CHAPTER IV
About seven o'clock that evening Lady Sellingworth was sitting alone inher drawing-room. Sir Seymour Portman had been with her for an hour andhad left her at half past six, believing that she was going to spendone of her usual solitary evenings, probably with a book by the fire. Hewould gladly, even thankfully, have stayed to keep her company. Butno suggestion of that kind had been made to him. And, beyond callingregularly at the hour when he believed that he was welcome, he neverpressed his company upon his dearly loved friend. Even in his greataffection he preserved a certain ceremoniousness. Even in his love henever took a liberty. In modern days he still held to the reserve ofthe very great gentleman, old-fashioned perhaps now, but neverthelessprecious in his sight.
He would have been not a little surprised had he been able to see hisAdela at this moment.
She had changed the plain black gown in which she had received him, andwas dressed in dark red velvet. She wore a black hat. Two big rubiesgleamed in her ears, and there was another, surrounded with diamonds,at her throat. Her gown was trimmed with an edging of some dark fur.As usual her hands were covered by loose white gloves. She was shod forwalking out. Her eyebrows had been carefully darkened. There was someartificial red on her lips. Her white hair was fluffed out under thehat brim, and looked very thick and vital. Her white skin was smoothand even. Her eyes shone, as Cecile had just told her, "_comme deuxlampes_." She was a striking figure as she sat on her sofa very uprightnear a lamp, holding a book in her hand. She even looked very handsomeand, of course, very distinguished. But her face was anxious, her brighteyes were uneasy, and there was a perceptible stamp of artificialityupon her. A woman would have noticed it instantly. Even an observant manwould probably not have missed it.
She seemed to be reading at first, and presently there was a faintrustle. She had turned a page. But soon she put the book down in herlap, still keeping her hand on it, and sat looking about the room. Theclock chimed seven. She moved and sighed. Then again she sat very stilllike one listening. After a while she lifted the book, glanced at itagain, and then put it down, got up and went to the fireplace. Sheturned on the lights there, leaned forward and looked into the glass.Her face became stern with intentness when she did that. She put up ahand to her hair, turned her head a little to one side, smiled faintly,then a little more, and looked grave, then earnest. Finally she put bothher hands on the mantelpiece, grasped it and stared into the glass.
In that moment she was feeling afraid.
She had arranged to dine with Alick Craven once more at the _BellaNapoli_. He would come for her in a few minutes. She was wondering verymuch how exactly she would appear to him, how old, how good-looking--orplain. She had tried, with Cecile's help, to look her very best. Cecilehad declared the result was a success. "_Miladi est merveilleusementbelle ce soir, mais vraiment belle!_" But a maid, of course, would notscruple to lie about such a matter. One could not depend on a maid'sword. She was in love with Alick Craven, desperately in love as only anelderly woman can be with a man much younger than herself. And that lovemade her afraid.
There was a tiny mole on her face, near the mouth. She wished shehad had it removed in Geneva. Why had not she had that done? No doubtbecause she was so accustomed to it that for years she had never thoughtof it, had never even seen it. Now suddenly she saw it, and it seemedto her noticeable, an ugly blemish. Anyone who looked at her must surelylook at it, think of it. For a moment she felt desperate about it, andher whole body was suddenly hot as if a flame went over it. Then themocking look came into her eyes. She was trying to laugh at herself.
"He doesn't think of me in _that_ way! No man will ever think of me in_that_ way again!"
But the mocking expression died out and the fear did not go. She wasafraid of Craven's young eyes. It was terrible to feel so humble,so full of trembling diffidence. Oh, for a moment of the conqueringsensation she had sometimes known in the years long ago when men hadmade her aware of her power!
Since their meeting in Dindie Ackroyde's drawing-room her friendshipwith Craven, renewed, had grown into something like intimacy. But therewas an uneasiness in it which she felt acutely. There were humbug andfear in this friendship. Because she was desperately in love she wasforced to be insincere with Craven. Haunted perpetually by the fear oflosing what she had, the liking of a man who was not, and could neverbe, in love with her, she had to give Craven the impression that shewas beyond the age of love, that the sensations of love were dead in herbeyond hope of resurrection. She had to play at detachment when her onedesire was to absorb and to be absorbed, had to sustain an appearance ofphysical coldness while she was burning with physical fever. She had tocreate a false atmosphere about her, and to do it so cleverly that itseemed absolutely genuine, the emanation of her personality in unstudiednaturalness.
