CHAPTER I
Lady Sellingworth belonged to a great English family, and had beenbrought up in healthy splendour, saved from the canker of too muchluxury by the aristocratic love of sport which is a tradition in suchEnglish families as hers. As a girl she had been what a certain sportingearl described as "a leggy beauty." Even then she had shown a decidedinclination to run wild and had seldom checked the inclination.Unusually tall and athletic, rather boyish in appearance, and of thethin, greyhound type, she had excelled in games and held her own insports. She had shot in an era when comparatively few women shot, and inthe hunting-field she had shown a reckless courage which had fascinatedthe hard-riding men who frequented her father's house. As she grew olderher beauty had rapidly developed, and with it an insatiable love ofadmiration. Early she had realized that she was going to be a beauty,and had privately thanked the gods for her luck. She could scarcely haveborne not to be a beauty; but, mercifully, it was all right. Woman'sgreatest gift was to be hers. When she looked into the glass and knewthat, when she looked into men's eyes and knew it even more definitely,she felt merciless and eternal. In the dawn no end was in sight; in thedawn no end seemed possible.
From the age of sixteen onwards hers was the intimate joy, certainlyone of the greatest, if not the greatest of all the joys of women, ofknowing that all men looked at her with pleasure, that many men lookedat her with longing, that she was incessantly desired.
From the time when she was sixteen she lived perpetually in thatatmosphere which men throw round a daring and beautiful woman withouteven conscious intention, creating it irresistibly merely by theirnatural desire. And that atmosphere was the breath of life to her. Soonshe could not imagine finding any real value in life without it. Sheoften considered plain girls, dull girls, middle-aged women who hadnever had any beauty, any saving grace but that of freshness, andwondered how they managed to get along at all. What was the use of lifeto them? Nobody bothered about them, except, perhaps, a few relations,or what are called "old friends"--that is, people who, having alwaysbeen accustomed to you, put up with you comfortably, and wear theircarpet slippers in your presence without troubling whether you likeslippers or would prefer them in high-heeled shoes.
As to old women, those from whom almost the last vestiges of what theyonce had been physically had fallen away, she was always charming tothem; but she always wondered why they still seemed to cling on to life.They were done with. It was long ago all over for them. They did notmatter any more, even if once they had mattered. Why did they still keepa hold on life with their skinny hands? Was it from fear of death, orwhat? Once she expressed her wonder about this to a man.
"Of course," she said. "I know they can't go just because they want to.But why do they _want_ to stay?"
"Oh," he said, "I think lots of old ladies enjoy themselves immensely intheir own way."
"Well, I can't understand it!" she said.
And she spoke the truth.
She flirted, of course. Her youthful years were complicated by a mazeof flirtations, through which she wandered with apparently the greatestassurance, gaining knowledge of men.
Finally she married. She made what is called "a great match," the sortof match in every way suitable to such an aristocratic, beautiful anddaring girl.
Then began her real reign.
Although such a keen sportswoman, she was also a woman who had a goodbrain, a quick understanding, and a genuine love of the intellectual andartistic side of life, for its own sake, not for any reason of fashion.She was of the type that rather makes fashions than follows them. As amarried woman she was not only Diana in the open country, she was Egeriaelsewhere. She liked and she wanted all types of men; the hard-bitten,keen-eyed, lean-flanked men who could give her a lead or take a leadfrom her over difficult country, and the softer breed of men, whose morerounded bodies were informed by sharp spirits, who, many of them,could not have sat a horse over the easiest fence, or perhaps even havebrought down a stag at twenty paces, but who would dominate thousandsfrom their desks, or from the stages of opera houses, or from adjustableseats in front of pianos, or from studios hung with embroideries andstrewn with carpets of the East.
These knew how to admire and long for a beautiful woman quite as wellas the men of the moors and the hunting field, and they were often moresubtle in their ways of showing their feelings.
Lady Sellingworth had horses named after her and books dedicated to her.She moved in all sets which were penetrated by the violent zest for thelife of the big world, and in all sets she more than held her own. Shewas as much at home in Chelsea as she was at Newmarket. Her beautifullydisguised search for admiration extended far and wide, and she foundwhat she wanted sometimes in unexpected places, in sombre Oxfordlibraries, in time-worn deaneries, in East-End settlements, throughwhich she flashed now and then like a bird of Paradise, darting acrossthe murk of a strange black country on its way to golden regions, aswell as in Mayfair, in the Shires, in foreign capitals, and on the moorsof Scotland.
Her husband was no obstacle in her way. She completely dominated him,even though she gave him no child. He knew she was, as he expressed it,"worth fifty" of him. Emphatically he was the husband of his wife, andfive years after their marriage he died still adoring her.
She was sorry; she was even very sorry. And she withdrew from the greatworld in which she had been a moving spirit now for over ten years forthe period of mourning, a year. But she was not overwhelmed by sorrow.It is so very difficult for the woman who lives by, and for, her beautyand her charm for men to be overwhelmed. One man has gone and she mournshim; but there are so many men left, all of them with eyes in whichlamps may be set and with hearts to be broken.
It was at this time that she became very familiar with Paris.
She wanted to be away from London, so she took an apartment in Paris,and began to live there very quietly. Friends, of course, came to seeher, and she began to study Paris thoroughly, not the gay, social Paris,but a very interesting Paris. Presently her freedom from the ordinarysocial ties began to amuse her. She had now so much time for all sortsof things which women very much in society miss more often thannot. Never going to parties, she was able to go elsewhere. She wentelsewhere. Always there had dwelt caged in her a certain wildness whichdid not come from her English blood. There was a foreign strain inher from the borders of Asia mingled with a strong Celtic strain. Thiswildness which in her girlhood she had let loose happily in games andsports, in violent flirtations, and in much daring skating over thinice, which in her married life had spent itself in the whirl of society,and in the energies necessary to the attainment of an unchallengedposition at the top of things, in her widowhood began to seek an outletin Bohemia.
Paris can be a very kind or a very cruel city, in its gaiety hidingvelvet or the claws of a tiger. To Lady Sellingworth--then LadyManham--it was kind. It gave her its velvet. She knew a fresh typeof life there, with much for the intellect, with not a little for thesenses, even with something for the heart. It was there that she visitedout-of-the-way cafes, where clever men met and talked over every subjecton earth. A place like the Cafe Royal in London had no attraction forthe Lady Sellingworth over sixty. That sort of thing, raised to the_nth_ degree, had been familiar to her years and years ago, before BerylVan Tuyn and Enid Blunt had been in their cradles.
And the freedom of her widowhood, with no tie at all, had becomegradually very dear to her. She had felt free enough in her marriage.But this manner of life had more breathing space in it. There is nodoubt that in that Paris year, especially in the second half of it, sheallowed the wild strain in her to play as it had never played before,like a reckless child out of sight of parents and all relations.
