December Love Part 129

The were both silent for a minute. Then she came close to him.

"Seymour, perhaps you want to ask me a question about Mr. Craven.

But--don't! You needn't. I have done, absolutely done, with all that side of my life which you hate. A part of my nature has persecuted me.

It has often led me into follies and worse, as you know. But I have done with it. Indeed, indeed I can answer for myself. I wouldn't dare to speak like this to you, the soul of sincerity, if I couldn't. But I'll prove it to you. Seymour, you know what I am. I dare say you have always known. But the other night I told you myself."

"Yes."

"If I hadn't I shouldn't dare now to ask you what I am going to ask you.

Is it possible that you still love me enough to care to be more than the friend you have always been to me?"

"Do you mean--"

He paused.

"Yes," she said.

"I ask nothing more of life than that, Adela."

"Nor do I, dear Seymour."

CHAPTER XVII

That evening Miss Van Tuyn learnt through the telephone from Lady Sellingworth what had happened in d.i.c.k Garstin's studio during the previous night. On the following morning at breakfast time she learnt from Sir Seymour that the flat in Rose Tree Gardens had been abruptly deserted by its tenant, who had left very early the day before.

She was free from persecution, and, of course, she realized her freedom; but, so strange are human impulses, she was at first unable to be happy in her knowledge that the burden of fear had been lifted from her.

The misfortune which had fallen on d.i.c.k Garstin obsessed her mind. Her egoism was drowned in her pa.s.sionate anger at what Arabian had done. She went early to the studio and found Garstin there alone.

"Hulloh, Beryl, my girl!" he said, in his usual offhand manner. "Come round to see the remains?"

"Oh, d.i.c.k!" she exclaimed, grasping his hand. "Oh, I'm so grieved, so horrified! What an awful thing to happen to you! And it's all my fault!

Where--what have you done with--"

"What's left do you mean? Go and see for yourself."

She hurried upstairs to the studio. When he followed he found her standing before the mutilated picture, which was still in its place, with tears rolling down her flushed cheeks.

"Good G.o.d! Beryl! What's up? What are you whimpering about?"

"How you must hate me!" she said, in a broken voice. "How you must hate me!"

"Rubbish! What for?"

"This has all happened because of me. If it hadn't been for me you would never have painted him."

"I painted the fellow to please myself."

"But I asked you to get him to come here."

"What you ask, or don't ask, doesn't bother me."

She gazed at him through her tears as if in surprise.

"d.i.c.k, I never thought you could be like this," she said.

"Like what? What's all the fuss about?" he exclaimed irritably.

"I always thought you were really a brute."

"That showed your sound judgment."

"How can you take it like this? Your masterpiece--ruined! For you'll never do anything like it again."

"That's probably gospel truth. My girl, you are standing in front of my epitaph on the Cafe Royal. There it is. Look well at it! I've buried my past, and I'm going to start again. And who do you think is to be my next victim?"

"Who?"

"You'll never guess--a gentleman!"

"A gentleman? What do you mean, d.i.c.k? The word has gone out."

"But not the thing, thank G.o.d, so long as Sir Seymour Portman keeps about on his dear old pins."

"You are going to paint Sir Seymour?"

"I am! Think I can do him?"

She looked at him for a moment, and her violet eyes searched him as if to see whether he were worthy. Then she said soberly:

"Yes, d.i.c.k."

"Then let's turn the d.a.m.ned epitaph with its hole to the wall!"

And he lifted what remained of Arabian's portrait from the easel and threw it into a dark corner of the studio.

CHAPTER XVIII

One evening, some ten days later, before any rumour of Lady Sellingworth's new decision had gone about in the world of London, before even Braybrooke knew, on coming home from the Foreign Office Craven found a note lying on the table in the tiny hall of his flat. He picked it up and saw Miss Van Tuyn's handwriting. He had not seen either her or Lady Sellingworth since the evening when they had met in the _Bella Napoli_. Both women had come into his life together. And it seemed to him that both had gone out of it together. His acquaintance, or friendship, with them had been a short episode in his pilgrimage, and apparently the episode was definitely over.

But now--here was a letter from the beautiful girl! He took it up, carried it into his sitting-room, and tore open the envelope.

"CLARIDGE'S.

"Thursday.