Her lack of all affection helped her to deceive. Though in moments shemight seem constrained, oddly remote, frigidly detached, she was neveraffected. Now and then Craven had wondered about her, but he had neverguessed that she was acting a part. The charm of her was still activeabout him, and it was the charm of apparent sincerity. To him so far thefalse atmosphere seemed real, and he was not aware of the fear.
Lady Sellingworth feared being found out by Craven, and feared whatmight happen if he found out that she was in love with him. She fearedher age and the addition each passing day made to it. She feared hernatural appearance, and now strove to conceal it as much as possiblewithout being unskilful or blatant. And she feared the future terribly.
For Time galloped now. She often felt herself rushing towards the abyssof the seventies.
The worst of it all was that in humbug she was never at ease. Insteadof, like many women, living comfortably in insincerity, she longed to besincere. To love as she did and be insincere was abominable to her. Toher insincerity now seemed to be the direct contradiction of love. Oftenwhen she was deceiving Alick Craven she felt almost criminal. Perhapsif she had been much younger she might not have been so troubled in thesoul by the necessity for constant pretence. But to those who are of anyreal worth the years bring a growing need of sincerity, a growing hungerwhich only true things can satisfy. And she knew that need and sufferedthat hunger.
She was feeling it now as she waited for Craven. She longed to be ableto let him see her as she was and to be accepted by him as she was.But he would not accept her. She knew that. He did not want her as shewanted him. He was satisfied with things as they were. She was at aterrible disadvantage with him, for she was in his power, while he wasnot in hers. He could ruin such happiness as she now had. But she couldnot ruin his happiness. If he gave her up she would be broken, thoughprobably no one would know it. But if she gave him up he would not mindvery much, though no doubt his pride would be hurt. Perhaps, even now,she was only a palliative in his life. Beryl Van Tuyn had evidentlytreated him badly. He turned to others for some casual consolation.
Lady Sellingworth often wondered painfully what Craven felt about theAmerican girl. Was she only comforting Craven, playing a sort of dearold mother's part to him? Did he come to her because he considered hera skilful binder up of wounds? Could Beryl whenever she chose take himaway?
Lady Sellingworth's instinct told her that while she had been abroadCraven and Beryl had travelled in their friendship. But she did not yetknow exactly how far Craven had gone. It seemed evident now that Berylhad been suddenly diverted, no doubt by some strong influence, on toanother track; Lady Sellingworth knew that she and Craven were nolonger meeting. Something had happened which had interfered with theirintimacy. Rumour said that Beryl Van Tuyn was in love with another man,with this Nicolas Arabian, whom nobody knew. Everyone in the Coombe setwas talking about it. How keenly did Craven feel this sudden defection?That it had hurt his young pride Lady Sellingworth was certain. But shewas not certain whether it had seriously wounded his heart.
"Am I a palliative?" she thought as she gazed into the glass.
And then came the terrible question:
"How c
an I be anything else?"
She heard the door opening behind her, took her hands from themantelpiece, and turned round quickly.
"Mr. Craven, my lady."
"You're all ready? Capital! I say, am I late?"
"No. It's only a little past seven."
He had taken her hand. She longed to press his, but she did not pressit. He looked at her, she thought, rather curiously.
"I've got a taxi at the door. It's rather a horrid night. You're notdressed for walking?"
Again his look seemed to question her.
She put up a hand to her face, near the mouth, nervously.
"We had better drive. In these winter evenings walking isn't verypleasant. We must be a little less Bohemian in taste, mustn't we?"
He seemed now slightly constrained. His eyes did not rest upon her quitenaturally, she thought.
"Shall we go down?" she said.
"Yes, do let us."
