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diff --git a/9385-h/9385-h.htm b/9385-h/9385-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9e6411f --- /dev/null +++ b/9385-h/9385-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,12880 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<title>THE INCOMPLETE AMORIST</title> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> +<style type="text/css"> +<!-- +body {margin:10%; text-align:justify} +img {border: 0;} +blockquote {font-size:14pt} +P {font-size:14pt} +--> +</style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Incomplete Amorist, by E. Nesbit + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Incomplete Amorist + +Author: E. Nesbit + +Illustrator: Clarence F. Underwood + +Posting Date: March 22, 2013 [EBook #9385] +Release Date: November, 2005 +First Posted: September 28, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INCOMPLETE AMORIST *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Beth Trapaga and PG +Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<center> +<img alt="amorist001.jpg (31K)" src="images/amorist001.jpg" height="756" width="599"> + +<h3> +To</h3> + +<p>Richard Reynolds +and +Justus Miles Forman</p> + +<p> +<i>"Faire naitre un désir, le nourrir, le développer, le grandir, le +satisfaire, c'est un poeme tout entier."</i></p> + +<p>—<i>Balzac</i>.</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<img alt="wfrontis.jpg (144K)" src="images/wfrontis.jpg" height="988" width="700"> +</center> +<br><br><br><br> +<center> +<h2> +CONTENTS</h2></center> +<center> +<table summary="contents"> +<tr><td> + +<p><a href="#b1">BOOK I. THE GIRL</a></p> +<table summary="contents"> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter I. </td><td>The Inevitable<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter II. </td><td>The Irresistible<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter III. </td><td>Voluntary<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter IV. </td><td>Involuntary<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter V. </td><td>The Prisoner<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter VI. </td><td>The Criminal<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter VII. </td><td>The Escape<td> +</table><br> +<p><a href="#b2">BOOK II. THE MAN</a></p> +<table summary="contents"> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter VIII. </td><td>The One and the Other<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter IX. </td><td>The Opportunity<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter X. </td><td>Seeing Life<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter XI. </td><td>The Thought<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter XII. </td><td>The Rescue<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter XIII. </td><td>Contrasts<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter XIV. </td><td>Renunciation<td> +</table><br> +<p><a href="#b3">BOOK III. THE OTHER WOMAN</a></p> +<table summary="contents"> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter XV. </td><td>On Mount Parnassus<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter XVI. </td><td>"Love and Tupper"<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter XVII. </td><td>Interventions<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter XVIII. </td><td>The Truth<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter XIX. </td><td>The Truth with a Vengeance<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter XX. </td><td>Waking-up Time<td> +</table><br> +<p><a href="#b4">BOOK IV. THE OTHER MAN</a></p> +<table summary="contents"> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter XXI. </td><td>The Flight<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter XXII. </td><td>Te Lunatic<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter XXIII. </td><td>Temperatures<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter XXIV. </td><td>The Confessional<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter XXV. </td><td>The Forest<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter XXVI. </td><td>The Miracle<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter XXVII. </td><td>The Pink Silk Story<td> +<tr><td></td><td>Chapter XXVIII. </td><td>"And so—"<td> +</table> +</td></tr> +</table> +</center> +<br><br><br><br> + +<center><h2> +PEOPLE OF THE STORY</h2></center> + +<center> +<table summary="people"> +<tr><td> +<table summary="people"> +<tr><td> +Eustace Vernon.<br> +Betty Desmond<br> +The Rev. Cecil Underwood<br> +Miss Julia Desmond<br> +Robert Temple<br> +Lady St. Craye<br> +Miss Voscoe<br> +Madame Chevillon<br> +Paula Conway<br> +Mimi Chantal<br> +Village Matrons, Concierges, Art Students, Etc.<br> +</td><td> +The Incomplete Amorist<br> +The Girl<br> +Her Step-Father<br> +Her Aunt<br> +The Other Man<br> +The Other Woman<br> +The Art Student<br> +The Inn-Keeper at Crez<br> +A Soul in Hell<br> +A Model<br> +<br> +</td></tr> +</table> +</td></tr> +</table> +</center> + +<br><br><br><br> +<center> +<table summary="illust"> +<tr><td> +<center> +<h2> +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2></center> + +<p><a href="#frontis">"'Oh, what a pity,' said Betty from the heart, 'that we aren't +introduced now!'"</a></p> + +<p><a href="#01">"'Ah, don't be cross!' she said."</a></p> + +<p><a href="#02">"Betty stared at him coldly."</a></p> + +<p><a href="#03">"Betty looked nervously around—the scene was agitatingly unfamiliar.</a>"</p> + +<p><a href="#04">"Unfinished, but a disquieting likeness."</a></p> + +<p><a href="#05">"'No, thank you: it's all done now.'"</a></p> + +<p><a href="#06">"On the further arm of the chair sat, laughing also, a very pretty +young woman."</a></p> + +<p><a href="#07">"The next morning brought him a letter."</a></p> + +</td></tr> +</table> +</center> + +<br><br><br><br> +<a name="b1"></a> +<br><br> +<h2> +Book 1.—The Girl</h2> + +<br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER I.</p> + +<p> +THE INEVITABLE.</p> + +<p>"No. The chemises aren't cut out. I haven't had time. There are enough +shirts to go on with, aren't there, Mrs. James?" said Betty.</p> + +<p>"We can make do for this afternoon, Miss, but the men they're getting +blowed out with shirts. It's the children's shifts as we can't make +shift without much longer." Mrs. James, habitually doleful, punctuated +her speech with sniffs.</p> + +<p>"That's a joke, Mrs. James," said Betty. "How clever you are!"</p> + +<p>"I try to be what's fitting," said Mrs. James, complacently.</p> + +<p>"Talk of fitting," said Betty, "If you like I'll fit on that black +bodice for you, Mrs. Symes. If the other ladies don't mind waiting for +the reading a little bit."</p> + +<p>"I'd as lief talk as read, myself," said a red-faced sandy-haired +woman; "books ain't what they was in my young days."</p> + +<p>"If it's the same to you, Miss," said Mrs. Symes in a thick rich +voice, "I'll not be tried on afore a room full. If we are poor we can +all be clean's what I say, and I keeps my unders as I keeps my +outside. But not before persons as has real imitation lace on their +petticoat bodies. I see them when I was a-nursing her with her fourth. +No, Miss, and thanking you kindly, but begging your pardon all the +same."</p> + +<p>"Don't mention it," said Betty absently. "Oh, Mrs. Smith, you can't +have lost your thimble already. Why what's that you've got in your +mouth?"</p> + +<p>"So it is!" Mrs. Smith's face beamed at the gratifying coincidence. "It +always was my habit, from a child, to put things there for safety."</p> + +<p>"These cheap thimbles ain't fit to put in your mouth, no more than +coppers," said Mrs. James, her mouth full of pins.</p> + +<p>"Oh, nothing hurts you if you like it," said Betty recklessly. She had +been reading the works of Mr. G.K. Chesterton.</p> + +<p>A shocked murmur arose.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Miss, what about the publy kows?" said Mrs. Symes heavily. The +others nodded acquiescence.</p> + +<p>"Don't you think we might have a window open?" said Betty. The May +sunshine beat on the schoolroom windows. The room, crowded with the +stout members of the "Mother's Meeting and Mutual Clothing Club," was +stuffy, unbearable.</p> + +<p>A murmur arose far more shocked than the first.</p> + +<p>"I was just a-goin' to say why not close the door, that being what +doors is made for, after all," said Mrs. Symes. "I feel a sort of +draught a-creeping up my legs as it is."</p> + +<p>The door was shut.</p> + +<p>"You can't be too careful," said the red-faced woman; "we never know +what a chill mayn't bring forth. My cousin's sister-in-law, she had +twins, and her aunt come in and says she, 'You're a bit stuffy here, +ain't you?' and with that she opens the window a crack,—not meaning +no harm, Miss,—as it might be you. And within a year that poor +unfortunate woman she popped off, when least expected. Gas ulsters, +the doctor said. Which it's what you call chills, if you're a doctor +and can't speak plain."</p> + +<p>"My poor grandmother come to her end the same way," said Mrs. Smith, +"only with her it was the Bible reader as didn't shut the door through +being so set on shewing off her reading. And my granny, a clot of +blood went to her brain, and her brain went to her head and she was a +corpse inside of fifty minutes."</p> + +<p>Every woman in the room was waiting, feverishly alert, for the pause +that should allow her to begin her own detailed narrative of disease.</p> + +<p>Mrs. James was easily first in the competition.</p> + +<p>"Them quick deaths," she said, "is sometimes a blessing in disguise to +both parties concerned. My poor husband—years upon years he lingered, +and he had a bad leg—talk of bad legs, I wish you could all have seen +it," she added generously.</p> + +<p>"Was it the kind that keeps all on a-breaking out?" asked Mrs. Symes +hastily, "because my youngest brother had a leg that nothing couldn't +stop. Break out it would do what they might. I'm sure the bandages +I've took off him in a morning—"</p> + +<p>Betty clapped her hands.</p> + +<p>It was the signal that the reading was going to begin, and the matrons +looked at her resentfully. What call had people to start reading when +the talk was flowing so free and pleasant?</p> + +<p>Betty, rather pale, began: "This is a story about a little boy called +Wee Willie Winkie."</p> + +<p>"I call that a silly sort of name," whispered Mrs. Smith.</p> + +<p>"Did he make a good end, Miss?" asked Mrs. James plaintively.</p> + +<p>"You'll see," said Betty.</p> + +<p>"I like it best when they dies forgiving of everybody and singing +hymns to the last."</p> + +<p>"And when they says, 'Mother, I shall meet you 'ereafter in the better +land'—that's what makes you cry so pleasant."</p> + +<p>"Do you want me to read or not?" asked Betty in desperation.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Miss, yes," hummed the voices heavy and shrill.</p> + +<p>"It's her hobby, poor young thing," whispered Mrs. Smith, "we all 'as +'em. My own is a light cake to my tea, and always was. Ush."</p> + +<p>Betty read.</p> + +<p>When the mothers had wordily gone, she threw open the windows, propped +the door wide with a chair, and went to tea. She had it alone.</p> + +<p>"Your Pa's out a-parishing," said Letitia, bumping down the tray in +front of her.</p> + +<p>"That's a let-off anyhow," said Betty to herself, and she propped up a +Stevenson against the tea-pot.</p> + +<p>After tea parishioners strolled up by ones and twos and threes to +change their books at the Vicarage lending library. The books were +covered with black calico, and smelt of rooms whose windows were never +opened.</p> + +<p>When she had washed the smell of the books off, she did her hair very +carefully in a new way that seemed becoming, and went down to supper.</p> + +<p>Her step-father only spoke once during the meal; he was luxuriating in +the thought of the <i>Summa Theologiae</i> of Aquinas in leather still +brown and beautiful, which he had providentially discovered in the +wash-house of an ailing Parishioner. When he did speak he said:</p> + +<p>"How extremely untidy your hair is, Lizzie. I wish you would take more +pains with your appearance."</p> + +<p>When he had withdrawn to his books she covered three new volumes for +the library: the black came off on her hands, but anyway it was clean +dirt.</p> + +<p>She went to bed early.</p> + +<p>"And that's my life," she said as she blew out the candle.</p> + +<p>Said Mrs. James to Mrs. Symes over the last and strongest cup of tea:</p> + +<p>"Miss Betty's ailing a bit, I fancy. Looked a bit peaky, it seemed to +me. I shouldn't wonder if she was to go off in a decline like her +father did."</p> + +<p>"It wasn't no decline," said Mrs. Symes, dropping her thick voice, +"'e was cut off in the midst of his wicked courses. A judgment if +ever there was one."</p> + +<p>Betty's blameless father had been killed in the hunting field.</p> + +<p>"I daresay she takes after him, only being a female it all turns to +her being pernickety in her food and allus wanting the windows open. +And mark my words, it may turn into a decline yet, Mrs. Symes, my +dear."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Symes laughed fatly. "That ain't no decline," she said, "you take +it from me. What Miss Betty wants is a young man. It is but nature +after all, and what we must all come to, gentle or simple. Give her a +young man to walk out with and you'll see the difference. Decline +indeed! A young man's what she wants. And if I know anything of gells +and their ways she'll get one, no matter how close the old chap keeps +her."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Symes was not so wrong as the delicate minded may suppose.</p> + +<p>Betty did indeed desire to fall in love. In all the story books the +main interest of the heroine's career began with that event. Not that +she voiced the desire to herself. Only once she voiced it in her +prayers.</p> + +<p>"Oh, God," she said, "do please let something happen!"</p> + +<p>That was all. A girl had her little reticences, even with herself, +even with her Creator.</p> + +<p>Next morning she planned to go sketching; but no, there were three +more detestable books to be put into nasty little black cotton coats, +the drawing-room to be dusted—all the hateful china—the peas to be +shelled for dinner.</p> + +<p>She shelled the peas in the garden. It was a beautiful green garden, +and lovers could have walked very happily down the lilac-bordered +paths.</p> + +<p>"Oh, how sick I am of it all!" said Betty. She would not say, even to +herself, that what she hated was the frame without the picture.</p> + +<p>As she carried in the peas she passed the open window of the study +where, among shelves of dull books and dusty pamphlets, her +step-father had as usual forgotten his sermon in a chain of references +to the Fathers. Betty saw his thin white hairs, his hard narrow face +and tight mouth, the hands yellow and claw-like that gripped the thin +vellum folio.</p> + +<p>"I suppose even he was young once," she said, "but I'm sure he doesn't +remember it."</p> + +<p>He saw her go by, young and alert in the sunshine, and the May air +stirred the curtains. He looked vaguely about him, unlocked a drawer +in his writing-table, and took out a leather case. He gazed long at +the face within, a young bright face with long ringlets above the +formal bodice and sloping shoulders of the sixties.</p> + +<p>"Well, well," he said, "well, well," locked it away, and went back to +<i>De Poenis Parvulorum</i>.</p> + +<p>"I <i>will</i> go out," said Betty, as she parted with the peas. "I don't +care!"</p> + +<p>It was not worth while to change one's frock. Even when one was +properly dressed, at rare local garden-party or flower-show, one never +met anyone that mattered.</p> + +<p>She fetched her sketching things. At eighteen one does so pathetically +try to feed the burgeoning life with the husks of polite +accomplishment. She insisted on withholding from the clutches of the +Parish the time to practise Beethoven and Sullivan for an hour daily. +Daily, for half an hour, she read an improving book. Just now it was +The French Revolution, and Betty thought it would last till she was +sixty. She tried to read French and German—Télémaque and Maria +Stuart. She fully intended to become all that a cultured young woman +should be. But self-improvement is a dull game when there is no one to +applaud your score.</p> + +<p>What the gardener called the gravel path was black earth, moss-grown. +Very pretty, but Betty thought it shabby.</p> + +<p>It was soft and cool, though, to the feet, and the dust of the white +road sparkled like diamond dust in the sunlight.</p> + +<p>She crossed the road and passed through the swing gate into the park, +where the grass was up for hay, with red sorrel and buttercups and +tall daisies and feathery flowered grasses, their colours all tangled +and blended together like ravelled ends of silk on the wrong side of +some great square of tapestry. Here and there in the wide sweep of +tall growing things stood a tree—a may-tree shining like silver, a +laburnum like fine gold. There were horse-chestnuts whose spires of +blossom shewed like fat candles on a Christmas tree for giant +children. And the sun was warm and the tree shadows black on the +grass.</p> + +<p>Betty told herself that she hated it all. She took the narrow +path—the grasses met above her feet—crossed the park, and reached +the rabbit warren, where the chalk breaks through the thin dry turf, +and the wild thyme grows thick.</p> + +<p>A may bush, overhanging a little precipice of chalk, caught her eye. A +wild rose was tangled round it. It was, without doubt, the most +difficult composition within sight.</p> + +<p>"I will sketch that," said Eighteen, confidently.</p> + +<p>For half an hour she busily blotted and washed and niggled. Then she +became aware that she no longer had the rabbit warren to herself.</p> + +<p>"And he's an artist, too!" said Betty. "How awfully interesting! I +wish I could see his face."</p> + +<p>But this his slouched Panama forbade. He was in white, the sleeve and +breast of his painting jacket smeared with many colours; he had a +camp-stool and an easel and looked, she could not help feeling, much +more like a real artist than she did, hunched up as she was on a +little mound of turf, in her shabby pink gown and that hateful garden +hat with last year's dusty flattened roses in it.</p> + +<p>She went on sketching with feverish unskilled fingers, and a pulse +that had actually quickened its beat.</p> + +<p>She cast little glances at him as often as she dared. He was certainly +a real artist. She could tell that by the very way he held his +palette. Was he staying with people about there? Should she meet him? +Would they ever be introduced to each other?</p> + +<p>"Oh, what a pity," said Betty from the heart, "that we aren't +introduced <i>now</i>!"</p> + + +<a name="frontis"></a> +<br><br> +<center> +<img alt="wfrontis.jpg (144K)" src="images/wfrontis.jpg" height="988" width="700"> +</center> +<br><br> + + +<p>Her sketch grew worse and worse.</p> + +<p>"It's no good," she said. "I can't do anything with it."</p> + +<p>She glanced at him. He had pushed back the hat. She saw quite plainly +that he was smiling—a very little, but he <i>was</i> smiling. Also he was +looking at her, and across the fifteen yards of gray turf their eyes +met. And she knew that he knew that this was not her first glance at +him.</p> + +<p>She paled with fury.</p> + +<p>"He has been watching me all the time! He is making fun of me. He +knows I can't sketch. Of course he can see it by the silly way I hold +everything." She ran her knife around her sketch, detached it, and +tore it across and across.</p> + +<p>The stranger raised his hat and called eagerly.</p> + +<p>"I say—please don't move for a minute. Do you mind? I've just got +your pink gown. It's coming beautifully. Between brother artists—Do, +please! Do sit still and go on sketching—Ah, do!"</p> + +<p>Betty's attitude petrified instantly. She held a brush in her hand, +and she looked down at her block. But she did not go on sketching. She +sat rigid and three delicious words rang in her ears: "Between brother +artists!" How very nice of him! He hadn't been making fun, after all. +But wasn't it rather impertinent of him to put her in his picture +without asking her? Well, it wasn't she but her pink gown he wanted. +And "between brother artists!" Betty drew a long breath.</p> + +<p>"It's no use," he called; "don't bother any more. The pose is gone."</p> + +<p>She rose to her feet and he came towards her.</p> + +<p>"Let me see the sketch," he said. "Why did you tear it up?" He fitted +the pieces together. "Why, it's quite good. You ought to study in +Paris," he added idly.</p> + +<p>She took the torn papers from his hand with a bow, and turned to go.</p> + +<p>"Don't go," he said. "You're not going? Don't you want to look at my +picture?"</p> + +<p>Now Betty knew as well as you do that you musn't speak to people +unless you've been introduced to them. But the phrase "brother +artists" had played ninepins with her little conventions.</p> + +<p>"Thank you. I should like to very much," said Betty. "I don't care," +she said to herself, "and besides, it's not as if he were a young man, +or a tourist, or anything. He must be ever so old—thirty; I shouldn't +wonder if he was thirty-five."</p> + +<p>When she saw the picture she merely said, "Oh," and stood at gaze. For +it <i>was</i> a picture—a picture that, seen in foreign lands, might well +make one sick with longing for the dry turf and the pale dog violets +that love the chalk, for the hum of the bees and the scent of the +thyme. He had chosen the bold sweep of the brown upland against the +sky, and low to the left, where the line broke, the dim violet of the +Kentish hills. In the green foreground the pink figure, just roughly +blocked in, was blocked in by a hand that knew its trade, and was +artist to the tips of its fingers.</p> + +<p>"Oh!" said Betty again.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said he, "I think I've got it this time. I think it'll make a +hole in the wall, eh? Yes; it is good!"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Betty; "oh, yes."</p> + +<p>"Do you often go a-sketching?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"How modest he is," thought Betty; "he changes the subject so as not +to seem to want to be praised."</p> + +<p>Aloud she answered with shy fluttered earnestness: "Yes—no. I don't +know. Sometimes."</p> + +<p>His lips were grave, but there was the light behind his eyes that goes +with a smile.</p> + +<p>"What unnecessary agitation!" he was thinking. "Poor little thing, I +suppose she's never seen a man before. Oh, these country girls!" Aloud +he was saying: "This is such a perfect country. You ought to sketch +every day."</p> + +<p>"I've no one to teach me," said Betty, innocently phrasing a long-felt +want.</p> + +<p>The man raised his eyebrows. "Well, after that, here goes!" he said to +himself. "I wish you'd let <i>me</i> teach you," he said to her, beginning +to put his traps together.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I didn't mean that," said Betty in real distress. What would he +think of her? How greedy and grasping she must seem! "I didn't mean +that at all!"</p> + +<p>"No; but I do," he said.</p> + +<p>"But you're a great artist," said Betty, watching him with clasped +hands. "I suppose it would be—I mean—don't you know, we're not rich, +and I suppose your lessons are worth pounds and pounds."</p> + +<p>"I don't give lessons for money," his lips tightened—"only for love."</p> + +<p>"That means nothing, doesn't it?" she said, and flushed to find +herself on the defensive feebly against—nothing.</p> + +<p>"At tennis, yes," he said, and to himself he added: "<i>Vieux jeu</i>, my +dear, but you did it very prettily."</p> + +<p>"But I couldn't let you give me lessons for nothing."</p> + +<p>"Why not?" he asked. And his calmness made Betty feel ashamed and +sordid.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," she answered tremulously, "but I don't think my +step-father would want me to."</p> + +<p>"You think it would annoy him?"</p> + +<p>"I'm sure it would, if he knew about it."</p> + +<p>Betty was thinking how little her step-father had ever cared to know +of her and her interests. But the man caught the ball as he saw it.</p> + +<p>"Then why let him know?" was the next move; and it seemed to him that +Betty's move of rejoinder came with a readiness born of some practice +at the game.</p> + +<p>"Oh," she said innocently, "I never thought of that! But wouldn't it +be wrong?"</p> + +<p>"She's got the whole thing stereotyped. But it's dainty type anyhow," +he thought. "Of course it wouldn't be wrong," he said. "It wouldn't +hurt him. Don't you know that nothing's wrong unless it hurts +somebody?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said eagerly, "that's what I think. But all the same it +doesn't seem fair that you should take all that trouble for me and get +nothing in return."</p> + +<p>"Well played! We're getting on!" he thought, and added aloud: "But +perhaps I shan't get nothing in return?"</p> + +<p>Her eyes dropped over the wonderful thought that perhaps she might do +something for <i>him</i>. But what? She looked straight at him, and the +innocent appeal sent a tiny thorn of doubt through his armour of +complacency. Was she—after all? No, no novice could play the game so +well. And yet—</p> + +<p>"I would do anything I could, you know," she said eagerly, "because it +is so awfully kind of you, and I do so want to be able to paint. What +can I do?"</p> + +<p>"What can you do?" he asked, and brought his face a little nearer to +the pretty flushed freckled face under the shabby hat. Her eyes met +his. He felt a quick relenting, and drew back.</p> + +<p>"Well, for one thing you could let me paint your portrait."</p> + +<p>Betty was silent.</p> + +<p>"Come, play up, you little duffer," he urged inwardly.</p> + +<p>When she spoke her voice trembled.</p> + +<p>"I don't know how to thank you," she said.</p> + +<p>"And you will?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I will; indeed I will!"</p> + +<p>"How good and sweet you are," he said. Then there was a silence.</p> + +<p>Betty tightened the strap of her sketching things and said:</p> + +<p>"I think I ought to go home now."</p> + +<p>He had the appropriate counter ready.</p> + +<p>"Ah, don't go yet!" he said; "let us sit down; see, that bank is quite +in the shade now, and tell me—"</p> + +<p>"Tell you what?" she asked, for he had made the artistic pause.</p> + +<p>"Oh, anything—anything about yourself."</p> + +<p>Betty was as incapable of flight as any bird on a limed twig.</p> + +<p>She walked beside him to the bank, and sat down at his bidding, and he +lay at her feet, looking up into her eyes. He asked idle questions: +she answered them with a conscientious tremulous truthfulness that +showed to him as the most finished art. And it seemed to him a very +fortunate accident that he should have found here, in this unlikely +spot, so accomplished a player at his favorite game. Yet it was the +variety of his game for which he cared least. He did not greatly +relish a skilled adversary. Betty told him nervously and in words +ill-chosen everything that he asked to know, but all the while the +undercurrent of questions rang strong within her—"When is he to teach +me? Where? How?"—so that when at last there was left but the bare +fifteen minutes needed to get one home in time for the midday dinner +she said abruptly:</p> + +<p>"And when shall I see you again?"</p> + +<p>"You take the words out of my mouth," said he. And indeed she had. +"She has no <i>finesse</i> yet," he told himself. "She might have left that +move to me."</p> + +<p>"The lessons, you know," said Betty, "and, and the picture, if you +really do want to do it."</p> + +<p>"If I want to do it!—You know I want to do it. Yes. It's like the +nursery game. How, when and where? Well, as to the how—I can paint +and you can learn. The where—there's a circle of pines in the wood +here. You know it? A sort of giant fairy ring?"</p> + +<p>She did know it.</p> + +<p>"Now for the when—and that's the most important. I should like to +paint you in the early morning when the day is young and innocent and +beautiful—like—like—" He was careful to break off in a most natural +seeming embarrassment. "That's a bit thick, but she'll swallow it all +right. Gone down? Right!" he told himself.</p> + +<p>"I could come out at six if you liked, or—or five," said Betty, +humbly anxious to do her part.</p> + +<p>He was almost shocked. "My good child," he told her silently, "someone +really ought to teach you not to do all the running. You don't give a +man a chance."</p> + +<p>"Then will you meet me here to-morrow at six?" he said. "You won't +disappoint me, will you?" he added tenderly.</p> + +<p>"No," said downright Betty, "I'll be sure to come. But not to-morrow," +she added with undisguised regret; "to-morrow's Sunday."</p> + +<p>"Monday then," said he, "and good-bye."</p> + +<p>"Good-bye, and—oh, I don't know how to thank you!"</p> + +<p>"I'm very much mistaken if you don't," he said as he stood bareheaded, +watching the pink gown out of sight.</p> + +<p>"Well, adventures to the adventurous! A clergyman's daughter, too! I +might have known it."</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER II.</p> + +<p> +THE IRRESISTIBLE.</p> + +<p>Betty had to run all the way home, and then she was late for dinner. +Her step-father's dry face and dusty clothes, the solid comfort of the +mahogany furnished dining room, the warm wet scent of mutton,—these +seemed needed to wake her from what was, when she had awakened, a +dream—the open sky, the sweet air of the May fields and <i>Him</i>. +Already the stranger was Him to Betty. But, then, she did not know his +name.</p> + +<p>She slipped into her place at the foot of the long white dining table, +a table built to serve a dozen guests, and where no guests ever sat, +save rarely a curate or two, and more rarely even, an aunt.</p> + +<p>"You are late again, Lizzie," said her step-father.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Father," said she, trying to hide her hands and the fact that +she had not had time to wash them. A long streak of burnt sienna +marked one finger, and her nails had little slices of various colours +in them. Her paint-box was always hard to open.</p> + +<p>Usually Mr. Underwood saw nothing. But when he saw anything he saw +everything. His eye was caught by the green smudge on her pink sleeve.</p> + +<p>"I wish you would contrive to keep yourself clean, or else wear a +pinafore," he said.</p> + +<p>Betty flushed scarlet.</p> + +<p>"I'm very sorry," she said, "but it's only water colour. It will wash +out."</p> + +<p>"You are nearly twenty, are you not?" the Vicar inquired with the dry +smile that always infuriated his step-daughter. How was she to know +that it was the only smile he knew, and that smiles of any sort had +long grown difficult to him?</p> + +<p>"Eighteen," she said.</p> + +<p>"It is almost time you began to think about being a lady."</p> + +<p>This was badinage. No failures had taught the Reverend Cecil that his +step-daughter had an ideal of him in which badinage had no place. She +merely supposed that he wished to be disagreeable.</p> + +<p>She kept a mutinous silence. The old man sighed. It is one's duty to +correct the faults of one's child, but it is not pleasant. The +Reverend Cecil had not the habit of shirking any duty because he +happened to dislike it.</p> + +<p>The mutton was taken away.</p> + +<p>Betty, her whole being transfigured by the emotions of the morning, +stirred the stewed rhubarb on her plate. She felt rising in her a sort +of wild forlorn courage. Why shouldn't she speak out? Her step-father +couldn't hate her more than he did, whatever she said. He might even +be glad to be rid of her. She spoke suddenly and rather loudly before +she knew that she had meant to speak at all.</p> + +<p>"Father," she said, "I wish you'd let me go to Paris and study art. +Not now," she hurriedly explained with a sudden vision of being taken +at her word and packed off to France before six o'clock on Monday +morning, "not now, but later. In the autumn perhaps. I would work very +hard. I wish you'd let me."