CHAPTER II
Two days after the visit of Arabian to Dick Garstin's studio LadySellingworth received a note from Francis Braybrooke, who invited herto dine with him at the Carlton on the following evening, and to visit atheatre 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 thisinvitation. She had not seen Miss Van Tuyn since the evening in Soho,nor Braybrooke since his visit to Berkeley Square to tell her about histrip to Paris, but she had seen Craven three times, and each time alone.Their intimacy had deepened with a rapidity which now almost startledher as she thought of it, holding Braybrooke's unanswered note. Alreadyit 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 hadlived without this young man in her life. She could hardly believe that.And now, with this call to meet him in public, before very watchfuleyes, and in the company of two people who she was sure were indifferent ways hostile to her intimacy with him, she felt the cold touchof fear. And she doubted what course to take.
She wondered why Braybrooke had asked her and suspected a purpose. Ina moment she believed that she had guessed what that purpose was.Braybrooke was meditating a stroke against her. She had felt that in herdrawing-room with him. For some reason--perhaps only that of a socialbusybody--he wanted to bring about a match between Craven and Miss VanTuyn. He had said with emphasis that Craven had almost raved about thelovely American. Lady Sellingworth did not believe that assertion. Shefelt 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'sattention from the young man he had introduced into her life, andmust mean that he was a little afraid of her influence. It had beenpractically a suggestion to her that youth triumphant must win inany battle with old age; yet it had implied a doubt, if not an actualuneasiness. And now came this invitation to meet "our young friends."Lady Sellingworth thought of the contrast between herself and Beryl VanTuyn. She had not worried about it in the _Bella Napoli_ when she andthe young friends were together. But now--things were different now.She had, or believed she had, something to lose. And she did not want tolose it. It would be horrible to lose it!
Perhaps Braybrooke wished Craven to see her with Beryl Van Tuyn in theglare of electric light. Perhaps that was the reason of this unexpectedinvitation. If so, it was an almost diabolically cruel reason.
She resolved to refuse the invitation. But again a voice through thetelephone caused her to change her mind. And again it was Craven'svoice. It asked her whether she had received an invitation fromBraybrooke, and on her replying that she had, it begged her to accept itif she had not done so already. And she yielded. If Craven wished herto go she would go. Why should she be afraid? In her ugliness surely shetriumphed as no beauty could ever triumph. She told herself that and fora moment felt reassured, more than reassured, safe and happy. For theinner thing, the dweller in the temple, felt that it, and it alone, wasexercising intimate power. But then a look into the glass terrifiedher. And she sat down and wrote two notes. One was to Francis Braybrookeaccepting the invitation; the other was to a man with a Greek name andwas addressed to a house in South Moulton Street.
Francis Braybrooke felt rather uneasy about his party when the day came,but he was a man of the world, and resolved to "put a good face onit." No more social catastrophes for him! Another fiasco would, he wascertain, destroy his nerve and render him quite unfit to retain hisplace in society. He pulled himself together, using his will to theuttermost, and dressed for dinner with a still determination to carrythings through with a high hand. The worst of it was that he had anuneasy feeling--quite uncalled for, he was sure of that--of being afalse friend. For Lady Sellingworth was his friend. He had known herfor many years, whereas Craven and Beryl Van Tuyn were comparativelynew-comers in his life. And yet he was engaged in something not quiteunlike a conspiracy against this old friend. Craven had said she waslonely. Perhaps that was true. Women who lived by themselves generallyfelt lonelier than men in a like situation. Craven, perhaps, wasbringing a little solace into this lonely life. And now he, Braybrooke,was endeavouring to make an end of that solace. For he quite understoodthat, women being as they are, a strong friendship between AdelaSellingworth and Craven was quite incompatible with a love affairbetween Craven and Beryl Van Tuyn. He hoped he was not a traitor as hecarefully arranged his rather large tie. But anything was better than atragedy. And with women of Adela Sellingworth's reputed temperament onenever knew quite what might happen. Her emergence, after ten years, intoShaftesbury Avenue and Soho had severely shaken Braybrooke's faith inher sobriety, fostered though it had been, created even, by her tenyears of distinguished retirement. Damped-down fires sometimes blazeforth unexpectedly and rage with fury. He hoped he was doing the rightthing. Anyhow, it was not his fault that Lady Sellingworth was to be ofhis party tonight. Miss Van Tuyn was responsible for that.
He rang the bell, which was answered by his valet.
"Please fetch the theatre ticket, Walter. It is in the drawer of mywriting-table in the library. A box for the Shaftesbury Theatre."
"Yes, sir."
Walter went out and returned in a moment with the ticket. He was an oldservant and occasionally exchanged ideas with his master. As he gaveBraybrooke the envelope containing the ticket, he said:
"A very remarkable play, sir. I think you will enjoy it."
"What! Have you seen it?"
"Yes, sir, _The Great Lover_. My wife would go. She liked the name, sir.About a singer, sir, who kept on loving like a young man when the agefor it was really what one might call over, sir. But it seems that forsome it never is over, sir."
"Good heavens, have I done the wrong thing again?" thought Braybrooke,who had chosen the play almost at random, without knowing much about itexcept that an actor unknown to him, one Moscovitch, was said to be veryfine in it.
