When she got home that day Lady Sellingworth almost crumbled. By asupreme effort during the rest of the ride she had managed to concealthe fact that she had received a blow over the heart. The pride on whichshe had been intending to trample when she came downstairs that morninghad come to her aid in that difficult moment. The woman of the worldhad, as Louth would have said, "come up to the scratch." But when shewas alone she gave way to an access of furious despair; and, shut up inher bedroom behind locked doors, was just a savage human being who hadbeen horribly wounded, and who was unable to take any revenge for thewound. She would not take any revenge, because she was not the sortof woman who could go quite into the gutter. And she knew even in herwrithings of despair that Rupert Louth would go scot free. She wouldnever try to punish him for what he had done to her: and he would neverknow he had done it, unless one of the "old guard" told him.
It was when she thought of the "old guard" that Lady Sellingworth almostcrumbled, almost went to pieces. For she knew that whatever she did, orleft undone, she would never succeed in deceiving its members. She wouldnot have been deceived herself if circumstances had been changed, ifanother woman had been in her situation and she had been an onlooker."They" would all know.
For a moment she thought of flight.
But this episode ended in the usual way; it ended in the usual effort ofthe poor human being to safeguard the sacred things by deception. LadySellingworth somehow--how do human beings achieve such efforts?--pulledherself together and gave herself to pretence. She pretended to Louththat she was his best friend and had never thought of being anythingelse. She was the receptacle for the cascade of his confidences. Sheswore to help him in any way she could. Even after she received"the Crouch," once Willoughby and still Willoughby to the "nuts" whofrequented the stalls of the Alhambra. She received that tall andvoluptuous young woman, with her haughty face and her disdainful airs,and she bore with her horrible proprietorship of Louth. And finally shebroke it to Lord Blyston at Rupert's earnest request.
That should have been her supreme effort. But it was not. There was norest in pretence. As soon as Lord Blyston knew, everyone knew, includingthe "old guard." And then, of course, Lady Sellingworth's energies hadall to be called into full play.
It was no wonder if underneath the cleverness of her Greek she agedrapidly, more rapidly than was natural in a woman of her years. For shehad piled effort on effort. She had been young for Rupert Louth untilshe had been physically exhausted; and then she had been old for himuntil she was mentally exhausted. The hardy Amazon had been forcedto change in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, into the calm andmiddle-aged adviser of hot passioned youth, into the steady unselfishconfidante, into the breaker of untoward news to the venerableparent--in fact, into Mother Hubbard, as Lady Sellingworth more thanonce desperately told herself.
"Mother Hubbard! Mother Hubbard! I'm just Mother Hubbard to him and tothat horrible girl!"
And she saw herself as Mother Hubbard, a "dame." And she alone knewhow absolutely bare her cupboard was at that time. But she struggled onmagnificently, taking no rest; she faced the "old guard" with splendidcourage, in fact with such courage that most of them pretended tobe deceived, and perhaps--for is not everything possible in thislife?--perhaps two or three of them really were deceived.
The Duchess of Wellingborough said often at this time: "AddieSellingworth has the stuff in her of a leader of forlorn hopes!"
Lord Blyston paid up for "the Crouch," once Willoughby, who had nowleft the Alhambra disconsolate. He paid up by selling the only estatehe still possessed, and letting his one remaining country house to anextraordinarily vulgar manufacturer from the Midlands, who did notknow a Turner from a Velasquez until he was told. And for the time "theCrouch" was as satisfied as a woman of her type can ever be.
Time passed on. Lady Sellingworth went about everywhere with a smilingcarefully-made-up face and a heart full of dust and ashes.
But even then she could not make up her mind finally to abandon allpretence of youth, all hope of youth's distractions, pleasures, evenjoys. She had a terribly obstinate nature, it seemed, a terribly stronglust after life.
Even her imp could not lash her into acceptance of the inevitable, couldnot drive her with his thongs of irony into the dignity which only comeswhen the human being knows how to give up, and when.
But what the imp could not achieve was eventually achieved by a man,whose name Lady Sellingworth did not know.
This was how it happened.
