things at which + she had wondered but which she wondered at no longer; his distaste for + Garstin’s portraits because they were of people belonging to the + underworld, his understanding of them, his calm contemplation of the + victims of vice, his lack of all pity for them, his shrewd verdict on the + judge which had so delighted Garstin. And how he had waited for her, how + he had known how to wait! It was frightful—that deliberation of his! + Garstin had been right about him. Garstin’s instinct for people had not + betrayed him. Although later Arabian’s craft had puzzled even him he had + summed up Arabian at a first glance. Garstin was diabolically clever. If + only he were less hard, less brutally cynical, she might perhaps go to him + now. For he had in his peculiar way warned her against Arabian. She + flushed in the dark as she thought of Garstin’s probable comments on her + situation if he knew of it! And yet Garstin had told her that Arabian was + in love with her. Was that possible? Her vanity faintly stirred like + something, albeit feebly, reviving. Arabian had marked her down as a prey. + She had no doubt about that. Her brain refused to doubt it. But perhaps, + mingled with his hideous cupidity of the accomplished adventurer, the + professional thief, there was something else, the lust, or even the + sensual love, of the primitive man. Perhaps—she realized the + possibility—he believed he had found in her the great opportunity of + his life, the unique chance of combining the satisfaction of his predatory + instincts with the satisfaction of his intimate personal desires, those + desires which he shared with the men who lived far from the underworld. + </p> + <p> + If that were so—and suddenly she felt that it was so, that she had + hit upon the truth—then she was surely in great danger. For Arabian + was not the man to let an unique opportunity slip through his fingers + without putting up a tremendous fight. + </p> + <p> + She must find someone to help her against this man. Again she thought of + Garstin. But he had his own battle to fight, the battle about the + portrait. Then she thought of Craven. Obscurely long ago—it seemed + at least long ago—she had felt that she might some day need Craven + in her life. How strange that was! What mysterious instinct had warned her + then? But now Craven was hostile to her. How could she go to him? And then + there flashed upon her the thought: + </p> + <p> + “But I can’t go to anybody! I have promised Adela.” + </p> + <p> + That thought struck her like a blow, struck her so hard that she stood + still on the pavement. And she realized immediately that either she must + do without any help at all, or that, in spite of all that had happened, + she must ask Adela to help her. For she could never break her promise to + Adela. She knew that. She knew that she would rather go under than betray + Adela’s confidence. Adela had done a fine thing, something that she, + Beryl, had not believed it was in any woman to do. She could not have done + it, but on the other hand she could not be vile. It was not in her to be + vile. + </p> + <p> + She heard a step in the darkness and realized what she was doing. + Instantly she hurried on, almost running. She must gain shelter, must be + in the midst of light, must be between four walls, must speak to someone + who knew her, and who would not do her harm. Claridge’s—old Fanny! A + few minutes later she entered the hotel almost breathless. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <p> + On the following afternoon Craven called on Lady Sellingworth about five + o’clock and was told by the new footman in a rather determined manner that + she was “not at home.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope her ladyship is quite well?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I believe so, sir,” replied the man. “Her ladyship has been out driving + to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Please give her that card. Wait one moment.” + </p> + <p> + He pencilled on the card, “I hope you are better,—A.C.,” gave it to + the man, and walked away, feeling sure that Lady Sellingworth was in the + house but did not choose to see him. + </p> + <p> + In the evening he received the following note from her: + </p> + <p> + 18A, BERKELEY SQUARE, + </p> + <p> + Thursday. + </p> + <p> + DEAR MR. CRAVEN,—How kind of you to call and to write that little + message. I am sorry I could not see you. I’m not at all ill, and have been + out driving. But, between you and me—for I hate to make a fuss about + trifling matters of health—I feel rather played out. Perhaps it’s + partly old age! You know nothing about that. Any variation in my quiet + life seems to act as a disturbing influence. And the restaurant the other + night really was terribly hot. I mustn’t go there again, though it is + great fun. I suppose you didn’t see Beryl? She has been to see me, but + said nothing about it. Be nice to her. I don’t think she has many real + friends in London.—Yours very sincerely, + </p> + <p> + ADELA SELLINGWORTH. + </p> + <p> + “What is it? What has happened?” Craven thought, as he put down the + letter. + </p> + <p> + He felt that some drama had been played out, or partially played out, + within the last days which he did not understand, which he was not allowed + to understand. Lady Sellingworth chose to keep him in the dark. Well, she + had the right to do that. As he thought over things he realized that the + heat in the restaurant could certainly not have been the sole reason of + her strange conduct on the night when they had dined together. Something + had upset her mentally. A physical reason only could not account for her + behaviour. And again he thought of Arabian. + </p> + <p> + Instinctively he hated the man. Who was he? Where did he come from? Craven + could not place him. Beyond feeling sure that he was a “wrong ‘un” Craven + had no very definite opinion about him. He was well dressed, good looking—too + good looking—and no doubt knew how to behave. He might even possibly + be a gentleman of sorts, come to England from some exotic land where the + breed of gentleman was quite different from that which prevailed in + England. But he was surely a beast. Craven detested his good looks, + loathed his large and lustrous brown eyes. He was the sort of beast who + did nothing but make up to women. Something inherently clean in Craven + rejected the fellow, wished to drive him into outer darkness. + </p> + <p> + Could Lady Sellingworth know such a man? + </p> + <p> + That seemed quite impossible. Nevertheless, certain things persistently + suggested to Craven that at least she had some knowledge of Arabian which + she was deliberately concealing from him. The most salient of these things + was her reiterated attempt to push him into the company of Beryl Van Tuyn. + It was impossible not to think that Lady Sellingworth wished him to + interfere between Beryl Van Tuyn and Arabian. On the night of the dinner + in Soho she had attempted to persuade him to go back to the restaurant and + to see Beryl home. And now here in this letter she returned to the matter. + </p> + <p> + “Be nice to her. I don’t think she has many real friends in London.” + </p> + <p> + “Go to see Beryl; don’t come to see me.” + </p> + <p> + Between the lines of Lady Sellingworth’s letter Craven read those words + and wondered at the ways of women. But he did not mean to obey the + unwritten command. And he felt angry with Lady Sellingworth for giving it + by implication. She might have what she considered a good reason for her + extraordinary behaviour. But as she did not allow him to understand it, as + she chose to keep him entirely in the dark, he would be passive. It was + not his business to run after Beryl Van Tuyn, to interfere almost forcibly + between her and another man, even if that man were a scoundrel. Miss Van + Tuyn was a free agent. She had the right to choose her own friends, her + own lovers. Once he had decided that he would not give up his intimacy + with her in favour of another man without a struggle, the sort of polite, + and perhaps subtle, struggle which is suitable to the twentieth century, + when man must only be barbarous in battle. But since the encounter in + Glebe Place he had changed his mind. Disgust had seized him that day. What + could he think but that Beryl Van Tuyn had deliberately induced him to + come to Glebe Place, in order that he might see not only her absolute + indifference to him but also her intimacy with Arabian? Her reason for + such a crude exposure of her lightness of conduct escaped Craven. He could + not conceive what she was up to, unless her design was to arouse in him + violent jealousy. He did feel jealous, but he was certainly not going to + show it. Besides, the delicacy that was natural in him was disquieted by + what he thought of as the coarseness of her behaviour. + </p> + <p> + As once more he looked at Lady Sellingworth’s letter he was struck by + something final in the wording of it. There was nothing explicit in it. On + the contrary, that seemed to be carefully avoided. But the allusions to + old age, to disturbing influences, the decision not to go again to the <i>Bella + Napoli</i>—these seemed to hint an intention to return to a former + state of being, to abandon a new path of life. And he remembered a + conversation with Francis Braybrooke at the club, the interest it had + roused in him. Some slumbering feeling for romance had been stirred in + him, he now thought, by that conversation, by the information he had + received about the distinguished recluse who had lived a great life and + then suddenly plunged into old age and complete retirement. + </p> + <p> + Now he seemed to hear a door shutting, and he was outside it. She had + allowed him to enter her life for a short time, to enter it almost + intimately. But she was surely repenting of that intimacy. He did not know + why. Did he ever know why a woman did this or that? There was no + suggestion in the letter that he should ever call again, no hint of a + desire to see him. She was only sorry, politely sorry, that she had not + been able to see him that day. But no reason was given for the inability. + She had not considered it necessary to give him a reason. When she had + gone abroad without letting him know he had said to himself that his brief + friendship with her had come to an end. He felt that more acutely now. For + she had come back from abroad. She was close to him in London. She had + tried him again. Evidently she must have found him wanting. For once more + she was giving him up. Perhaps he was too young. Perhaps he bored her. He + did not know. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t suppose I shall ever know.” + </p> + <p> + To that conclusion he came at last. And the sense of finality grew in him, + cold and inexorable. She was a mystery to him. He did not love her. He had + never thought of her as she had thought of him. He had never known or + suspected what her feelings for him had been. But he felt that something + which might have meant a good deal, even perhaps a great deal, to him was + being withdrawn from his life. And this withdrawal hurt him and saddened + him. + </p> + <p> + He locked up her letter in his dispatch box. It would be a souvenir of a + friendship which had seemed to promise much and which had ended abruptly + in mystery. He did not answer it. Perhaps, probably, he would have done so + but for the last two sentences in it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <p> + After Lady Sellingworth had written and sent her note to Craven she felt + that she was facing a new phase of life, and she thought of it as the last + phase. Her sacrifice of self was surely complete at last. She had exposed + her nature naked to Beryl Van Tuyn. She had given up her friendship with + Alick Craven. There was nothing more for her to do. The call of youth had + wrung from her a response which created loneliness around her. And now she + had to find within herself the resolution to face this loneliness bravely. + </p> + <p> + When she wrote to Craven she had meant him to understand something of what + he had understood. Yet she did not desire to hurt him. She would not have + hurt him for the world. Secretly her heart yearned over him. But she could + never let him know that. He might be puzzled by her letter. He might even + resent it. But he would soon forget any feeling roused by it. And he would + no doubt soon forget her, the old woman who had been kind to him for a + time, who had even been almost Bohemian with him in a very mild way, and + who had then tacitly given him up. Perhaps she would see him again. + Probably she would. She had no intentions of permanently closing her door + against him. But she would not encourage him to come. She would never dine + out with him again. If he came he must come as an ordinary caller at the + ordinary caller’s hour. + </p> + <p> + Seymour Portman called on her in the late afternoon of the day when she + wrote to Craven. Just before his arrival she was feeling peculiarly blank + and almost confusedly dull. She had gone through so much recently, had + lived at such high tension, had suffered such intense nervous excitement, + in the restaurant of the <i>Bella Napoli</i> and afterwards, that both + body and mind refused to function quite normally. Long ago she had stayed + at St. Moritz in the depth of the winter, and had got up each morning to + greet the fierce blue sky, the blazing sun, the white glare of the + enveloping snows with a strange feeling of light, yet depressed, + detachment. She began to have a similar feeling now. Far down she was + horribly sad. But her surface seemed to say, “Nothing matters, because I + am in an abnormal condition, and while I remain in this condition nothing + can really matter to me.” Surface and depths were in contradiction, yet + she was not even fully aware of that. A numbness held her, and yet she was + nervous. + </p> + <p> + She heard the drawing-room door open and Murgatroyd’s voice make the + familiar announcement; she saw Seymour’s upright, soldierly figure come + into the room; she smiled a greeting to her old friend; and the sound of + Murgatroyd’s voice, the sight of Seymour coming towards her, her own + response to sound and sight, did not conquer the sensation of numbness. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he is here. He does not forget me. He loves me and will always love + me. But what does it matter?” + </p> + <p> + A voice seemed to be saying that within her. Recently she had suffered + acutely; she had made a great effort; she had conquered herself and been + conquered by another. And it had all been just too much for her. She was, + she thought, like one who had fought desperately lying in deadly silence + and calm on the deserted battlefield, utterly passive because utterly + tired out. + </p> + <p> + But Seymour did not know that. He knew nothing of all that had happened, + and Beryl knew everything. And she thought of a picture called “Love + locked out.” It was hardly fair that Seymour should know so little. And + while he was quietly talking to her, telling her little bits of news which + he thought would interest her, letting her in by proxy as it were to the + life of the great world which she had abandoned but in which he still + played a part, she was thinking, “If Seymour knew what I have done! If I + told him, what would he think, what would he say?” He would be pleased, no + doubt. But would he be surprised? And while she listened and talked she + began to wonder, but always without intensity, about that. Seymour would + think she had done the inevitable thing, what any thoroughbred was bound + to do. And yet—would he be surprised nevertheless that she had been + able to do it? She began presently to feel a slight tingle of curiosity + about that. Had she, perhaps, to a certain extent justified Seymour’s + fidelity? He had a splendid character. She certainly had not. She had done + countless things that Seymour must have hated, and secretly condemned. And + yet he had somehow been able to go on loving her. Was that because he had + always instinctively known that somewhere within her there was a + traditional virtue which marched with his, that there was a voice which + spoke his language? + </p> + <p> + “I suppose, in spite of all, in a way we are akin,” she thought. + </p> + <p> + And she began to wish vaguely that he knew it, that he knew what had + happened between her and Beryl. As she looked at his “cauliflower,” bent + towards her while he talked, at his strong soldier’s face, at his faithful + eyes, the eyes of the “old dog,” she wished that it were possible to let + Seymour know a little bit of the best of her. Not that she was proud of + what she had done. She was too much akin to Seymour to be proud of such a + thing, But Seymour would be pleased with her. And it would be pleasant to + give him pleasure. It would be like giving him a small, a very small, + reward for his long faithfulness, for his very beautiful and touching + loyalty. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Adela?” he said. + </p> + <p> + And a keen, searching look had come into his eyes. + </p> + <p> + She smiled vaguely, meeting his gaze. She still felt curiously detached, + although she was able to think quite connectedly. + </p> + <p> + “What are you thinking about?” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you ask?” + </p> + <p> + “I feel you are not as usual to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “In what way?” + </p> + <p> + “Something has happened. I don’t, of course, wish to know what it is. But + it has changed you, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “In what way?” she said again. + </p> + <p> + His reply startled her, set her free from her feeling of numbness, of + light detachment, from what she called to herself her “St. Moritz + feeling.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel as if you were coming into possession of your true self at last,” + he said very gravely. “But as if perhaps you scarcely knew it yet.” + </p> + <p> + A slow red crept in her cheeks, which would never know again the touch of + the artificial red. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Seymour! My true self! I wonder what sort of self you think that + is?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s easily told. It is the self I have been loving for so many years. + And now—” + </p> + <p> + He got up, still alert in his movement, out of his chair. + </p> + <p> + “You are going?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I have to meet ‘Better not’ at the Marlborough to talk over His + Majesty’s visit to Manchester.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Better not” was the nickname given at Court to a certain much-valued + gentleman about the king. + </p> + <p> + She did not try to detain Seymour. But when he had gone deep depression + overcame her. She was the helpless victim of a tremendous reaction. So + long as she had been in activity she had been able to endure. Even the + horror of the <i>Bella Napoli</i>, complex and cruelly intense as the + probing of steel among the nerves of the body, she had been able to live + through without obvious flinching. But then there had been something to + do, something to deal with, something to get the better of. There had been + a necessity for action. And now there was nothing. Her activities were + over. Seymour had broken the curious spell which for a short time had + bound her, and now she realized everything with unnatural acuteness. + </p> + <p> + What was the good of coming into possession of her true self? What was the + good of anything? Life was activity. Her late close contact with youth, + her obligation to do something difficult and, to her, tremendous for youth + had taught her that anew, and now she must somehow reconcile herself to + extinction. For this was really what lay before her now—extinction + while still alive. Better surely to be struggling with horrors than to be + merely dying away. She even looked back to the scene with Beryl and + thought of it almost with longing. For how she had lived in that scene! At + moments during it she had entirely forgotten herself. + </p> + <p> + Was that perhaps life, the only real life—entire forgetfulness of + self? If so, how seldom she had lived! In all her sixty years, in all her + so-called “great life,” for how short a time she had lived! + </p> + <p> + She had just then, even in the midst of her reaction, a feeling of + illumination. She was in darkness, but around the darkness, as if + enclosing it and her in it, there was light, a light she had never been + really aware of till now. Something within her said: + </p> + <p> + “I see!” + </p> + <p> + She went up to her bedroom, shut herself in, went to a bookshelf, and took + down a Bible which stood on it. She turned its pages till she came to the + Sermon on the Mount. Then she began to read. And presently, as she read, a + queer thought came to her. “If the ‘old guard’ could see me now!” + </p> + <p> + It was late when she stopped reading. She shut up the Holy Book, put it + back on the shelf, and took down a volume of poems. And after reading the + Bible she read the poem of the Wild Heart. And then she read nothing more. + But her reading had waked up in her a longing which was not familiar to + her except in connexion with what she supposed was the baser part of her, + the part which had troubled, had even tortured her so many times in her + life. She had often longed to do things for men whom she loved, or fancied + she loved. Now she was conscious of a yearning more altruistic. She wished + to be purely unselfish, if that were ever possible. And she believed it to + be possible. For was not Seymour unselfish? He surely often forgot himself + in her. But she had always remembered herself in others. + </p> + <p> + “What a monstrous egoist I have been all my life!” she thought, with a + sense of despair. “Only once have I acted with a purely unselfish motive, + and that was with Beryl. Yes, Beryl gave me the one opportunity I took + advantage of. And now it is all over. Everything is finished. It is too + late to try a new way of living.” + </p> + <p> + She forgot many little sacrifices she had made in the war, or she did not + count them to her credit. For patriotism in war seemed as natural to her + as drawing breath. She was thinking of her personal life in connexion with + individuals. She had once been unselfish—for Beryl. That was over. + Everything was over. And yet Seymour had said that he felt as if at last + she were coming into possession of her true self. So he had noticed a + difference. It was as if what she had been able to do for Beryl had subtly + altered her. But there was nothing more for her to do. + </p> + <p> + That evening she felt loneliness as she had never felt it before. A sort + of mental nausea seized her as she dressed for her solitary dinner. For + whom was she changing her gown? For Murgatroyd! How grotesque the + unwritten regulations of a life like hers were! Why go down to dinner at + all? She had no appetite. Nevertheless, everything was done in due order. + Her hair was arranged. Cecile looked at her critically to see that + everything was right. For Murgatroyd! Even a jewel was brought to be + pinned in to the front of her gown. It was a big ruby surrounded by + diamonds, and as it flashed in the light it brought back to her the + hideous memory of Arabian. + </p> + <p> + What would he do now? It was very strange that after ten years she had + been able, indeed she had been obliged, to revenge herself upon him, this + man whom she had never known, to whom she had never even spoken. And she + had never dreamed of revenge. She had let him go with his prey. Probably + her jewels had enabled him to live as he wished to live for years. And now + she had paid him back! Did Fate work blindly, or was there a terribly + subtle and inexorable plan at work through all human life? + </p> + <p> + “Miladi does not like to wear this ruby?” said Cecile. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you say that?” + </p> + <p> + “Milady looks at it so strangely!” + </p> + <p> + “It reminds me of something. Yes, I will wear it to-night. But what’s the + good?” + </p> + <p> + “Miladi—?” + </p> + <p> + “No one will see it but myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Milady should go out more, much more, and receive company here.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I’ll give a series of dinners,” said Lady Sellingworth with a + smile. + </p> + <p> + And she turned away and went down. + </p> + <p> + Murgatroyd and a footman were waiting for her. On the dining table was a + menu telling her what she had to eat, what her cook had been, and was, + busy over in the kitchen. She sat down at the big table, picked up the + menu and glanced at it. But she did not see what was written on it. She + saw only in imagination the years before her, perhaps five years, perhaps + ten, perhaps even more. For her race was a long living one. She might, + like some of her forbears, live to be very old. Ten years more of dinners + like this one in Berkeley Square! Could that be endured? As she sipped her + soup she thought of travelling. She might shut up the house, go over the + seas, wander through the world. There were things to be seen. Nature + spread her infinite variety for the sons and the daughters of men. She + might advertise in <i>The Times</i> for a travelling companion. There + would be plenty of answers. Or she might get one of her many acquaintances + to come with her, some pleasant woman who would not talk too much, or too + little. + </p> + <p> + Fish! + </p> + <p> + When, finally, some fruit had been put before her, and Murgatroyd and the + footman had left the room, she remained—so she thought of it—like + a mummy in the tomb which belonged to her. And presently through the + profound silence she heard the hoot of a motor-horn. Someone going + somewhere! Someone who had something to do, somewhere to go! Someone from + whom all the activities had not passed away for ever! + </p> + <p> + The motor-horn sounded again nearer. Now she heard the faint sound of + wheels. The car was coming down her side of the Square. The buzz of the + machine reached her ears now, then the grinding of brakes. The car had + stopped somewhere close by, at the next house perhaps. + </p> + <p> + She heard an electric bell. That was in her own house. Then the car had + stopped at her door. + </p> + <p> + She listened, and immediately heard a step in the hall. Murgatroyd, or the + footman, was going to the door. She wondered who the caller could be. + Possibly Seymour! But he never came at that hour. + </p> + <p> + A moment later Murgatroyd appeared in the room. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Van Tuyn has called, my lady, and begs you to see her.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Van Tuyn! Ask her—take her up to the drawing-room, please. I + am just finishing. I will come in a minute.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + Murgatroyd went out and shut the door behind him. + </p> + <p> + Then Lady Sellingworth took a peach from a dish in front of her and began + to peel it. She had not intended to eat any fruit before Murgatroyd had + given her this news. But she felt that she must have a few minutes by + herself. Not long ago she had been appalled by the thought of extinction: + had yearned for activity, had even desired opportunities for + unselfishness. Now, suddenly, she was afraid, and clung to her loneliness. + For she felt certain that Beryl had come to ask her to do something in + connexion with Arabian. Something must have happened since their interview + yesterday, and the girl had come to her to ask her help. + </p> + <p> + She ate the peach very slowly, scarcely tasting it. At last it was + finished, and she got up from the table. She must not keep Beryl waiting + any longer. She must go upstairs. But she went reluctantly, almost in + fear, wondering, dreading what was coming upon her. + </p> + <p> + When she opened the drawing-room door she saw Beryl standing by the fire. + </p> + <p> + “Adela!” + </p> + <p> + Beryl came forward hurriedly with a nervous manner Lady Sellingworth had + never noticed in her before. Her face was very pale. There were dark rings + under her eyes. She looked apprehensive, distracted even. + </p> + <p> + “Do forgive me for bursting in on you like this at such an hour!” + </p> + <p> + “Of course!” + </p> + <p> + She took Beryl’s hand. It was hot, and clasped hers with a closeness that + was almost violent. + </p> + <p> + “What is it? Is anything the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “I want your advice. I don’t—I don’t quite know what to do. You see, + there’s nobody but you I can come to. I know I have no right—I have + no claim upon you. You have been so good to me already. No other woman + would have done what you have done. But you see, I promised never to—I + can’t speak to anyone else. I might have gone to Dick Garstin perhaps. . . + . I don’t know! But as it is I can’t speak to a soul but you.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it something about that man?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I’m afraid of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure he doesn’t mean to—I’m sure he won’t give me up easily. I + know he won’t!” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, Beryl.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—may I?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen him?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no—no!” + </p> + <p> + “Has he written?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. And he has called to-day. Last night directly I got back to the + hotel I gave orders at the bureau that if he called they were to say ‘not + at home.’” + </p> + <p> + “Well then—” + </p> + <p> + “But he got in!” + </p> + <p> + “How could he?” + </p> + <p> + “When they said I was out he asked for Fanny—Fanny Cronin, my + companion. He sent up his card to her, and as I hadn’t spoken to her—you + know I promised not to say anything—she told them to let him come + up. She likes him!” + </p> + <p> + “And were you in the hotel?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thank God I was really out. But I came back while he was still + there.” + </p> + <p> + “Then—” + </p> + <p> + “No, I didn’t see him, as I told you. When I was just going up in the + lift, something—it was almost like second sight, I think—prompted + me to go to the bureau and ask if anyone was in our rooms. And they told + me <i>he</i> was with Fanny, had been with her for over an hour.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you do?” + </p> + <p> + “I went out at once. I called on one or two people, I stayed out till + nearly half-past seven. I walked about in the dark. I was afraid to go + near the hotel. It was horrible. Finally I thought he must have gone and I + ventured to go back. I hurried through the hall. The lift was there. I + went into it at once. I didn’t look round. I was afraid he might have come + down and be waiting about for me. When I got to our apartment I went + straight to my bedroom and rang for my maid. She said he was gone. Then I + went to Fanny. He had been having tea with her and had stayed two hours. + He had—she’s very foolish, poor old thing!—he had completely + fascinated her.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she blushed violently. + </p> + <p> + “I have no right to say that about Fanny. But I mean he had laid himself + out to—” + </p> + <p> + “I quite understand,” said Lady Sellingworth, with a sort of awkward + dryness which she could not evade though she hated herself for it. + </p> + <p> + It was hideous, she felt, being mixed up with this old Miss Cronin and + Beryl Van Tuyn in a sort of horrible sisterhood of victims of this vile + man’s fascination. Her flesh crept at the indignity of it, and all her + patrician pride revolted at being remembered among his probably + innumerable conquests. At that moment she felt punished for having so + often in her life betrayed the best part of her nature. + </p> + <p> + “I quite understand, Beryl. You need not explain.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + There was an unpleasant silence during which neither woman looked at the + other. Then Lady Sellingworth said: + </p> + <p> + “But you haven’t told me everything. And if I am to—if anything is + to be done, can be done, I suppose you had better tell me everything.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I want to. I must. Mr.—he told Fanny that I was—that I + had promised to marry him.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + “He told her that I had been to his flat on the very day that I had heard + of my father’s death and since. He promised Fanny that—that when we + were married she should have a home with us. Isn’t that horrible? Fanny + has been afraid of my marrying because, you see, she depends in a way on + me. She doesn’t want to leave me. She’s got accustomed—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes.” + </p> + <p> + “He told her that people knew about my visits to him. Mrs. Birchington + lives in the flat opposite his, and she knows. He contrived that she + should know. I realize that now.” + </p> + <p> + “A man like that lays his plans carefully.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Oh—how humiliating it all is! Fanny was enthusiastic about + him.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you say?” + </p> + <p> + “I was very careful. Because I promised you! But I know she thinks—she + must think I am in love with him. But that doesn’t matter. Only it makes + things difficult. But it isn’t that which brought me here. I’m afraid of + him.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever written to him?” + </p> + <p> + “No—never!” + </p> + <p> + “But you say he has written to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. When he left Fanny he wrote a letter in the hotel and had it sent up + to my room. Fanny gave it me just now. I’ve got it here.” + </p> + <p> + She drew a letter out of a little bag she had brought with her. + </p> + <p> + “I—I can’t show it—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—please—I don’t want to see it!” said Lady Sellingworth, + with an irrepressible shrinking of disgust. + </p> + <p> + “No, of course not. Adela, please don’t think I imagined you did! But I + must tell you—I know you hate all this. You must hate it. Oh, do + forgive me for coming here! I know I oughtn’t to. But I’m afraid—I’m + afraid of him!” + </p> + <p> + “Why are you so afraid? What can he do?” + </p> + <p> + “A man like that might do anything!” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure? I think such a man is probably a coward at heart.” + </p> + <p> + But Miss Van Tuyn shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “He’s got nerves of steel. I am sure of it. Besides—” + </p> + <p> + She paused, and a strange conscious look came into her face—a look + which Lady Sellingworth did not understand. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” she said at last, as Beryl did not speak. + </p> + <p> + “Adela, I know you will not believe me. I know—you spoke once of my + being very vain, but—but there are things a girl does know about a + man, really there are! They may seem ridiculous, crazy to others, but—” + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Beryl?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe besides wanting my money he wants <i>me</i>. That’s why I’m + afraid. If it weren’t for that I—perhaps I shouldn’t have come + to-night. Can you believe it?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth looked at the girl with eyes which in spite of herself + were hard. She knew they were hard, but she could not help it. Then she + said: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I can believe it.” + </p> + <p> + “And that he may—he may persist in spite of all. He may refuse to + give it up.” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you got a will?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you use it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But I’m afraid of him. I believe I’ve always been afraid of him. No + one else has ever been able to make me feel as I do about him. Once I read + an article in a paper. It was about a horrible play—a woman who was + drawn to a man irresistibly in spite of herself, to a hateful man, a + murderer. And she went; she had to go. I remember I thought of <i>him</i> + then. It was a fascination of fear, Adela. There are such things.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say that after what I have told you—” + </p> + <p> + “I want someone to get him away, to drive him away from me so that I shall + never see him, so that he will never come near me again! I might go to + Paris. But it would be no use. He would follow me there. I might go to + America. But that would be just the same. He says so in this letter.” + </p> + <p> + She held up the letter in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Does he threaten you?” + </p> + <p> + “No—not exactly! No, he doesn’t! It’s worse than that. If he did I + think I might find the courage. He’s subtle, Adela. He’s horribly subtle! + Besides, he doesn’t know—he can’t know that you have told me what he + is.” + </p> + <p> + “He might guess it. He probably guessed it. He recognized me in the + restaurant.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He didn’t want you to come to our table. But he never spoke of you + afterwards. He didn’t say a word, or show the slightest sign. But in this + letter I feel that he suspects—that he is afraid something may + happen through you, and that—” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he knows you came to see me last night.” + </p> + <p> + “How could he?” + </p> + <p> + “It wouldn’t be difficult for a man of that type.” + </p> + <p> + “I walked home alone, and nobody—” + </p> + <p> + “That doesn’t prove anything. He is subtle, as you say.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure from this letter that he guesses something has happened, that I + may have been set against him, and that he doesn’t mean to give me up, + whatever happens. I feel that in his letter. And I want someone to drive + him away from me. Oh, I wish I had never seen him! I wish I had never seen + him!” + </p> + <p> + Again Lady Sellingworth heard the cry of youth, and this time it was + piteous, almost despairing. She did not answer it in words. Indeed, + instead of showing any pity, any strong instinct of protection, she turned + away from Beryl. + </p> + <p> + The girl wondered why she did this, and for a moment thought that perhaps + she was angry. The situation was difficult, horribly difficult. Beryl had + delicacy enough to understand that. Perhaps she ought not to have come to + Adela again. Perhaps she was asking too much, more than any woman could + bring herself to do, or to try to do. But she had no one else to go to, + and she was really afraid, miserably afraid. + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth stood quite still by the fire with her back to Beryl, + and as the silence continued at last Beryl made up her mind that there was + nothing to be hoped for from her and got up slowly. + </p> + <p> + “Adela,” she said, trying to summon some pride, some courage, “I + understand. You can’t do anything more. I oughtn’t to have come. It was + monstrous, I suppose. But—it’s like that in life. So few people will + help. And those that do—well, they get asked for more. I’ll—I’ll + manage somehow. It’s all my own fault. I must try to—” + </p> + <p> + Then Lady Sellingworth turned round. Her white face was very grave, almost + stern, like the face of one who was thinking with concentration. + </p> + <p> + “I’m ready to try to do what I can, Beryl,” she said. “But there’s only + one way I can think of. And to take it I shall have to tell the whole + truth.” + </p> + <p> + “About me?” + </p> + <p> + “About you and myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—but you couldn’t do that!” + </p> + <p> + “I believe that I ought to.” + </p> + <p> + “But—but—to whom?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s only one person I could possibly speak to, and he’s the finest + man I have ever met. He might do something. I’m thinking of Seymour + Portman.” + </p> + <p> + “Adela! But you couldn’t tell <i>him</i>!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Adela—he loves you. Everyone knows that.” + </p> + <p> + “And that’s just why I could tell him—him only.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn looked down. Suddenly she felt that she had tears in her + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You have kept your cab, haven’t you?” said Lady Sellingworth. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Go home now. I will telephone to Seymour. I’ll let you know later—to-morrow + morning perhaps—what he thinks had better be done. Now, good night, + Beryl!” + </p> + <p> + She held out her hand. Beryl took it, but did not press it. Somehow she + felt awed, and at a distance from this pale quiet woman. + </p> + <p> + Lady Sellingworth touched the bell, and Beryl Van Tuyn left the room. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <p> + As soon as Beryl had gone Lady Sellingworth went downstairs to her + writing-room. She turned on the electric light as she went in to the room, + and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. The hands pointed to + half-past nine. She wondered where Seymour was dining. He might chance to + be at home. It was much more likely that he was dining out, at one of his + clubs or elsewhere. If he were at home and alone he would come to her at + once; if not she would perhaps have to wait till half-past ten or eleven. + She hoped to find him at St. James’s Palace. As this thing had to be done—and + now she had burnt her boats, for she had promised Beryl—she wished + to do it quickly. + </p> + <p> + She inquired through the telephone if Seymour was at home. His servant + replied that he was out. She asked where. The servant did not know. His + master had dressed and gone out at a quarter to eight without saying where + he was dining. Lady Sellingworth frowned as she received this information. + She hesitated for a moment, then she said: + </p> + <p> + “As soon as Sir Seymour comes in, however late it may be, I want to see + him on an urgent matter. If you go to bed before he comes back, will you + please leave a written message in the hall asking him to visit Lady + Sellingworth at once in Berkeley Square. It is very important.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady,” said the voice. + </p> + <p> + “You won’t forget? I shall be sitting up for Sir Seymour.” + </p> + <p> + “No, my lady. I will stay up and inform Sir Seymour.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + She put the receiver back in its place and again looked at the clock. She + had not much hope of seeing Seymour before eleven at the earliest. He + might be at a big dinner. He might be at the theatre. Probably he would go + to his club afterwards. She might not see him till midnight, even later + perhaps. Well, it could not be helped. She must just be patient, must wait + calmly. But she did not want to wait. She was beginning to feel nervous, + and she knew that the nervousness would increase in suspense. How unlucky + that Seymour was out! + </p> + <p> + She rang the bell. Murgatroyd came. + </p> + <p> + “I am expecting Sir Seymour to-night, Murgatroyd,” she said, “about some + important business. But I can’t find out where he is, so he won’t know + till he goes home. That may be late. But he will come here directly he + gets my message. I’m sorry to keep you up, but I should like you to let + him in.