Lady Sellingworth of course understood Beryl’s purpose in visiting her so soon and in being so unreserved to her. The girl’s intention was absolutely clear to her mind horribly experienced in the cruel ways of women. Nevertheless she believed that Beryl had spoken the truth about what had happened at Camber.
When it began to get dark Craven had wanted to hold Beryl’s hand.
Lady Sellingworth felt that she hated Beryl, hated Alick Craven. And herself? She did not want to contemplate herself. It seemed to her that she was fastened up with, chained to, a being she longed to ignore, to be without knowledge of. Something of her was struggling to be away from something else of her that was hideous. Battle, confusion, dust, dying cries, flying, terror-stricken feet! She was aware of tumult and despair in the silence of her beautiful house. And she was aware also of that slow and terrible creeping of hatred, the thing that did harm to her, that set her far away from any nobility she possessed.
She had gone abroad to fight, and had come back having lost her battle. And already she was being scourged for her failure.
When she had been striving alone these two had evidently forgotten her existence. Directly she had passed for a short time out of their lives they had come together. Youth had instinctively sought out youth, and she, the old woman, had been as one dead to them. If she had stayed away for years, if she had never come back, it would not have mattered to them.
Beryl’s lack of all affection for her did not seriously trouble her. She knew the dryness of vanity; she knew that it was practically impossible for a girl so vain as Beryl to care deeply, or at all unselfishly, for another woman. But Craven’s conduct was not what she had looked for. It seemed to stamp him as typical, and she had supposed him to be exceptional. When Beryl had told her about Camber—so little and yet so much—she had been struck to the heart; and yet she had seen a vision of servants, the footman out in the dark with the under housemaid.
Seymour Portman’s observant old eyes, the terrible eyes of affection, took in the change in her, not quite as a woman’s eyes would have done, but in their own adequate way. His Adela looked different. Something had happened to her. The envelope had been touched up in some, to him, quite mysterious manner. And he did not like it. It even gave him a mild sort of shock. The touch of artificiality was cold on this amazingly straightforward old man. He loved his Adela with all the wrinkles, with the sagging skin, and the lined throat, and the curiously experienced weariness about the temples. She lived for him in the brilliant eyes, and was loved by him in them. And why should she suddenly try to change her appearance? It had certainly not been done for him—this Something. She was looking handsomer than usual, and yet he seemed to be aware that beneath the improved surface there was a tragic haggardness which had come into existence while she had been away.
He did not reproach her for the mystery of her absence, or for her silence; he did not ask her questions about where she had been, what she had done; he just sat with her and loved her. And his love made her horribly uneasy that day. She could not be still under it. She felt as if the soul of her kept shifting about, as a child shifts about under the watchful eyes of an elder. She felt the physical tingle of guilt. And she was thankful when at last Seymour went away and left her alone with her hatred.
All those weeks! She had deliberately left the ground free to Beryl for all those weeks, and she had returned with no expectation of the thing that of course had happened. And yet she had believed that she had an excellent knowledge of life and of human beings. No doubt she had been so concentrated upon herself, and the struggle within herself that she had been unable to make any use of that knowledge. And so now she was full of hatred and of profound humiliation.
When she had abruptly left England she had made up her mind to “have done with it,” that is to have done with love, to have done even with sentimental friendship. She had resolved to plunge into complete loneliness. Since she could not take Seymour into her intimate life, since she now knew that was absolutely impossible, she must somehow manage to get along permanently with nothing. And so, yielding to a desperate impulse, she had resolved to seek an unaccustomed solitude. She had fled from London. But she had stopped in Paris; although she had intended to pass through it and to go straight on to Marseilles and the Riviera. When the train had run in to the Gare du Nord she had told her surprised maid that she was tired and would not go on that night. Suddenly she had decided to seek out Caroline Briggs, to make a confession, to ask for help and sympathy. And she had sent her maid to a hotel, and had driven to Caroline’s house.
But Caroline was not in Paris. A blue-cheeked, close-shaven French footman had informed her that his mistress had been obliged to sail for America three days before.
It had been a great blow to her. Confession, the cry for help, had been almost on her lips as she had stood at the door before the keen-eyed young man. And she had gone away feeling strangely lost and abandoned.
