About seven o’clock that evening Lady Sellingworth was sitting alone in
her drawing-room. Sir Seymour Portman had been with her for an hour and
had left her at half past six, believing that she was going to spend
one of her usual solitary evenings, probably with a book by the fire. He
would gladly, even thankfully, have stayed to keep her company. But
no suggestion of that kind had been made to him. And, beyond calling
regularly at the hour when he believed that he was welcome, he never
pressed his company upon his dearly loved friend. Even in his great
affection he preserved a certain ceremoniousness. Even in his love he
never took a liberty. In modern days he still held to the reserve of
the very great gentleman, old-fashioned perhaps now, but nevertheless
precious in his sight.
He would have been not a little surprised had he been able to see his
Adela at this moment.
She had changed the plain black gown in which she had received him, and
was dressed in dark red velvet. She wore a black hat. Two big rubies
gleamed in her ears, and there was another, surrounded with diamonds,
at her throat. Her gown was trimmed with an edging of some dark fur.
As usual her hands were covered by loose white gloves. She was shod for
walking out. Her eyebrows had been carefully darkened. There was some
artificial red on her lips. Her white hair was fluffed out under the
hat brim, and looked very thick and vital. Her white skin was smooth
and even. Her eyes shone, as Cecile had just told her, “_comme deux
lampes_.” She was a striking figure as she sat on her sofa very upright
near a lamp, holding a book in her hand. She even looked very handsome
and, of course, very distinguished. But her face was anxious, her bright
eyes were uneasy, and there was a perceptible stamp of artificiality
upon her. A woman would have noticed it instantly. Even an observant man
would probably not have missed it.
She seemed to be reading at first, and presently there was a faint
rustle. She had turned a page. But soon she put the book down in her
lap, still keeping her hand on it, and sat looking about the room. The
clock chimed seven. She moved and sighed. Then again she sat very still
like one listening. After a while she lifted the book, glanced at it
again, and then put it down, got up and went to the fireplace. She
turned on the lights there, leaned forward and looked into the glass.
Her face became stern with intentness when she did that. She put up a
hand to her hair, turned her head a little to one side, smiled faintly,
then a little more, and looked grave, then earnest. Finally she put both
her hands on the mantelpiece, grasped it and stared into the glass.
In that moment she was feeling afraid.
She had arranged to dine with Alick Craven once more at the _Bella
Napoli_. He would come for her in a few minutes. She was wondering very
much how exactly she would appear to him, how old, how good-looking--or
plain. She had tried, with Cecile’s help, to look her very best. Cecile
had declared the result was a success. “_Miladi est merveilleusement
belle ce soir, mais vraiment belle!_” But a maid, of course, would not
scruple to lie about such a matter. One could not depend on a maid’s
word. She was in love with Alick Craven, desperately in love as only an
elderly woman can be with a man much younger than herself. And that love
made her afraid.
There was a tiny mole on her face, near the mouth. She wished she
had had it removed in Geneva. Why had not she had that done? No doubt
because she was so accustomed to it that for years she had never thought
of it, had never even seen it. Now suddenly she saw it, and it seemed
to her noticeable, an ugly blemish. Anyone who looked at her must surely
look at it, think of it. For a moment she felt desperate about it, and
her whole body was suddenly hot as if a flame went over it. Then the
mocking look came into her eyes. She was trying to laugh at herself.
“He doesn’t think of me in _that_ way! No man will ever think of me in
_that_ way again!”
But the mocking expression died out and the fear did not go. She was
afraid of Craven’s young eyes. It was terrible to feel so humble,
so full of trembling diffidence. Oh, for a moment of the conquering
sensation she had sometimes known in the years long ago when men had
made her aware of her power!
Since their meeting in Dindie Ackroyde’s drawing-room her friendship
with Craven, renewed, had grown into something like intimacy. But there
was an uneasiness in it which she felt acutely. There were humbug and
fear in this friendship. Because she was desperately in love she was
forced to be insincere with Craven. Haunted perpetually by the fear of
losing what she had, the liking of a man who was not, and could never
be, in love with her, she had to give Craven the impression that she
was beyond the age of love, that the sensations of love were dead in her
beyond hope of resurrection. She had to play at detachment when her one
desire was to absorb and to be absorbed, had to sustain an appearance of
physical coldness while she was burning with physical fever. She had to
create a false atmosphere about her, and to do it so cleverly that it
seemed absolutely genuine, the emanation of her personality in unstudied
naturalness.
