CHAPTER IV
Craven had been right in his supposition about the world's governess.Braybrooke had gone away from the Club that evening firmly persuadedthat his young friend had done the almost unbelievable thing, had fallenin 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 histhoughts. He instinctively shrank from everything that was bizarre,from everything that was, as he called it, "out of keeping." Hewas responsible for the introduction of young Craven into AdelaSellingworth's life. It would be very unfortunate indeed, it would bealmost disastrous, if the result of that well-meant introduction were tobe a preposterous passion!
When the effect of the two cocktails had subsided he tried to convincehimself that he was giving way to undue anxiety, that there was reallynothing in his supposition except alcohol taken in the afternoon. Butthis effort failed. He had lived a very long time, much longer thanalmost anyone knew; he was intimately familiar with the world, and,although unyieldingly discreet himself, was well acquainted with itsfollies and sins. Life had taught him that practically nothing isimpossible. He had known old men to run--or rather to walk--off withyoung girls; he had known old women to be infatuated with mere boys; hehad known well-born women to marry grooms and chauffeurs; a Peer of hisacquaintance had linked himself to a cabman's daughter and stuck toher; chorus girls of course perpetually married into the Peerage; humanpassions--although he could not understand it--ran as wild as the rootsof eucalyptus trees planted high within reach of water. So he could notrule out as impossible a sudden affection for Adela Sellingworth inthe heart of young Craven. It was really very unfortunate. Feelingresponsible, he thought perhaps he ought to do something discreetly. Thequestion was--what?
Braybrooke was inclined to be a matchmaker, though he had neglected tomake one match, his own. Thinking things over now, he said to himselfthat it was quite time young Craven settled down. He was a verypromising fellow. Eric Learington, of whom he had made some casualinquiries during the interval between the two parts of the concert atQueen's Hall, had spoken quite warmly about Craven's abilities, industryand ambition. No doubt the young man would go far. But he ought to havea clever wife with some money to help him. A budding diplomatist needs awife more than most men. He is destined to do much entertaining. Socialmatters are a part of his duty, of his career. A suitable wife wasclearly indicated for young Craven. And it occurred to the world'sgoverness that as he had apparently done harm unwittingly, or approachedthe doing of harm, by introducing Craven to dear Adela Sellingworth, itwas incumbent on him to try to do good, if possible, by now knocking theharm on the head, of course gently, as a well-bred man does things.
Beryl Van Tuyn came into his mind.
As he had told Craven, he knew her quite well and knew all about her.She came of an excellent American family in Philadelphia. She wasthe only child of parents who could not get on together, and who weredivorced. Both her father and mother had married again. The former livedin New York in Fifth Avenue; the latter, who was a beauty, was usuallysomewhere 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 fartoo good looking to be desirable as her companion. She loved her childintensely--at a distance. Beryl was quite satisfied to be at a distance,for she had a passion for independence. Her father gave her an ampleallowance. Her mother had long ago unearthed Fanny Cronin from some lairin Philadelphia to be her official companion.
Braybrooke knew all this, knew about how much money Miss Van Tuyn had,and about how much she would eventually have. Without being vulgarlycurious, he somehow usually got to know almost everything.
Beryl Van Tuyn would be just the wife for young Craven when she hadsettled down. She was too independent, too original, too daring, and fartoo unconventional for Braybrooke's way of thinking. But he believed herto be really quite all right. Modern Americans held views about personalliberty which were not at all his, but that did not mean that they werenot entirely respectable. Beryl Van Tuyn was clever, beautiful, hadplenty of money. As a diplomatist's wife, when she had settled down,she would be quite in her element. After some anxious thought he decidedthat it was his duty to try to pull strings.
The ascertained fact that Craven had met Adela Sellingworth and BerylVan Tuyn on the same day and together, and that the woman of sixty hadevidently attracted him far more than the radiant girl of twenty-four,did not deter Braybrooke from his enterprise. His long experience ofthe world had led him to know that human beings can, and perpetually do,interfere successfully in each other's affairs, help in making ofwhat are called destinies, head each other off from the prosecution ofdesigns, in fact play Providence and the Devil to each other.
His laudable intention was to play Providence.
On the following day he considered it his social duty to pay a call atNumber 18A, Berkeley Square. Dear Adela Sellingworth would certainlywish to know how things were going in Paris. Although she now never wentthere, and in fact never went anywhere, she still, thank God, had aninterest in what was going on in the world. It would be his pleasure togratify it.
He found her at home and alone. But before he was taken upstairs thebutler said he was not sure whether her ladyship was seeing anyone andmust find out. He went away to do so, and returned with an affirmativeanswer.
When Braybrooke came into the big drawing-room on the first floor hefancied 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 thatCraven can imagine himself in love with her?"
It was an uncomplimentary thought, and he tried to put it from him assingularly unsuitable, and indeed almost outrageous at this moment,but it would not go. It defied him and stuck firmly in his mind. In hisopinion Adela Sellingworth was the most truly distinguished woman inLondon. But that she should attract a young man, almost indeed a boy, in_that_ way! It did really seem utterly impossible.
In answer to his inquiry, Lady Sellingworth acknowledged that she hadnot been feeling very well during the last two days.
"Perhaps you have been doing too much?" he suggested.
The mocking look came into her eyes.
"But what do I ever do now?" she said. "I lie quietly on my shelf. Thatsurely can't be very exhausting."
"No one would ever connect you with being laid on the shelf," saidBraybrooke; "your personality forbids that. Besides, I hear that youhave been having quite a lively time."
He paused--it was his conception of the pause dramatic--then added:
"At the foot of a volcano!"
"Ah! you have heard about Vesuvius!"
"Yes."
"What a marvellous gatherer of news you are! Beryl Van Tuyn?"
