CHAPTER X
As soon as Beryl had gone Lady Sellingworth went downstairs to herwriting-room. She turned on the electric light as she went in to theroom, and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. The hands pointed tohalf-past nine. She wondered where Seymour was dining. He might chanceto be at home. It was much more likely that he was dining out, at oneof his clubs or elsewhere. If he were at home and alone he would come toher at once; if not she would perhaps have to wait till half-past ten oreleven. She hoped to find him at St. James's Palace. As this thinghad to be done--and now she had burnt her boats, for she had promisedBeryl--she wished to do it quickly.
She inquired through the telephone if Seymour was at home. His servantreplied that he was out. She asked where. The servant did not know. Hismaster had dressed and gone out at a quarter to eight without sayingwhere he was dining. Lady Sellingworth frowned as she received thisinformation. She hesitated for a moment, then she said:
"As soon as Sir Seymour comes in, however late it may be, I want to seehim on an urgent matter. If you go to bed before he comes back, willyou please leave a written message in the hall asking him to visit LadySellingworth at once in Berkeley Square. It is very important."
"Yes, my lady," said the voice.
"You won't forget? I shall be sitting up for Sir Seymour."
"No, my lady. I will stay up and inform Sir Seymour."
"Thank you."
She put the receiver back in its place and again looked at the clock.She had not much hope of seeing Seymour before eleven at the earliest.He might be at a big dinner. He might be at the theatre. Probably hewould go to his club afterwards. She might not see him till midnight,even later perhaps. Well, it could not be helped. She must just bepatient, must wait calmly. But she did not want to wait. She wasbeginning to feel nervous, and she knew that the nervousness wouldincrease in suspense. How unlucky that Seymour was out!
She rang the bell. Murgatroyd came.
"I am expecting Sir Seymour to-night, Murgatroyd," she said, "about someimportant business. But I can't find out where he is, so he won't knowtill he goes home. That may be late. But he will come here directly hegets my message. I'm sorry to keep you up, but I should like you to lethim in."
"Certainly, my lady," said Murgatroyd.
"I shall be waiting for him in the drawing-room. Bring me up somecamomile tea, will you? And put out a cigar and whisky and Perrier forSir Seymour."
"Yes, my lady."
"That's all."
Murgatroyd stood back to let her pass out of the room. She thought atthat moment there was something sympathetic in his face.
"I believe he's rather devoted to me, and to Seymour too," she said toherself as she went upstairs. "I don't think he'll say anything to theothers. Not that it matters if he does!"
Nevertheless she felt oddly shy about Seymour coming to her very late atnight, and wondered what Murgatroyd thought of that long friendship.No doubt he knew, no doubt all the servants knew, how devoted to herSeymour was.
She went into the drawing-room and sat down by the fire, and very soonMurgatroyd brought in the camomile tea. Then he placed on a side table abox of cigars, whisky and Perrier water, and went out.
The clock chimed the quarter before ten.
Camomile tea is generally supposed to be good for the nerves. That waswhy Lady Sellingworth had ordered it; that was why she drank it now. Fornow she was beginning to feel horribly nervous, and the feeling seemedto increase in her with every passing moment. It was dreadful waitingfor Seymour like this. She felt all her courage and determination oozingaway. When Beryl had been there, and that strange and abrupt decisionhad been come to, Lady Sellingworth had felt almost glad. Seymour wouldknow what Beryl knew, the worst and perhaps the best, of his old friend.And there was no one else she could go to. Seymour was an old soldier, athorough man of the world, absolutely discreet, with a silent tongue andproved courage and coolness. No one surely existed more fitted to dealdrastically with a scoundrel than he. Lady Sellingworth had no idea whathe would do. But he would surely find a way to get rid of Arabian, to"drive" him, as Beryl had put it, out of the girl's life for ever.Yes, he would find a way. Lady Sellingworth felt positive of that, and,feeling thus positive, she realized how absolutely she trusted Seymour,trusted his heart, his brain, his whole character.