Her lack of all affection helped her to deceive. Though in moments she
might seem constrained, oddly remote, frigidly detached, she was never
affected. Now and then Craven had wondered about her, but he had never
guessed that she was acting a part. The charm of her was still active
about him, and it was the charm of apparent sincerity. To him so far the
false atmosphere seemed real, and he was not aware of the fear.
Lady Sellingworth feared being found out by Craven, and feared what
might happen if he found out that she was in love with him. She feared
her age and the addition each passing day made to it. She feared her
natural appearance, and now strove to conceal it as much as possible
without being unskilful or blatant. And she feared the future terribly.
For Time galloped now. She often felt herself rushing towards the abyss
of the seventies.
The worst of it all was that in humbug she was never at ease. Instead
of, like many women, living comfortably in insincerity, she longed to be
sincere. To love as she did and be insincere was abominable to her. To
her insincerity now seemed to be the direct contradiction of love. Often
when she was deceiving Alick Craven she felt almost criminal. Perhaps
if she had been much younger she might not have been so troubled in the
soul by the necessity for constant pretence. But to those who are of any
real worth the years bring a growing need of sincerity, a growing hunger
which only true things can satisfy. And she knew that need and suffered
that hunger.
She was feeling it now as she waited for Craven. She longed to be able
to let him see her as she was and to be accepted by him as she was.
But he would not accept her. She knew that. He did not want her as she
wanted him. He was satisfied with things as they were. She was at a
terrible disadvantage with him, for she was in his power, while he was
not in hers. He could ruin such happiness as she now had. But she could
not ruin his happiness. If he gave her up she would be broken, though
probably no one would know it. But if she gave him up he would not mind
very much, though no doubt his pride would be hurt. Perhaps, even now,
she was only a palliative in his life. Beryl Van Tuyn had evidently
treated him badly. He turned to others for some casual consolation.
Lady Sellingworth often wondered painfully what Craven felt about the
American girl. Was she only comforting Craven, playing a sort of dear
old mother’s part to him? Did he come to her because he considered her
a skilful binder up of wounds? Could Beryl whenever she chose take him
away?
Lady Sellingworth’s instinct told her that while she had been abroad
Craven and Beryl had travelled in their friendship. But she did not yet
know exactly how far Craven had gone. It seemed evident now that Beryl
had been suddenly diverted, no doubt by some strong influence, on to
another track; Lady Sellingworth knew that she and Craven were no
longer meeting. Something had happened which had interfered with their
intimacy. Rumour said that Beryl Van Tuyn was in love with another man,
with this Nicolas Arabian, whom nobody knew. Everyone in the Coombe set
was talking about it. How keenly did Craven feel this sudden defection?
That it had hurt his young pride Lady Sellingworth was certain. But she
was not certain whether it had seriously wounded his heart.
“Am I a palliative?” she thought as she gazed into the glass.
And then came the terrible question:
“How can I be anything else?”
She heard the door opening behind her, took her hands from the
mantelpiece, and turned round quickly.
“Mr. Craven, my lady.”
“You’re all ready? Capital! I say, am I late?”
“No. It’s only a little past seven.”
He had taken her hand. She longed to press his, but she did not press
it. He looked at her, she thought, rather curiously.
“I’ve got a taxi at the door. It’s rather a horrid night. You’re not
dressed for walking?”
Again his look seemed to question her.
She put up a hand to her face, near the mouth, nervously.
“We had better drive. In these winter evenings walking isn’t very
pleasant. We must be a little less Bohemian in taste, mustn’t we?”
He seemed now slightly constrained. His eyes did not rest upon her quite
naturally, she thought.
“Shall we go down?” she said.
“Yes, do let us.”
