CHAPTER I
Three days later, soon after four o'clock, Craven rang the bell atLady Sellingworth's door. As he stood for a moment waiting for it to beanswered he wondered whether she would be at home to him, how she wouldgreet him if she chose to see him. The door was opened by a footman.
"Is her ladyship at home?"
"Her ladyship has gone out of town, sir."
"When will she be back?"
"I couldn't say, sir. Her ladyship has gone abroad."
Craven stood for a moment without speaking. He was amazed, and felt asif he had received a blow. Finally, he said:
"Do you think she will be long away?"
"Her ladyship has gone for some time, sir, I believe."
The young man's face, firm, with rosy cheeks and shallow, blue eyes, wasstrangely inexpressive. Craven hesitated, then said:
"Do you know where her ladyship has gone? I--I wish to write a note toher."
"I believe it's some place near Monte Carlo, sir. Her ladyship gaveorders that no letters were to be forwarded for the present."
"Thank you."
Craven turned away and walked slowly towards Mayfair. He felt startledand hurt, even angry. So this was friendship! And he had been foolishenough to think that Lady Sellingworth was beginning to value hiscompany, that she was a lonely woman, and that perhaps his visits, hissympathy, meant something, even a great deal to her. What a young foolhe had been! And what a humbug she must be! Suddenly London seemedempty. He remembered the coldness in the wording of the note she hadsent him saying that she could not see him the day after the theatreparty. She had put forward no excuse, no explanation. What had happened?He felt that something must have happened which had changed her feelingtowards him. For though he told himself that she must be a humbug, hedid not really feel that she was one. Perhaps she was angry with him,and that was why she had not chosen to tell him that she was goingabroad before she started. But what reason had he given her for anger?Mentally he reviewed the events of their last evening together. It hadbeen quite a gay evening. Nothing disagreeable had happened unless--LadyWrackley and Mrs. Ackroyde came to his mind. He saw them before him withtheir observant, experienced eyes, their smiling, satirical lips. Theyhad made him secretly uncomfortable. He had felt undressed when he waswith them, and had realized that they knew of and were probablyamused by his friendship for Lady Sellingworth. And he had hated theirknowledge. Perhaps she had hated it too, although she had not shown atrace of discomfort. Or, perhaps, she had disliked his manner with MissVan Tuyn, assumed to hide his own sensitiveness. And at that moment hethought of his intercourse with Miss Van Tuyn with exaggeration. Itwas possible that he had acted badly, had been blatant. But anyhow LadySellingworth had been very unkind. She ought to have told him that shewas going abroad, to have let him see her before she went.
He felt that this short episode in his life was quite over. It had endedabruptly, undramatically. It had seemed to mean a good deal, and it hadreally meant nothing. What a boy he had been through it all! His cheeksburned at the thought. And he had prided himself on being a thoroughman of the world. Evidently, despite his knowledge of life, his ForeignOffice training, his experience of war--he had been a soldier for twoyears--he was really something of a simpleton. He had "given himselfaway" to Braybrooke, and probably to others as well, to Lady Wrackley,Mrs. Ackroyde, and perhaps even to Miss Van Tuyn. And to LadySellingworth!
What had she thought of him? What did she think of him? Nothing perhaps.She had belonged to the "old guard." Many men had passed through herhands. He felt at that moment acute hostility to women. They weretreacherous, unreliable, even the best of them. They had not thecontinuity which belonged to men. Even elderly women--he was thinking ofwomen of the world--even they were not to be trusted. Life was warfareeven when war was over. One had to fight always against the instabilityof those around you. And yet there was planted in a man--at any ratethere was planted in him--a deep longing for stability, a need totrust, a desire to attach himself to someone with whom he could be quiteunreserved, to whom he could "open out" without fear of criticism or ofmisunderstanding.
He had believed that in Lady Sellingworth he had found such an one,and now he had been shown his mistake. He reached the house in which helived, but although he had walked to it with the intention of going inhe paused on the threshold, then turned away and went on towards HydePark. Night was falling; the damp softness of late autumn companionedhim wistfully. The streets were not very full. London seemed unusuallyquiet that evening. But when he reached the Marble Arch he saw peoplestreaming hither and thither, hurrying towards Oxford Street, pouringinto the Edgware Road, climbing upon omnibuses which were bound forNotting Hill, Ealing and Acton, drifting towards the wide and gloomyspaces of the Park. He crossed the great roadway and went into the Park,too. Attracted by a small gathering of dark figures he joined them, andstanding among nondescript loungers he listened for a few minutes toa narrow-chested man with a long, haggard face, a wispy beard andprotruding, decayed teeth, who was addressing those about him on themysteries of life.
He spoke of the struggle for bread, of materialism, of the illusionsof sensuality, of the Universal Intelligence, of the blind cruelty ofexistence.
"You are all unhappy!" he exclaimed, in a thin but carrying voice, whichsounded genteel and fanatical. "You rush here and there not knowing whyor wherefore. Many of you have come into this very Park to-night withoutany object, driven by the wish for something to take you out of yourmiseries. Can you deny it, I say?"
