At the Gare du Nord there was the usual bustle. But there was not agreat crowd of travellers for England, and Lady Sellingworth withoutdifficulty secured a carriage to herself. Her maid stood waiting withthe jewel-case while she went to the bookstall to buy something toread on the journey. She felt dull, almost miserable, but absolutelydetermined. She knew that Caroline was right. She thought she meant totake her advice. At any rate, she would not try to pursue the adventurewhich had lured her to Paris. How she would be able to live when shegot 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 aboutit.
She bought a book and some papers; then she walked to the train.
"Are you going to get in, my lady?" said the maid.
"Yes. You can put in the jewel-case."
The maid did so, and Lady Sellingworth got into the carriage and satnext to the window on the platform side, facing the engine, with thejewel-case beside her on the next seat. The corridor was between herand the platform. On the right, beyond the carriage door, the line wasblocked by another train at rest in the station.
She sat still, not reading, but thinking. The maid went away to hersecond-class carriage.
Lady Sellingworth continued to feel very dull. Now that she wasabandoning this adventure, or promise of adventure, she knew how much ithad meant to her. It had lifted her out of the anger and depression inwhich she had been plunged by the Rupert Louth episode. It had appealedto her wildness, had given her new hope, something to look forwardto, something that was food for her imagination. She had lived in animagined future that was romantic, delicious and turbulent. Now sheknew exactly how much she had counted on this visit to Paris as the doorthrough which she would pass into a new and extraordinary romance. Shehad felt certain that something wonderful, something unconventional,bizarre, perhaps almost maddening, was going to happen to her in Paris.
And now--At this moment she became aware of some influence which drewher attention to the platform on her left. She had not seen anyone;she had simply felt someone. She turned her head and looked through thewindow of the corridor.
The brown man was on the platform alone, standing still and lookingintently towards her carriage. Two or three people passed him. He didnot move. She felt sure that he was waiting for her to get out, thatthis time he meant to speak to her.
In a moment all her good resolutions, all the worldly wise advice ofMiss Briggs, all her dullness and despair were forgotten. The wildnessthat would not die surged up in her. Her vanity glowed. She had beenwrong, utterly wrong. Miss Briggs had been wrong. Despite the differencebetween their ages, this man, young, strong, amazingly handsome, musthave fallen in love with her at first sight. He must have--somehow--beenwatching her in Paris. He must have ascertained that she was leavingParis that morning, have followed her to the station determined at allcosts to have a word with her.
Should she let him have that word?
Just for an instant she hesitated. Then, almost passionately, she gaveway to a turbulent impulse. She felt reckless. At that moment she wasalmost ready to let the train go without her. But there were still afew, 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 andimploring look, and then moved slowly away down the platform in thedirection of the entrance to it. She gazed after him. He paused, againraised his hat, and made a very slight, scarcely noticeable gesture withhis hand. Then he remained where he was.
Saying to herself that she would certainly not obey his obvious wish andfollow him, but would simply get out of the train and take a few breathsof air on the platform--as any woman might to while away the time--LadySellingworth made her way to the end of the corridor and descended tothe platform. The brown man was still there, a little way off. Severalpeople were hurrying to take their places in the train. Porters werecarrying hand luggage, or wheeling trucks of heavy luggage to therailway vans. No one seemed to have any time to take notice of her orof the man. She did not look at him, but began slowly to stroll up anddown, keeping near to her carriage. She had given him his chance. Nowit was for him to take firm hold on it. She fully expected that he wouldcome 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 donenothing in Paris? Would he beg her to stay on in Paris? Would he ask tobe allowed to visit her in London? Would he--But he did not come up toher.
After taking several short turns, keeping her eyes resolutely away fromthe place where he was standing, Lady Sellingworth could not resist theimpulse to look towards him to see what he was doing. She lifted hereyes.
He was gone.
"_En voiture!_" cried a hoarse voice.
She stood still.
"_En voiture! En voiture!_"
Mechanically she moved. She went to her carriage, put her hand on therail, mounted the steps, passing into the corridor, and reached hercompartment just as the train began to move.
What had happened to him? What was the meaning of it all? Was hetravelling to England too? Had he got into the train?
She sat down wondering, almost confused.
Mechanically she let her right hand drop on to the seat beside her. Shewas so accustomed when travelling to have her jewel-case beside her thather hand must have missed it though her thoughts were far from it. Forimmediately after dropping her hand she looked down.