Nevertheless she looked again and again at the clock, and began to feelalmost sick with anxiety.
The thought of confession had scarcely frightened her when Beryl waswith her. Indeed, it had brought her a sense of relief. But now shebegan to feel almost panic-stricken at the knowledge of what was beforeher. And she began to wonder exactly how much Seymour understood of hercharacter, exactly how much he knew of her past. He must certainly knowa great deal, and perhaps suspect more than he knew. She had once beenalmost explicit with him, on the terrible day when she had tried to makeup her mind to marry him, and had failed. And yet he might be surprised,he might even be horrified when she told him. It was such an uglystory, such a hideous story. And Seymour was full of natural rectitude.Whatever he had done in his life, he must always have been incapable ofstooping down to the gutter, as she had stooped. She grew hot and thencold at the thought of telling him. Perhaps he would not be able to bearit. Perhaps even his love could not stand so much as that. If, aftershe had told him, he looked at her with different eyes, if he changedtowards her! He would not want to change, but if he could not help it!
How awful that would be! Something deep down within her seemed tofounder at the mere thought of it. To lose Seymour! That would indeed bethe end of everything that made life worth living for her. She shudderedon her sofa. Then she got up and stood before the blazing fire. Butstill she felt cold. Surely she had acted imprudently when Beryl wasthere. She had been carried away, had yielded to a sudden impulse. Andyet no! For she had stood with her back to Beryl for several minutesbefore she had said she was going to tell Seymour. And through thoseminutes she had been thinking hard. Yes; but she had not thought as shewas thinking now.
She began to feel desperate. It was nearly eleven o'clock. The time hadflown. Why had she asked Seymour to come to-night? She might just aswell have waited till to-morrow, have "slept on it." The night bringscounsel. Yet how could she break her promise to Beryl? It would be nouse debating, for she had promised.
The clock struck eleven.
Seymour might come now in a moment. On the other hand, he might notreach home till midnight, or even later. It would really be a shame tobring him out again at such an hour. She had been thoughtless when shewas at the telephone. And she was keeping his man up; Murgatroyd too.That was scarcely fair. It would not matter if Seymour came now, but ifhe did not get home till much later, as was possible, even probable! Shehad surely been rather selfish in her desire to do something quickly forBeryl. There was no such terrible hurry about the matter.
An overwhelming desire to postpone things took hold of her. She wantedto have time to think over how she would put it to Seymour. Would not itperhaps be possible to obtain his help for Beryl without telling him thewhole truth about Arabian? She might just say that she knew the man wasa blackguard without saying why she knew. There was perhaps no need tobe absolutely explicit. Seymour would take it from her without askingawkward questions. He was the least curious of men. He would probablymuch rather not know the truth. It would be as horrible for him to hearit as for her to tell it. But she must have time to think carefully overhow she would put it to him. Yes, she must have time. Better to see himto-morrow morning.
A quarter-past eleven!
It would really be monstrous to drag Seymour out to have a longconfabulation about a girl whom he scarcely knew, and could have nointerest in, at this time of night.
And she turned from the fire and went decisively towards the door.She would go down at once and telephone to Seymour's apartment in St.James's Palace cancelling her request to his manservant.
She found Murgatroyd waiting in the hall. He looked faintly surprised atseeing her.
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br /> "Oh, Murgatroyd!" she said. "It's getting so late that I've decided toput off Sir Seymour till to-morrow. I'm just going to telephone now. Soyou needn't sit up any longer."
"Very well, my lady."
"Good night."
"Good night, my lady."
"I'll turn out the lights when I go up."
"Shan't I--"
"No--you needn't. Good night."