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, my lady,” said Murgatroyd. + </p> + <p> + “I shall be waiting for him in the drawing-room. Bring me up some camomile + tea, will you? And put out a cigar and whisky and Perrier for Sir + Seymour.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all.” + </p> + <p> + Murgatroyd stood back to let her pass out of the room. She thought at that + moment there was something sympathetic in his face. + </p> + <p> + “I believe he’s rather devoted to me, and to Seymour too,” she said to + herself as she went upstairs. “I don’t think he’ll say anything to the + others. Not that it matters if he does!” + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless she felt oddly shy about Seymour coming to her very late at + night, and wondered what Murgatroyd thought of that long friendship. No + doubt he knew, no doubt all the servants knew, how devoted to her Seymour + was. + </p> + <p> + She went into the drawing-room and sat down by the fire, and very soon + Murgatroyd brought in the camomile tea. Then he placed on a side table a + box of cigars, whisky and Perrier water, and went out. + </p> + <p> + The clock chimed the quarter before ten. + </p> + <p> + Camomile tea is generally supposed to be good for the nerves. That was why + Lady Sellingworth had ordered it; that was why she drank it now. For now + she was beginning to feel horribly nervous, and the feeling seemed to + increase in her with every passing moment. It was dreadful waiting for + Seymour like this. She felt all her courage and determination oozing away. + When Beryl had been there, and that strange and abrupt decision had been + come to, Lady Sellingworth had felt almost glad. Seymour would know what + Beryl knew, the worst and perhaps the best, of his old friend. And there + was no one else she could go to. Seymour was an old soldier, a thorough + man of the world, absolutely discreet, with a silent tongue and proved + courage and coolness. No one surely existed more fitted to deal + drastically with a scoundrel than he. Lady Sellingworth had no idea what + he would do. But he would surely find a way to get rid of Arabian, to + “drive” him, as Beryl had put it, out of the girl’s life for ever. Yes, he + would find a way. Lady Sellingworth felt positive of that, and, feeling + thus positive, she realized how absolutely she trusted Seymour, trusted + his heart, his brain, his whole character. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless she looked again and again at the clock, and began to feel + almost sick with anxiety. + </p> + <p> + The thought of confession had scarcely frightened her when Beryl was with + her. Indeed, it had brought her a sense of relief. But now she began to + feel almost panic-stricken at the knowledge of what was before her. And + she began to wonder exactly how much Seymour understood of her character, + exactly how much he knew of her past. He must certainly know a great deal, + and perhaps suspect more than he knew. She had once been almost explicit + with him, on the terrible day when she had tried to make up her mind to + marry him, and had failed. And yet he might be surprised, he might even be + horrified when she told him. It was such an ugly story, such a hideous + story. And Seymour was full of natural rectitude. Whatever he had done in + his life, he must always have been incapable of stooping down to the + gutter, as she had stooped. She grew hot and then cold at the thought of + telling him. Perhaps he would not be able to bear it. Perhaps even his + love could not stand so much as that. If, after she had told him, he + looked at her with different eyes, if he changed towards her! He would not + want to change, but if he could not help it! + </p> + <p> + How awful that would be! Something deep down within her seemed to founder + at the mere thought of it. To lose Seymour! That would indeed be the end + of everything that made life worth living for her. She shuddered on her + sofa. Then she got up and stood before the blazing fire. But still she + felt cold. Surely she had acted imprudently when Beryl was there. She had + been carried away, had yielded to a sudden impulse. And yet no! For she + had stood with her back to Beryl for several minutes before she had said + she was going to tell Seymour. And through those minutes she had been + thinking hard. Yes; but she had not thought as she was thinking now. + </p> + <p> + She began to feel desperate. It was nearly eleven o’clock. The time had + flown. Why had she asked Seymour to come to-night? She might just as well + have waited till to-morrow, have “slept on it.” The night brings counsel. + Yet how could she break her promise to Beryl? It would be no use debating, + for she had promised. + </p> + <p> + The clock struck eleven. + </p> + <p> + Seymour might come now in a moment. On the other hand, he might not reach + home till midnight, or even later. It would really be a shame to bring him + out again at such an hour. She had been thoughtless when she was at the + telephone. And she was keeping his man up; Murgatroyd too. That was + scarcely fair. It would not matter if Seymour came now, but if he did not + get home till much later, as was possible, even probable! She had surely + been rather selfish in her desire to do something quickly for Beryl. There + was no such terrible hurry about the matter. + </p> + <p> + An overwhelming desire to postpone things took hold of her. She wanted to + have time to think over how she would put it to Seymour. Would not it + perhaps be possible to obtain his help for Beryl without telling him the + whole truth about Arabian? She might just say that she knew the man was a + blackguard without saying why she knew. There was perhaps no need to be + absolutely explicit. Seymour would take it from her without asking awkward + questions. He was the least curious of men. He would probably much rather + not know the truth. It would be as horrible for him to hear it as for her + to tell it. But she must have time to think carefully over how she would + put it to him. Yes, she must have time. Better to see him to-morrow + morning. + </p> + <p> + A quarter-past eleven! + </p> + <p> + It would really be monstrous to drag Seymour out to have a long + confabulation about a girl whom he scarcely knew, and could have no + interest in, at this time of night. + </p> + <p> + And she turned from the fire and went decisively towards the door. She + would go down at once and telephone to Seymour’s apartment in St. James’s + Palace cancelling her request to his manservant. + </p> + <p> + She found Murgatroyd waiting in the hall. He looked faintly surprised at + seeing her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Murgatroyd!” she said. “It’s getting so late that I’ve decided to put + off Sir Seymour till to-morrow. I’m just going to telephone now. So you + needn’t sit up any longer.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “Good night.” + </p> + <p> + “Good night, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll turn out the lights when I go up.” + </p> + <p> + “Shan’t I—” + </p> + <p> + “No—you needn’t. Good night.” + </p> + <p> + She went into the writing-room and shut the door behind her. The thought + of the intense relief she would feel directly she had spoken through the + telephone and put off Seymour, directly it was settled that he was not to + come and see her that night, sent her straight to the telephone. She was + eager to communicate with his servant. But she wished now intensely that + she had not waited so long. She might possibly be too late. Seymour might + have returned home, had her message, and started for Berkeley Square. She + took the receiver in her hand and was just going to speak when she heard a + cab outside in the Square. She listened. It came up and stopped at her + door. + </p> + <p> + That was Seymour! She was certain of it. She put the receiver back in its + place and stood quite still, listening. The bell was rung. Murgatroyd + could not have gone to bed. He would answer the bell no doubt. If he did + not she would have to answer it. After a pause she heard the bell again, + then, almost immediately the front door being opened, and a faint murmur + of voices. An instant later she heard the cab drive away. Perhaps—had + Seymour called and gone away? Could Murgatroyd have—The door behind + her opened. She turned sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Sir Seymour Portman has called to see you, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + Looking beyond Murgatroyd she saw Seymour standing in the hall, in evening + dress and a thick black overcoat. + </p> + <p> + Seymour had sent away his cab! + </p> + <p> + She went into the hall smiling faintly. + </p> + <p> + “So you have come! I was just going to speak to your man through the + telephone, to tell him not to bother you, that it didn’t matter, and that + to-morrow would do as well. It’s so very late.” + </p> + <p> + He began to take off his overcoat, helped by Murgatroyd. + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit too late!” he said. “I shall enjoy a little talk with you by + the fire. Thanks, Murgatroyd! I was dining out with the Montgomeries in + Eaton Square.” + </p> + <p> + “Come upstairs.” + </p> + <p> + She led the way, and as she mounted slowly with him close behind her she + felt weak and now horribly afraid. She went into the drawing-room. He + followed and shut the door, then came slowly, with his firm tread, towards + her and the fire. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” he said. “You thought of me!” + </p> + <p> + He had seen the cigar-box, the whisky and Perrier. A very gentle, + intensely kind, almost beaming look came into his lined face. + </p> + <p> + “Or—was it Murgatroyd?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder whether you know what it means to an old fellow like myself to + be thought of now and then in these little ways!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—Seymour!” she said. + </p> + <p> + Tears stood in her eyes. His few simple words had suddenly brought home to + her in a strange, intense way the long loneliness to which she had + condemned him. And now he was an old fellow! And he was grateful, + beamingly grateful, for a little commonplace thought about his comfort + such as any hostess might surely have had! + </p> + <p> + “Don’t!” she added. “You hurt me when you say such a thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Do I? And if I take a cigar?” + </p> + <p> + “Here! Let me clip it for you!” + </p> + <p> + As she clipped it he said: + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing serious the matter, is there, Adela? When I had your + message I felt a little anxious.” + </p> + <p> + She lit a match for him. She felt very tender over him, but she felt also + very much afraid of him. + </p> + <p> + “Your hand is trembling, my dear!” + </p> + <p> + He took hold of her wrist, and held it while she lit his cigar. And his + dry, firm fingers seemed to send her some strength. + </p> + <p> + “If only I had as little to be ashamed of as he has!” she thought, with a + sort of writhing despair. + </p> + <p> + And she longed, as never before, for an easy conscience. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve had rather a trying time just lately,” she said. “Come and sit down. + Will you drink something?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + He sat down in an arm-chair and crossed his legs, putting the right leg + over the left, as he always did. She was on her sofa, leaning on her left + arm, and looking at him. She was trying to read him, to read his whole + character, to force her way to his secret, that she might be sure how much + she might dare. Could he ever turn against her? Was that possible? His + kind, dark eyes were fixed upon her. Could they ever look unkindly at her? + She could scarcely believe that they could. But she knew that in human + nature few things are impossible. Such terrible changes can take place in + a moment. And the mystery is never really solved. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear, would you like to tell me what is troubling you? Perhaps I + can do something.” + </p> + <p> + “I want you to do something for me. Or rather—it would really be for + somebody else. You remember Beryl Van Tuyn?” + </p> + <p> + “The daffodil girl—yes.” + </p> + <p> + “She has been here to-night. She is in a great difficulty. By the way, of + course she knows about my consulting you. I told her I would do it.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not suppose you would give away a confidence.” + </p> + <p> + “No! Seymour, has it ever struck you that there is something in you and in + me which is akin in spite of the tremendous differences in our natures?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad. I like to feel that and—and I want you to feel it.” + </p> + <p> + “I do. I feel it strongly.” + </p> + <p> + “Whatever happens it would always be there.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “It helps you to understand me, I expect.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely it must.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if you could ever—” + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Adela?” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if you could ever turn against me.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think that is very likely,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She looked at him. He was smiling. + </p> + <p> + “But—could nothing cause you to change towards me?” + </p> + <p> + “Some things might cause me to change towards anyone.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + “But as they are not in your nature we need not consider them.” + </p> + <p> + “But how do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “I do know.” + </p> + <p> + “But—what?” + </p> + <p> + “I know what you might do, or may have done. I know just as well what you + have never done and could never do.” + </p> + <p> + “But I have done some horrible things, Seymour.” + </p> + <p> + “They are past. Let us forget them.” + </p> + <p> + “But—horrible things come back in one’s life! They are like <i>revenants</i>. + After years—they rise up.” + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter, Adela? Do tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “I want to, but I’m afraid.” + </p> + <p> + And directly she had told him that she felt less afraid. + </p> + <p> + “What are you afraid of?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Of me?” + </p> + <p> + “Of what you may think of me, feel towards me, if I tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then—you do care what I feel?” + </p> + <p> + “I care very much. I care terribly.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour uncrossed his legs and made a slight movement as if he were + going to get up. Then he sat still and took a pull at his cigar, and then + he said: + </p> + <p> + “You need not be afraid of me, Adela. I have made up my mind about you. Do + you know what that means? It means that you cannot surprise me. And I + think it is surprise which oftenest brings about changes in feeling. What + is it? You say it is something to do with Miss Van Tuyn?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but my life is in it, too; a horrible bit of my life.” + </p> + <p> + “What can I do unless you tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s true.” + </p> + <p> + She sat for a moment in silence gazing at him, at the lean figure, the + weather-beaten face, the curly white hair, and at the dark eyes which were + looking steadily at her, but not penetratingly, not cruelly. And then she + sat straight up, took her arm from the sofa, folded her hands on her lap + with an effort to make them look calm, and began to tell him. She spoke + very simply, very steadily. She dressed nothing up. She strove to diminish + nothing. Her only aim was to be quite unemotional and perfectly truthful. + She began with Beryl Van Tuyn’s acquaintance with Arabian, how she had met + him in Garstin’s studio, and went on till she came to the night when she + and Craven had seen them together at the <i>Bella Napoli</i>. + </p> + <p> + “I recognized the man Beryl was with,” she said. “I knew him to be a + blackguard.” + </p> + <p> + She described her abrupt departure from the restaurant, Craven’s following + her, her effort to persuade him to go back and to take Beryl home. + </p> + <p> + “I went home alone,” she said, “and considered what I ought to do. Finally + I wrote Beryl a letter, it was something like this.” + </p> + <p> + She gave him the gist of the letter. Seymour sat smoking and did not say a + word. Her narrative had been so consecutive and plain that he had no need + to ask any question. And she was glad of his silence. Any interruption, + she felt, would have upset her, perhaps even have confused her. + </p> + <p> + “Beryl was not satisfied with that letter,” she went on. “On the night + when she had it—last night—she came to me to ask for an + explanation. I didn’t want to give one. I did my best to avoid giving one. + But when I found she was obstinate, and would not drop this man unless I + gave her my reasons for warning her against him, when I found she had even + thought of marrying him, I felt that it was my duty to tell her + everything. So I told her—this.” + </p> + <p> + And then she told him all the truth about the affair of the jewels, + emphasizing nothing, but omitting nothing. She looked away from him, + turned her eyes towards the fire, and tried to feel very calm and very + detached. It was all ten years ago. But did that make any difference? For + was she essentially different from the woman who had been Arabian’s + victim? + </p> + <p> + Still Seymour sat as before and went on smoking. As she was gazing at the + fire she did not know for certain whether he was still looking at her or + not. + </p> + <p> + At last she had finished the personal part of her narrative, though she + had still to tell him how Beryl had taken it and what had happened that + day. Before going on to that she paused for a moment. And immediately she + heard Seymour move. He got up and went slowly to the table where the + whisky and Perrier water had been placed by Murgatroyd. Then she looked at + him. He stood with his back to her. She saw him bend down and pour out a + glass of the water. Without turning he lifted the glass to his mouth and + drank. Then he put the glass down; and then he stood for a moment quite + still, always keeping his back towards her. She wondered what he was + looking at. That was the question in her mind. “What can Seymour be + looking at?” + </p> + <p> + At last he turned round. She thought that his face looked unusually stern, + and his bushy eyebrows seemed—so she fancied—to be drawn down + low above his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Go on—my dear,” he said in a rather gruff and very low voice. + </p> + <p> + She quivered. She, perhaps, scarcely knew why. At the moment she really + believed that she did not know why. Suddenly emotion began to gain on her. + But she struggled resolutely against it. + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you—don’t you mean to sit down again?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “No. I think I’ll stand.” + </p> + <p> + And he came slowly to stand by the fire. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she began again, making a great effort, “I thought that was all. I + didn’t think there was anything more for me to do. But Beryl came back + again to-night and begged me to help her. She is terrified of what he may + do. I tried to reassure her. But it was no good.” + </p> + <p> + And again she narrated, now with difficulty forcing herself to seem calm + and unembarrassed, exactly what had happened that day between Beryl Van + Tuyn and herself, till she came to the moment when she had turned away + from Beryl and had gone to stand by the fire. Then once more she paused + and seemed seized by hesitation. As Sir Seymour said nothing, did not help + her out, at last she went on: + </p> + <p> + “Then I thought of you. I had never meant to tell anyone but Beryl, but as + <i>I</i> could do nothing to help her, and as she is perhaps, really in + danger—she is only a girl, and she spoke of the fascination of fear—I + felt I must make a further effort to do something. And I thought of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Why was that?” asked Sir Seymour, turning towards her, but not + impulsively. + </p> + <p> + “Because I knew if anyone could stop this thing you could.” + </p> + <p> + “That was your reason?” + </p> + <p> + “That—and—and I knew that I could never tell all this—about + myself, I mean—to anyone but you. For ten years no one has known + it.” + </p> + <p> + “You felt you could tell me!” + </p> + <p> + The way in which he said those words was so inexpressive that Lady + Sellingworth did not know what was the feeling behind them, whether it was + astonishment, indignation, or something quite different. + </p> + <p> + “I—I didn’t want to—” She almost faltered, again full of fear, + almost of terror. “I was afraid to. But I felt I could, and I had told + Beryl so.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder what made you feel you could,” he said, still in the same + curiously inexpressive way. + </p> + <p> + She said nothing. She leaned back on the sofa and her hands began to move + restlessly, nervously. She plucked at her dress, put a hand to the ruby + pinned in the front of her bodice, lifted the hand to her face, laid it on + the back of the sofa. + </p> + <p> + “What was it?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I hardly feel I can tell you,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Then don’t, if you would rather not. But I should be glad to know.