CHAPTER IX
After Lady Sellingworth had written and sent her note to Craven she feltthat she was facing a new phase of life, and she thought of it as thelast phase. Her sacrifice of self was surely complete at last. Shehad exposed her nature naked to Beryl Van Tuyn. She had given up herfriendship with Alick Craven. There was nothing more for her to do. Thecall of youth had wrung from her a response which created lonelinessaround her. And now she had to find within herself the resolution toface this loneliness bravely.
When she wrote to Craven she had meant him to understand something ofwhat he had understood. Yet she did not desire to hurt him. She wouldnot have hurt him for the world. Secretly her heart yearned over him.But she could never let him know that. He might be puzzled by herletter. He might even resent it. But he would soon forget any feelingroused by it. And he would no doubt soon forget her, the old woman whohad been kind to him for a time, who had even been almost Bohemian withhim in a very mild way, and who had then tacitly given him up. Perhapsshe would see him again. Probably she would. She had no intentions ofpermanently closing her door against him. But she would not encouragehim to come. She would never dine out with him again. If he came he mustcome as an ordinary caller at the ordinary caller's hour.
Seymour Portman called on her in the late afternoon of the day whenshe wrote to Craven. Just before his arrival she was feeling peculiarlyblank and almost confusedly dull. She had gone through so much recently,had lived at such high tension, had suffered such intense nervousexcitement, in the restaurant of the _Bella Napoli_ and afterwards, thatboth body and mind refused to function quite normally. Long ago she hadstayed at St. Moritz in the depth of the winter, and had got up eachmorning to greet the fierce blue sky, the blazing sun, the white glareof the enveloping snows with a strange feeling of light, yet depressed,detachment. She began to have a similar feeling now. Far down she washorribly sad. But her surface seemed to say, "Nothing matters, becauseI am in an abnormal condition, and while I remain in this conditionnothing can really matter to me." Surface and depths were incontradiction, yet she was not even fully aware of that. A numbness heldher, and yet she was nervous.
She heard the drawing-room door open and Murgatroyd's voice make thefamiliar announcement; she saw Seymour's upright, soldierly figure comeinto the room; she smiled a greeting to her old friend; and the soundof Murgatroyd's voice, the sight of Seymour coming towards her, her ownresponse to sound and sight, did not conquer the sensation of numbness.
"Yes, he is here. He does not forget me. He loves me and will alwayslove me. But what does it matter?"
A voice seemed to be saying that within her. Recently she had sufferedacutely; she had made a great effort; she had conquered herself and beenconquered by another. And it had all been just too much for her. Shewas, she thought, like one who had fought desperately lying in deadlysilence and calm on the deserted battlefield, utterly passive becauseutterly tired out.
But Seymour did not know that. He knew nothing of all that had happened,and Beryl knew everything. And she thought of a picture called "Lovelocked out." It was hardly fair that Seymour should know so little. Andwhile he was quietly talking to her, telling her little bits of newswhich he thought would interest her, letting her in by proxy as it wereto the life of the great world which she had abandoned but in whichhe still played a part, she was thinking, "If Seymour knew what I havedone! If I told him, what would he think, what would he say?" He wouldbe pleased, no doubt. But would he be surprised? And while she listenedand talked she began to wonder, but always without intensity, aboutthat. Seymour would think she had done the inevitable thing, whatany thoroughbred was bound to do. And yet--would he be surprisednevertheless that she had been able to do it? She began presently tofeel a slight tingle of curiosity about that. Had she, perhaps, toa certain extent justified Seymour's fidelity? He had a splendidcharacter. She certainly had not. She had done countless things thatSeymour must have hated, and secretly condemned. And yet he hadsomehow been able to go on loving her. Was that because he had alwaysinstinctively known that somewhere within her there was a traditionalvirtue which marched with his, that there was a voice which spoke hislanguage?
"I suppose, in spite of all, in a way we are akin," she thought.
And she began to wish vaguely that he knew it, that he knew what hadhappened between her and Beryl. As she looked at his "cauliflower,"bent towards her while he talked, at his strong soldier's face, athis faithful eyes, the eyes of the "old dog," she wished that it werepossible to let Seymour know a little bit of the best of her. Not thatshe was proud of what she had done. She was too much akin to Seymour tobe proud of such a thing, But Seymour would be pleased with her. And itwould be pleasant to give him pleasure. It would be like giving hima small, a very small, reward for his long faithfulness, for his verybeautiful and touching loyalty.
"What is it, Adela?" he said.
