Part 60 (1/2)

”Oh, Seymour, you and I--we have always lived in the world. We know all its humbug by heart. We are both old--old now, and why should we pretend to each other? You know how lots of us have lived, no one better. And I suppose I have been one of the worst. But, as you say, for ten years now I have behaved myself.”

She stopped. She longed to say, ”And, my G.o.d, Seymour, I am sick of behaving myself!” That would have been the naked truth. But even to him, after what she had just said, she could not utter it. Instead, she added after a moment:

”A great many lies have been lifted up as guiding lamps to men in the darkness. One of them is the saying: 'Virtue is its own reward.' I have behaved for ten years, and I know it is a lie.”

”Adela, what is exasperating you to-day? Can't you tell me?”

Once more she looked at him with a sharp and intense scrutiny. She thought it was really a final look, and one that was to decide her fate; his too, though he did not know it. She knew his worth. She knew the value of the dweller in his temple, and had no need to debate about that. But she was one of those to whom the temple means much. She could not dissociate dweller from dwelling. The outside had always had a tremendous influence upon her, and time had not lessened that influence.

Perhaps Sir Seymour felt that she was trying to come to some great decision, though he did not know, or even suspect, what that decision was. For long ago he had finally given up all hope of ever winning her for his wife. He sat still after asking this question. The lamplight shone over his thick, curly white hair, his lined, weather-beaten, distinguished old face, broad, cavalryman's hands, upright figure, shone into his faithful dog's eyes. And she looked and took in every physical detail, as only a woman can when she looks at a man whom she is considering in a certain way.

The silence seemed long. At last he broke it. For he had seen an expression of despair come into her face.

”My dear, what is it? You must tell me!”

But suddenly the look of despair gave place to a mocking look which he knew very well.

”It's only boredom, Seymour. I have had too much of Berkeley Square. I think I shall go away for a little.”

”To Cap Martin?”

”Perhaps. Where does one go when one wants to run away from oneself?”

And then she changed the conversation and talked, as she generally talked to Sir Seymour, of the life they both knew, of the doings at Court, of politics, people, the state of the country, what was likely to come to old England.

She had decided against Seymour. But she had not decided for Craven.

After a moment of despair, of feeling herself lost, she had suddenly said to herself, or a voice had said in her, a voice coming from she knew not where:

”I will remain free, but henceforth I will be my own mistress in freedom, not the slave of myself.”

And then mentally she had dismissed both Seymour and Craven out of her life, the one as a possible husband, the other as a friend.

If she could not bring herself to take the one, then she would not keep the other. She must seek for peace in loneliness. Evidently that was her destiny. She gave herself to it with mocking eyes and despair in her heart.

PART FIVE

CHAPTER I

Three days later, soon after four o'clock, Craven rang the bell at Lady Sellingworth's door. As he stood for a moment waiting for it to be answered he wondered whether she would be at home to him, how she would greet him if she chose to see him. The door was opened by a footman.

”Is her ladys.h.i.+p at home?”

”Her ladys.h.i.+p has gone out of town, sir.”

”When will she be back?”

”I couldn't say, sir. Her ladys.h.i.+p has gone abroad.”

Craven stood for a moment without speaking. He was amazed, and felt as if he had received a blow. Finally, he said: