December Love Part 35

She came up to the restaurant. The window was lighted up brilliantly. No blind was drawn over it. There was opaque gla.s.s at the bottom, but not at the top. She was tall and could look through the gla.s.s at the top.

She did so, and at once saw Lady Sellingworth and Craven.

They were sitting at _her_ table--the table which was always reserved for her when she dined at the _Bella Napoli_, and at which she had entertained Lady Sellingworth; and they were talking--confidentially, eagerly, she thought. Lady Sellingworth looked unusually happy and animated, even perhaps a little younger than usual. Yes! Very old, but younger than usual! They were not eating at the moment, but were no doubt waiting for a course. Craven was leaning forward to his companion.

The guitars still sounded. But these two had apparently so much to say to one another that they had neither time or inclination to listen to the music.

Miss Van Tuyn stood very still on the pavement staring into the restaurant.

But suddenly Craven, as if attracted by something, turned abruptly half round towards the window. Instantly Miss Van Tuyn moved away. He could not have seen her. But perhaps he had felt that she--or rather of course that someone--was there. For he could not possibly have felt that she, Beryl Van Tuyn, was there looking in.

After drawing back Miss Van Tuyn walked slowly away. She was considering something, debating something within herself. Should she go in and dine alone in the restaurant? By doing so she would certainly make those two who had treated her badly uncomfortable; she would probably spoil the rest of their evening. Should she do that? Some indelicate devil prompted her, urged her, to do it. It would "serve them right," she thought. Adela Sellingworth especially deserved a touch of the whip. But it would be an undignified thing to do. They would never know of course why she had come alone to the _Bella Napoli_! They would think that, being audaciously unconventional, she had just drifted in there because she had nothing else to do, as Craven had drifted in alone the other night. She wanted to do it. Yet she hesitated to do it.

Finally she gave up the idea. She felt malicious, but she could not quite make up her mind to dine alone where they would see her. Probably they would feel obliged to ask her to join them. But she would not join them. Nothing could induce her to do that. And was she to come over to them when coffee was brought, as Craven had come at her invitation?

No; that would be a condescension unworthy of her beauty and youth. Her fierce vanity forbade it, even though her feeling of malice told her to do it.

Her vanity won. She walked on and came into Shaftesbury Avenue.

"I know what I'll do," she said to herself. "I'll go and dine upstairs at the Cafe Royal, and go into the cafe downstairs afterwards. Garstin is certain to be there."

Garstin--and others!

This time she obeyed her inclination. Not many minutes later she was seated at a table in a corner of the restaurant at the Cafe Royal, and was carefully choosing a dinner.

CHAPTER VI

The more he thought over his visit to Adela Sellingworth the more certain did Francis Braybrooke become that it had not gone off well.

For once he had not played his cards to the best advantage. He felt sure that inadvertently he had irritated his hostess. Her final dismissal of the subject of young Craven's possible happiness with Beryl Van Tuyn, if circ.u.mstances should ever bring them together, had been very abrupt. She had really almost kicked it out of the conversation.

But then, she had never been fond of discussing love affairs. Braybrooke had noticed that.

As he considered the matter he began to feel rather uneasy. Was it possible that Adela Sellingworth--his mind hesitated, then took the unpleasant leap--that Adela Sellingworth was beginning to like young Craven in an unsuitable way?

Craven certainly had behaved oddly when Adela Sellingworth had been discussed between them, and when Craven had been the subject of discussion with Adela Sellingworth she had behaved curiously. There was something behind it all. Of that Braybrooke was convinced. But his perplexity and doubt increased to something like agitation a few days later when he met a well-born woman of his acquaintance, who had "gone in for" painting and living her own life, and had become a bit of a Bohemian. She had happened to mention that she had seen his friend, "that wonderful-looking Lady Sellingworth," dining at the _Bella Napoli_ on a recent evening. Naturally Braybrooke supposed that the allusion was to the night of Lady Sellingworth's dinner with Beryl Van Tuyn, and he spoke of the lovely girl as Lady Sellingworth's companion. But his informant, looking rather surprised, told him that Lady Sellingworth had been with a very handsome young man, and, on discreet inquiry being made, gave an admirable description from the painter's point of view, of Craven.

Braybrooke said nothing, but he was secretly almost distressed. He thought it such a mistake for his distinguished friend to go wandering about in Soho alone with a mere boy. It was undignified. It was not the thing. He could not understand it unless really she was losing her head.

And then he remembered her past. Although he never spoke of it, and now seldom thought about it, Braybrooke knew very well what sort of woman Adela Sellingworth had been. But her dignified life of ten years had really almost wiped her former escapades out of his recollection.