"No. I happened to meet young Craven at the St. James's Club, and hetold me of your excursion into Bohemia."
"Bohemia!" she said. "I haven't set foot in that entertaining countrysince I gave up my apartment in Paris. Soho is beyond its borders. But Iconfess to Soho. Beryl persuaded me, and I really quite enjoyed it. Thecoffee was delicious, and the hairdressers put their souls into theirguitars. But I doubt if I shall go there again."
"It tired you? The atmosphere in those places is so mephitic."
"Oh, I didn't mind that. Besides, we blew it away by walking home, atleast part of the way home."
"Down Shaftesbury Avenue? That was surely rather dangerous."
"Dangerous! Why?"
"The sudden change from stuffiness to cold and damp. Craven spokeof Toscanas. And those cheap restaurants are so very small and badlyventilated."
"Oh, we enjoyed our walk."
"That's good. Craven was quite enthusiastic about the evening."
Again the pause dramatic!
"He's a nice boy. I hope you liked him. I feel a little responsible--"
"Do you? But why?"
"Because I ventu
red to introduce him to you."
"Oh, don't worry. I assure you I like him very much."
Her tone was very casual, but quite cordial.
"Well, he was enthusiastic about the evening, said it was like a bit ofItaly. You know he was once at the embassy in Rome."
"Yes. He told me so."
"I hear very good accounts of him from the Foreign Office. EricLearington speaks very well of him. He ought to rise high in thecareer."
"I hope he will. I like to see clever young men get on. And he certainlyhas something in him."
"Yes, I think so too. By the way, he seems tremendously taken with MissVan Tuyn."
As the world's governess said this he let his small hazel eyes fixthemselves rather intently on Lady Sellingworth's face. He saw nochange of expression there. She still looked tired, but casual, neitherspecially interested nor in the least bored. Her brilliant eyes stillheld their slightly mocking expression.
"Beryl must be almost irresistible to young men," she said. "Shecombines beauty with brains, and she has the audacity which nearlyalways appeals to youth. Besides, unconventionality is really the saltof our over-civilized life, and she has it in abundance. She doesn'tmerely pretend to it. It is part of her."
"She may grow out of it in time."
"I hope she won't," said Lady Sellingworth, rather decisively. "If shedid she would lose a great deal of her charm."
"Well, but when she marries?"
"Is she thinking of marrying?"
"Girls of her age usually are, I fancy."
"If she marries the right man he won't mind her unconventionality. Hemay even enjoy it."
It occurred to Braybrooke that Adela Sellingworth was supposed to havedone a great many unconventional things at one time. Nevertheless hecould not help saying:
"I think most husbands prefer their wives to keep within bounds."
"Beryl may never marry," said Lady Sellingworth, rather thoughtfully."She is an odd girl. I could imagine--"
She paused, but not dramatically.
"Yes?" he said, with gentle insinuation.
"I could imagine her choosing to live a life of her own."
"What, like Caroline Briggs?" he said.
Lady Sellingworth moved, and her face changed, suddenly looked moreexpressive.
"Ah, Caroline!" she said. "I am very fond of her. She is one in athousand. But she and Beryl are quite different in character. Carolinelives for self-respect, I think. And Beryl lives for life. Carolinerefuses, but Beryl accepts with both hands."
"Then she will probably accept a husband some day."
Suddenly Lady Sellingworth changed her manner. She leaned forwardtowards the world's governess, smiled at him, and said, halfsatirically, half confidentially:
"Now what is it you have in the back of your mind?"
Braybrooke was slightly taken aback. He coughed and half closed hiseyes, then gently pulled up his perfectly creased trousers, taking holdof them just above the knees.
"I really don't think--" he began.
"You and I are old friends. Do tell me."
He certainly had not come intending to be quite frank, and this suddenattack rather startled him.
"You have formed some project," she continued. "I know it. Now let meguess what it is."
"But I assure you--"
"You have found someone whom you think would suit Beryl as a husband.Isn't that it?"
"Well, I don't know. I confess it had just occurred to me that with herbeauty, her cleverness, and her money--for one has to think of money,unfortunately in these difficult days--she would be a very desirablewife for a rising ambitious man."
"No doubt. And who is he?"
It was against all Braybrooke's instincts to burst out abruptly intothe open. He scarcely knew what to do. But he was sufficiently sharp torealize that Lady Sellingworth already knew the answer to her question.So he made a virtue of necessity and replied:
"It had merely occurred to me, after noting young Craven's enthusiasmabout her beauty and cleverness, that he might suit her very well. Hemust marry and marry well if he wishes to rise high in the diplomaticcareer."
"Oh, but some very famous diplomatists have been bachelors," she said,still smiling.
She mentioned two or three.
"Yes, yes, I know, I know," he rejoined. "But it is really a greathandicap. If anyone needs a brilliant wife it is an ambassador."
"You think Mr. Craven is destined to become an ambassador?"
"I don't see why not--in the fullness of time, of course. Perhaps youdon't know how ambitious and hard-working he is."
"I know really very little about him."
"His abilities are excellent. Learington has a great opinion of him."
"And so you think Beryl would suit him!"
"It just occurred to me. I wouldn't say more than that. I have a horrorof matchmaking."
"Of course. Like all of us! Well, you may be right. She seemed to likehim. You don't want me to do anything, I suppose?"
"Oh, no--no!" he exclaimed, with almost unnecessary earnestness, andlooking even slightly embarrassed. "I only wished to know your opinion.I value your opinion so very highly."
She got up to stir the fire. He sprang, or rather got, up too, ratherquickly, to forestall her. But she persisted.
"I know my poker so well," she said. "It will do things for me that itwon't do for anyone else. There! That is better."
She remained standing by the hearth, looking tremendously tall.
