CHAPTER V
"What has become of Adela?" exclaimed Miss Van Tuyn.
"I haven't the least idea," said Craven, looking uncomfortable."Perhaps--She complained of the heat just now. She may have gone to thedoor to get some air. Please forgive me!"
He glanced from Miss Van Tuyn to Arabian, who was still standing upstiffly, with a rigidly polite expression on his face.
"I must just see!"
He turned away and walked down the restaurant.
When he got to the counter where the _padrona_ sat enthroned he foundtheir waitress standing near it.
"Where is the signora?" he asked.
"The signora took her fur and went out, signorino," said the woman.
"The bill, please!"
"_Ecco, signorino!_"
The woman presented the bill. Craven paid it, tipped her, got his coatand hat, and went hurriedly out.
He expected to find Lady Sellingworth on the doorstep, but no one wasthere, and he looked down the street, first to the right, then to theleft. In the distance on the left he saw the tall figure of a womanwalking slowly near a lamp-post, and he hurried down the street.
As his footsteps rang on the pavement the woman turned round, and showedthe white face and luminous eyes of Lady Sellingworth.
"You have given me quite a turn, as the servants say!" he exclaimed,coming up to her. "What is the matter? Are you ill?"
He looked anxiously at her.
"What made you go away so suddenly? You didn't mind my--"
"No, no!" she interrupted. "But I do feel unwell. I feel very unwell."
"I'm most awfully sorry! Why didn't you tell me? Why did you let meleave you?"
"Beryl wanted you."
"It was only--she only wanted to suggest our all having coffeetogether."
Her mouth went awry.
"Oh, do take my arm!" he exclaimed. "What is it? Are you suffering?"
After a pause she said:
"Yes."
There seemed to him something ominous in the sound of the word as shespoke it.
"I'm horribly sorry. I must find you a cab."
"Yes, please do."
"But in Soho, it's so difficult! Can you manage--can you walk a littleway?"
"Oh yes."
"Directly we get into Shaftesbury Avenue we are sure to see one. It'sonly a step."
She had taken his arm, but she did not lean heavily on it, only justtouched it. He hardly felt the weight of her hand. Evidently she was notfeeling faint, or very weak. He wondered intensely what was the matter.But she did not give any explanation. She had made that ominous answerto his question, and there she left it. He did not dare to make anyfurther inquiry, and as she said nothing they walked on in silence. Asthey were turning into Shaftesbury Avenue an empty taxicab passed themwith the flag up.
"There's a taxi!" said Craven. "One minute!"
He let her arm go and ran after it, while she stood waiting at thecorner. In a moment he came back followed by the cab, which drew up bythe kerb. He opened the door and she got in. He was preparing to followher when she leaned forward and put her hand on the door.
"Mayn't I? Don't you wish me to come with you?"
She shook her head.
"But do let me see you home. If you are ill you really oughtn't to bealone."
"But I'm spoiling your evening. Why not go back?"
"Go back?"
"Yes--go back to Beryl?"
He stiffened, and the hard look came into his face. She saw his jawquiver slightly.
"To Miss Van Tuyn? But she is with someone."
"But she asked you!"
"She asked both of us. I shall certainly not go back alone."
"Really, I wish you would! Go back and--and see Beryl home."
He looked at her in astonishment.
"Oh, I couldn't possibly do that! There was no suggestion--I couldn't dothat, really. I wonder you ask me to. Well--"
She took her hand away from the door and he shut it. But he remainedbeside it--did not give the chauffeur her address.
"Why won't you let me take you back?" he said. "I don't understand."
She smiled, and he thought it was the saddest smile he had ever seen.
"One is only a bore to others when one is ill," she said. "Good-bye.Tell the man, please."
He obeyed her, then took off his hat. His face was grim and perplexed.As she was driven away in the night she gave him a strange look; tragicand pleading, he thought, a look that almost frightened him, that sent ashiver through him.
"Is she horribly ill?" he asked himself. "What can it be? Perhapsshe did go to Switzerland to see a doctor. Perhaps . . . can he havecondemned her to death?"
He shivered again. The expression of her eyes haunted him.
He stood for a moment at the street corner, pondering over her words.What could have induced her to ask him to go back to Beryl Van Tuyn, tosee Beryl Van Tuyn home? She wanted him to interfere between Miss VanTuyn and that man, Nicolas Arabian! She tried metaphorically to pushhim towards Miss Van Tuyn. It was inexplicable. Lady Sellingworth was awoman of the world, past mistress of all the _convenances_, one in whomany breach of good manners was impossible, unthinkable! And yet she hadasked him to go back to the restaurant, and to thrust himself into thecompany of a girl and a man who were dining by themselves. She hadeven asked him, a young fellow, certainly younger than Beryl Van Tuyn'sescort, to play the part of chaperon to the girl!