One day when Lady Sellingworth was walking down Bond Street--it wasin the morning and she was with the Duchess of Wellingborough--anextraordinarily handsome young man, whom neither of them knew, met themand passed by. He was tall, brown skinned, with soft, very intelligentbrown eyes, and strong, manly and splendidly cut features. His thickbrown hair was brushed, his little brown moustache was cut, like aGuardsman's. But he was certainly not a Guardsman. He was not evenan Englishman, although he was dressed in a smart country suit madeevidently by a first-rate London tailor. There was something faintlyexotic about his eyes, and his way of holding himself and moving, whichsuggested to Lady Sellingworth either Spain or South America. She wasnot quite sure which. He gave her a long look as he went by, and shefelt positive that he turned to glance after her when he had passed her.But this she never knew, as naturally she did not turn her head.
"What an extraordinarily good-looking man that was!" said the Duchessof Wellingborough. "I wonder who he is. If--," and she mentioned awell-known Spanish duke, "had a brother that might be the man. Do youknow who he is?"
"No," said Lady Sellingworth.
"Well, he must know who you are."
"Why?"
"He seemed deeply interested in you."
Lady Sellingworth wanted to say that a young man might possibly bedeeply interested in her without knowing who she was. But she did notsay it. It was not worth while. And she knew the duchess had not meantto be ill-mannered.
She lunched with the duchess that day in Grosvenor Square, and metseveral of the "old guard" whom she knew very well, disastrously well.After lunch the duchess alluded to the brown man they had met in BondStreet, described him minutely, and asked if anyone knew him. Nobodyknew him. But after the description everyone wanted to know him. It wasgenerally supposed that he must be one of the strangers from distantcountries who are perpetually flocking to London.
"We shall probably all know him in a week or two," said someone. "A manof that type is certain to have brought introductions."
"If he has brought one for Adela I'm sure he'll deliver that first,"said the duchess, with her usual almost boisterous good humour.
And thereupon she told the "old guard" of the stranger's evidentinterest in Lady Sellingworth.
Although she completely concealed it, Lady Sellingworth felt decidedinterest in the brown man. The truth was that his long and ardent--yetsomehow not impudently ardent--look at her had stirred the dust andashes in her heart. It was as if a little of the dust rose and floatedaway, as if some of the ashes crumbled into a faint grey powder whichwas almost nothingness.
At that moment she was in the dangerous mood when a woman of her typewill give herself to almost any distraction which promises a possibleadventure, or which holds any food for her almost starving vanity. Herlove--or was it really lust--for Rupert Louth still ravaged her. Thethought of "the Crouch's" triumph still persecuted her mind. Terriblepictures of a happiness she had no share in still made every nighthideous to her. She longed for Rupert Louth, but she longed also to bereinstated in her self-esteem. That glance of a stranger had helped her.She asked herself whether a man of that type, young, amazingly handsome,would ever send such a glance to Mother Hubbard. Suddenly she feltsafer, as if she could hold up her head once more. Really she had alwaysheld it up, but to herself, since Louth's blunt confession, she had beena woman bowed down, old, done with, a thing fit for the scrap heap.Now a slight, almost trembling sensation of returning self-esteem stolethrough her. She could not have been
mistaken about the brown man'sinterest in her, for the Duchess of Wellingborough had speciallynoticed it. She wondered who he was, whether he really had broughtintroductions, where he was staying, whether he would presently appearin her set. His brown eyes were gentle and yet enterprising. He lookedlike a sportsman, she thought, and yet as if he were more intellectual,more subtle than Louth. There seemed to be a slight thread of sympathybetween her and him! She had felt it immediately when they had met inBond Street. She wondered whether he had felt it too.
In all probability if Lady Sellingworth had been in a thoroughly normalcondition at this time she would not have thought twice about such atrifling episode as a stranger's glance at her in the street. But shewas not in a normal condition. She was the prey of acute depressionand morbidity. Life was becoming hideous to her. She exaggerated herloneliness in the midst of society. She had mentally constructed forherself a new life with Louth as her husband. Imaginatively she hadlived that life until it had become strangely familiar to her, as animagined life can become to a highly strung woman. The abrupt and brutalwithdrawal of all possibility of it as a reality had made the solitudeof her widowhood seem suddenly terrible, unnatural, a sort of nightmare.She had moments of desperation in which she said to herself, "Thiscannot go on. I can't live alone any more or I shall go mad." In suchmoments she sometimes thought of rewarding Sir Seymour Portman's longfidelity. But something in her, something imperious, shrank at thethought. She did not want to marry an elderly man.
And yet it seemed that no young man would ever want to marry her.
She shuddered before the mysteries of the flesh. Often she was shaken bya storm of self-pity. Darkness yawned before her. And she still longed,as she thought no other woman could ever have longed, for happiness,companionship, a virile affection.
For some days she did not see the stranger again, although she wasseveral times in Bond Street. She began to think, to fear, he hadleft London; yes--to fear! It had come to that! Realizing it, she felthumiliation. But his eyes had seemed to tell her that she possessed forhim great attraction! She longed to see those eyes again, to deciphertheir message more carefully. The exact meaning of it might have escapedher in that brief instant of encounter. She wondered whether the youngman had known who she was, or whether he had merely been suddenly struckby her appearance, and had thought, "I wish I knew that woman." Shewondered what exactly was his social status. No doubt if he had beenEnglish she could have "placed" him at once, or if he had been French.But he was neither the one nor the other. And she had had little timeto make up her mind about him, although, of course, his good looks hadleaped to the eye.
She had begun to think that Destiny had decided against anotherencounter between her and this man when one day Seymour Portman askedher to lunch with him at the Carlton. She accepted and went into therestaurant at the appointed time. It was crowded with people, many ofwhom she knew, but one table near that allotted to the general'sparty had two empty chairs before it. On it was a card with the word"Reserved." Soon after the general's guests had begun to lunch, whenLady Sellingworth was in the full flow of conversation with her host, bywhose side she was sitting, and with a hunting peer whom she had knownall her life, and who sat on her other side, two people made their wayto the table near by and sat down in the empty chairs. One was an oldwoman in a coal-black wig, with a white face and faded eyes, rathervague and dull in appearance, but well dressed and quietly self-assured,the other was the man Lady Sellingworth had met in Bond Street. He tookthe chair which was nearly opposite to her; but whether deliberatelyor by accident she had no time to notice. He did not look at her forseveral minutes after sitting down. He was apparently busy orderinglunch, consulting with a waiter, and speaking to his old companion,whose coal-black wig made a rather strange contrast with her lined whitecheeks and curiously indefinite eyes. But presently, with a sort ofstrong deliberation, his gaze was turned on Lady Sellingworth, and sheknew at once that he had seen her when he came in. She met his gazefor an instant, and this time seemed to be definitely aware of somemysterious thread of sympathy between her and him. Sir Seymour spoke toher in his quiet, rather deep voice, and she turned towards him, and asshe did so she felt she knew, as she had never known before, that shecould never marry him, that something in her that was of her essence wasirrevocably dedicated to youth and the beauty of youth, which is likeno other beauty. The wildness of her which did not die, which probablywould never die, was capable of trampling over Sir Seymour's fidelity toget to unstable, selfish and careless youth, was capable of casting awayhis fidelity for the infidelity of youth. As she met her host's graveeyes, she sentenced him in her heart to eternal watching at her gate.She could not, she never would be able to, let him into the secret roomwhere she was really at home.