As she moved to go she looked into the glass. She could not help doingthat. He noticed it, and thought:
"I wonder why she has begun making her face up like this?"
He did not like it. He preferred her as she had been when he had firstcome to her house on an autumn evening. To him there was somethingalmost distressing in this change which he noticed specially to-night.And her look into the glass had shown him that she was preoccupied abouther appearance. Such a preoccupation on her part seemed foreign to hercharacter as he had conceived of it. Her greatest charm had been herextraordinary lack, or apparent lack, of all self-consciousness. She hadnever seemed to bother about herself, to be thinking of the impressionshe was making on others.
But she was certainly looking very handsome.
She put on a fur. They got into the cab and drove to Soho.
Craven had ordered the table in the window to be reserved for them. Therestaurant was fairly, but not quite, full. The musicians were in theiraccustomed places looking very Italian. The lustrous _padrona_ smiled agreeting to them from her counter. Their bright-eyed waitress hurried upand welcomed them in Italian. Vesuvius erupted at them from the walls.There was a cozy warmth in the unpretentious room, an atmosphere ofcareless intimacy and good fellowship.
"Let me take off your fur!"
She slipped out of it, and he hung it up on a hook among hats and coatswhich looked as if they could never have anything to do with it.
"I'll sit with my back to the window," she said. She sat down, and hesat on her left facing the entrance.
Then the menu was brought, and they began to consult about what theywould eat. She did not care what it was, but she pretended to care verymuch. To do that was part of the game. If only she could think of allthis as a game, could take it lightly, merrily! She resolved to make astrong effort to conquer the underlying melancholy which had accompaniedher into this new friendship, and which she could not shake off. It camefrom a lost battle, from a silent and great defeat. She was afraid ofit, for it was black and profound beyond all plumbing. Often in her tenyears of retirement she had felt melancholy. But this was a new sort ofsadness. There was an acrid edge to it. It had the peculiar and subtleterror of a grief that was not caused only by events, but also, andspecially, by something within herself.
"Gnocchi--we must have gnocchi!"
"Oh, yes."
"But wait, though! There are ravioli! It would hardly do to have both, Isuppose, would it?"
"No; they are too much alike."
"Then which shall we have?"
She was going to say, "I don't mind!" but remembered her role and said:
"Please, ravioli for me."
And she believed that she said it with gusto, as if she really did care.
"For me too!" said Craven.
And he went on considering and asking, with his dark head bent over themenu and his blue eyes fixed upon it.
"There! That ought to be a nice dinner!" he said, at last. "And for wineChianti, I suppose?"
"Yes, Chianti Rosso," she answered, with the definiteness, she hoped, ofthe epicure.
This small fuss about what they were going to eat marked for her thesevering difference between Craven's mental attitude at this moment andhers. For him this little dinner was merely a pleasant way of spending acasual evening in the company of one who was kind to him, whom he foundsympathetic, whom he admired probably as a striking representative ofan era that was past, the Edwardian era. For her it was an event fullof torment and joy. The joy came from being alone with him. But shewas tortured by yearnings which he knew nothing of. He was able to givehimself out to her naturally. She was obliged to hold herself in, toconceal the horrible fact that she was obsessed by him, that she waslonging to commit sacrifices for him, to take him as her exclusivepossession, to surround him with love and worship. He wanted from herwhat she was apparently giving him and nothing more. She wanted fromhim all that he was not giving her and would never give her. The dinnerwould be a tranquil pleasure for him, and a quivering torture for her,mingled with some moments of forgetfulness in which she would have abrief illusion of happiness. She made the comparison and thoughtwith despair of the unevenness of Fate. Meanwhile she was smiling andpraising the vegetable soup sprinkled with Parmesan cheese.
One of the musicians came up to their table, and inquired whether the_signora_ would like any special thing played. Lady Sellingworth shookher head. She was afraid of their songs of the South, and dared notchoose one.
"Anything you like!" she said.
"They are all much the same," she added to Craven.