A tall soldier who was standing near Craven looked down at the plumpgirl beside him and said:
"How's that, Lil? We're both jolly miserable, ain't we?"
"Go along with yer! Not me!" was the response, with an impudent look.
"Then let's get on where it's quieter. What ho!"
They moved demurely away.
"Can you deny," the narrow-chested man continued, sawing the air witha thin, dirty hand, "that you are all dissatisfied with life, that youwonder about it, as Plato wondered, as Tolstoi wondered, as the Dean ofSt. Paul's wonders, as I am wondering now? From this very Park you lookup at the stars, when there are any, and you ask yourselves--"
At this point in the discourse Craven turned away, feeling thatedification was scarcely to be found by him here.
Certainly at this moment he was dissatisfied with life. But that wasLady Sellingworth's fault. If he were sitting with her now in Berkeleysquare the scheme of things would probably not seem all out of gear.He wondered where she was, what she was doing! The footman had said hebelieved she was near Monte Carlo. Craven remembered once hearing hersay she was fond of Cap Martin. Probably she was staying there. Itoccurred to him that possibly she had told some of her friends of herapproaching departure, though she had chosen to conceal it from him.Miss Van Tuyn might have known of it. He resolved to go to BrookStreet and find out whether the charming girl had been in the secret.Claridge's was close by. It would be something to do. If he could notsee Lady Sellingworth he wanted to talk about her. And at that momenthis obscure irritation made him turn towards youth. Old age had cheatedhim. Well, he was young; he would seek consolation!
At Claridge's he inquired for Miss Van Tuyn, and was told she was out,had been out since the morning. Craven was pulling his card-case out ofhis pocket when he heard a voice say: "Are there any letters for me?" Heswung round and there stood Miss Van Tuyn quite near him. For an instantshe did not see him, and he had time to note that she looked evenunusually vivid and brilliant. An attendant handed her some letters. Shetook them, turned and saw Craven.
"I had just asked for you," he said, taking off his hat.
"Oh! How nice of you!"
Her eyes were shining. He felt a controlled excitement in her. Her faceseemed to be trying to tell something which her mind would not choose totell. He wondered what it was, this secret which he divined.
"Come upstairs and we'll have a talk in my sitting-room."
She looked at him narrowly, he thought
, as they went together to thelift. She seemed to have a little less self-possession than usual, evento be slightly self-conscious and because of that watchful.
When they were in her sitting-room she took off her hat, as if tired,put it on a table and sat down by the fire.
"I've been out all day," she said.
"Yes? Are you still having painting lessons?"
"That's it--painting lessons. Dick is an extraordinary man."
"You mean Dick Garstin. I don't know him."
"He's absolutely unscrupulous, but a genius. I believe genius always isunscrupulous. I am sure of it. It cannot be anything else."
"That's a pity."
"I don't know that it is."
"But how does Dick Garstin show his unscrupulousness?"
Miss Van Tuyn looked suddenly wary.
"Oh--in all sorts of ways. He uses people. He looks on people as merematerial. He doesn't care for their feelings. He doesn't care whathappens to them. If he gets out of them what he wants it's enough. Afterthat they may go to perdition, and he wouldn't stretch out a finger tosave them."
"What a delightful individual!"
"Ah!--you don't understand genius."
Craven felt rather nettled. He cared a good deal for the arts, and hadno wish to be set among the Philistines.
"And--do you?" he asked.
"Yes, I think so. I'm not creative, but I'm very comprehending. Artistsof all kinds feel that instinctively. That's why they come round me inParis."
"Yes, you do understand!" he acknowledged, remembering her enthusiasm atthe theatre. "But I think _you_ are unscrupulous, too."
He said it hardily, looking straight at her, and wondering what she hadbeen doing that afternoon before she arrived at the hotel.
She smiled, making her eyes narrow.
"Then perhaps I am half-way to genius."
"Would you be willing to sacrifice all the moral qualities if you couldhave genius in exchange?"
"You can't expect me to say so. But it would be grand to have power overmen."
"You have that already."
She looked at him satirically.
"Do you know you're a terrible humbug?" she said.
"And are not you?"
"No; I think I show myself very much as I really am."
"Can a woman do that?" he said, with sudden moodiness.
"It depends. Mrs. Ackroyde can and Lady Wrackley can't."
"And--Lady Sellingworth?" he asked.
"I'm afraid she is a bit of a humbug," said Miss Van Tuyn, withoutvenom.
"I wonder when she'll be back?"
"Back? Where from?"
"Surely you know she had gone abroad?"
The look of surprise in Miss Van Tuyn's face was so obviously genuinethat Craven added:
"You didn't? Well, she has gone away for some time."
"Where to?"
"Somewhere on the Riviera, I believe. Probably Cap Martin. But lettersare not to be forwarded."
"At this time of year! Has she gone away alone?"
"I suppose so."
Miss Van Tuyn looked at him with a sort of cold, almost hostileshrewdness.
"And she told you she was going?"
"Why should she tell me?" he said, with a hint of defiance.
Miss Van Tuyn left that at once.