"How old is the singer?" he inquired anxiously.
"I couldn't say for certain, sir. But somewhere in the forties, I shouldthink, and nearing fifty. He loses his voice, sir, but still answers toyoung women at the telephone."
"Dear! Dear!"
"But as my wife says, sir, with a man it's not such a great matter. Butwith a woman--well!"
He pursed his narrow lips and half-shut his small grey eyes.
"Ah!" said Braybrooke, feeling extremely uncomfortable. "Good night,Walter. You needn't sit up."
"Thank you, sir. Good night, sir."
"Really the evil eye must have looked at me!" thought Braybrooke, as hewent downstairs. "I'm thoroughly out of luck."
He arrived in good time at the Carlton and waited for his guests in thePalm Court. Craven was the first to arrive. He looked cheerful and eageras he came in, and, Braybrooke thought, very young and handsome. He hadgot away from the F. O. that afternoon, he said, and had been down atBeaconsfield playing golf. Apparently his game had been unusually goodand that fact had put him into spirits.
"There's nothing like being in form with one's drive for bucking oneup!" he acknowledged.
And he broke out into an almost boyish paean in praise of golf.
"But I always thought you preferred lawn tennis!" said Braybrooke.
"Oh, I don't know! Yes, I'm as keen as ever on tennis, but anyone canplay golf. Mrs. Sandhurst was out to-day playing a splendid game, andshe's well over sixty. That's the best of golf. People can play, andplay decently, too, up to almost any age."
"Well, but my dear boy you're not in the sixties yet!"
"No. But I wasn't thinking about myself."
Braybrooke looked at him rather narrowly, and wondered of whom he hadbeen thinking. But he said nothing more, for at this moment Miss VanTuyn appeared in the doorway at the end of the court. Braybrooke went tomeet her, but Craven stayed were he was.
"Is Adela Sellingworth coming?" she
asked instantly, as Braybrooke tookher hand.
"She promised to come. I'm expecting her."
He made a movement, but she stood still, though they where close to thedoorway.
"And what are we going to see?"
"A play called _The Great Lover_. Here is Alick Craven."
At this moment Craven joined them. Seeing Miss Van Tuyn standing stillwith a certain obstinacy he came up and took her hand.
"Nice to meet you again," he said.
Braybrooke thought of Miss Van Tuyn's remark about the Foreign Officemanner, and hoped Craven was going to be at his best that evening. Itseemed to him that there was a certain dryness in the young people'sgreeting. Miss Van Tuyn was looking lovely, and almost alarminglyyouthful and self-possessed, in a white dress. Craven, fresh from hissuccesses at golf, looked full of the open-air spirit and the robustnessof the galloping twenties. In appearance the two were splendidlymatched. The faint defiance which Braybrooke thought he detectedin their eyes suited them both, giving to them just a touch of thearrogance which youth and health render charming, but which in oldpeople is repellent and ugly. They wore it like a feather set at justthe right rakish angle in a cap. Nevertheless, this slight dryness mustbe got rid of if the evening were to be a success, and Braybrookeset himself to the task of banishing it. He talked of golf. Like manyAmerican 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 andhunted in France, liked racing, and had learnt to play golf on thelinks at Cannes when she was a girl of fifteen. But to-night she was notenthusiastic about golf, perhaps because Craven was. She said it was anirritating 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 theday, that a woman whom you beat in a match tried to do you harm as longas you and she lived. Finally she said it was certainly a fine game, buta game for old people. Craven protested, but she held resolutely toher point. In other games--except croquet, which she frankly loathed inspite of its scientific possibilities--you moved quickly, were obligedto be perpetually on the alert. In tennis and lawn tennis, in racquets,in hockey, in cricket, you never knew what was going to happen, whenyou might have to do something, or make a swift movement, a dash hereor there, a dive, a leap, a run. But in golf half your time was spent insolemnly walking--toddling, she chose to call it--from point topoint. This was, no doubt, excellent for the health, but she preferredswiftness. But then she was only a light-footed girl, not an elderlystatesman.
"When I play golf much I always begin to feel like a gouty PrimeMinister who has been ordered to play for the good of the country," shesaid. "But when I'm an old woman I shall certainly play regularlyfor the sake of my figure and my complexion. When I am sixty you willprobably see me every day on the links."
Braybrooke saw a cloud float over Craven's face as she said this, but itvanished as he looked away towards the hall. There, through the glass ofthe dividing screen, Lady Sellingworth's tall and thin figure, wrappedin a long cloak of dark fur, was visible, going with her careless,trampish walk to the ladies' cloak-room.
"Ah, there is Adela Sellingworth!" said Braybrooke.
Miss Van Tuyn turned quickly, with a charming, youthful grace, made upof a suppleness and litheness which suggested almost the movement ofa fluid. Craven noted it with a little thrill of unexpected pleasure,against which an instant later something in him rebelled.
"Where is she?" said Miss Van Tuyn.
"She's just gone into the ladies' cloak-room," answered Braybrooke.
"But not to powder her face!" said Miss Van Tuyn. "She keeps us waiting,like the great prima donna in a concert, just long enough to give atouch of excitement to her appearance. Dear Lady Sellingworth! She hasa wonderful knowledge of just how to do things. That only comes out of avast experience."