</p> + +<p>He put on his spectacles and looked at her with wistful kindness. She +read in his glance only a frozen contempt.</p> + +<p>"No, my child," he said. "Paris is a sink of iniquity. I passed a week +there once, many years ago. It was at the time of the Great +Exhibition. You are growing discontented, Lizzie. Work is the cure for +that. Mrs. Symes tells me that the chemises for the Mother's sewing +meetings are not cut out yet."</p> + +<p>"I'll cut them out to-day. They haven't finished the shirts yet, +anyway," said Betty; "but I do wish you'd just think about Paris, or +even London."</p> + +<p>"You can have lessons at home if you like. I believe there are +excellent drawing-mistresses in Sevenoaks. Mrs. Symes was recommending +one of them to me only the other day. With certificates from the High +School I seem to remember her saying."</p> + +<p>"But that's not what I want," said Betty with a courage that surprised +her as much as it surprised him. "Don't you see, Father? One gets +older every day, and presently I shall be quite old, and I shan't have +been anywhere or seen anything."</p> + +<p>He thought he laughed indulgently at the folly of youth. She thought +his laugh the most contemptuous, the cruelest sound in the world. "He +doesn't deserve that I should tell him about Him," she thought, "and I +won't. I don't care!"</p> + +<p>"No, no," he said, "no, no, no. The home is the place for girls. The +safe quiet shelter of the home. Perhaps some day your husband will +take you abroad for a fortnight now and then. If you manage to get a +husband, that is."</p> + +<p>He had seen, through his spectacles, her flushed prettiness, and old +as he was he remembered well enough how a face like hers would seem to +a young man's eyes. Of course she would get a husband? So he spoke in +kindly irony. And she hated him for a wanton insult.</p> + +<p>"Try to do your duty in that state of life to which you are called," +he went on: "occupy yourself with music and books and the details of +housekeeping. No, don't have my study turned out," he added in haste, +remembering how his advice about household details had been followed +when last he gave it. "Don't be a discontented child. Go and cut out +the nice little chemises." This seemed to him almost a touch of kindly +humour, and he went back to Augustine, pleased with himself.</p> + +<p>Betty set her teeth and went, black rage in her heart, to cut out the +hateful little chemises.</p> + +<p>She dragged the great roll of evil smelling grayish unbleached calico +from the schoolroom cupboard and heaved it on to the table. It was +very heavy. The scissors were blunt and left deep red-blue +indentations on finger and thumb. She was rather pleased that the +scissors hurt so much.</p> + +<p>"Father doesn't care a single bit, he hates me," she said, "and I hate +him. Oh, I do."</p> + +<p>She would not think of the morning. Not now, with this fire of +impotent resentment burning in her, would she take out those memories +and look at them. Those were not thoughts to be dragged through the +litter of unbleached cotton cuttings. She worked on doggedly, +completed the tale of hot heavy little garments, gathered up the +pieces into the waste-paper basket and put away the roll.</p> + +<p>Not till the paint had been washed from her hands, and the crumbled +print dress exchanged for a quite respectable muslin did she +consciously allow the morning's memories to come out and meet her +eyes. Then she went down to the arbour where she had shelled peas only +that morning.</p> + +<p>"It seems years and years ago," she said. And sitting there, she +slowly and carefully went over everything. What he had said, what she +had said. There were some things she could not quite remember. But she +remembered enough. "Brother artists" were the words she said oftenest +to herself, but the words that sank themselves were, "young and +innocent and beautiful like—like—"</p> + +<p>"But he couldn't have meant me, of course," she told herself.</p> + +<p>And on Monday she would see him again,—and he would give her a +lesson!</p> + +<p>Sunday was incredibly wearisome. Her Sunday-school class had never +been so tiresome nor so soaked in hair-oil. In church she was shocked +to find herself watching, from her pew in the chancel, the entry of +late comers—of whom He was not one. No afternoon had ever been half +so long. She wrote up her diary. Thursday and Friday were quickly +chronicled. At "Saturday" she paused long, pen in hand, and then wrote +very quickly: "I went out sketching and met a gentleman, an artist. He +was very kind and is going to teach me to paint and he is going to +paint my portrait. I do not like him particularly. He is rather old, +and not really good-looking. I shall not tell father, because he is +simply hateful to me. I am going to meet this artist at 6 to-morrow. +It will be dreadful having to get up so early. I almost wish I hadn't +said I would go. It will be such a bother."</p> + +<p>Then she hid the diary in a drawer, under her confirmation dress and +veil, and locked the drawer carefully.</p> + +<p>He was not at church in the evening either. He had thought of it, but +decided that it was too much trouble to get into decent clothes.</p> + +<p>"I shall see her soon enough," he thought, "curse my impulsive +generosity! Six o'clock, forsooth, and all to please a clergyman's +daughter."</p> + +<p>She came back from church with tired steps.</p> + +<p>"I do hope I'm not going to be ill," she said. "I feel so odd, just as +if I hadn't had anything to eat for days,—and yet I'm not a bit +hungry either. I daresay I shan't wake up in time to get there by +six."</p> + +<p>She was awake before five.</p> + +<p>She woke with a flutter of the heart. What was it? Had anything +happened? Was anyone ill? Then she recognized that she was not +unhappy. And she felt more than ever as though it were days since she +had had anything to eat.</p> + +<p>"Oh, dear," said Betty, jumping out of bed. "I'm going out, to meet +Him, and have a drawing-lesson!"</p> + +<p>She dressed quickly. It was too soon to start. Not for anything must +she be first at the rendezvous, even though it were only for a +drawing-lesson. That "only" pulled her up sharply.</p> + +<p>When she was dressed she dug out the diary and wrote:</p> +<blockquote> +<p> "This is terrible. Is it possible that I have fallen in love with + him? I don't know. 'Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?' + It is a most frightful tragedy to happen to one, and at my age too. + What a long life of loneliness stretches in front of me! For of + course he could never care for me. And if this <i>is</i> love—well, it + will be once and forever with me, I know.</p> + +<p> "That's my nature, I'm afraid. But I'm not,—I can't be. But I never + felt so unlike myself. I feel a sort of calm exultation, as if + something very wonderful was very near me. Dear Diary, what a + comfort it is to have you to tell everything to!"</p> +</blockquote> +<p>It seemed to her that she must certainly be late. She had to creep +down the front stairs so very slowly and softly in order that she +might not awaken her step-father. She had so carefully and silently to +unfasten a window and creep out, to close the window again, without +noise, lest the maids should hear and come running to see why their +young mistress was out of her bed at that hour. She had to go on +tiptoe through the shrubbery and out through the church yard. One +could climb its wall, and get into the Park that way, so as not to +meet labourers on the road who would stare to see her alone so early +and perhaps follow her.</p> + +<p>Once in the park she was safe. Her shoes and her skirts were wet with +dew. She made haste. She did not want to keep him waiting.</p> + +<p>But she was first at the rendezvous, after all.</p> + +<p>She sat down on the carpet of pine needles. How pretty the early +morning was. The sunlight was quite different from the evening +sunlight, so much lighter and brighter. And the shadows were +different. She tried to settle on a point of view for her sketch, the +sketch he was to help her with.</p> + +<p>Her thoughts went back to what she had written in her diary. If that +<i>should</i> be true she must be very, very careful. He must never guess +it, never. She would be very cold and distant and polite. Not +hail-fellow well-met with a "brother artist," like she had been +yesterday. It was all very difficult indeed. Even if it really did +turn out to be true, if the wonderful thing had happened to her, if +she really was in love she would not try a bit to make him like her. +That would be forward and "horrid." She would never try to attract any +man. Those things must come of themselves or not at all.</p> + +<p>She arranged her skirt in more effective folds, and wondered how it +would look as one came up the woodland path. She thought it would look +rather picturesque. It was a nice heliotrope colour. It would look +like a giant Parma violet against the dark green background. She hoped +her hair was tidy. And that her hat was not very crooked. However +little one desires to attract, one may at least wish one's hat to be +straight.</p> + +<p>She looked for the twentieth time at her watch, the serviceable silver +watch that had been her mother's. Half-past six, and he had not come.</p> + +<p>Well, when he did come she would pretend she had only just got there. +Or how would it be if she gave up being a Parma violet and went a +little way down the path and then turned back when she heard him +coming? She walked away a dozen yards and stood waiting. But he did +not come. Was it possible that he was not coming? Was he ill—lying +uncared for at the Peal of Bells in the village, with no one to smooth +his pillow or put eau-de-cologne on his head?</p> + +<p>She walked a hundred yards or so towards the village on the spur of +this thought.</p> + +<p>Or perhaps he had come by another way to the trysting place? That +thought drove her back. He was not there.</p> + +<p>Well, she would not stay any longer. She would just go away, and come +back ever so much later, and let him have a taste of waiting. She had +had her share, she told herself, as she almost ran from the spot. She +stopped suddenly. But suppose he did <i>not</i> wait? She went slowly back.</p> + +<p>She sat down again, schooled herself to patience.</p> + +<p>What an idiot she had been! Like any school-girl. Of course he had +never meant to come. Why should he? That page in her diary called out +to her to come home and burn it. Care for him indeed! Not she! Why she +hadn't exchanged ten words with the man!</p> + +<p>"But I knew it was all nonsense when I wrote it," she said. "I only +just put it down to see what it would look like."</p> + +<hr> + +<p>Mr. Eustace Vernon roused himself, and yawned.</p> + +<p>"It's got to be done, I suppose. Buck up,—you'll feel better after +your bath! Jove! Seven o'clock. Will she have waited? She's a keen +player if she has. It's just worth trying, I suppose."</p> + +<p>The church clock struck the half-hour as he turned into the wood. +Something palely violet came towards him.</p> + +<p>"So you <i>are</i> here," he said. "Where's the pink frock?"</p> + +<p>"It's—it's going to the wash," said a stiff and stifled voice. "I'm +sorry I couldn't get here at six. I hope you didn't wait long?"</p> + +<p>"Not very long," he said, smiling; "but—Great Heavens, what on earth +is the matter?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing," she said.</p> + +<p>"But you've been—you are—"</p> + +<p>"I'm not," she said defiantly,—"besides, I've got neuralgia. It +always makes me look like that."</p> + +<p>"My Aunt!" he thought. "Then she <i>was</i> here at six and—she's been +crying because I wasn't and—oh, where are we?" "I'm so sorry you've +got neuralgia," he said gently, "but I'm awfully glad you didn't get +here at six. Because my watch was wrong and I've only just got here, +and I should never have forgiven myself if you'd waited for me a +single minute. Is the neuralgia better now?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, smiling faintly, "much better. It was rather sharp +while it lasted, though."</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said, "I see it was. I am so glad you did come. But I was so +certain you wouldn't that I didn't bring any of my traps. So we can't +begin the picture to-day. Will you start a sketch, or is your +neuralgia too bad?"</p> + +<p>He knew it would be: and it was.</p> + +<p>So they merely sat on the pine carpet and talked till it was time for +her to go back to the late Rectory breakfast. They told each other +their names that day. Betty talked very carefully. It was most +important that he should think well of her. Her manner had changed, as +she had promised herself it should do if she found she cared for him. +Now she was with him she knew, of course, that she did not care at +all. What had made her so wretched—no, so angry that she had actually +cried, was simply the idea that she had been made a fool of. That she +had kept the tryst and he hadn't. Now he had come she was quite calm. +She did not care in the least.</p> + +<p>He was saying to himself: "I'm not often wrong, but I was off the line +yesterday. All that doesn't count. We take a fresh deal and start +fair. She doesn't know the game, <i>mais elle a des moyens</i>. She's never +played the game before. And she cried because I didn't turn up. And so +I'm the first—think of it, if you please—absolutely the first one! +Well: it doesn't detract from the interest of the game. It's quite a +different game and requires more skill. But not more than I have, +perhaps."</p> + +<p>They parted with another tryst set for the next morning. The brother +artist note had been skilfully kept vibrating.</p> + +<p>Betty was sure that she should never have any feeling for him but mere +friendliness. She was glad of that. It must be dreadful to be really +in love. So unsettling.</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER III.</p> + +<p> +VOLUNTARY.</p> + +<p>Mr. Eustace Vernon is not by any error to be imagined as a villain of +the deepest dye, coldly planning to bring misery to a simple village +maiden for his own selfish pleasure. Not at all. As he himself would +have put it, he meant no harm to the girl. He was a master of two +arts, and to these he had devoted himself wholly. One was the art of +painting. But one cannot paint for all the hours there are. In the +intervals of painting Vernon always sought to exercise his other art. +One is limited, of course, by the possibilities, but he liked to have +always at least one love affair on hand. And just now there were +none—none at least possessing the one charm that irresistibly drew +him—newness. The one or two affairs that dragged on merely meant +letter writing, and he hated writing letters almost as much as he +hated reading them.</p> + +<p>The country had been unfortunately barren of interest until his eyes +fell on that sketching figure in the pink dress. For he respected one +of his arts no less than the other, and would as soon have thought of +painting a vulgar picture as of undertaking a vulgar love-affair. He +was no pavement artist. Nor did he degrade his art by caricatures drawn +in hotel bars. Dairy maids did not delight him, and the mood was rare +with him in which one finds anything to say to a little milliner. He +wanted the means, not the end, and was at one with the unknown sage +who said: "The love of pleasure spoils the pleasure of love."</p> + +<p>There is a gift, less rare than is supposed, of wiping the slate clean +of memories, and beginning all over again: a certain virginity of soul +that makes each new kiss the first kiss, each new love the only love. +This gift was Vernon's, and he had cultivated it so earnestly, so +delicately, that except in certain moods when he lost his temper, and +with it his control of his impulses, he was able to bring even to a +conservatory flirtation something of the fresh emotion of a schoolboy +in love.</p> + +<p>Betty's awkwardnesses, which he took for advances, had chilled him a +little, though less than they would have done had not one of the +evil-tempered moods been on him.</p> + +<p>He had dreaded lest the affair should advance too quickly. His own +taste was for the first steps in an affair of the heart, the delicate +doubts, the planned misunderstandings. He did not question his own +ability to conduct the affair capably from start to finish, but he +hated to skip the dainty preliminaries. He had feared that with Betty +he should have to skip them, for he knew that it is only in their +first love affairs that women have the patience to watch the flower +unfold itself. He himself was of infinite patience in that pastime. He +bit his lip and struck with his cane at the buttercup heads. He had +made a wretched beginning, with his "good and sweet." his "young and +innocent and beautiful like—like." If the girl had been a shade less +innocent the whole business would have been muffed—muffed hopelessly.</p> + +<p>To-morrow he would be there early. A ship of promise should be—not +launched—that was weeks away. The first timbers should be felled to +build a ship to carry him, and her too, of course, a little way +towards the enchanted islands.</p> + +<p>He knew the sea well, and it would be pleasant to steer on it one to +whom it was all new—all, all.</p> + +<p>"Dear little girl," he said, "I don't suppose she has ever even +thought of love."</p> + +<p>He was not in love with her, but he meant to be. He carefully thought +of her all that day, of her hair, her eyes, her hands; her hands were +really beautiful—small, dimpled and well-shaped—not the hands he +loved best, those were long and very slender,—but still beautiful. +And before he went to bed he wrote a little poem, to encourage himself:</p> + +<center> +<table summary="poem"> +<tr><td> + +<p> Yes. I have loved before; I know<br> + This longing that invades my days,<br> + This shape that haunts life's busy ways<br> + I know since long and long ago.</p><br> +<br> +<p> This starry mystery of delight<br> + That floats across my eager eyes,<br> + This pain that makes earth Paradise,<br> + These magic songs of day and night,</p><br> +<br> +<p> I know them for the things they are:<br> + A passing pain, a longing fleet,<br> + A shape that soon I shall not meet,<br> + A fading dream of veil and star.</p><br> +<br> +<p> Yet, even as my lips proclaim<br> + The wisdom that the years have lent,<br> + Your absence is joy's banishment<br> + And life's one music is your name.</p><br> +<br> +<p> I love you to the heart's hid core:<br> + Those other loves? How can one learn<br> + From marshlights how the great fires burn?<br> + Ah, no—I never loved before!</p><br> + + </td></tr> +</table> +</center> + +<p>When he read it through he entitled it, "The Veil of Maya," so that it +might pretend to have no personal application.</p> + +<p>After that more than ever rankled the memory of that first morning.</p> + +<p>"How could I?" he asked himself. "I must indeed have been in a gross +mood. One seems sometimes to act outside oneself altogether. Temporary +possession by some brutal ancestor perhaps. Well, it's not too late."</p> + +<p>Next morning he worked at his picture, in the rabbit-warren, but his +head found itself turning towards the way by which on that first day +she had gone. She must know that on a day like this he would not be +wasting the light,—that he would be working. She would be wanting to +see him again. Would she come out? He wished she would. But he hoped +she wouldn't. It would have meant another readjustment of ideas. He +need not have been anxious. She did not come.</p> + +<p>He worked steadily, masterfully. He always worked best at the +beginning of a love affair. All of him seemed somehow more alive, more +awake, more alert and competent. His mood was growing quickly to what +he meant it to be. He was what actors call a quick study. Soon he +would be able to play perfectly, without so much as a thought to the +"book," the part of Paul to this child's Virginia.</p> + +<p>Had Virginia, he wondered, any relations besides the step-father whom +she so light-heartedly consented to hoodwink? Relations who might +interfere and pray and meddle and spoil things?</p> + +<p>However ashamed we may be of our relations they cannot forever be +concealed. It must be owned that Betty was not the lonely orphan she +sometimes pretended to herself to be. She had aunts—an accident that +may happen to the best of us.</p> + +<p>A year or two before Betty was born, a certain youth of good birth +left Harrow and went to Ealing where he was received in a family in +the capacity of Crammer's pup. The family was the Crammer and his +daughter, a hard-headed, tight-mouthed, black-haired young woman who +knew exactly what she wanted, and who meant to get it. Poverty had +taught her to know what she wanted. Nature, and the folly of +youth—not her own youth—taught her how to get it. There were several +pups. She selected the most eligible, secretly married him, and to the +day of her death spoke and thought of the marriage as a love-match. He +was a dreamy youth, who wrote verses and called the Crammer's daughter +his Egeria. She was too clever not to be kind to him, and he adored +her and believed in her to the end, which came before his twenty-first +birthday. He broke his neck out hunting, and died before Betty was +born.</p> + +<p>His people, exasperated at the news of the marriage, threatened to try +to invalidate it on the score of the false swearing that had been +needed to get the boy of nineteen married to the woman of twenty-four. +Egeria was frightened. She compromised for an annuity of two hundred +pounds, to be continued to her child.</p> + +<p>The passion of this woman's life was power. One cannot be very +powerful with just two hundred a year, and a doubtful position as the +widow of a boy whose relations are prepared to dispute one's marriage. +Mrs. Desmond spent three years in thought, and in caring severely for +the wants of her child. Then she bought four handsome dresses, and +some impressive bonnets, went to a Hydropathic Establishment, and +looked about her. Of the eligible men there Mr. Cecil Underwood +seemed, on enquiry, to be the most eligible. So she married him. He +resisted but little, for his parish needed a clergywoman sadly. The +two hundred pounds was a welcome addition to an income depleted by the +purchase of rare editions, and at the moment crippled by his recent +acquisition of the Omiliac of Vincentius in its original oak boards +and leather strings; and, above all, he saw in the three-year-old +Betty the child he might have had if things had gone otherwise with +him and another when they both were young.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Desmond had felt certain she could rule a parish. Mrs. Cecil +Underwood did rule it—as she had known she could. She ruled her +husband too. And Betty. When she caught cold from working all day +among damp evergreens for the Christmas decorations, and, developing +pneumonia, died, she died resentfully, thanking God that she had +always done her duty, and quite unable to imagine how the world would +go on without her. She felt almost sure that in cutting short her +career of usefulness her Creator was guilty of an error of judgment +which He would sooner or later find reason to regret.</p> + +<p>Her husband mourned her. He had the habit of her, of her strong +capable ways, the clockwork precision of her household and parish +arrangements. But as time went on he saw that perhaps he was more +comfortable without her: as a reformed drunkard sees that it is better +not to rely on brandy for one's courage. He saw it, but of course he +never owned it to himself.</p> + +<p>Betty was heart-broken, quite sincerely heart-broken. She forgot all +the mother's hard tyrannies, her cramping rules, her narrow bitter +creed, and remembered only the calm competence, amounting to genius, +with which her mother had ruled the village world, her unflagging +energy and patience, and her rare moments of tenderness. She +remembered too all her own lapses from filial duty, and those memories +were not comfortable.</p> + +<p>Yet Betty too, when the self-tormenting remorseful stage had worn +itself out, found life fuller, freer without her mother. Her +step-father she hated—had always hated. But he could be avoided. She +went to a boarding-school at Torquay, and some of her holidays were +spent with her aunts, the sisters of the boy-father who had not lived +to see Betty.</p> + +<p>She adored the aunts. They lived in a world of which her village world +did not so much as dream; they spoke of things which folks at home +neither knew of nor cared for; and they spoke a language that was not +spoken at Long Barton. Of course, everyone who was anyone at Long +Barton spoke in careful and correct English, but no one ever troubled +to turn a phrase. And irony would have been considered very bad form +indeed. Aunt Nina wore lovely clothes and powdered her still pretty +face; Aunt Julia smoked cigarettes and used words that ladies at Long +Barton did not use. Betty was proud of them both.</p> + +<p>It was Aunt Nina who taught Betty how to spend her allowance, how to +buy pretty things, and, better still, tried to teach her how to wear +them. Aunt Julia it was who brought her the Indian necklaces, and +promised to take her to Italy some day if she was good. Aunt Nina +lived in Grosvenor Square and Aunt Julia's address was most often, +vaguely, the Continent of Europe. Sometimes a letter addressed to some +odd place in Asia or America would find her.</p> + +<p>But when Betty had left school her visits to Aunt Nina ceased. Mr. +Underwood feared that she was now of an age to be influenced by +trifles, and that London society would make her frivolous. Besides he +had missed her horribly, all through her school-days, though he had +yielded to the insistence of the aunts. But he had wanted Betty badly. +Only of course it never occurred to him to tell her so.</p> + +<p>So Betty had lived on at the Rectory carrying on, with more or less of +success, such of her Mother's Parish workings as had managed to +outlive their author, and writing to the aunts to tell them how bored +she was and how she hated to be called "Lizzie."</p> + +<p>She could not be expected to know that her stepfather had known as +"Lizzie" the girl who, if Fate had been kind, would have been his wife +or the mother of his child. Betty's letters breathed contempt of +Parish matters, weariness of the dulness of the country, and +exasperation at the hardness of a lot where "nothing ever happened."</p> + +<p>Well, something had happened now.</p> + +<p>The tremendous nature of the secret she was keeping against the world +almost took Betty's breath away. It was to the adventure, far more +than to the man, that her heart's beat quickened. Something had +happened.</p> + +<p>Long Barton was no longer the dullest place in the world. It was the +centre of the universe. See her diary, an entry following a gap where +a page had been torn out:</p> + +<p>"Mr. V. is very kind. He is teaching me to sketch. He says I shall do +very well when I have forgotten what I learned at school. It is so +nice of him to be so straightforward. I hate flattery. He has begun my +portrait. It is beautiful, but he says it is exactly like me. Of +course it is his painting that makes it beautiful, and not anything to +do with me. That is not flattery. I do not think he could say anything +unless he really thought it. He is that sort of man, I think. I am so +glad he is so good. If he were a different sort of person perhaps it +would not be quite nice for me to go and meet him without any one +knowing. But there is nothing <i>of that sort</i>. He was quite different +the first day. But I think then he was off his guard and could not +help himself. I don't know quite what I meant by that. But, anyway, I +am sure he is as good as gold, and that is such a comfort. I revere +him. I believe he is really noble and unselfish, and so few men are, +alas!"</p> + +<p>The noble and unselfish Vernon meanwhile was quite happy. His picture +was going splendidly, and every morning he woke to the knowledge that +his image filled all the thoughts of a good little girl with gray dark +charming eyes and a face that reminded one of a pretty kitten. Her +drawing was not half bad either. He was spared the mortifying labour +of trying to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. In one of his arts +as in the other he decided that she had talent. And it was pleasant +that to him should have fallen the task of teacher in both +departments. Those who hunt the fox will tell you that Reynard enjoys, +equally with the hounds and their masters, the pleasures of the chase. +Vernon was quite of this opinion in regard to his favourite sport. He +really felt that he gave as much pleasure as he took. And his own +forgettings were so easy that the easy forgetting of others seemed a +foregone conclusion. His forgetting always came first, that was all. +But now, the Spring, her charm and his own firm <i>parti pris</i> working +together, it seemed to him that he could never forget Betty, could +never wish to forget her.</p> + +<p>Her pretty conscious dignity charmed him. He stood still to look at +it. He took no step forward. His role was that of the deeply +respectful "brother artist." If his hand touched hers as he corrected +her drawing, that was accident. If, as he leaned over her, criticising +her work, the wind sent the end of her hair against his ear, that +could hardly be avoided in a breezy English spring. It was not his +fault that the little thrill it gave him was intensified a +hundred-fold when, glancing at her, he perceived that her own ears had +grown scarlet.</p> + +<p>Betty went through her days in a dream. There were all the duties she +hated—the Mothers' meetings, the Parish visits when she tried to +adjust the quarrels and calm the jealousies of the stout aggressive +Mothers, the carrying round the Parish Magazine. There were no long +hours, now. In every spare moment she worked at her drawing to please +him. It was the least she could do, after all his kindness.</p> + +<p>Her step-father surprised her once hard at work with charcoal and +board and plumb-line, a house-maid posing for her with a broom. He +congratulated himself that his little sermon on the advantages of +occupation as a cure for discontent had borne fruit so speedy and so +sound.</p> + +<p>"Dear child, she only wanted a word in season," he thought. And he +said:</p> + +<p>"I am glad to see that you have put away vain dreams, Lizzie. And your +labours will not be thrown away, either. If you go on taking pains I +daresay you will be able to paint some nice blotting-books and screens +for the School Bazaar."</p> + +<p>"I daresay," said Betty, adding between her teeth, "If you only knew!"</p> + +<p>"But we mustn't keep Letitia from her work," he added, vaguely +conscientious. Letitia flounced off, and Betty, his back turned, tore +up the drawing.</p> + +<p>And, as a beautiful background to the gross realism of Mothers' +meetings and Parish tiresomenesses, was always the atmosphere of the +golden mornings, the dew and the stillness, the gleam of his white +coat among the pine-trees. For he was always first at the tryst now.</p> + +<p>Betty was drunk; and she was too young to distinguish between +vintages. When she had been sober she had feared intoxication. Now she +was drunk, she thanked Heaven that she was sober.</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER IV.</p> + +<p> +INVOLUNTARY.</p> + +<p>Six days of sunlight and clear air, of mornings as enchanting as +dreams, of dreams as full of magic as May mornings. Then an +interminable Sunday hot and sultry, with rolling purple clouds and an +evening of thunder and heavy showers. A magenta sunset, a night +working, hidden in its own darkness, its own secret purposes, and a +Monday morning gray beyond belief, with a soft steady rain.</p> + +<p>Betty stood for full five minutes looking out at the straight fine +fall, at the white mist spread on the lawn, the blue mist twined round +the trees, listening to the plash of the drops that gathered and fell +from the big wet ivy leaves, to the guggle of the water-spout, the +hiss of smitten gravel.</p> + +<p>"He'll never go," she thought, and her heart sank.</p> + +<p>He, shaving, in the chill damp air by his open dimity-draped window, +was saying:</p> + +<p>"She'll be there, of course. Women are all perfectly insensible to +weather."