On the following morning she had left Paris and had travelled to the Riviera. And, there, she had fought against herself and had lost the battle.
Perhaps if she had been able to see Caroline the issue would have been different. She almost believed that if she had once told the absolute truth about herself to someone she might have found the courage to put personal dignity in its right place at the head of her life as the arbiter of what must not be done. Although she had defied Caroline ten years ago, and had been punished for her defiance, she still had a deep belief in Caroline’s strength of character and clear insight. And she knew that Caroline was really fond of her.
But Fate had removed her friend from her. And was it not because of that removal that she had lost her battle? The sense of loneliness, of a cold finality, had been too great for her. She had had too much time for remembrance. And she had remembered certain hours with Craven by the fire, had remembered the human warmth of them, till the longing for happiness had overpowered everything else in her. They had been very happy together. She had been able to make him happy. His eager eyes had shown it. And their joy had been quite innocent; there had been no harm in it at all. Why should she deliberately forego such innocent contentment? Walking alone on the sea front at Cannes in the warm and brilliant weather she had asked herself that question. If Craven were there! And in the long loneliness she had begun presently, as often before, to try to cheat herself. The drastic heart of London had seemed to change into another heart. And at last she had followed the example of a woman in Paris some ten years ago.
She had as it were got out of the train once more.
She had not, perhaps, been fully conscious of the terrible repetition brought about by a temperament which apparently refused to change. She had no doubt tried to deceive herself though she had not deceived herself ten years ago at the Gare du Nord. She had even lied to herself, saying that in London she had given way to a foolish and morbid mood of fear, induced in her by memories of disasters in the past, that she had imagined danger where no danger existed. In London panic had seized her. But now in a different atmosphere and environment, quite alone and able, therefore, to consider things carefully and quietly, to see them in their true light, she had told herself that it was preposterous to give up an innocent joy merely because long ago she had been subject to folly. Ten years had elapsed since her last fit of folly. She must have changed since then. It was inevitable that she had changed. She had lied to herself in London when she had told herself that Craven would be satisfied in their friendship, while she would be almost starving. Her subsequent prayer had been answered. Passion was dead in her. A tender, almost a motherly feeling—that really was what she felt and would always feel for Alick Craven. She need not fear such a feeling. She would not fear it. Morbidity had possessed her. The sunshine of Cannes had driven it away. She had presently been glad that she had not found Caroline in Paris. For if she had made that confession she would have put an obstacle in the path which she now resolved to tread.
She had told herself that, and finally she had decided to return to London.
But she had gone first to Geneva, and had put herself there into the hands of a certain specialist, whose fame had recently reached the ears of a prominent member of the “old guard,” no other than the Duchess of Wellingborough.
And now she had come back with her sheaves and had been met on the threshold by Beryl with her hideous confidences.
She had not yet told Craven of her return. For the moment she was glad that she had not given way to her impulse and telephoned to him on the Sunday. She might have caught him with her message just as he was starting for Rye with Beryl. That would have been horrible. Of course she would not telephone to him now. She resolved to ignore him. He had forgotten all about her. She would seem to forget about him. There was nothing else to be done. Pride, the pride of theGrande Damewhich she had never totally lost, rose up in her, hot, fiery even; it mingled with an intense jealousy, and made her wish to inflict punishment. She was like a wounded animal that longs to strike, to tear with its claws, to lacerate and leave bleeding. Nevertheless she had no intention of taking action against either of those who had hurt her. Beryl should have her triumph. Youth should be left in peace with its own cruelty.
Two days passed before Craven knew of Lady Sellingworth’s return to Berkeley Square. Braybrooke told him of it in the club, and added the information that she had arrived on the previous Saturday.
“Oh!” said Craven, with apparent indifference. “Have you seen her?”
Braybrooke replied that he had seen her, and that she was looking, in his opinion, remarkably well, even somewhat younger than usual.
“She seems to have had an excellent time on the Riviera and in Switzerland.”
“In Switzerland!” said Craven, thinking of Braybrooke’s remarks about Catherine Bewdley and Lausanne.