As she moved to go she looked into the glass. She could not help doing
that. He noticed it, and thought:
“I wonder why she has begun making her face up like this?”
He did not like it. He preferred her as she had been when he had first
come to her house on an autumn evening. To him there was something
almost distressing in this change which he noticed specially to-night.
And her look into the glass had shown him that she was preoccupied about
her appearance. Such a preoccupation on her part seemed foreign to her
character as he had conceived of it. Her greatest charm had been her
extraordinary lack, or apparent lack, of all self-consciousness. She had
never seemed to bother about herself, to be thinking of the impression
she was making on others.
But she was certainly looking very handsome.
She put on a fur. They got into the cab and drove to Soho.
Craven had ordered the table in the window to be reserved for them. The
restaurant was fairly, but not quite, full. The musicians were in their
accustomed places looking very Italian. The lustrous _padrona_ smiled a
greeting to them from her counter. Their bright-eyed waitress hurried up
and welcomed them in Italian. Vesuvius erupted at them from the walls.
There was a cozy warmth in the unpretentious room, an atmosphere of
careless intimacy and good fellowship.
“Let me take off your fur!”
She slipped out of it, and he hung it up on a hook among hats and coats
which looked as if they could never have anything to do with it.
“I’ll sit with my back to the window,” she said. She sat down, and he
sat on her left facing the entrance.
Then the menu was brought, and they began to consult about what they
would eat. She did not care what it was, but she pretended to care very
much. To do that was part of the game. If only she could think of all
this as a game, could take it lightly, merrily! She resolved to make a
strong effort to conquer the underlying melancholy which had accompanied
her into this new friendship, and which she could not shake off. It came
from a lost battle, from a silent and great defeat. She was afraid of
it, for it was black and profound beyond all plumbing. Often in her ten
years of retirement she had felt melancholy. But this was a new sort of
sadness. There was an acrid edge to it. It had the peculiar and subtle
terror of a grief that was not caused only by events, but also, and
specially, by something within herself.
“Gnocchi--we must have gnocchi!”
“Oh, yes.”
“But wait, though! There are ravioli! It would hardly do to have both, I
suppose, would it?”
“No; they are too much alike.”
“Then which shall we have?”
She was going to say, “I don’t mind!” but remembered her role and said:
“Please, ravioli for me.”
And she believed that she said it with gusto, as if she really did care.
“For me too!” said Craven.
And he went on considering and asking, with his dark head bent over the
menu and his blue eyes fixed upon it.
“There! That ought to be a nice dinner!” he said, at last. “And for wine
Chianti, I suppose?”
“Yes, Chianti Rosso,” she answered, with the definiteness, she hoped, of
the epicure.
This small fuss about what they were going to eat marked for her the
severing difference between Craven’s mental attitude at this moment and
hers. For him this little dinner was merely a pleasant way of spending a
casual evening in the company of one who was kind to him, whom he found
sympathetic, whom he admired probably as a striking representative of
an era that was past, the Edwardian era. For her it was an event full
of torment and joy. The joy came from being alone with him. But she
was tortured by yearnings which he knew nothing of. He was able to give
himself out to her naturally. She was obliged to hold herself in, to
conceal the horrible fact that she was obsessed by him, that she was
longing to commit sacrifices for him, to take him as her exclusive
possession, to surround him with love and worship. He wanted from her
what she was apparently giving him and nothing more. She wanted from
him all that he was not giving her and would never give her. The dinner
would be a tranquil pleasure for him, and a quivering torture for her,
mingled with some moments of forgetfulness in which she would have a
brief illusion of happiness. She made the comparison and thought
with despair of the unevenness of Fate. Meanwhile she was smiling and
praising the vegetable soup sprinkled with Parmesan cheese.
One of the musicians came up to their table, and inquired whether the
_signora_ would like any special thing played. Lady Sellingworth shook
her head. She was afraid of their songs of the South, and dared not
choose one.
“Anything you like!” she said.
“They are all much the same,” she added to Craven.
“But I thought you were so fond of the songs of Naples and the Bay.
Don’t you remember that first evening when--”
“Yes, I remember,” she interrupted him, almost sharply. “But still these
songs are really all very much alike. They all express the same sort of
thing--Neapolitan desires.”