</p> + +<p>Two mackintoshed figures met in the circle of pines.</p> + +<p>"You have come," he said. "I never dreamed you would. How cold your +hand is!"</p> + +<p>He held it for a moment warmly clasped.</p> + +<p>"I thought it might stop any minute," said Betty; "it seemed a pity to +waste a morning."</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said musingly, "it would be a pity to waste a morning. I +would not waste one of these mornings for a kingdom."</p> + +<p>Betty fumbled with her sketching things as a sort of guarantee of good +faith.</p> + +<p>"But it's too wet to work," said she. "I suppose I'd better go home +again."</p> + +<p>"That seems a dull idea—for me," he said; "it's very selfish, of +course, but I'm rather sad this morning. Won't you stay a little and +cheer me up?"</p> + +<p>Betty asked nothing better. But even to her a tete-a-tete in a wood, +with rain pattering and splashing on leaves and path and resonant +mackintoshes, seemed to demand some excuse.</p> + +<p>"I should think breakfast and being dry would cheer you up better than +anything," said she. "And it's very wet here."</p> + +<p>"Hang breakfast! But you're right about the wetness. There's a shed in +the field yonder. A harrow and a plough live there; they're sure to be +at home on a day like this. Let's go and ask for their hospitality."</p> + +<p>"I hope they'll be nice to us," laughed Betty; "it's dreadful to go +where you're not wanted."</p> + +<p>"How do you know?" he asked, laughing too. "Come, give me your hand +and let's run for it."</p> + +<p>They ran, hand in hand, the wet mackintoshes flapping and slapping +about their knees, and drew up laughing and breathless in the dry +quiet of the shed. Vernon thought of Love and Mr. Lewisham, but it was +not the moment to say so.</p> + +<p>"See, they are quite pleased to see us," said he, "they don't say a +word against our sheltering here. The plough looks a bit glum, but +she'll grow to like us presently. As for harrow, look how he's smiling +welcome at you with all his teeth."</p> + +<p>"I'm glad he can't come forward to welcome us," said Betty. "His teeth +look very fierce."</p> + +<p>"He could, of course, only he's enchanted. He used to be able to move +about, but now he's condemned to sit still and only smile till—till +he sees two perfectly happy people. Are you perfectly happy?" he asked +anxiously.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," said Betty truly. "Are you?"</p> + +<p>"No—not quite perfectly."</p> + +<p>"I'm so glad," said Betty. "I shouldn't like the harrow to begin to +move while we're here. I'm sure it would bite us."</p> + +<p>He sighed and looked grave. "So you don't want me to be perfectly +happy?"</p> + +<p>She looked at him with her head on one side.</p> + +<p>"Not here," she said. "I can't trust that harrow."</p> + +<p>His eyelids narrowed over his eyes—then relaxed. No, she was merely +playing at enchanted harrows.</p> + +<p>"Are you cold still?" he asked, and reached for her hand. She gave it +frankly.</p> + +<p>"Not a bit," she said, and took it away again. "The run warmed me. In +fact—"</p> + +<p>She unbuttoned the mackintosh and spread it on the bar of the plough +and sat down. Her white dress lighted up the shadows of the shed. +Outside the rain fell steadily.</p> + +<p>"May I sit down too? Can Mrs. Plough find room for two children on her +lap?"</p> + +<p>She drew aside the folds of her dress, but even then only a little +space was left. The plough had been carelessly housed and nearly half +of it was where the rain drove in on it. So that they were very close +together.</p> + +<p>So close that he had to throw his head back to see clearly how the +rain had made the short hair curl round her forehead and ears, and how +fresh were the tints of face and lips. Also he had to support himself +by an arm stretched out behind her. His arm was not round her, but it +might just as well have been, as far as the look of the thing went. He +thought of the arm of Mr. Lewisham.</p> + +<p>"Did you ever have your fortune told?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"No, never. I've always wanted to, but Father hates gipsies. When I +was a little girl I used to put on my best clothes, and go out into +the lanes and sit about and hope the gipsies would steal me, but they +never did."</p> + +<p>"They're a degenerate race, blind to their own interests. But they +haven't a monopoly of chances—fortunately." His eyes were on her +face.</p> + +<p>"I never had my fortune told," said Betty. "I'd love it, but I think I +should be afraid, all the same. Something might come true."</p> + +<p>Vernon was more surprised than he had ever been in his life at the +sudden involuntary movement in his right arm. It cost him a conscious +effort not to let the arm follow its inclination and fall across her +slender shoulders, while he should say:</p> + +<p>"Your fortune is that I love you. Is it good or bad fortune?"</p> + +<p>He braced the muscles of his arm, and kept it where it was. That +sudden unreasonable impulse was a mortification, an insult to the man +whose pride it was to believe that his impulses were always planned.</p> + +<p>"I can tell fortunes," he said. "When I was a boy I spent a couple of +months with some gipsies. They taught me lots of things."</p> + +<p>His memory, excellently trained, did not allow itself to dwell for an +instant on his reason for following those gipsies, on the dark-eyed +black-haired girl with the skin like pale amber, who had taught him, +by the flicker of the camp-fire, the lines of head and heart and life, +and other things beside. Oh, but many other things! That was before he +became an artist. He was only an amateur in those days.</p> + +<p>"Did they teach you how to tell fortunes—really and truly?" asked +Betty. "We had a fortune-teller's tent at the School Bazaar last year, +and the youngest Smithson girl dressed up in spangles and a red dress +and said she was Zara, the Eastern Mystic Hand-Reader, and Foreteller +of the Future. But she got it all out of Napoleon's Book of Fate."</p> + +<p>"I don't get my fortune-telling out of anybody's book of anything," he +said. "I get it out of people's hands, and their faces. Some people's +faces are their fortunes, you know."</p> + +<p>"I know they are," she said a little sadly, "but everybody's got a +hand and a fortune, whether they've got that sort of fortune-face or +not."</p> + +<p>"But the fortunes of the fortune-faced people are the ones one likes +best to tell."</p> + +<p>"Of course," she admitted wistfully, "but what's going to happen to +you is just as interesting to <i>you</i>, even if your face isn't +interesting to anybody. Do you always tell fortunes quite truly; I +mean do you follow the real rules? or do you make up pretty fortunes +for the people with the pretty fortune-faces."</p> + +<p>"There's no need to 'make up.' The pretty fortunes are always there +for the pretty fortune-faces: unless of course the hand contradicts +the face."</p> + +<p>"But can it?"</p> + +<p>"Can't it? There may be a face that all the beautiful things in the +world are promised to: just by being so beautiful itself it draws +beautiful happenings to it. But if the hand contradicts the face, if +the hand is one of those narrow niggardly distrustful hands, one of +the hands that will give nothing and take nothing, a hand without +courage, without generosity—well then one might as well be born +without a fortune-face, for any good it will ever do one."</p> + +<p>"Then you don't care to tell fortunes for people who haven't fortune +faces?"</p> + +<p>"I should like to tell yours, if you would let me. Shall I?"</p> + +<p>He held out his hand, but her hand was withheld.</p> + +<p>"I ought to cross your hand with silver, oughtn't I?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"It's considered correct—but—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't let's neglect any proper precaution," she said. "I haven't +got any money. Tell it me to-morrow, and I will bring a sixpence."</p> + +<p>"You could cross my hand with your watch," he said, "and I could take +the crossing as an I.O.U. of the sixpence."</p> + +<p>She detached the old watch. He held out his hand and she gravely +traced a cross on it.</p> + +<p>"Now," he said, "all preliminary formalities being complied with, let +the prophet do his work. Give me your hand, pretty lady, and the old +gipsy will tell you your fortune true."</p> + +<p>He held the hand in his, bending back the pink finger-tips with his +thumb, and looked earnestly at its lines. Then he looked in her face, +longer than he had ever permitted himself to look. He looked till her +eyes fell. It was a charming picture. He was tall, strong, well-built +and quite as good-looking as a clever man has any need to be. And she +was as pretty as any oleograph of them all.</p> + +<p>It seemed a thousand pities that there should be no witness to such a +well-posed tableau, no audience to such a charming scene. The pity of +it struck Destiny, and Destiny flashed the white of Betty's dress, a +shrill point of light, into an eye a hundred yards away. The eye's +owner, with true rustic finesse, drew back into the wood's shadow, +shaded one eye with a brown rustic hand, looked again, and began a +detour which landed the rustic boots, all silently, behind the shed, +at a spot where a knot-hole served as frame for the little picture. +The rustic eye was fitted to the knot-hole while Vernon holding +Betty's hand gazed in Betty's face, and decided that this was no time +to analyse his sensations.</p> + +<p>Neither heard the furtive rustic tread, or noted the gleam of the pale +rustic eye.</p> + +<p>The labourer shook his head as he hurried quickly away. He had +daughters of his own, and the Rector had been kind when one of those +daughters had suddenly come home from service, ill, and with no +prospect of another place.</p> + +<p>"A-holdin' of hands and a-castin' of sheep's eyes," said he. "We knows +what that's the beginnings of! Well, well, youth's the season for +silliness, but there's bounds—there's bounds. And all of a mornin' so +early too. Lord above knows what it wouldn't be like of a evenin'." He +shook his head again, and made haste.</p> + +<p>Vernon had forced his eyes to leave the face of Betty.</p> + +<p>"Your fortune," he was saying, "is, curiously enough, just one of +those fortunes I was speaking of. You will have great chances of +happiness, if you have the courage to take them. You will cross the +sea. You've never travelled, have you?"</p> + +<p>"No,—never further than Torquay; I was at school there, you know; and +London, of course. But I should love it. Isn't it horrid to think that +one might grow quite old and never have been anywhere or done +anything?"</p> + +<p>"That depends on oneself, doesn't it? Adventures are to the +adventurous."</p> + +<p>"Yes, that's all very well—girls can't be adventurous."</p> + +<p>"Yes,—it's the Prince who sets out to seek his fortune, isn't it? The +Princess has to sit at home and wait for hers to come to her. It +generally does if she's a real Princess."</p> + +<p>"But half the fun must be the seeking for it," said Betty.</p> + +<p>"You're right," said he, "it is."</p> + +<p>The labourer had reached the park-gate. His pace had quickened to the +quickening remembrance of his own daughter, sitting at home silent and +sullen.</p> + +<p>"Do you really see it in my hand?" asked Betty,—"about my crossing +the sea, I mean."</p> + +<p>"It's there; but it depends on yourself, like everything else."</p> + +<p>"I did ask my step-father to let me go," she said, "after that first +day, you know, when you said I ought to study in Paris."</p> + +<p>"And he wouldn't, of course?"</p> + +<p>"No; he said Paris was a wicked place. It isn't really, is it?"</p> + +<p>"Every place is wicked," said he, "and every place is good. It's all +as one takes things."</p> + +<p>The Rectory gate clicked sharply as it swung to behind the labourer. +The Rectory gravel scrunched beneath the labourer's boots.</p> + +<p>Yes, the Master was up; he could be seen.</p> + +<p>The heavy boots were being rubbed against the birch broom that, rooted +at Kentish back doors, stands to receive on its purple twigs the +scrapings of Kentish clay from rustic feet.</p> + +<p>"You have the artistic lines very strongly marked," Vernon was saying. +"One, two, three—yes, painting—music perhaps?"</p> + +<p>"I am very fond of music," said Betty, thinking of the hour's daily +struggle with the Mikado and the Moonlight Sonata. "But three arts. +What could the third one be?" Her thoughts played for an instant with +unheard-of triumphs achieved behind footlights—rapturous applause, +showers of bouquets.</p> + +<p>"Whatever it is, you've enormous talent for it," he said; "you'll find +out what it is in good time. Perhaps it'll be something much more +important than the other two put together, and perhaps you've got even +more talent for it than you have for others."</p> + +<p>"But there isn't any other talent that I can think of."</p> + +<p>"I can think of a few. There's the stage,—but it's not that, I fancy, +or not exactly that. There's literature—confess now, don't you write +poetry sometimes when you're all alone at night? Then there's the art +of being amusing, and the art of being—of being liked."</p> + +<p>"Shall I be successful in any of the arts?"</p> + +<p>"In one, certainly."</p> + +<p>"Ah," said Betty, "if I could only go to Paris!"</p> + +<p>"It's not always necessary to go to Paris for success in one's art," +he said.</p> + +<p>"But I want to go. I'm sure I could do better there."</p> + +<p>"Aren't you satisfied with your present Master?"</p> + +<p>"Oh!"—It was a cry of genuine distress, of heartfelt disclaim. "You +<i>know</i> I didn't mean that! But you won't always be here, and when +you've gone—why then—"</p> + +<p>Again he had to control the involuntary movement of his left arm.</p> + +<p>"But I'm not going for months yet. Don't let us cross a bridge till we +come to it. Your head-line promises all sorts of wonderful things. And +your heart-line—" he turned her hand more fully to the light.</p> + +<p>In the Rector's study the labourer was speaking, standing shufflingly +on the margin of the Turkey carpet. The Rector listened, his hand on +an open folio where fat infants peered through the ornamental +initials.</p> + +<p>"And so I come straight up to you, Sir, me being a father and you the +same, Sir, for all the difference betwixt our ways in life. Says I to +myself, says I, and bitter hard I feels it too, I says: 'George,' says +I, 'you've got a daughter as begun that way, not a doubt of +it—holdin' of hands and sittin' close alongside, and you know what's +come to her!'"</p> + +<p>The Rector shivered at the implication.</p> + +<p>"Then I says, says I: 'Like as not the Rector won't thank you for +interferin'. Least said soonest mended,' says I."</p> + +<p>"I'm very much obliged to you," said the Rector difficultly, and his +hand shook on Ambrosius's yellow page.</p> + +<p>"You see, Sir," the man's tone held all that deferent apology that +truth telling demands, "gells is gells, be they never so up in the +world, all the world over, bless their hearts; and young men is young +men, d—n them, asking your pardon, Sir, I'm sure, but the word +slipped out. And I shouldn't ha' been easy if anything had have gone +wrong with Miss, God bless her, all along of the want of a word in +season. Asking your pardon, Sir, but even young ladies is flesh and +blood, when it comes to the point. Ain't they now?" he ended +appealingly.</p> + +<p>The Rector spoke with an obvious effort, got his hand off the page and +closed the folio.</p> + +<p>"You've done quite right, George," he said, "and I'm greatly obliged +to you. Only I do ask you to keep this to yourself. You wouldn't have +liked it if people had heard a thing like that about your Ruby +before—I mean when she was at home."</p> + +<p>He replaced the two folios on the shelf.</p> + +<p>"Not me, Sir," George answered. "I'm mum, I do assure you, Sir. And if +I might make so bold, you just pop on your hat and step acrost +directly minute. There's that little hole back of the shed what I told +you of. You ain't only got to pop your reverend eye to that there, and +you'll see for yourself as I ain't give tongue for no dragged scent."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, George," said the Rector, "I will. Good morning. God bless +you."</p> + +<p>The formula came glibly, but it was from the lips only that it came.</p> + +<p>Lizzie—his white innocent Lily-girl! In a shed—a man, a stranger, +holding her hand, his arm around her, his eyes—his lips perhaps, +daring—</p> + +<p>The Rector was half way down his garden drive.</p> + +<p>"Your heart-line," Vernon was saying, "it's a little difficult. You +will be deeply beloved."</p> + +<p>To have one's fortune told is disquieting. To keep silence during the +telling deepens the disquiet curiously. It seemed good to Betty to +laugh.</p> + +<p>"Soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor," she said, "which am I going to +marry, kind gipsy?"</p> + +<p>"I don't believe the gipsies who say they can see marriage in a hand," +he answered gravely, and Betty feared he had thought her flippant, or +even vulgar; "what one sees are not the shadows of coming conventions. +One sees the great emotional events, the things that change and mould +and develop character. Yes, you will be greatly beloved, and you will +love deeply."</p> + +<p>"I'm not to be happy in my affairs of the heart then." Still a careful +flippancy seemed best to Betty.</p> + +<p>"Did I say so? Do you really think that there are no happy love +affairs but those that end in a wedding breakfast and bridesmaids, +with a Bazaar show of hideous silver and still more hideous crockery, +and all one's relations assembled to dissect one's most sacred +secrets?"</p> + +<p>Betty had thought so, but it seemed coarse to own it.</p> + +<p>"Can't you imagine," he went on dreamily, "a love affair so perfect +that it could not but lose its finest fragrance if the world were +called to watch the plucking of love's flower? Can't you imagine a +love so great, so deep, so tender, so absolutely possessing the whole +life of the lover that he would almost grudge any manifestation of it? +Because such a manifestation must necessarily be a repetition of some +of the ways in which unworthy loves have been manifested, by less +happy lovers? I can seem to see that one might love the one love of a +life-time, and be content to hold the treasure in one's heart, a +treasure such as no other man ever had, and grudge even a word or a +look that might make it less the single perfect rose of the world."</p> + +<p>"Oh, dear!" said Betty to herself.</p> + +<p>"But I'm talking like a book," he said, and laughed. "I always get +dreamy and absurd when I tell fortunes. Anyway, as I said before, you +will be greatly beloved. Indeed, unless your hand is very untruthful, +which I'm sure it never could be, you are beloved now, far more than +you can possibly guess."</p> + +<p>Betty caught at her flippancy but it evaded her, and all she found to +say was, "Oh," and her eyes fell.</p> + +<p>There was a silence. Vernon still held her hand, but he was no longer +looking at it.</p> + +<p>A black figure darkened the daylight.</p> + +<p>The two on the plough started up—started apart. Nothing more was +wanted to convince the Rector of all that he least wished to believe.</p> + +<p>"Go home, Lizzie," he said, "go to your room," and to her his face +looked the face of a fiend. It is hard to control the muscles under a +sudden emotion compounded of sorrow, sympathy and an immeasurable +pity. "Go to your room and stay there till I send for you."</p> + +<p>Betty went, like a beaten dog.</p> + +<p>The Rector turned to the young man.</p> + +<p>"Now, Sir," he said.</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER V.</p> + +<p> +THE PRISONER.</p> + +<p>When Vernon looked back on that interview he was honestly pleased with +himself. He had been patient, he had been kind even. In the end he had +been positively chivalrous. He had hardly allowed himself to be +ruffled for an instant, but had met the bitter flow of Mr. Underwood's +biblical language with perfect courtesy.</p> + +<p>He regretted, of course, deeply, this unfortunate misunderstanding. +Accident had made him acquainted with Miss Desmond's talent, he had +merely offered her a little of that help which between brother +artists—The well-worn phrase had not for the Rector the charm it had +had for Betty.</p> + +<p>The Rector spoke again, and Mr. Vernon listened, bare-headed, in +deepest deference.</p> + +<p>No, he had not been holding Miss Desmond's hand—he had merely been +telling her fortune. No one could regret more profoundly than he,—and +so on. He was much wounded by Mr. Underwood's unworthy suspicions.</p> + +<p>The Rector ran through a few texts. His pulpit denunciations of +iniquity, though always earnest, had lacked this eloquence.</p> + +<p>Vernon listened quietly.</p> + +<p>"I can only express my regret that my thoughtlessness should have +annoyed you, and beg you not to blame Miss Desmond. It was perhaps a +little unconventional, but—"</p> + +<p>"Unconventional—to try to ruin—"</p> + +<p>Mr. Vernon held up his hand: he was genuinely shocked.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me," he said, "but I can't hear such words in connection +with—with a lady for whom I have the deepest respect. You are heated +now, Sir, and I can make every allowance for your natural vexation. +But I must ask you not to overstep the bounds of decency."</p> + +<p>The Rector bit his lip, and Vernon went on:</p> + +<p>"I have listened to your abuse—yes, your abuse—without defending +myself, but I can't allow anyone, even her father, to say a word +against her."</p> + +<p>"I am not her father," said the old man bitterly. And on the instant +Vernon understood him as Betty had never done. The young man's tone +changed instantly.</p> + +<p>"Look here," he said, and his face grew almost boyish, "I am really +most awfully sorry. The whole thing—what there is of it, and it's +very little—was entirely my doing. It was inexcusably thoughtless. +Miss Desmond is very young and very innocent. It is I who ought to +have known better,—and perhaps I did. But the country is very dull, +and it was a real pleasure to teach so apt a pupil."</p> + +<p>He spoke eagerly, and the ring of truth was in his voice. But the +Rector felt that he was listening to the excuses of a serpent.</p> + +<p>"Then you'd have me believe that you don't even love her?"</p> + +<p>"No more than she does me," said Vernon very truly. "I've never +breathed a word of love to her," he went on; "such an idea never +entered our heads. She's a charming girl, and I admire her immensely, +but—" he sought hastily for a weapon, and defended Betty with the +first that came to hand, "I am already engaged to another lady. It is +entirely as an artist that I am interested in Miss Betty."</p> + +<p>"Serpent," said the Rector within himself, "Lying serpent!"</p> + +<p>Vernon was addressing himself silently in terms not more flattering. +"Fool, idiot, brute to let the child in for this!—for it's going to +be a hell of a time for her, anyhow. And as for me—well, the game is +up, absolutely up!"</p> + +<p>"I am really most awfully sorry," he said again.</p> + +<p>"I find it difficult to believe in the sincerity of your repentance," +said the Rector frowning.</p> + +<p>"My regret you may believe in," said Vernon stiffly. "There is no +ground for even the mention of such a word as repentance."</p> + +<p>"If your repentance is sincere"—he underlined the word—"you will +leave Long Barton to-day."</p> + +<p>Leave without a word, a sign from Betty—a word or a sign to her? It +might be best—if—</p> + +<p>"I will go, Sir, if you will let me have your assurance that you will +say nothing to Miss Desmond, that you won't make her unhappy, that +you'll let the whole matter drop."</p> + +<p>"I will make no bargains with you!" cried the Rector. "Do your worst! +Thank God I can defend her from you!"</p> + +<p>"She needs no defence. It's not I who am lacking in respect and +consideration for her," said Vernon a little hotly, "but, as I say, +I'll go—if you'll just promise to be gentle with her."</p> + +<p>"I do not need to be taught my duty by a villain, Sir!—" The old +clergyman was trembling with rage. "I wish to God I were a younger +man, that I might chastise you for the hound you are." His upraised +cane shook in his hand. "Words are thrown away on you! I'm sorry I +can't use the only arguments that can come home to a puppy!"</p> + +<p>"If you were a younger man," said Vernon slowly, "your words would not +have been thrown away on me. They would have had the answer they +deserved. I shall not leave Long Barton, and I shall see Miss Desmond +when and how I choose."</p> + +<p>"Long Barton shall know you in your true character, Sir, I promise +you."</p> + +<p>"So you would blacken her to blacken me? One sees how it is that she +does not love her father."</p> + +<p>He meant to be cruel, but it was not till he saw the green shadows +round the old man's lips that he knew just how cruel he had been. The +quivering old mouth opened and closed and opened, the cold eyes +gleamed. And the trembling hand in one nervous movement raised the +cane and struck the other man sharply across the face. It was a +hysterical blow, like a woman's, and with it the tears sprang to the +faded eyes.</p> + +<p>Then it was that Vernon behaved well. When he thought of it afterwards +he decided that he had behaved astonishingly well.</p> + +<p>With the smart of that cut stinging on his flesh, the mark of it +rising red and angry across his cheek, he stepped back a pace, and +without a word, without a retaliatory movement, without even a change +of facial expression he executed the most elaborately courteous bow, +as of one treading a minuet, recovered the upright and walked away +bareheaded. The old clergyman was left planted there, the cane still +jigging up and down in his shaking hand.</p> + +<p>"A little theatrical, perhaps," mused Vernon, when the cover of the +wood gave him leave to lay his fingers to his throbbing cheek, "but +nothing could have annoyed the old chap more."</p> + +<p>However effective it may be to turn the other cheek, the turning of it +does not cool one's passions, and he walked through the wood angrier +than he ever remembered being. But the cool rain dripping from the +hazel and sweet chestnut leaves fell pleasantly on his uncovered head +and flushed face. Before he was through the wood he was able to laugh, +and the laugh was a real laugh, if rather a rueful one. Vernon could +never keep angry very long.</p> + +<p>"Poor old devil!" he said. "He'll have to put a special clause in the +general confession next Sunday. Poor old devil! And poor little Betty! +And poorest me! Because, however, we look at it, and however we may +have damn well bluffed over it, the game <i>is</i> up—absolutely up."</p> + +<p>When one has a definite end in view—marriage, let us say, or an +elopement,—secret correspondences, the surmounting of garden walls, +the bribery of servants, are in the picture. But in a small sweet +idyll, with no backbone of intention to it, these things are +inartistic. And Vernon was, above and before all, an artist. He must +go away and he knew it. And his picture was not finished. Could he +possibly leave that incomplete? The thought pricked sharply. He had +not made much progress with the picture in these last days. It had +been pleasanter to work at the portrait of Betty. If he moved to the +next village? Yes, that must be thought over.</p> + +<p>He spent the day thinking of that and of other things.</p> + +<p>The Reverend Cecil Underwood stood where he was left till the man he +had struck had passed out of sight. Then the cane slipped through his +hand and fell rattling to the ground. He looked down at it curiously. +Then he reached out both hands vaguely and touched the shaft of the +plough. He felt his way along it, and sat down, where they had sat, +staring dully before him at the shadows in the shed, and at the steady +fall of the rain outside. Betty's mackintosh was lying on the floor. +He picked it up presently and smoothed out the creases. Then he +watched the rain again.</p> + +<p>An hour had passed before he got stiffly up and went home, with her +cloak on his arm.</p> + +<p>Yes, Miss Lizzie was in her room—had a headache. He sent up her +breakfast, arranging the food himself, and calling back the maid +because the tray lacked marmalade.</p> + +<p>Then he poured out his own tea, and sat stirring it till it was cold.</p> + +<p>She was in her room, waiting for him to send for her. He must send for +her. He must speak to her. But what could he say? What was there to +say that would not be a cruelty? What was there to ask that would not +be a challenge to her to lie, as the serpent had lied?</p> + +<p>"I am glad I struck him," the Reverend Cecil told himself again and +again; "<i>that</i> brought it home to him. He was quite cowed. He could do +nothing but bow and cringe away. Yes, I am glad."</p> + +<p>But the girl? The serpent had asked him to be gentle with her—had +dared to ask him. He could think of no way gentle enough for dealing +with this crisis. The habit of prayer caught him. He prayed for +guidance.</p> + +<p>Then quite suddenly he saw what to do.</p> + +<p>"That will be best," he said; "she will feel that less."</p> + +<p>He rang and ordered the fly from the Peal of Bells, went to his room +to change his old coat for a better one, since appearances must be +kept up, even if the heart be breaking. His thin hair was disordered, +and his tie, he noticed, was oddly crumpled, as though strange hands +had been busy with his throat. He put on a fresh tie, smoothed his +hair, and went down again. As he passed, he lingered a moment outside +her door.</p> + +<p>Betty watching with red eyes and swollen lips saw him enter the fly, +saw him give an order, heard the door bang. The old coachman clambered +clumsily to his place, and the carriage lumbered down the drive.</p> + +<p>"Oh, how cruel he is! He might have spoken to me <i>now</i>! I suppose he's +going to keep me waiting for days, as a penance. And I haven't really +done anything wrong. It's a shame! I've a good mind to run away!"</p> + +<p>Running away required consideration. In the meantime, since he was out +of the house, there was no reason why she should not go downstairs. +She was not a child to be kept to her room in disgrace. She bathed her +distorted face, powdered it, and tried to think that the servants, +should they see her, would notice nothing.</p> + +<p>Where had he gone? For no goal within his parish would a hired +carriage be needed. He had gone to Sevenoaks or to the station. +Perhaps he had gone to Westerham—there was a convent there, a +Protestant sisterhood. Perhaps he was going to make arrangements for +shutting her up there! Never!—Betty would die first. At least she +would run away first. But where could one run to?</p> + +<p>The aunts? Betty loved the aunts, but she distrusted their age. They +were too old to sympathise really with her. They would most likely +understand as little as her step-father had done. An Inward Monitor +told Betty that the story of the fortune-telling, of the seven stolen +meetings with no love-making in them, would sound very unconvincing to +any ears but those of the one person already convinced. But she would +not be shut up in a convent—no, not by fifty aunts and a hundred +step-fathers!</p> + +<p>She would go to Him. He would understand. He was the only person who +ever had understood. She would go straight to him and ask him what to +do. He would advise her. He was so clever, so good, so noble. Whatever +he advised would be <i>right</i>.</p> + +<p>Trembling and in a cold white rage of determination, Betty fastened on +her hat, found her gloves and purse. The mackintosh she remembered had +been left in the shed. She pictured her step-father trampling fiercely +upon it as he told Mr. Vernon what he thought of him. She took her +golf cape.</p> + +<p>At the last moment she hesitated. Mr. Vernon would not be idle. What +would he be doing? Suppose he should send a note? Suppose he had +watched Mr. Underwood drive away and should come boldly up and ask for +her? Was it wise to leave the house? But perhaps he would be hanging +about the church yard, or watching from the park for a glimpse of her. +She would at least go out and see.