During lunch she now and then glanced towards the old woman and thestranger. They evidently knew no one, for no one took any notice ofthem, and they did not seem to be on the look out for acquaintances.Many people passed by them, entering and leaving the restaurant, butthere were no glances of recognition, no greetings. Only some of thewomen looked at the young man as if struck, or almost startled, byhis good looks. Certainly he was amazingly handsome. His brown skinsuggested the sun; his figure athletic exercises; the expression of hisface audacity and complete self-possession. Yet there was in his largeeyes a look of almost appealing gentleness, as if he were seekingsomething, some sympathy, some affection, perhaps, which he needed andhad never yet found. Several times when she glanced towards him withcareful casualness, Lady Sellingworth found his eyes fixed upon her withthis no doubt unconsciously appealing expression in them. She knew thatthis man recognized her as the woman he had met in Bond Street. She feltpositive that for some reason he was intent upon her, that he was deeplyinterested in her. For what reason? Her woman's vanity, leaping eagerlyup like a flame that had been damped down for a time but that now wasbeing coaxed into bright burning, told her that there could be only onereason. Why is a handsome young man interested in a woman whom hedoes not know and has only met casually in the street? The mysteriousattraction of sex supplied, Lady Sellingworth thought, the only possibleanswer. She had not been able to attract Rupert Louth, but she attractedthis man, strongly, romantically, perhaps. The knowledge--for it seemedlike knowledge, though it was really only surmise--warmed her wholenature. She felt again the delicious conquering sensation which she hadlost. She emerged out of humiliation. Her vivacity grew as the lunchprogressed. Suddenly she felt good-looking, fascinating, even brilliant.The horrible dreariness of life had departed from her, driven away bythe look in a stranger's eyes.
Towards the end of lunch the woman on Sir Seymour's other side said tohim:
"Do you know who that man is--the young man opposite to that funny SouthAmerican-looking old woman with the black wig?"
Sir Seymour looked for a moment at the brown man with his cool, direct,summing-up, soldier's eyes.
"No," he answered. "I've never set eyes on him before."
"I think he is the best-looking man I have ever seen," said the woman.
"No doubt--very good-looking, very good-looking!" said her host; "but onthe wrong side of the line, I should say."
"The wrong side of the line? What do you mean?"
"The shady side," said Sir Seymour.
And then he turned to speak to Lady Sellingworth.
She had overheard the conversation, and felt suddenly angry with him.But she concealed her vexation and merely said to herself that men areas jealous of each other as women are jealous, that a man cannot bearto hear another man praised by a woman. Possibly--she was not sure ofthis--possibly Sir Seymour had noticed that she was interested in thestranger. He was very sharp in all matters connected with her. Hisaffection increased his natural acuteness. She resolved to be verycareful, even very deceptive. And she said:
"Isn't it odd how good looks, good manners and perfect clothes, evencombined with charm, cannot conceal the fact that a man is an outsider?"
"Ah, you agree with me!" Sir Se
ymour said, looking suddenly pleased."That's good! Men and women are seldom at one on such matters."
Lady Sellingworth shot a glance at the man discussed and felt absurdlylike a traitor.
Soon afterwards Sir Seymour's lunch party broke up.
In leaving the restaurant Lady Sellingworth passed so close to the youngman that her gown almost brushed against him. He looked up at her, andthis time the meaning of his glance was unmistakable. It said: "I wantto know you. How can I get to know you?"
She went home feeling almost excited. On the hall table of her house shefound a note from Rupert Louth asking her whether she would help "littleBertha" by speaking up for her to a certain great dressmaker, whohad apparently been informed of the Louths' shaky finances. Louth'sobstinate reliance on her as a devoted friend of him and hisdisdainfully vulgar young wife began to irritate Lady Sellingworthalmost beyond endurance. She took the letter up with her into thedrawing-room, and sat down by the writing-table holding it in her hand.It had come at a dangerous moment.
Louth's blindness now exasperated her, although she had desperately doneher best to close his eyes to the real nature of her feeling for him andto the unexpressed intentions she had formed concerning him and had beenforced to abandon. It was maddening to be tacitly rejected as a possiblewife and to be enthusiastically claimed as a self-sacrificing friend.Surely no woman born of woman could be expected to stand it. At thatmoment Lady Sellingworth began almost to hate Rupert Louth.
What a contrast there was between his gross misunderstanding of her andthe brown man's understanding! Already she began to tell herself thatthis man who did not know her nevertheless in some subtle, almostoccult, way had a clear understanding of her present need. He wantedsympathy--his eyes said that--but he had sympathy to give. She beganto hate the controlling absurdities of civilization. All her wildnessseemed to rise up and rush to the surface. How inhuman, how againstnature it was, that two human beings who wished to know each othershould be held back from such knowledge by mere convention, by theunwritten law of the solemn and formal introduction! A great happinessmight lie in their intercourse, but conventionality solemnly andselfishly forbade it, unless they could find a common acquaintance tomumble a few unmeaning words over them. Mumbo-Jumbo! What a fantasticworld of stupidly obedient puppets this world of London was! She said toherself that she hated it. Then she thought of her first widowhood andof her curious year in Paris.