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you? I told Beryl the reason.” + </p> + <p> + She felt forced to say that, forced to speak that bit of truth. + </p> + <p> + “Then, if so, cannot you tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “I said—I said I could tell you because I knew you were fond of me.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah—that was it!” + </p> + <p> + He was silent. At last he said: + </p> + <p> + “I should like to ask you a question. May I?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—please do.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you very fond of Beryl Van Tuyn?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no!” + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you at all fond of her?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid not. No. But I like her much better than I did.” + </p> + <p> + “Since you have done something for her?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it is that.” + </p> + <p> + “It is that.” + </p> + <p> + He came towards the sofa and stood by it looking down at her. + </p> + <p> + “I told you just now, Adela, that you couldn’t surprise me. What you have + done in connexion with Beryl Van Tuyn has not surprised me. I always knew + you were capable of such a thing; yes, even of a thing as fine as that. + Thank God you have had your opportunity. Of course you took it. But thank + God you have had it.” + </p> + <p> + “I had to take it. I couldn’t do anything else.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course <i>you</i> couldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + She got up. She did not know why. She just felt that she had to get up. + Seymour put his hands on her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever wondered why I was able to go on loving you?” he asked her. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, very often.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, now perhaps you won’t wonder any more.” + </p> + <p> + And he lifted his hands from her shoulders. But he stood there for a + moment looking at her. And in his eyes she read her reward. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI + </h2> + <p> + Early on the following morning, soon after ten o’clock Miss Van Tuyn was + startled by a knock on her bedroom door. Everything at all unexpected + startled her just now. Her nerves, as even old Fanny could not help + noticing, had gone “all to pieces.” She lived in perpetual fear. Nearly + all the previous night she had been lying awake turning over and over in + her mind the horrible possibilities of the future. It was in vain that she + tried to call her normal common sense to the rescue, in vain that she + tried to look at facts calmly, to sum them up dispassionately, and to draw + from them reasonable conclusions. She could not be reasonable. Her brain + said to her: “You have no reason for fear. You are perfectly safe. Your + folly and wilfulness, your carelessness of opinion, your reckless spirit + of defiant independence, your ugly and abominable desires”—her brain + did not spare her—“might easily have brought you to irretrievable + ruin. They might have destroyed you. But Fate has intervened to protect + you. You have been saved from the consequences of your own imprudence—to + call it by no other name. Give thanks to the God of luck, and to the woman + who sacrificed her pride for your sake, and live differently in the + future.” Her brain, in fact, told her she was saved. But something else + that she could not classify, something still and remote and persistent, + told her that she was in great danger. She said to herself, thinking of + Arabian: “What can he do? I am my own mistress. If I choose to cut him + dead he must accept my decision to have nothing more to do with him and go + out of my life. He simply can’t do anything else. I have the whole thing + in my hands. He hasn’t a scrap of my writing. He can’t blackmail me. He + can’t compromise me more than I have already compromised myself by going + about with him and being seen in his flat. He is helpless, and I have + absolutely nothing to be afraid of.” She said all this to herself, and yet + she was full of fear. That fear had driven her to Lady Sellingworth on the + previous evening, and it had grown in the night. The thought of Arabian + tormented her. She said to herself that he could do nothing and, even + while she said it, the inexorable something within her whispered: “What + might not that man do?” Her imagination put no limit now to his + possibilities for evil. All the horrors of the underworld were, for her, + congregated together in him. She trembled at the memory of having been in + his arms, shut up alone with him in the flat by the river. She attributed + to him nameless powers. Something mysterious in him, something occult, had + reduced her apparently to the level of an imaginative child, who peoples + the night with spectres and conceives of terrors she cannot describe. + </p> + <p> + She felt that Arabian was not as other men, that he really was what + Garstin had called him, a king in the underworld, and that that was why he + had had power over her. She felt that he had within him something which + ruled, which would have its way. She felt that he was more persistent than + other men, more crafty, more self-possessed, more capable, more subtle. + She felt that he had greatness as a ruffian, as another man might have + greatness as a saint. And she felt above all that he was an expert with + women. + </p> + <p> + If he had wanted Adela Sellingworth as well as her jewels, how would it + have been then? What would have happened ten years ago? He had not wanted + Adela Sellingworth. But he wanted her. She was positive of that. That he + had known she was well off and was going to be rich she did not doubt for + a moment. She could never forget as long as she lived the fleeting + expression which had changed his face when she had told him of the death + of her father. At that moment he had certainly felt that a fortune was + probably almost within his grasp. Nevertheless she was positive, she was + absolutely certain as a girl can be about such a thing, that he wanted and + had long wanted her. He had waited because mingled with his man’s desire + for her there had been the other desire. He might have rushed at an + intrigue. Such a man could have no real delicacies. He was too wise to + rush at a marriage. And he must have had marriage in his mind almost ever + since he had met her. He must have made inquiries, have found out all + about her, and then laid his plans. Her looks had probably brought him for + the first time to Garstin’s studio. But it was not only his admiration for + her appearance which had brought him there again and again, which had + taught him detached self-control, almost distant respect, puzzling + reserve, secrecy in intimacy, which had taught him to wait—till he + knew. + </p> + <p> + And when he had not waited, when he had chosen to give way because the + right moment had come, when he had made her go with him to his flat, when + he had shown her what he wanted! His warmth then had not been a + pretending. And yet, just before he had taken her in his arms, he had + deliberately managed so that Mrs. Birchington should see her go into his + flat. What a horrible mingling of elements there was in this man! Even his + natural passions were intertwined with his hideous professional instincts + The stretched-out hand of the lover was also the stretched-out hand of the + thief. + </p> + <p> + When she heard the knock on her bedroom door she trembled. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” she said, after a moment of hesitation. + </p> + <p> + She was up and was sitting in an arm-chair near the window having + breakfast, and looking at her post. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + Another knock. + </p> + <p> + “Come in!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + The door was gingerly opened and a page-boy showed himself. Miss Van Tuyn + looked at him with dread. + </p> + <p> + “What is it? Something for me?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s a gentleman wants to see you, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t see anyone. I told them so at the bureau. Where is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Down below, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + “Send him away. Say I’m still asleep. Say—” + </p> + <p> + She noticed for the first time that the boy had a card. He had been hiding + it pressed to a salver against his trouser-leg. Now he lifted the salver. + But Miss Van Tuyn did not take the card. She was certain the man below was + Arabian. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t see anyone. It’s much too early.” + </p> + <p> + “The gentleman said it was very important, ma’am, and I was to say so,” + said the page, with a certain chubby dignity that was almost official. + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn was now terrified. It was Arabian, and he would not go till + he had seen her. She was certain of that. He would wait downstairs. She + would be a prisoner in her rooms. All her fear of him seemed to rush upon + her intensified, a fear such as she had never felt before. She got up + tingling all over, and with a feeling as if all the blood had suddenly + sunk away from her temples. + </p> + <p> + “You must tell him—” + </p> + <p> + The page-boy was now holding out the salver with the card on it, almost as + if in self-protection. Her eyes fell on it against her will, and she saw + there were four printed words on it. On Arabian’s card there were only + two: Nicolas Arabian. Instantly she stretched out her hand and took the + card up— + </p> + <p> + “General Sir Seymour Portman.” + </p> + <p> + Her relief was so great that she could not conceal it. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Ma’am?” said the boy, looking more official. + </p> + <p> + “Please run down—” + </p> + <p> + “Run ma’am?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—down at once and bring the gentleman up to my sitting-room. Be + as quick as you can.” + </p> + <p> + The page retired with a stiff back and rather slow-moving legs. + </p> + <p> + So Adela had wasted no time! She had been as good as her word. What a + splendid woman she was! + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn did something to her gown, to her hair. Not that she wanted + to make an impression on Sir Seymour. Circumstances were combining at + present to drive her away from her vanity. Really she acted mechanically. + Then she prepared to go to the sitting-room. And then, at the bedroom door + she hesitated, suddenly realizing what lay before her. Finally she opened + the door and listened. She heard almost immediately another door opened + and a boy’s chirpy voice say: + </p> + <p> + “This way, sir, please!” + </p> + <p> + Then she went out and came upon Sir Seymour Portman in the lobby. + </p> + <p> + “How very kind of you to come!” she said, with an attempt at eager + cordiality but feeling now strangely shy and guilty. “And so early!” + </p> + <p> + “Good morning! May I put my hat here?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, do. And leave your coat. Is it cold out?” + </p> + <p> + “Rather cold.” + </p> + <p> + “This is my little room.” + </p> + <p> + She went before him into the sitting-room which had a dreadfully early + morning air, with its only just beginning fire, and its wintry dimness of + the poor and struggling day. + </p> + <p> + “If only we could have met in the evening!” she thought. + </p> + <p> + It was awful to discuss such a situation as hers when the milkman had + scarcely finished his rounds, and when her vitality had not been warmed + up. + </p> + <p> + “Do sit down, Sir Seymour!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you!” + </p> + <p> + And he sat down in a businesslike sort of way, and at once began. + </p> + <p> + “Rather late last night I saw Lady Sellingworth.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh? Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “She sent for me. You know why, I understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I had been with her.” + </p> + <p> + “She told me the whole matter.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Did she? I—I’ve been awfully foolish. I deserve to—I + deserve everything. I know that. Adela has been so good to me. I can never + say how good. She might so easily have—I mean considering the way I + have—” + </p> + <p> + She stopped. Adela could not have told Sir Seymour about the unkindness of + the girl she had sent him to help. Miss Van Tuyn remembered that just in + time. + </p> + <p> + “Lady Sellingworth did what you wished,” said Sir Seymour, still in a + quiet and businesslike way, “and consulted me. She told me what you + wanted; that this man, Arabian, should be made to understand that he must + finally give up any plans he had formed with regard to you.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn felt the red beginning to creep in her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said, looking down. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps this can be done,” continued Sir Seymour, in a practical way, + rather like a competent man at a board meeting. “We must see.” + </p> + <p> + He did not suggest that she could do it herself. She was thankful to him + for that. + </p> + <p> + “Have you a photograph of this man?” he continued. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—no!” + </p> + <p> + “That is a pity.” + </p> + <p> + “But why do you want—” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to have his photograph to show at Scotland Yard.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + Her face was scarlet now. Her forehead was burning. An acute and horrible + sense of shame possessed her, seemed to be wrapped round her like a + stinging garment. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve—I’ve never had a photograph of him,” she said. + </p> + <p> + After a short pause Sir Seymour said: + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got his address.” + </p> + <p> + The words seemed a statement as he said them. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Will you kindly write it down for me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + She got up, still wrapped up in shame, and went to the writing-table. She + took up a pen to write Arabian’s address. But she could not remember the + number of the flat. Her memory refused to give it to her. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t remember the number,” she said, standing by the writing-table. + </p> + <p> + “If you can give me the address of the flats I can easily find out the + number.” + </p> + <p> + “It is Rose Tree Gardens”—she began writing it down—“Rose Tree + Gardens, Chelsea. It is close to the river.” + </p> + <p> + She came away from the writing-table, and gave him the paper with the + address on it. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you!” + </p> + <p> + He took the paper, folded it up, drew out a leather case from an inner + pocket of his braided black jacket, and consigned the paper to it. Miss + Van Tuyn sat down again. + </p> + <p> + “I understand you met this man at the studio of Mr. Garstin, the painter?” + said Sir Seymour. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But he wasn’t a friend of Mr. Garstin’s. Mr. Garstin saw him at the + Cafe Royal and wished to paint him, so he asked him to come to the + studio.” + </p> + <p> + “And he has painted a portrait of him?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it a good one?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, wonderful!” she said, with a shudder. + </p> + <p> + “I mean really is it a good likeness?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Yes, it is very like in a way, horribly like.” + </p> + <p> + “In a way?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean that it gives the worst side. But it is like.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose the portrait is still in Mr. Garstin’s studio?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it is. I haven’t seen Mr. Garstin for two or three days. But I + suppose it’s there.” + </p> + <p> + “Please give me Mr. Garstin’s address—the studio address,” said Sir + Seymour. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + She got up again and went to the writing-table. There seemed to her to be + something deadly in this interview. She could not feel humanity in it. Sir + Seymour was terribly impersonal. There was something almost machine like + about him. She did not know him well, but how different he had been to her + in Berkeley Square! There he had been a charming old courtier. He had + shown a sort of gallant admiration of her. He had beamed kindly upon her + youth and her daring. Now he showed nothing. + </p> + <p> + But—Adela had told him! + </p> + <p> + She wrote down Dick Garstin’s address in Glebe Place, and was about to + come away from the writing-table when Sir Seymour said: + </p> + <p> + “Could you also kindly give me your card with a line of introduction to + Mr. Garstin? I don’t know him.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I will of course!” + </p> + <p> + She found one of her cards and hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “What shall I put?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “You might put ‘To introduce,’ and then my name.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + She wrote the words on the card. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it might be as well to add ‘<i>Please see him</i>,’ and underline + it. I understand Mr. Garstin is a brusque sort of fellow.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he is.” + </p> + <p> + She added the words he had suggested. + </p> + <p> + “It’s very—it’s more than kind of you to take all this trouble,” she + said, again coming to him. “I am ashamed.” + </p> + <p> + She gave him the card. She could not look into his face. + </p> + <p> + “I am ashamed,” she repeated, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “Well now,” he said, “try to get the matter off your mind. Don’t give way + to useless fears. Most of us fear far more than there is any occasion + for.” + </p> + <p> + He stood up. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “If you wish for me, call me up. I am at St. James’s Palace. But I don’t + suppose you will have need of me. By the way, there’s one thing more I + perhaps ought to ask you. Forgive me! Has there ever been anything in the + nature of a threat from this fellow?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no!” she said. “No, no, no!” + </p> + <p> + She was swallowing sobs that suddenly began rising in her throat, sobs of + utter shame and of stricken vanity. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all too horrible!” she thought. + </p> + <p> + For a moment she hated the straight-backed, soldierly old man who was + standing before her. For he saw her in the dust, where no one ought ever + to see her. + </p> + <p> + “He’s in love with me!” she said. + </p> + <p> + It was as if the words were forced out of her against her will. Directly + she had said them she bitterly regretted them. They were the cry of her + undying vanity that must try to put itself right, to stand up for itself + at whatever cost. Directly she had spoken them she saw a slight twitch + pull the left side of his face upward. It had upon her a moral effect. She + felt it as his irresistible comment—a comment of the body, but + coming from elsewhere—on her and her nature, and her recent + association with Arabian. And suddenly her hatred died, and she longed to + do something to establish herself in his regard, to gain his respect. + </p> + <p> + Already he was holding out his hand to her. She took his hand and held it + tightly. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t think too badly of me,” she said imploringly. “I want you not to. + Because I think you see clearly—you see people as they are. You saw + Adela as she is. And perhaps no one else did. But you don’t know how fine + she is—even you don’t. I had treated her badly. I had been unkind to + her, very unkind. I had—I had been spiteful to her, and tried to + harm her happiness. And yet she told me! I am sure no other woman would + ever have done what she has done.” + </p> + <p> + “She had to do it,” he said gravely. + </p> + <p> + But his hand now slightly pressed hers. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Had</i> to? But why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because she happens to be a thoroughbred.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” she breathed. + </p> + <p> + She was looking into his dark old eyes, and now they were kind, almost + soft. + </p> + <p> + “We must take care,” he added, “that what she had done shall not be done + in vain. We owe her that. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “And you don’t think too badly about me?” + </p> + <p> + “Once I called you the daffodil girl to her.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you?” + </p> + <p> + “Youth is pretty cruel sometimes. When you’ve forgotten all this, don’t + forget to be kind.” + </p> + <p> + “To her! But how could I?” + </p> + <p> + “But I don’t mean only to her!” + </p> + <p> + And then he left her. + </p> + <p> + When he had gone she sat still for a long while, thinking. And the strange + thing was that for once she was not thinking about herself. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII + </h2> + <p> + Rather late in the afternoon of the same day, towards half-past five, Dick + Garstin, who was alone in his studio upstairs smoking a pipe and reading + Delacroix’s “Mon Journal,” heard his door bell ring. He was stretched out + on a divan, and he lay for a moment without moving, puffing at his pipe + with the book in his hand. Then he heard the bell again, and got up. + Arabian’s portrait stood on its easel in the middle of the room. Garstin + glanced at it as he went toward the stairs. Since the day when he had + shown it for the first time to Beryl Van Tuyn and Arabian he had not seen + either of them. Nor had he had a word from them. This had not troubled + him. Already he was at work on another sitter, a dancer in the Russian + ballet, talented, decadent, impertinent, and, so Garstin believed, marked + out for early death in a madhouse—altogether quite an interesting + study. But now, looking at Arabian’s portrait, Garstin thought: + </p> + <p> + “Probably the man himself. I knew he would come back, and we should have a + battle. Now for it!” + </p> + <p> + And he smiled as he went striding downstairs. + </p> + <p> + But when he opened the door he found standing outside in the foggy + darkness a tall, soldierly old man, with an upright figure, white hair, + and moustache, a lined red face and dark eyes which looked straight into + his. + </p> + <p> + “Who are you, sir?” said Garstin. “And what do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you Mr. Dick Garstin?” said the old man. + </p> + <p> + “Or rather, elderly,” Garstin now said to himself, glancing sharply over + his visitor’s strong, lean frame and broad shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger opened a leather case and took out a card. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you will kindly read that.” + </p> + <p> + Garstin took the card. + </p> + <p> + “Beryl!” he said. “What’s up?” + </p> + <p> + And he read: “To introduce Sir Seymour Portman, <i>please see him</i>. B. + V. T.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you Sir Seymour Portman?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Come in.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour stepped in. + </p> + <p> + “Take off your coat?” + </p> + <p> + “If you’ll allow me. I won’t keep you long.” + </p> + <p> + “The longer the better!” said Garstin with offhand heartiness. He had + taken a liking to his visitor at first sight. + </p> + <p> + “A damned fine old chap!” had been his instant mental comment on seeing + Sir Seymour. “A fellow to swear by!” + </p> + <p> + “Come upstairs. I’ll show you the way,” he added. + </p> + <p> + He tramped up and Sir Seymour followed him. + </p> + <p> + “I do most of my painting here,” said Garstin. “Sit down. Have a cigar.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you very much, but I won’t smoke,” said Sir Seymour, looking round + casually at the portraits in the room before sitting down and crossing his + right leg over his left leg. “And I won’t take up your time for more than + a few minutes.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment he noticed at some distance the portrait of Arabian on its + easel, and he put up his eyeglasses. Then he moved. + </p> + <p> + “Will you allow me to look at that portrait over there?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Rather! It’s the last thing I’ve done, and not so bad either!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour got up and went to stand in front of the portrait. He was + puzzled, and his face showed that; he frowned and pursed his lips, bending + forward. + </p> + <p> + “This is a portrait of a man called Arabian, isn’t it?” he said at length, + turning round to Garstin. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. D’you know the fellow?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t that—privilege,” replied Sir Seymour with an + extraordinarily dry intonation. “But I must have seen him somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + “About town. He’s been here some time.” + </p> + <p> + “But he’s altered!” said Sir Seymour, still looking hard at the portrait. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not a photographer, you know!” + </p> + <p> + “A photographer!” said Sir Seymour, who was something of a connoisseur in + painting, and had a few good specimens of the Barbizon School in his + apartment at St. James’s Palace. “No. This isn’t a photograph in paint. + It’s a”—he gazed again at the portrait—“it’s a masterly study + of a remarkable and hideous personality.” + </p> + <p> + “Hideous!” said Garstin sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, hideous,” said Sir Seymour grimly. “An abominable face! Ah!” + </p> + <p> + He had been bending, but now pulled himself up. + </p> + <p> + “I saw that man at the Ritz Hotel a good many years ago,” he said. “I was + giving a lunch. He was lunching close by with—let me see—an + old woman, yes, in a rusty black wig. Someone spoke to me about him, and I—, + Yes! I remember it all perfectly. But he looked much younger then. It must + be over ten years ago. I spotted him at once as a shady character. One + would, of course. But you have brought it all to the surface in some + subtle way. Does he like it?” + </p> + <p> + “To tell the truth I don’t believe he does.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish to speak to you about that man.” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down again. Have a whisky?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thanks.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it? Are the police after him?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not aware of it.” + </p> + <p> + “I know everything about him, as you see”—he shot out an arm towards + the portrait—“and nothing. I picked him up at the Cafe Royal. He’s a + magnificent specimen.” + </p> + <p> + “No doubt. What I want to know is whether you will allow me to bring two + or three people here to see this portrait? I’m doing this—I’m here + now, and want to come here again, if you are so kind as to allow me—” + </p> + <p> + “Always jolly glad to see you!” interjected Garstin, with a sort of gruff + heartiness. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you! I’m doing this for your friend, Miss Beryl Van Tuyn.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha!” said Garstin. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I need to go into the matter further than to say that she + does not wish to have anything more to do with this Mr. Arabian.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she’s found him out at last, has she, and put you up to—” + </p> + <p> + Garstin paused. Then he added: + </p> + <p> + “It’s like Beryl’s cheek to ask a man of your type to interfere in such a + matter. Fellows like Arabian are hardly in your line.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’ve had to deal with men of all classes.” + </p> + <p> + “And quite able to, I should say. So Beryl’s had enough of that chap?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Garstin, I am going to be frank with you, frank to this extent. + Arabian is a blackguard.” + </p> + <p> + “No news to me!” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Van Tuyn can have no further acquaintance with him, and I am going + to do my best to see to that. But I believe this fellow is very + persistent.” + </p> + <p> + “I should say so. He’s a hard nut to crack. You may depend on that.” + </p> + <p> + “And therefore strong measures may be necessary.” + </p> + <p> + “Whom do you want to bring here to look at my stuff?” + </p> + <p> + “Two or three officials from Scotland Yard.” + </p> + <p> + Garstin uttered the thrush’s song through half-closed lips. + </p> + <p> + “That’s it! Well, you can bring them along whenever you like.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. They may not be art experts, but they, or one of them, may + possibly be useful for my purpose.” + </p> + <p> + “Right you are! So you know something definite about the fellow?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t bother yourself! I don’t want to know what it is,” snapped out + Garstin abruptly. + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour smiled, and it was almost what Lady Sellingworth called his + “beaming” smile. He got up and held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Garstin gave him a strong grip. + </p> + <p> + “Glad I’ve met you!” he said. “Beryl’s done me a good turn.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you will allow me to say—though I’m no expert, and my + opinion may therefore have no value in your eyes—but you’ve painted + a portrait such as one very seldom sees nowadays.” + </p> + <p> + “D’you mean you think it’s fine?” + </p> + <p> + “Very fine! Wonderful!” + </p> + <p> + Garstin’s usually hard face softened in an extraordinary way. + </p> + <p> + “Your opinion goes down in my memory in red letters.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour turned to go. As he did so he cast a look round the studio, + which suggested to Garstin that he would perhaps like to examine the other + portraits dotted about on easels and hanging on the walls. A faint reddish + line appeared in the painter’s shaven blue cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “Not worth your while!” he almost muttered. + </p> + <p> + “Eh?” said Sir Seymour. + </p> + <p> + “A lot of decadent stuff. I’ve been choosing my models badly. But—” + he paused, looking almost diffident for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said Sir Seymour. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps, if we ever get to know each other a bit better, you’d let me + have a shy at you for a change?” + </p> + <p> + “That would be an honour,” said Sir Seymour with a touch of his very + simple, courtly manner. + </p> + <p> + “In return you know for my letting in the detectives!” said Garstin, with + a laugh. “Hulloh!” + </p> + <p> + He had heard the bell ring downstairs. + </p> + <p> + “If it’s our man!” he said, instinctively lowering his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Arabian! Are you expecting him?” + </p> + <p> + “No. But it’s just as likely as not. Want to meet him?” + </p> + <p> + “I can hardly say that!” said Sir Seymour, looking suddenly, Garstin + thought, remarkably like a very well-bred ramrod. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then—” + </p> + <p> + “But it may be necessary.” He hesitated obviously, then added: “If it + should be Arabian by chance, perhaps it would be as well if I did see + him.” + </p> + <p> + “Just as you like.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll stay if you will allow me,” said Sir Seymour, with sudden decision, + like a man who had just overcome something. + </p> + <p> + The bell rang again. + </p> + <p> + “Can you act?” said Garstin, quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Sufficiently, I dare say,” said Sir Seymour, with a very faint and grim + smile. + </p> + <p> + “Then you’d better! He can!” + </p> + <p> + And Garstin sprang down the stairs. Two or three minutes later Arabian + walked into the studio with Garstin just behind him. When he saw Sir + Seymour a slight look of surprise came into his face, and he half turned + towards Garstin as if in inquiry. Sir Seymour realized that Garstin had + not mentioned that there was a visitor in the studio. + </p> + <p> + “A friend of mine, Sir Seymour Portman,” said Garstin. “Mr. Nicolas + Arabian!” + </p> + <p> + Arabian bowed and said formally: + </p> + <p> + “Very glad to meet you.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour bowed, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Thanks.” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, my boy!” said Garstin, with sudden heartiness, laying a hand on + Arabian’s shoulder. “And I know you’ll put your lips to a whisky.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Arabian. + </p> + <p> + And he sat down in a deep arm-chair. Sir Seymour saw his brown eyes, for a + moment hard and inquiring, rest upon the visitor he had not expected to + find, and wondered whether Arabian remembered having seen him before. If + so Arabian would also remember that he, Seymour, was a friend of Adela + Sellingworth, who had been with him at the Ritz on that day ten years ago. + </p> + <p> + “Say how much,” said Garstin, coming up with the whisky. + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour noticed that Arabian took a great deal of the spirit and very + little soda-water with it. Directly his glass was filled—it was a + long glass—he drank almost greedily. + </p> + <p> + “A cigar?” said Garstin. “But I know without asking.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not refuse,” said Arabian. + </p> + <p> + And Sir Seymour hated his voice, while realizing that it was agreeable, + perhaps even seductive. + </p> + <p> + “There! Now we’re cozy!” said Garstin. “But I wish Sir Seymour you’d join + us!” + </p> + <p> + “If you will allow me I will smoke a light cigar I have here.” + </p> + <p> + And Sir Seymour drew out a cigar-case and lit up a pale and long Havannah. + </p> + <p> + “That’s better!” said Garstin, drinking. “How’s Beryl, my boy?” + </p> + <p> + “I have not seen Miss Van Tuyn to-day,” said Arabian. “But I hope to see + her to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at Sir Seymour, and there seemed to be a flicker of suspicion in + his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “DO you know Miss Van Tuyn?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Very slightly,” said Sir Seymour. “I have met her once or twice in + London. She is a very beautiful creature.” + </p> + <p> + There was constraint in the room. Sir Seymour felt it strongly and feared + that it came from something in him. Evidently he was not a very good + actor. He found it difficult to be easy and agreeable with a man whom he + longed to get hold of by the collar and thrash till it was time to hand + him over to the police. But he resolved to make a strong effort to conceal + what he could not conquer. And he began to talk to Arabian. Afterwards he + could not remember what they had talked about just then. He could only + remember the strangeness which he had realized as he sat there smoking his + Havannah, the strangeness of life. That he should be smoking and chatting + with the scoundrel who had changed Adela’s existence, who had tricked her, + robbed her, driven her into the solitude which had lasted ten years! And + why was he doing it? He did not absolutely know. But his instinct had told + him to stay on in Garstin’s studio when everything else in him, revolting, + had shrunk from meeting this beast, unless and until he could deal with + him properly. + </p> + <p> + He had smoked about half his cigar, and the constraint in the room seemed + to him to be lessened, though not abolished, when the conversation took a + turn quite unexpected by him. And all that was said in the studio from + that moment remained firmly fixed in his memory. Garstin got up to fetch + some more whisky for Arabian, whose glass was now empty, and as he came + back with the decanter he said to Arabian: + </p> + <p> + “Sir Seymour’s had a good look at your portrait, Arabian.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” said Arabian. + </p> + <p> + “And he thinks it’s damn fine. As I’m giving it to you, I thought you’d + like to know that it’s appreciated.” + </p> + <p> + There was an unmistakably malicious expression on Garstin’s face as he + spoke, and his small eyes travelled quickly from Arabian to Sir Seymour. + </p> + <p> + “In fact,” added Garstin, lifting the decanter to pour the whisky into + Arabian’s glass, “Sir Seymour is so pleased with my work that I shouldn’t + wonder if he lets me paint him.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Arabian, looking at Sir Seymour, with a sudden hard intensity + which strangely transformed his face, “this is good news. I am pleased. + But—thank you!” (to Garstin who poured out some more whisky) “that + will do, please! But you are not afraid of the drawback?” + </p> + <p> + “What drawback?” asked Sir Seymour. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Dick Garstin makes us all look like <i>canaille</i>!” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” + </p> + <p> + “But have you not noticed this?” said Arabian. + </p> + <p> + And the agreeable softness of his voice altered, giving way to an almost + rasping quality of sound. He put down his glass and got up, with a lithe + and swift movement that seemed somehow menacing. It was so light, so + agile, so noiseless and controlled. + </p> + <p> + “Surely you have. Please, look at all these!” + </p> + <p> + He made a sweeping circular movement with his arm. Sir Seymour got on his + feet. + </p> + <p> + “Do you not see? There is the same thing in all. We are all placed by Mr. + Dick Garstin in the same boat. Even the judge, he is there too. Look!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour looked from canvas to canvas and then at Arabian. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Arabian, still in the rasping voice. “Do I say true? Are we + not all turned into <i>canaille</i> by Dick Garstin?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “With you if you are painted,” continued Arabian, “it will be the same. + Dick Garstin must see bad in us all.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed and his laugh was oddly shrill and ugly. + </p> + <p> + “It is an <i>idee fixe</i>,” he said. “You see, I am frank. I say what I + think, Dick Garstin.” + </p> + <p> + “No objection to that!” said Garstin, with a mischievous smile. “But if + you don’t like your picture you won’t want to have it. So let us consider + our bargain cancelled.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no,” said Arabian, “the picture is mine.” + </p> + <p> + “The bargain we made,” said Garstin, turning to Sir Seymour, “was this: + Mr. Arabian was to be kind enough to sit to me on two conditions. One was + in my favour, the other in his.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon!” said Arabian sharply. + </p> + <p> + But Garstin continued inflexibly: + </p> + <p> + “I was to have the right to exhibit the picture, and, after that, I was to + hand it over as a present to Arabian.” + </p> + <p> + “No, that was not the bargain, please!” said Arabian. + </p> + <p> + “Not the bargain?” said Garstin, with an air of humorous surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. You kindly said that if I gave up my time to you, as I have done, + very much of my time, you would give me the picture when it was finished. + That was the bargain between us. But I did not say I would allow you to + exhibit my picture.” + </p> + <p> + “But I told you before I ever put a smudge of paint on the canvas that I + should want to exhibit it.” + </p> + <p> + “That is quite true.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Two must speak to make a bargain. Is it not so?” He spoke to Sir Seymour. + </p> + <p> + “I presume so,” said the latter, very solemnly. + </p> + <p> + He had realized that this odd scene had been brought about deliberately, + and perhaps by both of the men who stood before him. Garstin had certainly + started it, but Arabian had surely with purpose, taken the cue from + Garstin. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! You hear!” + </p> + <p> + “I do!” said Garstin, composedly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Dick Garstin, I did not say I would permit my picture to be + exhibited by you. And that was on purpose. I intended to wait until I saw + how you would make me appear. I have waited. There I am!” He pointed to + the portrait. “It is fine, perhaps, as you say. But I do not choose that + people should see that and be told, ‘That is Nicolas Arabian.’ I do not + give you permission to show that portrait.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t like it?” + </p> + <p> + “You have made of me a beast. That is what I say.” + </p> + <p> + “Sorry you think so! But what’s to be done? That picture is worth from + eight hundred to a thousand pounds at the very least. You don’t suppose I + am going to give it to you without letting the people who care about my + stuff have a look at it? Why, where is your sense of fairness, my boy?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know really what you mean by that!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I ask you, Sir Seymour, would it be fair that I should have all my + trouble for nothing? He can have the picture. But I want my <i>kudos</i>. + Eh?” + </p> + <p> + “I quite understand that,” said Sir Seymour, calmly. + </p> + <p> + Arabian turned round and faced him. And as he did so Sir Seymour said to + himself: + </p> + <p> + “The fellow’s been drinking heavily.” + </p> + <p> + This thought had not occurred in his mind till this moment, but he felt + certain that Garstin’s sharp eyes had noticed the fact sooner, probably + directly they had seen Arabian at the street door. No doubt the very stiff + whisky-and-soda Arabian had just drunk had made it more obvious. Anyhow, + Sir Seymour had no doubt at all about it now. It was not noticeable in + Arabian’s face. But his manner began to show it to the experienced eyes of + the old campaigner. + </p> + <p> + “But, please, do you understand my feeling? Would you like to be made what + you are not—a beast?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour saw Garstin, perhaps with difficulty, shutting off a smile. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t say I should,” he answered, with absolute gravity. + </p> + <p> + “Would you,” pursued Arabian, apparently in desperate earnest, “would you + allow a picture of you like this to be shown to all your friends?” + </p> + <p> + “I think,” returned Sir Seymour, still with an absolute and simple + gravity, “that I should object to that—strongly.” + </p> + <p> + “You hear!” said Arabian to Garstin. “It is your friend who says this.