“Yes, but I don’t think she has been ill. I ventured to—just to say a word as to doctors, and she assured me she had been perfectly well all the time she was away. Are you going to see her?”
“I’ve got a good deal to do just now,” said Craven, coldly and with a slight rise of colour. “But of course I hope to see Lady Sellingworth again some day. She is a charming woman. It’s always a pleasure to have a talk with her.”
“Yes, indeed! By the way, who is Beryl Van Tuyn’s extraordinarily good-looking young friend? Do you happen to know?”
“What friend?” asked Craven, with sudden sharpness.
“The tall man she has been seen about with lately.”
“I don’t know.”
After a slight pause, very intentional on Braybrooke’s part, Craven replied:
“Miss Van Tuyn knows such lots of people.”
“To be sure! And Lady Archie, though a dear woman, is perhaps a little inclined to gossip.”
“Lady Archie Brooke?”
“Yes. She has met Miss Van Tuyn two or three times in Glebe Place, it seems, walking with a man whom she describes as a marvel of good looks. But there’s Antring. I must have a word with him. He is just over from Paris.”
And Braybrooke walked away with his usual discreet gait. He was feeling decidedly satisfied. Young Craven had certainly not been pleased with the information so casually imparted. It had aroused—Braybrooke was convinced of it—a sensation of jealousy which promised well for the future. Braybrooke was almost sure now that his young friend had fallen thoroughly in love with Beryl Van Tuyn. The coldness about Adela Sellingworth, the sudden touch of heat about Beryl Van Tuyn, surely indicated that. Braybrooke was not seriously upset about Lady Archie’s remarks. She really was a tremendous gossip, although of course a delightful woman. And Miss Van Tuyn was always surrounded by men. Nevertheless he was decidedly curious about the good-looking stranger who had been seen in Glebe Place. He had a retentive memory, and had not forgotten Dick Garstin’s extraordinary remark about the blackmailer.
Braybrooke was not mistaken about Craven. The information about Adela Sellingworth had renewed Craven’s hot sense of injury. Braybrooke did not understand that. But the subsequent remark about Beryl Van Tuyn had added fuel to the fire, and the sharp jealousy of sensitive youth mingled with the feeling of injury. Craven had been hurt by the elderly woman. Was he now to be hurt by the girl? Braybrooke’s news had made him feel really angry. Yet he knew he had no right to be angry. He began to wish that he had never gone to Berkeley Square on that autumn afternoon, had never met the two women who were beginning to complicate his life. For a moment he thought of dropping them both. But had not one of them already dropped him? He would certainly not call again in Berkeley Square. If Lady Sellingworth did not ask him to go there he would not attempt to see her. He was not going to fight for her friendship. And as to Beryl Van Tuyn—The curious name—Nicolas Arabian—came into his mind and a conversation at a box at a theatre. Miss Van Tuyn had told him about this magnificently handsome man, this “living bronze,” but somehow he had never thought of her as specially intimate with a fellow who frequented the Cafe Royal, and who apparently sat as a model to painters. But now he realized that this must be the man of Glebe Place, and he felt more angry, more injured than before.
Yet he was not in love with Beryl Van Tuyn. Or had he fallen in love with her without being aware of it? She attracted him very much physically at times. She amused him, interested him. He liked being with her. He was angry at the thought of another man’s intimacy with her. He wanted her to be fond of him, to need him, to prefer him to all other men. But he often felt critical about her, about her character, though not about her beauty. A lover surely could not feel like that. A lover just loved, and there was an end of it.
He could not understand his own feelings. But when he thought of Beryl Van Tuyn he felt full of the fighting instinct, and ready to take the initiative. He would never fight to retain Lady Sellingworth’s friendship, but he would fight to assert himself with the beautiful American. She should not take him up and use him merely as a means to amusement without any care for what was due to him. Lady Sellingworth was old, and in a sense famous. Such a woman could do as she pleased. With her, protest would be ridiculous. But he would find a way with Beryl Van Tuyn.