"But I thought you were so fond of the songs of Naples and the Bay.Don't you remember that first evening when--"
"Yes, I remember," she interrupted him, almost sharply. "But still thesesongs are really all very much alike. They all express the same sort ofthing--Neapolitan desires."
"And not only Neapolitan desires, I should say," said Craven.
At that moment a hard look came into his eyes, a grimness altered hismouth. His face completely changed, evidently under the influence ofsome sudden and keen gust of feeling. He slightly bent his head, and thecolour rose in his cheeks.
Lady Sellingworth who, for the moment, had been wholly intent onCraven, now looked to see what had caused this sudden and evidentlyuncontrollable exhibition of feeling. She saw two people, a tall girland a man, walking down the restaurant towards the further end. The girlshe immediately recognized.
"Oh--there's Beryl!" she said.
Her heart sank as she looked at Craven.
"Yes," he said.
"Did she see me?"
"I don't know. Probably she did. But she seemed in a hurry."
"Oh! Whom is she with?"
"That fellow they are all talking about, Arabian. At least, I supposeso. Anyhow, it's the fellow I saw in Glebe Place. Ah, there they go with_Sole mio_!"
The musicians were beginning the melody of which Italians never seem toweary. Lady Sellingworth listened to it as she looked down the long andnarrow room now crowded with people. Beryl Van Tuyn was standing by atable near the wall. Lady Sellingworth saw her in profile. Her companionstood beside her with his back to the room. Lady Sellingworth noticedthat he was tall with an athletic figure, that he was broad-shouldered,that his head was covered with thickly growing brown hair. He gave herthe impression of a strong and good-looking man. She gazed at him withan interest she scarcely understood at that moment, an interest surelymore intense than even the gossip she had heard about him warranted.
He helped Miss Van Tuyn out of her coat, then took off his, and went tohang them on a stand against the wall. In doing this he turned, and fora moment showed his profile to Lady Sellingworth. She saw the line ofhis brown face, his arm raised, his head slightly thrown back.
So that was Nicolas Arabian, the man all the women in the Coombe setwere gossiping about! She could not see him very well. He was rathera long way off, and two moving people, a waitress carrying food, anItalian man going to speak to a gesticulating friend, intervened andshut him out from her sight whil
e he was still arranging the coats. Butthere was something in his profile, something in his movement and inthe carriage of his head which seemed familiar to her. And she drew herbrows together, wondering. Craven spoke to her through the music. Shelooked at him, answered him. Then once more she glanced down the room.Beryl and Arabian had sat down. Beryl was facing her. Arabian was at theside. Lady Sellingworth still saw him in profile. He was talking to thewaitress.
"I am sure I know that man's face!" Lady Sellingworth thought.
And she expressed her thought to Craven.
"If that is Nicolas Arabian I think I must have seen him about London,"she said. "His side face seems familiar to me somehow."
Why would not Beryl look at her?
"I wonder whether Beryl saw me when she came in," continued LadySellingworth. "She saw you, of course."
"Yes, she saw me."
From the sound of Craven's voice, from the constraint of his manner,Lady Sellingworth gathered the knowledge that her evening was spoilt.A few minutes before she had been quivering with anxiety, had beenstruggling to conquer the melancholy which, she knew, put her at adisadvantage with Craven, had been seized with despair as she comparedher fate with his. Now she looked back at that beginning of the eveningand thought of it as happy. For Craven had seemed contented then. Now hewas obviously restless, ill at ease. He never looked down the room.He devoted himself to her. He talked even more than usual. But she wasaware of effort in it all, and knew that his thoughts were with BerylVan Tuyn and the stranger who seemed vaguely familiar to her.
Formerly--with what intensity she remembered, visualized, theoccasions--Craven had been restless with Beryl Van Tuyn because hewished to be with her; now he was restless with her. And she did notneed to ask herself why.
This remembrance made her feel angry in her despair. Her hatred of Berylrevived. She recalled the girl's cruelty to her. Now Beryl had beencruel to Craven. And yet Craven was longing after her. What was the goodof kindness, of the warm heart full of burning desires to be of use, tocomfort, to bring joy into a life? The cruel fascinated, perhaps wereeven loved. Men were bored by any love that was wholly unselfish.