"Or--don't you think that kind of thing may be instinctive?" saidCraven.
She sought his eyes with a sort of soft hardihood which was veryalluring.
"Women are not half as instinctive as men think them," she said. "I'lltell you a little secret. They calculate more than a senior wranglerdoes."
"Now you are maligning yourself," he said, smiling.
"No. For I haven't quite got to the age of calculation yet."
"Oh--I see."
"Here she comes!" said Braybrooke.
And he went towards the door, leaving "our young friends" for a moment.
"But what has she done to herself?" said Miss Van Tuyn.
"Done! Lady Sellingworth?"
"Yes. Or is it only her hair?"
Craven wondered, too, as Lady Sellingworth joined them, accompanied byher host. For there was surely some slight, and yet definite, change inher appearance. She looked, he thought, younger, brighter, more vividthan she generally looked. Her white hair certainly was arrangeddifferently 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, andit marked in, he thought, an exquisite way the beautiful shape of herhead. A black riband was cleverly entangled in it, and a big diamondshone upon the riband in front above her white forehead, weary withthe years, but uncommonly expressive. She wore black as usual, and hadanother broad black riband round her throat with a fine diamond broachfastened to it. Her gown was slightly open at the front. There weremagnificent diamond earrings in her ears. They made Craven think ofthe jewels stolen long ago at the station in Paris. This evening thewhiteness of her hair seemed wonderful, as the whiteness of thicklypowdered hair sometimes seems. And her eyes beneath it were amazinglyvivid, startlingly alive in their glancing brightness. They lookedcareless and laughingly self-possessed as she came up to greet the girland young man, matching delightfully her careless and self-possessedmovement.
At that moment Craven realized, as he had certainly never realizedbefore, what a beauty--in his mind he said what a "stunningbeauty"--Lady Sellingworth must once have been. Even her face seemed tohim in some way altered to-night, though he could not have told how.
Certainly she looked younger than usual. He was positive of that: stillpositive 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, almosthaphazard, 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 LadySellingworth.
At that moment he felt very proud of her friendship. He even felt atouch of romance in it, of a strange and unusual romance far removedfrom the sort of thing usually sung of by poets and written of bynovelists.
"She is unusual!" he thought. "And so am I; and our friendship isunusual too. There has never before been anything quite like it."
And he glowed with a warming sense of difference from ordinary life.
But Miss Van Tuyn was claiming his urgent attention, and a waiter wasgiving him Whitstable oysters, and Chablis was being poured into hisglass, and the band was beginning to play a selection from the music ofGrieg, full of the poetry and the love of the North, where deep passionscome 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-hairedwoman, too, with the great diamonds gleaming in her ears.
It really was quite a buoyant dinner, and Braybrooke began to feel moreat ease. He had told them all where they were going afterwards, but hadsaid nothing about Walter's description of the play. None of them hadseen it, but Craven seemed to know all about it, and said it was anentertaining study of life behind the scenes at the opera, with a greatsinger as protagonist.
"He was drawn, I believe, from a famous baritone."
During a great part of her life Lady Sellingworth had been an ardentlover of the opera, and she had known many of the leading singers inParis and London.
"They always seemed to me to be torn by jealousy," she said, "and oftento suffer from the mania of persecution! Really, they are like a raceapart."
A
nd the conversation turned to jealousy. Braybrooke said he had neversuffered from it, did not know what it was. And they smiled at him, andtold him that then he could have no temperament. Craven declared thathe believed almost the whole human race knew the ugly intimacies ofjealousy in some form or other.
"And yourself?" said Miss Van Tuyn.
"I!" he said, and looking up saw Lady Sellingworth's brilliant eyesfixed on him.
"Do you know them?"
"I have felt jealousy certainly, but never yet as I could feel it."
"What! You are conscious of a great capacity for feeling jealous, acapacity which has never yet had its full fling?" said the girl.
"Yes," he said.
And his lips were smiling, but there was a serious look in his eyes.
And they discussed the causes of jealousy.
"We shall see it to-night on the stage in its professional form," saidCraven.
"And that is the least forgivable form," said Lady Sellingworth."Jealousy which is not bound up with the affections is a cold andhideous thing. But I cannot understand a love which is incapable ofjealousy. In fact, I don't think I could believe it to be love at all."
This remark, coming from those lips, surprised Braybrooke. For LadySellingworth was not wont to turn any talk in which she took partupon questions concerned with the heart. He had frequently noticed herapparent aversion from all topics connected with deep feeling. To-night,it seemed, this aversion had died out of her.
In answer to the last remark Miss Van Tuyn said:
"Then, dear, you rule out perfect trust in a matter of love, do you? Allthe sentimentalists say that perfect love breeds perfect trust. If thatis so, how can great lovers be jealous? For jealousy, I suppose--I havenever felt it myself in that way--is born out of doubt, but can neverexist side by side with complete confidence."
"Ah! But Beryl, in how many people in the course of a lifetime can onehave _complete confidence_ I have scarcely met one. What do you say?"