On that day and the next Craven did not see Miss Van Tuyn. No message came to him from Lady Sellingworth. Evidently the latter wished to have nothing more to do with him. She had now been in London for nearly a week without letting him know it. Miss Van Tuyn had telephoned once suggesting a meeting. But Craven had charmingly put her off, alleging a tiresome engagement. He did not choose now to seem eager to meet her. He was considering what he would do. If he could manage to meet her in Glebe Place! But how to contrive such an encounter? While he was meditating about this he was again rung up by Miss Van Tuyn, who suggested that he should play golf with her at Beaconsfield on the following day, Saturday.
“You can’t pretend you are working overtime at the F.O. to-morrow,” she said.
Craven replied that the F.O. kept him very long even on Saturdays.
“What’s the matter? What are you angry about?” asked Miss Van Tuyn through the telephone.
Craven intended to make a quietly evasive reply, but he found himself saying:
“If I work overtime at the F.O., are there not others who do much the same—in Glebe Place?”
After a pause Miss Van Tuyn said:
“I haven’t an idea what you mean.”
Craven said nothing. Already he was angry with himself, and regretted his impulsiveness.
“Well?” said Miss Van Tuyn.
“Well?” retorted Craven, feeling rather absurd.
Again there was a pause. Then, speaking quickly, Miss Van Tuyn said: “If you can escape from the F.O. you might be in Glebe Place about five on Monday. Good-bye!”
And she rang off, leaving Craven with the pleasant sensation that, as often before, he had “given himself away.” Certainly he had shown Miss Van Tuyn his jealousy. She must have guessed what his mention of Glebe Place meant. And yet she had asked him to go there on the following Monday. If he did not go perhaps that neglect would cancel his imprudence at the telephone.
He made up his mind not to go.
Nevertheless, when he left the Foreign Office on the Monday about half-past four, instead of going towards Mayfair he found himself walking quickly in the direction of Chelsea.
Miss Van Tuyn was in Garstin’s studio on that day. Although apparently calm and self-possessed she was in a condition of acute nervous excitement. Craven’s mention of Glebe Place through the telephone had startled her. At once she had understood. People had begun to gossip, and the gossip had reached Craven’s ears. She had reddened as she stood by the telephone. A definite sensation of anxiety mingled with shame had crept in her. But it had been succeeded by a decisive feeling more really characteristic of her. As Craven now evidently knew of her close acquaintance with Arabian the two men should meet. She would conquer her reluctance, and put Arabian to the test with Craven. For a long time she had wished to know what Craven would think of Arabian; for a long time, too, she had been afraid to know. But now she would hesitate no more. Dick Garstin was to have a sitting from Arabian on the Monday afternoon. It ought to be over about half-past four. She could easily manage to prolong matters in the studio till five, so that Craven might have time to get to Glebe Place from the Foreign Office. Of course, he might not choose to come. But if he were really jealous she thought he would come.
Now she was anticipating the coming interview with an uneasiness which she could only conceal by a strong effort.
At last, after repeated failures, Garstin was beginning to work with energy and real satisfaction. Of late he had been almost venomous. His impotence to do what he wished to do had made him more disagreeable, more brutal even than usual. His habitual brusqueness had often degenerated into downright rudeness. But suddenly a change had come, one of those mysterious changes in the mood and powers of an artist which neither he nor anyone else can understand. Abruptly the force which had abandoned him had returned.
The change had occurred on the day of Miss Van Tuyn’s conversation through the telephone with Craven, a Friday.
Arabian had refused to sit on the Saturday and Sunday. He said he was moving into his Chelsea flat, and had many things to do. He could not come to the studio again till the Monday afternoon at half-past two. Garstin had been furious, but he had been met by a will apparently as inflexible as his own.
“I am sorry, but I cannot help it, Dick Garstin,” Arabian had said.
And after a pause he had added:
“I hope I have not shown impatience all this long time?”
Garstin had cursed, but he had not persisted. Evidently he had realized that persistence would be useless. On the Monday he had received Arabian with frigid hauteur, but soon he had become intent on his work and had apparently forgotten his grievance.
Half-past four struck—then the quarter to five. Garstin had been painting for more than two hours. Now he put down his brush and frowned, still looking at Arabian, who was sitting in an easy, almost casual position, with his magnificent brown throat and shoulders exposed.
“Finished!” he said in his loud bass voice.