</p> + +<p>"I'll leave a farewell letter," she said, "in case I never come back."</p> + +<p>She found her little blotting-book—envelopes, but no paper. Of +course! One can't with dignity write cutting farewells on envelopes. +She tore a page from her diary.</p> + +<p>"You have driven me to this," she wrote. "I am going away, and in time +I shall try to forgive you all the petty meannesses and cruelties of +all these years. I know you always hated me, but you might have had +some pity. All my life I shall bear the marks on my soul of the bitter +tyranny I have endured here. Now I am going away out into the world, +and God knows what will become of me."</p> + +<p>She folded, enveloped, and addressed the note, stuck a long hat-pin +fiercely through it, and left it, patent, speared to her pin-cushion, +with her step-father's name uppermost.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye, little room," she said. "I feel I shall never see you +again."</p> + +<p>Slowly and sadly she crossed the room and turned the handle of the +door. The door was locked.</p> + +<p>Once, years ago, a happier man than the Reverend Cecil had been Rector +of Long Barton. And in the room that now was Betty's he had had iron +bars fixed to the two windows, because that room was the nursery.</p> + +<hr> + +<p>That evening, after dinner, Mr. Vernon sat at his parlour window +looking idly along the wet bowling-green to the belt of lilacs and the +pale gleams of watery sunset behind them. He had passed a disquieting +day. He hated to leave things unfinished. And now the idyll was ruined +and the picture threatened,—and Betty's portrait was not finished, +and never would be.</p> + +<p>"Come in," he said; and his landlady heavily followed up her tap on +his door.</p> + +<p>"A lady to see you, Sir," said she with a look that seemed to him to +be almost a wink.</p> + +<p>"A lady? To see me? Good Lord!" said Vernon. Among all the thoughts of +the day this was the one thought that had not come to him.</p> + +<p>"Shall I show her in?" the woman asked, and she eyed him curiously.</p> + +<p>"A lady," he repeated. "Did she give her name?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Sir. Miss Desmond, Sir. Shall I shew her in?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; shew her in, of course," he answered irritably.</p> + +<p>And to himself he said:</p> + +<p>"The Devil!"</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER VI.</p> + +<p> +THE CRIMINAL.</p> + +<p>If you have found yourself, at the age of eighteen, a prisoner in your +own bedroom you will be able to feel with Betty. Not otherwise. Even +your highly strung imagination will be impotent to present to you the +ecstasy of rage, terror, resentment that fills the soul when locked +door and barred windows say, quite quietly, but beyond appeal: "Here +you are, and here, my good child, you stay."</p> + +<p>All the little familiar objects, the intimate associations of the +furniture of a room that has been for years your boudoir as well as +your sleeping room, all the decorations that you fondly dreamed gave to +your room a <i>cachet</i>—the mark of a distinctive personality,—these +are of no more comfort to you than would be strange bare stone walls +and a close unfamiliar iron grating.</p> + +<p>Betty tried to shake the window bars, but they were immovable. She +tried to force the door open, but her silver buttonhook was an +insufficient lever, and her tooth-brush handle broke when she pitted +it in conflict against the heavy, old-fashioned lock. We have all read +how prisoners, outwitting their gaolers, have filed bars with their +pocket nail-scissors, and cut the locks out of old oak doors with the +small blade of a penknife. Betty's door was only of pine, but her +knife broke off short; and the file on her little scissors wore itself +smooth against the first unmoved bar.</p> + +<p>She paced the room like a caged lioness. We read that did the lioness +but know her strength her bars were easily shattered by one blow of +her powerful paw. Betty's little pink paws were not powerful like the +lioness's, and when she tried to make them help her, she broke her +nails and hurt herself.</p> + +<p>It was this moment that Letitia chose for rapping at the door.</p> + +<p>"You can't come in. What is it?" Betty was prompt to say.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Edwardes's Albert, Miss, come for the Maternity bag."</p> + +<p>"It's all ready in the school-room cupboard," Betty called through the +door. "Number three."</p> + +<p>She resisted an impulse to say that she had broken the key in the lock +and to send for the locksmith. No: there should be no scandal at Long +Barton,—at least not while she had to stay in it.</p> + +<p>She did not cry. She was sick with fury, and anger made her heart beat +as Vernon had never had power to make it.</p> + +<p>"I will be calm. I won't lose my head," she told herself again and +again. She drank some water. She made herself eat the neglected +breakfast. She got out her diary and wrote in it, in a handwriting +that was not Betty's, and with a hand that shook like totter-grass.</p> + +<p>"What will become of me? What has become of <i>him</i>? My step-father must +have done something horrible to him. Perhaps he has had him put in +prison; of course he couldn't do that in these modern times, like in +the French revolution, just for talking to some one he hadn't been +introduced to, but he may have done it for trespassing, or damage to +the crops, or something. I feel quite certain something has happened +to him. He would never have deserted me like this in my misery if he +were free. And I can do nothing to help him—nothing. How shall I live +through the day? How can I bear it? And this awful trouble has come +upon him just because he was kind to another artist. The world is +very, very, very cruel. I wish I were dead!" She blotted the words and +locked away the book. Then she burnt that farewell note and went and +sat in the window-seat to watch for her step-father's return.</p> + +<p>The time was long. At last he came. She saw him open the carriage door +and reach out a flat foot, feeling for the carriage step. He stepped +out, turned and thrust a hand back into the cab. Was he about to hand +out a stern-faced Protestant sister, who would take her to Westerham, +and she would never be heard of again? Betty set her teeth and waited +anxiously to see if the sister seemed strong. Betty was, and she would +fight for her liberty. With teeth and nails if need were.</p> + +<p>It was no Protestant sister to whom the Reverend Cecil had reached his +hand. It was only his umbrella. Betty breathed again.</p> + +<p>Well, now at least he'll come and speak to me: he must come himself; +even <i>he</i> couldn't give the key to the servants and say: "Please go +and unlock Miss Lizzie and bring her down!"</p> + +<p>Betty would not move. "I shall just stay here and pretend I didn't +know the door was locked," said she.</p> + +<p>But her impatience drove her back to the caged-lioness walk and when +at last she heard the key turn in the door she had only just time to +spring to the window-seat and compose herself in an attitude of +graceful defiance.</p> + +<p>It was thrown away.</p> + +<p>The door only opened wide enough to admit a dinner tray pushed in by a +hand she knew. Then the door closed again.</p> + +<p>The same thing happened with tea and supper.</p> + +<p>It was not till after supper that Betty, gazing out on the pale watery +sunset, found it blurred to her eyes. There was no more hope now. She +was a prisoner. If He was not a prisoner he ought to be. It was the +only thing that could excuse his silence. He might at least have gone +by the gate or waved a handkerchief. Well, all was over between them, +and Betty was alone in the world. She had not cried all day, but now +she did cry.</p> + +<hr> + +<p>Vernon always prided himself on having a heart for any fate, but this +was one of the interviews that one would rather have avoided. All day +he had schooled himself to resignation, had almost reconciled himself +to the spoiling of what had promised to be a masterpiece. Explications +with Betty would brush the bloom off everything. Yet he must play the +part well. But what part? Oh, hang all meddlers!</p> + +<p>"Miss Desmond," said the landlady; and he braced his nerves to meet a +tearful, an indignant or a desperate Betty.</p> + +<p>But there was no Betty to be met; no Betty of any kind.</p> + +<p>Instead, a short squarely-built middle-aged lady walked briskly into +the room, and turned to see the door well closed before she advanced +towards him.</p> + +<p>He bowed with indescribable emotions.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Eustace Vernon?" said the lady. She wore a sensible short skirt +and square-toed brown boots. Her hat was boat-shaped and her abundant +hair was screwed up so as to be well out of her way. Her face was +square and sensible like her shoulders, and her boots. Her eyes dark, +clear and near sighted. She wore gold-rimmed spectacles and carried a +crutch-handled cane. No vision could have been less like Betty.</p> + +<p>Vernon bowed, and moved a chair towards her.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," she said, and took it. "Now, Mr. Vernon, sit down too, +and let's talk this over like reasonable beings. You may smoke if you +like. It clears the brain."</p> + +<p>Vernon sat down and mechanically took out a cigarette, but he held it +unlighted.</p> + +<p>"Now," said the square lady, leaning her elbows on the table and her +chin on her hands, "I am Betty's aunt."</p> + +<p>"It is very good of you to come," said Vernon helplessly.</p> + +<p>"Not at all," she briskly answered. "Now tell me all about it."</p> + +<p>"There's nothing to tell," said Vernon.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it will clear the ground a little if I say at once that I +haven't come to ask your intentions, because of course you haven't +any. My reverend brother-in-law, on the other hand, insists that you +have, and that they are strictly dishonourable."</p> + +<p>Vernon laughed, and drew a breath of relief.</p> + +<p>"I fear Mr. Underwood misunderstood,—" he said, "and—"</p> + +<p>"He is a born misunderstander," said Miss Julia Desmond. "Now, I'm +not. Light your cigarette, man; you can give me one if you like, to +keep you in countenance. A light—thanks. Now will you speak, or shall +I?"</p> + +<p>"You seem to have more to say than I, Miss Desmond."</p> + +<p>"Ah, that's because you don't trust me. In other words, you don't know +me. That's one of the most annoying things in life: to be really an +excellent sort, and to be quite unable to make people see it at the +first go-off. Well, here goes. My worthy brother-in-law finds you and +my niece holding hands in a shed."</p> + +<p>"We were not," said Vernon. "I was telling her fortune—"</p> + +<p>"It's my lead now," interrupted the lady. "Your turn next. He being +what he is—to the pure all things are impure, you know—instantly +draws the most harrowing conclusions, hits you with a stick.—By the +way, you behaved uncommonly well about that."</p> + +<p>"Thank you," said Vernon, smiling a little. It is pleasant to be +appreciated.</p> + +<p>"Yes, really very decently, indeed. I daresay it wouldn't have hurt a +fly, but if you'd been the sort of man he thinks you are—However +that's neither here nor there. He hits you with a stick, locks the +child into her room—What did you say?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing," said Vernon.</p> + +<p>"All right. I didn't hear it. Locks her in her room, and wires to my +sister. Takes a carriage to Sevenoaks to do it too, to avoid scandal. +I happen to be at my sister's, on my way from Cairo to Norway, so I +undertake to run down. He meets me at the station, and wants me to go +straight home and blackguard Betty. But I prefer to deal with +principals."</p> + +<p>"You mean—"</p> + +<p>"I mean that I know as well as you do that whatever has happened has +been your doing and not that dear little idiot's. Now, are you going +to tell me about it?"</p> + +<p>He had rehearsed already a form of words in which "Brother artists" +should have loomed large. But now that he rose, shrugged his shoulders +and spoke, it was in words that had not been rehearsed.</p> + +<p>"Look here, Miss Desmond," said he, "the fact is, you're right. I +haven't any intentions—certainly not dishonourable ones. But I was +frightfully bored in the country, and your niece is bored, too—more +bored than I am. No one ever understands or pities the boredom of the +very young," he added pensively.</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"Well, that's all there is to it. I liked meeting her, and she liked +meeting me."</p> + +<p>"And the fortune-telling? Do you mean to tell me you didn't enjoy +holding the child's hand and putting her in a silly flutter?"</p> + +<p>"I deny the flutter," he said, "but—Well, yes, of course I enjoyed +it. You wouldn't believe me if I said I didn't."</p> + +<p>"No," said she.</p> + +<p>"I enjoyed it more than I expected to," he added with a frankness that +he had not meant to use, "much more. But I didn't say a word of +love—-only perhaps—"</p> + +<p>"Only perhaps you made the idea of it underlie every word you did +speak. Don't I know?" said Miss Desmond. "Bless the man, I've been +young myself!"</p> + +<p>"Miss Betty is very charming," said he, "and—and if I hadn't met +her—"</p> + +<p>"If you hadn't met her some other man would. True; but I fancy her +father would rather it had been some other man."</p> + +<p>"I didn't mean that in the least," said Vernon with some heat. "I +meant that if I hadn't met her she would have gone on being bored, and +so should I. Don't think me a humbug, Miss Desmond. I am more sorry +than I can say that I should have been the means of causing her any +unhappiness."</p> + +<p>"'Causing her unhappiness,'—poor little Betty, poor little trusting +innocent silly little girl! That's about it, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>It was so like it that he hotly answered:</p> + +<p>"Not in the least."</p> + +<p>"Well, well," said Miss Desmond, "there's no great harm done. She'll +get over it, and more's been lost on market days. Thanks."</p> + +<p>She lighted a second cigarette and sat very upright, the cigarette in +her mouth and her hands on the handle of her stick.</p> + +<p>"You can't help it, of course. Men with your coloured eyes never can. +That green hazel—girls ought to be taught at school that it's a +danger-signal. Only, since your heart's not in the business any more +than her's is—as you say, you were both bored to death—I want to ask +you, as a personal favour to me, just to let the whole thing drop. Let +the girl alone. Go right away."</p> + +<p>"It's an unimportant detail, and I'm ashamed to mention it," said +Vernon, "but I've got a picture on hand—I'm painting a bit of the +Warren."</p> + +<p>"Well, go to Low Barton and put up there and finish your precious +picture. You won't see Betty again unless you run after her."</p> + +<p>"To tell the truth," said Vernon, "I had already decided to let the +whole thing drop. I'm ashamed of the trouble I've caused her and—and +I've taken rooms at Low Barton."</p> + +<p>"Upon my word," said Miss Desmond, "you are the coldest lover I've +ever set eyes on."</p> + +<p>"I'm not a lover," he answered swiftly. "Do you wish I were?"</p> + +<p>"For Betty's sake, I'm glad you aren't. But I think I should respect +you more if you weren't quite so arctic."</p> + +<p>"I'm not an incendiary, at any rate," said he, "and that's something, +with my coloured eyes, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Well," she said, "whatever your temperature is, I rather like you. I +don't wonder at Betty in the least."</p> + +<p>Vernon bowed.</p> + +<p>"All I ask is your promise that you'll not speak to her again."</p> + +<p>"I can't promise that, you know. I can't be rude to her. But I'll +promise not to go out of my way to meet her again." He sighed.</p> + +<p>"As, yes—it is sad—all that time wasted and no rabbits caught." +Again Miss Desmond had gone unpleasantly near his thought. Of course +he said:</p> + +<p>"You don't understand me."</p> + +<p>"Near enough," said Miss Desmond; "and now I'll go."</p> + +<p>"Let me thank you for coming," said Vernon eagerly; "it was more than +good of you. I must own that my heart sank when I knew it was Miss +Betty's aunt who honoured me with a visit. But I am most glad you +came. I never would have believed that a lady could be so reasonable +and—and—"</p> + +<p>"And gentlemanly?" said the lady. "Yes,—it's my brother-in-law who is +the old woman, poor dear! You see, Mr. Vernon, I've been running round +the world for five and twenty years, and I've kept my eyes open. And +when I was of an age to be silly, the man I was silly about had your +coloured eyes. He married an actress, poor fellow,—or rather, she +married him, before he could say 'knife.' That's the sort of thing +that'll happen to you, unless you're uncommonly careful. So that's +settled. You give me your word not to try to see Betty?"</p> + +<p>"I give you my word. You won't believe in my regret—"</p> + +<p>"I believe in that right enough. It must be simply sickening to have +the whole show given away like this. Oh, I believe in your regret!"</p> + +<p>"My regret," said Vernon steadily, "for any pain I may have caused +your niece. Do please see how grateful I am to you for having seen at +once that it was not her fault at all, but wholly mine."</p> + +<p>"Very nicely said: good boy!" said Betty's aunt. "Well, my excellent +brother-in-law is waiting outside in the fly, gnashing his respectable +teeth, no doubt, and inferring all sorts of complications from the +length of our interview. Good-bye. You're just the sort of young man I +like, and I'm sorry we haven't met on a happier footing. I'm sure we +should have got on together. Don't you think so?"</p> + +<p>"I'm sure we should," said he truly. "Mayn't I hope—"</p> + +<p>She laughed outright.</p> + +<p>"You have indeed the passion for acquaintance without introduction," +she said. "No, you may <i>not</i> call on me in town. Besides, I'm never +there. Good-bye. And take care of yourself. You're bound to be bitten +some day you know, and bitten badly."</p> + +<p>"I wish I thought you forgave me."</p> + +<p>"Forgive you? Of course I forgive you! You can no more help making +love, I suppose—no, don't interrupt: the thing's the same whatever +you call it—you can no more help making love than a cat can help +stealing cream. Only one day the cat gets caught, and badly beaten, +and one day you'll get caught, and the beating will be a bad one, +unless I'm a greater fool than I take myself for. And now I'll go and +unlock Betty's prison and console her. Don't worry about her. I'll see +that she's not put upon. Good night. No, in the circumstances you'd +better <i>not</i> see me to my carriage!"</p> + +<p>She shook hands cordially, and left Vernon to his thoughts.</p> + +<p>Miss Desmond had done what she came to do, and he knew it. It was +almost a relief to feel that now he could not try to see Betty however +much he wished it,—however much he might know her to wish it. He +shrugged his shoulders and lighted another cigarette.</p> + +<hr> + +<p>Betty, worn out with crying, had fallen asleep. The sound of wheels +roused her. It seemed to rain cabs at the Rectory to-day.</p> + +<p>There were voices in the hall, steps on the stairs. Her door was +unlocked and there entered no tray of prisoner's fare, no reproachful +step-father, no Protestant sister, but a brisk and well-loved aunt, +who shut the door, and spoke.</p> + +<p>"All in the dark?" she said. "Where are you, child?"</p> + +<p>"Here," said Betty.</p> + +<p>"Let me strike a light. Oh, yes, there you are!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, aunt,—has he sent for you?" said Betty fearfully. "Oh, don't +scold me, auntie! I am so tired. I don't think I can bear any more."</p> + +<p>"I'm not going to scold you, you silly little kitten," said the aunt +cheerfully. "Come, buck up! It's nothing so very awful, after all. +You'll be laughing at it all before a fortnight's over."</p> + +<p>"Then he hasn't told you?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, he has; he's told me everything there was to tell, and a lot +more, too. Don't worry, child. You just go straight to bed and I'll +tuck you up, and we'll talk it all over in the morning."</p> + +<p>"Aunty," said Betty, obediently beginning to unfasten her dress, "did +he say anything about <i>Him</i>?"</p> + +<p>"Well, yes—a little."</p> + +<p>"He hasn't—hasn't done anything to him, has he?"</p> + +<p>"What could he do? Giving drawing lessons isn't a hanging matter, +Bet."</p> + +<p>"I haven't heard anything from him all day,—and I thought—"</p> + +<p>"You won't hear anything more of him, Betty, my dear. I've seen your +Mr. Vernon, and a very nice young man he is, too. He's frightfully cut +up about having got you into a row, and he sees that the only thing he +can do is to go quietly away. I needn't tell you, Betty, though I +shall have to explain it very thoroughly to your father, that Mr. +Vernon is no more in love with you than you are with him. In fact he's +engaged to another girl. He's just interested in you as a promising +pupil."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Betty, "of course I know that."</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER VII.</p> + +<p> +THE ESCAPE.</p> + +<p>"It's all turned out exactly like what I said it was going to, exactly +to a T," said Mrs. Symes, wrapping her wet arms in her apron and +leaning them on the fence; "if it wasn't that it's Tuesday and me +behindhand as it is, I'd tell you all about it."</p> + +<p>"Do the things good to lay a bit in the rinse-water," said Mrs. James, +also leaning on the fence, "sorter whitens them's what I always say. I +don't mind if I lend you a hand with the wringing after. What's turned +out like you said it was going to?"</p> + +<p>"Miss Betty's decline." Mrs. Symes laughed low and huskily. "What did +I tell you, Mrs. James?"</p> + +<p>"I don't quite remember not just at the minute," said Mrs. James; "you +tells so many things."</p> + +<p>"And well for some people I do. Else they wouldn't never know nothing. +I told you as it wasn't no decline Miss Betty was setting down under. +I said it was only what's natural, her being the age she is. I said +what she wanted was a young man, and I said she'd get one. And what do +you think?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know, I'm sure."</p> + +<p>"She did get one," said Mrs. Symes impressively, "that same week, just +as if she'd been a-listening to my very words. It was as it might be +Friday you and me had that little talk. Well, as it might be the +Saturday, she meets the young man, a-painting pictures in the +Warren—my Ernest's youngest saw 'em a-talking, and told his mother +when he come home to his dinner."</p> + +<p>"To think of that, and me never hearing a word!" said Mrs. James with +frank regret.</p> + +<p>"I knew it ud be 'Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad,'" Mrs. Symes +went on with cumbrous enjoyment, "and so it was. They used to keep +their rondyvoos in the wood—six o'clock in the morning. Mrs. Wilson's +Tom used to see 'em reg'lar every day as he went by to his work."</p> + +<p>"Lor," said Mrs. James feebly.</p> + +<p>"Of course Tom he never said nothing, except to a few friends of his +over a glass. They enjoyed the joke, I promise you. But old George +Marbould—he ain't never been quite right in his head, I don't think, +since his Ruby went wrong. Pity, I always think. A great clumsy +plain-faced girl like her might a kept herself respectable. She hadn't +the temptation some of us might have had in our young days."</p> + +<p>"No indeed," said Mrs. James, smoothing her hair, "and old +George—what silliness was he up to this time?"</p> + +<p>"Why he sees the two of 'em together one fine morning and 'stead of +doing like he'd be done by he ups to the Vicarage and tells the old +man. 'You come alonger me, Sir,' says he, 'and have a look at your +daughter a-kissin' and huggin' up in Beale's shed, along of a perfect +stranger.' So the old man he says, 'God bless you,'—George is proud +of him saying that—and off he goes, in a regular fanteague, beats the +young master to a jelly, for all he's an old man and feeble, and shuts +Miss up in her room. Now that wouldn't a been <i>my</i> way."</p> + +<p>"No, indeed," said Mrs. James.</p> + +<p>"I should a asked him in," said Mrs. Symes, "if it had been a gell of +mine, and give him a good meal with a glass of ale to it, and a tiddy +drop of something to top up with, and I'd a let him light his nasty +pipe,—and then when he was full and contented I'd a up and said, +'Now my man, you've 'ad time to think it over, and no one can't say as +I've hurried you nor flurried you. But it's time as we began talking. +So just you tell me what you're a-goin to do about it. If you 'ave the +feelings of a man,' I'd a said 'you'll marry the girl.'"</p> + +<p>"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. James with emotion.</p> + +<p>"Instead of which, bless your 'art, he beats the young man off with a +stick, like as if he was a mad dog; and young Miss is a goin' to be +sent to furrin parts to a strick boardin' school, to learn her not to +have any truck with young chaps."</p> + +<p>"'Ard, I call it," said Mrs. James.</p> + +<p>"An' well you may—crooil 'ard. How's he expect the girl to get a +husband if he drives the young fellers away with walking-sticks? Pore +gell! I shouldn't wonder but what she lives and dies a maid, after +this set-out."</p> + +<p>"We shall miss 'er when she goes," said Mrs. James.</p> + +<p>"I don't say we shan't. But there ain't no one as you can't get on +without if you're put to it And whether or not, she's going to far +foreign parts where there ain't no young chaps."</p> + +<p>"Poor young thing," said Mrs. James, very sympathetic. "I think I'll +drop in as I'm passing, and see how she takes it."</p> + +<p>"If you do," said Mrs. Symes, unrolling her arms, white and wrinkled +with washing, to set them aggressively on her lips, "it's the last +word as passes between us, Mrs. James, so now you know."</p> + +<p>"Lord, Maria, don't fly out at me that way." Mrs. James shrank back: +"How was I to know you'd take it like that?"</p> + +<p>"Do you suppose," asked Mrs. Symes, "as no one ain't got no legs +except you? <i>I'm</i> a going up, soon as I've got the things on the line +and cleaned myself. I only heard it after I'd got every blessed rag in +soak, or I'd a gone up afore."</p> + +<p>"Mightn't I step up with you for company?" Mrs. James asked.</p> + +<p>"No, you mightn't. But I don't mind dropping in as I come home, to +tell you about it. One of them Catholic Nunnery schools, I expect, +which it's sudden death to a man but to set his foot into."</p> + +<p>"Poor young thing," said Mrs. James again.</p> + +<hr> + +<p>Betty was going to Paris.</p> + +<p>There had been "much talk about and about" the project. Now it was to +be.</p> + +<p>There had been interviews.</p> + +<p>There was the first in which the elder Miss Desmond told her +brother-in-law in the plain speech she loved exactly what sort of a +fool he had made of himself in the matter of Betty and the +fortune-telling.</p> + +<p>When he was convinced of error—it was not easily done—he would have +liked to tell Betty that he was sorry, but he belonged to a generation +that does not apologise to the next.</p> + +<p>The second interview was between the aunt and Betty. That was the one +in which so much good advice was given.</p> + +<p>"You know," the aunt wound up, "all young women want to be in love, +and all young men too. I don't mean that there was anything of that +sort between you and your artist friend. But there might have been. +Now look here,—I'm going to speak quite straight to you. Don't you +ever let young men get monkeying about with your hands; whether they +call it fortune-telling or whether they don't, their reason for doing +so is always the same—or likely to be. And you want to keep your +hand—as well as your lips—for the man you're going to marry. That's +all, but don't you forget it. Now what's this I hear about your +wanting to go to Paris?"</p> + +<p>"I did want to go," said Betty, "but I don't care about anything now. +Everything's hateful."</p> + +<p>"It always is," said the aunt, "but it won't always be."</p> + +<p>"Don't think I care a straw about not seeing Mr. Vernon again," said +Betty hastily. "It's not that."</p> + +<p>"Of course not," said the aunt sympathetically.</p> + +<p>"No,—but Father was so hateful—you've no idea. If I'd—if I'd run +away and got married secretly he couldn't have made more fuss."</p> + +<p>"You're a little harsh—just a little. Of course you and I know +exactly how it was, but remember how it looked to him. Why, it +couldn't have looked worse if you really <i>had</i> been arranging an +elopement."</p> + +<p>"He <i>hadn't</i> got his arm around me," insisted Betty; "it was somewhere +right away in the background. He was holding himself up with it."</p> + +<p>"Don't I tell you I understand all that perfectly? What I want to +understand is how you feel about Paris. Are you absolutely off the +idea?"</p> + +<p>"I couldn't go if I wasn't."</p> + +<p>"I wonder what you think Paris is like," mused the aunt. "I suppose +you think it's all one wild razzle-dazzle—one delirious round of—of +museums and picture galleries."</p> + +<p>"No, I don't," said Betty rather shortly.</p> + +<p>"If you went you'd have to work."</p> + +<p>"There's no chance of my going."</p> + +<p>"Then we'll put the idea away and say no more about it. Get me my +Continental Bradshaw out of my dressing-bag: I'm no use here. Nobody +loves me, and I'll go to Norway by the first omnibus to-morrow +morning."</p> + +<p>"Don't," said Betty; "how can you say nobody loves you?"</p> + +<p>"Your step-father doesn't, anyway. That's why I can make him do what I +like when I take the trouble. When people love you they'll never do +anything for you,—not even answer a plain question with a plain yes +or no. Go and get the Bradshaw. You'll be sorry when I'm gone."</p> + +<p>"Aunt Julia, you don't really mean it."</p> + +<p>"Of course not. I never mean anything except the things I don't say. +The Bradshaw!"</p> + +<p>Betty came and sat on the arm of her aunt's chair.</p> + +<p>"It's not fair to tease me," she said, "and tantalise me. You know how +mizzy I am."</p> + +<p>"No. I don't know anything. You won't tell me anything. Go and get—"</p> + +<p>"Dear, darling, pretty, kind, clever Aunt," cried Betty, "I'd give my +ears to go."</p> + +<p>"Then borrow a large knife from cook, and sharpen it on the front +door-step! No—I don't mean to use it on your step-father. I'll have +your pretty ears mummified and wear them on my watch-chain. No—mind +my spectacles! Let me go. I daresay it won't come to anything."</p> + +<p>"Do you really mean you'd take me?"</p> + +<p>"I'd take you fast enough, but I wouldn't keep you. We must find a +dragon to guard the Princess. Oh, we'll get a nice tame kind puss-cat +of a dragon,—but that dragon will not be your Aunt Julia! Let me go, +I say. I thought you didn't care about anything any more?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't know there could be anything to care for," said Betty +honestly, "especially Paris. Well, I won't if you hate it so, but oh, +aunt—" She still sat on the floor by the chair her aunt had left, and +thought and thought. The aunt went straight down to the study.</p> + +<p>"Now, Cecil," she said, coming briskly in and shutting the door, +"you've made that poor child hate the thought of you and you've only +yourself to thank."</p> + +<p>"I know you think so," said he, closing the heavy book over which he +had been stooping.</p> + +<p>"I don't mean," she added hastily, for she was not a cruel woman, +"that she really hates you, of course. But you've frightened her, and +shaken her nerves, locking her up in her room like that. Upon my word, +you are old enough to know better!"</p> + +<p>"I was so alarmed, so shaken myself—" he began, but she interrupted +him.</p> + +<p>"I didn't come in and disturb your work just to say all that, of +course," she said, "but really, Cecil, I understand things better than +you think. I know how fond you really are of Betty."