But was her love unselfish? She put that question from her. She feltinjured, wounded. It was difficult for her any longer to conceal hermisery. But she tried to talk cheerfully, naturally. She forced her lipsto smile. She praised the excellence of the cooking, the efforts of themusicians.
Nevertheless the conversation presently languished. There was nospontaneity in it. All around them loud voices were talking volubly inItalian. She glanced from table to table. It seemed to her that everyonewas feeling happy and at ease except herself and Craven. They were illmatched. She became horribly self-conscious. She felt as if people werelooking at them with surprise, as if an undercurrent of ridicule wascreeping through the room. Surely many were wondering who the paintedold woman and the young man were, why they sat together in the cornerby the window! She saw one of the musicians smile and whisper to thecompanion beside him, and felt certain he was speaking about her, wassmiling, at some ugly thought which he had just put into words.
To an Italian she must certainly seem an old wreck of a woman, "_unavecchia_," an object of contempt, or of smiling pity. She looked down ather red dress, remembered the jewels in her ears and at her throat. Howuseless and absurd were her efforts to look her best! A terrible phraseof Caroline Briggs came into her mind: "I feel as if I were looking atbones decked out in jewels." And again she was back in Paris ten yearsago; again she saw a contrast bizarre as the contrast she and Craven nowpresented to the crowd in the restaurant. Before the eyes of her mindthere rose an old woman in a black wig and a marvellously handsome youngman.
Suddenly a thrill shot through her. It was like a sharp physical pain, asword-thrust of agony.
That profile which had seemed vaguely familiar to her just now, was itnot like his profile? She tried to reason with herself, to tell herselfthat she was yielding to a crazy fancy, brought about by her nervousexcitement and by the mental pain she was suffering. Many men slightly,sometimes markedly, resemble other men. One face seen in profile isoften very much like another. But the even dark brown of the complexion!That was not very common, not the type of complexion one sees every day.
She glanced at the men near to her. Most of them were Italians andswarthy. But not one had that peculiar, almost bronze-like darkness.
Beryl had spoken of "a living bronze."
Craven was speaking to her again. She forced herself to reply to him,though she scarcely knew what she was saying. She saw a look of surprisein the eyes which he fixed on her.
"Isn't it getting very hot?" she said quickly.
"It is rather hot. Shall I ask them to open the window a little? But itis just behind you."
"It doesn't matter. I have brought my fan."
She picked the fan up and began to use it unsteadily.
"The room is so very crowded to-night," she murmured.
"Yes. No wonder with such cooking. Here is the Zabaione."
The waitress put two large glasses before them filled with the thickyellow custard, then brought them a plate of biscuits.
Lady Sellingworth laid down the fan and picked up her spoon. She musteat. But she did not know how she was going to force herself to do it.Although she kept on saying to herself: "It's impossible!" she couldnot get rid of the horrible suspicion which had assailed her. On thecontrary, it seemed to grow in her till it was almost a conviction.She tried to eat tranquilly. She praised the Zabaione. She sipped herChianti Rosso. But she tasted nothing, and when the musicians struck upanother melody she did not know what they were playing.
"Are you tired of it?"
Craven had spoken to her.
"Of what?" she asked, as if almost startled.
"That--Santa Lucia?"
"Oh--is it?"
He looked astonished.
"Oh--yes, I must say I am rather sick of it!" she said quickly.
She laid down her spoon.
"Don't you like the Zabaione?"
"Yes, it's delicious. But I have had enough. You ordered such a verygood dinner!"
She began to use her fan again. The noise of voices in the room wasbecoming like the noise of voices in a nightmare. She was longing toconfirm or banish her suspicion by a long look at Beryl's companion.She felt sure now that if she looked again at Arabian she would beabsolutely certain, even from a distance, whether he was or was not theman who had brought about the robbery of her jewels at the Gard du Nordten years ago. Her mind was fully awake now, and she would be able tosee. But, knowing that, she did not dare to look towards Arabian. Shewas miserable in her uncertainty, but she was afraid of having herhorrible suspicion confirmed. She was a coward at that moment, and sheknew it.