There she might more easily have made the acquaintance of the unknownman in some Bohemian cafe, where people talked to each other casually,giving way to their natural impulses, drifting in and out as the whimtook them, careless of the _convenances_ or actively despising them. InLondon, at any rate if one is English and cursed by being wellknown, one lives in a strait waist-coat. Lady Sellingworth felt theimpossibility of speaking to a stranger without an introduction in spiteof her secret wildness.
And if he spoke to her?
She remembered Sir Seymour's instant judgment on him. It had made herfeel very angry at the time when it was delivered, but then she had notheld any mental debate about it. She had simply been secretly up inarms against an attack on the man she was interested in. Now she thoughtabout it more seriously.
Although she had never been able to love Sir Seymour, she esteemed himvery highly and valued his friendship very much. She also respectedhis intellect and his character. He was not a petty man, but anhonest, brave and far-seeing man of the world. Such a man's opinion wascertainly worth something. One could not put it aside as if it were theopinion of a fool. And after a brief glance at the stranger Sir Seymourhad unhesitatingly pronounced him to be an outsider.
Was he an outsider?
As a rule Lady Sellingworth was swift in deciding what was the socialstatus of a man. She could "place" a man as quickly as any woman. But,honestly, she could not make up her mind about the stranger. Althoughhe was so exceptionally good-looking, perhaps, he was not exactlydistinguished looking. But she had known dukes and Cabinet Ministerswho resembled farmers and butlers, young men of high rank who had theappearance of grooms or bookies. It was difficult to be sure aboutanyone without personal knowledge of him.
When she had first seen the young man in Bond Street it had certainlynot occurred to her that there was anything common or shady in hisappearance. And the Duchess of Wellingborough had not hinted that sheheld such an opinion about him. And surely women are quicker about suchmatters than men.
Lady Sellingworth decided that Seymour Portman was prejudiced. Oldcourtiers are apt to be prejudiced. Always mixing with the mostdistinguished men of their time, they acquire, perhaps too easily, ahabit of looking down upon ordinary but quite respectable people.
Here Lady Sellingworth suddenly smiled. The adjective "respectable"certainly did not fit the Bond Street young man. He looked slightlyexotic! That, no doubt, had set Sir Seymour against him. He was not ofthe usual type of club man. He "intrigued" her terribly. As the Duchessof Wellingborough would have phrased it, she was "crazy" to know him.She even said to herself that she did not care whether he was on theshady side of the line or not. Abruptly a strong democratic feeling tookpossession of her. In the affections, in the passions, differences ofrank did not count.
Rupert Louth had married a Crouch!
Lady Sellingworth looked at his note which was still in her hand, andmemories of the disdainful young beauty "queening it"--that really wasthe only appropriate expression--"queening it" with vulgar gentilityamong the simple mannered, well-bred people to whom Louth belonged roseup in her mind. How terrible were those definite airs of being a lady!How truly unspeakable were those august condescensions of the undeniableCrouch!
When Lady Sellingworth mused on them her sense of the equality beforeGod of all human creatures decidedly weakened.
She wrote a brief letter to Louth declining to "speak up" to the greatdressmaker. "Little Bertha" must manage without her aid. She made thisquite clear, but she wrote very charmingly, and sent her love at the endto little Bertha. That done, almost violently she dismissed Louth andhis wife from her mind and became democratic again!
Putting Louth and little Bertha aside, when it came to the affectionsand the passions what could one be but just a human being? Rank did notcount when the heart was awake. She felt intensely human just then. Andshe continued to feel so. Life was quickened for her by the presence inLondon of a stranger whom nobody knew. This might be a humiliating fact.But how many facts connected with human beings if sternly considered arehumiliating!
And nobody knew of her fact.