She went into the writing-room and shut the door behind her. The thoughtof the intense relief she would feel directly she had spoken through thetelephone and put off Seymour, directly it was settled that he was notto come and see her that night, sent her straight to the telephone. Shewas eager to communicate with his servant. But she wished now intenselythat she had not waited so long. She might possibly be too late. Seymourmight have returned home, had her message, and started for BerkeleySquare. She took the receiver in her hand and was just going to speakwhen she heard a cab outside in the Square. She listened. It came up andstopped at her door.
That was Seymour! She was certain of it. She put the receiver backin its place and stood quite still, listening. The bell was rung.Murgatroyd could not have gone to bed. He would answer the bell nodoubt. If he did not she would have to answer it. After a pause sheheard the bell again, then, almost immediately the front door beingopened, and a faint murmur of voices. An instant later she heard the cabdrive away. Perhaps--had Seymour called and gone away? Could Murgatroydhave--The door behind her opened. She turned sharply.
"Sir Seymour Portman has called to see you, my lady."
Looking beyond Murgatroyd she saw Seymour standing in the hall, inevening dress and a thick black overcoat.
Seymour had sent away his cab!
She went into the hall smiling faintly.
"So you have come! I was just going to speak to your man through thetelephone, to tell him not to bother you, that it didn't matter, andthat to-morrow would do as well. It's so very late."
He began to take off his overcoat, helped by Murgatroyd.
"Not a bit too late!" he said. "I shall enjoy a little talk with you bythe fire. Thanks, Murgatroyd! I was dining out with the Montgomeries inEaton Square."
"Come upstairs."
She led the way, and as she mounted slowly with him close behind her shefelt weak and now horribly afraid. She went into the drawing-room.He followed and shut the door, then came slowly, with his firm tread,towards her and the fire.
"Ah!" he said. "You thought of me!"
He had seen the cigar-box, the whisky and Perrier. A very gentle,intensely kind, almost beaming look came into his lined face.
"Or--was it Murgatroyd?"
"No."
"I wonder whether you know what it means to an old fellow like myself tobe thought of now and then in these little ways!"
"Oh--Seymour!" she said.
Tears stood in her eyes. His few simple words had suddenly brought hometo her in a strange, intense way the long loneliness to which shehad condemned him. And now he was an old fellow! And he was grateful,beamingly grateful, for a little commonplace thought about his comfortsuch as any hostess might surely have had!
"Don't!" she added. "You hurt me when you say such a thing."
"Do I? And if I take a cigar?"
"Here! Let me clip it for you!"
As she clipped it he said:
"There is nothing serious the matter, is there, Adela? When I had yourmessage I felt a little anxious."
She lit a match for him. She felt very tender over him, but she feltalso very much afraid of him.
"Your hand is trembling, my dear!"
He took hold of her wrist, and held it while she lit his cigar. And hisdry, firm fingers seemed to send her some strength.
"If only I had as little to be ashamed of as he has!" she thought, witha sort of writhing despair.
And she longed, as never before, for an easy conscience.
"I've had rather a trying time just lately," she said. "Come and sitdown. Will you drink something?"
"Not yet, thank you."
He sat down in an arm-chair and crossed his legs, putting the right legover the left, as he always did. She was on her sofa, leaning on herleft arm, and looking at him. She was trying to read him, to read hiswhole character, to force her way to his secret, that she might besure how much she might dare. Could he ever turn against her? Was thatpossible? His kind, dark eyes were fixed upon her. Could they ever lookunkindly at her? She could scarcely believe that they could. But sheknew that in human nature few things are impossible. Such terriblechanges can take place in a moment. And the mystery is never reallysolved.
"Well, my dear, would you like to tell me what is troubling you? PerhapsI can do something."
"I want you to do something for me. Or rather--it would really be forsomebody else. You remember Beryl Van Tuyn?"
"The daffodil girl--yes."
"She has been here to-night. She is in a great difficulty. By the way,of course she knows about my consulting you. I told her I would do it."
"I did not suppose you would give away a confidence."
"No! Seymour, has it ever struck you that there is something in youand in me which is akin in spite of the tremendous differences in ournatures?"