"I don't think I have an opinion," she said. "Beryl would be a brilliantwife for any man. Mr. Craven seems a very pleasant boy. They might doadmirably together. Or they might both be perfectly miserable. I can'ttell. Now do tell me about Paris. Did you see Caroline Briggs?"
When Braybrooke left Berkeley Square that day he remembered having oncesaid to Craven that Lady Sellingworth was interested in everything thatwas interesting except in love affairs, that she did not seem to careabout love affairs. And he had a vague feeling of having, perhaps, foronce done the wrong thing. Had he bored her? He hoped not. But he wasnot quite sure.
When he had gone, and she was once more alone. Lady Sellingworth rangthe bell. A tall footman came in answer to it, and she told him thatif anyone else called he was to say, "not at home." As he was about toleave the room after receiving this order she stopped him.
"Wait a moment."
"Yes, my lady."
She seemed to hesitate; then she said:
"If Mr. Craven happens to call I will see him. He was here two nightsago. Do you know him by sight?"
"I can't say I do, my lady."
"Ah! You were not in the hall when he called the other day?"
"No, my lady."
"He is tall with dark hair, about thirty years old. Murgatroyd is not into-day, is he?"
"No, my lady."
"Then if anyone calls like the gentleman I have described just ask himhis name. And if it is Mr. Craven you can let him in."
"Yes, my lady."
The footman went out. A clock chimed in the distance, where the pianostood behind the big azalea. It was half past five. Lady Sellingworthmade up the fire again, though it did not really need mending; then shestood beside it with one narrow foot resting on the low fender, holdingher black dress up a little with her left hand.
Was Fate going to leave her alone? That was how she put it to herself.Or was she once more to be the victim of a temperament which she hadsometimes hoped was dying out of her? In these last few years she hadsuffered less and less from it.
She had made a grand effort of will. That was now ten years ago. Ithad cost her more than anyone would ever know; it had cost her thoseterrible tears of blood which only the soul weeps. But she had persistedin her effort. A horrible incident, humiliating her to the dust, hadsummoned all the pride that was left in her. In a sort of cold frenzyof will she had flung life away from her, the life of the woman who wasvain, who would have worship, who would have the desire of men, the lifeof the beauty who would
have admiration. All that she had clung toshe had abandoned in that dreadful moment, had abandoned as by night aterrified being leaves a dwelling that is in flames. Feeling naked, shehad gone out from it into the blackness. And for ten years she hadstuck to her resolution, had been supported by the strength of her willfortified by a hideous memory. She had grasped her nettle, had pressedit to her bosom. She had taken to her all the semblance of old age,loneliness, dullness, had thrust away from her almost everythingwhich she had formerly lived by. For, like almost all those who yieldthemselves to a terrific spasm of will, she had done more than it wasnecessary for her to do. From one extreme she had gone to another. Asonce she had tried to emphasize youth, she had emphasized the loss ofyouth. She had cruelly exposed her disabilities to an astonished world,had flung her loss of beauty, as it were, in the faces of the "oldguard." She had called all men to look upon the ravages Time had broughtabout in her. Few women had ever done what she had done.
And eventually she had had a sort of reward. Gradually she had beenenclosed by the curious tranquillity that habit, if not foolish ordangerous, brings to the human being. Her temperament, which had longbeen her enemy, seemed at last to lie down and sleep. There were timeswhen she had wondered whether perhaps it would die. And she had comeupon certain compensations which were definite, and which she had learnthow to value.
By slow degrees she had lost the exasperation of desire. The lust of theeye, spoken of to her by Caroline Briggs in Paris on the evening whichpreceded her enlightenment, had ceased to persecute her because she hadtaught herself deliberately the custody of the eye. She had eventuallyattained to self-respect, even to a quiet sense of personal dignity, notthe worldly dignity of the _grande dame_ aware of her aristocratic birthand position in the eyes of the world, but the unworldly dignity of thewoman who is keeping her womanhood from all degradation, or possibilityof degradation. Very often in those days she had recalled herconversation with Caroline Briggs in the Persian room of the big housein the Champs-Elysees. Caroline had spoken of the women who try to defythe natural law, and had said that they were unhappy women, laughed atby youth, even secretly jeered at. For years she, Adela Sellingworth,had been one of those women. And often she had been very unhappy. Thatmisery at least was gone from her. Her nerves had quieted down. She whohad been horribly restless had learnt to be still. Sometimes she wasalmost at peace. Often and often she had said to herself that Carolinewas right, that the price paid by those who flung away their dignity ofsoul, as she had done in the past, was terrible, too terrible almost forendurance. At last she could respect herself as she was now; at last shecould tacitly claim and hope to receive the respect of others. She nolonger decked out her bones in jewels. Caroline did not know the reasonof the great and startling change in her and in her way of life, andprobably supposed both to be due to that momentous conversation. Anyhow,since then, whenever she and Lady Sellingworth had met, she had beenextraordinarily kind, indeed, almost tender; and Lady Sellingworth knewthat Caroline had taken her part against certain of the "old guard" whohad shown almost acute animosity. Caroline Briggs now was perhaps LadySellingworth's best friend. For at last they were on equal terms; andthat fact had strengthened their friendship. But Caroline was quitesafe, and Lady Sellingworth from time to time had realized that for herlife might possibly still hold peculiar dangers. There had been momentsin those ten years of temptation, of struggle, of a rending of the heartand 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 lessfrequent. Calm, resignation had grown within her. There was none of thepeace that passeth understanding, but sometimes there was peace. Buteven when there was, she was never quite certain that she had absolutelyconquered herself.