And a keen, searching look had come into his eyes.
She smiled vaguely, meeting his gaze. She still felt curiously detached,although she was able to think quite connectedly.
"What are you thinking about?"
"Why do you ask?"
"I feel you are not as usual to-day."
"In what way?"
"Something has happened. I don't, of course, wish to know what it is.But it has changed you, my dear."
"In what way?" she said again.
His reply startled her, set her free from her feeling of numbness,of light detachment, from what she called to herself her "St. Moritzfeeling."
"I feel as if you were coming into possession of your true self atlast," he said very gravely. "But as if perhaps you scarcely knew ityet."
A slow red crept in her cheeks, which would never know again the touchof the artificial red.
"Dear Seymour! My true self! I wonder what sort of self you think thatis?"
"That's easily told. It is the self I have been loving for so manyyears. And now--"
He got up, still alert in his movement, out of his chair.
"You are going?"
"Yes. I have to meet 'Better not' at the Marlborough to talk over HisMajesty's visit to Manchester."
"Ah!" she said.
"Better not" was the nickname given at Court to a certain much-valuedgentleman about the king.
She did not try to detain Seymour. But when he had gone deep depressionovercame her. She was the helpless victim of a tremendous reaction. Solong as she had been in activity she had been able to endure. Even thehorror of the _Bella Napoli_, complex and cruelly intense as the probingof steel among the nerves of the body, she had been able to live throughwithout obvious flinching. But then there had been something to do,something to deal with, something to get the better of. There had beena necessity for action. And now there was nothing. Her activities wereover. Seymour had broken the curious spell which for a short time hadbound her, and now she realized everything with unnatural acuteness.
What was the good of coming into possession of her true self? What wasthe good of anything? Life was activity. Her late close contact withyouth, her obligation to do something difficult and, to her, tremendousfor youth had taught her that anew, and now she must somehow reconcileherself to extinction. For this was really what lay before hernow--extinction while still alive. Better surely to be struggling withhorrors than to be merely dying away. She even looked back to the scenewith Beryl and thought of it almost with longing. For how she had livedin that scene! At moments during it she had entirely forgotten herself.
Was that perhaps life, the only real life--entire forgetfulness of self?If so, how seldom she had lived! In all her sixty years, in all herso-called "great life," for how short a time she had lived!
She had just then, even in the midst of her reaction, a feeling ofillumination. She was in darkness, but around the darkness, as ifenclosing it and her in it, there was light, a light she had never beenreally aware of till now. Something within her said:
"I see!"
She went up to her bedroom, shut herself
in, went to a bookshelf, andtook down a Bible which stood on it. She turned its pages till she cameto the Sermon on the Mount. Then she began to read. And presently, asshe read, a queer thought came to her. "If the 'old guard' could see menow!"
It was late when she stopped reading. She shut up the Holy Book, put itback on the shelf, and took down a volume of poems. And after readingthe Bible she read the poem of the Wild Heart. And then she read nothingmore. But her reading had waked up in her a longing which was notfamiliar to her except in connexion with what she supposed was the baserpart of her, the part which had troubled, had even tortured her so manytimes in her life. She had often longed to do things for men whom sheloved, or fancied she loved. Now she was conscious of a yearningmore altruistic. She wished to be purely unselfish, if that were everpossible. And she believed it to be possible. For was not Seymourunselfish? He surely often forgot himself in her. But she had alwaysremembered herself in others.
"What a monstrous egoist I have been all my life!" she thought, witha sense of despair. "Only once have I acted with a purely unselfishmotive, and that was with Beryl. Yes, Beryl gave me the one opportunityI took advantage of. And now it is all over. Everything is finished. Itis too late to try a new way of living."
She forgot many little sacrifices she had made in the war, or she didnot count them to her credit. For patriotism in war seemed as naturalto her as drawing breath. She was thinking of her personal life inconnexion with individuals. She had once been unselfish--for Beryl. Thatwas over. Everything was over. And yet Seymour had said that he felt asif at last she were coming into possession of her true self. So he hadnoticed a difference. It was as if what she had been able to do forBeryl had subtly altered her. But there was nothing more for her to do.
That evening she felt loneliness as she had never felt it before. A sortof mental nausea seized her as she dressed for her solitary dinner.For whom was she changing her gown? For Murgatroyd! How grotesque theunwritten regulations of a life like hers were! Why go down to dinnerat all? She had no appetite. Nevertheless, everything was done in dueorder. Her hair was arranged. Cecile looked at her critically to seethat everything was right. For Murgatroyd! Even a jewel was brought tobe pinned in to the front of her gown. It was a big ruby surroundedby diamonds, and as it flashed in the light it brought back to her thehideous memory of Arabian.