"Oh yes."
"I'm glad. I like to feel that and--and I want you to feel it."
"I do. I feel it strongly."
"Whatever happens it would always be there."
"Yes, of course."
"It helps you to understand me, I expect."
"Surely it must."
"I wonder if you could ever--"
"What is it, Adela?"
"I wonder if you could ever turn against me."
"I don't think that is very likely," he said.
She looked at him. He was smiling.
"But--could nothing cause you to change towards me?"
"Some things might cause me to change towards anyone."
"Ah!"
"But as they are not in your nature we need not consider them."
"But how do you know?"
"I do know."
"But--what?"
"I know what you might do, or may have done. I know just as well whatyou have never done and could never do."
"But I have done some horrible things, Seymour."
"They are past. Let us forget them."
"But--horrible things come back in one's life! They are like_revenants_. After years--they rise up."
"What is the matter, Adela? Do tell me."
"I want to, but I'm afraid."
And directly she had told him that she felt less afraid.
"What are you afraid of?"
"I'm afraid of you."
"Of me?"
"Of what you may think of me, feel towards me, if I tell you."
"Then--you do care what I feel?"
"I care very much. I care terribly."
Sir Seymour uncrossed his legs and made a slight movement as if he weregoing to get up. Then he sat still and took a pull at his cigar, andthen he said:
"You need not be afraid of me, Adela. I have made up my mind about you.Do you know what that means? It means that you cannot surprise me. AndI think it is surprise which oftenest brings about changes in feeling.What is it? You say it is something to do with Miss Van Tuyn?"
"Yes, but my life is in it, too; a horrible bit of my life."
"What can I do unless you tell me?"
"That's true."
She sat for a moment in silence gazing at him, at the lean figure, theweather-beaten face, the curly white hair, and at the dark eyes whichwere looking steadily at her, but not penetratingly, not cruelly. Andthen she sat straight up, took her arm from the sofa, folded her handson her lap with an effort to make them look calm, and began to tell him.She spoke very simply, very steadily. She dressed nothing up. Shestrove to diminish nothing. Her only aim was to be quite unemotional andperfectly truthful. She began with Beryl Van Tuyn's acquaintance withArabian, how she had met him in Garstin's studio, and went on till sheca
me to the night when she and Craven had seen them together at the_Bella Napoli_.
"I recognized the man Beryl was with," she said. "I knew him to be ablackguard."
She described her abrupt departure from the restaurant, Craven'sfollowing her, her effort to persuade him to go back and to take Berylhome.
"I went home alone," she said, "and considered what I ought to do.Finally I wrote Beryl a letter, it was something like this."
She gave him the gist of the letter. Seymour sat smoking and did not saya word. Her narrative had been so consecutive and plain that he hadno need to ask any question. And she was glad of his silence. Anyinterruption, she felt, would have upset her, perhaps even have confusedher.
"Beryl was not satisfied with that letter," she went on. "On the nightwhen she had it--last night--she came to me to ask for an explanation.I didn't want to give one. I did my best to avoid giving one. But whenI found she was obstinate, and would not drop this man unless I gaveher my reasons for warning her against him, when I found she hadeven thought of marrying him, I felt that it was my duty to tell hereverything. So I told her--this."
And then she told him all the truth about the affair of the jewels,emphasizing nothing, but omitting nothing. She looked away from him,turned her eyes towards the fire, and tried to feel very calm and verydetached. It was all ten years ago. But did that make any difference?For was she essentially different from the woman who had been Arabian'svictim?
Still Seymour sat as before and went on smoking. As she was gazing atthe fire she did not know for certain whether he was still looking ather or not.
At last she had finished the personal part of her narrative, though shehad still to tell him how Beryl had taken it and what had happened thatday. Before going on to that she paused for a moment. And immediatelyshe heard Seymour move. He got up and went slowly to the table where thewhisky and Perrier water had been placed by Murgatroyd. Then she lookedat him. He stood with his back to her. She saw him bend down and pourout a glass of the water. Without turning he lifted the glass to hismouth and drank. Then he put the glass down; and then he stood for amoment quite still, always keeping his back towards her. She wonderedwhat he was looking at. That was the question in her mind. "What canSeymour be looking at?"