Men and women may not know themselves thoroughly, but they usually knowvery well whether they have finally got the better of a once dominatingtendency or vice, or whether there is still a possibility of theirbecoming again its victim. In complete victory there is a knowledgewhich nothing can shake from its throne. That knowledge LadySellingworth had never possessed. She hoped, but she did not know. Forsometimes, though very seldom, the old wildness seemed to stir withinher like a serpent uncoiling itself after its winter's sleep. Then shewas frightened and made a great effort, an effort of fear. She set herheel on the serpent, and after a time it lay still. Sometimes, too, theloneliness of her life in her spacious and beautiful house became almostintolerable to her. This was especially the case at night. She did notcare to show a haggard and lined face and white hair to her world whenit was at play. And though she had defied the "old guard," she did notlove meeting all those women whom she knew so well, and who looked somuch younger and gayer than she did. So she had many lonely eveningsat home, when her servants were together below stairs, and she had forcompany only the fire and a book.
The dinner in Soho had been quite an experience for her, and though shehad taken it so simply and casually, had seemed so thoroughly at homeand in place with her feet on the sanded floor, eating to the sound ofguitars, she had really been inwardly excited. And when she had lookedup and seen Craven gazing towards her she had felt an odd thrill at theheart. For she had known Italy, too, as well as she had known Paris, andhad memories connected with Italy. And the guitars had spoken to her ofdays and nights which her will told her not to think of any more.
And now? Was Fate going to leave her alone? Or was she once more goingto be attacked? Something within her, no doubt woman's instinct, scenteddanger.
Braybrooke's visit had disturbed her. She had known him for years, andknew the type of man he was--careful, discreet, but often very busy. Hehad a kind heart, but a brain which sometimes wove little plots. On thewhole he was a sincere man, except, of course, sometimes socially, butnow and then he found it necessary to tell little lies. Had he told hera little lie that day about young Craven and Beryl Van Tuyn? Had he beenweaving the first strands of a little plot--a plot like a net--and wasit his intention to catch her in it? She knew he had had a definitemotive in coming to see her, and that the motive was not connected withhis visit to Paris.
His remarks about Craven had interested her because she was interestedin Craven, but it was not quite clear to her why Braybrooke shouldsuddenly concentrate on the young man's future, nor why he should,with so much precaution, try to get at her opinion on the question ofCraven's marriage. When Braybrooke had first spoken to her of Craven hehad not implied that he and Craven were specially intimate, or that hewas deeply interested in Craven's concerns or prospects. He hadmerely told her that Craven was a clever and promising "boy," with aninteresting 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 beenvery casual. But Braybrooke's manner had now completely changed. Heseemed to think he was almost responsible for the young man. There hadeven been something furtive in his demeanour when speaking about Cravento her, and when she had forced him to explain and to say what was inhis mind, for a moment he had been almost confused.
What had it to do with her whether Craven married Beryl Van Tuyn or didnot marry her?
Although she had been interested when Braybrooke had spoken of Craven'scleverness and energy, of his good prospects in his career, and of theappreciation of Eric Learington--a man not given to undue praises--shehad been secretly irritated when he had come to the question of BerylVan Tuyn and the importance of Craven's marrying well. Why should hemarry at all? And if he must, why Beryl Van Tuyn?
Lady Sellingworth hated the thought of that marriage and the idea thatBraybrooke was probably intent on trying to bring it about, or at anyrate was considering whether he should make the endeavour, roused in herresentment against him.
"Tiresome old man!" she said to herself, as she stood by the fire. "Whywon't he let things alone? What business is it of his?"
And then she felt as if Braybrooke were meditating a stroke against her,and had practically asked her to help him in delivering the blow.
She felt t
hat definitely. And immediately she had felt it she wasstartled, and the strong sensation of being near to danger took hold ofher.
In all the ten years which had passed since the theft of her jewelsshe had never once deliberately stretched out her hands to happiness.Palliatives she had made the most of; compensations she had beenthankful for. She had been very patient, and considering what she hadbeen, very humble. But she had definitely given up the thought of everknowing again any intimate personal happiness. That book was closed. Inten years she had never once tried to open it.
And now, suddenly, without even being definitely conscious of what shewas doing, she had laid her hands on it as if--The change in her, theabrupt and dangerous change, had surely come about two nights ago. Andshe felt now that something peculiar in Craven, rather than somethingunusual in herself, had caused it.
Beryl Van Tuyn and she were friends because the girl had professed acult for her, had been very charming to her, and, when in London, hadpersistently sought her out. Beryl had amused her. She had even beeninterested in Beryl because she had noted in her certain traits whichhad once been predominant in herself. And how she had understood Beryl'svanity, Beryl's passion for independence and love of the unconventional!Although they were so different, of different nations and differentbreeds, there was something which made them akin. And she had recognizedit. And, recognizing it, she had sometimes felt a secret pity and evenfear for the girl, thinking of the inevitable fading of that beauty,of the inevitable exasperation of that vanity with the passing of theyears. The vanity would grow and the beauty would diminish as time wenton. And then, some day, what would Beryl be? For in her vanity there wasalready exaggeration. In it she had already reached a stage which hadonly been gained by Lady Sellingworth at a much later period in life.Already she looked in the highways and byways for admiration. She soughtfor it even among Italian hairdressers! Some day it would make hersuffer.