When the mourning was over and she returned to London she was a womanwho had progressed, but whether upon an upward or a downward path whoshall decide? She had certainly become more fascinating. Her beauty wasat its height. The year in Paris, lived almost wholly among clever andvery unprejudiced French people, had given her a pec
uliar polish--oneFrenchman who knew English slang called it "a shine"--which made herstand out among her English contemporaries. Many of them when girls hadreceived a "finish" in Paris. But girls cannot go about as she had goneabout. They had learnt French; she had learnt Paris. From thattime onward she was probably the most truly cosmopolitan of all thearistocratic Englishwomen of her day. Distinguished foreigners whovisited London generally paid their first private call on her. Her housewas European rather than English. She kept, too, her apartment in Paris,and lived there almost as much as she lived in London. And, perhaps, hersecret wildness was more at home there.
Scandal, of course, could not leave her untouched. But her position insociety was never challenged. People said dreadful things about her, buteveryone who did not know her wanted to know her, and no one who knewher wished not to know her. She "stood out" from all the other women inEngland of her day, not merely because of her beauty--she was not morebeautiful than several of her contemporaries--but because of her gaydistinction, a daring which was never, which could not be, ill bred,her extraordinary lack of all affectation, and a peculiar and delightfulbonhomie which made her at home with everyone and everyone at home withher. Servants and dependents loved her. Everyone about her was fond ofher. And yet she was certainly selfish. Invariably almost she was kindto people, but herself came first with her. She made few sacrifices,and many sacrificed themselves to her. There was seldom a moment whenincense was not rising up before her altar, and the burnt offerings toher were innumerable.
And all through these years she was sinking more deeply into slavery,while she was ruling others. Her slavery was to herself. She was thecaptive of her own vanity. Her love of admiration had developed intoan insatiable passion. She was ceaselessly in her tower spying out forfresh lovers. From afar off she perceived them, and when they drew nearto her castle she stopped them on their way. She did not love them andcast them to death like Tamara of the Caucasus. No; but she required ofthem the pause on their travels, which was a tribute to her power. Noone must pass her by as if she were an ordinary woman.
Probably there is no weed in all the human garden which grows so fast asvanity. Lady Sellingworth's vanity grew and grew with the years untilit almost devoured her. It became an idee fixe in her. A few people nodoubt knew this--a few women. But she was saved from all vulgarity ofvanity by an inherent distinction, not only of manner but of somethingmore intimate, which never quite abandoned her, which her vanity wasnever able to destroy. Although her vanity was colossal, she usuallyeither concealed it, or if she showed it showed it subtly. She was notof the type which cannot pass a mirror in a restaurant without staringinto it. She only looked into mirrors in private. Nor was she one ofthose women who powder their faces and rouge their lips before men inpublic places. It was impossible for her to be blatant. Nevertheless,her moral disease led her gradually to fall from her own secret standardof what a woman of her world should be. Craven had once said to himselfthat Lady Sellingworth could never seek the backstairs. He was notwholly right in this surmise about her. There was a time in herlife--the time when she was, or was called, a professional beauty--whenshe could scarcely see a man's face without watching it for admiration.Although she preserved her delightfully unselfconscious manner she wasalmost ceaselessly conscious of self. Her own beauty was the idol whichshe worshipped and which she presented to the world expectant of theworship of others. There have been many women like her, but few who havebeen so clever in hiding their disease. But always seated in her brainthere was an imp who understood, was contemptuous and mocked, an imp whoknew what was coming to her, what comes to all the daughters of men whooutlive youth and its shadowy triumphs. Her brain was ironic, while hertemperament was passionate, and greedy in its pursuit of the food itclamoured for; her brain watched the unceasing chase with almost abitterness of sarcasm, merging sometimes into a bitterness of pity. Insome women there seems at times to be a dual personality, a woman ofthe blood at odds with a woman of the grey matter. It was so in LadySellingworth's case, but for a long time the former woman dominated thelatter, whose empire was to come later with white hair and a ravagedface.
At the age of thirty-five, after some years of brilliant and even ofdespotic widowhood, she married again--Lord Sellingworth.
He was twenty-five years older than she was, ruggedly handsome, huge,lean, self-possessed, very clever, very worldly, and that unusualphenomenon, a genuine atheist. There was no doubt that he had a keenpassion for her, one of those passions which sometimes flare up in a manof a strong and impetuous nature, who has lived too much, who isworn out, haunted at times by physical weariness, yet still fiercelydetermined to keep a tight grip on life and life's few real pleasures,the greatest of which is perhaps the indulgence of love.
Like her first marriage this marriage was apparently a success. LordSellingworth's cleverness fascinated his wife's brain, and led her tovalue the pursuits of the intellect more than she had ever done before.She was proud of his knowledge and wit, proud of being loved by a man ofobvious value. After this marriage her house became more than ever theresort of the brilliant men of the day. But though Lord Sellingworthundoubtedly improved his wife's mental capacities, enlarged the horizonof her mind, and gave her new interests, without specially intending ithe injured her soul. For he increased her worldliness and infectedher with his atheism. She had always been devoted to the world. Hecontinually suggested to her that there was nothing else, nothingbeyond. All sense of mysticism had been left out of his nature. What hecalled "priestcraft" was abhorrent to him. The various religions seemedto him merely different forms of superstition, the assertions of theirleaders only varying forms of humbug. He was greedy in searching forfood to content the passions of the body, and was restless in pursuit ofnutriment for the mind. But not believing in the soul he took no troubleabout it.
Lady Sellingworth had this man at her feet. Nevertheless, in a certainway he dominated her. In hard mental power he was much her superior, andher mind became gradually subservient to his in many subtle ways. It wasin his day that she developed that noticeable and almost reckless egoismwhich is summed up by the laconic saying, "after me the deluge." ForLord Sellingworth's atheism was not of the type which leads to activehumanitarianism, but of the opposite type which leads to an exquisiteselfishness. And he led his wife with him. He taught her the wholeart of self-culture, and with it the whole art of self-worship, subtlyextending to her mind that which for long had been concerned mainly withthe body. They were two of the most selfish and two of the most charmingpeople in London. For they were both thorough bred and naturallykind-hearted, and so there were always showers of crumbs falling fromtheir well-spread table for the benefit of those about them. Theirfriends had a magnificent time with them and so did their servants. Theyliked others to be pleased with them and satisfied because of them. Forthey must live in a warm atmosphere. And nothing makes the atmosphereso cold about a man or woman as the egoism which shows itself inmiserliness, or in the unwillingness that others should have a goodtime.
When Lady Sellingworth was thirty-nine Lord Sellingworth died abruptly.The doctors said that his heart was worn out; others said somethingdifferent, something less kind.
