Part 14 (2/2)

It was when she thought of the ”old guard” that Lady Sellingworth almost crumbled, almost went to pieces. For she knew that whatever she did, or left undone, she would never succeed in deceiving its members. She would not have been deceived herself if circ.u.mstances had been changed, if another 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 of the poor human being to safeguard the sacred things by deception. Lady Sellingworth somehow--how do human beings achieve such efforts?--pulled herself together and gave herself to pretence. She pretended to Louth that she was his best friend and had never thought of being anything else. She was the receptacle for the cascade of his confidences. She swore to help him in any way she could. Even after she received ”the Crouch,” once Willoughby and still Willoughby to the ”nuts” who frequented the stalls of the Alhambra. She received that tall and voluptuous young woman, with her haughty face and her disdainful airs, and she bore with her horrible proprietors.h.i.+p of Louth. And finally she broke it to Lord Blyston at Rupert's earnest request.

That should have been her supreme effort. But it was not. There was no rest in pretence. As soon as Lord Blyston knew, everyone knew, including the ”old guard.” And then, of course, Lady Sellingworth's energies had all to be called into full play.

It was no wonder if underneath the cleverness of her Greek she aged rapidly, more rapidly than was natural in a woman of her years. For she had piled effort on effort. She had been young for Rupert Louth until she had been physically exhausted; and then she had been old for him until she was mentally exhausted. The hardy Amazon had been forced to change in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, into the calm and middle-aged adviser of hot pa.s.sioned youth, into the steady unselfish confidante, into the breaker of untoward news to the venerable parent--in fact, into Mother Hubbard, as Lady Sellingworth more than once desperately told herself.

”Mother Hubbard! Mother Hubbard! I'm just Mother Hubbard to him and to that horrible girl!”

And she saw herself as Mother Hubbard, a ”dame.” And she alone knew how absolutely bare her cupboard was at that time. But she struggled on magnificently, taking no rest; she faced the ”old guard” with splendid courage, in fact with such courage that most of them pretended to be deceived, and perhaps--for is not everything possible in this life?--perhaps two or three of them really were deceived.

The d.u.c.h.ess of Wellingborough said often at this time: ”Addie Sellingworth has the stuff in her of a leader of forlorn hopes!”

Lord Blyston paid up for ”the Crouch,” once Willoughby, who had now left the Alhambra disconsolate. He paid up by selling the only estate he still possessed, and letting his one remaining country house to an extraordinarily vulgar manufacturer from the Midlands, who did not know a Turner from a Velasquez until he was told. And for the time ”the Crouch” was as satisfied as a woman of her type can ever be.

Time pa.s.sed on. Lady Sellingworth went about everywhere with a smiling carefully-made-up face and a heart full of dust and ashes.

But even then she could not make up her mind finally to abandon all pretence of youth, all hope of youth's distractions, pleasures, even joys. She had a terribly obstinate nature, it seemed, a terribly strong l.u.s.t after life.

Even her imp could not lash her into acceptance of the inevitable, could not drive her with his thongs of irony into the dignity which only comes when 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 was in the morning and she was with the d.u.c.h.ess of Wellingborough--an extraordinarily handsome young man, whom neither of them knew, met them and pa.s.sed by. He was tall, brown skinned, with soft, very intelligent brown eyes, and strong, manly and splendidly cut features. His thick brown hair was brushed, his little brown moustache was cut, like a Guardsman's. But he was certainly not a Guardsman. He was not even an Englishman, although he was dressed in a smart country suit made evidently by a first-rate London tailor. There was something faintly exotic about his eyes, and his way of holding himself and moving, which suggested to Lady Sellingworth either Spain or South America. She was not quite sure which. He gave her a long look as he went by, and she felt positive that he turned to glance after her when he had pa.s.sed her.

But this she never knew, as naturally she did not turn her head.

”What an extraordinarily good-looking man that was!” said the d.u.c.h.ess of Wellingborough. ”I wonder who he is. If--,” and she mentioned a well-known Spanish duke, ”had a brother that might be the man. Do you know 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 be deeply interested in her without knowing who she was. But she did not say it. It was not worth while. And she knew the d.u.c.h.ess had not meant to be ill-mannered.

She lunched with the d.u.c.h.ess that day in Grosvenor Square, and met several of the ”old guard” whom she knew very well, disastrously well.

After lunch the d.u.c.h.ess alluded to the brown man they had met in Bond Street, described him minutely, and asked if anyone knew him. n.o.body knew him. But after the description everyone wanted to know him. It was generally supposed that he must be one of the strangers from distant countries who are perpetually flocking to London.

”We shall probably all know him in a week or two,” said someone. ”A man of 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 d.u.c.h.ess, with her usual almost boisterous good humour.

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