Lady Sellingworth had seen young Craven go away from his visit to herin Beryl's company with perhaps just a touch of half-ironical amusement,mingled with just a touch of half-wistful longing for the days thatwere over and done with. She knew so well that taking possession ofa handsome young man on a first meeting. There was nothing in it butvanity. She had known and had done that sort of thing when she was areigning beauty. Craven had interested and pleased her at once; shehardly knew why. There was something about him, about his look,bearing and manner which was sympathetic to her. She had felt a quietinclination to know more of him. That was all. Seymour Portman had likedhim, too, and had said so when the door had closed behind the youngcouple, leaving the old couple to themselves. He would come again someday, no doubt. And while she and Sir Seymour had remained by the firetalking quietly together, in imagination she had seen those two,linked by their youth--that wonderful bond--walking through the Londontwilight, chattering gaily, laughing at trifling jokes, realizing theirfreemasonry. And she had asked herself why it was that she could notfeel that other freemasonry--of age. Seymour Portman had loved her formany years, loved her now, had never married because of her, would giveup 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 herwhich he must know about, and which was not edifying. And yet she couldnot love him, partly, perhaps chiefly, because there was still rooted inher that ineradicable passion--it must be that, even now, a passion--foryouth and the fascination of youth. When at last he had gone she hadfelt unusually bitter for a few minutes, had asked herself, as humanbeings ask themselves every day, the eternal why. "Why, why, why am I asI am? Why can't I care for the suitable? Why can't I like the gift heldout to me? Why doesn't my soul age with my body? Why must I continueto be lonely just because of the taint in my nature which forbids me tofind companionship in one who finds perfect companionship in me? Why--tosum up--am I condemned eternally to be myself?"
There was no answer. The voice was not in the whirlwind. And presentlyshe had dismissed those useless, those damnable questions, which onlytorture because they are never answered.
And then had come the night in Soho. And there for the first time sincethey had known each other she had felt herself to be subtly involved ina woman's obscure conflict with Beryl Van Tuyn. She was not consciousof having taken up weapons. Nevertheless she had no doubt about theconflict. And on her side any force brought into play against herbeautiful friend must have issued simply from her personality, from someinfluence, perhaps from some charm, which she had not deliberately used.(At least she thought she was being sincere with herself in tellingherself that.) Craven had been the cause of the conflict, and certainlyhe had been fully aware of Beryl Van Tuyn's part in it. And he hadshown quiet determination, willfulness even. That willfulness of his hadpleased Lady Sellingworth more than anything had pleased her for avery long time. It had even touched her. At first she had thoughtthat perhaps it had been prompted by chivalry, by something charminglyold-fashioned, and delicately gentlemanly in Craven. Later on she hadbeen glad--intimately, warmly glad--to be quite sure that something morepersonal had guided him in his conduct that night.
He had simply preferred her company to the company of Beryl Van Tuyn.She was woman enough to rejoice in that fact. It was even ratherwonderful to her. And it had given Craven a place in her estimationwhich no one had had for ten years.
Beryl's pressure upon him had been very definite. She had practicallytold him, and asked him, to do a certain thing--to finish the eveningwith her. And he had practically denied her right to command, andrefused her request. He had preferred to the Georgians and their livelyAmerican contemporary, sincerely preferred, an Edwardian.
The compliment was the greater because the Edwardian had not encouragedhim. Indeed in a way he had really defied her as well as Beryl Van Tuyn.
She had loved his defiance. When he had flatly told her he did notintend to go back to the Cafe Royal she had felt thankful to him--justthat. And just before his almost boyish remark, made with genuinevexation in his voice, about the driving of London chauffeurs had givenher a little happy thrill such as she had not known for years.
She had not had the heart to leave him on her doorstep.
But now, standing by the fire, she knew that it would have been safer tohave left him there. And it would be safer now to ring the bell, summonthe footman, and say that she was not at home to anyone that afternoon.While she was thinking this the footman entered the room. Hearing himshe turned sharply.
"What is it?"
"Sir Seymour Portman has called, my lady. I told him you were not athome. But he asked me to make quite sure."
Lady Sellingworth hesitated. After a moment's pause she said, in a dryvoice:
"Not at home."
The footman went out.
There are moments in life which are full of revelation. That was sucha moment for Lady Sellingworth. When she had heard the door open herinstinct had played her false. She had turned sharply feeling certainthat Craven had called. The reaction she felt when she heard the name ofSir Seymour told her definitely that she was in danger. She felt angrywith herself, even disgusted, as well as half frightened.
"What a brute I am!"
She formed those words with her lips. An acute sense of disappointmentpervaded her because Craven had not come, though she had no reasonwhatever to expect him. But she was angry because of her feeling aboutSeymour Portman. It was horrible to have such a tepid heart as hers waswhen such a long and deep devotion was given to it. The accustomed thingthen made scarcely any impression upon her, while the thing that wasnew, untried, perhaps worth very little, excited in her an expectationwhich amounted almost to longing!
"How can Seymour go on loving such a woman as I am?" she thought.
Stretching herself a little she was able to look into an oval Venetianmirror above the high marble frame of the fireplace. She looked toscourge herself as punishment for what she was feeling.
"You miserable, ridiculous old woman!" she said to herself, as she sawher lined face which
the mirror, an antique one, slightly distorted.
"You ought to be thankful to have such a friendship as Seymour's!"
She said that, and she knew that if, disobeying her order to thefootman, he had come upstairs, her one desire would have been to get ridof him, at all costs, to get him and his devotion out of the house, lestCraven should come and she should not have Craven alone. If Seymour knewthat surely even his love would turn into hatred!
And if Craven knew!
She felt that day as if all the rampart of will, which ten years' labourhad built up between her and the dangers and miseries attendant uponsuch a temperament as hers, were beginning before her eyes to crumbleinto dust, touched by the wand of a maleficent enchanter.
And it was Craven's fault. He should have been like other young men,obedient to the call of beauty and youth; he should have been wax inBeryl Van Tuyn's pretty hands. Then this would never have happened, thiscrumbling of will. He had done a cruel thing without being aware of hiscruelty. He had been carried away by something that was not primarilyphysical. And in yielding to that uncommon impulse, which proved thathe was not typical, he had set in activity, in this hidden and violentactivity, that which had been sleeping so deeply as to seem likesomething dead.