For the second time Lady Sellingworth was a widow; for the second timeshe spent the period of mourning in Paris. And when it was over shewent for a tour round the world with a small party of friends; Sir GuyLetchworth and his plain, but gay and clever wife, and Roger Brand, amillionaire and a famous Edwardian.
Brand was a bachelor, and had long been a devoted adherent of LadySellingworth's, and people, of course, said that he was going to marryher. But they eventually came back from their long tour comfortablydisengaged. Brand went back to his enormous home in Park Lane, and LadySellingworth settled down in number 18A Berkeley Square.
She was now forty-one. She had arrived at a very difficult period in thelife of a beauty. The freshness and bloom of youth had inevitably lefther. The adjectives applied to her were changing. The word "lovely" wasdropped. I
ts place was taken by such epithets as "handsome," "splendidlooking," "brilliant," "striking," "alluring." People spoke of LadySellingworth's "good days"; and said of her, "Isn't she astonishing?"The word "zenith" was occasionally used in reference to her. A verbwhich began to be mixed up with her a good deal was the verb "tolast." It was said of her that she "lasted" wonderfully. Women put thequestion, "Isn't it miraculous how Adela Sellingworth lasts?"
All this might, perhaps, be called complimentary. But women are not asa rule specially fond of such compliments. When kind friends speak ofa woman's "good days" there is an implication that some of her days arebad. Lady Sellingworth knew as well as any woman which compliments areleft-handed and which are not. On one occasion soon after she returnedto London from her tour round the world a woman friend said to her:
"Adela, you have never looked better than you do now. Do you know whatyou remind me of?"
The woman was an American. Lady Sellingworth replied carelessly:
"I haven't the slightest idea."
"You remind me of our wonderful Indian summers that come in October. Howdo you manage it?"
That come in October?
These words struck a chill through Lady Sellingworth. Suddenly she feltthe autumn in her. She had been in America: she had known the glory ofits Indian summer; she had also known that Indian summer's startlingsudden collapse. Winter comes swiftly after those almost unnaturallygolden days. And what is there left in winter for a woman who has livedfor her beauty since she was sixteen years old? The freedom of a secondwidowhood would be only chill loneliness in winter. She saw herself likea figure in the distance, sitting over a fire alone. But little warmthwould come from that fire. The warmth that was necessary to her camefrom quite other sources than coal or wood kindled and giving outflames.
Her vanity shuddered. She realized strongly, perhaps, for the firsttime, that people were just beginning to think of her as a womaninevitably on the wane. She looked into her mirror, stared into it,and tried to consider herself impartially. She was certainly verygood-looking. Her tall figure had never been made ugly by fatness. Shewas not the victim of what is sometimes called "the elderly spread." Butalthough she was slim, considering her great height, she thought thatshe discerned signs of a thickening tendency. She must take that intime. Her figure must not be allowed to degenerate. And her face?
She was so accustomed to her face, and so accustomed to its being abeautiful face, that it was difficult to her to regard it with coldimpartiality. But she tried to; tried to look at it as she might havelooked at the face of another woman, of say, a rival beauty.
What age did the face seem to be? If she had seen it passing by in thestreet what age would she have guessed its owner to be? Something inthe thirties; but perhaps in the late thirties? She wasn't quitecertain about it. Really it is so difficult to look at yourself quiteimpartially. And she did not wish to fall into exaggeration, to behypercritical. She wished to be strictly reasonable, to see herselfexactly as she was. The eyes were brilliant, but did they look likeyoung eyes?
No, they didn't. And yet they were full of light. There was nothingfaded about them. But somehow at that moment they looked terriblyexperienced. With a conscious effort she tried to change theirexpression, to make them look less full of knowledge. But it seemed toher that she failed utterly. No, they were not young eyes; they nevercould be young eyes. The long accustomed woman of the world was mirroredin them with her many experiences. They were beautiful in their way, buttheir way had nothing to do with youth. And near the eyes, very near,there were definite traces of maturity. A few, as yet very faint, linesshowed; and there were shadows; and there was--she could only call itto herself "a slightly hollow look," which she had never observed in anygirl, or, so far as she remembered, in any young woman.
She gazed at her mouth and then at her throat. Both showed signs of age;the throat especially, she thought. The lips were fine, finely curved,voluptuous. But they were somehow not fresh lips. In some mysteriousway, which really she could not define, life had marked them as mature.There were a couple of little furrows in the throat and there was alsoa slightly "drawn" look on each side just below the line of the jaw. Bythe temples also, close to the hair, there was something which did notlook young.
Lady Sellingworth felt very cold. At that moment she probablyexaggerated in her mind the effect of her appearance. She plunged downinto pessimism about herself. A sort of desperation came upon her.Underneath all her conquering charm, hidden away like a trembling birdunder depths of green leaves, there was a secret diffidence of which shehad occasionally been conscious during her life. It had no doubt beenborn with her, had lived in her as long as she had lived. Very fewpeople knew of its existence. But she knew, had known of it as long asshe remembered. Now that diffidence seemed to hold her with talons, topress its beak into her heart.
She felt that she could not face the world with any assurance if shelost her beauty. She had charm, cleverness, rank, position, money. Sheknew all her advantages. But at that moment she seemed to be confrontingpenury. And as she continued to look into the mirror ugliness seemed togrow in the woman she saw like a spreading disease till she felt thatshe would be frightened to show herself to anyone, and wished she couldhide from everyone who knew her.
That absurdly morbid fit passed, of course. It could not continue,except in a woman who was physically ill, and Lady Sellingworth wasquite well. But it left its mark in her mind. From that day she beganto take intense trouble with herself. Hitherto she had been inclinedto trust her own beauty. She had relied on it almost instinctively.And that strange, hidden diffidence, when it had manifested itself,had manifested itself in connexion with social things, the success ofa dinner, or with things of the mind, the success or non-success of aconversation with a clever man. She had never spoken of it to anyone,for she had always been more or less ashamed of it, and had broughtsilence to her aid in the endeavour to stamp it out lest it shouldimpair her power over others. But now it was quickened within her. Itgrew, and in its growth tortured her.
"How do you manage it?"
That not very kind question of the friend who had compared her to anIndian summer remained with Lady Sellingworth. Since she had consideredherself in the mirror she had realized that she had attained thatcritical period in a beauty's life when she must begin incessantly tomanage to continue a beauty. Hitherto, beyond always dressing perfectlyand taking care to be properly "turned out," she had done less toherself than many women habitually do. Now she swung to the oppositeextreme. There is no need to describe what she did. She did, or had doneto her, all that she considered necessary, and she considered that avery great deal was necessary.
A certain Greek, who was a marvellous expert in his line, helped her ata very high figure. And she helped herself by much rigid abstinence,by denying natural appetites, by patient physical discipline. Her fightagainst the years was tremendous, and was conducted with extraordinarycourage.
But nevertheless it seemed to her that a curse was put upon her; in thatshe was surely one of those women who, once they take the first stepupon the downward slope, are compelled to go forward with a damnablerapidity.