Miss Van Tuyn, who was curled up on a divan in a corner of the studio, moved and put down a book which she had been pretending to read. Garstin had forbidden her to come near to him that day while he was painting.
“Finished!” she exclaimed. “Do you mean—”
“No, damn it, I don’t!” said Garstin, with exasperation. “I don’t! Do you take me for a magician, or what? I have finished for to-day! Now then!”
He began to move the easel. Miss Van Tuyn got up, and Arabian, without saying a word, stretched himself, looked at her steadily for a moment, then pulled up his silk vest and carefully buttoned it with his strong-looking fingers. Then he too got up, and went away to the dressing-room to put on his shirt, waistcoat, collar and tie.
“May I see, Dick?” asked Miss Van Tuyn.
“No, you mayn’t.”
“Are you satisfied?”
“He’s coming out more as I want him this time.”
“Do you think you have found his secret?”
“Or yours, eh? What is happening in you, my girl?”
Before she could answer a telephone bell rang below.
“Damn!” said Garstin, going towards the staircase.
Before he went down he turned round and said:
“You’re travelling fast.”
And he disappeared. She heard him below tramping to the telephone. Then she went to a small square window in the studio, pushed it open, and looked out. There was a tiny space of garden below. She saw a plane tree shivering in the wind, yellow leaves on the rain-sodden ground. A sparrow flitted by and perched on the grimy coping of a low wall. And she shivered like the plane tree.
“Beryl!”
She started, turned, and went to the head of the stairs.
“What is it?”
“The telephone’s for you. Come along down!”
“Coming!” she answered.
“Who is it?” she said, as she saw him standing by the telephone with the receiver in his hand.
“Some old woman, by the voice. She says she must speak to you. Here—take it, my girl!”
“It must be old Fanny!” said Miss Van Tuyn, with a touch of irritation. “Nobody else would know I was here. But I stupidly told Fanny.”
She took the receiver out of his hand.
“I’m here! Who is it? Do make haste. I’m in a hurry.”
She was thinking of Craven. It was nearly five o’clock, and she did not want to be late in Glebe Place, though she dreaded the encounter she expected there.
“Oh, Beryl, there’s bad news!”
“Bad news! What news?”
“I can’t tell you like this.”
“Nonsense! Tell me at once!”
“I can’t! I simply cannot. Oh, my dear, get into a taxi and come back at once.”
“I insist on your telling me what is the matter!” said Miss Van Tuyn sharply.
Her nerves were already on edge, and something in the sound of the voice through the telephone frightened her.
“Tell me at once what it is! Now speak plainly!”
There was a pause; then the agitated voice said:
“A cable has come from the Bahamas.”
“The Bahamas! Well? Well?”
“Your poor father has—”
The voice failed.
“Oh, do tell me! For Heaven’s sake, what is it?”
“Your poor father is dead. Oh, Beryl!”
Miss Van Tuyn stood quite still for a moment.
“My father—dead!” she thought.
She felt surprised. She felt shocked. But she was not conscious of any real sorrow. She very seldom saw her father. Since he had married again—he had married a woman with whom he was very much in love—his strongly independent daughter had faded into the background of his life. Beryl had not set her eyes upon him during the last eighteen months. It was impossible that she could miss him much, a father with whom she had spent for years so little of her time. She knew that she would not miss him. Yet she had had a shock. After an instant she said:
“Thank you, Fanny. I shall be home very soon. Of course, I shall leave the studio at once. Good-bye.”
She hung up the receiver and went upstairs slowly. And as she went she resolved not to say anything about what had happened to Dick Garstin. He was incapable of expressing conventional sympathy, and would probably say something bizarre which would jar on her nerves if she told him.
She found the two men standing together in the studio. Arabian had on his overcoat and gloves, and was holding his hat and umbrella.
“It was only Fanny Cronin!” she said.
As she spoke she looked narrowly at Garstin. Could Fanny have told him the news? The casual expression on his face set her mind at ease on that point. She was certain that he knew nothing.
“I must go,” she said.
“I will walk with you to a taxi if you kindly allow me,” said Arabian, getting her fur coat.
“Thank you!”