At last he turned round. She thought that his face looked unusuallystern, and his bushy eyebrows seemed--so she fancied--to be drawn downlow above his eyes.
"Go on--my dear," he said in a rather gruff and very low voice.
She quivered. She, perhaps, scarcely knew why. At the moment she reallybelieved that she did not know why. Suddenly emotion began to gain onher. But she struggled resolutely against it.
"Aren't you--don't you mean to sit down again?" she said.
"No. I think I'll stand."
And he came slowly to stand by the fire.
"Well," she began again, making a great effort, "I thought that was all.I didn't think there was anything more for me to do. But Beryl came backagain to-night and begged me to help her. She is terrified of what hemay do. I tried to reassure her. But it was no good."
And again she narrated, now with difficulty forcing herself to seem calmand unembarrassed, exactly what had happened that day between Beryl VanTuyn and herself, till she came to the moment when she had turned awayfrom Beryl and had gone to stand by the fire. Then once more she pausedand seemed seized by hesitation. As Sir Seymour said nothing, did nothelp her out, at last she went on:
"Then I thought of you. I had never meant to tell anyone but Beryl, butas _I_ could do nothing to help her, and as she is perhaps, really indanger--she is only a girl, and she spoke of the fascination of fear--Ifelt I must make a further effort to do something. And I thought ofyou."
"Why was that?" asked Sir Seymour, turning towards her, but notimpulsively.
"Because I knew if anyone could stop this thing you could."
"That was your reason?"
"That--and--and I knew that I could never tell all this--about myself, Imean--to anyone but you. For ten years no one has known it."
"You felt you could tell me!"
The way in which he said those words was so inexpressive that LadySellingworth did not know what was the feeling behind them, whether itwas astonishment, indignation, or something quite different.
"I--I didn't want to--" She almost faltered, again full of fear, almostof terror. "I was afraid to. But I felt I could, and I had told Berylso."
"I wonder what made you feel you could," he said, still in the samecuriously inexpressive way.
She said nothing. She leaned back on the sofa and her hands began tomove restlessly, nervously. She plucked at her dress, put a hand to theruby pinned in the front of her bodice, lifted the hand to her face,laid it on the back of the sofa.
"What was it?" he said.
"I hardly feel I can tell you," she said.
"Then don't, if you would rather not. But I should be glad to know."
"Would you? I told Beryl the reason."
She felt forced to say that, forced to speak that bit of truth.
"Then, if so, cannot you tell me?"
"I said--I said I could tell you because I knew you were fond of me."
"Ah--that was it!"
He was silent. At last he said:
"I should like to ask you a question. May I?"
"Yes--please do."
"Are you very fond of Beryl Van Tuyn?"
"Oh, no!"
"Aren't you at all fond of her?"
"I'm afraid not. No. But I like her much better than I did."
"Since you have done something for her?"
"Perhaps it is that."
"It is that."
He came towards the sofa and stood by it looking down at her.
"I told you just now, Adela, that you couldn't surprise me. What youhave done in connexion with Beryl Van Tuyn has not surprised me. Ialways knew you were capable of such a thing; yes, even of a thing asfine as that. Thank God you have had your opportunity. Of course youtook it. But thank God you have had it."
"I had to take it. I couldn't do anything else."
"Of course _you_ couldn't."
She got up. She did not know why. She just felt that she had to get up.Seymour put his hands on her shoulders.
"Have you ever wondered why I was able to go on loving you?" he askedher.
"Yes, very often."
"Well, now perhaps you won't wonder any more."
And he lifted his hands from her shoulders. But he stood there for amoment looking at her. And in his eyes she read her reward.