The jewel-case was gone.
Instantly her feeling of confusion was swept away; instantly sheunderstood.
She had been caught in a trap by a clever member of the swell moboperating with a confederate. While she had been on the platform, towhich she had been deliberately enticed, the confederate had entered thecompartment from the line, through the doorway on the right-hand side ofher carriage, and had carried off the jewel-case.
The revelation of the truth almost stunned something in her. Yet shewas able to think quite clearly. She did nothing. She just sat stilland understood, and went on understanding, while the train quickened itspace on its way towards the sea.
By the time it slowed down, and the dull houses of Calais appeared, shehad made up her mind about the future. Her vanity had received at last amortal blow. The climax had come. It was not what she had expected,but her imp--less satirical now than desperately tragic and powerfullypersuasive, told her that it was what she deserved. And she bowed herhead to his verdict, not with tears, but with a cold and stormy sense offinality.
When the train stopped at the harbour station her maid appeared in thecorridor.
"Shall I take the jewel-case, my lady?"
Lady Sellingworth stood up. She had not decided what to say to her maid.She was taken by surprise. As she stood, her tall figure concealed theseat on which the jewel-case had been lying. For an instant she lookedat the maid in silence. Perhaps the expression of her face as strange,for after a pause the maid said anxiously:
"Whatever is it, my lady?"
"Never mind about the jewel-case!" said Lady Sellingworth.
"But--"
"It's gone!"
"Gone, my lady!" said the maid, looking aghast. "Gone where?"
"It was taken at the station in Paris."
"Taken, my lady! But it was in the carriage by the side of yourladyship! I never left it. I had it in my own hands till yourladyship--"
"I know--I know! Don't say anything more about it. It's gone, and weshall never see it again."
The maid stared, horrified, and scenting a mystery.
"Get that porter! Make haste!"
They got down from the train. Lady Sellingworth turned to make her wayto the ship.
"But, my lady, surely we ought to speak to the police? All yourbeautiful jewels--"
"The police could do nothing. It is too late! I should only have endlesstrouble, and no good would come of it."
"But your ladyship was in the carriage with them!"
"Ye
s, I know! Now don't say any more about the matter!"
There was something in her tone which struck the maid to silence. Shesaid not another word till they were on the ship.
Then Lady Sellingworth went to the cabin which she had telegraphed for.
"I am going to lie down," she said. "You can leave me."
"Yes, my lady."
After arranging things in the cabin the maid was about to go when LadySellingworth said:
"You have been with me a long time, Henderson. You have been very usefulto me. And I think I have been a good mistress to you."
"Oh, yes, my lady, indeed you have. I would do anything for yourladyship."
"Would you? Then try to hold your tongue about this unfortunateoccurrence. Talking can do no good. I shall not inform the police. Thejewels are gone, and I shan't get them back. I have a great dislike offuss and gossip, and only wish to be left in peace. If you talk, allthis is sure to get into the papers. I should hate that."
"Yes, my lady. But surely the police--"
"It is my business, and no one else's, to decide what is best in thismatter. So hold your tongue, if you can. You will not repent it if youdo."
"Yes, my lady. Certainly, my lady."
The maid was obviously horrified and puzzled. But she left her mistresswithout another word.
They arrived in Berkeley Square in the evening.
That evening which Lady Sellingworth spent in solitude was the turningpoint in her life. During it and the succeeding night she went down tothe bedrock of realization. She allowed her brains full liberty. Or theytook full liberty as their right. The woman of the grey matter had itout with the woman of the blood. She stared her wildness in the face andsaw it just as it was, and resolved once for all to dominate it for therest of her days. She was not such a fool as to think that she couldever 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 inthe past, it never should again. Her resolve about that was hard, of arock-like quality.
She had done with a whole side of life, and it was the side for whichshe had lived ever since she was a girl of sixteen. The renunciation wastremendous, devastating almost. She thought of a landslide carrying awayvillages, whole populations. How true had been the instinct which hadtold her that she was drawing near to a climax in her life! Had ever awoman before her been brought in a flash to such a cruel insight? It wasas if a tideless sea, by some horrible miracle, retreated, leaving nakedrocks which till that moment had never been seen by mortal eyes, hideousand grotesque rocks covered with slime and ooze.