As he stood behind her helping her to get into the coat she was conscious of a strange and terrible feeling of fear mingled with an intense desire to give herself up to the power in this man. Was Craven outside? Something in her hoped, almost prayed, that he might be. It was surely the part of her that was afraid.
“Good-bye, Dick!” she said in an offhand voice.
“Good-bye!” he said. “Take care of her, Arabian.”
She sent him a look full of intense and hostile inquiry. He met it with a half-amused smile.
“I shall do better now,” he said.
“Ah?” said Arabian, looking polite and imperturbable.
“Come along!” said Miss Van Tuyn. “It must be getting late.”
As she spoke a clock in the room began striking five. For a moment she felt confused and almost ill. Her brain seemed too full of rushing thoughts for its holding capacity. Her head throbbed. Her legs felt weak.
“Anything the matter?” asked Garstin, gazing at her with keen attention and curiosity.
“No,” she said coldly. “Good-bye.”
And she went down the stairs followed by Arabian.
Garstin did not accompany them. He had gone to stand before his picture of Arabian.
Miss Van Tuyn opened the door. A soft gust of wind blew some small rain into her face.
“Let me hold my umbrella over you, please,” said Arabian. “Do take my arm while we look for a taxi.”
“No, no!”
She walked on.
“There is nothing the matter, I hope?”
“I had some bad news through the telephone.”
She felt impelled to say this to him, though she had said nothing to Garstin. Her brain still felt horribly overcharged, and an impulse had come to her to seek instant relief.
“My father is dead,” she added.
As she spoke she looked up at him, and she saw a sharp quiver distort his lips for an instant.
“Did you know him?” she exclaimed, standing still.
“I? Indeed no! Why should you suppose so?”
“I thought—I don’t know!”
He was now looking so calm, so earnestly sympathetic, that she almost believed that her eyes had played her a trick and that his face had not changed at her news.
“I’m not normal to-day,” she thought.
“I am deeply grieved, deeply. Please accept from me my most full sympathy.”
“Thank you. I scarcely ever saw my father, but naturally this news has upset me. He died in the Bahamas.”
“How very sad! So far away!”
“Yes.”
They were still standing together, and he was holding his umbrella over her head and gazing down at her earnestly, when Craven turned the corner of the road and came up to them. Miss Van Tuyn flushed. Although she had asked Craven to come, she felt startled when she saw him, and her confusion of mind increased. She did not feel competent to deal with the situation which she had deliberately brought about. Craven had come upon them too suddenly. She had somehow not expected him just at that moment, when she and Arabian were standing still. Before she was able to recover her normal self-possession, Craven had taken off his hat to her and gone rapidly past them. She had just time to see the grim line of his lips and the hard, searching glance he sent to her companion. Arabian, she noticed, looked after him, and she saw that, while he looked, his large eyes lost all their melting gentleness. They had a cruel, almost menacing expression in them, and they were horribly intelligent at that moment.
“What does this man not know?” she thought.
He might have little, or no, ordinary learning, but she was positive that he had an almost appallingly intimate knowledge of many chapters in the dark books of life.
“Shall we—?” said Arabian.
And they walked on slowly together.
“May I make a suggestion, Miss Van Tuyn,” he said gently.
“What is it?”
“My little flat is close by, in Rose Tree Gardens. It is not quite arranged, but tea will be ready. Let me please offer you a cup of tea and a cigarette. There is a taxi!”
He made a signal with his left hand.
“We will keep it at the door, so that you may at once leave when you feel refreshed. You have had this bad shock. You need a moment to recover.”
The cab stopped beside them.
“No, I must really go home,” she said, with an attempt at determination.
“Of course! But please let me have the privilege. You have told me first of all of your grief. This is real friendship. Let me then be also friendly, and help you to recover yourself.”
“But really I must—”
“Four, Rose Tree Gardens! You know them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good!”
The taxi glided away from the kerb.
And Miss Van Tuyn made no further protest. She had a strange feeling just then that her will had abandoned her. Fanny Cronin’s message must have had an imperious effect upon her. Yet she still felt no real sorrow at her father’s death. She seemed to be enveloped in something which made mental activity difficult, indeed almost impossible.
When the cab stopped, she said:
“I can only stay five minutes.”
“Certainly! Dear Mademoiselle Cronin will expect you. Please wait for the lady!”