What would he do now? It was very strange that after ten years she hadbeen able, indeed she had been obliged, to revenge herself upon him,this man whom she had never known, to whom she had never even spoken.And she had never dreamed of revenge. She had let him go with his prey.Probably her jewels had enabled him to live as he wished to live foryears. And now she had paid him back! Did Fate work blindly, or wasthere a terribly subtle and inexorable plan at work through all humanlife?
"Miladi does not like to wear this ruby?" said Cecile.
"Why do you say that?"
"Milady looks at it so strangely!"
"It reminds me of something. Yes, I will wear it to-night. But what'sthe good?"
"Miladi--?"
"No one will see it but myself."
"Milady should go out more, much more, and receive company here."
"Perhaps I'll give a series of dinners," said Lady Sellingworth with asmile.
And she turned away and went down.
Murgatroyd and a footman were waiting for her. On the dining table wasa menu telling her what she had to eat, what her cook had been, and was,busy over in the kitchen. She sat down at the big table, picked up themenu and glanced at it. But she did not see what was written on it.She saw only in imagination the years before her, perhaps five years,perhaps ten, perhaps even more. For her race was a long living one. Shemight, like some of her forbears, live to be very old. Ten years more ofdinners like this one in Berkeley Square! Could that be endured? As shesipped her soup she thought of travelling. She might shut up the house,go over the seas, wander through the world. There were things to beseen. Nature spread her infinite variety for the sons and the daughtersof men. She might advertise in _The Times_ for a travelling companion.There would be plenty of answers. Or she might get one of her manyacquaintances to come with her, some pleasant woman who would not talktoo much, or too little.
Fish!
When, finally, some fruit had been put before her, and Murgatroyd andthe footman had left the room, she remained--so she thought of it--likea mummy in the tomb which belonged to her. And presently through theprofound silence she heard the hoot of a motor-horn. Someone goingsomewhere! Someone who had something to do, somewhere to go! Someonefrom whom all the activities had not passed away for ever!
The motor-horn sounded again nearer. Now she heard the faint sound ofwheels. The car was coming down her side of the Square. The buzz of themachine reached her ears now, then the grinding of brakes. The car hadstopped somewhere close by, at the next house perhaps.
She heard an electric bell. That was in her own house. Then the car hadstopped at her door.
She listened, and immediately heard a step in the hall. Murgatroyd, orthe footman, was going to the door. She wondered who the caller couldbe. Possibly Seymour! But he never came at that hour.
A moment later Murgatroyd appeared in the room.
"Miss Van Tuyn has called, my lady, and begs you to see her."
"Miss Van Tuyn! Ask her--take her up to the drawing-room, please. I amjust finishing. I will come in a minute."
"Yes, my lady."
Murgatroyd went out and shut the door behind him.
Then Lady Sellingworth took a peach from a dish in front of herand began to peel it. She had not intended to eat any fruit beforeMurgatroyd had given her this news. But she felt that she must havea few minutes by herself. Not long ago she had been appalled by thethought of extinction: had yearned for activity, had even desiredopportunities for unselfishness. Now, suddenly, she was afraid, andclung to her loneliness. For she felt certain that Beryl had come toask her to do something in connexion with Arabian. Something must havehappened since their interview yesterday, and the girl had come to herto ask her help.
She ate the peach very slowly, scarcely tasting it. At last it wasfinished, and she got up from the table. She must not keep Beryl waitingany longer. She must go upstairs. But she went reluctantly, almost infear, wondering, dreading what was coming upon her.
When she opened the drawing-room door she saw Beryl standing by thefire.
"Adela!"
Beryl came forward hurriedly with a nervous manner Lady Sellingworthhad never noticed in her before. Her face was very pale. There were darkrings under her eyes. She looked apprehensive, distracted even.
"Do forgive me for bursting in on you like this at such an hour!"
"Of course!"
She took Beryl's hand. It was hot, and clasped hers with a closenessthat was almost violent.
"What is it? Is anything the matter?"
"I want your advice. I don't--I don't quite know what to do. You see,there's nobody but you I can come to. I know I have no right--I haveno claim upon you. You have been so good to me already. No other womanwould have done what you have done. But you see, I promised never to--Ican't speak to anyone else. I might have gone to Dick Garstin perhaps.. . . I don't know! But as it is I can't speak to a soul but you."