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t help that,” said Garstin, totally unperturbed. “I’m going to + exhibit that picture.” + </p> + <p> + “No! No!” said Arabian. + </p> + <p> + And as he spoke he suddenly bared his teeth. + </p> + <p> + Garstin, without making any rejoinder to this almost brutally forcible + exclamation, which was full of violent will, thrust a hand into his + waistcoat pocket and pulled out a big gold watch. + </p> + <p> + “I say, I’m awfully sorry,” he said, with a swift glance at Sir Seymour, + which the latter did not miss, “but I must turn you both out. I’m dining + at the Arts Club to-night. Jinks—you know the Slade Jinks—is + coming to pick me up. You’ll forgive me, Sir Seymour?” + </p> + <p> + His voice was unusually gentle as he said the last words. + </p> + <p> + “Of course. I’ve stayed an unconscionable time. Are you going my way, Mr. + Arabian?” + </p> + <p> + Garstin’s mouth twitched. Before Arabian could reply, Garstin said: + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Arabian!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—please?” said Arabian. + </p> + <p> + “You and I differ pretty badly about this business of your damned + portrait.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes!” + </p> + <p> + “Sir Seymour’s a just man, a very just man. Let’s hear what he has to + say.” + </p> + <p> + “But you tell us you have no time!” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly! Jinks you know! He’s a devil for punctuality. They set the + clocks by him at the Slade! But <i>you</i>—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Talk it over with Sir Seymour. Get his unbiased verdict. And let me hear + from you any time to-morrow. He’ll say what’s fair and square. I know + that.” + </p> + <p> + While speaking he went towards the head of the stairs, followed by Sir + Seymour and Arabian. As Arabian passed the place where the whisky stood he + picked up his glass and drunk it off at a gulp. + </p> + <p> + A minute later Sir Seymour and he were out in the night together. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII + </h2> + <h3> + “Which way do you go, please?” asked Arabian. + </h3> + <p> + “I’ll go your way if you like. I live in St. James’s Palace. But I’m in no + hurry. Do you live in my direction?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. I live quite near in Chelsea.” + </p> + <p> + “I can walk to your door then if you don’t mind having my company,” said + Sir Seymour. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you!” + </p> + <p> + And they walked on together in silence. Sir Seymour wondered what was + passing in the mind of the man beside him. He felt sure that Arabian had + been at first suspicious of him in the studio. Had he been able by his + manner to lull that suspicion to rest? He was inclined to believe so. But + it was impossible for him to be sure. After two or three minutes of + silence he spoke again. But he made no allusion to the recent scene in the + studio, or to Garstin’s parting words. His instinct counselled silence on + that point. So he talked of London, the theatres, the affairs of the day, + trying to seem natural, like a man of the world with a casual + acquaintance. He noticed that Arabian’s answers and comments were brief. + Sometimes when he did speak he spoke at random. It was obvious that he was + preoccupied. He seemed to Sir Seymour to be brooding darkly over + something. This state of things continued until they reached Rose Tree + Gardens. + </p> + <p> + “This is it,” said Arabian, stopping before the big porch. + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour stopped, too, hesitated, then said: + </p> + <p> + “I’ll say good night to you.” + </p> + <p> + Arabian shot a piercing and morose glance at him, moved his right hand as + if about to extend it, dropped it and said: + </p> + <p> + “Well, but we have not spoken any more about my picture!” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Dick Garstin said you would decide.” + </p> + <p> + “Scarcely that—was it?” + </p> + <p> + “But I think it was.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, but it’s really not my affair.” + </p> + <p> + “But he made it so.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps. But you didn’t say—” + </p> + <p> + “But I should like to know what you think.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good of you. But I’m an outsider. I wasn’t there when you made what + you say was a bargain.” + </p> + <p> + “No, but—” + </p> + <p> + Again he sent a piercing glance to Sir Seymour, who received it with + absolute sangfroid, and stood looking completely detached, firm and + simple. At that moment Sir Seymour felt positive that a struggle was going + on in Arabian in which the drink he had taken was playing a part. The + intensely suspicious nature of the enemy of society, always on the alert, + because always liable to be in danger, was at odds with the demon that + steals away the wits of men, unchains their recklessness, unlocks their + tongues, uncovers often their most secret inclinations. Arabian was + hesitating. At that moment the least thing would turn him one way or the + other, would prompt him to give himself to the intense caution which was + probably natural to him, or would drive him to the incaution which he + would regret when he was physically normal again. It seemed to Sir Seymour + that he knew this, and that he had it in his power just then to turn the + scale, to make it drop to whichever side he wished. And as Arabian + hesitated at that moment so Sir Seymour hesitated too. He longed to get + away from the man, to have done with him forever. But he had put his hand + to a task. He had here an opportunity. Garstin had certainly given it to + him deliberately. It would be weak not to take advantage of it. He was not + accustomed to yield to his weak inclinations, and he resolved not to do so + now. He was sure that if he showed the least sign of wishing to push + himself into Arabian’s affairs the man would recoil at once, in spite of + the drink which was slightly, but definitely, clouding his perceptions. So + he took the contrary course. He forced himself to hold out his hand to the + beast, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Well—good-night!” + </p> + <p> + But Arabian did not take his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but please come in for a moment!” he said. “Why go away?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s getting late.” + </p> + <p> + “But I will not keep you long. Dick Garstin said you should judge between + us, that I was to come to-morrow and tell him. I know you will say I have + the right. Come up. I will explain to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” said Sir Seymour, with apparent reluctance, “but really I + must not stay long.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no! You are very good. It is not your business. But really it is + important. Here! We will take the elevator.” + </p> + <p> + As he got into the lift Sir Seymour wondered whether he would have tricked + Arabian if the latter had not been drinking. While the lift was going + swiftly and smoothly up he decided that before he came down in it he would + make quite plain to Arabian why he had been to Dick Garstin’s studio that + day. The opportunity which was given to him he would take advantage of to + the full. If only he could strike a blow for Adela instead of for Miss Van + Tuyn! But Adela had let this brute go. And could she have done anything + else? For she had had her own folly to be afraid of. But all that was ten + years ago. And now—She was different now! He reiterated that to + himself as he stood in the lift almost touching Arabian. Adela was quite + different now. She had given herself to the best that was in her. + </p> + <p> + “Here it is!” + </p> + <p> + The lift had stopped. They got out on a landing, and Arabian put a key + into a door. + </p> + <p> + “Do please take off your coat. It is all warm in here!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and some brute’s been burning scent in a shovel!” thought Sir + Seymour, as he stepped into the flat. + </p> + <p> + “I think I’ll keep my coat,” he said. “I shan’t be staying long.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if you are in such a hurry!” said Arabian, with sudden moody + irritation. + </p> + <p> + He shut the door with a bang. In the electric light he looked tired and + menacing. At least Sir Seymour thought so. But the light in the little + hall was shaded and not very strong. + </p> + <p> + “You will be much too hot truly!” said Arabian. + </p> + <p> + “Then I’ll leave my coat,” said Sir Seymour. + </p> + <p> + And he took it off, laid it on a chair and went into a room on the left, + the door of which Arabian held open. + </p> + <p> + “This is my salon. I take the flat furnished. The river is there.” + </p> + <p> + He pointed towards the windows now covered by curtains. + </p> + <p> + “Please sit down by the fire. I will explain. I know you will be on my + side.” + </p> + <p> + He pressed a bell on the right of the mantelpiece. + </p> + <p> + Almost instantaneously the door was opened and a thin man—who looked + about thirty, Sir Seymour thought—showed himself. He had a very dark + narrow face and curiously light-grey eyes. Arabian spoke to him in + Spanish. He listened, motionless, turned and went softly out. + </p> + <p> + “You must have a little whisky with me!” said Arabian. + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you!” + </p> + <p> + “But—why not?” + </p> + <p> + “I never take it at this time.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I must have some. I have got a cold. This climate in winter—it + is awful!” + </p> + <p> + He shook his broad shoulders and blinked rapidly several times, then + suddenly opened his eyes very wide and yawned. + </p> + <p> + “Well now!” he said. “But please sit down.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour sat down. Arabian stood with his back to the fire and his + hands thrust into his trouser pockets. Sir Seymour noticed what a + magnificently made man he was. He had certainly been endowed with physical + gifts for the undoing of women. But his brown face, strikingly handsome + though it undoubtedly was, had the hard stamp of vice on it. Long ago at a + first glance Sir Seymour had seen that this man was a wrong ‘un, and now, + as he looked at Arabian, he found himself wondering how anyone could fail + to see that. + </p> + <p> + “Now I will tell you exactly,” Arabian said. + </p> + <p> + And he explained carefully and lucidly enough—though through + occasional yawns—what had happened between Garstin and himself. He + did not mention Miss Van Tuyn’s name. As he was getting towards the end of + his narrative his servant came in with a tray on which were bottles and + glasses. He said nothing and Arabian said nothing to him, but went on + talking and did not appear to notice him. But directly he had gone Arabian + poured out some whisky, added a little soda and drank it. + </p> + <p> + “There! That is how we did!” he said at last. + </p> + <p> + And he dropped softly, with an odd lightness, into a chair near Sir + Seymour, and nodded: + </p> + <p> + “Now, have I not the right over the picture? Can I not send to-morrow and + take it away? Is it not just?” + </p> + <p> + “Just!” said Sir Seymour. “Do you care so much about justice?” + </p> + <p> + “Eh?” said Arabian, suddenly leaning forward in his chair. “What is that?” + </p> + <p> + The bitter sarcasm which Sir Seymour had not been able to keep out of his + voice had evidently startled Arabian. + </p> + <p> + “You are English,” he said, as Sir Seymour said nothing. “Do you not care + that a stranger in your country should have justice?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. I care very much about that.” + </p> + <p> + The intense dryness of the voice that answered evidently made an + impression on Arabian. For he fixed his eyes on his guest with intense and + hard inquiry, and laid his brown hands on the arms of his chair, as if in + readiness for something. But he only said: + </p> + <p> + “Well—please?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour’s inclination was to get up. But he did not obey it. He sat + without moving, and returned Arabian’s stare with a firm, soldier’s gaze. + The fearlessness of his eyes was absolute, unflinching. + </p> + <p> + “I thoroughly understand why you don’t want Mr. Garstin to show people + that picture,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + “The biggest fool in creation, if he saw it, would understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Understand what—please?” + </p> + <p> + “Understand you.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon!” said Arabian sharply. “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + He was up. But Sir Seymour sat still. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Garstin uncovered your secret,” he said. “A man such as you are + naturally objects to that.” + </p> + <p> + “What have you come here for?” said Arabian. + </p> + <p> + “You asked me to come.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you go to Dick Garstin for?” + </p> + <p> + “That is my business.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour got up slowly, very deliberately even, from his chair. + </p> + <p> + “My secret, you say. What do you know about me?” + </p> + <p> + In the voice there was intense suspicion. + </p> + <p> + “We needn’t discuss that. I am not going to discuss it.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you go to Dick Garstin for?” + </p> + <p> + “I went to ask him if he would allow me to bring two or three people to + his studio to look at his portrait of you.” + </p> + <p> + “My portrait! What is my portrait to you? Why should you bring people?” + </p> + <p> + But Sir Seymour did not answer the question. Instead he put one hand on + the mantelpiece, leaned slightly towards Arabian, and said: + </p> + <p> + “You wanted my verdict on the rights of the case between you and Mr. + Garstin. That isn’t my affair. You must fight it out between you. But I + should seriously advise you not to take too long over the quarrel. You + said just now that the English climate was awful. Get out of it as soon as + you can.” + </p> + <p> + “Get out of it! What is it to you whether I stay or go?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid if you delay here much longer you may be sorry for it.” + </p> + <p> + “Who are you?” said Arabian fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “I’m a friend of Miss Van Tuyn.” + </p> + <p> + “What has that to do with me? Why do you try to interfere with me?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Van Tuyn—I saw her this morning—wishes me to see to it + that you leave her alone, get out of her life.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you her father, a relation?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what have you to do with it? You—you impertinent old man!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour’s brick-red, weather-beaten face took on a darker, almost a + purplish, hue, and the hand that had been holding the mantelpiece + tightened into a fist. + </p> + <p> + “You will leave this young lady alone,” he said sternly. “Do you hear? You + will leave her alone. She knows what you are.” + </p> + <p> + Arabian had pushed out his full under-lip and was staring now intently at + Sir Seymour. His gaze was intense, and yet there was a cloudy look in his + eyes. The effect of what he had drunk was certainly increasing upon him in + the heat of the rather small room. + </p> + <p> + “When I came into the studio,” he said after a moment’s silence, “I + remembered your face, and, ‘Why is he here?’ That was my thought. Why is + he there? Where did I see you?” + </p> + <p> + “That doesn’t matter. You will give up your acquaintance with Miss Van + Tuyn. You will get out of London. And then no measures will be taken + against you.” + </p> + <p> + “Where was it?” persisted Arabian. “Do you remember me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Sir Seymour. + </p> + <p> + He debated within himself for an instant, and then took a decision. + </p> + <p> + “I saw you at the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly ten years or more ago.” + </p> + <p> + “At the Ritz!” + </p> + <p> + “I was lunching with a friend. I was lunching with Lady Sellingworth.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” exclaimed Arabian. “That was it! I remember. So—<i>she</i> + sent—I see! I see!” + </p> + <p> + He half shut his eyes and a vein in his forehead swelled, giving to his + brow a look of violence. + </p> + <p> + “She has—She has—” + </p> + <p> + He shut his mouth with a snap of the teeth. Sir Seymour was aware of a + struggle taking place in him. Something, urged on by drink, was fighting + hard with his natural caution. But the caution, long trained, no doubt, + and kept in almost perpetual use, was fighting hard too. + </p> + <p> + “No one sent me,” said Sir Seymour with contempt. “But that’s no matter. + You understand now that you are to leave this young lady alone. Her + acquaintance with you has ceased. It won’t be renewed. If you call on her + you will be sent off. If you write to her your letters will be burnt + without being read. If you try to persecute her in any way means will be + found to protect her and to punish you. I shall see to that.” + </p> + <p> + Arabian’s mouth was still tightly shut and he was standing quite still and + seemed to be thinking, or trying to think, deeply. For his eyes now had a + curiously inward look. If Sir Seymour had expected a burst of rage as the + sequel to his very plain speaking he was deceived. Apparently this man was + serenely beyond that society in which a human being can be insulted and + resent it. Or else had he been thinking with such intensity that he had + not even heard what had just been said to him? For a moment Sir Seymour + was inclined to believe so. And he was about to reiterate what he had + said, to force it on Arabian’s attention, when the latter stopped him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes!” he said. “I hear! Do not!” + </p> + <p> + He seemed to be turning something over in his mind with complete + self-possession under the eyes of the man who had just scornfully attacked + him. At last he said: + </p> + <p> + “I fear I was rude just now. You startled me. I said it was impertinence. + But I see, I understand now. The women—they are clever. And when age + comes—ah, we have no longer much defence against them.” + </p> + <p> + And he smiled. + </p> + <p> + “What d’you mean?” said Sir Seymour, longing to knock the fellow down, and + feeling an almost insuperable difficulty in retaining his self-control. + </p> + <p> + “This I mean! You say you come to me sent by Miss Van Tuyn. But I say—no! + You come to me sent by Lady Sellingworth.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour was startled. Was the fellow so brazen that he was going to + allude to what had happened over ten years ago? That seemed incredible, + but with such a man perhaps everything was possible. + </p> + <p> + “It is like this!” continued Arabian, in a suave and explanatory voice. + “Lady Sellingworth she hates Miss Van Tuyn. They have quarrelled about a + young man. His name is Craven. I have met him in a restaurant. I dine + there with Miss van Tuyn. He dines there that night with Lady + Sellingworth, who is in love with him, as old women are with nice-looking + boys, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Hold your tongue, you infernal blackguard!” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Van Tuyn calls Craven to us, and Lady Sellingworth is so jealous + that she runs out of the restaurant, so that he is obliged to follow her + and leave Miss Van Tuyn—” + </p> + <p> + “You damned ruffian!” said Sir Seymour. + </p> + <p> + His face was congested with anger. He put out his arm as if he were going + to seize Arabian by the collar of his jacket. For once in his life he “saw + red”; for once he was forced by indignation into saying something he would + never have said had he given himself time to think. He was carried away by + impulse like a youth in spite of his years, of his white hair, of his + immense natural self-control. + </p> + <p> + Arabian moved backwards with a swift, wary movement. Sir Seymour did not + follow him. He stood where he was and said again: + </p> + <p> + “You damned ruffian! If you don’t get out of the country I’ll set the + police on you.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! What for, please?” + </p> + <p> + “For stealing Lady Sellingworth’s jewels in Paris ten years ago!” + </p> + <p> + Arabian bared his teeth like an animal and half shut his eyes. There was a + strange look about his temples, as if under the deep brown of his skin + something had gone suddenly white. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Van Tuyn knows that you stole them!” + </p> + <p> + Arabian drew in his breath sharply. His mouth opened wide. + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour turned and went out of the room. He shut the door behind him. + In the little scented hall he caught up his coat and hat. He heard a door + click. The dark man with the light grey eyes showed himself. + </p> + <p> + “Keep away, you!” said Sir Seymour. + </p> + <p> + The man stood where he was, and Sir Seymour went out of the flat. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV + </h2> + <p> + When Sir Seymour was going out of the main hall of the building in which + Arabian lived a taxicab happened to drive up. A man got out of it and paid + the chauffeur. Sir Seymour made a sign to the chauffeur, who jerked his + head and said: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Drive me to Claridge’s Hotel, please,” said Sir Seymour. + </p> + <p> + He got into the taxicab and was soon away in the night. When he reached + the hotel he went to the bureau and inquired if Miss Van Tuyn was at home. + The man at the bureau, who knew him well, said that she was in, that she + had not been out all day. He would inquire at once if she was at home to + visitors. As he spoke he looked at Sir Seymour with an air of discreet + interest. After a moment at the telephone he asked Sir Seymour to go + upstairs, and called a page-boy to accompany him and show him the way. + </p> + <p> + “Henriques,” said Sir Seymour, pausing as he was about to follow the page. + “You’re a discreet fellow, I know.