The more she "managed it" the more there seemed to be to manage.From the time when she frankly gave herself into the clutches ofartificiality the natural physical merit of her seemed to her todeteriorate at a speed which was headlong.
A hideous leap in the downward course took place presently. She began todye her hair. She was not such a fool as to change its natural colour.She merely concealed the fact that white hairs were beginning to grow onher head at an age when many simple people, who don't care particularlywhat they look like--sensible clergymen's wives in the provinces, andothers unknown to fashion--remain as brown as a berry, or as pleasantlyauburn as the rind of a chestnut.
The knowledge of those hidden white hairs haunted her. She felt horriblyashamed of them. She hated them with an intense, and almost despairing,hatred. For they stamped the terrific difference between her body
andher nature.
It seemed to her that in her nature she retained all the passions ofyouth. This was not strictly true, for no woman over forty has preciselythe same passions as an ardent girl, however ardent she may be. But the"wild heart," spoken of by Lady Sellingworth to Craven, still beat inher breast, and the vanity of the girl, enormously increased by thepassage of the years, still lived intensely in the middle-aged woman.It was perhaps this natural wildness combined with her vanity whichtortured Lady Sellingworth most at this period of her life. She stilldesired happiness and pleasure greedily, indeed with almost unnaturalgreediness; she still felt that life robbed of the admiration and thelonging of men would not be worth living.
Beryl Van Tuyn had spoken of a photograph of Lady Sellingworth takenwhen she was about forty-nine, and had said that, though very handsome,it showed a _fausse jeunesse_, and revealed a woman looking vain andimperious, a woman with the expression of one always on the watch fornew lovers. And there had been a cruel truth in her words. For, from thetime when she had given herself to artificiality until the time, somenine years later, when she had plunged into what had seemed to her,and to many others, something very like old age, Lady Sellingworth haddefinitely and continuously deteriorated, as all those do who tryto defy any natural process. Carrying on a fight in which there isa possibility of winning may not do serious harm to a character, butcarrying on a fight which must inevitably be lost always hardens andembitters the combatant. During those years of her _fausse jeunesse_Lady Sellingworth was at her worst.
For one thing she became the victim of jealousy. She was secretlyjealous of good-looking young women, and, spreading her evil wide like acloud, she was even jealous of youth. To be young was to possess agift which she had lost, and a gift which men love as they love but fewthings. She could not help secretly hating the possessors of it.
She had now become enrolled in the "old guard," and had adopted as herdevice their motto, "Never give up." She was one of the more or lessmysterious fighters of London. She fought youth incessantly, and shefought Time. And sometimes the weariness and the nausea of battle layheavy upon her. Her expression began to change. She never lost, shenever could lose, her distinction, but it was slightly blurred, slightlytarnished. She preserved the appearance of bonhomie, but her cordiality,her good nature, were not what they had been. Formerly she had hadmarvellous spirits; now she was often accompanied into the world by theblack dog. And when she was alone he sat by the hearth with her.
She began to hate being a widow. Sometimes she thought that she wishedshe had had children. But then it occurred to her that they might havebeen daughters, lovely girls now perhaps, showing to society what shehad once been. With such daughters she would surely have been forcedinto abdication. For she knew that she could never have entered into acontest with her own children. Perhaps it was best as it was, best thatshe was childless.
She might no doubt have married a third time. Sir Seymour Portman, abachelor for her sake, would have asked nothing better than to becomeher husband. And there were other middle-aged and old men who wouldgladly have linked themselves with her, and who did not scruple totell her so. But now she could not bear the idea of making a "suitable"match. Lord Sellingworth had been old, and she had been happy with him.But she had felt, and had considered herself to be, young when she hadmarried him. The contrast between him and herself had been flattering toher vanity. It would be different now. And besides, with the coming ofmiddle age, and the fatal fading of physical attraction, there had comeinto her a painful obsession.
As much as she hated youth in women she was attracted by it in men. Shebegan secretly to worship youth as it showed itself in the other sex.Something in her clamoured for the admiration and the longing of theyoung men who were amorous of life, who were comparatively new to thefray, who had the ardour and the freshness which could have mated withhers when she was a girl, but which now contrasted violently with herterribly complete experience and growing morbidity. She felt that nowshe could never marry a man of her own age or older than herself, notsimply because she could not love such a man, but because she would beperpetually in danger of loving a man of quite another type.
She entered upon a very ugly period, perhaps the ugliest there can be inthe secret life of a woman. And it was then that there came definitelyinto her face, and was fixed there, the expression noted by Miss VanTuyn in the photograph in Mrs. Ackroyd's drawing-room, the expression ofa woman on the pounce.
There is no food so satisfying to the vanity of a middle-aged woman asthe admiration and desire of young men. Lady Sellingworth longedfor, and sought for, that food, but not without inward shame, andoccasionally something that approached inward horror. For she had, andnever was able to lose, a sense of what was due not merely to herselfbut to her better self. Here the woman of the blood was at grips withthe woman of the grey matter. And the imp enthroned somewhere within herwatched, marked, remembered, condemned.
That imp began to persecute Lady Sellingworth. She would have slain himif she could, for he was horribly critical, and remained cold throughall her intensities. In Paris he had often been useful to her, for ironyis appreciated in Paris, and he was strongly ironical. Often she felt asif he had eyes fixed upon her sardonically, when she was giving way tothe woman in her blood. In Paris it had been different. For there, atany rate in all the earlier years, he had been criticizing and laughingat others. Now his attention was always on her. There were moments whenshe could almost hear his ugly, whispering voice telling her all hethought about her, about her appearance, her conduct, her future, abouther connexions with others now, about the loneliness that was comingupon her. She saw many other women who were evidently content in, andunconscious of, their follies. Why was she not like them? Why had shebeen singled out for this persecution of the brain. It is terrible tohave a brain which mocks at you instead of happily mocking at others.And that was her case. Later she was to understand herself better; shewas to understand that her secret diffidence was connected with the imp,was the imp's child in her as it were; later, too, she was to learn thatthe imp was working for her eventual salvation, in the moral sense.
But she had not yet reached that turning in the path of her life.
During all this period her existence was apparently as successful andbrilliant as ever. She was still a leader in London, knowing and knownto everyone, going to all interesting functions, receiving at her houseall the famous men and women of the day. To an observer it would haveseemed that she occupied an impregnable position and that she was havinga wonderful time. But she was really a very unhappy woman at violentodds with herself.
On one occasion when she was giving a dinner in her house a discussionbroke out on the question of happiness. It was asked by someone, "If youcould demand of the gods one gift, with the certainty of receivingit, what gift would you demand?" Various answers were given. One said,"Youth for as long as I lived"; another "Perfect health"; another"Supreme beauty"; another "The most brilliant intellect of my time";another "The love and admiration of all I came in contact with."Finally a sad-looking elderly man, poet, philosopher, and the formeradministrator of a great province in India, was appealed to. His answerwas, "Complete peace of mind." And on his answer followed the generaldiscussion about happiness.