</p> + +<p>The Reverend Cecil doubted this; but he said nothing.</p> + +<p>"And you know that I'm fond enough of the child myself. Now, all this +has upset you both tremendously. What do you propose to do?"</p> + +<p>"I—I—nothing I thought. The less said about these deplorable affairs +the better. Lizzie will soon recover her natural tone, and forget all +about the matter."</p> + +<p>"Then you mean to let everything go on in the old way?"</p> + +<p>"Why, of course," said he uneasily.</p> + +<p>"Well, it's your own affair, naturally," she spoke with a studied air +of detachment which worried him exactly as it was meant to do.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" he asked anxiously. He had never been able wholly +to approve Miss Julia Desmond. She smoked cigarettes, and he could not +think that this would have been respectable in any other woman. Of +course, she was different from any other woman, but still—. Then the +Reverend Cecil could not deem it womanly to explore, unchaperoned, the +less well-known quarters of four continents, to penetrate even to +regions where skirts were considered improper and side-saddles were +unknown. Even the nearness of Miss Desmond's fiftieth birthday hardly +lessened at all the poignancy of his disapproval. Besides, she had not +always been fifty, and she had always, in his recollection of her, +smoked cigarettes, and travelled alone. Yet he had a certain +well-founded respect for her judgment, and for that fine luminous +common-sense of hers which had more than once shewn him his own +mistakes. On the rare occasions when he and she had differed he had +always realized, later, that she had been in the right. And she was +"gentlemanly" enough never once to have said: "I told you so!"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" he asked again, for she was silent, her hands in +the pockets of her long coat, her sensible brown shoes sticking +straight out in front of her chair.</p> + +<p>"If you really want to know, I'll tell you," she said, "but I hate to +interfere in other people's business. You see, I know how deeply she +has felt this, and of course I know you have too, so I wondered +whether you hadn't thought of some little plan for—for altering the +circumstances a little, so that everything will blow over and settle +down, so that when you and she come together again you'll be better +friends than ever."</p> + +<p>"Come together again," he repeated, and the paper-knife was still +restless, "do you want me to let her go away? To London?"</p> + +<p>Visions of Lizzie, in unseemly low-necked dresses surrounded by crowds +of young men—all possible Vernons—lent a sudden firmness to his +voice, a sudden alertness to his manner.</p> + +<p>"No, certainly not," she answered the voice and the manner as much as +the words. "I shouldn't dream of such a thing. Then it hadn't occurred +to you?"</p> + +<p>"It certainly had not."</p> + +<p>"You see," she said earnestly, "it's like this—at least this is how I +see it: She's all shaken and upset, and so are you, and when I've +gone—and I must go in a very little time—you'll both of you simply +settle down to thinking over it all, and you'll grow farther and +farther apart!"</p> + +<p>"I don't think so," said he; "things like this always right themselves +if one leaves them alone. Lizzie and I have always got on very well +together, in a quiet way. We are neither of us demonstrative."</p> + +<p>"Now Heaven help the man!" was the woman's thought. She remembered +Betty's clinging arms, her heartfelt kisses, the fervency of the voice +that said, "Dear darling, pretty, kind, clever Aunt! I'd give my ears +to go." Betty not demonstrative! Heaven help the man!</p> + +<p>"No," she said, "I know. But when people are young these thinks +rankle."</p> + +<p>"They won't with her," he said. "She has a singularly noble nature, +under that quiet exterior."</p> + +<p>Miss Desmond drew a long breath and began afresh.</p> + +<p>"Then there's another thing. She's fretting over this—thinks now that +it was something to be ashamed of; she didn't think so at the time, of +course."</p> + +<p>"You mean that it was I who—"</p> + +<p>This was thin ice again. Miss Desmond skated quickly away from it +with, "Well, you see, I've been talking to her. She really <i>is</i> +fretting. Why she's got ever so much thinner in the last week."</p> + +<p>"I could get a locum," he said slowly, "and take her to a Hydropathic +Establishment for a fortnight."</p> + +<p>"Oh dear, oh dear!" said Miss Desmond to herself. Aloud she said: +"That <i>would</i> be delightful, later. But just now—well, of course it's +for you to decide,—but it seems to me that it would be better for you +two to be apart for a while. If you're here alone together—well, the +very sight of you will remind each other—That's not grammar, as you +say, but—"</p> + +<p>He had not said anything. He was thinking, fingering the brass bosses +on the corners of the divine Augustine, and tracing the pattern on the +stamped pigskin.</p> + +<p>"Of course if you care to risk it," she went on still with that fine +air of detachment,—"but I have seen breaches that nothing could heal +arise in just that way."</p> + +<p>Two people sitting down together and thinking over everything they had +against each other.</p> + +<p>"But I've nothing against Lizzie."</p> + +<p>"I daresay not," Miss Desmond lost patience at last, "but she has +against you, or will have if you let her stay here brooding over it. +However if you like to risk it—I'm sorry I spoke." She got up and +moved to the door.</p> + +<p>"No, no," he said hastily, "do not be sorry you spoke. You have given +me food for reflection. I will think it all over quietly and—and—" +he did not like to talk about prayers to Miss Desmond somehow, +"and—calmly and if I see that you are right—I am sure you mean most +kindly by me."</p> + +<p>"Indeed I do," she said heartily, and gave him her hand in the manly +way he hated. He took it, held it limply an instant, and repeated:</p> + +<p>"Most kindly."</p> + +<p>He thought it over for so long that the aunt almost lost hope.</p> + +<p>"I have to hold my tongue with both hands to keep it quiet. And if I +say another word I shall spoil the song," she told Betty. "I've done +my absolute best. If that doesn't fetch him, nothing will!"</p> + +<p>It had "fetched him." At the end of two interminable days he sent to +ask Miss Desmond to speak to him in the study. She went.</p> + +<p>"I have been thinking carefully," he said, "most carefully. And I feel +that you are right. Perhaps I owe her some amends. Do you know of any +quiet country place?"</p> + +<p>Miss Desmond thought Betty had perhaps for the moment had almost +enough of quiet country places.</p> + +<p>"She is very anxious to learn drawing," he said, "and perhaps if I +permitted her to do so she might understand it as a sign that I +cherish no resentment on account of what has passed. But—"</p> + +<p>"I know the very thing," said the Aunt, and went on to tell of Madame +Gautier, of her cloistral home in Paris where she received a few +favoured young girls, of the vigilant maid who conducted them to and +from their studies, of the quiet villa on the Marne where in the +summer an able master—at least 60 or 65 years of age—conducted +sketching parties, to which the students were accompanied either by +Madame herself, or by the dragon-maid.</p> + +<p>"I'll stand the child six months with her," she said, "or a year even. +So it won't cost you anything. And Madame Gautier is in London now. +You could run up and talk to her yourself."</p> + +<p>"Does she speak English?" he asked, anxiously, and being reassured +questioned further.</p> + +<p>"And you?" he asked. And when he heard that Norway for a month and +then America en route for Japan formed Miss Desmond's programme for +the next year he was only just able to mask, with a cough, his deep +sigh of relief. For, however much he might respect her judgment, he +was always easier when Lizzie and her Aunt Julia were not together.</p> + +<p>He went up to town, and found Madame Gautier, the widow of a French +pastor, established in a Bloomsbury boarding-house. She was a woman +after his own heart—severe, simple, earnest. If he had to part with +his Lizzie, he told himself in the returning train, it could be to no +better keeper than this.</p> + +<p>He himself announced his decision to Betty.</p> + +<p>"I have decided," he said, and he spoke very coldly because it was so +very difficult to speak at all, "to grant you the wish you expressed +some time ago. You shall go to Paris and learn drawing."</p> + +<p>"Do you really mean it?" said Betty, as coldly as he.</p> + +<p>"I am not in the habit of saying things which I do not mean."</p> + +<p>"Thank you very much," said Betty. "I will work hard, and try that the +money shan't be wasted."</p> + +<p>"Your aunt has kindly offered to pay your expenses."</p> + +<p>"When do I go?" asked Betty.</p> + +<p>"As soon as your garments can be prepared. I trust that I shall not +have cause to regret the confidence I have decided to place in you."</p> + +<p>His phrasing was seldom well-inspired. Had he said, "I trust you, my +child, and I know I shan't regret it," which was what he meant, she +would have come to meet him more than half-way. As it was she said, +"Thank you!" again, and left him without more words. He sighed.</p> + +<p>"I don't believe she is pleased after all; but she sees I am doing it +for her good. Now it comes to the point her heart sinks at the idea of +leaving home. But she will understand my motives."</p> + +<p>The one thought Betty gave him was:</p> + +<p>"He can't bear the sight of me at all now! He's longing to be rid of +me! Well, thank Heaven I'm going to Paris! I will have a grass-lawn +dress over green, with three rows of narrow lace insertion, and a hat +with yellow roses and—oh, it can't be true. It's too good to be true. +Well, it's a good thing to be hated sometimes, by some people, if they +only hate you enough!"</p> + +<hr> + +<p>"'So you're going to foreign parts, Miss,' says I."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Symes had flung back her bonnet strings and was holding a +saucerful of boiling tea skilfully poised on the fingers of one hand. +"'Yes, Mrs. Symes,' says she, 'don't you wish you was going too?' she +says. And she laughed, but I'm not easy blinded, and well I see as she +only laughed to 'ide a bleedin' 'art. 'Not me, Miss,' says I; 'nice +figure I should look a-goin' to a furrin' boardin' school at my time +of life.'</p> + +<p>"'It ain't boardin' school,' says she. 'I'm a-going to learn to paint +pictures. I'll paint your portrait when I come home,' says she, and +laughs again—I could see she done it to keep the tears back.</p> + +<p>"'I'm sorry for you, Miss, I'm sure,' I says, not to lose the chance +of a word in season, 'but I hope it'll prove a blessing to you—I do +that.'"</p> + +<p>"'Oh, it'll be a blessing right enough,' says she, and keeps on +laughing a bit wild like. When the art's full you can't always stop +yourself. She'd a done better to 'ave a good cry and tell me 'er +troubles. I could a cheered her up a bit p'raps. You know whether I'm +considered a comfort at funerals and christenings, Mrs. James."</p> + +<p>"I do," said Mrs. James sadly; "none don't know it better."</p> + +<p>"You'd a thought she'd a bin glad of a friend in need. But no. She +just goes on a-laughing fit to bring tears to your eyes to hear her, +and says she, 'I hope you'll all get on all right without me.'"</p> + +<p>"I hope you said as how we should miss her something dreadful," said +Mrs. James anxiously, "Have another cup."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, my dear. Do you take me for a born loony? Course I did. +Said the parish wouldn't be the same without her, and about her pretty +reading and all. See here what she give me."</p> + +<p>Mrs. James unrolled a violet petticoat.</p> + +<p>"Good as new, almost," she said, looking critically at the hem. +"Specially her being taller'n me. So what's not can be cut away, and +no loss. She kep' on a-laughing an' a-smiling till the old man he come +in and he says in his mimicking way, 'Lizzie,' says 'e, 'they're +a-waitin' to fit on your new walkin' costoom,' he says. So I come +away, she a-smiling to the last something awful to see."</p> + +<p>"Dear, dear," said Mrs. James.</p> + +<p>"But you mark my words—she don't deceive <i>me</i>. If ever I see a +bruised reed and a broken 'art on a young gell's face I see it on +hers this day. She may laugh herself black in the face, but she won't +laugh me into thinking what I knows to be far otherwise."</p> + +<p>"Ah," said Mrs. James resignedly, "we all 'as it to bear one time or +another. Young gells is very deceitful though, in their ways, ain't +they?"</p> + +<br><br><br><br> +<a name="b2"></a> +<br><br> + +<h2>Book 2.—The Man</h2> + +<br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER VIII.</p> + +<p> +THE ONE AND THE OTHER.</p> + +<p>"Some idiot," remarked Eustace Vernon, sipping Vermouth at a little +table, "insists that, if you sit long enough outside the Café de la +Paix, you will see everyone you have ever known or ever wanted to know +pass by. I have sat here for half-an-hour—and—<i>voila</i>."</p> + +<p>"You met me, half an hour ago," said the other man.</p> + +<p>"Oh, <i>you</i>!" said Vernon affectionately.</p> + +<p>"And your hat has gone off every half minute ever since," said the +other man.</p> + +<p>"Ah, that's to the people I've known. It's the people I've wanted to +know that are the rarity."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean people you have wanted to know and not known?"</p> + +<p>"There aren't many of those," said Vernon; "no it's—Jove, that's a +sweet woman!"</p> + +<p>"I hate the type," said the other man briefly: "all clothes—no real +human being."</p> + +<p>The woman was beautifully dressed, in the key whose harmonies are only +mastered by Frenchwomen and Americans. She turned her head as her +carriage passed, and Vernon's hat went off once more.</p> + +<p>"I'd forgotten her profile," said Vernon, "and she's learned how to +dress since I saw her last. She's quite human, really, and as charming +as anyone ought to be."</p> + +<p>"So I should think," said the other man. "I'm sorry I said that, but I +didn't know you knew her. How's trade?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I did a picture—well, but a picture! I did it in England in the +Spring. Best thing I've done yet. Come and see it."</p> + +<p>"I should like to look you up. Where do you hang out?"</p> + +<p>"Eighty-six bis Rue Notre Dame des Champs," said Vernon. "Everyone in +fiction lives there. It's the only street on the other side that +authors seem ever to have dreamed of. Still, it's convenient, so I +herd there with all sorts of blackguards, heroes and villains and what +not. Eighty-six bis."</p> + +<p>"I'll come," said the other man, slowly. "Do you know, Vernon, I'd +like awfully to get at your point of view—your philosophy of life?"</p> + +<p>"Haven't you got one, my dear chap!—'sufficient unto' is my motto."</p> + +<p>"You paint pictures,", the other went on, "so very much too good for +the sort of life you lead."</p> + +<p>Vernon laughed.</p> + +<p>"My dear Temple," he said, "I live, mostly, the life of a vestal +virgin."</p> + +<p>"You know well enough I'm not quarrelling with the way you spend your +evenings," said his dear Temple; "it's your whole outlook that doesn't +match your work. Yet there must be some relation between the two, +that's what I'd like to get at."</p> + +<p>There is a bond stronger than friendship, stronger than love—a bond +that cannot be forged in any other shop than the one—the bond between +old schoolfellows. Vernon had sometimes wondered why he "stood so +much" from Temple. It is a wonder that old schoolfellows often feel, +mutually.</p> + +<p>"The subject you've started," said he, "is of course, to me, the most +interesting. Please develop your thesis."</p> + +<p>"Well then, your pictures are good, strong, thorough stuff, with +sentiment—yes, just enough sentiment to keep them from the brutality +of Degas or the sensualism of Latouche. Whereas you, yourself, seem to +have no sentiment."</p> + +<p>"I? No sentiment! Oh, Bobby, this is too much! Why, I'm a mass of it! +Ask—"</p> + +<p>"Yes, ask any woman of your acquaintance. That's just it—or just part +of it. You fool them into thinking—oh, I don't know what; but you +don't fool me."</p> + +<p>"I haven't tried."</p> + +<p>"Then you're not brutal, except half a dozen times in the year when +you—And I've noticed that when your temper goes smash your morals go +at the same time. Is that cause or effect? What's the real you like, +and where do you keep it?"</p> + +<p>"The real me," said Vernon, "is seen in my pictures, and—and +appreciated by my friends; you for instance, are, I believe, genuinely +attached to me."</p> + +<p>"Oh, rot!" said Bobby.</p> + +<p>"I don't see," said Vernon, moving his iron chair to make room for two +people at the next table, "why you should expect my pictures to rhyme +with my life. A man's art doesn't rhyme with his personality. Most +often it contradicts flatly. Look at musicians—what a divine art, and +what pigs of high priests! And look at actors—but no, one can't; the +spectacle is too sickening."</p> + +<p>"I sometimes think," said Temple, emptying his glass, "that the real +you isn't made yet. It's waiting for—"</p> + +<p>"For the refining touch of a woman's hand, eh? You think the real me +is—Oh, Temple, Temple, I've no heart for these childish imaginings! +The real me is the man that paints pictures, damn good pictures, too, +though I say it."</p> + +<p>"And is that what all the women think?</p> + +<p>"Ask them, my dear chap; ask them. They won't tell you the truth."</p> + +<p>"They're not the only ones who won't. I should like to know what you +really think of women, Vernon."</p> + +<p>"I don't think about them at all," lied Vernon equably. "They aren't +subjects for thought but for emotion—and even of that as little as +may be. It's impossible seriously to regard a woman as a human being; +she's merely a dear, delightful, dainty—"</p> + +<p>"Plaything?"</p> + +<p>"Well, yes—or rather a very delicately tuned musical instrument. If +you know the scales and the common chords, you can improvise nice +little airs and charming variations. She's a sort of—well, a penny +whistle, and the music you get depends not on her at all, but on your +own technique."</p> + +<p>"I've never been in love," said Temple; "not seriously, I mean," he +hastened to add, for Vernon was smiling, "not a life or death matter, +don't you know; but I do hate the way you talk, and one of these days +you'll hate it too."</p> + +<p>Miss Desmond's warning floated up through the dim waters of half a +year.</p> + +<p>"So a lady told me, only last Spring," he said. "Well, I'll take my +chance. Going? Well, I'm glad we ran across each other. Don't forget +to look me up."</p> + +<p>Temple moved off, and Vernon was left alone. He sat idly smoking +cigarette after cigarette, and watched the shifting crowd. It was a +bright October day, and the crowd was a gay one.</p> + +<p>Suddenly his fingers tightened on his cigarette,—but he kept the +hand that held it before his face, and he bent his head forward.</p> + +<p>Two ladies were passing, on foot. One was the elder Miss Desmond—she +who had warned him that one of these days he would be caught—and the +other, hanging lovingly on her aunt's arm, was, of course, Betty. But +a smart, changed, awakened Betty! She was dressed almost as +beautifully as the lady whose profile he had failed to recognise, but +much more simply. Her eyes were alight, and she was babbling away to +her aunt. She was even gesticulating a little, for all the world like +a French girl. He noted the well-gloved hand with which she emphasized +some point in her talk.</p> + +<p>"That's the hand," he said, "that I held when we sat on the plough in +the shed and I told her fortune."</p> + +<p>He had risen, and his feet led him along the road they had taken. Ten +yards ahead of him he saw the swing of the aunt's serviceable brown +skirt and beside it Betty's green and gray.</p> + +<p>"I am not breaking my word," he replied to the Inward Monitor. "Who's +going out of his way to speak to the girl?"</p> + +<p>He watched the brown gown and the green all the way down the Boulevard +des Capucines, saw them cross the road and go up the steps of the +Madeleine. He paused at the corner. It was hard, certainly, to keep +his promise; yet so far it was easy, because he could not well recall +himself to the Misses Desmond on the ground of his having six months +ago involved the one in a row with her relations, and discussed the +situation afterwards with the other.</p> + +<p>"I do wonder where they're staying, though," he told himself. "If one +were properly introduced—?" But he knew that the aunt would consider +no introduction a proper one that should renew his acquaintance with +Betty.</p> + +<p>"Wolf, wolf," he said, "let the fold alone! There's no door for you, +and you've pledged your sacred word as an honourable wolf not to jump +any more hurdles."</p> + +<p>And as he stood musing, the elder Miss Desmond came down the church +steps and walked briskly away.</p> + +<p>Some men would, doubtless, have followed her example, if not her +direction. Vernon was not one of these. He found himself going up the +steps of the great church. He had as good a right to go into the +Madeleine as the next man. He would probably not see the girl. If he +did he would not speak. Almost certainly he would not even see her.</p> + +<p>But Destiny had remembered Mr. Vernon once more. Betty was standing +just inside the door, her face upturned, and all her soul in her eyes. +The mutterings of the organ and the voices of boys filled the great +dark building.</p> + +<p>He went and stood close by her. He would not speak. He would keep his +word. But she should have a chance of speaking. His eyes were on her +face. The hymn ended. She exhaled a held breath, started and spoke.</p> + +<p>"You?" she said, "<i>you</i>?" The two words are spelled alike. Spoken, +they are capable of infinite variations. The first "you" sent Vernon's +blood leaping. The second froze it to what it had been before he met +her. For indeed that little unfinished idyll had been almost forgotten +by the man who sat drinking Vermouth outside the Café de la Paix.</p> + +<p>"How are you?" he whispered. "Won't you shake hands?"</p> + +<p>She gave him a limp and unresponsive glove.</p> + +<p>"I had almost forgotten you," she said, "but I am glad to see +you—because—Come to the door. I don't like talking in churches."</p> + +<p>They stood on the steps behind one of the great pillars.</p> + +<p>"Do you think it is wise to stand here?" he said. "Your aunt might see +us."</p> + +<p>"So you followed us in?" said Betty with perfect self-possession. +"That was very kind. I have often wished to see you, to tell you how +much obliged I am for all your kindness in the Spring. I was only a +child then, and I didn't understand, but now I quite see how good it +was of you."</p> + +<p>"Why do you talk like that?" he said. "You don't think—you can't +think it was my fault?"</p> + +<p>"Your fault! What?"</p> + +<p>"Why, your father finding us and—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, <i>that</i>!" she said lightly. "Oh, I had forgotten that! Ridiculous, +wasn't it? No, I mean your kindness in giving so many hours to +teaching a perfect duffer. Well, now I've seen you and said what I had +to say, I think I'll go back."</p> + +<p>"No, don't go," he said. "I want to know—oh, all sorts of things! I +can see your aunt from afar, and fly if she approaches."</p> + +<p>"You don't suppose," said Betty, opening her eyes at him, "that I +shan't tell her I've seen you?"</p> + +<p>He had supposed it, and cursed his clumsiness.</p> + +<p>"Ah, I see," she went on, "you think I should deceive my aunt now +because I deceived my step-father in the Spring. But I was a child +then,—and besides, I'm fond of my aunt."</p> + +<p>"Did you know that she came to see me?"</p> + +<p>"Of course. You seem to think we live in an atmosphere of deceit, Mr. +Vernon."</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with you?" he said bluntly, for finer weapons +seemed useless. "What have I done to make you hate me?"</p> + +<p>"I hate you? Oh, no—not in the least," said Betty spitefully. "I am +very grateful to you for all your kindness."</p> + +<p>"Where are you staying?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Hotel Bête," said Betty, off her guard, "but—"</p> + +<p>The "but" marked his first score.</p> + +<p>"I wish I could have called to see your aunt," he said carelessly, +"but I am off to Vienna to-morrow."</p> + +<p>Betty believed that she did not change countenance by a hair's +breadth.</p> + +<p>"I hope you'll have a delightful time," she said politely.</p> + +<p>"Thanks. I am sure I shall. The only consolation for leaving Paris is +that one is going to Vienna. Are you here for long?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know." Betty was on her guard again.</p> + +<p>"Paris is a delightful city, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Most charming."</p> + +<p>"Have you been here long?"</p> + +<p>"No, not very long."</p> + +<p>"Are you still working at your painting? It would be a pity to give +that up."</p> + +<p>"I am not working just now."</p> + +<p>"I see your aunt," he said hurriedly. "Are you going to send me away +like this? Don't be so unjust, so ungenerous. It's not like you—my +pupil of last Spring was not unjust."</p> + +<p>"Your pupil of last Spring was a child and a duffer, Mr. Vernon, as I +said before. But she is grateful to you for one thing—no, two."</p> + +<p>"What's the other?" he asked swiftly.</p> + +<p>"Your drawing-lessons," she demurely answered.</p> + +<p>"Then what's the one?"</p> + +<p>"Good-bye," she said, and went down the steps to meet her aunt. He +effaced himself behind a pillar. In spite of her new coldness, he +could not believe that she would tell her aunt of the meeting. And he +was right, though Betty's reasons were not his reasons.</p> + +<p>"What's the good?" she asked herself as she and her aunt walked across +to their hotel. "He's going away to-morrow, and I shall never see him +again. Well, I behaved beautifully, that's one thing. He must simply +loathe me. So that's all right! If he were staying on in Paris, of +course I would tell her."</p> + +<p>She believed this fully.</p> + +<p>He waited five minutes behind that pillar, and then had himself driven +to the Rue Notre Dame des Champs, choosing as driver a man with a +white hat, in strict accordance with the advice in Baedeker, though he +had never read any of the works of that author.</p> + +<p>This new Betty, with the smart gown and the distant manner, awoke at +the same time that she contradicted his memories of the Betty of Long +Barton. And he should not see her again. Of course he was not going to +Vienna, but neither was he going to hang round the Hotel Bête, or to +bribe Franz or Elise to smuggle notes to Miss Betty.</p> + +<p>"It's never any use trying to join things on again," he told himself. +"As well try to mend a spider's web when you have put your boot +through it."</p> + +<p> 'No diver brings up love again<br> + Dropped once<br> + In such cold seas!'</p> + +<p>"But what has happened? Why does she hate me so? You acted very +nicely, dear, but that wasn't indifference. It was hatred, if ever +I've seen it. I wonder what it means? Another lover? No—then she'd be +sorry for me. It's something that belongs to me—not another man's +shadow. But what I shall never know. And she's prettier than ever, +too. Oh, hang it!"</p> + +<p>His key turned in the lock, and on the door-mat shewed the white +square of an envelope—a note from the other woman, the one whose +profile he had not remembered. She was in Paris for a time. She had +seen him at the Paix, had wondered whether he had his old rooms, had +driven straight up on the chance of being able to leave this—wasn't +that devotion?—and would he care to call for her at eight and they +could dine somewhere and talk over old times? One familiar initial, +that of her first name, curled in the corner and the card smelt of +jasmine—not of jasmine-scent in bottles, but of the real flower. He +had never known how she managed it.</p> + +<p>Vernon was not fond of talking over old times, but Betty would be +dining at the Hotel Bête—some dull hole, no doubt; he had never heard +of it. Well, he could not dine at the Bête, and after all one must +dine somewhere. And the other woman had never bored him. That is a +terrible weapon in the hands of a rival. And Betty had been most +unjust. And what was Betty to him, anyway? His thoughts turned to the +American girl who had sketched with him in Brittany that Summer. Ah, +if she had not been whisked back to New York by her people, it would +not now be a question of Betty or of the Jasmine lady. He took out +Miss Van Tromp's portrait and sat looking at it: it was admirable, the +fearless poise of the head, the laughing eyes, the full pouting lips. +Then Betty's face and the face of the Jasmine lady came between him +and Miss Van Tromp.</p> + +<p>"Bah," he said, "smell, kiss, wear—at last throw away. Never keep a +rose till it's faded." A little tide of Breton memories swept through +him.</p> + +<p>"Bah," he said again, "she was perfectly charming, but what is the use +of charm, half the world away?"</p> + +<p>He pulled his trunk from the front of the fire-place, pushed up the +iron damper, and made a little fire. He burned all Miss Van Tromp's +letters, and her photograph—but, from habit, or from gratitude, he +kissed it before he burned it.</p> + +<p>"Now," said he as the last sparks died redly on the black embers, "the +decks are cleared for action. Shall I sentimentalise about +Betty—cold, cruel, changed Betty—or shall I call for the Jasmine +lady?"</p> + +<p>He did both, and the Jasmine lady might have found him dull. As it +happened, she only found him <i>distrait</i>, and that interested her.</p> + +<p>"When we parted," she said, "it was I who was in tears. Now it's you. +What is it?"</p> + +<p>"If I am in tears," he roused himself to say, "it is only because +everything passes, 'tout lasse, tout passe, tout casse.'"</p> + +<p>"What's broken now?" she asked; "another heart? Oh, yes! you broke +mine all to little, little bits. But I've mended it. I wanted +frightfully to see you to thank you!</p> + +<p>"This is a grateful day for women," thought Vernon, looking the +interrogatory.</p> + +<p>"Why, for showing me how hearts are broken," she explained; "it's +quite easy when you know how, and it's a perfectly delightful game. I +play it myself now, and I can't imagine how I ever got on before I +learned the rules."</p> + +<p>"You forget," he said, smiling. "It was you who broke my heart. And +it's not mended yet."</p> + +<p>"That's very sweet of you. But really, you know, I'm very glad it was +you who broke my heart, and not anyone else. Because, now it's mended, +that gives us something to talk about. We have a past. That's really +what I wanted to tell you. And that's such a bond, isn't it? When it +really <i>is</i> past—dead, you know, no nonsense about cataleptic +trances, but stone dead."</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said, "it is a link. But it isn't the past for me, you know. +It can never—"</p> + +<p>She held up a pretty jewelled hand.</p> + +<p>"Now, don't," she said. "That's just what you don't understand. All +that's out of the picture. I know you too well. Just realize that I'm +the only nice woman you know who doesn't either expect you to make +love to her in the future or hate you for having done it in the past, +and you'll want to see me every day. Think of the novelty of it."</p> + +<p>"I do and I do," said he, "and I won't protest any more while you're +in this mood. Bear with me if I seem idiotic to-night—I've been +burning old letters, and that always makes me like a funeral."</p> + +<p>"Old letters—mine?"</p> + +<p>"I burned yours long ago."</p> + +<p>"And it isn't two years since we parted! How many have there been +since?"</p> + +<p>"Is this the Inquisition or is it Durand's?"