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope so, Sir Seymour.” + </p> + <p> + “If by chance a man called Arabian should come here, while I am upstairs, + get rid of him, will you? I am speaking on Miss Van Tuyn’s behalf and with + her authority.” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t let the gentleman up, Sir Seymour.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he called to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir Seymour. He called early this afternoon. I had orders to say + Miss Van Tuyn and Miss Cronin were both out. He wrote a note downstairs + which was sent up.” + </p> + <p> + “He may call again at any time. Get rid of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir Seymour.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks. I rely on your discretion.” + </p> + <p> + And Sir Seymour went towards the lift, where the page-boy was waiting. + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn met him at the threshold of her sitting-room. She was very + pale. She greeted him eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “How good of you to call again! Do come in. I haven’t stirred. I haven’t + been out all day.” + </p> + <p> + She shut the sitting-room door. + </p> + <p> + “<i>He</i> has been here!” + </p> + <p> + “So I heard.” + </p> + <p> + “How? Who has—” + </p> + <p> + “I ventured to speak to Henriques, the young man at the bureau, before + coming up. I know him quite well. I took it on myself to give an order on + your behalf.” + </p> + <p> + “That he wasn’t to be allowed to come up?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I told Henriques to get rid of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, thank you! Thank you! I’ve been in misery all day thinking at every + moment that he might open my door and walk in.” + </p> + <p> + “They won’t let him up.” + </p> + <p> + “But they mightn’t happen to see him. If there were many people in the + hall he might pass by unnoticed and—” + </p> + <p> + “In a hotel of this type people don’t pass by unnoticed. You need not be + afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “But I am horribly afraid. I can’t help it. And it’s so dreadful not + daring to move. It’s—it’s like living in a nightmare!” + </p> + <p> + “Come, Miss Van Tuyn!” said Sir Seymour, and in his voice and manner there + was just a hint of the old disciplinarian, “pull yourself together. You’re + not helpless, and you’ve got friends.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do forgive me! I know I have. But there’s something so absolutely + hideous in feeling like this about a man who—whom I—” + </p> + <p> + She broke off, and sat down on a sofa abruptly, almost as if her limbs had + given way under her. + </p> + <p> + “I quite understand that. I’ve just been with the fellow.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn started up. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve seen him?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Where? Here?” + </p> + <p> + “I went to Mr. Garstin’s studio to have a look at the portrait and say a + word to him. While I was there Arabian called. I stayed on and sat with + him for some time. Afterwards I walked with him to the building where he + is living temporarily and went in.” + </p> + <p> + “Went in? <i>You</i> went into his flat!” + </p> + <p> + “As I say.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn looked at him without speaking. Her expression showed + intense astonishment, amounting almost to incredulity. + </p> + <p> + “I had it out with him,” said Sir Seymour grimly, after a pause. “And in + the heat of the moment I told him something which I had not intended to + tell him, which I had not meant to speak of at all.” + </p> + <p> + “What? What?” + </p> + <p> + “I told him I knew about the theft of ten years ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + “And I told him also that you knew about it.” + </p> + <p> + “That I—oh! How did he take it? What did he say?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t wait to hear. The flat was—well—scented, and I + wanted to get out of it.” + </p> + <p> + His face expressed such a stern and acute disgust that Miss Van Tuyn’s + eyes dropped beneath his. + </p> + <p> + “You may think—it would be natural to think that the fact of my + having told the man about your knowledge of his crime would prevent him + from ever attempting to see you again,” Sir Seymour continued, “but I + don’t feel sure of that.” + </p> + <p> + “You think that even after that he might—” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll be frank with you. I can’t tell what he might or might not do. He + may follow my suggestion—” + </p> + <p> + “What did you—” + </p> + <p> + “I suggested to him that he had better clear out of the country at once. + It’s quite possible that he may take my view and go, but in case he + doesn’t, and tries to bother you any more—” + </p> + <p> + “He’s been! He’s written! He says he <i>will</i> see me. He has guessed + that something has turned me against him.” + </p> + <p> + “He knows now what it is. Now I want you to write a note to him which I + will leave at the bureau in case he calls to-night or to-morrow morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + She went to the writing-table and sat down. + </p> + <p> + “If you will allow me to suggest the wording.” + </p> + <p> + “Please—please do!” + </p> + <p> + She took up a pen and dipped it in the ink. Then Sir Seymour dictated: + </p> + <p> + SIR,—Sir Seymour Portman has told me of his meeting with you to-day + and of what occurred at it. What he said to you about me is true. I <i>know</i>. + If you call you will not see me. I refuse absolutely to see you or to have + anything more to do with you, now or at any future time. + </p> + <p> + “And then your name at the end.” + </p> + <p> + Miss van Tuyn wrote with a hand that slightly trembled. “B. VAN TUYN.” + </p> + <p> + “If you will put that into an envelope and address it I will take it down + and leave it at the bureau.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Tuyn put the note into an envelope, closed the envelope and + addressed it. + </p> + <p> + “That’s right.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour held out his hand and she gave him the note. + </p> + <p> + “Now, good night.” + </p> + <p> + “You are going!” + </p> + <p> + He smiled slightly. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t sleep at Claridge’s as you and Miss Cronin do.” + </p> + <p> + “No, of course not. Thank you so very, very much! But I can never thank + you properly.” + </p> + <p> + She paused. Then she said with sudden bitterness: + </p> + <p> + “And I used to pride myself on my independence!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah—independence! A word!” said Sir Seymour. + </p> + <p> + He turned away to go, but when he was near the door he stopped and seemed + hesitating. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” said Miss Van Tuyn anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Even men sometimes have instincts,” he said, turning round. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “May I use your telephone?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course! But—do—you—” + </p> + <p> + “Where—Oh, there it is!” + </p> + <p> + He went to it and called up the bureau. Then he said: “Sir Seymour Portman + is speaking from Miss Van Tuyn’s sitting-room . . . is that Mr. Henriques? + Please tell me, has that man, Arabian, of whom we spoke just now, called + again?” + </p> + <p> + There was a silence in which Miss Van Tuyn, watching, saw a frown wrinkle + deeply Sir Seymour’s forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Has he gone? Did you get rid of him? . . . How long ago? . . . Only + two or three minutes! . . . Do you think he knows I am here? . . . Thank + you. I’ll be down in a moment.” + </p> + <p> + He put the receiver back. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but don’t leave me!” said Miss Van Tuyn distractedly. “You see, in + spite of what you told him he <i>has</i> come!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He has been. He’s a determined fellow.” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll never give it up! What can I do?” + </p> + <p> + “All you can do at present is to remain quietly up here in your + comfortable rooms. Leave the rest to me.” + </p> + <p> + “But if he gets in?” + </p> + <p> + “He won’t. Even if he came upstairs—and he won’t be allowed to—he + has no key of your outer door. Now I’ll go down and leave this note at the + bureau. If he comes back and receives it, that will probably decide him to + give the thing up. He is counting on the weakness of your will. This note + will show him you have made up your mind. By the way”—he fixed his + dark eyes on her—“you <i>have</i> made up your mind?” + </p> + <p> + She blushed up to her hair. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes—yes!” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. To-morrow I shall go to Scotland Yard. We’ll get him out of + the country one way or another.” + </p> + <p> + She accompanied him to the outer door of the apartment. When he had gone + out she shut it behind him, and he heard the click of a bolt being pushed + home. + </p> + <p> + Before leaving the hotel Sir Seymour again sought his discreet friend + Henriques, to whom he gave Miss Van Tuyn’s note. + </p> + <p> + “So the fellow has been?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir Seymour.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you get rid of him easily?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, to tell the truth, Sir Seymour, he tried to be obstinate. I think—if + you’ll excuse me—I certainly think that he was slightly under the + influence of drink. Not drunk, you’ll understand, not at all as much as + that! But still—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes. If he comes back give him that note. And—do you + think it would be wise to give him a hint that any further annoyance might + lead to the intervention of the police? The young lady is very much upset + and frightened. Do you think you might drop a word or two—at your + discretion?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll manage it, Sir Seymour. Leave it to me!” + </p> + <p> + “Very good of you, Henriques. Good night.” + </p> + <p> + “Good night, Sir Seymour. Always very glad to do anything for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + As Sir Seymour stepped out into Brook Street he glanced swiftly up and + down the thoroughfare. But he did not see the man he was looking for. He + stood still for a moment. There was hesitation in his mind. The natural + thing, he felt, would be to go at once to Berkeley Square and to have a + talk with Adela. It was late. He was beginning to feel hungry. Adela would + give him some dinner. But—could he go to Adela just now? No; he + could not. And he hailed a cab and drove home. Something the beast had + said had made a horrible impression upon the faithful lover, an impression + which remained with him, which seemed to be eating its way, like a + powerful acid, into his very soul, corroding, destroying. + </p> + <p> + Adela—young Craven! + </p> + <p> + Was it possible? Was there then never to be an end to that mania, which + had been Adela’s curse, and the tragedy of the man who had loved her with + the long love which is so rare among men? + </p> + <p> + There was bitterness in Sir Seymour’s heart that night, and that + bitterness sent him home, to the home that was no real home, to the + solitude that <i>she</i> had given him. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV + </h2> + <p> + On the following morning, true to his word, Sir Seymour visited Scotland + Yard, and had a talk with a certain authority there who was a very old + friend of his. The authority asked a few questions, but no questions that + were indiscreet, or that Sir Seymour was unable to answer without + betraying Lady Sellingworth’s confidence. The sequel to this conversation + was that a tall, thin, lemon-coloured man, with tight lips and small, + dull-looking eyes, which saw much more than most bright eyes ever see, + accompanied Sir Seymour in a cab to Glebe Place. They arrived there about + half-past eleven. Sir Seymour rang the bell, and in a moment Dick Garstin + opened the door. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” was Sir Seymour’s unconventional greeting to him. + </p> + <p> + For the painter’s face was flushed in patches and his small eyes glowed + fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s this?” he said, looking at Sir Seymour’s companion. + </p> + <p> + “Detective Inspector Horridge—Mr. Dick Garstin,” said Sir Seymour. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come to see the picture! Well, you’re too late!” said Garstin in a + harsh voice. + </p> + <p> + “Too late!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a damned sight too late! But come up!” + </p> + <p> + They went in, and Garstin, without any more words, took them up to the + studio. + </p> + <p> + “There you are!” he said, still in the harsh and unnatural voice. + </p> + <p> + He flung out his arm towards the easel which stood in the middle of the + room. Sir Seymour and the inspector went up to it. Part of the canvas on + which Arabian’s portrait had been painted was still there. But the head + and face had been cleanly cut away. Only the torso remained. + </p> + <p> + “When was this done?” asked Sir Seymour. + </p> + <p> + “Some time last night, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “But—” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t sleep here. I often don’t, more often than not. But last night I + was a fool to be away. Well, I’ve paid for my folly!” + </p> + <p> + “But how—” + </p> + <p> + “God knows! The fellow got in. It doesn’t much matter how. A false key, I + suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Does anyone know?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a soul, except us.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour was silent. He had realized at once that Miss Van Tuyn was + safe now, safe, too, from further scandal, unless Garstin chose to make + trouble. He looked at the painter, and from him to the inspector. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do?” he said to Dick Garstin. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know!” said Garstin. + </p> + <p> + And he flung himself down on the old sofa by the wall. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know!” + </p> + <p> + For a moment he put his hands up to his temples and stared on the ground. + As he sat there thus he looked like a man who had just been thrashed. + After a moment Sir Seymour went over to him and laid a hand on his + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + Garstin looked up. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that for?” + </p> + <p> + He stared into Sir Seymour’s face for an instant. Perhaps he read + something there. For he seemed to pull himself together, and got up. + </p> + <p> + “Well, inspector,” he said, “you’ve had your visit for nothing. It wasn’t + a bad picture, either. I should like you to have had a squint at it. But—perhaps + I’ll do better yet. Who knows? Perhaps I’ve stuck to those Cafe Royal + types too long. Eh, Sir Seymour? Perhaps I’d better make a start in a new + line. Have a whisky?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. But it’s rather too early,” said the lemon-coloured man. “Do + you wish—” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t!” said Garstin. “We’ll leave it at that?” + </p> + <p> + Again he flung out his arm towards the mutilated canvas. + </p> + <p> + “I made a bargain with the fellow whose portrait that was. I was to paint + it and exhibit it, and then he was to have it. Well, I suppose we’re about + quits. I can’t exhibit it, but I’m damned if he can make much money out of + it. We’re quits!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Seymour turned to the inspector. + </p> + <p> + “Well, inspector, I’m very sorry to have given you this trouble for + nothing,” he said. “I know you’re a busy man. You take the cab back to + Scotland Yard. Here—you must allow me to pay the shot. I’ll stay on + for a few minutes. And”—he glanced towards Garstin—“by the + way, we may as well keep this matter between us, if Mr. Garstin is good + enough to agree.” + </p> + <p> + “I agree! I agree!” said Garstin. + </p> + <p> + “The fact is there’s a woman in it, quite a girl. We don’t want a scandal. + It would distress her. And I suppose this is really—this outrage—I + suppose it is purely a matter for Mr. Garstin to decide whether he wishes + any sequel to it or not.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, certainly,” said the inspector. “If Mr. Garstin doesn’t wish any + action to be taken—” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t! That’s flat!” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” said the inspector. “Good morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Back in a moment,” said Garstin to Sir Seymour. And he went downstairs to + let the inspector out. + </p> + <p> + “So that’s how it ends!” said Sir Seymour to himself when he was alone. + “That’s how it ends!” + </p> + <p> + And he went over to what had been Arabian’s portrait, and gazed at the + hole which surmounted the magnificent torso. He had no doubt that Arabian + had gone out of Miss Van Tuyn’s life for ever. Probably, almost certainly, + he had returned to the hotel on the previous evening, had been given the + note Miss Van Tuyn had written to dictation, and also a hint from that + very discreet and capable fellow, Henriques, of what might happen if he + persisted in trying to force himself upon her. And then he had come to the + decision which had led to the outrage in the studio. Where was he now? No + longer in Rose Tree Gardens if Sir Seymour knew anything of men. + </p> + <p> + “The morning boat to Paris, and—the underworld!” Sir Seymour + muttered to himself. + </p> + <p> + “Not much to look at now, is it?” said Garstin’s voice behind him. + </p> + <p> + He turned round quickly. + </p> + <p> + Garstin was gazing at his ruined masterpiece with a curious twisted smile. + </p> + <p> + “What can one say?” said Sir Seymour. “When Horridge was here I thought: + ‘When he’s gone I’ll tell Mr. Garstin!’ And now he is gone, and—and—” + </p> + <p> + He went up to Garstin and held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I know I don’t understand what you feel about this. No one could but a + fellow-painter as big as you are. But I wish I could make you understand + what I feel about something else.” + </p> + <p> + “And what’s that?” said Garstin, as he took Sir Seymour’s hand, almost + doubtfully. + </p> + <p> + “About the way you’ve taken it, and your letting the blackguard off.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, as to that, I bet you he’ll be in Paris by five to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Just what I think. But still—” + </p> + <p> + He pressed Garstin’s hand, and Garstin returned the pressure. + </p> + <p> + “Beryl wanted me to paint him, but I painted him to please myself. I’m a + selfish brute, like most painters, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “But you’re letting him go because of Miss Van Tuyn.” + </p> + <p> + “Damn it, I believe I am. I say, are you ever coming here again?” + </p> + <p> + “If I may.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would.” + </p> + <p> + He gazed at Sir Seymour’s strong head. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve spent half my life in showing people up on canvas,” he said. “I + should like to try something else.” + </p> + <p> + “And what’s that?” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to try to reveal the underneath fine instead of the + underneath filth. It’d be a new experiment for me.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I should make a failure of it. But—if you’d allow me—I + would try to make a start with you.” + </p> + <p> + “I can only say I shall be honoured,” said Sir Seymour, with a touch of + almost shamefaced modesty which he endeavoured to hide with a very grave + courtliness. “Please let me know, if you don’t change your mind. I’m a + good bit battered, but such as I am I am always at your service—out + of work hours.” + </p> + <p> + His last words to Garstin at the street door were: + </p> + <p> + “You’ve taught an old soldier how to take a hard knock.