CHAPTER V
Lady Sellingworth of course understood Beryl's purpose in visiting herso soon and in being so unreserved to her. The girl's intention wasabsolutely clear to her mind horribly experienced in the cruel ways ofwomen. Nevertheless she believed that Beryl had spoken the truth aboutwhat had happened at Camber.
When it began to get dark Craven had wanted to hold Beryl's hand.
Lady Sellingworth felt that she hated Beryl, hated Alick Craven. Andherself? She did not want to contemplate herself. It seemed to her thatshe was fastened up with, chained to, a being she longed to ignore, tobe without knowledge of. Something of her was struggling to be away fromsomething else of her that was hideous. Battle, confusion, dust, dyingcries, flying, terror-stricken feet! She was aware of tumult and despairin the silence of her beautiful house. And she was aware also of thatslow and terrible creeping of hatred, the thing that did harm to her,that set her far away from any nobility she possessed.
She had gone abroad to fight, and had come back having lost her battle.And already she was being scourged for her failure.
When she had been striving alone these two had evidently forgotten herexistence. Directly she had passed for a short time out of their livesthey had come together. Youth had instinctively sought out youth, andshe, the old woman, had been as one dead to them. If she had stayed awayfor years, if she had never come back, it would not have mattered tothem.
Beryl's lack of all affection for her did not seriously trouble her. Sheknew the dryness of vanity; she knew that it was practically impossiblefor a girl so vain as Beryl to care deeply, or at all unselfishly, foranother woman. But Craven's conduct was not what she had looked for.It seemed to stamp him as typical, and she had supposed him to beexceptional. When Beryl had told her about Camber--so little and yet somuch--she had been struck to the heart; and yet she had seen a vision ofservants, the footman out in the dark with the under housemaid.
Seymour Portman's observant old eyes, the terrible eyes of affection,took in the change in her, not quite as a woman's eyes would have done,but in their own adequate way. His Adela looked different. Something hadhappened to her. The envelope had been touched up in some, to him, quitemysterious manner. And he did not like it. It even gave him a mildsort of shock. The touch of artificiality was cold on this amazinglystraightforward old man. He loved his Adela with all the wrinkles, withthe sagging skin, and the lined throat, and the curiously experiencedweariness about the temples. She lived for him in the brilliant eyes,and was loved by him in them. And why should she suddenly try to changeher appearance? It had certainly not been done for him--this Something.She was looking handsomer than usual, and yet he seemed to be aware thatbeneath the improved surface there was a tragic haggardness which hadcome into existence while she had been away.
He did not reproach her for the mystery of her absence, or for hersilence; he did not ask her questions about where she had been, whatshe had done; he just sat with her and loved her. And his love made herhorribly uneasy that day. She could not be still under it. She felt asif the soul of her kept shifting about, as a child shifts about underthe watchful eyes of an elder. She felt the physical tingle of guilt.And she was thankful when at last Seymour went away and left her alonewith her hatred.
All those weeks! She had deliberately left the ground free to Beryl forall those weeks, and she had returned with no expectation of the thingthat of course had happened. And yet she had believed that she had anexcellent knowledge of life and of human beings. No doubt she had beenso concentrated upon herself, and the struggle within herself that shehad been unable to make any use of that knowledge. And so now she wasfull of hatred and of profound humiliation.
When she had abruptly left England she had made up her mind to "havedone with it," that is to have done with love, to have done evenwith sentimental friendship. She had resolved to plunge into completeloneliness. Since she could not take Seymour into her intimate life,since she now knew that was absolutely impossible, she must somehowmanage to get along permanently with nothing. And so, yielding to adesperate impulse, she had resolved to seek an unaccustomed solitude.She had fled from London. But she had stopped in Paris; although she hadintended to pass through it and to go straight on to Marseilles and theRiviera. When the train had run in to the Gare du Nord she had toldher surprised maid that she was tired and would not go on that night.Suddenly she had decided to seek out Caroline Briggs, to make aconfession, to ask for help and sympathy. And she had sent her maid to ahotel, and had driven to Caroline's house.
But Caroline was not in Paris. A blue-cheeked, close-shaven Frenchfootman had informed her that his mistress had been obliged to sail forAmerica three days before.
It had been a great blow to her. Confession, the cry for help, had beenalmost on her lips as she had stood at the door before the keen-eyedyoung man. And she had gone away feeling strangely lost and abandoned.
On the following morning she had left Paris and had travelled to theRiviera. And, there, she had fought against herself and had lost thebattle.
Perhaps if she had been able to see Caroline the issue would have beendifferent. She almost believed that if she had once told the absolutetruth about herself to someone she might have found the courage toput personal dignity in its right place at the head of her life as thearbiter of what must not be done. Although she had defied Caroline tenyears ago, and had been punished for her defiance, she still had a deepbelief in Caroline's strength of character and clear insight. And sheknew that Caroline was really fond of her.
But Fate had removed her friend from her. And was it not because of thatremoval that she had lost her battle? The sense of loneliness, of acold finality, had been too great for her. She had had too much timefor remembrance. And she had remembered certain hours with Craven bythe fire, had remembered the human warmth of them, till the longing forhappiness had overpowered everything else in her. They had been veryhappy together. She had been able to make him happy. His eager eyes hadshown it. And their joy had been quite innocent; there had been noharm in it at all. Why should she deliberately forego such innocentcontentment? Walking alone on the sea front at Cannes in the warm andbrilliant weather she had asked herself that question. If Craven werethere! And in the long loneliness she had begun presently, as oftenbefore, to try to cheat herself. The drastic heart of London had seemedto change into another heart. And at last she had followed the exampleof a woman in Paris some ten years ago.
She had as it were got out of the train once more.
She had not, perhaps, been fully conscious of the terrible repetitionbrought about by a temperament which apparently refused to change.She had no doubt tried to deceive herself though she had not deceivedherself ten years ago at the Gare du Nord. She had even lied to herself,saying that in London she had given way to a foolish and morbid mood offear, induced in her by memories of disasters in the past, that she hadimagined danger where no danger existed. In London panic had seized her.But now in a different atmosphere and environment, quite alone and able,therefore, to consider things carefully and quietly, to see them intheir true light, she had told herself that it was preposterous togive up an innocent joy merely because long ago she had been subject tofolly. Ten years had elapsed since her last fit of folly. She must havechanged since then. It was inevitable that she had changed. She hadlied to herself in London when she had told herself that Craven would besatisfied in their friendship, while she would be almost starving. Hersubsequent prayer had been answered. Passion was dead in her. A tender,almost a motherly feeling--that really was what she felt and wouldalways feel for Alick Craven. She need not fear such a feeling. Shewould not fear it. Morbidity had possessed her. The sunshine of Canneshad driven it away. She had presently been glad that she had not foundCaroline in Paris. For if she had made that confession she would haveput an obstacle in the path which she now resolved to tread.
She had told herself that, and finally she had decided to return toLondon.
But she had gone first to Geneva, and had put h
erself there into thehands of a certain specialist, whose fame had recently reached the earsof a prominent member of the "old guard," no other than the Duchess ofWellingborough.
And now she had come back with her sheaves and had been met on thethreshold by Beryl with her hideous confidences.
She had not yet told Craven of her return. For the moment she was gladthat she had not given way to her impulse and telephoned to him onthe Sunday. She might have caught him with her message just as he wasstarting for Rye with Beryl. That would have been horrible. Of courseshe would not telephone to him now. She resolved to ignore him. He hadforgotten all about her. She would seem to forget about him. There wasnothing else to be done. Pride, the pride of the _Grande Dame_ which shehad never totally lost, rose up in her, hot, fiery even; it mingled withan intense jealousy, and made her wish to inflict punishment. She waslike a wounded animal that longs to strike, to tear with its claws, tolacerate and leave bleeding. Nevertheless she had no intention of takingaction against either of those who had hurt her. Beryl should have hertriumph. Youth should be left in peace with its own cruelty.
Two days passed before Craven knew of Lady Sellingworth's return toBerkeley Square. Braybrooke told him of it in the club, and added theinformation that she had arrived on the previous Saturday.
"Oh!" said Craven, with apparent indifference. "Have you seen her?"
Braybrooke replied that he had seen her, and that she was looking, inhis opinion, remarkably well, even somewhat younger than usual.
"She seems to have had an excellent time on the Riviera and inSwitzerland."
"In Switzerland!" said Craven, thinking of Braybrooke's remarks aboutCatherine Bewdley and Lausanne.
"Yes, but I don't think she has been ill. I ventured to--just to say aword as to doctors, and she assured me she had been perfectly well allthe time she was away. Are you going to see her?"
"I've got a good deal to do just now," said Craven, coldly and with aslight rise of colour. "But of course I hope to see Lady Sellingworthagain some day. She is a charming woman. It's always a pleasure to havea talk with her."
"Yes, indeed! By the way, who is Beryl Van Tuyn's extraordinarilygood-looking young friend? Do you happen to know?"
"What friend?" asked Craven, with sudden sharpness.
"The tall man she has been seen about with lately."
"I don't know."
After a slight pause, very intentional on Braybrooke's part, Cravenreplied:
"Miss Van Tuyn knows such lots of people."
"To be sure! And Lady Archie, though a dear woman, is perhaps a littleinclined to gossip."
"Lady Archie Brooke?"
"Yes. She has met Miss Van Tuyn two or three times in Glebe Place, itseems, walking with a man whom she describes as a marvel of good looks.But there's Antring. I must have a word with him. He is just over fromParis."