</p> + +<p>"It's somewhere where we both are," she said, without a trace of +sentiment; "that's good enough for me. Do you know I've been married +since I saw you last? <i>And</i> left a widow—in a short three months it +all happened. And—well I'm not very clever, as you know, but—can you +imagine what it is like to be married to a man who doesn't understand +a single word you say, unless it's about the weather or things to eat? +No, don't look shocked. He was a good fellow, and very happy till the +motor accident took him and left me this."</p> + +<p>She shewed a scar on her smooth arm.</p> + +<p>"What a woman it is for surprises! So he was very happy? But of course +he was."</p> + +<p>"Yes, of course, as you say. I was a model wife. I wore black for a +whole year too!"</p> + +<p>"Why did you marry him?"</p> + +<p>"Well, at the time I thought you might hear of it and be disappointed, +or hurt, or something."</p> + +<p>"So I am," said Vernon with truth.</p> + +<p>"You needn't be," said she. "You'll find me much nicer now I don't +want to disappoint you or hurt you, but only to have a good time, and +there's no nonsense about love to get in the way, and spoil +everything."</p> + +<p>"So you're—But this isn't proper! Here am I dining with a lady and I +don't even know her name!"</p> + +<p>"I know—I wouldn't put it to the note. Didn't that single initial +arouse your suspicions? Her name? Her title if you please! I married +Harry St. Craye. You remember how we used to laugh at him together."</p> + +<p>"That little—I beg your pardon, Lady St. Craye."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, "De mortuis nil nisi bonum: of the dead nothing but +the bones. If he had lived he would certainly have beaten me. Here's +to our new friendship!"</p> + +<p>"Our new friendship!" he repeated, raising his glass and looking in +her eyes. Lady St. Craye looked very beautiful, and Betty was not +there. In fact, just now there was no Betty.</p> + +<p>He went back to his room humming a song of Yvette Guilbert's. There +might have been no flowering May, no buttercup meadows in all the +world, for any thought of memory that he had of them. And Betty was a +thousand miles away.</p> + +<p>That was at night. In the morning Betty was at the Hotel Bête, and the +Hotel Bête was no longer a petty little hotel which he did not know +and never should know. For the early post brought him a letter which +said:</p> + +<p>"I am in Paris for a few days and should like to see you if you can +make it convenient to call at my hotel on Thursday."</p> + +<p>This was Tuesday.</p> + +<p>The letter was signed with the name of the uncle from whom Vernon had +expectations, and at the head of the letter was the address:</p> +<center> +<table summary=""> +<tr><td> +<p> "Hôtel Bête,<br> + Cité de Retraite,<br> + Rue Boissy d'Anglais."</p> +</td></tr> +</table> +</center> +<p>"Now bear witness!" cried Vernon, appealing to the Universe, "bear +witness that this is <i>not</i> my fault!"</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER IX.</p> + +<p> +THE OPPORTUNITY.</p> + +<p>Vernon in those two days decided that he did not wish to see Betty +again. She was angry with him, and, though he never for an instant +distrusted his power to dissipate the cloud, he felt that the lifting +of it would leave him and her in that strong light wherein the frail +flower of sentiment must wither and perish. Explications were fatal to +the delicate mystery, the ethereal half-lights, that Vernon loved. +Above all things he detested the <i>trop dit</i>.</p> + +<p>Already a mood of much daylight was making him blink and shrink. He +saw himself as he was—or nearly—and the spectacle did not please +him. The thought of Lady St. Craye was the only one that seemed to +make for any sort of complacency. The thought of Temple rankled oddly.</p> + +<p>"He likes me, and he dislikes himself for liking me. Why does he like +me? Why does anyone like me? I'm hanged if I know!"</p> + +<p>This was the other side of his mood of most days, when the wonder +seemed that everyone should not like him. Why shouldn't they? +Ordinarily he was hanged if he knew that.</p> + +<p>He had expected a note from Lady St. Craye to follow up his dinner +with her. He knew how a woman rarely resists the temptation to write +to the man in whom she is interested, even while his last words are +still ringing in her ears. But no note came, and he concluded that +Lady St. Craye was not interested. This reassured while it piqued.</p> + +<p>The Hotel Bête is very near the Madeleine, and very near the heart of +Paris—of gay Paris, that is,—yet it might have been a hundred miles +from anywhere. You go along the Rue Boissy, and stopping at a gateway +you turn into a dreary paved court, which is the Cité de la Retraite. +Here the doors of the Hotel Bête open before you like the portals of a +mausoleum. There is no greeting from the Patronne; your arrival gives +rise to no pleasant welcoming bustle. The concierge receives you, and +you see at once that her cheerful smile is assumed. No one could +really be cheerful at the Hotel Bête.</p> + +<p>Vernon felt as though he was entering a family vault of the highest +respectability when he passed through its silent hall and enquired for +Mr. James Vernon.</p> + +<p>Monsieur Vernon was out. No, he had charged no one with a billet for +monsieur. Monsieur Vernon would doubtless return for the déjeûner; it +was certain that he would return for the diner. Would Monsieur wait?</p> + +<p>Monsieur waited, in a little stiff salon with glass doors, prim +furniture, and an elaborately ornamental French clock. It was silent, +of course. One wonders sometimes whether ornamental French Ormolu +clocks have any works, or are solid throughout. For no one has ever +seen one of them going.</p> + +<p>There were day-old English papers on the table, and the New York +Herald. Through the glass doors he could see everyone who came in or +went out. And he saw no one. There was a stillness as of the tomb.</p> + +<p>Even the waiter, now laying covers for the déjeûner, wore list +slippers and his movements were silent as a heron's ghost-gray flight.</p> + +<p>He came to the glass door presently.</p> + +<p>"Did Monsieur breakfast?"</p> + +<p>Vernon was not minded to waste two days in the pursuit of uncles. Here +he was, and here he stayed, till Uncle James should appear.</p> + +<p>Yes, decidedly, Monsieur breakfasted.</p> + +<p>He wondered where the clients of the hotel had hidden themselves. Were +they all dead, or merely sight-seeing? As his watch shewed him the +approach of half-past twelve he found himself listening for the tramp +of approaching feet, the rustle of returning skirts. And still all was +silent as the grave.</p> + +<p>The sudden summoning sound of a bell roused him from a dreamy wonder +as to whether Betty and her aunt had already left. If not, should he +meet them at déjeûner? The idea of the possible meeting amused more +than it interested him. He crossed the hall and entered the long bare +salle á manger.</p> + +<p>By Heaven—he was the only guest! A cover was laid for him only—no, +at a distance of half the table for another. Then Betty and her aunt +had gone. Well, so much the better.</p> + +<p>He unfolded his table-napkin. In another moment, doubtless, Uncle +James would appear to fill the vacant place.</p> + +<p>But in another moment the vacant place was filled—and by Betty—Betty +alone, unchaperoned, and bristling with hostility. She bowed very +coldly, but she was crimson to the ears. He rose and came to her +holding out his hand.</p> + +<p>With the waiter looking on, Betty had to give hers, but she gave it in +a way that said very plainly:</p> + +<p>"I am very surprised and not at all pleased to see you here."</p> + +<p>"This is a most unexpected pleasure," he said very distinctly, and +added the truth about his uncle.</p> + +<p>"Has Monsieur Vernon yet returned?" he asked the waiter who hovered +anxiously near.</p> + +<p>"No, Monsieur was not yet of return."</p> + +<p>"So you see," his look answered the speech of her hand, "it is not my +doing in the least."</p> + +<p>"I hope your aunt is well," he went on, the waiter handing baked eggs +the while.</p> + +<p>"Quite well, thank you," said Betty. "And how is your wife? I ought to +have asked yesterday, but I forgot."</p> + +<p>"My wife?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, perhaps you aren't married yet. Of course my father told me of +your engagement."</p> + +<p>She crumbled bread and smiled pleasantly.</p> + +<p>"So <i>that's</i> it," thought Vernon. "Fool that I was to forget it!"</p> + +<p>"I am not married," he said coldly, "nor have I ever been engaged to +be married."</p> + +<p>And he ate eggs stolidly wondering what her next move would be. It was +one that surprised him. For she leaned towards him and said in a +perfectly new voice:</p> + +<p>"Couldn't you get Franz to move you a little more this way? One can't +shout across these acres of tablecloth, and I've heaps of things to +tell you."</p> + +<p>He moved nearer, and once again he wronged Betty by a mental +shrinking. Was she really going to own that she had resented the news +of his engagement? She was really hopeless. He began to bristle +defensively.</p> + +<a name="01"></a> +<br><br> +<center> +<img alt="1w_cross.jpg (83K)" src="images/1w_cross.jpg" height="880" width="700"> +<br> +<p>["'Ah, don't be cross!' she said"]</p> +</center> +<br><br> + +<p>"Anything you care to tell me will of course be of the greatest +possible interest," he was beginning, but Betty interrupted him.</p> + +<p>"<i>Ah, don't be cross</i>!" she said. "I know I was perfectly horrid +yesterday, but I own I was rather hurt."</p> + +<p>"Hold back," he adjured her, inwardly, "for Heaven's sake, hold back!"</p> + +<p>"You see," she went on, "you and I were such good friends—you'd been +so kind—and you told me—you talked to me about things you didn't +talk of to other people,—and when I thought you'd told my step-father +a secret of yours that you'd never told me, of course I felt +hurt—anyone would have."</p> + +<p>"I see," said he, beginning to.</p> + +<p>"Of course I never dreamed that he'd lied, and even now I don't see—" +Then suddenly she did see and crimsoned again.</p> + +<p>"He didn't lie," said Vernon carefully, "it was I. But I would never +have told him anything that I wouldn't have told you—nor half that I +did tell you."</p> + +<p>The waiter handed pale meat.</p> + +<p>"Yes, the scenery in Brittany is most charming; I did some good work +there. The people are so primitive and delightful too."</p> + +<p>The waiter withdrew, and Betty said:</p> + +<p>"How do you mean—he didn't lie?"</p> + +<p>"The fact is," said Vernon, "he—he did not understand our friendship +in the least. I imagine friendship was not invented when he was young. +It's a tiresome subject, Miss Desmond; let's drop it—shall we?"</p> + +<p>"If you like," said she, chilly as December.</p> + +<p>"Oh, well then, just let me say it was done for your sake, Miss +Desmond. He had no idea that two people should have any interests in +common except—except matters of the heart, and the shortest way to +convince him was to tell him that my heart was elsewhere. I don't like +lies, but there are some people who insist on lies—nothing else will +convince them of the truth. Here comes some abhorrent preparation of +rice. How goes it with art?"</p> + +<p>"I have been working very hard," she said, "but every day I seem to +know less and less."</p> + +<p>"Oh, that's all right! It's only that every day one knows more and +more—of how little one does know. You'll have to pass many milestones +before you pass out of that state. Do they always feed you like this +here?"</p> + +<p>"Some days it's custard," said Betty, "but we've only been here a +week."</p> + +<p>"We're friends again now, aren't we?" he questioned suddenly.</p> + +<p>"Yes—oh, yes!"</p> + +<p>"Then I may ask questions. I want to hear what you've been doing since +we parted, and where you've been, and how you come to Paris—and where +your aunt is, and what she'll say to me when she comes in."</p> + +<p>"She likes you," said Betty, "and she won't come in, but Madame +Gautier will. Aunt Julia went off this morning—she couldn't delay any +longer because of catching the P. & O. at Brindisi; and I'm to wait +here till Madame Gautier comes at three. Auntie came all the way back +from America to see whether I was happy here. She <i>is</i> a dear!"</p> + +<p>"And who is Madame Gautier? Is she also a dear? But let's have our +coffee in the salon—and tell me everything from the beginning."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Betty, "oh, yes!"</p> + +<p>But the salon window was darkened by a passing shape.</p> + +<p>"My uncle, bless him!" said Vernon. "I must go. See, here's my card! +Won't you write and tell me all about everything? You will, won't +you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, but you musn't write to me. Madame Gautier opens all our +letters, and friendships weren't invented when she was young either. +Good-bye."</p> + +<p>Vernon had to go towards the strong English voice that was filling the +hall with its inquiries for "Ung Mossoo—ung mossoo Anglay qui avoir +certainmong etty icy ce mattan."</p> + +<p>Five minutes later Betty saw two figures go along the pavement on the +other side of the decorous embroidered muslin blinds which, in the +unlikely event of any happening in the Cite de la Retraite, ensure its +not being distinctly seen by those who sojourn at the Hotel Bête.</p> + +<p>Betty instantly experienced that feminine longing which makes women +write to lovers or friends from whom they have but now parted, and she +was weaker than Lady St. Craye. There was nothing to do. Her trunks +were packed. She had before her two hours, or nearly, of waiting for +Madame Gautier. So she wrote, and this is the letter, erasures and +all. Vernon, when he got it, was most interested in the erasures here +given in italics.</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> Dear Mr. Vernon:</p> + +<p> I am very glad we are good friends again, and I should like to tell + you everything that has happened. (<i>After you, after he—when my + step-father</i>). After the last time I saw you (<i>I was very unhappy + because I wanted to go to Paris</i>) I was very anxious to go to Paris + because of what you had said. My aunt came down and was very kind. + (<i>She told me</i>) She persuaded my step-father to let me go. I think + (<i>we</i>) he was glad to get rid of me, for (<i>somehow</i>) he never did + care about me, any more than I did about him. There are a great many + (<i>other</i>) things that he does not understand. Of course I was wild + with joy and thought of nothing but (<i>what you</i>) work, and my aunt + brought me over. But I did not see anything of Paris then. We went + straight on to Joinville where Madame Gautier has a villa, and + (<i>we</i>) my aunt left me there, and went to Norway. It was all very + strange at first, but I liked it. Madame Gautier is very strict; it + was like being at school. Sometimes I almost (<i>forgot</i>) fancied that + I was at school again. There were three other girls besides me, and + we had great fun. The Professor was very nice and encouraging. He is + very old. So is everybody who comes to the house—(<i>but</i>) it + (<i>was</i>) is jolly, because when there are four of you everything is + so interesting. We used to have picnics in the woods, and take it in + turn to ride in the donkey-cart. And there were musical evenings + with the Pastor and the Avocat and their wives. It was very amusing + sometimes. Madame Gautier had let her Paris flat, so we stayed at + Joinville till a week ago, and then my Aunt walked in one day and + took me to Paris for a week. I did enjoy that. And now aunt has + gone, and Madame Gautier is taking the inventory and getting the + keys, and presently she will come for me, I shall go with her to the + Rue Vaugirard, Number 62. It will be very nice seeing the other + girls again and telling them all about (<i>everything</i>) my week in + Paris. I am so sorry that I shall not have the pleasure of seeing + you again, but I am glad we met—because I do not like to think my + friends do not trust me.</p> + +<p> Yours sincerely,</p> + +<p> Betty Desmond.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>That was the letter which Betty posted. But the first letter she wrote +was quite different. It began:</p> +<blockquote> +<p> "You don't know, you never will know what it is to me to know that + you did not deceive me. My dear friend, my only friend! And how I + treated you yesterday! And how nobly you forgave me. I shall see you + again. I must see you again. No one else has ever understood me." + And so on to the "True and constant friend Betty."</p> +</blockquote> +<p>She burned this letter.</p> + +<p>"The other must go," she said, "that's the worst of life. If I sent +the one that's really written as I feel he'd think I was in love with +him or some nonsense. But a child who was just in two syllables might +have written the other. So <i>that's</i> all right."</p> + +<p>She looked at her watch. The same silver watch with which she had once +crossed the hand of one who told her fortune.</p> + +<p>"How silly all that was!" she said. "I have learned wisdom now. Nearly +half-past three. I never knew Madame late before."</p> + +<p>And now Betty began to watch the windows for the arrival of her +chaperone; and four o'clock came, and five, but no Madame Gautier.</p> + +<p>She went out at last and asked to see the Patronne, and to her she +explained in a French whose fluency out-ran its correctness, that a +lady was to have called for her at three. It was now a quarter past +five. What did Madame think she should do?</p> + +<p>Madame was lethargic and uninterested. She had no idea. She could not +advise. Probably Mademoiselle would do well to wait always.</p> + +<p>The concierge was less aloof.</p> + +<p>But without doubt Madame, Mademoiselle's friend had forgotten the +hour. She would arrive later, certainly. If not, Mademoiselle could +stay the night at the hotel, where a young lady would be perfectly +well, and go to Madame her friend in the morning.</p> + +<p>But Betty was not minded to stay the night alone at the Hótel Bête. +For one thing she had very little money,—save that in the fat +envelope addressed to Madame Gautier which her aunt had given her. It +contained, she knew, the money to pay for her board and lessons during +the next six months,—for the elder Miss Desmond was off to India, +Japan and Thibet, and her horror of banks and cheques made her very +downright in the matter of money. That in the envelope was all Betty +had, and that was Madame Gautier's. But the other part of the +advice—to go to Madame Gautier's in the morning? If in the morning, +why not now?</p> + +<p>She decided to go now. No one opposed the idea much. Only Franz seemed +a little disturbed and the concierge tepidly urged patience.</p> + +<p>But Betty was fretted by waiting. Also she knew that Vernon and his +uncle might return at any moment. And it would perhaps be awkward for +him to find her there—she would not for the world cause him a +moment's annoyance. Besides he might think she had waited on the +chance of seeing him again. That was not to be borne.</p> + +<p>"I will return and take my trunks," she said; and a carriage was +called.</p> + +<p>There was something very exhilarating in driving through the streets +of Paris, alone, in a nice little carriage with fat pneumatic tires. +The street lamps were alight, and the shops not yet closed. Almost +every house seemed to be a shop.</p> + +<p>"I wonder where all the people live," said Betty.</p> + +<p>The Place de la Concorde delighted her with its many lamps and its +splendid space.</p> + +<p>"How glorious it would be to live alone in Paris," she thought, "be +driven about in cabs just when one liked and where one liked! Oh, I am +tired of being a school-girl! I suppose they won't let me be grown up +till I'm so old I shall wish I was a school-girl again."</p> + +<p>She loved the river with its reflected lights,—but it made her +shudder, too.</p> + +<p>"Of course I shall never be allowed to see the Morgue," she said; +"they won't let me see anything real. Even this little teeny tiny bit +of a drive, I daresay it's not comme il faut! I do hope Madame won't +be furious. She couldn't expect me to wait forever. Perhaps, too, +she's ill, and no one to look after her. Oh, I'm sure I'm right to +go."</p> + +<p>The doubt, however, grew as the carriage jolted through narrower +streets, and when it drew up at an open carriage-door, Betty jumped +out, paid the coachman, and went in quite prepared to be scolded.</p> + +<p>She went through the doorway and stood looking for the list of names +such as are set at the foot of the stairs leading to flats in London. +There was no such list. From a lighted doorway on the right came a +babel of shrill, high-pitched voices. Betty looked in at the door and +the voices ceased.</p> + +<p>"Pardon, Madame," said Betty. "I seek Madame Gautier."</p> + +<p>Everyone in the crowded stuffy lamplit little room drew a deep breath.</p> + +<p>"Mademoiselle is without doubt one of Madame's young ladies?"</p> + +<p>Perhaps it was the sudden hushing of the raised voices, perhaps it was +something in the flushed faces that all turned towards her. To her +dying day Betty will never know why she did not say "Yes." What she +did say was:</p> + +<p>"I am a friend of Madame's. Is she at home?"</p> + +<p>"No, Mademoiselle,—she is not at home; she will never be at home +more, the poor lady. She is dead, Mademoiselle—an accident, one of +those cursed automobiles ran over her at her very door, Mademoiselle, +before our eyes."</p> + +<p>Betty felt sick.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," she said, "it is very sudden."</p> + +<p>"Will Mademoiselle leave her name?" the concierge asked curiously. +"The brother of Madame, he is in the commerce at Nantes. A telegramme +has been sent—he arrives to-morrow morning. He will give Mademoiselle +details."</p> + +<p>Again Betty said what she had not intended to say. She said:</p> + +<p>"Miss Brown." Perhaps the brother in the commerce vaguely suggested +the addition, "of Manchester."</p> + +<p>Then she turned away, and got out of the light into the friendly dusk +of the street.</p> + +<p>"Tiens, but it is droll," said the concierge's friend, "a young girl, +and all alone like that."</p> + +<p>"Oh, it is nothing," said the concierge; "the English are mad—all! +Their young girls run the streets at all hours, and the Devil guards +them."</p> + +<p>Betty stood in the street. She could not go back to that circle of +harpy faces, all eagerly tearing to pieces the details of poor old +Madame Gautier's death. She must be alone—think. She would have to +write home. Her father would come to fetch her. Her aunt was beyond +the reach of appeal. Her artist-life would be over. Everything would +be over. She would be dragged back to the Parishing and the Mothers' +meetings and the black-cotton-covered books and the Sunday School.</p> + +<p>And she would never have lived in Paris at all!</p> + +<p>She walked down the street.</p> + +<p>"I can't think—I <i>must</i> think! I'll have this night to myself to +think in, anyway. I'll go to some cheap hotel. I have enough for +that."</p> + +<p>She hailed a passing carriage, drove to the Hotel Bête, took her +luggage to the Gare du Nord, and left it there.</p> + +<p>Then as she stood on the station step, she felt something in her hand. +It was the fat letter addressed to Madame Gautier. And she knew it was +fat with bank notes.</p> + +<p>She unfastened her dress and thrust the letter into her bosom, +buttoning the dress carefully over it.</p> + +<p>"But I won't go to my hotel yet," she said. "I won't even look for +one. I'll see Paris a bit first."</p> + +<p>She hailed a coachman.</p> + +<p>"Go," she said, "to some restaurant in the Latin Quarter—where the +art students eat."</p> + +<p>"And I'm alone in Paris, and perfectly free," said Betty, leaning back +on the cushions. "No, I won't tell my coachman to drive along the Rue +Notre Dame des Champs, wherever that is. Oh, it is glorious to be +perfectly free. Oh, poor Madame Gautier! Oh dear, oh dear!" She held +her breath and wondered why she could feel sorry.</p> + +<p>"You are a wretch," she said, "poor Madame was kind to you in her hard +narrow way, and now is she lying cold and dead, all broken up by that +cruel motor car."</p> + +<p>The horror of the picture helped by Betty's excitement brought the +tears and she encouraged them.</p> + +<p>"It is something to find one is not entirely heartless," she said at +last, drying her eyes, as the carriage drew up at a place where there +were people and voices and many lights.</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER X.</p> + +<p> +SEEING LIFE.</p> + +<p>The thoughts of the two who loved her were with Betty that night. The +aunt, shaken, jolted, enduring much in the Paris, Lyons and +Mediterranean express thought fondly of her.</p> + +<p>"She's a nice little thing. I must take her about a bit," she mused, +and even encouraged her fancy to play with the idea of a London +season—a thing it had not done for years.</p> + +<p>The Reverend Cecil, curtains drawn and lamp alight, paused to think of +her even in the midst of his first thorough examination of his newest +treasure in Seventeenth Century Tracts, "The Man Mouse baited and +trapped for nibbling the margins of Eugenius Philalethes, being an +assault on Henry Moore." It was bound up with, "The Second Wash, or +the Moore scoured again," and a dozen others. A dumpy octavo, in brown +leather, he had found it propping a beer barrel in the next village.</p> + +<p>"Dear Lizzie!—I wonder if she will ever care for really important +things. There must be treasures upon treasures in those boxes on the +French quays that one reads about. But she never would learn to know +one type from another."</p> + +<p>He studied the fire thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>"I wonder if she does understand how much she is to me," he thought. +"Those are the things that are better unsaid. At least I always think +so when she's here. But all these months—I wonder whether girls like +you to <i>say things</i>, or to leave them to be understood. It is more +delicate not to say them, perhaps."</p> + +<p>Then his thoughts went back to the other Lizzie, about whom he had +never felt these doubts. He had loved her, and had told her so. And +she had told him her half of the story in very simple words—and most +simply, and without at all "leaving things to be understood" they had +planned the future that never was to be. He remembered the day when +sitting over the drawing-room fire, and holding her dear hand he had +said:</p> + +<p>"This is how we shall sit when we are old and gray, dearest." It had +seemed so impossibly far-off then.</p> + +<p>And she had said:</p> + +<p>"I hope we shall die the same day, Cec."</p> + +<p>But this had not happened.</p> + +<p>And he had said:</p> + +<p>"And we shall have such a beautiful life—doing good, and working for +God, and bringing up our children in the right way. Oh, Lizzie, it's +very wonderful to think of that happiness, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>And she had laid her head on his shoulder and whispered:</p> + +<p>"I hope we shall have a little girl, dear."</p> + +<p>And he had said:</p> + +<p>"I shall call her Elizabeth, after my dear wife."</p> + +<p>"She must have eyes like yours though."</p> + +<p>"She will be exactly like both of us," he had said, and they sat hand +in hand, and talked innocently, like two children, of the little child +that was never to be.</p> + +<p>He had wanted them to put on her tombstone, Lizzie daughter of —— +and affianced wife of Cecil Underwood, but her mother had said that +<i>there</i> there was no marrying or giving in marriage. In his heart the +Reverend Cecil had sometimes dared to hope that that text had been +misunderstood. To him his Lizzie had always been "as the angels of God +in Heaven."</p> + +<p>Then came the long broken years, and then the little girl—Elizabeth, +his step-child.</p> + +<p>The pent-up love of all his life spent itself on her: a love so fond, +so tender, so sacred that it seemed only self-respecting to hide it a +little from the world by a mask of coldness. And Betty had never seen +anything but the mask.</p> + +<p>"I think, when I see her, I will tell her all about my Lizzie," he +said. "I wonder if she knows what the house is like without her. But +of course she doesn't, or she would have asked to come home, long ago. +I wonder whether she misses me very much. Madame Gautier is kind, she +says; but no stranger can make a home, as love can make it."</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Betty dining alone at a restaurant in the Boulevard St. +Michel, within a mile of the Serpent, ordered what she called a nice +dinner—it was mostly vegetables and sweet things—and ate it with +appetite, looking about her. The long mirrors, the waiters were like +the ones in London restaurants, but the people who ate there they were +different. Everything was much shabbier, yet much gayer. +Shopkeeping-looking men were dining with their wives; some of them had +a child, napkin under chin, solemnly struggling with a big soup spoon +or upturning on its little nose a tumbler of weak red wine and water. +There were students—she knew them by their slouched hats and beards a +day old—dining by twos and threes and fours. No one took any more +notice of Betty than was shewn by a careless glance or two. She was +very quietly dressed. Her hat even was rather an unbecoming brown +thing. When she had eaten, she ordered coffee, and began to try to +think, but thinking was difficult with the loud voices and the +laughter, and the clink of glasses and the waiters' hurrying transits. +And at the back of her mind was a thought waiting for her to think it. +And she was afraid.</p> + +<p>So presently she paid her bill, and went out, and found a tram, and +rode on the top of it through the lighted streets, on the level of the +first floor windows and the brown leaves of the trees in the +Boulevards, and went away and away through the heart of Paris; and +still all her mind could do nothing but thrust off, with both hands, +the thought that was pushing forward towards her thinking. When the +tram stopped at its journey's end she did not alight, but paid for, +and made, the return journey, and found her feet again in the +Boulevard St. Michel.</p> + +<p>Of course, she had read her Trilby, and other works dealing with the +Latin Quarter. She knew that in that quarter everyone is not +respectable, but everyone is kind. It seemed good to her to go to a +café, to sit at a marble topped table, and drink—not the strange +liqueurs which men drink in books, but homely hot milk, such as some +of the other girls there had before them. It would be perfectly +simple, as well as interesting, to watch the faces of the students, +boys and girls, and when she found a nice girl-face, to speak to it, +asking for the address of a respectable hotel.</p> + +<p>So she walked up the wide, tree-planted street feeling very Parisian +indeed, as she called it the "Boule Miche" to herself. And she stopped +at the first Café she came to, which happened to be the Café +d'Harcourt.</p> + +<p>She did not see its name, and if she had it would naturally not have +conveyed any idea to her. The hour was not yet ten, and the Café +d'Harcourt was very quiet. There were not a dozen people at the little +tables. Most of them were women. It would be easy to ask her little +questions, with so few people to stare and wonder if she addressed a +stranger.</p> + +<p>She sat down, and ordered her hot milk and, with a flutter, awaited +it. This was life. And to-morrow she must telegraph to her +step-father, and everything would end in the old round of parish +duties; all her hopes and dreams would be submerged in the heavy +morass of meeting mothers. The thought leapt up.—Betty hid her eyes +and would not look at it. Instead, she looked at the other people +seated at the tables—the women. They were laughing and talking among +themselves. One or two looked at Betty and smiled with frank +friendliness. Betty smiled back, but with embarrassment. She had heard +that French ladies of rank and fashion would as soon go out without +their stockings as without their paint, but she had not supposed that +the practice extended to art students. And all these ladies were +boldly painted—no mere soupçon of carmine and pearl powder, but good +solid masterpieces in body colour, black, white and red. She smiled in +answer to their obvious friendliness, but she did not ask them for +addresses. A handsome black-browed scowling woman sitting alone +frowned at her. She felt quite hurt. Why should anyone want to be +unkind?