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI + </h2> + <p> + Sir Seymour usually called on Lady Sellingworth about five o’clock in the + afternoon when he was not detained by work or inevitable engagements. On + the day of his visit to Garstin’s studio with the inspector he felt that + he owed it to Adela to go to Berkeley Square and to tell her what had + happened in connexion with Arabian since he had last seen her. She must be + anxious for news. It was not likely that she had seen Miss Van Tuyn, that + beautiful prisoner in Claridge’s hotel. Miss Van Tuyn might have + telephoned to her and told her of his visits to the hotel. But Adela would + certainly expect to see him, would certainly be waiting for him. He ought + to go to her. Since the morning he had been very busy. He had not had time + to call again on Miss Van Tuyn, who could, therefore—so at least he + believed—know nothing of the outrage in the studio. That piece of + news which would surely be welcome to her if she understood what it + implied, should rightly come to her from the woman who had been unselfish + for her sake. Adela ought to tell her that. But first it was his duty to + tell Adela. He must go to Berkeley Square. + </p> + <p> + And he decided to go and set out on foot. But as he walked he was + conscious of a strange and hideous reluctance to pay the customary visit—the + visit which had been the bright spot in his day for so long. He had + interfered with the design of Arabian. But Arabian unconsciously had + stabbed him to the heart with a sentence, meant to be malicious, about + Adela, but surely not intended to pierce him. + </p> + <p> + Young Craven! Young Craven! + </p> + <p> + When he reached the familiar door and was standing before it he hesitated + to press the bell. He feared that he would not be perfectly natural with + Adela. He feared that he would be constrained, that he would be unable not + to seem cold and rigid. Almost he was tempted to turn away. He could write + his news to her. Perhaps even now young Craven was in the house with her. + Perhaps he, the old man, would be unwanted, would only be in the way if he + went in. But it was not his habit to recoil from anything and, after a + moment of uneasy waiting, he put his hand to the bell. + </p> + <p> + Murgatroyd opened the door. + </p> + <p> + “Good day, Murgatroyd. Is her Ladyship at home?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir Seymour.” + </p> + <p> + He stepped into the hall, left his hat, coat and stick, and prepared to go + upstairs. + </p> + <p> + “Anyone with her Ladyship?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Sir Seymour. Her Ladyship is alone.” + </p> + <p> + A moment later Murgatroyd opened the drawing-room door and made the + familiar announcement: + </p> + <p> + “Sir Seymour Portman!” + </p> + <p> + Adela was as usual on the sofa by the tea-table, near to the fireplace in + which ship logs were blazing. She got up to greet him, and looked at him + eagerly, almost anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “I was hoping you would come. Has anything happened?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a great deal,” he said, as he took her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you look at me like that?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “But—do I look at you differently from—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she interrupted him. + </p> + <p> + He lowered his eyes, feeling almost guilty. + </p> + <p> + “But in what way?” + </p> + <p> + “As if you wanted to know something, as if—have you changed towards + me?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Adela! What a question from you after all these years!” + </p> + <p> + “You might change.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, it is not! Anyone may change. We are all incalculable.” + </p> + <p> + “Give me some tea now. And let me tell you my news.” + </p> + <p> + She sat down again, but her luminous eyes were still fixed on him, and + there was an almost terrified expression in them. + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t seen—him?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You have! I felt it! He has said something about me, something horrible!” + </p> + <p> + “Adela, do you really think I would take an opinion of you from a + blackguard like that?” + </p> + <p> + “Please tell me everything,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She looked painfully agitated, and something in her agitation made him + feel very tender, for it gave her in his eyes a strange semblance of + youthfulness. Yes, despite all she had done, all the years she had lived + through, there was something youthful in her still. Perhaps it was that + which persistently held out hands to youth! The thought struck him and the + tenderness was lessened in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Seymour, you are hiding something from me,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Adela, give me a little time! I am going to tell you my news.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, please do!” + </p> + <p> + “I want my tea,” he said, with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I beg your pardon!” + </p> + <p> + “How young you are!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Young! How can you say such a thing?” + </p> + <p> + “Now really, Adela! As if I could ever be sarcastic with you!” + </p> + <p> + “That remark could only be sarcastic.” + </p> + <p> + He sipped his tea. + </p> + <p> + “No; you will always have youth in you. It is undying. It makes half your + charm, my dear. And perhaps—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, perhaps it has caused most of the trouble in your life.” + </p> + <p> + She looked down. + </p> + <p> + “Our best gifts have their—what shall I say—their shady side, + I suppose. And we seem to have to pay very often for what are thought of + as gifts. But now I must tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + And then he began to relate to her, swiftly although he was old, the + events of his mission. She listened, and while she listened she sat very + still. She had looked up. Her eyes were fixed upon him. Presently he + reached the point in his narrative where Arabian walked into Dick + Garstin’s studio. Then she moved. She seemed suddenly seized with an + uncontrollable restlessness. He went on without looking at her, but he + heard her movements, the rustle of her gown, the touch of her hand on a + sofa cushion, on the tea-table, the chink of moved china, touching other + china. And two or three times he heard the faint sound of her breathing. + He knew she was suffering intensely, and he believed it was because of the + haunting, inexorable remembrance of the enticement that abominable fellow, + Arabian, had had for her. But he had to go on. And he went on till he came + to the scene in the flat at Rose Tree Gardens. + </p> + <p> + “You—you went to his room!” she then said, interrupting him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + He heard her sigh. But she said nothing more. He told what had happened in + the flat, but not fully. He said nothing of Arabian’s mention of her name, + but he did tell her that he himself had spoken of her, had said that he + was a friend of hers. And finally he told her how, carried away by + indignation, he had spoken of his and Miss Van Tuyn’s knowledge that + Arabian had stolen her jewels. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t mean to tell him that,” he added. “But—well, it came out. + I—I hope you forgive me?” + </p> + <p> + He did not wait for her answer, but told her of his abrupt departure from + the flat, and of his subsequent visit to Miss Van Tuyn, of what he had + learnt at the hotel, and of what he had done there. + </p> + <p> + “The police!” she said, as if startled. “But if—if there should be a + scandal! Oh, Seymour, that would be too horrible! I couldn’t bear that! He + might—it might come out! And my name—” + </p> + <p> + She got up from the sofa. Her face looked drawn with an anxiety that was + like agony. He got up too. + </p> + <p> + “It was only a threat. But in any case it will be all right, Adela.” + </p> + <p> + “But we don’t know what he may do!” she said, with desperation. + </p> + <p> + “Wait till you know what he has done.” + </p> + <p> + “What has he done?” + </p> + <p> + And then he told her of the outrage in the studio. When he was silent she + made a slight swaying movement and took hold of the mantelpiece. He saw by + her face that she had grasped at once what Arabian’s action implied. + </p> + <p> + Flight! + </p> + <p> + “You see—he’s done with. We’ve done with the fellow!” he said at + last as she did not speak. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Her face, when not interfered with, was always pale. But now it looked + horribly, unnaturally white. Relief, he believed, had shaken her in the + very soul. + </p> + <p> + “Adela, did you think your good deed was going to recoil on you?” he said. + “Did you really think it was going to bring punishment on you? I don’t + believe things go like that even in this distracted, inexplicable old + world.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t they? Mightn’t they?” + </p> + <p> + “Surely not. You have saved that girl. You have paid back that scoundrel. + And you have nothing to fear.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did you look at me like that when you came into the room?” + </p> + <p> + “But you are—” + </p> + <p> + “No. You haven’t told me something. Tell me!” + </p> + <p> + “Be happy in the good result of your self-sacrifice, Adela.” + </p> + <p> + “I want you to tell me. There is something. I know there is.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But it only concerns me.” + </p> + <p> + “Seymour, I don’t believe that!” + </p> + <p> + He was silent, looking at her with the old dog’s eyes. But now there was + something else in them besides faithfulness. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Adela,” he said at last, “I believe very much in absolute sincerity + between real friends. But I suppose friendship must be very real indeed to + stand absolute sincerity. Don’t you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do. But our friendship is as real as any friendship can be, I + think.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but on my side it is mixed up, it has always been mixed up, with + something else.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know,” she said in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “And besides I’m afraid, if I speak quite frankly, I shall hurt you, my + dear!” + </p> + <p> + “Then—hurt me, Seymour!” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I? Can I do that?” + </p> + <p> + “Be frank with me. I have been very frank with you. I have told <i>you</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed. You have been nobly, gloriously frank. Well, then—that + horrible fellow did say something which I haven’t told you, something + that, I confess it, has upset me.” + </p> + <p> + “What was it?” she said, still in the low voice, and bending her small + head a little like one expecting punishment. + </p> + <p> + “He alluded to a friend of yours. He mentioned that nice boy I met here, + young Craven?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “I really can’t get what he said over my lips, Adela.” + </p> + <p> + “I know what he said. You needn’t tell me.” + </p> + <p> + The were both silent for a minute. Then she came close to him. + </p> + <p> + “Seymour, perhaps you want to ask me a question about Mr. Craven. But—don’t! + You needn’t. I have done, absolutely done, with all that side of my life + which you hate. A part of my nature has persecuted me. It has often led me + into follies and worse, as you know. But I have done with it. Indeed, + indeed I can answer for myself. I wouldn’t dare to speak like this to you, + the soul of sincerity, if I couldn’t. But I’ll prove it to you. Seymour, + you know what I am. I dare say you have always known. But the other night + I told you myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “If I hadn’t I shouldn’t dare now to ask you what I am going to ask you. + Is it possible that you still love me enough to care to be more than the + friend you have always been to me?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean—” + </p> + <p> + He paused. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I ask nothing more of life than that, Adela.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor do I, dear Seymour.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII + </h2> + <p> + That evening Miss Van Tuyn learnt through the telephone from Lady + Sellingworth what had happened in Dick Garstin’s studio during the + previous night. On the following morning at breakfast time she learnt from + Sir Seymour that the flat in Rose Tree Gardens had been abruptly deserted + by its tenant, who had left very early the day before. + </p> + <p> + She was free from persecution, and, of course, she realized her freedom; + but, so strange are human impulses, she was at first unable to be happy in + her knowledge that the burden of fear had been lifted from her. The + misfortune which had fallen on Dick Garstin obsessed her mind. Her egoism + was drowned in her passionate anger at what Arabian had done. She went + early to the studio and found Garstin there alone. + </p> + <p> + “Hulloh, Beryl, my girl!” he said, in his usual offhand manner. “Come + round to see the remains?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Dick!” she exclaimed, grasping his hand. “Oh, I’m so grieved, so + horrified! What an awful thing to happen to you! And it’s all my fault! + Where—what have you done with—” + </p> + <p> + “What’s left do you mean? Go and see for yourself.” + </p> + <p> + She hurried upstairs to the studio. When he followed he found her standing + before the mutilated picture, which was still in its place, with tears + rolling down her flushed cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “Good God! Beryl! What’s up? What are you whimpering about?” + </p> + <p> + “How you must hate me!” she said, in a broken voice. “How you must hate + me!” + </p> + <p> + “Rubbish! What for?” + </p> + <p> + “This has all happened because of me. If it hadn’t been for me you would + never have painted him.” + </p> + <p> + “I painted the fellow to please myself.” + </p> + <p> + “But I asked you to get him to come here.” + </p> + <p> + “What you ask, or don’t ask, doesn’t bother me.” + </p> + <p> + She gazed at him through her tears as if in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Dick, I never thought you could be like this,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Like what? What’s all the fuss about?” he exclaimed irritably. + </p> + <p> + “I always thought you were really a brute.” + </p> + <p> + “That showed your sound judgment.” + </p> + <p> + “How can you take it like this? Your masterpiece—ruined! For you’ll + never do anything like it again.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s probably gospel truth. My girl, you are standing in front of my + epitaph on the Cafe Royal. There it is. Look well at it! I’ve buried my + past, and I’m going to start again. And who do you think is to be my next + victim?” + </p> + <p> + “Who?” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll never guess—a gentleman!” + </p> + <p> + “A gentleman? What do you mean, Dick? The word has gone out.” + </p> + <p> + “But not the thing, thank God, so long as Sir Seymour Portman keeps about + on his dear old pins.” + </p> + <p> + “You are going to paint Sir Seymour?” + </p> + <p> + “I am! Think I can do him?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him for a moment, and her violet eyes searched him as if to + see whether he were worthy. Then she said soberly: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Dick.” + </p> + <p> + “Then let’s turn the damned epitaph with its hole to the wall!” + </p> + <p> + And he lifted what remained of Arabian’s portrait from the easel and threw + it into a dark corner of the studio. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII + </h2> + <p> + One evening, some ten days later, before any rumour of Lady Sellingworth’s + new decision had gone about in the world of London, before even Braybrooke + knew, on coming home from the Foreign Office Craven found a note lying on + the table in the tiny hall of his flat. He picked it up and saw Miss Van + Tuyn’s handwriting. He had not seen either her or Lady Sellingworth since + the evening when they had met in the <i>Bella Napoli</i>. Both women had + come into his life together. And it seemed to him that both had gone out + of it together. His acquaintance, or friendship, with them had been a + short episode in his pilgrimage, and apparently the episode was definitely + over. + </p> + <p> + But now—here was a letter from the beautiful girl! He took it up, + carried it into his sitting-room, and tore open the envelope. + </p> + <p> + “CLARIDGE’S. + </p> + <p> + “Thursday. + </p> + <p> + “MY DEAR MR. CRAVEN,—I am going back to Paris almost directly and + should very much like to see you if possible to say good-bye. Have you a + few minutes to spare any time? If so, do come round to the hotel and let + us have a last little talk.—Yours sincerely, + </p> + <p> + “BERYL VAN TUYN.” + </p> + <p> + When he had read this brief note Craven was struck, as he had been struck + when he had read Lady Sellingworth’s letter to him, by a certain finality + in the wording. Good-bye—a last little talk! Miss Van Tuyn might + have put “au revoir,” might have omitted the word “last.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at the clock. It was not very late—only half-past five. He + decided to go at once to the hotel. And he went. Miss Van Tuyn was at + home. He went up in the lift and was shown into her sitting-room. He + waited there for a few minutes. Then the door opened and she came in + smiling. + </p> + <p> + “How good of you to come so soon! I hardly expected you.” + </p> + <p> + “But—why not?” he said, as he took her hand. + </p> + <p> + She glanced at him inquiringly, he thought, then said: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t know! You’re a busy man, and have lots of engagements. Let us + sit by the fire.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + They sat down, and there was a moment of silence. For once Miss Van Tuyn + seemed slightly embarrassed—not quite at her ease. Craven did not + help her. He still remembered the encounter in Glebe Place with a feeling + of anger. He still felt that he moved in a certain darkness, that both + Lady Sellingworth and Miss Van Tuyn had been unkind to him, had treated + him if not badly, at any rate in a way that was unfriendly, and, to him, + inexplicable. He did not want to seem hurt, but, on the other hand, he did + not feel that it was incumbent upon him to rush forward with gracious + eagerness, or to show any keen desire for the old, intimate relations. So + he just sat there trying not to look stiff, but not making any effort to + look charming and sympathetic. + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen Adela lately?” Miss Van Tuyn said at last, breaking the + silence. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said. “Not since the night when we met in the <i>Bella Napoli</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that’s too bad!” + </p> + <p> + “Why too bad?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you were such friends!” + </p> + <p> + “Scarcely that, I think,” replied Craven, in his most definitely English + manner. “I like Lady Sellingworth very much, but she has swarms of + friends, and I can’t expect her to bother very much about me.” + </p> + <p> + “But I don’t think she has swarms of friends.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps nobody does. Still, she knows a tremendous number of people.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure she likes you,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “Do go and see her + sometimes. I think—I think she would appreciate it.” + </p> + <p> + “No doubt I shall see her again. Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you like her anymore?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she leaned forward, almost impulsively, and said: + </p> + <p> + “You remember I had a sort of cult for Adela?” + </p> + <p> + “Did you?” + </p> + <p> + “But you know I had! Well, I only want to tell you that it isn’t a cult + now. I have got to know Adela better, to know her really. I used to admire + her as a great lady. Now I love her as a splendid woman. She’s rare. That + is the word for her. Once—not long ago—I was talking to a man + who knows what people are. And he summed Adela up in a phrase. He said she + was a thoroughbred. We young ones—modern, I suppose we are—we + can learn something from her. I have learnt something. Isn’t that an + admission? For the young generation to acknowledge that it has something + to learn from—from what are sometimes called the ‘has beens’!” + </p> + <p> + Craven looked at her and noticed with surprise that her violet eyes were + clouded for a moment, as if some moisture had found its way into them. + Perhaps she saw that look of his. For she laughed, changed the + conversation, and from that moment talked in her usual lively way about + less intimate topics. But when Craven presently got up to go she returned + for a moment to her former more serious mood. As he took her hand to say + good-bye she said: + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps we shall meet again—perhaps not. I don’t know when I shall + be back in London. I’m soon going over to America with Fanny. But don’t + think too badly of me.” + </p> + <p> + “I? How could I think badly of you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes—you might! There are things I can’t explain which may + easily have given you a nasty impression of me. If I could explain them + perhaps you would remember me more pleasantly. Anyhow, I shall always + think of you as one of my <i>friends</i>. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + And then she moved away, and he went to the door. + </p> + <p> + But just as he was going he turned round and said: + </p> + <p> + “Au revoir!” + </p> + <p> + She made a little kind gesture with her left hand, but she said nothing. + </p> + <p> + At that moment she was thinking of Adela. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of December Love, by Robert Hichens + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DECEMBER LOVE *** + +***** This file should be named 6616-h.htm or 6616-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/6/6/1/6616/ + +Produced by Dagny; John Bickers; David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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