As Lady Sellingworth looked into the Venetian mirror, which made herugliness of age look uglier than it was, she regretted sharply that shehad allowed herself to grow old in this fearfully definite way. It wastoo horrible to look like this and to be waiting eagerly, with an almostdeceiving eagerness, for the opening of a door, a footfall, the soundof a voice that was young. Mrs. Ackroyd, Lady Archie Brook--they lookedsurely twenty years younger than she did. She had been a fool! She hadbeen a passionate, impulsive fool!
No; she was being a fool now.
If only Caroline Briggs were in London! At that moment Lady Sellingworthlonged to be defended against herself. She felt that she was near to theedge of a precipice, but that perhaps a strong hand could pull her awayfrom it into the safety she had known for ten years.
"I am sixty. That settles it. There is nothing to be excited about,nothing to look for, nothing to draw back from or refuse. The fact thatI am sixty and look as I do settles the whole matter."
They were brave words, but unfortunately they altered nothing.Feeling was untouched by them. Even conviction was not attained. LadySellingworth knew she was sixty, but she felt like a woman of thirty atthat moment. And yet she was not deceived, was not deceiving herself.She did know--or felt that she absolutely knew--that the curious spellshe had evidently been able, how she scarcely knew, to exert upon Cravenduring his visit to her that night could not possibly be lasting. Hemust be a quite unusual young man, perhaps even in some degree abnormal.But even so the fascination he had felt, and had shown that he felt,could not possibly be a lasting fascination. In such matters she _knew_.
Therefore surely the way was plain before her. Ten years ago she hadmade up her mind, as a woman seldom makes up her mind. She had seenfacts, basic facts, naked in a glare of light. Those facts had notchanged. But she had changed. She was ten years older. The horror ofpassing into the fifties had died out in the cold resignation of passinginto the sixties. Any folly now would be ten times more foolish than afolly of ten years ago. She told herself that, reiterated it.
The clock struck six. She heard it and turned from the fire. CertainlyCraven would not call now. It was too late. Only a very intimate friendwould be likely to call after six o'clock, and Craven was not a veryintimate friend, but only a new acquaintance whom she had been withtwice. When he had said good-bye to her after their long talk by thefire on the night of the dinner in Soho she had said nothing about hiscoming again. And he had not mentioned it. But she had felt then thatto speak of such a thing was quite unnecessary, that it was tacitlyunderstood between them that of course he would come again, andsoon. And she believed that he had felt as she did. For despite herself-mockery, and even now when looking back, she had known, and stillknew, that they had gone quite a long way together in a very short time.
That happens sometimes; but perhaps very seldom when one of thetravellers is sixty and the other some thirty years younger. Surelysomething peculiar in Craven rather than something unusual in herselfhad been at the root of the whole thing.
That night he had seemed so oddly at home in her house, and really hehad seemed so happy and at ease. They had talked about Italy, and hehad 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 awhole summer on the bay of Naples, and he had told her all about it. Andin the telling he had revealed a good deal of himself. The prelude inSoho had no doubt prepared the way for such talk by carrying them toNaples on wings of music. They would not have talked just like thatafter a banal dinner at Claridge's or the Carlton. Craven had shown theenthusiasm that was in him for the sun, the sea, life let loose fromconvention, nature and beautiful things. The Foreign Office youngman--quiet, reserved, and rather older than his years--had been pushedaside by a youth who had some Pagan blood in him, who had some agreeablewildness under the smooth surface which often covers only other layersof smoothness. He had told her of his envy of the sea people and she hadunderstood it; and, in return, she had told him of an American boy whomshe had known long ago, and who, fired by a book about life on the bayof Naples which he had read in San Francisco, had got hold of a littlemoney, taken ship to Naples, gone straight to the point at Posilpipo,and stayed there among the fishermen for nearly two years, living theirlife, eating their food, learning to speak their argot, becoming atlength as one of them. So thoroughly indeed had he identified himselfwith them that often he had acted as boatman to English and Americantourists, and never had his nationality been discovered. In the end, ofcourse, he had gone back to San Francisco, and she believed, was now alawyer in California. But at least he had been wise enough to give uptwo years to a whim, and had bared his skin to the sun for two glorioussummers. And not everyone has the will to adventure even so far as that.
Then they had talked about the passion for adventure, and Craven hadspoken of his love, not yet lost, for Browning's poem, "Waring"; how hehad read it when quite a boy and been fascinated by it as by few otherpoems. He had even quoted some lines from it, and said them well, takingpains and not fearing any criticism or ridicule from her. And theyhad wondered whether underneath the smooth surface of Browning, thepersistent diner out, there had not been far down somewhere a brown andhalf-savage being who, in some other existence, had known life underlateen 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, thetawny orange-hued canvases, that, catching the winds under sunset skies,bring romance, like some rare fruit from hidden magical islands, uponemerald, bright-blue or indigo seas.
The talk had run on without any effort. They had been happily sunk intalk. She had kept the fire from her face with the big fan. But the firehad lit his face up sometimes and the flames had seemed to leap in hiseyes. And watching him without seeming to watch him the self-mockery haddied out of her eyes. She had forgotten to mock at herself and had letherself go down the stream: floating from subject to subject, nevertouching bottom, never striking the bank, never brought up short by anobstacle. It had been a perfect conversation. Even her imp must havebeen quite absorbed in it. For he had not tormented her during it.
