December Love Part 82

"It is difficult to tell what people are at a glance."

"Some people--yes. But I think with others one look is enough."

"Yes, that's true," she said, thinking of him. "Shall we go a little farther towards the woods?"

"Yes; let us."

She knew he was suffering obscurely that day, perhaps in his pride, perhaps in something else. She hoped it was in his pride. Anyhow, she felt pity for him in her new-found happiness. For she was happier now in comparison with what she had been. And with that happiness came a great longing to comfort him, to draw him out of his cold reserve, to turn him into the eager and almost confidential boy he had been with her. As they pa.s.sed the red tennis court and walked towards the end of the garden which skirted the woods she said:

"I want you to understand something. I know it must have seemed unfriendly in me to put you off, and then to leave England without letting you know. But I had a reason which I can't explain."

"Yes?"

"I shall never be able to explain it. But if I could you would realize at once that my friendship for you was unaltered."

"Well, but you didn't let me know you were back. You did not ask me to come to see you."

"I did not think you would care to come."

"But--why?"

"I--perhaps you--I don't find it easy now to think that anyone can care much to be bothered with me."

"Oh--Lady Sellingworth!"

"That really is the truth. Believe it or not, as you like. You see, I am out of things now."

"You need never be out of things unless you choose."

"Oh, the world goes on and leaves one behind. Don't you remember my telling you and Beryl once that I was an Edwardian?"

"If that means un-modern I think I prefer it to modernity. I think perhaps I have an old-fashioned soul."

He was smiling now. The hard look had gone from his eyes; the ice in his manner had melted. She felt that she was forgiven. And she tried to put the thought of Camber out of her mind. Beryl was unscrupulous. Perhaps she had exaggerated. And, in any case, surely she had treated, was treating, him badly.

She felt that he and she were friends again, that he was glad to be with her once more. There was really a link of sympathy between them. And he had been angry because she had gone abroad without telling him. She thought of his anger and loved it.

That day, after tea, while the music was still going on in Dindie Ackroyde's drawing-room, they drove back to London together, leaving their reputations quite comfortably behind them in the hand of the "old guard."

CHAPTER II

Beryl Van Tuyn found that it was not necessary for her to cross the ocean on account of her father's sudden death. He had left all his affairs in excellent order, and the chief part of his fortune was bequeathed to her. She had always had plenty of money. Now she was rich.

She went into mourning, answered suitably the many letters of condolence that poured in upon her, and then considered what she had better do.

Miss Cronin pleaded persistently for an immediate return to Paris.

What was the good of staying on in London now? The winter was dreary in London. The flat in Paris was far more charming and elegant than any hotel. Beryl had all her lovely things about her there. Her chief friends were in Paris. She could see them quietly at home. And it was quite impossible for her to go about London now that she was plunged in mourning. What would they do there? She, Miss Cronin, could go on as usual, of course. She never did anything special. But Beryl would surely be bored to death living the life of a hermit in Claridge's.

Miss Van Tuyn listened to all that old f.a.n.n.y had to say, and made no attempt to refute her arguments or reply to her exhortations. She merely remarked that she would think the matter over.

"But what is there to think over, darling?" said Miss Cronin, lifting her painted eyebrows. "There is nothing to keep us here. You never go to the Wallace Collection now."

"Do please allow me to be the judge of what I want to do with my life, f.a.n.n.y," said Miss Van Tuyn, curtly. "When I wish to pack up I'll tell you."

And old f.a.n.n.y collapsed like a p.r.i.c.ked bladder. She could not understand Beryl any longer. The girl seemed to be quite beyond her reach. She thought of Alick Craven and of the man in the blue overcoat with the strange name. Nicolas Arabian. She had seen neither of them again. Beryl never mentioned them. But f.a.n.n.y was sure that one, or both, of them held her in London. Something must be in the wind, something dangerous to any companion. She felt on the threshold of an alarming, perhaps disastrous, change. As she went nowhere she knew nothing of Beryl's visit to Rose Tree Gardens and of the gossip it had set going in certain circles in London. But she had never been able to forget the impression she had had when Beryl had introduced her to the man with the melting brown eyes.

Beryl was surely in love. Yet she did not look happy. Certainly her father's death might have upset her. But Miss Cronin did not think that was sufficient to account for the change in the girl. She had something on her mind besides that. Miss Cronin was certain of it. Beryl's cool self-a.s.surance was gone. She was restless. She brooded. She seemed quite unable to settle to anything or to come to any decision.

Old f.a.n.n.y began to be seriously alarmed. Mrs. Clem Hodson had gone back to Philadelphia. She had no one to consult, no one to apply to. She felt quite helpless. Even Bourget could give her no solace. She had a weak imagination, but it now began to trouble her. As she lay upon her sofa, she, always feebly, imagined many things. But oftenest she saw a vague vision of Mr. Craven and Mr. Arabian fighting a duel because of Beryl.

They were in a forest clearing near Paris in early morning. It was a duel with revolvers, as Bourget might have described it. She saw their b.u.t.toned-up coats, their stretched-out arms. Which did she wish to be the victor? And which would Beryl wish to return unwounded to Paris?