She turned her head towards Braybrooke. He looked suddenly ratherplaintive, like a man who realizes unexpectedly how lonely he is.
"Oh, I hope I know a few such people," he rejoined rather anxiously."I have been very lucky in my friends. And I like to think the best ofpeople."
"That is kind," said Lady Sellingworth. "But I prefer to know the truthof people. And I must say I think most of us are quicksands. The worstof it is that so often when we do for a moment feel we are on firmground we find it either too hard for our feet or too flat for ourliking."
At that moment she thought of Sir Seymour Portman.
"You think it is doubt which breeds fascination?" said Craven.
"Alas for us if it is so," she answered, smiling.
"The human race is a very unsatisfactory race," said Miss Van Tuyn. "Iam only twenty-four and have found that out already. It is very cleverof the French to cultivate irony as they do. The ironist always wearsclothes and an undershirt of mail. But the sentimentalist goes naked inthe east wind which blows through society. Not only is he bound to takecold, but he is liable to be pierced by every arrow that flies."
"Yes, it is wise to cultivate irony," said Lady Sellingworth.
"You have," said Miss Van Tuyn. "One often sees it in your eyes. Isn'tit true?"
She turned to Craven; but he did not choose to agree with her.
"I'm a sentimentalist," he said firmly. "And I never look about forirony. Perhaps that's why I have not found it in Lady Sellingworth."
Miss Van Tuyn sent him a glance which said plainly, but prettily, "Youhumbug!" But he did not mind. Once he had discussed Lady Sellingworthwith Miss Van Tuyn. They had wondered about her together. They had eventalked about her mystery. But that seemed to Craven a long time ago. Nowhe would far rather discuss Miss Van Tuyn with Lady Sellingworth thandiscuss Lady Sellingworth with Miss Van Tuyn. So he would not evenacknowledge that he had noticed the mocking look in Lady Sellingworth'seyes. Already he had the feeling of a friend who does not care todissect the mentality and character of his friend with another.Something in him even had an instinct to protect Lady Sellingworth fromMiss Van Tuyn. That was surely absurd; unless, indeed, age always needsprotection from the cruelty of youth.
Francis Braybrooke began to speak about Paris, and again Miss Van Tuynsaid that she would never rest till she had persuaded Lady Sellingworthto renew her acquaintance with that intense and apparently light-heartedcity, which contains so many secret terrors.
"You will come some day," she said, with a sort of almost ruthlessobstinacy.
"Why not?" said Lady Sellingworth. "I have been very happy in Paris."
"And yet you have deserted it for years and years! You are an enigma.Isn't she, Mr. Braybrooke?"
Before Braybrooke had time to reply to this direct question aninterruption occurred. Two ladies, coming in to dinner accompaniedby two young men, paused by Braybrooke's table, and someone said in aclear, hard voice:
"What a dinky little party! And where are you all going afterwards?"
Craven and Braybrooke got up to greet two famous members of the "oldguard," Lady Wrackley and Mrs. Ackroyde. Lady Sellingworth and MissVan Tuyn turned in their chairs, and for a moment there was a littledisjointed conversation, in the course of which it came out that thisquartet, too, was bound for the Shaftesbury Theatre.
"You are coming out of your shell, Adela! Better late than never!"said Lady Wrackley to Lady Sellingworth, while Miss Van Tuyn quietlycollected the two young men, both of whom she knew, with her violeteyes. "I hear of you all over the place."
She glanced penetratingly at Craven with her carefully made-up eyes,which were the eyes of a handsome and wary bird. Her perfectlyarranged hair was glossy brown, with glints in it like the colour of ahorse-chestnut. She showed her wonderful teeth in the smile which camelike a sudden gleam of electric light, and went as if a hand had turnedback the switch.
"I'm becoming dissipated," said Lady Sellingworth. "Three evenings outin one month! If I have one foot in the grave, I shall have the other inthe Shaftesbury Theatre to-night."
One of the young men, a fair, horsey-looking boy, with a yellowmoustache, a turned-up nose, and an almost abnormally impudent and larkyexpression, laughed in a very male and soldierly way; the other, who wasdark, with a tall figure and severe grey eyes, looked impenetrably graveand absent minded.
"Well, I shall die if I don't have a good dinner at once," said Mrs.Ackroyde. "Is that a Doucet frock, Beryl?"
"No. Count Kalinsky designed it."
"Oh--Igor Kalinsky! Adela, we are in Box B. We must have a powwowbetween the acts."
She looked from Lady Sellingworth to Craven and back again. Short, veryhandsome, always in perfect health, with brows and eyes which somehowsuggested a wild creature, she had an honest and quite unaffected face.Her manner was bold and direct. There was something lasting--some saideverlasting--in her atmosphere.
"I cannot conceive of London without Dindie Ackroyde," said Braybrooke,as Mrs. Ackroyde led the way to the next table and sat down opposite toCraven.