But at last the clock had struck one, just one clear chiming blow. Andsuddenly Craven had started up. His blue eyes were shining and a duskyred had come into his cheeks. And he had apologized, had said somethingabout being "carried away" beyond all recollection of the hour. Shehad stayed where she was and had bidden him good night quietly from thesofa, 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 againforgotten the hour, and had stood there talking about the ultra-modernyoung people of London as if he were very far away from them, were mucholder, much simpler, even much more akin to her, than the
y were. He hadprefaced 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 beenmentioned between them. But she was not a Georgian. Perhaps that factaccounted for the omission, or perhaps there were other reasons fortheir not speaking of her just then. She had done her best to preventthe evening intimacy which had been theirs. And they both knew it.Perhaps that was why they did not speak of her. Poor Beryl! Just thenLady Sellingworth had known a woman's triumph which was the sweeterbecause of her disadvantages. Thirty-six years older than the young andvivid beauty! And yet he had preferred to end his evening with her! Hemust be an unusual, even perhaps a rather strange man. Or else--no, thetremendous humiliation she had endured ten years ago, acting on a naturewhich had always been impaired by a secret diffidence, had made her toohumble to believe any longer that she had within herself the conqueror'spower. He was not like other young men. That was it. She had come uponan exceptional nature. Exceptional natures love, hate, are drawn andrepelled in exceptional ways. The rules which govern others do not applyto them. Craven was dangerous because he was, he must be, peculiar.
When at last he had left her that night it had been nearly half-pastone. But he had not apologized again. In going he had said: "Thank Godyou refused to go to the Cafe Royal!"
Nearly half-past one! Lady Sellingworth now looked at the clock. It wasnearly half-past six.
She had a lonely dinner, a lonely evening before her.
Suddenly all her resignation seemed to leave her, to abandon her, as ifit had had enough of her and could not bear to be with her for anotherminute. She saw her life as a desert, without one flower, one growinggreen thing in it. How had she been able to endure it for so long? Itwas a monstrous injustice that she should be condemned to this horrible,unnerving loneliness. What was the use of living if one was entirelyalone? What was the use of money, of a great and beautiful house, ofcomfort and leisure, if nobody shares them with you? People came to seeher, 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 hadmore than herself, had had a far better time than she had had. Duringthe last ten years her brilliant past had faded until now she couldscarcely believe in it. It had become like a pale aquarelle. Her memoryretained events, of course, but they seemed to have happened in the lifeof someone she had known intimately rather than of herself. They wereto her like things told rather than like things lived. There were timeswhen she even felt innocent. So much had she changed during the last tenyears. And now she revolted, like a woman who had never lived and wantedto live for the first time, like a woman who had never had anything andwho demanded possession. She even got up and stood out in the big room,saying to herself:
"What shall I do to-night? I can't stay here all alone. I must go out. Imust do something unusual to take me out of myself. Mere stagnation herewill drive me mad. I've got to do something to get away from myself."
But what could she do? An elderly well-known woman cannot break out ofher house in the night, like an unknown young man, and run wild in thestreets of London, or wander in the parks, seeking distractions andadventures.
Ten years ago in Paris she had felt something of the same angry desirefor the freedom of a man, something of the same impotence. Her curbedwildness then had tortured her. It tortured her now. Life was in violentactivity all about her. Even the shop girls had something to lookforward to. Soon they would be going out with their lovers. She knewsomething of the freedom of the modern girl. Women were beginning totake 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 shehad never had it. And that feeling made part of her anger.)
The clock struck the half-hour.
Just then the door was opened and the footman appeared before she hadhad time to move. He looked faintly surprised at seeing her standingfacing him in the middle of the room.
"Mr. Craven has called my lady."
"Mr. Craven! But I told you to let him in. Have you sent him away?"
"No, my lady. But Mr. Craven wouldn't come up till I had seen yourladyship. He said it was so late. He asked me first to tell yourladyship he had called, and whether he might see you just for a minute,as he had a message to give your ladyship."
"A message! Please ask him to come up."
The footman went out, and Lady Sellingworth went to sit down near thefire. She now looked exactly as usual, casual, indifferent, but kind,not at all like a woman who would ever pity herself. In a moment thefootman announced "Mr. Craven," and Craven walked in with an eager butslightly anxious expression on his face.
"I know it is much too late for a visit," he said. "But I thought Imight perhaps just speak to you."
"Of course. I hear you have a message for me. Is it from Beryl?"
He looked surprised.
"Miss Van Tuyn? I haven't seen her."
"Yes?"
"I only wanted--I wondered whether, if you are not doing anythingto-night, I could persuade you to give me a great pleasure. . . . CouldI?"
"But what is it?"
"Would you dine with me at the _Bella Napoli_?"
Lady Sellingworth thought of the shop girls again, but now howdifferently!
"I would come and call for you just before eight. It's a fine night.It's dry, and it will be clear and starry."
"You want me to walk?"
He slightly reddened.
"Or shall we dress and go in a taxi?" he said.
"No, no. But I haven't said I can come."
His face fell.
"I will come," she said. "And we will walk. But what would Mr.Braybrooke say?"
"Have you seen him? Has he told you?"
"What?"
"About our conversation in the club?"
"I have seen him, and I don't think he is quite pleased aboutShaftesbury Avenue. But never mind. I cannot live to please Mr.Braybrooke. _Au revoir_. Just before eight."
When he had gone Lady Sellingworth again looked in the glass.
"But it's impossible!" she said to herself. "It's impossible!"
She hated her face at that moment, and could not help bitterlyregretting the fierce impulse of ten years ago. If she had not yieldedto that impulse she might now have been looking, not at a young womancertainly, 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 betternot to go. She was filled with a sense of painful hesitation. She cameaway from the glass. No doubt Craven was "on the telephone." She mightcommunicate with him, tell him not to come, that she had changed hermind, did not feel very well. He would not believe her excuse whateverit was, but that could not be helped. Anything was better than to makea spectacle of herself in a restaurant. She had not put Craven's addressand telephone number in her address book, but she might perhaps havekept the note he had written to her before their first meeting. She didnot remember having torn it up. She went to her writing-table, but couldnot find the note. She found his card, but it had only his club addresson it. Then she went downstairs to a morning room she had on the groundfloor. There was another big writing-table there. The telephone wasthere too. After searching for several minutes she discovered Craven'snote, the only note he had ever written to her. Stamped in the left-handcorner of the notepaper was a telephone number.