</p> + +<p>Men selling flowers, toy rabbits, rattling cardboard balls, offered +their wares up and down the row of tables. Betty bought a bunch of +fading late roses and thought, with a sudden sentimentality that +shocked her, of the monthly rose below the window at home. It always +bloomed well up to Christmas. Well, in two days she would see that +rose-bush.</p> + +<p>The trams rattled down the Boulevard, carriages rolled by. Every now +and then one of these would stop, and a couple would alight. And +people came on foot. The café was filling up. But still none of the +women seemed to Betty exactly the right sort of person to know exactly +the right sort of hotel.</p> + +<p>Of course she knew from books that Hotels keep open all night,—but +she did not happen to have read any book which told of the reluctance +of respectable hotels to receive young women without luggage, late in +the evening. So it seemed to her that there was plenty of time.</p> + +<p>A blonde girl with jet black brows and eyes like big black beads was +leaning her elbows on her table and talking to her companions, two +tourist-looking Germans in loud checks. They kept glancing at Betty, +and it made her nervous to know that they were talking about her. At +last her eyes met the eyes of the girl, who smiled at her and made a +little gesture of invitation to her, to come and sit at their table. +Betty out of sheer embarrassment might have gone, but just at that +moment the handsome scowling woman rose, rustled quickly to Betty, +knocking over a chair in her passage, held out a hand, and said in +excellent English:</p> + +<p>"How do you do?"</p> + +<p>Betty gave her hand, but "I don't remember you," said she.</p> + +<p>"May I join you?" said the woman sitting down. She wore black and +white and red, and she was frightfully smart, Betty thought. She +glanced at the others—the tourists and the blonde; they were no +longer looking at her.</p> + +<p>"Look here," said the woman, speaking low, "I don't know you from +Adam, of course, but I know you're a decent girl. For God's sake go +home to your friends! I don't know what they're about to let you out +alone like this."</p> + +<p>"I'm alone in Paris just now," said Betty.</p> + +<p>"Good God in Heaven, you little fool! Get back to your lodging. You've +no business here."</p> + +<p>"I've as much business as anyone else," said Betty. "I'm an artist, +too, and I want to see life."</p> + +<p>"You've not seen much yet," said the woman with a laugh that Betty +hated to hear. "Have you been brought up in a convent? You an artist! +Look at all of us! Do you need to be told what <i>our</i> trade is?"</p> + +<p>"Don't," said Betty; "oh, don't."</p> + +<p>"Go home," said the woman, "and say your prayers—I suppose you <i>do</i> +say your prayers?—and thank God that it isn't your trade too."</p> + +<p>"I don't know what you mean," said Betty.</p> + +<p>"Well then, go home and read your Bible. That'll tell you the sort of +woman it is that stands about the corners of streets, or sits at the +Café d'Harcourt. What are your people about?"</p> + +<p>"My father's in England," said Betty; "he's a clergyman."</p> + +<p>"I generally say mine was," said the other, "but I won't to you, +because you'd believe me. My father was church organist, though. And +the Vicarage people were rather fond of me. I used to do a lot of +Parish work." She laughed again.</p> + +<p>Betty laid a hand on the other woman's.</p> + +<p>"Couldn't you go home to your father—or—something?" she asked +feebly.</p> + +<p>"He's cursed me forever—Put it all down in black and white—a regular +commination service. It's you that have got to go home, and do it +<i>now</i>, too." She shook off Betty's hand and waved her own to a man who +was passing.</p> + +<p>"Here, Mr. Temple—"</p> + +<p>The man halted, hesitated and came up to them.</p> + +<p>"Look here," said the black-browed woman, "look what a pretty flower +I've found,—and here of all places!"</p> + +<p>She indicated Betty by a look. The man looked too, and took the third +chair at their table. Betty wished that the ground might open and +cover her, but the Boule Miche asphalt is solid. The new-comer was +tall and broad-shouldered, with a handsome, serious, boyish face, and +fair hair.</p> + +<p>"She won't listen to me—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I did!" Betty put in reproachfully.</p> + +<p>"You talk to her like a father. Tell her where naughty little girls go +who stay out late at the Café d'Harcourt—fire and brimstone, you +know. She'll understand, she's a clergyman's daughter."</p> + +<p>"I really do think you'd better go home," said the new-comer to Betty +with gentle politeness.</p> + +<p>"I would, directly," said Betty, almost in tears, "but—the fact is I +haven't settled on a hotel, and I came to this café. I thought I could +ask one of these art students to tell me a good hotel, but—so that's +how it is."</p> + +<p>"I should think not," Temple answered the hiatus. Then he looked at +the black-browed, scowling woman, and his look was very kind.</p> + +<p>"Nini and her German swine were beginning to be amiable," said the +woman in an aside which Betty did not hear. "For Christ's sake take +the child away, and put her safely for the night somewhere, if you +have to ring up a Mother Superior or a Governesses' Aid Society."</p> + +<p>"Right. I will." He turned to Betty.</p> + +<p>"Will you allow me," he said, "to find a carriage for you, and see you +to a hotel?"</p> + +<p>"Thank you," said Betty.</p> + +<p>He went out to the curbstone and scanned the road for a passing +carriage.</p> + +<p>"Look here," said the black-browed woman, turning suddenly on Betty; +"I daresay you'll think it's not my place to speak—oh, if you don't +think so you will some day, when you're grown up,—but look here. I'm +not chaffing. It's deadly earnest. You be good. See? There's nothing +else that's any good really."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Betty, "I know. If you're not good you won't be happy."</p> + +<p>"There you go," the other answered almost fiercely; "it's always the +way. Everyone says it—copybooks and Bible and everything—and no one +believes it till they've tried the other way, and then it's no use +believing anything."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, it is," said Betty comfortingly, "and you're so kind. I +don't know how to thank you. Being kind <i>is</i> being good too, isn't +it?"</p> + +<p>"Well, you aren't always a devil, even if you are in hell. I wish I +could make you understand all the things I didn't understand when I +was like you. But nobody can. That's part of the hell. And you don't +even understand half I'm saying."</p> + +<p>"I think I do," said Betty.</p> + +<p>"Keep straight," the other said earnestly; "never mind how dull it is. +I used to think it must be dull in Heaven. God knows it's dull in the +other place! Look, he's got a carriage. You can trust him just for +once, but as a rule I'd say 'Don't you trust any of them—they're all +of a piece.' Good-bye; you're a nice little thing."</p> + +<p>"Good-bye," said Betty; "oh, good-bye! You <i>are</i> kind, and good! +People can't all be good the same way," she added, vaguely and seeking +to comfort.</p> + +<p>"Women can," said the other, "don't you make any mistake. Good-bye."</p> + +<p>She watched the carriage drive away, and turned to meet the spiteful +chaff of Nini and her German friends.</p> + +<p>"Now," said Mr. Temple, as soon as the wheels began to revolve, +"perhaps you will tell me how you come to be out in Paris alone at +this hour."</p> + +<p>Betty stared at him coldly.</p> + +<p>"I shall be greatly obliged if you can recommend me a good hotel," she +said.</p> + +<p>"I don't even know your name," said he.</p> + +<p>"No," she answered briefly.</p> + +<p>"I cannot advise you unless you will trust me a little," he said +gently.</p> + +<p>"You are very kind,—but I have not yet asked for anyone's advice."</p> + +<p>"I am sorry if I have offended you," he said, "but I only wish to be +of service to you."</p> + +<a name="02"></a> +<br><br> +<center> +<img alt="2w_coldly.jpg (78K)" src="images/2w_coldly.jpg" height="811" width="700"> +</center> +<br><br> + +<p>"Thank you very much," said Betty: "the only service I want is the +name of a good hotel."</p> + +<p>"You are unwise to refuse my help," he said. "The place where I found +you shews that you are not to be trusted about alone."</p> + +<p>"Look here," said Betty, speaking very fast, "I dare say you mean +well, but it isn't your business. The lady I was speaking to—"</p> + +<p>"That just shews," he said.</p> + +<p>"She was very kind, and I like her. But I don't intend to be +interfered with by any strangers, however well they mean."</p> + +<p>He laughed for the first time, and she liked him better when she had +heard the note of his laughter.</p> + +<p>"Please forgive me," he said. "You are quite right. Miss Conway is +very kind. And I really do want to help you, and I don't want to be +impertinent. May I speak plainly?"</p> + +<p>"Of course."</p> + +<p>"Well the Café d'Harcourt is not a place for a respectable girl to go +to."</p> + +<p>"I gathered that," she answered quietly. "I won't go there again."</p> + +<p>"Have you quarreled with your friends?" he persisted; "have you run +away?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Betty, and on a sudden inspiration, added: "I'm very, very +tired. You can ask me any questions you like in the morning. Now: will +you please tell the man where to go?"</p> + +<p>The dismissal was unanswerable.</p> + +<p>He took out his card-case and scribbled on a card.</p> + +<p>"Where is your luggage?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Not here," she said briefly.</p> + +<p>"I thought not," he smiled again. "I am discerning, am I not? Well, +perhaps you didn't know that respectable hotels prefer travellers who +have luggage. But they know me at this place. I have said you are my +cousin," he added apologetically.</p> + +<p>He stopped the carriage. "Hôtel de l'Unicorne," he told the driver and +stood bareheaded till she was out of sight.</p> + +<p>The Thought came out and said: "There will be an end of Me if you see +that well-meaning person again." Betty would not face the Thought, but +she was roused to protect it.</p> + +<p>She stood up and touched the coachman on the arm.</p> + +<p>"Go back to the Cafe d'Harcourt," she said. "I have forgotten +something."</p> + +<p>That was why, when Temple called, very early, at the Hôtel de +l'Unicorne he heard that his cousin had not arrived there the night +before—Had not, indeed, arrived at all.</p> + +<p>He shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"It's a pity," he said. "Certainly she had run away from home. I +suppose I frightened her. I was always a clumsy brute with women."</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER XI.</p> + +<p> +THE THOUGHT.</p> + +<p>The dark-haired woman was still ably answering the chaff of Nini and +the Germans. And her face was not the face she had shewn to Betty. +Betty came quietly behind her and touched her shoulder. She leapt in +her chair and turned white under the rouge.</p> + +<p>"What the devil!—You shouldn't do that!" she said roughly; "You +frightened me out of my wits."</p> + +<p>"I'm so sorry," said Betty, who was pale too. "Come away, won't you? I +want to talk to you."</p> + +<p>"Your little friend is charming," said one of the men in thick +German-French. "May I order for her a bock or a cerises?"</p> + +<p>"Do come," she urged.</p> + +<p>"Let's walk," she said. "What's the matter? Where's young Temple? +Don't tell me he's like all the others."</p> + +<p>"He meant to be kind," said Betty, "but he asked a lot of questions, +and I don't want to know him. I like you better. Isn't there anywhere +we can be quiet, and talk? I'm all alone here in Paris, and I do want +help. And I'd rather you'd help me than anyone else. Can't I come home +with you?"</p> + +<p>"No you can't."</p> + +<p>"Well then, will you come with me?—not to the hotel he told me of, +but to some other—you must know of one."</p> + +<p>"What will you do if I don't?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," said Betty very forlornly, "but you <i>will</i>, won't you. +You don't know how tired I am. Come with me, and then in the morning +we can talk. Do—do."</p> + +<p>The other woman took some thirty or forty steps in silence. Then she +asked abruptly:</p> + +<p>"Have you plenty of money?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, lots."</p> + +<p>"And you're an artist?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—at least I'm a student."</p> + +<p>Again the woman reflected. At last she shrugged her shoulders and +laughed. "Set a thief to catch a thief," she said. "I shall make a +dragon of a chaperon, I warn you. Yes, I'll come, just for this one +night, but you'll have to pay the hotel bill."</p> + +<p>"Of course," said Betty.</p> + +<p>"This <i>is</i> an adventure! Where's your luggage?"</p> + +<p>"It's at the station, but I want you to promise not to tell that +Temple man a word about me. I don't want to see him again. Promise."</p> + +<p>"Queer child. But I'll promise. Now look here: if I go into a thing at +all I go into it heart and soul; so let's do the thing properly. We +must have some luggage. I've got an old portmanteau knocking about. +Will you wait for me somewhere while I get it?"</p> + +<p>"I'd rather not," said Betty, remembering the Germans and Nini.</p> + +<p>"Well then,—there'd be no harm for a few minutes. You can come with +me. This is really rather a lark!"</p> + +<p>Five minutes' walking brought the two to a dark house. The woman rang +a bell; a latch clicked and a big door swung open. She grasped Betty's +hand.</p> + +<p>"Don't say a word," she said, and pulled her through.</p> + +<p>It was very dark.</p> + +<p>The other woman called out a name as they passed the door of the +concierge, a name that was not Conway, and her hand pulled Betty up +flight after flight of steep stairs. On the fifth floor she opened a +door with a key, and left Betty standing at the threshold till she had +lighted a lamp.</p> + +<p>Then "Come in," she said, and shut the door and bolted it.</p> + +<p>The room was small and smelt of white rose scent; the looking-glass +had a lace drapery fastened up with crushed red roses; and there were +voluminous lace and stuff curtains to bed and window.</p> + +<p>"Sit down," said the hostess. She took off her hat and pulled the +scarlet flowers from it. She washed her face till it shewed no rouge +and no powder, and the brown of lashes and brows was free from the +black water-paint. She raked under the bed with a faded sunshade till +she found an old brown portmanteau. Her smart black and white dress +was changed for a black one, of a mode passée these three years. A +gray chequered golf cape and the dulled hat completed the +transformation.</p> + +<p>"How nice you look," said Betty.</p> + +<p>The other bundled some linen and brushes into the portmanteau.</p> + +<p>"The poor old Gladstone's very thin still," she said, and folded +skirts; "we must plump it out somehow."</p> + +<p>When the portmanteau was filled and strapped, they carried it down +between them, in the dark, and got it out on to the pavement.</p> + +<p>"I am Miss Conway now," said the woman, "and we will drive to the +Hotel de Lille. I went there one Easter with my father."</p> + +<p>With the change in her dress a change had come over Miss Conway's +voice.</p> + +<p>At the Hotel de Lille it was she who ordered the two rooms, +communicating, for herself and her cousin, explained where the rest of +the luggage was, and gave orders for the morning chocolate.</p> + +<p>"This is very jolly," said Betty, when they were alone. "It's like an +elopement."</p> + +<p>"Exactly," said Miss Conway. "Good night."</p> + +<p>"It's rather like a dream, though. I shan't wake up and find you gone, +shall I?" Betty asked anxiously.</p> + +<p>"No, no. We've all your affairs to settle in the morning."</p> + +<p>"And yours?"</p> + +<p>"Mine were settled long ago. Oh, I forgot—I'm Miss Conway, at the +Hotel de Lille. Yes, we'll settle my affairs in the morning, too. Good +night, little girl."</p> + +<p>"Good night, Miss Conway."</p> + +<p>"They call me Lotty."</p> + +<p>"My name's Betty and—look here, I can't wait till the morning." Betty +clasped her hands, and seemed to be holding her courage between them. +"I've come to Paris to study art, and I want you to come and live with +me. I know you'd like it, and I've got heaps of money—will you?"</p> + +<p>She spoke quickly and softly, and her face was flushed and her eyes +bright.</p> + +<p>There was a pause.</p> + +<p>"You silly little duffer—you silly dear little duffer."</p> + +<p>The other woman had turned away and was fingering the chains of an +ormolu candlestick on the mantelpiece.</p> + +<p>Betty put an arm over her shoulders.</p> + +<p>"Look here," she said, "I'm not such a duffer as you think. I know +people do dreadful things—but they needn't go on doing them, need +they?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, they need," said the other; "that's just it."</p> + +<p>Her fingers were still twisting the bronze chains.</p> + +<p>"And the women you talked about—in the Bible—they weren't kind and +good, like you; they were just only horrid and not anything else. You +told <i>me</i> to be good. Won't you let me help you? Oh, it does seem such +cheek of me, but I never knew anyone before who—I don't know how to +say it. But I am so sorry, and I want you to be good, just as much as +you want me to. Dear, dear Lotty!"</p> + +<p>"My name's Paula."</p> + +<p>"Paula dear, I wish I wasn't so stupid, but I know it's not your +fault, and I know you aren't like that woman with the Germans."</p> + +<p>"I should hope not indeed," Paula was roused to flash back; "dirty +little French gutter-cat."</p> + +<p>"I've never been a bit of good to anyone," said Betty, adding her +other arm and making a necklace of the two round Paula's neck, "except +to Parishioners perhaps. Do let me be a bit of good to you. Don't you +think I could?"</p> + +<p>"You dear little fool!" said Paula gruffly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, but say yes—you must! I know you want to. I've got lots of +money. Kiss me, Paula."</p> + +<p>"I won't!—Don't kiss me!—I won't have it! Go away," said the woman, +clinging to Betty and returning her kisses.</p> + +<p>"Don't cry," said Betty gently. "We shall be ever so happy. You'll +see. Good night, Paula. Do you know I've never had a friend—a +girl-friend, I mean?"</p> + +<p>"For God's sake hold your tongue, and go to bed! Good night."</p> + +<p>Betty, alone, faced at last, and for the first time, The Thought. But +it had changed its dress when Miss Conway changed hers. It was no +longer a Thought: it was a Resolution.</p> + +<p>Twin-born with her plan for saving her new friend was the plan for a +life that should not be life at Long Barton.</p> + +<p>All the evening she had refused to face The Thought. But it had been +shaping itself to something more definite than thought. As a +Resolution, a Plan, it now unrolled itself before her. She sat in the +stiff arm-chair looking straight in front of her, and she saw what she +meant to do. The Thought had been wise not to insist too much on +recognition. Earlier in the evening it would have seemed merely a +selfish temptation. Now it was an opportunity for a good and noble +act. And Betty had always wanted so much to be noble and good.</p> + +<p>Here she was in Paris, alone. Her aunt, train-borne, was every moment +further and further away. As for her step-father:</p> + +<p>"I hate him," said Betty, "and he hates me. He only let me come to get +rid of me. And what good could I do at Long Barton compared with what +I can do here? Any one can do Parish work. I've got the money Aunt +left for Madame Gautier. Perhaps it's stealing. But is it? The money +was meant to pay to keep me in Paris to study Art. And it's not as if +I were staying altogether for selfish reasons—there's Paula. I'm sure +she has really a noble nature. And it's not as if I were staying +because He is in Paris. Of course, that would be <i>really wrong</i>. But +he said he was going to Vienna. I suppose his uncle delayed him, but +he'll certainly go. I'm sure it's right. I've learned a lot since I +left home. I'm not a child now. I'm a woman, and I must do what I +think is right. You know I must, mustn't I?"</p> + +<p>She appealed to the Inward Monitor, but it refused to be propitiated.</p> + +<p>"It only seems not quite right because it's so unusual," she went on; +"that's because I've never been anywhere or done anything. After all, +it's my own life, and I have a right to live it as I like. My +step-father has never written to Madame Gautier all these months. He +won't now. It's only to tell him she has changed her address—he only +writes to me on Sunday nights. There's just time. And I'll keep the +money, and when Aunt comes back I'll tell her everything. She'll +understand."</p> + +<p>"Do you think so?" said the Inward Monitor.</p> + +<p>"Any way," said Betty, putting her foot down on the Inward Monitor, +"I'm going to do it. If it's only for Paula's sake. We'll take rooms, +and I'll go to a Studio, and work hard; and I won't make friends with +gentlemen I don't know, or anything silly, so there," she added +defiantly. "Auntie left the money for me to study in Paris. If I tell +my step-father that Madame Gautier is dead, he'll just fetch me home, +and what'll become of Paula then?"</p> + +<p>Thus and thus, ringing the changes on resolve and explanation, her +thoughts ran. A clock chimed midnight.</p> + +<p>"Is it possible," she asked herself, "that it's not twelve hours since +I was at the Hotel Bête—talking to Him? Well, I shall never see him +again, I suppose. How odd that I don't feel as if I cared whether I +did or not. I suppose what I felt about him wasn't real. It all seems +so silly now. Paula is real, and all that I mean to do for her is +real. He isn't."</p> + +<p>She prayed that night as usual, but her mind was made up, and she +prayed outside a closed door.</p> + +<p>Next morning, when her chocolate came up, she carried it into the next +room, and, sitting on the edge of her new friend's bed, breakfasted +there.</p> + +<p>Paula seemed dazed when she first woke, but soon she was smiling and +listening to Betty's plans.</p> + +<p>"How young you look," said Betty, "almost as young as me."</p> + +<p>"I'm twenty-five."</p> + +<p>"You don't look it—with your hair in those pretty plaits, and your +nightie. You do have lovely nightgowns."</p> + +<p>"I'll get up now," said Paula. "Look out—I nearly upset the tray."</p> + +<p>Betty had carefully put away certain facts and labelled them: "Not to +be told to anyone, even Paula." No one was to know anything about +Vernon. "There is nothing to know really," she told herself. No one +was to know that she was alone in Paris without the knowledge of her +relations. Lots of girls came to Paris alone to study art. She was +just one of these.</p> + +<p>She found the lying wonderfully easy. It did not bring with it, +either, any of the shame that lying should bring, but rather a sense +of triumphant achievement, as from a difficult part played +excellently.</p> + +<p>She paid the hotel bill, and then the search for rooms began.</p> + +<p>"We must be very economical, you know," she said, "but you won't mind +that, will you? I think it will be rather fun."</p> + +<p>"It would be awful fun," said the other. "You'll go and work at the +studio, and when you come home after your work I shall have cooked the +déjeûner, and we shall have it together on a little table with a nice +white cloth and a bunch of flowers on it."</p> + +<p>"Yes; and in the evening we'll go out, to concerts and things, and +ride on the tops of trams. And on Sundays—what does one do on +Sundays?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose one goes to church," said Paula.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I think not when we're working so hard all the week. We'll go +into the country."</p> + +<p>"We can take the river steamer and go to St. Cloud, or go out on the +tram to Clamart—the woods there are just exactly like the woods at +home. What part of England do you live in?"</p> + +<p>"Kent," said Betty.</p> + +<p>"My home's in Devonshire," said Paula.</p> + +<p>It was a hard day: so many stairs to climb, so many apartments to see! +And all of them either quite beyond Betty's means, or else little +stuffy places, filled to choking point with the kind of furniture no +one could bear to live with, and with no light, and no outlook except +a blank wall a yard or two from the window.</p> + +<p>They kept to the Montparnasse quarter, for there, Paula said, were the +best ateliers for Betty. They found a little restaurant, where only +art students ate, and where one could breakfast royally for about a +shilling. Betty looked with interest at the faces of the students, and +wondered whether she should ever know any of them. Some of them looked +interesting. A few were English, and fully half American.</p> + +<p>Then the weary hunt for rooms began again.</p> + +<p>It was five o'clock before a <i>concierge, unexpected amiable</i> in face +of their refusal of her rooms, asked whether they had tried Madame +Bianchi's—Madame Bianchi where the atelier was, and the students' +meetings on Sunday evenings,—Number 57 Boulevard Montparnasse.</p> + +<p>They tried it. One passes through an archway into a yard where the +machinery, of a great laundry pulses half the week, up some wide +wooden stairs—shallow, easy stairs—and on the first floor are the +two rooms. Betty drew a long breath when she saw them. They were +lofty, they were airy, they were light. There was not much furniture, +but what there was was good—old carved armoires, solid divans +and—joy of joys—in each room a carved oak, Seventeenth Century +mantelpiece eight feet high and four feet deep.</p> + +<p>"I <i>must</i> have these rooms!" Betty whispered. "Oh, I could make them +so pretty!"</p> + +<p>The rent of the rooms was almost twice as much as the sum they fixed +on, and Paula murmured caution.</p> + +<p>"Its no use," said Betty. "We'll live on bread and water if you like, +but we'll live on it <i>here</i>."</p> + +<p>And she took the rooms.</p> + +<p>"I'm sure we've done right," she said as they drove off to fetch her +boxes: "the rooms will be like a home, you see if they aren't. And +there's a piano too. And Madame Bianchi, isn't she a darling; Isn't +she pretty and sweet and nice?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Paula thoughtfully; "it certainly is something that you've +got rooms in the house of a woman like that."</p> + +<p>"And that ducky little kitchen! Oh, we shall have such fun, cooking +our own meals! You shall get the déjeûner but I'll cook the dinner +while you lie on the sofa and read novels 'like a real lady.'"</p> + +<p>"Don't use that expression—I hate it," said Paula sharply. "But the +rooms are lovely, aren't they?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, it's a good place for you to be in—I'm sure of that," said the +other, musing again.</p> + +<p>When the boxes were unpacked, and Betty had pinned up a few prints and +photographs and sketches and arranged some bright coloured Liberty +scarves to cover the walls' more obvious defects—left by the removal +of the last tenant's decorations—when flowers were on table and +piano, the curtains drawn and the lamps lighted, the room did, indeed, +look "like a home."</p> + +<p>"We'll have dinner out to-night," said Paula, "and to-morrow we'll go +marketing, and find you a studio to work at."</p> + +<p>"Why not here?"</p> + +<p>"That's an idea. Have you a lace collar you can lend me? This is not +fit to be seen."</p> + +<p>Betty pinned the collar on her friend.</p> + +<p>"I believe you get prettier every minute," she said. "I must just +write home and give them my address."</p> + +<p>She fetched her embroidered blotting-book.</p> + +<p>"It reminds one of bazaars," said Miss Conway.</p> + +<hr> + +<p> 57 Boulevard Montparnasse.</p> + +<p> My dear Father:</p> + +<p> This is our new address. Madame Gautier's tenant wanted to keep on + her flat in the Rue de Vaugirard, so she has taken this one which + is larger and very convenient, as it is close to many of the best + studios. I think I shall like it very much. It is not decided yet + where I am to study, but there is an Atelier in the House for ladies + only, and I think it will be there, so that I shall not have to go + out to my lessons. I will write again as soon as we are more + settled. We only moved in late this afternoon, so there is a lot to + do. I hope you are quite well, and that everything is going on well + in the Parish. I will certainly send some sketches for the Christmas + sale. Madame Gautier does not wish me to go home for Christmas; she + thinks it would interrupt my work too much. There is a new girl, a + Miss Conway. I like her very much. With love,</p> + +<p> Yours affectionately,</p> + +<p> E. Desmond.</p> + +<p>She was glad when that letter was written. It is harder to lie in +writing than in speech, and the use of the dead woman's name made her +shiver.</p> + +<p>"But I won't do things by halves," she said.</p> + +<p>"What's this?" Paula asked sharply. She had stopped in front of one of +Betty's water colours.</p> + +<p>"That? Oh, I did it ages ago—before I learned anything. Don't look +at it."</p> + +<p>"But <i>what</i> is it?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, only our house at home."</p> + +<p>"I wonder," said Paula, "why all English Vicarages are exactly alike."</p> + +<p>"It's a Rectory," said Betty absently.</p> + +<p>"That ought to make a difference, but it doesn't. I haven't seen an +English garden for four years."</p> + +<p>"Four years is a long time," said Betty.</p> + +<p>"You don't know how long," said the other. "And the garden's been +going on just the same all the time. It seems odd, doesn't it? Those +hollyhocks—the ones at the Vicarage at home are just like them. Come, +let's go to dinner!"</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER XII.</p> + +<p> +THE RESCUE.</p> + +<p>When Vernon had read Betty's letter—and holding it up to the light he +was able to read the scratched-out words almost as easily as the +others—he decided that he might as well know where she worked, and +one day, after he had called on Lady St. Craye, he found himself +walking along the Rue de Vaugirard. Lady St. Craye was charming. And +she had been quite right when she had said that he would find a +special charm in the companionship of one in whose heart his past +love-making seemed to have planted no thorns. Yet her charm, by its +very nature—its finished elegance, its conscious authority—made him +think with the more interest of the unformed, immature grace of the +other woman—Betty, in whose heart he had not had the chance to plant +either thorns or roses.</p> + +<p>How could he find out? Concierges are venal, but Vernon disliked base +instruments. He would act boldly. It was always the best way. He would +ask to see this Madame Gautier—if Betty were present he must take his +chance. It would be interesting to see whether she would commit +herself to his plot by not recognizing him. If she did that—Yet he +hoped she wouldn't. If she did recognize him he would say that it was +through Miss Desmond's relatives that he had heard of Madame Gautier. +Betty could not contradict him. He would invent a niece whose parents +wished to place her with Madame. Then he could ask as many questions +as he liked, about hours and studios, and all the details of the life +Betty led.</p> + +<p>It was a simple straight-forward design, and one that carried success +in its pocket. No one could suspect anything.</p> + +<p>Yet at the very first step suspicion, or what looked like it, stared +at him from the eyes of the concierge when he asked for Madame +Gautier.</p> + +<p>"Monsieur is not of the friends of Madame?" she asked curiously.</p> + +<p>He knew better than to resent the curiosity. He explained that he +desired to see Madame on business.</p> + +<p>"You will see her never," the woman said dramatically; "she sees no +one any more."