Miss Van Tuyn was vaguely glad to hear him say that to the chauffeur.
She got out and looked upwards. She saw a big block of flats towering up in front of her.
“On the other side they face the river Thames,” said Arabian. “All my windows except three look out that way. We will go up in the elevator.”
They passed through a handsome hall and stepped into the lift, which carried them up to the fourth floor of the building. Arabian put a latch-key into a polished mahogany door with a big letter M in brass nailed to it.
“Please!” he said, standing back for Miss Van Tuyn to pass in.
But she hesitated. She saw a pretty little hall, a bunch of roses in a vase on a Chippendale table, two or three closed doors. She was aware of a very faint and pleasant odour, like the odour of flowers not roses, and guessed that someone had been burning some perfume in the flat. There was certainly nothing repellent in this temporary home of Arabian. Yet she felt with a painful strength that she had better go away without entering it. While she paused, but before she had said anything, she heard a quiet step, and a thin man of about thirty with a very dark narrow face and light, grey eyes appeared.
“Please bring tea for two at once,” said Arabian in Spanish.
“Yes, sir, in a moment,” said the man, also in Spanish.
Miss Van Tuyn stepped in, and the door was gently shut behind her by Arabian’s manservant.
Arabian opened the second door on the left of the hall.
“This is my little salon,” he said. “May I—”
“No, thank you. I’ll keep on my coat. I must go home in a minute. I shall have a good deal to do. Really I oughtn’t to be here at all. If anyone—after such news—”
She looked at Arabian. She had just had news of the death of her father, and she had come out to tea with this man. Was she crazy?
“I don’t know why I came!” she said bluntly, angrily almost.
“Do please sit down,” he said, pushing forward a large arm-chair. “If these curtains were not drawn we could see the river Thames from here. It is a fine view.”
He bent down and poked the fire, then stood beside it, looking down at her as she sat in the chair.
She glanced round the room. It was well furnished and contained two or three good pieces, but there was nothing in it which showed personality, a thoughtful guiding mind and taste; there was nothing in it even which marked it definitely as the home of a woman rather than a man, or vice versa.
“I rent it furnished,” said Arabian, evidently guessing her thought.
“Are you here for long?”
“I do not quite know. That depends.”
His large eyes were fixed upon her as he said this, and she longed to ask him what intentions he had with regard to her. He had never made love to her. He had never even been what is sometimes called “foolish” with her. Not a word to which she could object had ever come from his lips. By no action had he ever claimed anything from her. And yet she felt that in some way he was governing her, was imposing his will on her. Certainly he had once followed her in the street. But on that occasion he had not known who she was. Now, as he gazed at her, she felt certain that he had formed some definite project with regard to her, and meant to carry it out at whatever cost. Garstin said he, Arabian, was in love with her. Probably he was. But if he was in love with her, why did he never hint at it when they were alone together except by the expression in his eyes? She asked herself why she was afraid of him, and the answer she seemed to get was that his reticence frightened her. There was something in his continued inaction which alarmed her. It was a silence of conduct which lay like a weight upon her. She felt it now as he stared at her.
“What do you want with me?”
That was what she longed, and yet was afraid, to say to him. Did he know how violently she was attracted by him and how fiercely he sometimes repelled her? No doubt he did. No doubt he knew that at times she believed him to be horrible, suspected him of nameless things, of abominable relationships; no doubt he knew that she was degradingly jealous of him. When his eyes were thus fixed upon her she felt that he knew everything that was going on in her with which he had to do. Yet he never spoke of his knowledge.
His reserve almost terrified her. That was the truth.
The dark man with the light eyes brought in tea on a large silver tray. She began to drink it hastily.
“You—forgive me for asking—you will not leave London because of this sad news?” said Arabian.
“Do you mean for America?”
“Yes.”
Miss Van Tuyn had not thought of such a possibility till he alluded to it. She could not, of course, be at her father’s funeral. That was impossible. But suddenly it occurred to her that she had no doubt come into a very large fortune. There might be business to do. She might have to cross the Atlantic. At the thought of this possibility her sense of confusion and almost of mental blackness increased, and yet she realized more vividly than before the death of her father.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. No, thank you. I won’t smoke. I must go. I ought never to have come after receiving such news.”