And they began to talk about people. Craven said very little. Sincethe arrival of the other quartet he had begun to feel sensitivelyuncomfortable. He realized that already his new friendship for LadySellingworth had "got about," though how he could not imagine. He wascertain that the "old guard" were already beginning to talk of AddieSellingworth's "new man." He had seen awareness, that strange feminineinterest which is more than half hostile, in the eyes of both LadyWrackley and Mrs. Ackroyde. Was it impossible, then, in this horriblewhispering gallery of London, to have any privacy of the soul? (Hethought that his friendship really had something of the soul in it.) Hefelt stripped by the eyes of those two women at the neighbouring table,and he glanced at Lady Sellingworth almost furtively, wondering whatshe was feeling. But she looked exactly as usual, and was talking withanimation, and he realized that her long habit of the world enabled herto wear a mask at will. Or was she less sensitive in such matters thanhe was?
"How preoccupie
d you are!" said Miss Van Tuyn's voice in his ear. "Yousee I was right. Golf ruins the social qualities in a man."
Then Craven resolutely set himself to be sociable. He even acted a part,still acutely conscious of the eyes of the "old guard," and almost madelove to Miss Van Tuyn, as a man may make love at a dinner table. He wassure Lady Sellingworth would not misunderstand him. Whether Miss VanTuyn misunderstood him or not did not matter to him at that moment. Hesaw her beauty clearly; he was able to note all the fluid fascination ofher delicious youthfulness; the charm of it went to him; and yet he feltno inclination to waver in his allegiance to Lady Sellingworth. It wasas if a personality enveloped him, held his senses as well as his mindin a soft and powerful grasp. Not that his senses were irritated toalertness, or played upon to exasperation. They were merely inhibitedfrom any activity in connexion with another, however beautiful anddesirable. Lady Sellingworth roused no physical desire in Craven,although she fascinated him. What she did was just this: she deprivedhim of physical desire. Miss Van Tuyn's arrows were shot all in vainthat night. But Craven now acted well, for women's keen eyes were uponhim.
Presently they got up to go to the theatre, leaving the other quartetbehind them, quite willing to be late.
"Moscovitch doesn't come on for some time," said Mrs. Ackroyde. "And weare only going to see him. The play is nothing extraordinary. Where areyou sitting?"
Braybrooke told her the number of their box.
"We are just opposite to you then," she said.
"Mind you behave prettily, Adela!" said Lady Wrackley.
"I have almost forgotten how to behave in a theatre," she said. "I goto the play so seldom. You shall give me some hints on conduct, Mr.Craven."
And she turned and led the way out of the restaurant, nodding to peoplehere and there whom she knew.
Her big motor was waiting outside, and they all got into it. Braybrookeand Craven sat on the small front seats, sideways, so that they couldtalk to their companions; and they flashed through the busy streets,coming now and then into the gleam of lamplight and looking vivid, thengliding on into shadows and becoming vague and almost mysterious. Asthey crossed Piccadilly Circus Miss Van Tuyn said:
"What a contrast to our walk that night!"
"This way of travelling?" said Lady Sellingworth.
"Yes. Which do you prefer, the life of Soho and the streets and rawhumanity, or the Rolls-Royce life?"
"Oh, I am far too old, and far too fixed in my habits to make anydrastic change in my way of life," said Lady Sellingworth, looking outof the window.
"You didn't like your little experience the other night enough to repeatit?" said Miss Van Tuyn.
As she spoke Craven saw her eyes gazing at him in the shadow. Theylooked rather hard and searching, he thought.
"Oh, some day I'll go to the _Bella Napoli_ again with you, Beryl, ifyou like."
"Thank you, dearest," said Miss Van Tuyn, rather drily.
And again Craven saw her eyes fixed upon him with a hard, steady look.
The car sped by the Monico, and Braybrooke, glancing with distaste atthe crowd of people one could never wish to know outside it, wonderedhow the tall woman opposite to him with the diamonds flashing in herears had ever condescended to push her way among them at night, to rubshoulders with those awful women, those furtive and evil-looking men."But she must have some kink in her!" he thought, and thanked Godbecause 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 largeenough for three to sit in a row in the front, and Craven insisted onBraybrooke taking the place between the two women, while he took thechair in the shadow behind Lady Sellingworth.
The curtain was already up when they came in, and a large and volubleman, almost like a human earthquake, was talking in broken Englishinterspersed with sonorous Italian to a worried-looking man who satbefore a table in a large and gaudily furnished office.
The talk was all about singers, contracts, the opera.
Craven glanced across the theatre and saw a big, empty box on theopposite side of the house. The rest of the house was full. He saw manyJews.
Lady Sellingworth leaned well forward with her eyes fixed on the stage,and seemed interested as the play developed.
"They are just like that!" she whispered presently, half turning toCraven.
Miss Van Tuyn looked round. She seemed bored. Paris, perhaps, hadspoiled her for the acting in London, or the play so far did notinterest her. Braybrooke glanced at her rather anxiously. He did notapprove of the way in which he and his guests were seated in the box,and was sure she did not like it. Craven ought to be beside her.
"What do you think of it?" he murmured.
"The operatic types aren't bad."
She leaned with an elbow on the edge of the box and looked vaguely aboutthe house.
"I shall insist on a change of seats after the interval!" thoughtBraybrooke.
