Part 109 (2/2)
”I am sure from this letter that he guesses something has happened, that I may have been set against him, and that he doesn't mean to give me up, whatever happens. I feel that in his letter. And I want someone to drive him away from me. Oh, I wish I had never seen him! I wish I had never seen him!”
Again Lady Sellingworth heard the cry of youth, and this time it was piteous, almost despairing. She did not answer it in words. Indeed, instead of showing any pity, any strong instinct of protection, she turned away from Beryl.
The girl wondered why she did this, and for a moment thought that perhaps she was angry. The situation was difficult, horribly difficult.
Beryl had delicacy enough to understand that. Perhaps she ought not to have come to Adela again. Perhaps she was asking too much, more than any woman could bring herself to do, or to try to do. But she had no one else to go to, and she was really afraid, miserably afraid.
Lady Sellingworth stood quite still by the fire with her back to Beryl, and as the silence continued at last Beryl made up her mind that there was nothing to be hoped for from her and got up slowly.
”Adela,” she said, trying to summon some pride, some courage, ”I understand. You can't do anything more. I oughtn't to have come. It was monstrous, I suppose. But--it's like that in life. So few people will help. And those that do--well, they get asked for more. I'll--I'll manage somehow. It's all my own fault. I must try to--”
Then Lady Sellingworth turned round. Her white face was very grave, almost stern, like the face of one who was thinking with concentration.
”I'm ready to try to do what I can, Beryl,” she said. ”But there's only one way I can think of. And to take it I shall have to tell the whole truth.”
”About me?”
”About you and myself.”
”Oh--but you couldn't do that!”
”I believe that I ought to.”
”But--but--to whom?”
”There's only one person I could possibly speak to, and he's the finest man I have ever met. He might do something. I'm thinking of Seymour Portman.”
”Adela! But you couldn't tell _him_!”
”Why not?”
”Adela--he loves you. Everyone knows that.”
”And that's just why I could tell him--him only.”
Miss Van Tuyn looked down. Suddenly she felt that she had tears in her eyes.
”You have kept your cab, haven't you?” said Lady Sellingworth.
”Yes.”
”Go home now. I will telephone to Seymour. I'll let you know later--to-morrow morning perhaps--what he thinks had better be done.
Now, good night, Beryl!”
She held out her hand. Beryl took it, but did not press it. Somehow she felt awed, and at a distance from this pale quiet woman.
Lady Sellingworth touched the bell, and Beryl Van Tuyn left the room.
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