She was about to take down the receiver when she remembered that Cravenhad not yet had time to walk back to his flat from her house, even ifhe were going straight home. She must wait a few minutes. She came awayfrom the writing-table, sat down in an armchair, and waited.
Night had closed in. Heavy curtains were drawn across the tall windows.One electric lamp, which she had just turned on, threw a strong lighton th
e writing-table, on pens, stationery, an address book, a telephonebook, a big blue-and-gold inkstand, some photographs which stood ona ledge protected by a tiny gilded rail. The rest of the room was inshadow. A low fire burned in the grate.
Lady Sellingworth did not take up a book or occupy herself in any way.She just sat still in the armchair and waited. Now and then she heard afaint footfall, the hoot of a motor horn, the slight noise of a passingcar. And loneliness crept upon her like something gathering her into acold and terrible embrace.
It occurred to her that she might ask Craven presently through thetelephone to come and dine in Berkeley Square. No one would see her withhim if she did that, except her own servants.
But that would be a compromise. She was not fond of compromises. Betterone thing or the other. Either she would go with him to the restaurantor she would not see him at all that night.
If Caroline Briggs were only here! And yet if she were it would bedifficult to speak about the matter to her. If she were told of it, whatwould she say? That would depend upon how she was told. If she were toldall the truth, not mere incidents, but also the feelings attendingthem, she would tell her friend to give the whole thing up. Caroline wasalways drastic. She always went straight to the point.
But Caroline was in Paris.
Lady Sellingworth looked at her watch. Craven lived not far off. Hemight be at home by now. But perhaps she had better give him, andherself, a little more time. For she was still undecided, did not yetknow what she was going to do. Impulse drove her on, but somethingelse, reason perhaps, or fear, or secret, deep down, painfully acquiredknowledge, was trying to hold her back. She remembered her last stayin Paris, her hesitation then, her dinner with Caroline Briggs, thedefinite decision she had come to, her effort to carry it out, theterrible breakdown of her decision at the railway station and itshorrible result.
Disaster had come upon her because she had yielded to an impulse tenyears ago. Surely that should teach her not to yield to an impulsenow. But the one was so different from the other, as different as thathorrible man in Paris had been from young Craven. That horrible man inParis! 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 hehad come, carrying his booty with him, all those lovely things whichhad been hers, which she had worn on her neck and arms and bosom, in herhair and on her hands. Sometimes she had wondered about him, aboutthe mentality and the life of such a man as he was, a creature of theunderworld, preying on women, getting up in the morning, going to bedat night, with thoughts of crime in his mind, using his gift of beautyloathsomely. She had wondered, too, how it was that such loathsomenessas his was able to hide itself, how it was that he could look so manly,so athletic, even so wistful and eager for sympathy.
But Seymour Portman had seen through him at a first glance. Evidentlythat type of man had a power to trick women's instincts, but was lesssuccessful with men. Perhaps Caroline was right, and the whole questionwas simply one of the lust of the eye.
Young Craven was good-looking too. But surely she had not been attractedto him, brought into sympathy with him merely because of that. She hopednot. She tried hard to think not. A woman of her age must surely bebeyond the lure of mere looks in a man unconnected with the deeperthings which make up personality.
And yet ten years ago she had been lured towards a loathsome and utterlyabominable personality by mere looks. Certainly her nature inclined herto be a prey to just that--the lust of the eye.
(Caroline Briggs was horribly apposite in some of her remarks.)
She tried to reconstitute her evenings with Craven in her imagination,keeping the conversation exactly as it had been, but giving him athoroughly 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 shehad, and there was nothing in her appearance now to arouse the lust ofthe eye. Suddenly it occurred to her that she possessed now at leastone advantage. If a young man were attracted by her it must be herpersonality, herself in fact, which attracted him. It could not be herlooks. And surely it is better to attract by your personality than byyour looks.
A woman's voice whispered within her just then, "It is better to attractby both. Then you are safe."
She moved uneasily. Then she got up and went to the telephone. Thechances were in favour of Craven's being in his flat by now.
As she put her hand on the receiver, but before she took it down, LadySellingworth thought of the Paris railway station, of what had happenedthere, of the stern resolution she had come to that day, of the tears ofblood that had sealed it, of the will that had enabled her to stick toit during ten years. And she thought, too, of that phrase of CarolineBriggs's concerning the lust of the eye.
"I won't go!" she said to herself.
And she took the receiver down.
Almost immediately she was put through, and heard Craven's voice atthe other end, the voice which had recited those lines from Browning's"Waring" by the fire, saying:
"Yes? Who is it?"
"Lady Sellingworth," she replied.
The sound of the voice changed at once, became eager as it said:
"Oh--Lady Sellingworth! I have only just come in. I know what it is."
"But how can you?"
"I do. You want me to dress for dinner. And we are to go in a cab and bevery respectable instead of Bohemian. Isn't that it?"
She hesitated. Then she said:
"No; it isn't that."
"Do tell me then!"
"I think--I'm afraid I can't come."
"Oh, no--it can't be that! But I have reserved the table in the cornerfor us. And we are going to have gnocchi done in a special way withcheese. Gnocchi with cheese! Please--please don't disappoint me."
"But I haven't been very well the last two days, and I'm rather afraidof the cold."
"I am so sorry. But it's absolutely dry under foot. I swear it is!"
A pause. Then his voice added:
"Since I came in I have refused an invitation to dine out to-night. Iabsolutely relied on you."
"Yes?"
"Yes. It was from Miss Van Tuyn, to dine with her at the _BellaNapoli_."
"I'll come!" said Lady Sellingworth. "Good-bye."
And she put up the receiver.