Did she--could she know something about Arabian?
Certainly she did not know him. In the restaurant she had inquired whohe was. But, later, she had said that his profile seemed familiar toher, that perhaps she had seen him about London. Her departure from therestaurant had been strangely abrupt. Perhaps--could she have recognizedArabian after he, Craven, had left her alone and had gone to speak toMiss Van Tuyn? The man looked a wrong 'un. Craven felt certain he wasa wrong 'un. But if so, surely Lady Sellingworth could not know him,or even know anything about him. There was something so remote anddistinguished about her life, her solitary, retired life. She did notcome in contact with such people.
"Get you a kib, gentleman?" said a soft cockney voice in Craven's ear.
He started, and walked on quickly. In Lady Sellingworth's conduct thatnight, in the last look she had given him, there was mystery. He wasquite unable to fathom it, and he went home to his flat in the greatestperplexity, and feeling very uneasy.
When Murgatroyd opened the door to his mistress it was not much afternine, and he was surprised to see her back so early and alone.
"Tea, please, Murgatroyd!" she said.
"Yes, my lady."
She passed by him and ascended the big staircase. He heard her go intothe drawing-room and shut the door.
When, a few minutes later, he brought in the tea, she was standing bythe fire. She had taken off her big hat and laid it on a table.
"I shall want nothing more. Good night."
"Good night, my lady."
He went towards the door. When he was just going out he heard her say,"Murgatroyd!" and turned.
"My lady!"
"Please let Cecile know I shan't want her to-night. She is not to sit upfor me. I'll manage for myself."
"Yes, my lady."
"Make it quite understood, please."
"Certainly, my lady."
He went out and shut the door.
When she was quite alone Lady Sellingworth stood for several minutesby the fire quite still, with her head bent down and her hands foldedtogether. Then she went to the tea table, poured out a cup of tea, satdown and sipped it slowly, looking into vacancy with the eyes of onewhose real gaze was turned inwards upon herself. She finished the tea,sat still for a little while, then got up, went to the writing-table,sat before it, took a pen and a sheet of note-paper, and began slowly towrite.
She wrote first at the top of the sheet in the left-hand corner,"Strictly private," and underlined the words. Then she wrote:
"DEAR BERYL,--Please consider this let
ter absolutely private andpersonal. I rely on your never speaking of it to anyone, and I ask youto burn it directly you have read it. Although I hate more than anythingelse interfering in the private affairs of another, I feel that it ismy absolute duty to send this to you. I am a very much older womanthan you--indeed, almost an old woman. I know the world very well--toowell--and I feel I can ask you to trust me when I give you a piece ofadvice, however unpleasant it may seem at the moment. You were diningto-night alone with a man who is totally unfit to be your companion, orthe companion of any decent woman. I cannot explain to you how I knowthis, nor can I tell you why he is unfit to be in any reputable company.But I solemnly assure you--I give you my word--that I am telling you thetruth. That man is a blackguard in the full acceptation of the word. Ibelieve you met him by chance in a studio. I am quite positive that youknow nothing whatever about him. I do. I know--"
She hesitated, leaning over the paper with the pen lifted, frowningpainfully and with a look of fear in her eyes. Then her face hardened inan expression of white resolution, and she wrote:
"I know that he ought to be in prison. He is beyond the pale. You mustnever be seen with him again. I have said nothing of this to anyone. Mr.Craven has not a suspicion of it. Nor has anyone else whom we know. Dropthat man at once. I don't think he will ask you for your reason. Hisnot doing so will help to prove to you that I am telling you thetruth.--Yours sincerely,
"ADELA SELLINGWORTH."
When she had finished this letter Lady Sellingworth read it overcarefully twice, then put it into an envelope and wrote on the envelopeBeryl's address, and in the corner "strictly private." But having donethis she did not fasten the envelope, though she lit a red candle thatwas on the table and took up a stick of sealing-wax. Again hesitationseized her.
The written word remains. Might it not be very dangerous to send thisletter? Suppose Beryl did show it to that man who called himself NicolasArabian? He might--it was improbable, but he might--bring an action forlibel against the writer. Lady Sellingworth sickened as she thought ofthat, and rapidly she imagined a hideous scandal, all London talking ofher, the Law Courts, herself in the witness-box, cross-examination. Whatevidence could she give to prove that the accusation she had written wastrue?