“And not only Neapolitan desires, I should say,” said Craven.
At that moment a hard look came into his eyes, a grimness altered his
mouth. His face completely changed, evidently under the influence of
some sudden and keen gust of feeling. He slightly bent his head, and the
colour rose in his cheeks.
Lady Sellingworth who, for the moment, had been wholly intent on
Craven, now looked to see what had caused this sudden and evidently
uncontrollable exhibition of feeling. She saw two people, a tall girl
and a man, walking down the restaurant towards the further end. The girl
she immediately recognized.
“Oh--there’s Beryl!” she said.
Her heart sank as she looked at Craven.
“Yes,” he said.
“Did she see me?”
“I don’t know. Probably she did. But she seemed in a hurry.”
“Oh! Whom is she with?”
“That fellow they are all talking about, Arabian. At least, I suppose
so. Anyhow, it’s the fellow I saw in Glebe Place. Ah, there they go with
_Sole mio_!”
The musicians were beginning the melody of which Italians never seem to
weary. Lady Sellingworth listened to it as she looked down the long and
narrow room now crowded with people. Beryl Van Tuyn was standing by a
table near the wall. Lady Sellingworth saw her in profile. Her companion
stood beside her with his back to the room. Lady Sellingworth noticed
that he was tall with an athletic figure, that he was broad-shouldered,
that his head was covered with thickly growing brown hair. He gave her
the impression of a strong and good-looking man. She gazed at him with
an interest she scarcely understood at that moment, an interest surely
more intense than even the gossip she had heard about him warranted.
He helped Miss Van Tuyn out of her coat, then took off his, and went to
hang them on a stand against the wall. In doing this he turned, and for
a moment showed his profile to Lady Sellingworth. She saw the line of
his brown face, his arm raised, his head slightly thrown back.
So that was Nicolas Arabian, the man all the women in the Coombe set
were gossiping about! She could not see him very well. He was rather
a long way off, and two moving people, a waitress carrying food, an
Italian man going to speak to a gesticulating friend, intervened and
shut him out from her sight while he was still arranging the coats. But
there was something in his profile, something in his movement and in
the carriage of his head which seemed familiar to her. And she drew her
brows together, wondering. Craven spoke to her through the music. She
looked at him, answered him. Then once more she glanced down the room.
Beryl and Arabian had sat down. Beryl was facing her. Arabian was at the
side. Lady Sellingworth still saw him in profile. He was talking to the
waitress.
“I am sure I know that man’s face!” Lady Sellingworth thought.
And she expressed her thought to Craven.
“If that is Nicolas Arabian I think I must have seen him about London,”
she said. “His side face seems familiar to me somehow.”
Why would not Beryl look at her?
“I wonder whether Beryl saw me when she came in,” continued Lady
Sellingworth. “She saw you, of course.”
“Yes, she saw me.”
From the sound of Craven’s voice, from the constraint of his manner,
Lady Sellingworth gathered the knowledge that her evening was spoilt.
A few minutes before she had been quivering with anxiety, had been
struggling to conquer the melancholy which, she knew, put her at a
disadvantage with Craven, had been seized with despair as she compared
her fate with his. Now she looked back at that beginning of the evening
and thought of it as happy. For Craven had seemed contented then. Now he
was obviously restless, ill at ease. He never looked down the room.
He devoted himself to her. He talked even more than usual. But she was
aware of effort in it all, and knew that his thoughts were with Beryl
Van Tuyn and the stranger who seemed vaguely familiar to her.
Formerly--with what intensity she remembered, visualized, the
occasions--Craven had been restless with Beryl Van Tuyn because he
wished to be with her; now he was restless with her. And she did not
need to ask herself why.
This remembrance made her feel angry in her despair. Her hatred of Beryl
revived. She recalled the girl’s cruelty to her. Now Beryl had been
cruel to Craven. And yet Craven was longing after her. What was the good
of kindness, of the warm heart full of burning desires to be of use, to
comfort, to bring joy into a life? The cruel fascinated, perhaps were
even loved. Men were bored by any love that was wholly unselfish.