There seemed to be a gulf fixed between the professional beauty and the white-haired recluse of Berkeley Square. When he looked at her, sat with her now, if he ever gave a thought to her past it was accompanied, or immediately followed, by a mental question: "Was it _she_ who did that?"

or "Can _she_ ever have been like that?"

But now Braybrooke uneasily began to remember Lady Sellingworth's past reputation and to think of the "old guard."

If she were to fall back into folly now, after what she had done ten years ago, the "old guard" would show her no mercy. Her character would be torn to pieces. He regretted very much his introduction of Craven into her life. But how could he have thought that she would fascinate a boy?

After much careful thought--for he took his social responsibilities and duties very seriously--he resolved to take action on the lines which had occurred to him when he first began to be anxious about Craven's feeling towards Adela Sellingworth; he resolved to do his best to bring Beryl Van Tuyn and Craven together.

The first step he took was to call on Miss Cronin when Beryl Van Tuyn was out. He went to Claridge's in inquire for Miss Van Tuyn.

On ascertaining that she was not at home he sent up his name to Miss Cronin, who was practically always in the house. At any rate, Braybrooke, who had met her several times at Miss Van Tuyn's apartment in Paris, had understood so from herself. If Miss Van Tuyn needed her as a chaperon she was, of course, to be counted upon to risk taking air and exercise. Otherwise, as she frankly said, she preferred to stay quietly at home. By nature she was sedentary. Her temperament inclined her to a sitting posture, which, however, she frequently varied by definitely lying down.

On this occasion Miss Cronin was as usual in the house, and begged that Mr. Braybrooke would come up. He found her in an arm-chair--she had just vacated a large sofa--with Bourget's "_Le Disciple_" in her hand. Her eyebrows were rather dim, for she had caught a slight London cold which had led her to neglect them. But she was looking mildly cheerful, and was very glad to have a visitor. Though quite happy alone with Bourget she was always ready for a comfortable gossip; and she liked Francis Braybrooke.

After a few words about the cold, Bourget and Paris, Braybrooke turned the conversation to Miss Van Tuyn. He had understood that she meant only to make a short stay in London, and rather wondered about the change of plans which had brought Miss Cronin across the Channel. Miss Cronin, he soon discovered, was rather wondering too.

"Beryl seems to have been quite got hold of by London," she observed with mild surprise.

After a pause she added:

"It may be--mind I don't say it is, but it may be--the Wallace Collection."

"The Wallace Collection?" said Braybrooke.

"I believe she goes there every day. It is in Manchester Square, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then I think it must be that. Because two or three times lately I have heard her mention Manchester Square as if it were very much on her mind.

Once I remember her saying that Manchester Square was worth all the rest of London put together! And another time she said that Manchester square ought to be in Paris. That struck me as very strange, but after making inquiries I found that the Wallace Collection was situated there, or near there."

"Hertford House is in the Square."

"Then it is that. You know how wrapped up Beryl is in that kind of thing. And, of course, she knows all the Paris collections by heart. Is the Wallace Collection large? Does it contain much?"

"It contains innumerable priceless treasures," returned Braybrooke.

"Innumerable! Dear me!" murmured f.a.n.n.y Cronin, managing to lift the dimly painted eyebrows in a distinctively plaintive manner. "Then I dare say we shall be here for months."

"You don't think," began Braybrooke with exquisite caution, "you don't think that possibly she may have a more human reason for remaining in London?"

f.a.n.n.y Cronin made a rabbit's mouth and looked slightly bemused.

"Human!" she said. "You think Beryl could have a human reason?"

"Oh, surely, surely!"

"But she prefers bronzes to people. I a.s.sure you it is so. I have heard her say that you can never be disappointed by a really good bronze, but that men and women often distress you by their absurdities and follies."

"That sort of thing is only the outcome of a pa.s.sing mood of youthful cynicism."

"Is it? I sometimes think that a born collector, like Beryl, sees more in bronze and marble than in flesh and blood. She is very sweet, but she has quite a pa.s.sion for possessing."

"Is not the greatest possession of all the possession of another's human heart?" said Braybrooke impressively, and with sentiment.

"I dare say it is, but really I cannot speak from experience," said f.a.n.n.y Cronin, with remarkable simplicity.

"Has it never occurred to you," continued Braybrooke, "that your lovely charge is not likely to remain always Beryl Van Tuyn?"

Miss Cronin looked startled, and slightly moved her ears, a curious habit which she sometimes indulged in under the influence of sudden emotion, and which was indicative of mental stress.

"But if Beryl ever marries," she said, "I might have to give up living in Paris! I might have to go back to America!"