"Is it something about that man?"
"Yes. I'm afraid of him."
"Why?"
"I'm sure he doesn't mean to--I'm sure he won't give me up easily. Iknow he won't!"
"Sit down, Beryl."
"Yes--may I?"
"Have you seen him?"
"Oh, no--no!"
"Has he written?"
"Yes. And he has called to-day. Last night directly I got back to thehotel I gave orders at the bureau that if he called they were to say'not at home.'"
"Well then--"
"But he got in!"
"How could he?"
"When they said I was out he asked for Fanny--Fanny Cronin, mycompanion. He sent up his card to her, and as I hadn't spoken toher--you kno
w I promised not to say anything--she told them to let himcome up. She likes him!"
"And were you in the hotel?"
"No, thank God I was really out. But I came back while he was stillthere."
"Then--"
"No, I didn't see him, as I told you. When I was just going up in thelift, something--it was almost like second sight, I think--prompted meto go to the bureau and ask if anyone was in our rooms. And they told me_he_ was with Fanny, had been with her for over an hour."
"What did you do?"
"I went out at once. I called on one or two people, I stayed out tillnearly half-past seven. I walked about in the dark. I was afraid to gonear the hotel. It was horrible. Finally I thought he must have gone andI ventured to go back. I hurried through the hall. The lift was there.I went into it at once. I didn't look round. I was afraid he might havecome down and be waiting about for me. When I got to our apartment Iwent straight to my bedroom and rang for my maid. She said he was gone.Then I went to Fanny. He had been having tea with her and had stayed twohours. He had--she's very foolish, poor old thing!--he had completelyfascinated her."
Suddenly she blushed violently.
"I have no right to say that about Fanny. But I mean he had laid himselfout to--"
"I quite understand," said Lady Sellingworth, with a sort of awkwarddryness which she could not evade though she hated herself for it.
It was hideous, she felt, being mixed up with this old Miss Cronin andBeryl Van Tuyn in a sort of horrible sisterhood of victims of this vileman's fascination. Her flesh crept at the indignity of it, and allher patrician pride revolted at being remembered among his probablyinnumerable conquests. At that moment she felt punished for having sooften in her life betrayed the best part of her nature.
"I quite understand, Beryl. You need not explain."
"No."
There was an unpleasant silence during which neither woman looked at theother. Then Lady Sellingworth said:
"But you haven't told me everything. And if I am to--if anything is tobe done, can be done, I suppose you had better tell me everything."
"Yes. I want to. I must. Mr.--he told Fanny that I was--that I hadpromised to marry him."
"Ah!"
"He told her that I had been to his flat on the very day that I hadheard of my father's death and since. He promised Fanny that--that whenwe were married she should have a home with us. Isn't that horrible?Fanny has been afraid of my marrying because, you see, she depends in away on me. She doesn't want to leave me. She's got accustomed--"
"Yes--yes."
"He told her that people knew about my visits to him. Mrs. Birchingtonlives in the flat opposite his, and she knows. He contrived that sheshould know. I realize that now."
"A man like that lays his plans carefully."
"Yes. Oh--how humiliating it all is! Fanny was enthusiastic about him."
"What did you say?"
"I was very careful. Because I promised you! But I know she thinks--shemust think I am in love with him. But that doesn't matter. Only it makesthings difficult. But it isn't that which brought me here. I'm afraid ofhim."
"Have you ever written to him?"
"No--never!"
"But you say he has written to you."
"Yes. When he left Fanny he wrote a letter in the hotel and had it sentup to my room. Fanny gave it me just now. I've got it here."
She drew a letter out of a little bag she had brought with her.
"I--I can't show it--"
"Oh--please--I don't want to see it!" said Lady Sellingworth, with anirrepressible shrinking of disgust.
"No, of course not. Adela, please don't think I imagined you did! ButI must tell you--I know you hate all this. You must hate it. Oh, doforgive me for coming here! I know I oughtn't to. But I'm afraid--I'mafraid of him!"
"Why are you so afraid? What can he do?"
"A man like that might do anything!"
"Are you sure? I think such a man is probably a coward at heart."
But Miss Van Tuyn shook her head.
"He's got nerves of steel. I am sure of it. Besides--"
She paused, and a strange conscious look came into her face--a lookwhich Lady Sellingworth did not understand.
"Yes?" she said at last, as Beryl did not speak.