Surely Mr. Arabian. He was so kind, so enticingly gentle; he had such beautiful eyes. And yet--and at this point old f.a.n.n.y's imagination ceased to function, and something else displayed a certain amount of energy, her knowledge of the world. What would Mr. Arabian be like as a husband? He was charming, seductive even, caressingly sympathetic--yes, caressingly! But--as a husband? And old f.a.n.n.y felt mysteriously that something in her recoiled from the idea of Arabian as the husband of Beryl, whereas she could think of Mr. Craven in that situation quite calmly. It was all very odd, and it made her very uncomfortable. It even agitated her, and she felt her solitude keenly. There had never been a real link between Beryl and her, and she knew it. But now she felt herself strangely alone in the midst of perhaps threatening dangers. If only Beryl would become frank, would speak out, would consult her, ask her advice! But the girl was enclosed in a reserve that was flawless.

There was not a single breach in the wall. And the dark winter had descended on London.

One evening Miss Van Tuyn felt almost desperate. Enclosed in her reserve she longed for a confidante; she longed to talk things over, to take counsel with someone. She had even a desire to ask for advice. But she knew no one in London to whom she could unbosom herself. f.a.n.n.y did not count. Old f.a.n.n.y was a fool and quite incapable of being useful mentally to anyone with good brains. And to what other woman could she speak, she, Beryl Van Tuyn, the notoriously clever, notoriously independent, young beauty, who had always. .h.i.therto held the reins of her own destiny?

If only she could speak to a man! But there the s.e.x question intruded itself. No man would be impartial unless he were tremendously old. And she had no tremendously old man friend, having always preferred those who were still in possession of all their faculties.

No young man could be impartial, least of all Alick Craven, and yet she wished intensely that she had not lost her head that day in Glebe Place, that she had carried out her original intention and had introduced Craven to Arabian.

She knew what people were saying of her in London. Although she was in deep mourning and could not go about, several women had been to see her.

They had come to condole with her, and had managed to let her understand what people were murmuring. Lady Archie had been with her. Mrs.

Birchington had looked in. And two days after Lady Sellingworth's visit to Coombe Dindie Ackroyde had called. From her Miss Van Tuyn had heard of Craven's walk in the garden with Adela Sellingworth and early departure to London in Adela's motor. In addition to this piece of casually imparted news, Mrs. Ackroyde had frankly told Miss Van Tuyn that she was being gossiped about in a disagreeable way and that, in spite of her established reputation for unconventionality, she ought to be more careful. And Miss Van Tuyn--astonishingly--had not resented this plain speaking. Mrs. Ackroyde, of course, had tried to find out something about Nicolas Arabian, but Miss Van Tuyn had evaded the not really asked questions, and had treated the whole matter with an almost airy casualness which had belied all that was in her mind.

But these visits, and especially Dindie Ackroyde's, had deepened the nervous pre-occupation which was beginning seriously to alarm old f.a.n.n.y.

If she took old f.a.n.n.y's advice and left London? If she returned to Paris? She believed, indeed she felt certain, that to do that would not be to separate from Arabian. He would follow her there. If she took the wings of the morning and flew to the uttermost parts of the earth there surely she would find him. She began to think of him as a hound on the trail of her. And yet she did not want him to lose the trail. She combined fear with desire in a way that was inexplicable to herself, that sometimes seemed to her like a sort of complex madness. But her reason for remaining in London was not to be found in Arabian's presence there. And she knew that. If she went to Paris she would be separated from Alick Craven. She did not want to be separated from him. And now Dindie Ackroyde's news intensified her reluctance to yield to old f.a.n.n.y's persuasions and to return to her bronzes. Her clever visit to Adela Sellingworth had evidently not achieved its object. In spite of her so deliberate confession to Adela the latter had once more taken possession of Craven.

Miss Van Tuyn felt angry and disgusted, even indignant, but she also felt saddened and almost alarmed.

Knowing men very well, being indeed an expert in male psychology, she realized that perhaps, probably even, her own action had driven Craven back to his friendship with Adela. But that fact did not make things more pleasant for her. She knew that she had seriously offended Craven.

She remembered the look in his face was he pa.s.sed quickly by her and Arabian in Glebe Place. He had not been to see her since, and had not written to condole with her. She knew that she had outraged his pride, and perhaps something else. Yet she could not make up her mind to leave England and drop out of his life. To do that would be like a confession of defeat. But it was not only her vanity which prompted her to stay on.

She had a curious and strong liking for Craven which was very sincere.

It was absolutely unlike the painful attraction which pushed her towards Arabian. There was trust in it, a longing for escape from something dangerous, something baleful, into peace and security. There was even a moral impulse in it such as she had never felt till now.

What was she to do? She suffered in uncertainty. Her nerves were all on edge. She felt irritable, angry, like someone being punished and resenting the punishment. And she felt horribly dull. Her mourning prohibited her from seeking distractions. People were gossiping about her unpleasantly already. She remembered Dindie Ackroyde's warning, and knew she had better heed it. She felt heartless because she was unable to be really distressed about the death of her father. Old f.a.n.n.y bored her when she did not actively worry her. She was terribly sorry for herself.

In the evening, while she was sitting alone in her room listlessly reading a book on modern painting by an author with whose views she did not agree, and looking forward to a probably sleepless night, there was a knock on the door, and a rose cheeked page boy, all alertness and b.u.t.tons, tripped in with a note on a salver.

"Any answer?" she said.

"No, mum."

She took the note, and at once recognized d.i.c.k Garstin's enormous handwriting. Quickly she opened it and read.

GLEBE.

Wed.

Dear B.--Does your mourning prevent you from looking at a d.a.m.ned good picture? If not, come round to the studio to-morrow any time after lunch and have a squint at a king in the underworld.