"So Adela has run away!" she said.
She sat for a moment quite still, like one considering somethingcarefully.
"But she will come back," she said presently, looking up at him,"bringing her sheaves with her."
"What do you mean?"
"Don't you remember--in the Bible?"
"But what has that to do with Lady Sellingworth?"
"Perhaps you'll understand when she comes back."
"I am really quite in the dark," he said, with obvious sincerity. "Andit's nothing to me whether Lady Sellingworth comes back or stops away."
"I thought you joined with me in adoring her."
"Adoration isn't the word. And you know it."
"And letters are not to be forwarded?" said Miss Van Tuyn.
"I heard so."
"Ah! when you went to call on her!"
"Now you are merely guessing!"
"It must be terrible to be old!" said Miss Van Tuyn, with a change ofmanner. "Just think of going off alone to the Riviera in the autumn atthe age of sixty! Beauties ought to die at fifty. Plain women can liveto a hundred if they like, and it doesn't really matter. Their tragedyis not much worse then than it is at thirty-five. But beauties shouldnever live beyond fifty--at the very latest."
"Then you must commit suicide at that age."
"Thank you. The old women in hotels!"
She shivered, and it seemed to him that her body shook naturally, as ifit couldn't help shaking.
"But--remember--she'll come back with her sheaves!" she added, lookingat him. "And then the 'old guard' will fall upon her."
For a moment she looked cruel, and though he did not understand hermeaning Craven realized that she would not have much pity for LadySellingworth in misfortune. But Lady Sellingworth was cruel, too, hadbeen cruel to him. And he saw humanity without tenderness, teeth andclaws at work, barbarity coming to its own through the varnish.
He only said:
"I may be very stupid, but I don't understand."
And then he changed the subject of conversation. Miss Van Tuyn becamegradually nicer to him, but he felt that she still cherished a fainthostility to him. Perhaps she thought he regarded her as a substitute.And was not that really the fact? He tried to sweep the hostility away.He laid himself out to be charming to her. The Lady Sellingworth episodewas over. He would give himself to a different side of his nature,a side to which Miss Van Tuyn appealed. She did not encourage him atfirst, and he was driven to force the note slightly. When he went awaythey had arranged to play golf together, to dine together one nightat the _Bella Napoli_. It was he who had suggested, even urged thesediversions. For she had almost made him plead to her, had seemed oddlydoubtful about seeing more of him in intimacy. And when he left her hewas half angry with himself for making such a fuss about trifles. Butthe truth was--and perhaps she suspected it--that he was tryingto escape from depression, caused by a sense of injury, through anadventure. He felt Miss Van Tuyn's great physical attraction, and justthen he wished that it would overwhelm him. If it did he wouldsoon cease from minding what Lady Sellingworth had done. A certainrecklessness possessed him.
He dined with a friend at the club and stayed there rather late. When hewas leaving about half past eleven Braybrooke dropped in after aparty, and he told Braybrooke of Lady Sellingworth's departure for theContinent. The world's governess showed even more surprise than MissVan Tuyn had shown. He had had no idea that Adela Sellingworth was goingabroad. She must have decided on it very abruptly. He had seen nothingin the _Morning Post_. Had she gone alone? And no letters to beforwarded! Dear me! It was all very odd and unexpected. And she had goneon the Riviera at this time of year! But it was a desert; not a soul oneknew would be there. The best hotels were not even open, he believed.
As he made his comments he observed Craven closely with his small hazeleyes, but the young man showed no feeling, and Braybrooke began to thinkthat really perhaps he had made a mountain out of a molehill, thathe had done Adela Sellingworth an injustice. If she had really beeninclined to any folly about his young friend she would certainly nothave left London in this mysterious manner.
"I suppose she let you know she was going?" he hazarded.
"Oh, no. I happened to call and the footman gave me the news."
"I hope she isn't ill," said Braybrooke with sudden gravity.
"Ill? Why should you think--?"
"There are women who hate it to be known when they are ill. CatherineBewdley went away without a word and was operated on at Lausanne, andnot one of us knew of it till it was all over. I don't quite like thelook of things. Letters not being forwarded--ha!"
"But near Monte Carlo!"
"_Is_ it near Mo
nte Carlo?"
He pursed his lips and went into the club looking grave, while Cravenwent out into the night. It was black and damp. The pavement seemedsweating. The hands of both autumn and winter were laid upon London. Butsoon the hands of autumn would fail and winter would have the huge cityas its possession.
"_Is_ it Monte Carlo?"
Braybrooke's question echoed in Craven's mind. Could he have done LadySellingworth a wrong? Was there perhaps something behind her suddendeparture in silence which altogether excused it? She might be ill andhave disappeared without a word to some doctor's clinic, as Braybrookehad suggested. Women sometimes had heroic silences. Craven thought shecould be heroic. There was something very strong in her, he thought,combined perhaps with many weaknesses. He wished he knew where she was,what she was doing, whom she was with or whether she was alone. Hisdesire trailed after her against his will. Undoubtedly he missed her,and felt oddly homeless now she was gone.