On the following afternoon Craven called on Lady Sellingworth about fiveo'clock and was told by the new footman in a rather determined mannerthat she was "not at home."
"I hope her ladyship is quite well?" he said.
"I believe so, sir," replied the man. "Her ladyship has been out drivingto-day."
"Please give her that card. Wait one moment."
He pencilled on the card, "I hope you are better,--A.C.," gave it tothe man, and walked away, feeling sure that Lady Sellingworth was in thehouse but did not choose to see him.
In the evening he received the following note from her:
18A, BERKELEY SQUARE,
Thursday.
DEAR MR. CRAVEN,--How kind of you to call and to write that littlemessage. I am sorry I could not see you. I'm not at all ill, and havebeen out driving. But, between you and me--for I hate to make a fussabout trifling matters of health--I feel rather played out. Perhaps it'spartly old age! You know nothing about that. Any variation in my quietlife seems to act as a disturbing influence. And the restaurant theother night really was terribly hot. I mustn't go there again, thoughit is great fun. I suppose you didn't see Beryl? She has been to see me,but said nothing about it. Be nice to her. I don't think she has manyreal friends in London.--Yours very sincerely,
ADELA SELLINGWORTH.
"What is it? What has happened?" Craven thought, as he put down theletter.
He felt that some drama had been played out, or partially played out,within the last days which he did not understand, which he was notallowed to understand. Lady Sellingworth chose to keep him in thedark. Well, she had the right to do that. As he thought over things herealized that the heat in the restaurant could certainly not have beenthe sole reason of her strange conduct on the night when they had dinedtogether. Something had upset her mentally. A physical reason only couldnot account for her behaviour. And again he thought of Arabian.
Instinctively he hated the man. Who was he? Where did he come from?Craven could not place him. Beyond feeling sure that he was a "wrong'un" Craven had no very definite opinion about him. He was well dressed,good looking--too good looking--and no doubt knew how to behave. Hemight even possibly be a gentleman of sorts, come to England from someexotic land where the breed of gentleman was quite different from thatwhich prevailed in England. But he was surely a beast. Craven detestedhis good looks, loathed his large and lustrous brown eyes. He was thesort of beast who did nothing but make up to women. Something inherentlyclean in Craven rejected the fellow, wished to drive him into outerdarkness.
Could Lady Sellingworth know such a man?
That seemed quite impossible. Nevertheless, certain things persistentlysuggested to Craven that at least she had some knowledge of Arabianwhich she was deliberately concealing from him. The most salient ofthese things was her reiterated attempt to push him into the company ofBeryl Van Tuyn. It was impossible not to think that Lady Sellingworthwished him to interfere between Beryl Van Tuyn and Arabian. On the nightof the dinner in Soho she had attempted to persuade him to go back tothe restaurant and to see Beryl home. And now here in this letter shereturned to the matter.
"Be nice to her. I don't think she has many real friends in London."
"Go to see Beryl; don't come to see me."
Between the lines of Lady Sellingworth's letter Craven read those wordsand wondered at the ways of women. But he did not mean to obey theunwritten command. And he felt angry with Lady Sellingworth for givingit by implication. She might have what she considered a good reason forher extraordinary behaviour. But as she did not allow him to understandit, as she chose to keep him entirely in the dark, he would be passive.It was not his business to run after Beryl Van Tuyn, to interfere almostforcibly between her and another man, even if that man were a scoundrel.Miss Van Tuyn was a free agent. She had the right to choose her ownfriends, her own lovers. Once he had decided that he would not give uphis intimacy with her in favour of another man without a struggle, thesort of polite, and perhaps subtle, struggle which is suitable to thetwentieth century, when man must only be barbarous in battle. But sincethe encounter in Glebe Place he had changed his mind. Disgust hadseized him that day. What could he think but that Beryl Van Tuyn haddeliberately induced him to come to Glebe Place, in order that he mightsee not only her absolute indifference to him but also her intimacywith Arabian? Her reason for such a crude exposure of her lightness ofconduct escaped Craven. He could not conceive what she was up to, unlessher design was to arouse in him violent jealousy. He did feel jealous,but he was certainly not going to show it. Besides, the delicacythat was natural in him was disquieted by what he thought of as thecoarseness of her behaviour.
As once more he looked at Lady Sellingworth's letter he was struck bysomething final in the wording of it. There was nothing explicit in it.On the contrary, that seemed to be carefully avoided. But the allusionsto old age, to disturbing influences, the decision not to go again tothe _Bella Napoli_--these seemed to hint an intention to return to aformer state of being, to abandon a new path of life. And he remembereda conversation with Francis Braybrooke at the club, the interest it hadroused in him. Some slumbering feeling for romance had been stirred inhim, he now thought, by that conversation, by the information he hadreceived about the distinguished recluse who had lived a great life andthen suddenly plunged into old age and complete retirement.
Now he seemed to hear a door shutting, and he was outside it. She hadallowed him to enter her life for a short time, to enter it almostintimately. But she was surely repenting of that intimacy. He did notknow why. Did he ever know why a woman did this or that? There was nosuggestion in the letter that he should ever call again, no hint of adesire to see him. She was only sorry, politely sorry, that she hadnot been able to see him that day. But no reason was given for theinability. She had not considered it necessary to give him a reason.When she had gone abroad without letting him know he had said to himselfthat his brief friendship with her had come to an end. He felt that moreacutely now. For she had come back from abroad. She was close to himin London. She had tried him again. Evidently she must have found himwanting. For once more she was giving him up. Perhaps he was too young.Perhaps he bored her. He did not know.
"I don't suppose I shall ever know."
To that conclusion he came at last. And the sense of finality grew inhim, cold and inexorable. She was a mystery to him. He did not loveher. He had never thought of her as she had thought of him. He had neverknown or suspected what her feelings for him had been. But he felt thatsomething which might have meant a good deal, even perhaps a great deal,to him was being withdrawn from his life. And this withdrawal hurt himand saddened him.
He locked up her letter in his dispatch box. It would be a souvenir of afriendship which had seemed to promise much and which had ended abruptlyin mystery. He did not answer it. Perhaps, probably, he would have doneso but for the last two sentences in it.