Craven finished his Zabaione and put down his spoon. They had notordered another course. The dinner was over. But they had not had theircoffee yet, and he asked for it.
"Are you going to smoke a Toscana?" she said, forcing herself to smile.
"Yes, I think I will. Do let me give you a cigarette."
He drew out his case and offered it to her. She took a cigarette, litit, and began to smoke. Their coffee was brought.
"Oh, it's too hot to drink!" she said, almost irritably.
"But we aren't in a hurry, are we?" he said, looking at her withsurprise.
"No, of course not."
Now she was gazing resolutely down at the tablecloth. She was afraid toraise her eyes, was afraid of what they might see. Her whole mind nowwas bent upon getting away from the restaurant as soon as possible. Shehad decided to go without making sure whether Arabian was the man whohad robbed her or not. Even uncertainty would surely be better thana certainty that might bring in its train necessities too terrible tocontemplate mentally.
As she was looking down she did not see something which just thenhappened in the room. It was this:
Miss Van Tuyn, who had not said a word to Arabian of her friends whowere dining by the window, altho
ugh she guessed that he had probablynoticed Alick Craven when they came in, resolved to take a bold step.It was useless any longer to play for concealment. Since she came out todine in public with Arabian, since he had asked her to marry him and shehad not refused--though she had not accepted--since she knew verywell that she had not the will power to send him out of her life, sheresolved to do what she had not done in Glebe Place and introduce himto Craven. She even decided that if it seemed possible that the two mencould get on amicably for a few minutes she would go a step farther; shewould introduce Arabian to Adela Sellingworth.
Adela should see that she, Beryl, was absolutely indifferent to whatCraven did, or did not do. And Craven should be made to understand thatshe went on her way happily without him, and not with an old man, thoughhe had chosen as his companion an old woman. And, incidentally, shewould put Arabian to the test which had been missed in Glebe Place. Withthis determination in her mind she said to Arabian:
"There are two friends of mine at the table in the corner by thewindow."
"Yes?" he said.
And he turned his head to look.
As he did so, perhaps influenced by his eyes, or by the fact that theattention of two minds was at that moment concentrated on him, Cravenlooked towards them.
"I want to introduce you to them if possible," said Miss Van Tuyn.
And she made a gesture to Craven, beckoned to him to come to her. Helooked surprised, reluctant. She saw that he flushed slightly. But shepersisted in her invitation. She had lost her head in Glebe Place, butnow she would retrieve the situation. Vanity, fear, an obscure jealousy,and something else pushed her on. And she beckoned again. She saw Cravenlean over and say something to Lady Sellingworth. Then he got up andcame down the room towards her, threading his way among the many tables.
Miss Van Tuyn was looking at him just then and not at Arabian.
Craven came up, looking stiff, almost awkward, and markedly more Englishthan usual. At least she thought so.
"How d'you do, Miss Van Tuyn? How are you?"
She gave him her hand with a smile.
"Very well! You see, I've not forgotten my old haunts. And I see youhaven't, either. Let me introduce you to my friend, Mr. Arabian. Mr.Craven--Mr. Arabian."
Arabian got up and bowed.
"Pleased to meet you!" he said in a formal voice.
"Good evening!" said Craven, staring hard at him.
"I mustn't ask you to sit down," said Miss Van Tuyn. "As you are tiedup with Adela. But"--she hesitated for an instant, then continued withhardihood--"can't you persuade Adela to join us for coffee?"
At this moment Arabian made a movement and opened his lips as if aboutto say something.
"Yes?" she said, looking at him.
"I was only going to say that these tables are so very small. Is it notso? How should we manage?"
"Oh, we can tuck in somehow."
She turned again to Craven.
"Do ask her. Or we might come over to you."
"Very well!" said Craven, still stiffly.
He glanced round towards the window and started.
"What's the matter?"
Miss Van Tuyn leaned forward and looked.
There was no longer anyone sitting at the table by the window.
Lady Sellingworth had disappeared.