Part 82 (1/2)
”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 friends.h.i.+p 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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.”