Every morning at this time she woke up with the hope of a littleadventure during the day. When she went out she was alive to thepossibility of a new encounter with the unknown man. And she met himseveral times, walking about town, sometimes alone, sometimes with theold lady, and once with another man, a thin sallow individual who lookedlike a Frenchman. And each time he sent her a glance which seemed almostto implore her to know him.
But how could she know him? She never met him in society. Evidently heknew no one whom she knew. She began to be intensely irritated by herleaping desire which was constantly thwarted. That this man was in lovewith her and longing to know her she now firmly believed. She wished toknow him. She wished it more than she wished for anything else in theworld just then. But the gulf of conventionality yawned between them,and there seemed no likelihood of its ever being bridged. Sometimes shecondemned the man for not being adventurous, for not taking his couragein both hands and speaking to her without an introduction. At othertimes she told herself that his not doing this proved him to be agentleman, in spite of what Sir Seymour Portman had thought him. Indefiance of his longing to know her he would not insult her.
But if he only knew how she was pining for the insult!
And yet if he had spoke to her perhaps she would have been angry.
She discovered eventually that he was staying at the Carlton Hotel,for one day on her way to the restaurant she saw him with a key in hishand--evidently the key of his room. That
same day she heard him speakfor the first time. After lunch, when she was in the Palm Court, hecame and stood quite close to where she was sitting. The thin, sallowindividual was with him. They lighted cigars and looked about them. Andpresently she heard them talking in French. The thin man said somethingwhich she did not catch. In reply the other said, speaking verydistinctly, almost loudly:
"I shall go over to Paris on Thursday morning next. I shall stay at theRitz Hotel."
That was all Lady Sellingworth heard. He had intended her to hear it.She was certain of that. For immediately afterwards he glanced at herand then moved away, like a man who has carried out an intention and canrelax and be idle. He sat down by a table a little way off, and a waiterbrought coffee for him and his companion.
His voice, when he spoke the few words, had sounded agreeable. HisFrench was excellent, but he had a slight foreign accent which LadySellingworth at once detected.
Paris! He was going to Paris on Thursday!
She was quite positive that he had wished her to know that. Why?
There could be only one reason. She guessed that he had become asfiercely irritated by their situation as she was, that he was temptingher to break away and to do something definite, that he wanted her toleave London. She still had her apartment in Paris. Could he know that?Could he have seen her in Paris without her knowledge and have followedher to London?
She began to feel really excited, and there was something almostyouthful in her excitement. Yet she was on the eve of a horriblepassing. For that day was her last day in the forties. On the followingmorning she would wake up a woman of fifty.
While the two men were still having their coffee Lady Sellingworth andher friend got up to go away. As her tall figure disappeared the brownman whispered something to his companion and they both smiled. Then theycontinued talking in very low voices, and not in French.
Paris! All the rest of that day Lady Sellingworth thought about Paris!Already it stood for a great deal in her life. Was it perhaps going tostand for much more? In Paris long ago--she wished it were not solong ago--she had tasted a curious freedom, had given herself to herwildness, had enlarged her boundaries. And now Paris called her again,called her through the voice of this man whom she did not yet know.
Deliberately that day he had summoned her to Paris. She had no doubtabout that. And if she went? He must have some quite definite intentionconnected with his wish for her to go. It could only be a romanticintention.
And yet to-morrow she would be fifty!
He was quite young. He could not be more than five-and-twenty.
For a moment her imp spoke loudly in her ear. He told her that by thistime she must have learnt her lesson, that it was useless to pretendthat she had not, that Rupert Louth's marriage had taught her all thatshe needed to know, and that now she must realize that the time foradventures, for romance, for the secret indulgence of the passions, wasin her case irrevocably over. "Fifty! Fifty! Fifty!" he knelled in herears. And there were obscure voices within her which backed him up,faintly, as if half afraid, agreeing with him.
She listened. She could not help listening, though she hated it. And fora moment she was almost inclined to submit to the irony of the imp, totrample upon her desire, and to grasp hands once and for all with herself-respect.
The imp said to her: "If you go to Paris you will be making a foolof yourself. That man doesn't really want you to go. He is only amischievous boy amusing himself at your expense. Perhaps he has made abet with that friend of his that you will cross on the same day thathe does. You are far too old for adventures. Look in the glass and seeyourself as you really are. Remember your folly with Rupert Louth, andthis time try to be wise."