But was her love unselfish? She put that question from her. She felt
injured, wounded. It was difficult for her any longer to conceal her
misery. But she tried to talk cheerfully, naturally. She forced her lips
to smile. She praised the excellence of the cooking, the efforts of the
musicians.
Nevertheless the conversation presently languished. There was no
spontaneity in it. All around them loud voices were talking volubly in
Italian. She glanced from table to table. It seemed to her that everyone
was feeling happy and at ease except herself and Craven. They were ill
matched. She became horribly self-conscious. She felt as if people were
looking at them with surprise, as if an undercurrent of ridicule was
creeping through the room. Surely many were wondering who the painted
old woman and the young man were, why they sat together in the corner
by the window! She saw one of the musicians smile and whisper to the
companion beside him, and felt certain he was speaking about her, was
smiling, at some ugly thought which he had just put into words.
To an Italian she must certainly seem an old wreck of a woman, “_una
vecchia_,” an object of contempt, or of smiling pity. She looked down at
her red dress, remembered the jewels in her ears and at her throat. How
useless and absurd were her efforts to look her best! A terrible phrase
of Caroline Briggs came into her mind: “I feel as if I were looking at
bones decked out in jewels.” And again she was back in Paris ten years
ago; again she saw a contrast bizarre as the contrast she and Craven now
presented to the crowd in the restaurant. Before the eyes of her mind
there rose an old woman in a black wig and a marvellously handsome young
man.
Suddenly a thrill shot through her. It was like a sharp physical pain, a
sword-thrust of agony.
That profile which had seemed vaguely familiar to her just now, was it
not like his profile? She tried to reason with herself, to tell herself
that she was yielding to a crazy fancy, brought about by her nervous
excitement and by the mental pain she was suffering. Many men slightly,
sometimes markedly, resemble other men. One face seen in profile is
often very much like another. But the even dark brown of the complexion!
That was not very common, not the type of complexion one sees every day.
She glanced at the men near to her. Most of them were Italians and
swarthy. But not one had that peculiar, almost bronze-like darkness.
Beryl had spoken of “a living bronze.”
Craven was speaking to her again. She forced herself to reply to him,
though she scarcely knew what she was saying. She saw a look of surprise
in the eyes which he fixed on her.
“Isn’t it getting very hot?” she said quickly.
“It is rather hot. Shall I ask them to open the window a little? But it
is just behind you.”
“It doesn’t matter. I have brought my fan.”
She picked the fan up and began to use it unsteadily.
“The room is so very crowded to-night,” she murmured.
“Yes. No wonder with such cooking. Here is the Zabaione.”
The waitress put two large glasses before them filled with the thick
yellow custard, then brought them a plate of biscuits.
Lady Sellingworth laid down the fan and picked up her spoon. She must
eat. But she did not know how she was going to force herself to do it.
Although she kept on saying to herself: “It’s impossible!” she could
not get rid of the horrible suspicion which had assailed her. On the
contrary, it seemed to grow in her till it was almost a conviction.
She tried to eat tranquilly. She praised the Zabaione. She sipped her
Chianti Rosso. But she tasted nothing, and when the musicians struck up
another melody she did not know what they were playing.
“Are you tired of it?”
Craven had spoken to her.
“Of what?” she asked, as if almost startled.
“That--Santa Lucia?”
“Oh--is it?”
He looked astonished.
“Oh--yes, I must say I am rather sick of it!” she said quickly.
She laid down her spoon.
“Don’t you like the Zabaione?”
“Yes, it’s delicious. But I have had enough. You ordered such a very
good dinner!”
She began to use her fan again. The noise of voices in the room was
becoming like the noise of voices in a nightmare. She was longing to
confirm or banish her suspicion by a long look at Beryl’s companion.
She felt sure now that if she looked again at Arabian she would be
absolutely certain, even from a distance, whether he was or was not the
man who had brought about the robbery of her jewels at the Gard du Nord
ten years ago. Her mind was fully awake now, and she would be able to
see. But, knowing that, she did not dare to look towards Arabian. She
was miserable in her uncertainty, but she was afraid of having her
horrible suspicion confirmed. She was a coward at that moment, and she
knew it.