And she stood alone, staring at them.
She remembered the dinner in her house at which there had been thediscussion about happiness, and the desire of the old Anglo-Indian forcomplete peace of mind. Could a woman gain that mysterious benefit bygiving up? Could such a thing ever be hers? She did not believe it. Butshe knew all the torture of striving. In her renunciation she would atleast 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 "oldguard" were made of cast iron. But she was not.
The "old guard"! With the thought of that body of wonderful women camea flood of memories. She remembered "The Hags' Hop." She saw Rocheouartstanding before her; Rupert Louth; other young men, all lively,handsome, ardent, bursting with life and the wish to enjoy.
Was there ever a time when the human being could utterly forego the wishto 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 onlycease in the grave. And after? Sellingworth had often told her thatthere was no hereafter. And at the time she had believed him. But shewas not sure now. For even the persistence of desire seemed to point tosomething beyond. But she would not bother about that. She was held fastenough in the present.
What would the "old guard" say of her, think of her, in a very shorttime? What a defection hers would be! For she had resolved to takea plunge into middle age. No gliding into it for her! She would leteverything go which was ready to go naturally. Her Greek had alreadylost his job, although as yet he did not know it.
Caroline Briggs would believe that the change which was at hand, thechange which would be discussed, perhaps laughed at, praised by some,condemned by others, had been brought about by the conversation inthe Persian Room. She would never know the truth. No one of LadySellingworth's set would ever know it. For no one, except a thief andhis underlings, knew of the last folly of poor old Adela Sellingworth!
Poor old Adela Sellingworth!
As Lady Sellingworth called herself bitterly by that name tears at lastcame into her luminous eyes. Secretly she wept over herself, althoughthe tears did not fall down upon her cheeks. She had done many foolishthings, many wild things, many almost crazy things in her life. But thatday she had surely been punished for them all. When she thought of thethieves' plot against her, of the working out of it, she saw herselflying, like a naked thing, in the dust. Such men! How had they known hercharacter? Somehow they must have got to know it, and devised their planto appeal to it. They had woven just the right net to catch her in itsfolds. She seemed to hear their hideous discussions about her. The longlook in Bond Street had been the first move in the horrible game. Andshe in her folly had connected the game with romance, with somethinglike love even.
Love! A life such as hers had been was the prostitution of love, andnow she deserved to be loveless for the rest of her life. Vanity andsensuality had been her substitutes for love. She had dealt in travestyand had pretended, even to herself, that she was following reality. Itwas amazing how she had managed to deceive herself.
She would never do that again.
Very late that night, alone in her bedroom, she sat before a mirror andlooked into it, saying good-bye to the self which she had cherished andfostered so long, had lived for recklessly sometimes, ruthlessly almostalways. She saw a worn, but still very handsome woman. But she toldherself that the woman was hideous. For really she was looking at thewoman underneath, the woman who was going to emerge very soon into thedaylight with a frankly lined face crowned with grey or perhaps evenwhite hair, at the woman who was the truth, at _herself_. This womanbefore her was only a counterfeit, a marvellously clever artificiality.
There were two electric lights at the sides of the mirror. She turnedthem both on. She wanted crude light just then. Cruelty she was takingto her bosom. She was grasping her nettle with both hands.
Yes, the artificiality was marvellously clever! The Greek had been worthhis money. He had created a sort of human orchid whose petals showedfew, wonderfully few, signs of withering.
But she had wanted to be not the orchid but really the rose. And so shewas down in the dust.
Poor old Adela Sellingworth, who in a very short time--how long exactlywould the Greek's work take to crumble--would look even older thanfifty!
She turned out the lights presently and got into bed. When she had madethe big bedroom dark, and had stretched her long body out between thesheets of Irish linen, she felt terrifically tired, tired in body andspirit, but somehow not in mind. Her mind was almost horribly alive andfull of agility. It brought visions before her; it brought voices intoher ears.
She saw men of the underworld sitting together in shadows and whisperingabout her, using coarse words, undressing her character, commentingupon it without mercy, planning how they would make use of it to theiradvantage. She heard them laughing about her and about all the womenlike her.
And presently she saw an old woman with a white face, a withered throatand vague eyes, an old woman in a black wig, smiling as she deckedherself out in the Sellingworth jewels.
PART THREE