But surely Beryl would not show the letter. It would be dishonourableto show it, and though she could be very cruel Lady Sellingworth did notbelieve that Beryl was a dishonourable girl. But if she was in love withthat man? If she was under his influence? Women in love, women under aspell, are capable of doing extraordinary things. Lady Sellingworth knewthat only too well. She remembered her own madnesses, the madnessesof women she had known, women of the "old guard." And Arabian hadfascination. She had felt it long ago. And Beryl was young and hadwildness in her.
It might be very dangerous to send that letter.
But if she did not send it, what was she going to do? She could notleave things as they were, could not just hold her peace. To dothat would be infamous. And she could not be infamous. She felt theobligation of age. Beryl had been cruel to her, but she could not leavethe girl in ignorance of the character of Arabian. If she did somethinghorrible might happen, would almost certainly happen. Beryl was veryrich now, and no doubt that man knew it. The death of her father hadbeen put in all the papers. There had been public chatter about thefortune he had left. Men like Arabian knew what they were about. Theyworked with deliberation, worked according to plan. And Beryl wasbeautiful as well as rich.
Things could not be left as they were.
If she did not send that letter Lady Sellingworth told herself that shewould have to see Beryl and speak to her. She would have to say whatshe had written. But that would be intolerable. The girl would askquestions, would insist on explanations, would demand to be enlightened.And then--As she sat by the writing-table, plunged in thought,Lady Sellingworth lost all count of time. But at last she took thesealing-wax, put it to the candle flame, and sealed up the letter. Shehad resolved that she would take the risk of sending it. Anything wasbetter than seeing Beryl, than speaking about this horror. And Berylwould surely not be dishonourable.
Having sealed the letter Lady Sellingworth took it with her upstairs.She had decided to leave it herself at Claridge's Hotel on the morrow.
But after a wretched night she was again seized by hesitation. A devilcame and tempted her, asking her what business this was of hers, why sheshould interfere in this matter. Beryl was audacious, self-possessed,accustomed to take her own way, to live as she chose, to know all sortsand conditions of men. She was not an ignorant girl, inexperienced inthe ways of the world. She knew how to take care of herself. Whynot destroy the letter and just keep silence? She had really noresponsibility in this matter. Beryl was only an acquaintance who hadtried to harm her happiness. And then the tempter suggested to her thatby taking any action she must inevitably injure her own life. He broughtto her mind thoughts of Craven. If she let Beryl alone the fascinationof Arabian might work upon the girl so effectually that Craven wouldmean nothing to her any more; but if she sent the letter, or spoke, andBeryl heeded the warning, eventually, perhaps very soon, Beryl wouldturn again to Craven.
By warning Beryl Lady Sellingworth would very probably turn a weaponupon herself. And she realized that fully. For she had no expectationof real gratitude from the girl expressing itself in instinctiveunselfishness.
"I should merely make an enemy by doing it," she thought. "Or rather twoenemies."
And she locked the letter up. She thought she would do nothing. But asthe day wore on she was haunted by a feeling of self-hatred. She haddone many wrong things in her life, but certain types of wrong thingsshe had never yet done. Her sins had been the sins of what is calledpassion. There had been strong feeling behind them, prompting desire,a flame, though not always the purest sort of flame. She had not been acold sinner. Nor had she been a contemptible coward. Now she was besetby an ugly sensation of cowardice which made her ill at ease withherself. She thought of Seymour Portman. He was able to love her, to goon loving her. Therefore, in spite of all her caprices, in spite of allshe had done, he believed in that part of her which men have agreedto call character. She could not love him as he wished, but she hadan immeasurable respect for him. And she knew that above all the othervirtues he placed courage, moral and physical. Noblesse oblige. He wouldnever fail. He considered it an obligation on those who were born inwhat he still thought of as the ruling class to hold their heads high infearlessness. And in her blood, too, ran something of the same feelingof obligation.
If she put her case before Seymour what would he tell her to do? To askthat question was to answer it. He would not even tell. He would notthink it necessary to do that. She could almost hear his voice saying:"There's only one thing to be done."
She was loved by Seymour; she simply could not be a coward.
And she unlocked the box in which the letter was lying, and ordered hercar to come round.
"Please drive to Claridge's!" she said as she got into it.
On the way to the hotel she kept saying to herself: "Seymour! Seymour!It's the only thing to do. It's the only thing to do."
When the car stopped in front of the hotel she got out and went herselfto the bureau.
"Please give this to Miss Van Tuyn at once. It is very important."
"Yes, my lady."
"Is she in?"
"I'm not sure, my lady, but I can soon--"
"No, no, it doesn't matter. But it is really important."
"It shall go up at once my lady."
"Thank you."
As Lady Sellingworth got into her car she felt a sense of relief.
"I've done the right thing. Nothing else matters."