A few minutes passed. Then the door of the box opposite was opened andLady Wrackley appeared, followed by Dindie Ackroyde and the twoyoung men who had dined with them. Lady Wrackley, looking--Craventhought--like a remarkably fine pouter pigeon, came to the front of thebox and stared about the house, while the young man with the turned-upnose gently, yet rather familiarly, withdrew from her a long coat ofermine. Meanwhile Mrs. Ackroyde sat down, keeping on her cloak, whichwas the colour of an Indian sky at night, and immediately becameabsorbed in the traffic of the stage. It was obvious that she reallycared for art, while Lady Wrackley cared about the effect she wascreating on the audience. It seemed a long time before she sat down, andlet the two young men sit down too. But suddenly there was applause andno one was looking at her. Moscovitch had walked upon the stage.
"_That_ man can act!"
Miss Van Tuyn had spoken.
"He gets you merely by coming on. That is acting!"
And immediately she was intent on the stage.
When the curtain fell Braybrooke got up resolutely and stood at the backof the box. Craven, too stood up, and they all discussed the play.
"It's a character study, simply that," said Miss Van Tuyn. "Thepersistent lover who can't leave off--"
"Trying to love!" interposed Lady Sellingworth. "Following the greatillusion."
And they debated whether the great singer was an idealist or merelya sensualist, or perhaps both. Miss Van Tuyn thought he was only thelatter, and Braybrooke agreed with her. But Lady Sellingworth said no.
"He is in love with love, I think, and everyone who is in love with loveis seeking the flame in the darkness. We wrong many people by dubbingthem mere sensualists. The mystery has a driving force which many cannotresist."
"What mystery, dearest?" said Miss Van Tuyn, not without irony.
But at this moment there was a tap at the door of the box, and Cravenopened it to find Mrs. Ackroyde and the young man with the severe eyeswaiting outside.
"May we come in? Is there room?" said Mrs. Ackroyde.
There was plenty of room.
"Lena will be happier without us," Mrs. Ackroyde explained, without asmile, and looking calmly at Lady Sellingworth. "If I sit quite at theback here I can smoke a cigarette without being stopped. Bobbie youmight give me a match."
The severe young man, who looked like a sad sensualist, one of those menwho try to cloak intensity with grimness, did as he was bid, and theyrenewed the discussion which had been stopped for a moment, bringing thenewcomers into it. Lady Sellingworth explained that the mystery she hadspoken of was the inner necessity to try to find love which drives manyhuman beings. She spoke without sentimentality, almost with a sortof 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 shewas driven to it by an inner necessity, planted in her family by theImmanent Will, or whatever it was that governed humanity. As she spokeshe looked at the man she had called Bobbie, who was Sir Robert Syng,private secretary to a
prominent minister, and when she stopped speakinghe said he had never been able to believe in free will, though he alwaysbehaved as if he thought he possessed it.
Miss Van Tuyn thereupon remarked that as some people are born withtempers and intellects and some without them, perhaps it was the samewith free will. She was quite positive she had a free will, but thevery first time she had seen Sir Robert she had had her doubts about hishaving that precious possession. This sally, designed to break up thegeneral conversation and to fasten Sir Robert's attention on herself,led to an animated discussion between her and Mrs. Ackroyde's "man." ButMrs. Ackroyde, though her large dark eyes showed complete understandingof the manoeuvre, did not seem to mind, and, turning her attention toCraven, she began to speak about acting. Meanwhile Lady Sellingworthwent out into the corridor with Braybrooke to "get a little air."
While Mrs. Ackroyde talked Craven felt that she was thinking about himwith an enormously experienced mind. She had been married twice, and wasnow a widow. No woman knew more about life and the world in a generalway than she did. Her complete but quiet self-possession, her ratherblunt good nature, and her perfect health, had carried her safely, andas a rule successfully, through multifarious experiences and perhapsthrough many dangers. It was impossible to conceive of her being ever"knocked out" by any happening however untoward it might be. She was oneof the stalwarts of the "old guard." Craven certainly did not dislikeher. But now he felt almost afraid of her. For he knew her presentinterest in him arose from suspicions about him and Lady Sellingworthwhich were floating through her brain. She had heard something; had beeninformed of something; someone had hinted; someone had told. How do suchthings become suspected in a city like London? Craven could not imaginehow the "old guard" had come already to know of his new friendship withLady Sellingworth. But he was now quite sure that he had been talkedabout, and that Mrs. Ackroyde was considering him, his temperament, hischaracter, his possibilities in connexion with the famous Adela, once ofthe "old guard," but long since traitress to it.
And he felt as if he were made of glass beneath those experienced andcalmly investigating eyes, as he talked steadily about acting tillthe bell went for the second act, and Lady Sellingworth and Braybrookereturned to the box.
"Come and see me," said Mrs. Ackroyde, getting up. "You never come nearme. And come down to Coombe to lunch one Sunday."
"Thank you very much. I will."
"And bring Adela with you!"
With a casual nod or two, and a "Come, Bobbie, I am sure you haveflirted quite enough with Beryl by this time!" she went out of the box,followed by her grim but good-looking cavalier.
"You must sit in front through this act."
Braybrooke spoke.
"Oh, but--"
"No, really--I insist! You don't see properly behind."