When the party broke up and Lady Sellingworth was alone she thoughtalmost desperately about that discussion and about the last answer tothe question which had been put.
Complete peace of mind! How extraordinary it would be to possess that!She could scarcely conceive of it, and it seemed to her that even in hermost wonderful days, in her radiant and careless youth, when she hadhad almost everything, she had never had that. But then she had not evenwanted to have it. Complete peace seems but a chilly sort of thing toyouth in its quick-silver time. But later on in life we love combatless.
Suddenly Lady Sellingworth realized the age of her mind, and it seemedto her that she was a horrible mixture of incongruities. She wasphysically aging slowly but surely. She had appetites w
hich were indirect conflict with age. She had desires all of which turned towardsyouth. And her mind was quite old. It must be, she said to herself,because now she was sitting still and longing to know that completepeace of mind which an old man had talked of that evening at her dinnertable.
A sort of panic shook her as she thought of all the antagonists which ata certain period of life gather together to attack and slay youth, allvestiges of youth, in the human being; the unsatisfied appetites,the revolts of the body, the wearinesses of soul, and the subtle andcontradictory desires which lie hidden deep in the mind.
She was now intensely careful about her body, had brought its carealmost to the level of a finely finished art. But she had not troubledabout the disciplining of her mind. Yet the undisciplined mind can workhavoc in the tissues of the body. Youth of the mind, if preserved, helpsthe body to continue apparently young. It may not be able to cause thebody actually to look young, but in some mysterious way it throws roundthe body a youthful atmosphere which deceives many people, which createsan illusion. And the strange thing is that the more intimate people arewith one possessing that mental youthfulness, the more strong is theillusion upon them. Atmosphere has a spell which increases upon usthe longer we remain bathed in it. Lady Sellingworth said all this toherself that night, and rebuked herself for letting her mind go towardsold age. She rebelled against the longing for complete peace of mindbecause she now connected such a longing with stagnation. And men,especially young men, love vivacity, restlessness, the swift flyingtemperament. Such a temperament suggests to them youth. It is old agewhich sits still. Youth is for ever on the move.
"I must not long for peace or anything of that kind!" she said toherself.
Nevertheless the lack of all mental peace ravages the body.
She scarcely knew what to do for the best. But eventually she triedto take her mind in hand, for she was afraid of it, afraid of its age,afraid of the effect its age might eventually have upon her appearance.So she strove to train it backwards towards youthfulness. For nowshe was sure that she was not one of those fortunate women who havenaturally young minds which refuse to grow old. She knew a few suchwomen. She envied them almost bitterly. There was no need for them tostrive. She watched them surreptitiously, studied them, tried to mastertheir secret.
Presently a tragic episode occurred in her life.
She fell in love with a man of about twenty-three. He was the son ofpeople whom she knew very well in Paris, French people who were almosther contemporaries, and was the sporting type of Frenchman, verygood-looking, lively, satirical and strong. He was a famous lawn tennisplayer and came over to London for the tournament at Wimbledon. She hadalready seen him in Paris, and had known him when he was little morethan a boy. But she had never thought much about him in those days. Forin those days she had not been haunted by the passion for youth whichpossessed her now.
Louis de Rocheouart visited at her house as a matter of course, wasagreeable and gallant to her because she was a charming and influentialwoman and an old friend of his family. But he did not think of her as awoman to whom it was possible that a man of his age could make love.He looked upon her as one who had been a famous beauty, but who was nowmerely a clever, well-preserved and extremely successful member ofthe "old guard" of society in London. Her "day" as a beauty was in hishumble opinion quite over. She belonged to his mother's day. He knewthat. And his mother happened to be one of those delightful Frenchwomenwho are spirituelle at all ages, but who never pretend to be anythingthey are not. His mother's hair was already grey, and she had twomarried daughters, one of whom had been trusting enough to make her agrandmother.
While Rocheouart was in London a number of popular middle-agedwomen banded together and gave a very smart ball at Prince's. LadySellingworth was one of the hostesses, all of whom danced merrily andappeared to be in excellent spirits and health. It was certainly oneof the very best balls of the season, and young men turned up at it inlarge numbers. Among them was young Rocheouart.
Lady Sellingworth danced with him more than once. That night she hadalmost managed to deceive herself as to the real truth of life. Theball was being such a success; the scramble for invitations had been sogreat; the young men evidently found things so lively, and seemed to bein such exuberant spirits, that she was carried away, and really felt asif youth were once more dancing through her veins and shining out of hereyes.
The "old guard" were _in excelsis_ that night; the Edwardians were intheir glory on the top of the world. Probably more than one of themthought, "They can say what they like but we can cut out the girls whenwe choose." Their savoir faire was immense. Many of them still possessedan amazing amount of the joie de vivre. And some of them were thoroughlysensible women, saved from absurdity by the blessed sense of humour.
But Lady Sellingworth was by this time desperately in love with Louisde Rocheouart, and her sense of humour was in abeyance that night. Inconsequence, she was the victim of a mortification which she was neverto forget as long as she lived.
Towards the end of the evening she happened to be standing with SirSeymour Portman near the entrance to the ballroom, and overheard a scrapof conversation between two people just behind them.
A girl's light voice said:
"Have you heard the name Cora Wellingborough has given to this ball?"
(The Duchess of Wellingborough was one of the hostesses.)
"No," replied a voice, which Lady Sellingworth recognized as the voiceof young Rocheouart. "What is it?"
"She calls it 'The Hags' Hop'! Isn't it delicious of her? It will beall over London to-morrow. The name will stick. In the annuals of Londonfestivities to-night will always be remembered as the night of thefamous Hags' Hop."
Lady Sellingworth heard Rocheouart's strong, manly young laugh.
"That's just like the duchess!" he said. "She's simply made of humourand always hits the nail on the head. And how clever of her to give theright name to the ball herself instead of leaving it for some prettygirl to do. The Hags' Hop! It's perfect! If she hadn't said that, youwould have before the evening was out, and then all the charming hagswould have been furious with you."
The girl laughed, and she and Rocheouart passed Lady Sellingworthwithout noticing her and went into the ballroom.
She looked at them as they began to dance; then she looked at theDuchess of Wellingborough, who was also dancing.
The duchess was frankly middle-aged. She was very good-looking, butshe had let her figure go. She was quite obviously the victim ofthe "elderly spread." Her health was excellent, her sense of humourunfailing. She never pretended to anything, but was as natural almost asa big child. Although a widow, she wanted no lover. She often said thatshe had "got beyond all that sort of thing." Another of her laughinglyfrank sayings was: "No young man need be afraid of me." In consequenceof her gaiety, humour, frankness and hospitality she was universallypopular.