Craven finished his Zabaione and put down his spoon. They had not
ordered another course. The dinner was over. But they had not had their
coffee yet, and he asked for it.
“Are you going to smoke a Toscana?” she said, forcing herself to smile.
“Yes, I think I will. Do let me give you a cigarette.”
He drew out his case and offered it to her. She took a cigarette, lit
it, and began to smoke. Their coffee was brought.
“Oh, it’s too hot to drink!” she said, almost irritably.
“But we aren’t in a hurry, are we?” he said, looking at her with
surprise.
“No, of course not.”
Now she was gazing resolutely down at the tablecloth. She was afraid to
raise her eyes, was afraid of what they might see. Her whole mind now
was bent upon getting away from the restaurant as soon as possible. She
had decided to go without making sure whether Arabian was the man who
had robbed her or not. Even uncertainty would surely be better than
a certainty that might bring in its train necessities too terrible to
contemplate mentally.
As she was looking down she did not see something which just then
happened in the room. It was this:
Miss Van Tuyn, who had not said a word to Arabian of her friends who
were dining by the window, although she guessed that he had probably
noticed Alick Craven when they came in, resolved to take a bold step.
It was useless any longer to play for concealment. Since she came out to
dine in public with Arabian, since he had asked her to marry him and she
had not refused--though she had not accepted--since she knew very
well that she had not the will power to send him out of her life, she
resolved to do what she had not done in Glebe Place and introduce him
to Craven. She even decided that if it seemed possible that the two men
could get on amicably for a few minutes she would go a step farther; she
would introduce Arabian to Adela Sellingworth.
Adela should see that she, Beryl, was absolutely indifferent to what
Craven did, or did not do. And Craven should be made to understand that
she went on her way happily without him, and not with an old man, though
he had chosen as his companion an old woman. And, incidentally, she
would put Arabian to the test which had been missed in Glebe Place. With
this determination in her mind she said to Arabian:
“There are two friends of mine at the table in the corner by the
window.”
“Yes?” he said.
And he turned his head to look.
As he did so, perhaps influenced by his eyes, or by the fact that the
attention of two minds was at that moment concentrated on him, Craven
looked towards them.
“I want to introduce you to them if possible,” said Miss Van Tuyn.
And she made a gesture to Craven, beckoned to him to come to her. He
looked surprised, reluctant. She saw that he flushed slightly. But she
persisted in her invitation. She had lost her head in Glebe Place, but
now she would retrieve the situation. Vanity, fear, an obscure jealousy,
and something else pushed her on. And she beckoned again. She saw Craven
lean over and say something to Lady Sellingworth. Then he got up and
came down the room towards her, threading his way among the many tables.
Miss Van Tuyn was looking at him just then and not at Arabian.
Craven came up, looking stiff, almost awkward, and markedly more English
than usual. At least she thought so.
“How d’you do, Miss Van Tuyn? How are you?”
She gave him her hand with a smile.
“Very well! You see, I’ve not forgotten my old haunts. And I see you
haven’t, either. Let me introduce you to my friend, Mr. Arabian. Mr.
Craven--Mr. Arabian.”
Arabian got up and bowed.
“Pleased to meet you!” he said in a formal voice.
“Good evening!” said Craven, staring hard at him.
“I mustn’t ask you to sit down,” said Miss Van Tuyn. “As you are tied
up with Adela. But”--she hesitated for an instant, then continued with
hardihood--“can’t you persuade Adela to join us for coffee?”
At this moment Arabian made a movement and opened his lips as if about
to say something.
“Yes?” she said, looking at him.
“I was only going to say that these tables are so very small. Is it not
so? How should we manage?”
“Oh, we can tuck in somehow.”
She turned again to Craven.
“Do ask her. Or we might come over to you.”
“Very well!” said Craven, still stiffly.
He glanced round towards the window and started.
“What’s the matter?”
Miss Van Tuyn leaned forward and looked.
There was no longer anyone sitting at the table by the window.
Lady Sellingworth had disappeared.