But something else in her, the persistent vanity, perhaps, of a oncevery beautiful woman, told her that her attraction was not dead, andthat if she obeyed her imp she would simply be throwing away the chanceof a great joy. Once again her thoughts went to marriage. Once againshe dreamed of a young man falling romantically in love with her, andof taking him into her life, and of making his life wonderful by herinfluence and her connexions.
Once again she was driven by her wildness.
The end of it was that she summoned her maid and told her that they weregoing over to Paris for a few days on the following Thursday. The maidwas not surprised. She supposed that my lady wanted some new gowns. Sheasked, and was told, what to pack.
Now Lady Sellingworth, as all her friends and many others knew,possessed an extremely valuable collection of jewels, and seldom, ornever, moved far without taking a part of the collection with her. Sheloved jewels, and usually wore them in the evening, and as she was oftenseen in public--at the opera and elsewhere--her diamonds, emeralds,sapphires and pearls had often been admired, and perhaps longed for, bystrangers.
When she went to Paris on this occasion she took a jewel-case with her.In it there were perhaps fifty thousand pounds' worth of gems. Hermaid, a woman who had been with her for years, was in charge of thecase except when Lady Sellingworth was actually in the train. Then LadySellingworth had it with her in a reserved first-class carriage for thewhole of which she paid.
The journey was not eventful. But to Lady Sellingworth it was anadventure.
The brown man was on the train with his thin, sardonic friend, and withthe old woman Lady Sellingworth had seen with him in London.
The sight of this party--she saw them stepping into the Pullman car asshe was going to her reserved carriage--surprised her. She had expectedthat the stranger would travel alone. As she sat down in her cornerfacing the engine, with the jewel-case on the seat next to her, she feltan obscure irritation. A man in search of adventure does not usuallytake two people--one of them an old woman in a black wig--with him whenhe sets out on his travels. A trio banishes romance. And how can a womanbe thrilled by a family party?
For a moment Lady Sellingworth felt anger against the stranger. For amoment she wished she had not undertaken the journey. It occurred to herthat perhaps she had made a humiliating mistake when she thought thatthe brown man wished, and intended, her to go to Paris because he wasgoing. Her pride was alarmed. She saw plainly for a moment the mud intowhich vanity had led her, and she longed to get out of the train andto remain in London. But how could she account to her maid for such asudden change of plans? What could she say to her household? Sheknew, of course, that she owed them no explanation. But still--and herfriends? She had told everybody that she was going to Paris. They wouldthink her crazy for giving up the journey after she was actually in thetrain. And she had seen two or three acquaintances on the platform. No;she must make the journey now. It was too late to give it up. But shewished intensely she had not undertaken it.
At the moment of this wish of hers, coming from the Pullman, the brownman walked slowly by on the platform, alone. His eyes were searching thetrain with keen attention. But Lady Sellingworth happened to be leaningback, and he did not see her. She knew he was looking for her. He wenton out of her sight. She sat still in her corner, and presently sawhim coming back. This time he saw her, and did something which forthe moment startled her. On the window of the carriage, next the seatopposite to hers, was pasted a label with "Reserved" printed on it inbig letters. Underneath was written: "For the Countess of Sellingworth."When the man saw Lady Sellingworth in her corner he gave no sign ofrecognition but he took out of the breast pocket of his travelling coata pocket-book, went deliberately up to the window, looked hard at thelabel, and then wrote something--her name, no doubt--in his book. Thisdone, he put the book back in his pocket and walked gravely away withoutglancing at her again.