Craven took the chair between the two women. As he did so he glancedat Miss Van Tuyn. His chair was certainly nearer to hers than to LadySellingworth's, much nearer. Syng had sat in it and must have movedit. As she half turned and said something to Craven her bare silky armtouched his sleeve, and their faces were very near together. Her eyesspoke to him definitely, called him to be young again with her. And asthe curtain went up she whispered:
"It was I who insisted on a party of four to-night."
Lady Sellingworth and Braybrooke were talking together, and Cravenanswered:
"To Mr. Braybrooke?"
"Yes; so that we might have a nice little time. And Adela and he are oldfriends and contemporaries! I knew they would be happy together."
Craven shrank inwardly as he heard Miss Van Tuyn say "Adela," but heonly nodded and tried to return adequately the expression in her eyes.Then he looked across the theatre, and saw Mrs. Ackroyde speaking toLady Wrackley. After a moment they both gazed at him, and, seeing hiseyes fixed on her, Lady Wrackley let go her smile at him and made alittle gesture with her hand.
"She knows too--damn her!" thought Craven, impolitely.
He set his teeth.
"They know everything, these women! It's useless to try to have thesmallest secret from them!"
And then he said to himself what so many have said:
"What does it matter what they know, what they think, what they say? Idon't care!"
But he did care. He hated their knowing of his friendship with LadySellingworth, and it seemed to him that they were scattering dust allover the dew of his feeling.
The second act of the play was more interesting than the first, but, asMiss Van Tuyn said, the whole thing was rather a clever character studythan a solidly constructed and elaborately worked out play. It wasthe fascination of Moscovitch which held the audience tight and whichbrought thunders of applause when the curtain fell.
"If that man acted in French he could have enormous success in Paris,"said Miss Van Tuyn. "You have chosen well," she added, turning toBraybrooke. "You have introduced us to a great temperament."
Braybrooke was delighted, and still more delighted when LadySellingworth and Craven both said that it was the best acting they hadseen in London for years.
"But it comes out of Russia, I suppose," said Lady Sellingworth. "Poor,wonderful, horrible, glorious Russia!"
"Forgive me for a moment," said Braybrooke. "Lady Wrackley seems to wantme."
Indeed, the electric-light smile was being turned on and off in thebox opposite with unmistakable intention, and, glancing across, Cravennoticed that the young men had disappeared, no doubt to smoke cigarettesin the foyer. Lady Wrackley and Mrs. Ackroyde were alone, and, seeingthem alone, it was easier to Craven to compare their appearance withLady Sellingworth's.
Lady Wrackley looked shiningly artificial, seemed to glisten withartificiality, and her certainly remarkable figure suggested to himan advertisement for a corset designed by a genius with a view to theconcealment of fat. Mrs. Ackroyde was far less artificial, and thoughher hair was dyed it did not proclaim the fact blatantly. Certainly itwas difficult to believe that both those ladies, whom Braybrookenow 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 whichthey utterly lacked.
Braybrooke sat down in their box, and Craven was sure they wereall talking about Lady Sellingworth and him. He saw Braybrooke'sbroad-fingered hand go to his beard and was almost positive his oldfriend was on the defensive. He was surely saying, "No, really, I don'tthink so! I feel convinced there is nothing in it!" Craven's eyes metLady Sellingworth's, and it seemed to him at that moment that she and hespoke together without the knowledge of Miss Van Tuyn. But immediately,and as if to get away from their strange and occult privacy, she said:
"What have you been doing lately, Beryl? I hear Miss Cronin has comeover. But I thought you were not staying long. Have you changed yourmind?"
Miss Van Tuyn said she might stay on for some time, and explained thatshe was having lessons in painting.
"In London! I didn't know you painted, and surely the best school ofpainting is in Paris."
"I don't paint, dearest. But one can take lessons in an art withoutactually practising the art. And that is what I am doing. I like to knoweven though I cannot, or don't want to, do. Dick Garstin is my master.He has given me the run of his studio in Glebe Place."
"And you watch him at work?" said Craven.
"Yes."
She fixed her eyes on him, and added:
"He is painting a living bronze."
"Somebody very handsome?" said Lady Sellingworth, glancing across thehouse to the trio in the box opposite.
"Yes, a man called Nicolas Arabian."
"What a curious name!" said Lady Sellingworth, still looking towards theopposite box. "Is it an Englishman?"
"No. I don't know his nationality. But he makes a magnificent model."
"Oh, he's a model!" said Craven, also looking at the box opposite.
"He isn't a professional model. Dick Garstin doesn't pay him to sit. Ionly mean that he is a marve
llous subject for a portrait and sits well.Dick happened to see him and asked him to sit. Dick paints the peoplehe wants to paint, not those who want to be painted by him. But he's areally big man. You ought to know him."
She said the last words to Lady Sellingworth, who replied:
"I very seldom make new acquaintances now."
"You made Mr. Craven's!" said Miss Van Tuyn, smiling.
"But that was by special favour. I owe Mr. Braybrooke that!" saidCraven. "And I shall be eternally grateful to him."
His eyes met Lady Sellingworth's, and he immediately added, turning toMiss Van Tuyn:
"I have to thank him for two delightful new friends--if I may use thatword."
"Mr. Braybrooke is a great benefactor," said Miss Van Tuyn. "I wonderhow this play is going to end."