But that night Lady Sellingworth almost hated her.
The Hags' Hop!
That terrible name stuck in Lady Sellingworth's mind and seemed tofasten there like a wound in a body.
As Rocheouart's partner had foretold, the name went all over London.The duchess's _mot_ even got into a picture paper, and everyone laughedabout it. The duchess was delighted. Nobody seemed to mind. Even LadySellingworth forced herself to quote the saying and to make merry overit. But from that day she gave up dancing entirely. Nothing would induceher even to join in a formal royal quadrille.
Before his return to Paris, Rocheouart came to bid her good-bye.Although she was still, as she supposed, madly in love with him,she concealed it, or, if she showed it, did so only by being ratherunnaturally cold with him. When he was gone she felt desperate.
Her imp had perhaps controlled her during the short time of Rocheouart'sfinal visit, had mocked and made her fear him. When she was alone,however, he vanished for the moment.
From that time the hidden diffidence in Lady Sellingworth was her deadlyenemy, because it fought perpetually with her
vanity and with her almostuncontrollable desires. Sometimes she was tempted to give way to itentirely and to retire from the fray. But she asked herself what shehad to retire to. The thought of a life lived in the shade, or of adefinitely middle-aged life, prolonged in such sunshine as falls upongrey-haired heads, was terrible to her. She was not like the Duchessof Wellingborough. She was cursed with what was called in her set "atemperament," and she did not know how to conquer it, did not dare,even, to try to conquer it.
She soon forgot Louis de Rocheouart, but his place was not long leftempty. She fell in love with another young man.
Eventually--by this time she had almost ceased to struggle, was notfar from being a complete victim to her temperament--she seriouslyconsidered the possibility of marrying again, and of marrying a man manyyears younger than herself. Several women whom she knew had done this.Why should not she do it? Such marriages seldom turned out well, seldomlasted very long. But there were exceptions to every rule. Her marriage,if she made it, might be an exception. She was now only forty-eight.(She had reached the age when that qualifying word is applied to theyears.) Women older, much older, than herself, had married mere boys.She did not intend to do that. But why should she not take a charmingman of, say, thirty into her life?
The mere thought of having such a husband, such a companion in Number18A, Berkeley Square, sent a glow through her mind and body. What aflood of virility, anticipation, new strength, new interests he wouldbring with him! She imagined his loud, careless step on the stairs, hisstrong bass or baritone voice resounding in the rooms; she heard thedoors banged by his reckless hand; she saw his raincoats, his caps, hisgolf clubs, his gun cases littering the hall. When she motored he wouldbe at the wheel instead of a detached and rigid-faced chauffeur, and hewould whirl her along, taking risk, all the time.
But would he be able to love her?
Her diffidence and her vanity fought over that question; foughtfuriously, and with an ugly tenacity. It seemed that the vanityconquered. For she resolved to make the trial.
Many striking advantages were on her side. She could give any man amagnificent social position, could take him into the heart of the greatworld. Her husband, unless he were absolutely impossible--and of coursehe would not be--would be welcomed everywhere because of her. She wasrich. She had unusual charm. She was quick witted, intelligent, wellread, full of tact and knowledge of the world. Surely she could be asplendid companion, even a great aid, to any man of the least ambition.And she was still very handsome--with difficulty.
She and her Greek alone knew exactly how much trouble had to be taken tokeep her as she was when she went among people.
She had not been able to do much with her mind. It seemed uncontrollableby her. There was no harmony in her inner life. The diversities withinher were sharp, intense. In her kingdom of self there was perpetualrebellion. And the disorder in her moral life had hastened the agingprocess more even than she was aware of. Underneath the artificialbeauty of her appearance she was now older than her years.
But she was still very handsome--with difficulty.
She hardened herself after the fight and resolved that, if she chose,she could still make almost any man love her. That she could easilyfascinate she knew. Most people were subject to her easy charm and tothe delightfully unaffected manner which no amount of vanity had everbeen able to rid her of. Surely the temporarily fascinated man mighteasily be changed into the permanent lover! Fear assailed her certainlywhen she thought of the danger of deliberately contrasting with hermaturity the vividness of youth. To do what she thought of doing wouldbe to run a great risk. When she had married Lord Sellingworth she hadprovided herself with a foil to her beauty and to her comparativeyouth. To marry a young man would be to make herself the foil. He wouldemphasize her age by his lack of years. Could she dare it?
Again she hardened herself and resolved that she would dare it. Thewildness in her came uppermost, rose to recklessness. After me thedeluge! She might not be happy long if she married a young husband,but she might be happy for a time. The mere marriage would surely be atriumph for her. And if she had three years, two years, even one year ofhappiness, she would sing a _Laus Deo_ and let the deluge close over herhead.
She began, in woman's quiet but penetrating way, to look about her. Shemet many young men in the world, in fact nearly all the young eligiblemen of the time. Many of them came to her house, for she often gaveparties to which she asked not only the "old guard" and the well-knownmen of the day, but also the young married women. Now she began to givesmall dances to which she asked pretty young girls. There was a ballroombuilt out at the back of her house. It was often in use. The prettyyoung girls began to say she was "a dear" to bother so much about them.Dancing men voted her a thundering good hostess and a most good-naturedwoman. In popularity she almost cut out the Duchess of Wellingborough,who sometimes gave dances, too, for young people.
Really through it all she was on the watch, was seeking the possiblehusband.
Presently she found the man with whom she could imagine being almostdesperately happy if he would only fall in with her hidden views. Theywere so carefully hidden that not one of her friends, not one of the"old guard," suspected that she had made up her mind to marry again andto make what is universally called "a foolish marriage."
His name was Rupert Louth, and he was the fourth son of an impecuniousbut delightful peer, Lord Blyston. He was close upon thirty, and hadspent the greater part of his time, since his twentieth year, out ofEngland. He had ranched in Canada, and had also done something vagueof the outdoor kind in Texas. He had fought, and was a good man of hishands. His health was splendid. He was as hard as nails in condition,and as lively and ready as they make them. Many things he could do, butone thing he had never been able to do. He had never been able to makemoney. His gift lay rather in the direction of joyously spending it.This gift distracted his father, who confided to Lady Sellingworth hisfears for the lad's--he would insist on calling Rupert the lad--forthe lad's future. Here he was back on the family's hands with expensivetastes and no prospects whatever!
"And he's always after the women, too!" said Lord Blyston, with admiringdespair. "He's been away from them so long there's no holding him."
After a pause he added:
"My dear Adela, if you want to do me a good turn find the lad a wife.His poor mother's gone, or she would have done it. What he wants is awife who can manage him, with a decent amount of money."
Without exactly saying so, Lady Sellingworth implied that she would seewhat she could do for Rupert.