And Braybrooke walked away with his usual discreet gait. He was feelingdecidedly satisfied. Young Craven had certainly not been pleased withthe information so casually imparted. It had aroused--Braybrooke wasconvinced of it--a sensation of jealousy which promised well for thefuture. Braybrooke was almost sure now that his young friend hadfallen thoroughly in love with Beryl Van Tuyn. The coldness about AdelaSellingworth, the sudden touch of heat about Beryl Van Tuyn, surelyindicated that. Braybrooke was not seriously upset about Lady Archie'sremarks. She really was a tremendous gossip, although of course adelightful woman. And Miss Van Tuyn was always surrounded by men.Nevertheless he was decidedly curious about the good-looking strangerwho had been seen in Glebe Place. He had a retentive memory, and had notforgotten Dick Garstin's extraordinary remark about the blackmailer.
Braybrooke was not mistaken about Craven. The information about AdelaSellingworth had renewed Craven's hot sense of injury. Braybrooke didnot understand that. But the subsequent remark about Beryl Van Tuynhad added fuel to the fire, and the sharp jealousy of sensitive youthmingled with the feeling of injury. Craven had been hurt by the elderlywoman. Was he now to be hurt by the girl? Braybrooke's news had made himfeel really angry. Yet he knew he had no right to be angry. He began towish that he had never gone to Berkeley Square on that autumn afternoon,had never met the two women who were beginning to complicate his life.For a moment he thought of dropping them both. But had not one of themalready dropped him? He would certainly not call again in BerkeleySquare. If Lady Sellingworth did not ask him to go there he would notattempt to see her. He was not going to fight for her friendship. Andas to Beryl Van Tuyn--The curious name--Nicolas Arabian--came into hismind and a conversation at a box at a theatre. Miss Van Tuyn had toldhim about this magnificently handsome man, this "living bronze," butsomehow he had never thought of her as specially intimate with a fellowwho frequented the Cafe Royal, and who apparently sat as a model topainters. But now he realized that this must be the man of Glebe Place,and he felt more angry, more injured than before.
Yet he was not in love with Beryl Van Tuyn. Or had he fallen inlove with her without being aware of it? She attracted him very muchphysically at times. She amused him, interested him. He liked being withher. He was angry at the thought of another man's intimacy with her. Hewanted her to be fond of him, to need him, to prefer him to all othermen. But he often felt critical about her, about her character, thoughnot about her beauty. A lover surely could not feel like that. A loverjust loved, and there was an end of it.
He could not understand his own feelings. But when he thought of BerylVan Tuyn he felt full of the fighting instinct, and ready to takethe initiative. He would never fight to retain Lady Sellingworth'sfriendship, but he would fight to assert himself with the beautifulAmerican. She should not take him up and use him merely as a means toamusement without any care for what was due to him. Lady Sellingworthwas old, and in a sense famous. Such a woman could do as she pleased.With her, protest would be ridiculous. But he would find a way withBeryl Van Tuyn.
On that day and the next Craven did not see Miss Van Tuyn. No messagecame to him from Lady Sellingworth. Evidently the latter wished to havenothing more to do with him. She had now been in London for nearly aweek without letting him know it. Miss Van Tuyn had telephoned oncesuggesting a meeting. But Craven had charmingly put her off, alleging atiresome engagement. He did not choose now to seem eager to meet her.He was considering what he would do. If he could manage to meet herin Glebe Place! But how to contrive such an encounter? While he wasmeditating about this he was again rung up by Miss Van Tuyn, whosuggested that he should play golf with her at Beaconsfield on thefollowing day, Saturday.
"You can't pretend you are working overtime at the F.O. to-morrow," shesaid.
Craven replied that the F.O. kept him very long even on Saturdays.
"What's the matter? What are you angry about?" asked Miss Van Tuynthrough the telephone.
Craven intended to make a quietly evasive reply, but he found himselfsaying:
"If I work overtime at the F.O., are there not others who do much thesame--in Glebe Place?"
After a pause Miss Van Tuyn said:
"I haven't an idea what you mean."
Craven said nothing. Already he was angry with himself, and regrettedhis impulsiveness.
"Well?" said Miss Van Tuyn.
"Well?" retorted Craven, feeling rather absurd.
Again there was a pause. Then, speaking quickly, Miss Van Tuyn said: "Ifyou can escape from the F.O. you might be in Glebe Place about five onMonday. Good-bye!"
And she rang off, leaving Craven with the pleasant sensation that, asoften before, he had "given himself away." Certainly he had shown MissVan Tuyn his jealousy. She must have guessed what his mention of GlebePlace meant. And yet she had asked him to go there on the followingMonday. If he did not go perhaps that neglect would cancel hisimprudence at the telephone.
He made up his mind not to go.
Nevertheless, when he left the Foreign Office on the Monday abouthalf-past four, instead of going towards Mayfair he found himselfwalking quickly in the direction of Chelsea.
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