And then they talked about Moscovitch and the persistence of aruling passion till Braybrooke came back. He looked rather grave andpreoccupied, and Craven felt sure that the talk in the opposite box hadbeen about Lady Sellingworth and her "new man," himself, and, unusuallyself-conscious, or moved, perhaps, by an instinct of self-preservation,he devoted himself almost with intensity to Miss Van Tuyn till thecurtain went up. And after it went up he kept his chair very closeto hers, sat almost "in her pocket," and occasionally murmured to herremarks about the play.
The last act was a panorama of shifting moods, and although therewas little action they all followed it with an intense interestwhich afterwards surprised them. But a master hand was playing on theaudience, and drew at will from them what emotions he chose. Now andthen, during the progress of this act, Braybrooke sent an anxious glanceto Lady Sellingworth. All this about loss, though it was the loss ofa voice, about the end of a great career, about age and desertion, wasdangerous ground. The love-scene between Moscovitch and the young girlseriously perturbed Braybrooke. He hoped, he sincerely hoped, that AdelaSellingworth would not be upset, would not think that he had chosen theShaftesbury Theatre for their place of entertainment with any _arrierepensee_. He fancied that her face began to look rather hard and "set" asthe act drew near its end. But he was not sure. For the auditorium wasrather dark; he could not see her quite clearly. And he looked at Cravenand Miss Van Tuyn and thought, rather bitterly, how sane and how righthis intentions had been. Youth should mate with youth. It was notnatural for mature, or old, age to be closely allied with youth in anypassionate bond. In such a bond youth was at a manifest disadvantage.And it seemed to Braybrooke that age was sometimes, too often indeed, avampire going about to satisfy its appetite on youth, to slake its sadthirst at the well-spring of youth. He looked, too, at the women in thebox opposite, and at the young men with them, and he regretted thatso many human beings were at grips with the natural. He at any rate,although he carefully concealed his age, never did unsuitable things, orfell into anything undignified. Yet was he rewarded for his intense andunremitting carefulness in life?
A telephone bell sounded on the stage, and the unhappy singer, bereft ofromance, his career finished, decadence and old age staring him inthe face, went to answer the call. But suddenly his face changed; abrightness, an alertness came into it and even, mysteriously, into allhis body. There was a woman at the other end of the wire, and she wasyoung and pretty, and she was asking him to meet her. As he was replyinggaily, with smiling lips, and a greedy look in his eyes that was halfchild-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 thelife of a ruling passion in a man while he lives, that the rulingpassion can only die when he dies.
Miss Van Tuyn and Craven, standing up in the box, applauded vigorously.
"That's a true finish!" the girl said. "He's really a modern BaronHulot. When he's seventy he'll creep upstairs to a servant girl. Wedon't change, I've always said it. We don't change!"
And she looked from Craven to Lady Sellingworth.
Moscovitch bowed many times.
"Well, Mr. Braybrooke," said Miss Van Tuyn, "I've seen some acting inLondon to-night that I should like to show to Paris. Thank you!"
She was more beautiful and more human than Craven had ever seen herbefore in her genuine enthusiasm. And he thought, "Great art moves heras nothing else moves her."
"What do you say about it, dearest?" she said, as Craven helped her toput on her cloak.
(Braybrooke was attending to Lady Sellingworth.)
"It's a great piece of acting!"
"And horribly true! Don't you think so?"
"I dare say it is," Lady Sellingworth answered.
She turned quickly and led the way out of the box.
In the hall they encountered the other quartet and stood talking to themfor a moment, and Craven noticed how Miss Van Tuyn had been stirred upby the play and how silent Lady Sellingworth was. He longed to go backto Berkeley Square alone with the latter, and to have a long talk; butsomething told him to get away from both the white-haired woman and theeager girl. And when the motor came up he said very definitely that hehad an engagement and must find a cab. Then he bade them good-bye andleft them in the motor with Braybrooke. As he was turning away to getout of the crowd a clear, firm voice said to him:
"I am so glad you have performed the miracle, Mr. Craven."
He looked round and saw Mrs. Ackroyde's investigating eyes fixed uponhim.
"But what miracle?" he asked.
"You have pulled Adela Sellingworth out of the shell in which she hasbeen living curled up for over ten years."
"Yes. You are a prodigy!" said Lady Wrackley, showing her teeth.
"But I'm afraid I can't claim that triumph. I'm afraid it's due to Mr.Braybrooke's diplomacy."
"Oh, no!" Mrs. Ackroyde said calmly. "Adela would never yield to hiscotton-glove persuasions. Besides, his diplomacy would shy away fromSoho."
"Soho!" said Craven, startled.
"Yes!"
"Oh, but Miss Van Tuyn performed that miracle!" said Craven, recoveringhimself.
"I don't think so. You are too modest. But now, mind, I expect you tocome down to Coombe to lunch on the first fine Sunday, and to bringAdela with you. Good night! Bobbie, where are you?"
And she followed Lady Wrackley and the young man with the turned-up noseto a big and shining motor which had just glided noiselessly up.
"Damn the women!" muttered Craven, as he pushed through the crowd intothe ugly freedom of Shaftesbury Avenue.