From that moment Lord Blyston pushed "the lad" perpetually towards 18ABerkeley Square.
Rupert Louth was fair and very good-looking, reckless and full of go.And wherever he went he carried with him an outdoor atmosphere. He carednothing for books, music, or intellectual pursuits. Nevertheless, he wasat home everywhere, and quite as much at ease in a woman's drawing-roomas rounding up cattle in Canada or lassooing wild horses in Texas. Helived entirely and wholeheartedly for the day, and was a magnificentspecimen of dashing animal life; for certainly the animal predominatedin him.
Lady Sellingworth fell in love with him--it really was like falling inlove each time--and resolved to marry him. A wonderful breath of manhoodand youth exhaled from "the lad" and almost intoxicated her. It calledto her wildness. It brought back to her the days when she had been amagnificent girl, had shot over the moors, and had more than held herown in the hunting field. After she had married Lord Sellingworth shehad given up shooting and hunting, had devoted herself more keenlyto the arts, to mental and purely social pursuits, to the opera,the forming of a salon, to politics and to entertaining, than to thephysical pleasures which had formerly played such a prominent part inher life. Since his death she had put down her horses. But now she beganto change her mode of living. She went with Rupert to Tattersalls, andthey picked up some good horses together. She began riding again, andlent him a mount. She was perpetually at Hurlingham and Ranelagh, anddeveloped a passion
for polo, which he played remarkably well. Sheplayed lawn tennis at King's Club in the morning, and renewed her energyat golf.
Louth was really struck by her activity and competence, and said of herthat she was a damned good sport and as active as a cat. He also saidthat there wasn't a country in the world that bred such wonderful oldwomen as England. This remark he made to his father, who rejoined thatAdela Sellingworth was not an old woman.
"Well, she must be near fifty!" said his son. "And if that isn't old fora woman where are we to look for it?"
Lord Blyston replied that there were many women far older than AdelaSellingworth, to which his son answered:
"Anyhow, she's as active as a cat, so why don't you marry her?"
"She's twenty years too young for me," said Lord Blyston. "I should boreher to death."
It had just occurred to him that Rupert could be very comfortable onLord Sellingworth's and Lord Manham's combined fortunes, though hehad no idea that Lady Sellingworth had ever thought of "the lad" as apossible husband.
Other people, however, noticed the new development in her life.
Every morning quite early she was to be seen, perfectly mounted,cantering in the Row, often with Rupert Louth beside her. Herextraordinary interest in every branch of athletics was generallyremarked. She even went to boxing matches, and was persuaded to giveaway prizes at a big meeting at Stamford Bridge.
Although she never said a word about it to anyone, this sudden outburstof intense bodily activity at her age presently began to tire, thenalmost to exhaust her. The strain upon her was great, too great.Whatever Rupert Louth did, he never turned a hair. But she was nearlytwenty years older than he was, and decidedly out of training. Shefought desperately against her physical fatigue, and showed a gayface to the world. But a horrible conviction possessed her. She beganpresently to feel certain that her effort to live up to Rupert Louth'shealth and vigour was hastening the aging process in her body. By whatshe was doing she was marring her chance of preserving into old agethe appearance of comparative youth. Sometimes at night, when all theactivities of the day were over and there was no prospect of seeingRupert again until, at earliest, the following morning, she feltabsolutely haggard with weariness of body--felt as she said to herselfwith a shudder, like an old hag. But she could not give up, could notrest, for Rupert expected of everyone who was not definitely laid onthe shelf inexhaustible energy, tireless vitality. His own perpetualfreshness was a marvel, and fascinated Lady Sellingworth. To be with himwas like being with eternal youth, and made her long for her own lostyouth with an ache of desperation. But to act being young is hideouslydifferent from being actually young. She acted astonishingly well, butshe paid for every moment of the travesty, and Rupert never noticed,never had the least suspicion of all she was going through on account ofhim.
To him she was merely a magnificently hospitable pal of his father's,who took a kindly interest in him. He found her capital company. He,like everyone else, felt her easy fascination, enjoyed being with her.But, like Rocheouart of the past days, he never thought of her as apossible lover. Nor did it ever occur to him that she was thinking ofhim as a possible husband. He always wanted, and generally managed tohave a splendid time; and he was quite willing to be petted and spoiltand made much of; but he was not, under a mask of carelessness, acold and persistent egoist. He really was just what he seemed to be, alight-hearted, rather uproarious, and very healthy young man, intent onenjoying himself, and recklessly indifferent to the future. He wasquite willing to eat Lady Sellingworth's excellent dinners, to ride herspirited horses, to sit in her opera box and look at pretty women whileothers listened to music, but it never occurred to him that it would bethe act of a wise man to try to put her fortune into his own pocket atthe price of marrying her.
His lack of self-interest, which she divined, charmed Lady Sellingworth;on the other hand, she was tormented by his detachment from her, byhis lack of all vision of the truth of the situation. And she wasperpetually tortured by jealousy.
Before she had been in love with Rupert she had often felt jealous. Allwomen of her temperament are subject to jealousy, and all middle-agedpeople who worship youth unsuitably have felt its sting. But she hadnever before known jealousy as she knew it now.
Although she was so often with Rupert she was more often not with him.He made no pretences of virtue to her or to anyone else. He was a cheeryPagan, a good sport and--no doubt--a devil among the women. Beinga thorough gentleman he never talked, as some vulgar men do, of hisconquests. But Lady Sellingworth knew that his silence probably covereda multitude of sins. And her ignorance of the greater part of his lifeoften ravaged her.
What was he doing when he was not with her? Who was he making love to?
His name was not specially connected with that of any girl whom she knewin society. But she had reason to know that he spent a lot of his timeout of society in circles to which she had never penetrated. Doubtlesshe met quantities of women whose names she had never heard of, unknownwomen of the stage, women who went to night clubs, women of the curiousworld which floats between the aristocracy and the respectable middleclasses, which is as well dressed as the one and greedier even thanthe other, which seems always to have unlimited money, and which,nevertheless, has often no visible means of subsistence.
She lay awake often, when she badly needed sleep, wondering where Rupertwas and what he was doing.
Jealousy, combined with unnatural physical exertion, and the perpetualendeavour to throw round her an atmosphere of youth, energy andunceasing cheerfulness, wrought havoc in Lady Sellingworth. Herappearance began to deteriorate. Deeper lines became visible near hereyes, and the light of those eyes was feverish. Her nerves began to goto pieces. Restlessness increased upon her. She was scarcely able tokeep still for a moment. The more she needed repose the more incapableof repose she became. The effort to seem younger, gayer, stronger thanshe was became at last almost convulsive. Her social art was tarnished.The mechanism began to be visible.