And now Lady Sellingworth no longer regretted that she was going toParis. What the man had just done had reassured her. It was now evidentto her that the first time they had met in Bond Street he had not knownwho she was or anything about her. He must simply have been struck byher beauty, and from that moment had wished to know her. Ever sincethen he must have been longing to know who she was. The fact that hehad evidently not discove
red her name till he had read it on the labelpasted on the railway carriage window convinced her that, in spite ofhis boldness in showing her his feelings, he was a scrupulous man. Acareless man could certainly have found out who she was at the Carlton,by asking a waiter. Evidently he had not chosen to do that. The omissionshowed delicacy, refinement of nature. It pleased her. It made her feelsafe. She felt that the man was a gentleman, one who could respect awoman. Sir Seymour had been wrong in his hasty judgment. An outsiderwould not have behaved in such a way. That the stranger had deliberatelytaken down her name in his book while she was watching him did notdisplease her at all. He wished her to know of his longing, but he wasevidently determined to keep it hidden from others.
She felt now in the very heart of a romantic adventure, and thrilledwith excitement about the future. What would happen when they all gotto Paris? It was evident to her now that he did not know she had anapartment there--unless, indeed, he had first seen her in Paris andhad, perhaps, followed her to London! But even if that were so it wasunlikely that he knew where she lived.
In any case she knew he was going to the Ritz.
The train flew on towards the sea while she mused over possibilities andimagined events in Paris.
She knew now, of course, that the stranger was absolutely out of herworld. His ignorance proved to her that he could not be in any societyshe moved in. She guessed that he was some charming young man from adistance, come to Europe perhaps for the first time--some ardent youthfrom Brazil, from Peru, from Mexico! The guess gave colour to theadventure. He knew her name now. She wondered what his name was. And shewondered about the old woman in the wig and about the sardonic friend.In what relation did the three people stand to each other?
She could not divine. But she thought that perhaps the old woman was themother of the man she wished to know.
She had a private cabin on the boat. It was on the top deck. But, as theweather was fine and the sea fairly calm, her maid occupied it with thejewel-case, while she sat in the open on a deck chair, well wrapped upin a fur rug. Presently an acquaintance, a colonel in the Life Guards,joined her, established himself in a chair at her side, and kept herbusy with conversation.
When the ship drew out into the Channel several men began to pace upand down the deck with the sturdy determination of good sailors resolvedupon getting health from the salt briskness of the sea. Among them werethe two men of the trio. The old woman had evidently gone into hiding.
As Lady Sellingworth conversed with her colonel she made time, as awoman can, for a careful and detailed consideration of the man on whomher thoughts were concentrated. Although he did not look at her as hepassed up and down the deck, she knew that he had seen where she wassitting. And, without letting the colonel see what she was doing, shefollowed the tall, athletic figure in the long, rough, greenish-brownovercoat with her eyes, looking away when it drew very near to her. Andnow and then she looked at its companion.
In the Paris _rapide_ she was again alone in a carriage reserved forher. She did not go into the restaurant to lunch, as she hated eating ina crowd. Instead, her maid brought her a luncheon basket which hadbeen supplied by the chef in Berkeley Square. After eating she smoked acigarette and read the French papers which she had bought at the Calaisstation. And then she sat still and looked out of the window, andthought and dreamed and wondered and desired.
Although she did not know it, she was living through almost the lastof those dreams which are the rightful property of youth, but whichsometimes, obstinate and deceitful, haunt elderly minds, usually totheir undoing.
The light began to fade and the dream to become more actual. She livedagain as she had lived in the days when she was a reigning beauty,when there was no question of her having to seek for the joys and theadventures of life. In the twilight of France she reigned.
A shadow passed by in the corridor. She had scarcely seen it. Rathershe had felt its passing. But the dream was gone. She was alert, tense,expectant. Paris was near. And he was near. She linked the two togetherin her mind. And she felt that she was drawing close to a climax inher life. A conviction took hold of her that some big, some determiningevent was going to happen in Paris, that she would return to Londondifferent--a changed woman.
Happiness changes! She was travelling in search of happiness. The wildblood in her leaped at the thought of grasping happiness. And she feltreckless. She would dare all, would do anything, if only shemight capture happiness. Dignity, self-respect, propriety, theconventions--what value had they really? To bow down to them--does thatbring happiness? Out of the way with them, and a straight course forthe human satisfaction which comes only in following the dictates of thenature one is born with!
Lights twinkled here and there in the gloom. Again the shadow passed inthe corridor. A moment later Lady Sellingworth's maid appeared to takecharge of the jewel-case.
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