"Adela, I know you will not believe me. I know--you spoke once of mybeing very vain, but--but there are things a girl does know about a man,really there are! They may seem ridiculous, crazy to others, but--"
"What is it, Beryl?"
"I believe besides wanting my money he wants _me_. That's why I'mafraid. If it weren't for that I--perhaps I shouldn't have cometo-night. Can you believe it?"
Lady Sellingworth looked at the girl with eyes which in spite of herselfwere hard. She knew they were hard, but she could not help it. Then shesaid:
"Yes, I can believe it."
"And that he may--he may persist in spite of all. He may refuse to giveit up."
"Haven't you got a will?"
"Yes."
"Can't you use it?"
"Yes. But I'm afraid of him. I believe I've always been afraid of him.No one else has ever been able to make me feel as I do about him. OnceI read an article in a paper. It was about a horrible play--a woman whowas drawn to a man irresistibly in spite of herself, to a hateful man,a murderer. And she went; she had to go. I remember I thought of _him_then. It was a fascination of fear, Adela. There are such things."
"Do you mean to say that after what I have told you--"
"I want someone to get him away, to drive him away from me so that Ishall never see him, so that he will never come near me again! I mightgo to Paris. But it would be no use. He would follow me there. I mightgo to America. But that would be just the same. He says so in thisletter."
She held up the letter in her hand.
"Does he threaten you?"
"No--not exactly! No, he doesn't! It's worse than that. If he didI think I might find the courage. He's subtle, Adela. He's horriblysubtle! Besides, he doesn't know--he can't know that you have told mewhat he is."
"He might guess it. He probably guessed it. He recognized me in therestaurant."
"Yes. He didn't want you to come to our table. But he never spoke ofyou afterwards. He didn't say a word, or show the slightest sign. Butin this letter I feel that he suspects--that he is afraid something mayhappen through you, and that--"
"Perhaps he knows you came to see me last night."
"How could he?"
"It wouldn't be difficult for a man of that type."
"I walked home alone, and nobody--"
"That doesn't prove anything. He is subtle, as you say."
"I am sure from this letter that he guesses something has happened, thatI may have been set against him, and that he doesn't mean to give me up,whatever happens. I feel that in his letter. And I want someone to drivehim away from me. Oh, I wish I had never seen him! I wish I had neverseen him!"
Again Lady Sellingworth heard the cry of youth, and this time it waspiteous, almost despairing. She did not answer it in words. Indeed,instead of showing any pity, any strong instinct of protection, sheturned away from Beryl.
The girl wondered why she did this, and for a moment thought thatperhaps she was angry. The situation was difficult, horribly difficult.Beryl had delicacy enough to understand that. Perhaps she ought not tohave come to Adela again. Perhaps she was asking too much, more than anywoman could bring herself to do, or to try to do. But she had no oneelse to go to, and she was really afraid, miserably afraid.
Lady Sellingworth stood quite still by the fire with her back to Beryl,and as the silence continued at last Beryl made up her mind that therewas nothing to be hoped for from her and got up slowly.
"Adela," she said, trying to summon some pride, some courage, "Iunderstand. You can't do anything more. I oughtn't to have come. It wasmonstrous, I suppose. But--it's like that in life. So few people willhelp. And those that do--well, they get asked for more. I'll--I'llmanage somehow. It's all my own f
ault. I must try to--"
Then Lady Sellingworth turned round. Her white face was very grave,almost stern, like the face of one who was thinking with concentration.
"I'm ready to try to do what I can, Beryl," she said. "But there's onlyone way I can think of. And to take it I shall have to tell the wholetruth."
"About me?"
"About you and myself."
"Oh--but you couldn't do that!"
"I believe that I ought to."
"But--but--to whom?"
"There's only one person I could possibly speak to, and he's the finestman I have ever met. He might do something. I'm thinking of SeymourPortman."
"Adela! But you couldn't tell _him_!"
"Why not?"
"Adela--he loves you. Everyone knows that."
"And that's just why I could tell him--him only."
Miss Van Tuyn looked down. Suddenly she felt that she had tears in hereyes.
"You have kept your cab, haven't you?" said Lady Sellingworth.
"Yes."
"Go home now. I will telephone to Seymour. I'll let you knowlater--to-morrow morning perhaps--what he thinks had better be done.Now, good night, Beryl!"
She held out her hand. Beryl took it, but did not press it. Somehow shefelt awed, and at a distance from this pale quiet woman.
Lady Sellingworth touched the bell, and Beryl Van Tuyn left the room.