People noticed the change in her and began to discuss it, and more thanone of the "old guard" hit upon the reason of it. It became subtly knownand whispered about that Adela Sellingworth was desperately in love withRupert Louth. Several of her friends hinted at their knowledge to LadySellingworth, and she was forced to laugh at the idea as absurd, knowingthat her laughter would serve no good end. These experienced womenknew. Impossible to deceive them about a thing of that kind! They weremercilessly capable in detecting a hidden passion in one of their body.Their intrigues and loves were usually common property, known to, andfrankly discussed by them all.
Lady Sellingworth presently had the satisfaction of knowing that thewhole of the "old guard" was talking about her passion for Rupert Louth.This fact drove her to a hard decision which was not natural to her.She wanted to marry Rupert because she was in love with him. But nowshe felt she must marry him to save her own pride before her mercilessfellow-women. She decided that the time had come when she must trampleon her own delicacy and prove that she still possessed the power of aconqueror. Otherwise she would be laughed at by the greater part of thesociety in which she usually lived.
She resolved to open Rupert Louth's eyes and to make him understand thatshe and all she stood for were at his disposal. She knew he was up tothe eyes in debt. She knew he had no prospects. Lord Blyston had nomoney to give him, and was for ever in difficulties himself. It was acritical moment for Louth, and a critical moment for her. Their marriagewould smooth out the whole situation, would set him free from all moneymiseries, and her from greater miseries still--torments of desire, andthe horror of being laughed at or pitied by her set. And in any case shefelt that the time had arrived when she must do something drastic; musteither achieve or frankly and definitely give up. She knew that she wasnearing the end of her tether. She could not much longer keep up thebrilliant pretence of being an untiring Amazon crammed full of the joiede vivre which she had assumed for the purpose of winning Rupert Louthas a husband. Her powers of persistence
were rapidly waning. Only willdrove her along, in defiance of the warnings and protests of her body.But the untiring Amazon was cracking up, to use a favourite expressionof Louth's. Soon the weary, middle-aged woman must claim her miserablerights: the right to be tired occasionally, the right to "slack off"at certain hours of the day, the right to find certain things neithersuitable nor amusing to her, the right, in fact, to be now and then amiddle-aged woman. Certainly something in her said to Lady Sellingworth:"In your marriage, if you marry, you will have to act even better, evenmore strenuously, than you are acting now. Being in love as you are, youwill never be able to dare to be your true self. Your whole married lifewill be a perpetual throwing of dust in the eyes of your husband. Tokeep him you will have to live backwards, or to try to live backwards,all the time. If you are tired now, what will you be then?" And she knewthat the voice was speaking the truth. Her imp, too, was watchingher closely and with an ugly intensity of irony as she approached herdecision.
Nevertheless, she defied him; she defied the voice within her, and tookit. She said to herself, or her worn nervous system said to her, thatthere was nothing else to be done. In her fatigue of body and nerves shefelt reckless as only the nearly worn out feel. Something--she didn'tknow what--had cast the die for her. It was her fate to open RupertLouth's eyes, to make him see; it was her fate to force her will intoa last strong spasm. She would not look farther than the day. She wouldnot contemplate her married life imaginatively, held in contemplation,like a victim, by the icy hands of reason. She would kick reason out,harden herself, give her wildness free play, and act, concentratingon the present with all the force of which her diseased nerves werecapable.
Instead of thinking just then "after me the deluge," her thought was"after my marriage to Rupert Louth the deluge." She would, she must,make him her husband. It would be perhaps the last assertion of herpower. She knew enough of men to know that such an assertion might wellbe followed by disaster. But she was prepared to brave any disasterexcept one, the losing of Louth and the subsequent ironical amusement ofthe "old guard."
Two or three days later Louth called, mounted on one of her horses, totake her for a ride in the park.
During the previous night Lady Sellingworth had scarcely slept at all.She had got up feeling desperately nervous and almost lightheaded. Onlooking in the glass she had been shocked at her appearance, but she hadmanaged to alter that considerably, although not so completely as shewished. Depression, following inevitably on insomnia, had fixed itsclaws in her. She felt deadly, almost terrible, and as if her face mustbe showing plainly the ugliness of her mental condition. For sheseemed to have lost control over it. The facial muscles seemed to havehardened, to have become fixed. When the servant came to tell her thatLouth and the horses were at the door she was almost afraid to go down,lest he should see at once in her face the strong will power which shehad summoned up; as a weapon in this crisis of her life.
As she went slowly downstairs she forced herself to smile. The smilecame with difficulty, but it came, and when she met Louth he did notseem to notice any peculiarity in her. But, to tell the truth, hescarcely seemed to notice her at all with any particularity. For herstrange and abnormal pre-occupation was matched by a like pre-occupationin him. He took off his hat, bade her good morning, and helped herskilfully to mount. But she saw at once that he was not as usual. Hisface was grave and looked almost thoughtful. The merry light had goneout of his eyes. And, strangest phenomenon of all, he was tongue-tied.They started away from the house, and rode through Mayfair towards thepark in absolute silence.
She began to wonder very much what was the matter with Rupert, andguessed that he had "come an awful cropper" of some kind. It mustcertainly be an exceptional cropper to cloud his spirit. Perhaps he hadlost a really large sum of money, or perhaps he--The thought of a womancame suddenly to her, she did not know why. Suspicion, jealousy wokein her. She glanced sideways at Rupert under her hard hat. He lookedsplendid on horseback, handsomer even than when he was on foot. For hewas that rare thing, a really perfect horseman. His appearance disarmedher. She longed to do something for him, by some act of glowinggenerosity to win him completely. But they were still in the streets,and she said nothing. Directly they turned into the green quietude ofthe park, however, she yielded to her impulse and spoke, and asked himbluntly what was the matter.
He did not fence with her. Fencing was not easy to him. He turned inthe saddle, faced her, and told her that he had made a damned fool ofhimself. Still bent on generosity, on being more than a friend to him,she asked him to tell her how. His reply almost stunned her. A fortnightpreviously he had secretly married a Miss Willoughby--really a MissBertha Crouch, and quite possibly of Crouch End--who was appearing ina piece at the Alhambra Theatre, but who had not yet arrived at thedignity of a "speaking part." This young lady, it seemed, had already"landed" Louth in expenses which he didn't know how to meet. What was heto do? She was the loveliest thing on earth, but she was accustomed toliving in unbridled luxury. In fact she wanted the earth, and he waslonging to give it to her. But how? Where could he possibly get holdof enough money for the purchase of the earth on behalf of Miss BerthaCrouch--now Willoughby, or, rather, now the Hon. Mrs. Rupert Louth?His face softened, his manner grew almost boyishly eager, as he pouredconfidences into Lady Sellingworth's ears. She was his one real friend!She was a woman of the world. She had lived ever so much longer than hehad and knew five times as much. What would she advise? Might he bringlittle Bertha to see her? Bertha was really the most splendid littlesort, although naturally she wanted to have the things other womenhad--etc., etc.