She stood up. He took her hand. His was warm and strong, and a great deal of her personality seemed to her to be in its clasp—too much indeed. His body fascinated hers, made her realize in a startling way that the coldness of which some men had complained had either been overcome by something that could burn and be consumed, or perhaps had never existed.
“You will not go to America without telling me?” he said.
“No, no. Of course not.”
“You told me first of your sorrow!”
“Why—why did I?” she thought, wondering.
“And you did not tell Dick Garstin.”
“No.”
“And you came here to me.”
“No, no! With you!”
“To my rooms in spite of your grief. We are friends from to-night.”
“To-night . . . but it is afternoon!”
He still had her hand in his. She felt, or fancied she felt, a pulse beating in his hand. It gave her a sense of terrible intimacy with him, as if she were close to the very sources of his being. And yet she knew nothing about him.
“It gets dark so early now,” he said.
Dark! As he said it she thought, “That’s his word! That’s his word!” Everyone has his word, and dark was Arabian’s.
“Good-bye!” she said.
“I will take you down.”
Quietly and very naturally, he let her hand go. And at once she had a sensation of being out in the cold.
They went down together in the lift. Just as they left it, and were in the hall, a woman whom Miss Van Tuyn knew slightly, a Mrs. Birchington, an intimate of the Ackroyde and Lady Wrackley set, met them coming from the entrance.
“Oh, Miss Van Tuyn!” she said, stopping.
She held out her hand, looking from Miss Van Tuyn to Arabian.
“How are you?”
Her light eyes were searching and inquisitive. She had an evening paper in her hand.
“I—I am so grieved,” she added, again looking at Arabian.
“Mr. Arabian—Mrs. Birchington!” Miss Van Tuyn felt obliged to say.
Mrs. Birchington and Arabian bowed.
“Grieved!” said Miss Van Tuyn.
“Yes. I have just seen the sad news about your father in the paper.”
Miss Van Tuyn realized at once that she was caught, unless she lied. But she did not choose to lie before Arabian. Something—her pride of a free American girl, perhaps—forbade that. And she only said:
“Thank you for your sympathy. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye!”
Mrs. Birchington bowed again to Arabian, swept him with her sharp inquisitive eyes, and stepped into the lift.
“She lives here,” he said, “in the apartment opposite to mine.”
As Miss Van Tuyn drove away towards Claridge’s she wondered whether Arabian was glad because of that fortuitous meeting.
Because of it her close intimacy with him—it would certainly now be called, and thought of, as that—would very soon be public property. All those women would hear about it. How crazy she had been to visit Arabian’s flat at such a moment! She was angry with herself, and yet she believed that in like circumstances she would do the same thing again. Her power of will had deserted her, or this man, Arabian, had the power to inhibit her will. And Craven? What could he be thinking about her? She knew he was a sensitive man. What must he be thinking? That she had asked him to come all the way to Glebe Place merely in order that he might see her in deep conversation with another man. And she had not even spoken to him. He would be furious. She remembered his face. He was furious. By what she had done she had certainly alienated Craven.
And her father was dead!
She leaned back in the darkness of the cab, feeling weak and miserable, almost terrified. Surely Fate had her in a tight grip. She remembered Arabian’s question: would it be necessary for her to go to America? Her father was very rich. She was his only child. He must certainly have left her a great deal of his money, for his second wife was wealthy and would not need it. There might be business to do which would necessitate her presence in New York. At that moment she almost wished for an urgent summons from the New World. A few hours in a train, the crossing of a gang-plank, the hoot of a siren, and she would be free from all these complications! The sea would lie between her and Arabian—Adela Sellingworth—Craven. She would stay away for months. She would not come back at all.
But this man, Arabian, would he let her go without a word, without doing something? Would his strange and horrible reserve last till her ship was at sea? She could not believe it. If she made up her mind to sail, and he knew it, he would speak, act. Something would happen. There would be some revelation of character, of intention. She was sure of it. Arabian was a man who could wait—but not for ever.
She still seemed to feel the pulse beating in his warm hand as she drove through the rain and the darkness.