</p> + +<p>"Is it that she is ill?"</p> + +<p>"It is that she is dead,—and the dead do not receive, Monsieur." She +laughed, and told the tale of death circumstantially, with grim relish +of detail.</p> + +<p>"And the young ladies—they have returned to their parents?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, it is in the young ladies that Monsieur interests himself? But +yes. Madame's brother, who is in the Commerce of Nantes, he restored +instantly the young ladies to their friends. One was already with her +aunt."</p> + +<p>Vernon had money ready in his hand.</p> + +<p>"What was her name, Madame—the young lady with the aunt?"</p> + +<p>"But I know not, Monsieur. She was a new young lady, who had been with +Madame at her Villa—I have not seen her. At the time of the +regrettable accident she was with her aunt, and doubtless remains +there. Thank you, Monsieur. That is all I know."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Madame. I am desolated to have disturbed you. Good day."</p> + +<p>And Vernon was in the street again.</p> + +<p>So Betty had never come to the Rue Vaugirard! The aunt must somehow +have heard the news—perhaps she had called on the way to the +train—she had returned to the Bête and Betty now was Heaven alone +knew where. Perhaps at Long Barton. Perhaps in Paris, with some other +dragon.</p> + +<p>Vernon for a day or two made a point of being near when the +studios—Julien's, Carlorossi's, Delacluse's, disgorged their +students. He did not see Betty, because she was not studying at any of +these places, but at the Atelier Bianchi, of which he never thought. +So he shrugged his shoulders, and dined again with Lady St. Craye, and +began to have leisure to analyse the emotions with which she inspired +him. He had not believed that he could be so attracted by a woman with +whom he had played the entire comedy, from first glance to last +tear—from meeting hands to severed hearts. Yet attracted he was, and +strongly. He experienced a sort of resentment, a feeling that she had +kept something from him, that she had reserves of which he knew +nothing, that he, who in his blind complacency had imagined himself to +have sucked the orange and thrown away the skin, had really, in point +of fact, had a strange lovely fruit snatched from him before his blunt +teeth had done more than nibble at its seemingly commonplace rind.</p> + +<p>In the old days she had reared barriers of reserve, walls of reticence +over which he could see so easily; now she posed as having no +reserves, and he seemed to himself to be following her through a +darkling wood, where the branches flew back and hit him in the face so +that he could not see the path.</p> + +<p>"You know," she said, "what makes it so delightful to talk to you is +that I can say exactly what I like. You won't expect me to be clever, +or shy, or any of those tiresome things. We can be perfectly frank +with each other. And that's such a relief, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"I wonder whether it would be—supposing it could be?" said he.</p> + +<p>They were driving in the Bois, among the autumn tinted trees where the +pale mist wreaths wandered like ghosts in the late afternoon.</p> + +<p>"Of course it could be; it is," she said, opening her eyes at him +under the brim of her marvel of a hat: "at least it is for simple folk +like me. Why don't you wear a window in your breast as I do?"</p> + +<p>She laid her perfectly gloved hand on her sables.</p> + +<p>"Is there really a window? Can one see into your heart?"</p> + +<p>"<i>One</i> can—not the rest. Just the one from whom one feareth nothing, +expecteth nothing, hopeth nothing. That's out of the Bible, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"It's near enough," said he. "Of course, to you it's a new sensation +to have the window in your breast. Whereas I, from innocent childhood +to earnest manhood, have ever been open as the day."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, "you were always transparent enough. But one is so +blind when one is in love."</p> + +<p>Her calm references to the past always piqued him.</p> + +<p>"I don't think Love is so blind as he's painted," he said: "always as +soon as I begin to be in love with people I begin to see their +faults."</p> + +<p>"You may be transparent, but you haven't a good mirror," she laughed; +"you don't see yourself as you are. It isn't when you begin to love +people that you see their faults, is it? It's really when they begin +to love you."</p> + +<p>"But I never begin to love people till they begin to love me. I'm too +modest."</p> + +<p>"And I never love people after they've done loving me. I'm too—"</p> + +<p>"Too what?"</p> + +<p>"Too something—forgetful, is it? I mean it takes two to make a +quarrel, and it certainly takes two to make a love affair."</p> + +<p>"And what about all the broken hearts?"</p> + +<p>"What broken hearts?"</p> + +<p>"The ones you find in the poets and the story books."</p> + +<p>"That's just where you do find them. Nowhere else.—Now, honestly, has +your heart ever been broken?"</p> + +<p>"Not yet: so be careful how you play with it. You don't often find +such a perfect specimen—absolutely not a crack or a chip."</p> + +<p>"The pitcher shouldn't crow too loud—can pitchers crow? They have +ears, of course, but only the little pitchers. The ones that go to the +well should go in modest silence."</p> + +<p>"Dear Lady," he said almost impatiently, "what is there about me that +drives my friends to stick up danger boards all along my path? 'This +way to Destruction!' You all label them. I am always being solemnly +warned that I shall get my heart broken one of these days, if I don't +look out."</p> + +<p>"I wish you wouldn't call me dear Lady," she said; "it's not the mode +any more now."</p> + +<p>"What may I call you?" he had to ask, turning to look in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"You needn't call me anything. I hate being called names. That's a +pretty girl—not the dark one, the one with the fur hat."</p> + +<p>He turned to look.</p> + +<p>Two girls were walking briskly under the falling leaves. And the one +with the fur hat was Betty. But it was at the other that he gazed even +as he returned Betty's prim little bow. He even turned a little as the +carriage passed, to look more intently at the tall figure in shabby +black whose arm Betty held.</p> + +<p>"Well?" said Lady St. Craye, breaking the silence that followed.</p> + +<p>"Well?" said he, rousing himself, but too late. "You were saying I +might call you—"</p> + +<p>"It's not what I was saying—it's what you were looking. Who is the +girl, and why don't you approve of her companion?"</p> + +<p>"Who says I don't wear a window in my breast?" he laughed. "The girl's +a little country girl I knew in England—I didn't know she was in +Paris. And I thought I knew the woman, too, but that's impossible: +it's only a likeness."</p> + +<p>"One nice thing about me is that I never ask impertinent questions—or +hardly ever. That one slipped out and I withdraw it. I don't want to +know anything about anything and I'm sorry I spoke. I see, of course, +that she is a little country girl you knew in England, and that you +are not at all interested in her. How fast the leaves fall now, don't +they?"</p> + +<p>"No question of your's could be im—could be anything but flattering. +But since you <i>are</i> interested—"</p> + +<p>"Not at all," she said politely.</p> + +<p>"Oh, but do be interested," he urged, intent on checking her +inconvenient interest, "because, really, it is rather interesting when +you come to think of it. I was painting my big picture—I wish you'd +come and see it, by the way. Will you some day, and have tea in my +studio?"</p> + +<p>"I should love it. When shall I come?"</p> + +<p>"Whenever you will."</p> + +<p>He wished she would ask another question about Betty, but she +wouldn't. He had to go on, a little awkwardly.</p> + +<p>"Well, I only knew them for a week—her and her aunt and her +father—and she's a nice, quiet little thing. The father's a +parson—all of them are all that there is of most respectable."</p> + +<p>She listened but she did not speak.</p> + +<p>"And I was rather surprised to see her here. And for the moment I +thought the woman with her was—well, the last kind of woman who +could have been with her, don't you know."</p> + +<p>"I see," said Lady St. Craye. "Well, it's fortunate that the dark +woman isn't that kind of woman. No doubt you'll be seeing your little +friend. You might ask her to tea when I come to see your picture."</p> + +<p>"I wish I could." Vernon's manner was never so frank as when he was +most on his guard. "She'd love to know you. I wish I could ask them to +tea, but I don't know them well enough. And their address I don't know +at all. It's a pity; she's a nice little thing."</p> + +<p>It was beautifully done. Lady St. Craye inwardly applauded Vernon's +acting, and none the less that her own part had grown strangely +difficult. She was suddenly conscious of a longing to be alone—to let +her face go. She gave herself a moment's pause, caught at her fine +courage and said:</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is a pity. However, I daresay it's safer for her that you +can't ask her to tea. She <i>is</i> a nice little thing, and she might fall +in love with you, and then, your modesty appeased, you might follow +suit! Isn't it annoying when one can't pick up the thread of a +conversation? All the time you've been talking I've been wondering +what we were talking about before I pointed out the fur hat to you. +And I nearly remember, and I can't quite. That is always so worrying, +isn't it?"</p> + +<p>Her acting was as good as his. And his perception at the moment less +clear than hers.</p> + +<p>He gave a breath of relief. It would never have done to have Lady St. +Craye spying on him and Betty; and now he knew that she was in Paris +he knew too that it would be "him and Betty."</p> + +<p>"We were talking," he said carefully, "about calling names."</p> + +<p>"Oh, thank you!—When one can't remember those silly little things +it's like wanting to sneeze and not being able to, isn't it? But we +must turn back, or I shall be late for dinner, and I daren't think of +the names my hostess will call me then. She has a vocabulary, you +know." She named a name and Vernon thought it was he who kept the talk +busy among acquaintances till the moment for parting. Lady St. Craye +knew that it was she.</p> + +<p>The moment Betty had bowed to Mr. Vernon she turned her head in answer +to the pressure on her arm.</p> + +<p>"Who's that?" her friend asked.</p> + +<p>Betty named him, and in a voice genuinely unconcerned.</p> + +<p>"How long have you known him?"</p> + +<p>"I knew him for a week last Spring: he gave me a few lessons. He is a +great favourite of my aunt's, but we don't know him much. And I +thought he was in Vienna."</p> + +<p>"Does he know where you are?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Then mind he doesn't."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"Because when girls are living alone they can't be too careful. +Remember you're the person that's responsible for Betty Desmond now. +You haven't your aunt and your father to take care of you."</p> + +<p>"I've got you," said Betty affectionately.</p> + +<p>"Yes, you've got me," said her friend.</p> + +<p>Life in the new rooms was going very easily and pleasantly. Betty had +covered some cushions with the soft green silk of an old evening dress +Aunt Julia had given her; she had bought chrysanthemums in pots; and +now all her little belongings, the same that had "given the <i>cachet</i>" +to her boudoir bedroom at home lay about, and here, in this foreign +setting, did really stamp the room with a pretty, delicate, +conventional individuality. The embroidered blotting-book, the silver +pen-tray, the wicker work-basket lined with blue satin, the long +worked pin-cushion stuck with Betty's sparkling hat-pins,—all these, +commonplace at Long Barton were here not commonplace. There was +nothing of Paula's lying about. She had brought nothing with her, and +had fetched nothing from her room save clothes—dresses and hats of +the plainest.</p> + +<p>The experiments in cooking were amusing; so were the marketings in odd +little shops that sold what one wanted, and a great many things that +one had never heard of. The round of concerts and theatres and +tram-rides had not begun yet. In the evenings Betty drew, while Paula +read aloud—from the library of stray Tauchnitz books Betty had +gleaned from foreign book-stalls. It was a very busy, pleasant +home-life. And the studio life did not lack interest.</p> + +<p>Betty suffered a martyrdom of nervousness when first—a little +late—she entered the Atelier. It is a large light room; a +semi-circular alcove at one end, hung with pleasant-coloured drapery, +holds a grand piano. All along one side are big windows that give on +an old garden—once a convent garden where nuns used to walk, telling +their beads. The walls are covered with sketches, posters, studies. +Betty looked nervously round—the scene was agitatingly unfamiliar. +The strange faces, the girls in many-hued painting pinafores, the +little forest of easels, and on the square wooden platform the +model—smooth, brown, with limbs set, moveless as a figure of wax.</p> + +<p>Betty got to work, as soon as she knew how one began to get to work. +It was her first attempt at a drawing from the life, saving certain +not unsuccessful caricatures of her fellow pupils, her professor and +her chaperon. So far she had only been set to do landscape, and +laborious drawings of casts from the antique. The work was much harder +than she had expected. And the heat was overpowering. She wondered how +these other girls could stand it. Their amused, half-patronising, +half-disdainful glances made her furious.</p> + +<p>She rubbed out most of the lines she had put in and gasped for breath.</p> + +<p>The room, the students, the naked brown girl on the model's throne, +all swam before her eyes. She got to the door somehow, opened and shut +it, and found herself sitting on the top stair with closed eyelids and +heart beating heavily.</p> + + +<a name="03"></a> +<br><br> +<center> +<img alt="3w_nervous.jpg (91K)" src="images/3w_nervous.jpg" height="884" width="700"> +</center> +<br><br> + + +<p>Some one held water to her lips. She was being fanned with a +handkerchief.</p> + +<p>"I'm all right," she said.</p> + +<p>"Yes, it's hotter than usual to-day," said the handkerchief-holder, +fanning vigorously.</p> + +<p>"Why do they have it so hot?" asked poor Betty.</p> + +<p>"Because of the model, of course. Poor thing! she hasn't got a nice +blue gown and a pinky-greeny pinafore to keep her warm. We have to try +to match the garden of Eden climate—when we're drawing from a girl +who's only allowed to use Eve's fashion plates."</p> + +<p>Betty laughed and opened her eyes.</p> + +<p>"How jolly of you to come out after me," she said.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I was just the same at first. All right now? I ought to get back. +You just sit here till you feel fit again. So long!"</p> + +<p>So Betty sat there on the bare wide brown stair, staring at the +window, till things had steadied themselves, and then she went back to +her work.</p> + +<p>Her easel was there, and her half-rubbed out drawing—No, that was not +her drawing. It was a head, vaguely but very competently sketched, a +likeness—no, a caricature—of Betty herself.</p> + +<p>She looked round—one quick but quite sufficient look. The girl next +her, and the one to that girl's right, were exchanging glances, and +the exchange ceased just too late. Betty saw.</p> + +<p>From then till the rest Betty did not look at the model. She looked, +but furtively, at those two girls. When, at the rest-time, the model +stretched and yawned and got off her throne and into a striped +petticoat, most of the students took their "easy" on the stairs: among +these the two.</p> + +<p>Betty, who never lacked courage, took charcoal in hand and advanced +quite boldly to the easel next to her own.</p> + +<p>How she envied the quality of the drawing she saw there. But envy does +not teach mercy. The little sketch that Betty left on the corner of +the drawing was quite as faithful, and far more cruel, than the one on +her own paper. Then she went on to the next easel. The few students +who were chatting to the model looked curiously at her and giggled +among themselves.</p> + +<p>When the rest was over and the model had reassumed, quite easily and +certainly, that pose of the uplifted arms which looked so difficult, +the students trooped back and the two girls—Betty's enemies, as she +bitterly felt—returned to their easels. They looked at their +drawings, they looked at each other, and they looked at Betty. And +when they looked at her they smiled.</p> + +<p>"Well done!" the girl next her said softly. "For a tenderfoot you hit +back fairly straight. I guess you'll do!"</p> + +<p>"You're very kind," said Betty haughtily.</p> + +<p>"Don't you get your quills up," said the girl. "I hit first, but you +hit hardest. I don't know you,—but I want to."</p> + +<p>She smiled so queer yet friendly a smile that Betty's haughtiness had +to dissolve in an answering smile.</p> + +<p>"My name's Betty Desmond," she said. "I wonder why you wanted to hit a +man when he was down."</p> + +<p>"My!" said the girl, "how was I to surmise about you being down? You +looked dandy enough—fit to lick all creation."</p> + +<p>"I've never been in a studio before," said Betty, fixing fresh paper.</p> + +<p>"My!" said the girl again. "Turn the faucet off now. The model don't +like us to whisper. Can't stand the draught."</p> + +<p>So Betty was silent, working busily. But next day she was greeted with +friendly nods and she had some one to speak to in the rest-intervals.</p> + +<p>On the third day she was asked to a studio party by the girl who had +fanned her on the stairs. "And bring your friend with you," she said.</p> + +<p>But Betty's friend had a headache that day. Betty went alone and came +home full of the party.</p> + +<p>"She's got such a jolly studio," she said; "ever so high up,—and +busts and casts and things. Everyone was so nice to me you can't +think: it was just like what one hears of Girton Cocoa parties. We had +tea—such weak tea, Paula, it could hardly crawl out of the teapot! We +had it out of green basins. And the loveliest cakes! There were only +two chairs, so some of us sat on the sommier and the rest on the +floor."</p> + +<p>"Were there any young men?" asked Paula.</p> + +<p>"Two or three very, very young ones—they came late. But they might as +well have been girls; there wasn't any flirting or nonsense of that +sort, Paula. Don't you think <i>we</i> might give a party—not now, but +presently, when we know some more people? Do you think they'd like it? +Or would they think it a bore?"</p> + +<p>"They'd love it, I should think." Paula looked round the room which +already she loved. "And what did you all talk about?"</p> + +<p>"Work," said Betty, "work and work and work and work and work: +everyone talked about their work, and everyone else listened and +watched for the chance to begin to talk about theirs. This is real +life, my dear. I am so glad I'm beginning to know people. Miss Voscoe +is very queer, but she's a dear. She's the one who caricatured me the +first day. Oh, we shall do now, shan't we?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said the other, "you'll do now."</p> + +<p>"I said 'we,'" Betty corrected softly.</p> + +<p>"I meant we, of course," said Miss Conway.</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER XIII.</p> + +<p> +CONTRASTS.</p> + +<p>Vernon's idea of a studio was a place to work in, a place where there +should be room for all the tools of one's trade, and besides, a great +space to walk up and down in those moods that seize on all artists +when their work will not come as they want it.</p> + +<p>But when he gave tea-parties he had store of draperies to pull out +from his carved cupboard, deeply coloured things embroidered in rich +silk and heavy gold—Chinese, Burmese, Japanese, Russian.</p> + +<p>He came in to-day with an armful of fair chrysanthemums, deftly set +them in tall brazen jars, pulled out his draperies and arranged them +swiftly. There was a screen to be hung with a Chinese mandarin's +dress, where, on black, gold dragons writhed squarely among blue +roses; the couch was covered by a red burnous with a gold border. +There were Persian praying mats to lay on the bare floor, kakemonos to +be fastened with drawing pins on the bare walls. A tea cloth worked by +Russian peasants lay under the tea-cups—two only—of yellow Chinese +egg-shell ware. His tea-pot and cream-jug were Queen Anne silver, +heirlooms at which he mocked. But he saw to it that they were kept +bright.</p> + +<p>He lighted the spirit-lamp.</p> + +<p>"She was always confoundedly punctual," he said.</p> + +<p>But to-day Lady St. Craye was not punctual. She arrived half an hour +late, and the delay had given her host time to think about her.</p> + +<p>He heard her voice in the courtyard at last—but the only window that +looked that way was set high in the wall of the little corridor, and +he could not see who it was to whom she was talking. And he wondered, +because the inflection of her voice was English—not the exquisite +imitation of the French inflexion which he had so often admired in +her.</p> + +<p>He opened the door and went to the stair head. The voices were coming +up the steps.</p> + +<p>"A caller," said Vernon, and added a word or two. However little you +may be in love with a woman, two is better company than three.</p> + +<p>The voices came up. He saw the golden brown shimmer of Lady St. +Craye's hat, and knew that it matched her hair and that there would be +violets somewhere under the brim of it—violets that would make her +eyes look violet too. She was coming up—a man just behind her. She +came round the last turn, and the man was Temple.</p> + +<p>"What an Alpine ascent!" she exclaimed, reaching up her hand so that +Vernon drew her up the last three steps. "We have been hunting you +together, on both the other staircases. Now that the chase is ended, +won't you present your friend? And I'll bow to him as soon as I'm on +firm ground!"</p> + +<p>Vernon made the presentation and held the door open for Lady St. Craye +to pass. As she did so Temple behind her raised eyebrows which said:</p> + +<p>"Am I inconvenient? Shall I borrow a book or something and go?"</p> + +<p>Vernon shook his head. It was annoying, but inevitable. He could only +hope that Lady St. Craye also was disappointed.</p> + +<p>"How punctual you are," he said. "Sit here, won't you?—I hadn't +finished laying the table." He deliberately brought out four more +cups. "What unnatural penetration you have, Temple! How did you find +out that this is the day when I sit 'at home' and wait for people to +come and buy my pictures?"</p> + +<p>"And no one's come?" Lady St. Craye had sunk into the chair and was +pulling off her gloves. "That's very disappointing. I thought I should +meet dozens of clever and interesting people, and I only meet two."</p> + +<p>Her brilliant smile made the words seem neither banal nor impertinent.</p> + +<p>Vernon was pleased to note that he was not the only one who was +disappointed.</p> + +<p>"You are too kind," he said gravely.</p> + +<p>Temple was looking around the room.</p> + +<p>"Jolly place you've got here," he said, "but it's hard to find. I +should have gone off in despair if I hadn't met Lady St. Craye."</p> + +<p>"We kept each other's courage up, didn't we, Mr. Temple? It was like +arctic explorers. I was beginning to think we should have to make a +camp and cook my muff for tea."</p> + +<p>She held out the sable and Vernon laid it on the couch when he had +held it to his face for a moment.</p> + +<p>"I love the touch of fur," he said; "and your fur is scented with the +scent of summer gardens, 'open jasmine muffled lattices,'" he quoted +softly. Temple had wandered to the window.</p> + +<p>"What ripping roofs!" he said. "Can one get out on them?"</p> + +<p>"Now what," demanded Vernon, "<i>is</i> the hidden mainspring that impels +every man who comes into these rooms to ask, instantly, whether one +can get out on to the roof? It's only Englishmen, by the way; +Americans never ask it, nor Frenchmen."</p> + +<p>"It's the exploring spirit, I suppose," said Temple idly; "the spirit +that has made England the Empire which—et cetera."</p> + +<p>"On which the sun never sets. Yes—but I think the sunset would be one +of the attractions of your roof, Mr. Vernon."</p> + +<p>"Sunset is never attractive to me," said he, "nor Autumn. Give me +sunrise, and Spring."</p> + +<p>"Ah, yes," said Lady St. Craye, "you only like beginnings. Even +Summer—"</p> + +<p>"Even Summer, as you say," he answered equably. "The sketch is always +so much better than the picture."</p> + +<p>"I believe that is your philosophy of life," said Temple.</p> + +<p>"This man," Vernon explained, "spends his days in doing ripping +etchings and black and white stuff and looking for my philosophy of +life."</p> + +<p>"One would like to see that in black and white. Will you etch it for +me, Mr. Temple, when you find it?"</p> + +<p>"I don't think the medium would be adequate," Temple said. "I haven't +found it yet, but I should fancy it would be rather highly coloured."</p> + +<p>"Iridescent, perhaps. Did you ever speculate as to the colour of +people's souls? I'm quite sure every soul has a colour."</p> + +<p>"What is yours?" asked Vernon of course.</p> + +<p>"I'm too humble to tell you. But some souls are thick—body-colour, +don't you know—and some are clear like jewels."</p> + +<p>"And mine's an opal, is it?"</p> + +<p>"With more green in it, perhaps; you know the lovely colour on the +dykes in the marshes?"</p> + +<p>"Stagnant water? Thank you!"</p> + +<p>"I don't know what it is. It has some hateful chemical name, I +daresay. They have vases the colour I mean, mounted in silver, at the +Army and Navy Stores."</p> + +<p>"And your soul—it is a pearl, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Never! Nothing opaque. If you will force my modesty to the confession +I believe in my heart that it is a sapphire. True blue, don't you +know!"</p> + +<p>"And Temple's—but you've not known him long enough to judge."</p> + +<p>"So it's no use my saying that I am sure his soul is a dewdrop."</p> + +<p>"To be dried up by the sun of life?" Temple questioned.</p> + +<p>"No—to be hardened into a diamond—by the fire of life. No, don't +explain that dewdrops don't harden Into diamonds. I know I'm not +scientific, but I honestly did mean to be complimentary. Isn't your +kettle boiling over, Mr. Vernon?"</p> + +<p>Lady St. Craye's eyes, while they delicately condoled with Vernon on +the spoiling of his tete-a-tete with her, were also made to indicate a +certain interest in the spoiler. Temple was more than six feet high, +well built. He had regular features and clear gray eyes, with well-cut +cases and very long dark lashes. His mouth was firm and its lines were +good. But for his close-cropped hair and for a bearing at once frank, +assured, and modest, he would have been much handsomer than a man has +any need to be. But his expression saved him: No one had ever called +him a barber's block or a hairdresser's apprentice.</p> + +<p>To Temple Lady St. Craye appeared the most charming woman he had ever +seen. It was an effect which she had the habit of producing. He had +said of her in his haste that she was all clothes and no woman, now he +saw that on the contrary the clothes were quite intimately part of the +woman, and took such value as they had, from her.</p> + +<p>She carried her head with the dainty alertness of a beautiful bird. +She had a gift denied to most Englishwomen—the genius for wearing +clothes. No one had ever seen her dress dusty or crushed, her hat +crooked. No uncomfortable accidents ever happened to her. Blacks never +settled on her face, the buttons never came off her gloves, she never +lost her umbrella, and in the windiest weather no loose untidy wisps +escaped from her thick heavy shining hair to wander unbecomingly round +the ears that were pearly and pink like the little shells of Vanessae. +Some of the women who hated her used to say that she dyed her hair. It +was certainly very much lighter than her brows and lashes. To-day she +was wearing a corduroy dress of a gold some shades grayer than the +gold of her hair. Sable trimmed it, and violet silk lined the loose +sleeves and the coat, now unfastened and thrown back. There were, as +Vernon had known there would be, violets under the brim of the hat +that matched her hair.</p> + +<p>The chair in which she sat wore a Chinese blue drapery. The yellow +tea-cups gave the highest note in the picture.</p> + +<p>"If I were Whistler, I should ask you to let me paint your portrait +like that—yes, with my despicable yellow tea-cup in your honourable +hand."</p> + +<p>"If you were Mr. Whistler—or anything in the least like Mr. +Whistler—I shouldn't be drinking tea out of your honourable tea-cup," +she said. "Do you really think, Mr. Temple, that one ought not to say +one doesn't like people just because they're dead?"</p> + +<p>He had been thinking something a little like it.</p> + +<p>"Well," he said rather awkwardly, "you see dead people can't hit +back."</p> + +<p>"No more can live ones when you don't hit them, but only stick pins in +their effigies. I'd rather speak ill of the dead than the living."</p> + +<p>"Yet it doesn't seem fair, somehow," Temple insisted.</p> + +<p>"But why? No one can go and tell the poor things what people are +saying of them. You don't go and unfold a shroud just to whisper in a +corpse's ear: 'It was horrid of her to say it, but I thought you ought +to know, dear.'—And if you did, they wouldn't lie awake at night +worrying over it as the poor live people do.—No more tea, thank you."</p> + +<p>"Do you really think anyone worries about what anyone says?"</p> + +<p>"Don't you, Mr. Temple?"</p> + +<p>He reflected.</p> + +<p>"He never has anything to worry about," Vernon put in; "no one ever +says anything unkind about him. The cruelest thing anyone ever said of +him was that he would make as excellent a husband as Albert the Good."</p> + +<p>"The white flower of a blameless life? My felicitations," Lady St. +Craye smiled them.</p> + +<p>Temple flushed.</p> + +<p>"Now isn't it odd," Vernon asked, "that however much one plumes +oneself on one's blamelessness, one hates to hear it attributed to one +by others? One is good by stealth and blushes to find it fame. I +myself—"</p> + +<p>"Yes!" said Lady St. Craye with an accent of finality.</p> + +<p>"What a man really likes is to be saint with the reputation of being a +bit of a devil."</p> + +<p>"And a woman likes, you think, to be a bit of a devil, with the +reputation of a saint?"</p> + +<p>"Or a bit of a saint with a reputation that rhymes to the reality. +It's the reputation that's important, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Isn't the inward truth the really important thing?" said Temple +rather heavily.</p> + +<p>Lady St. Craye looked at him in such a way as to make him understand +that she understood. Vernon looked at them both, and turning to the +window looked out on his admired roofs.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said very softly, "but one doesn't talk about that, any +more than one does of one's prayers or one's love affairs."</p> + +<p>The plural vexed Temple, and he told himself how unreasonable the +vexation was.</p> + +<p>Lady St. Craye turned her charming head to look at him, to look at +Vernon. One had been in love with her. The other might be. There is in +the world no better company than this.</p> + +<p>Temple, always deeply uninterested in women's clothes, was noting the +long, firm folds of her skirt. Vernon had turned from the window to +approve the loving closeness of those violets against her hair. Lady +St. Craye in her graceful attitude of conscious unconsciousness was +the focus of their eyes.</p> + +<p>"Here comes a millionaire, to buy your pictures," she said +suddenly,—"no—a millionairess, by the sound of her high-heeled +shoes. How beautiful are the feet—"</p> + +<p>The men had heard nothing, but following hard on her words came the +sound of footsteps along the little corridor, an agitated knock on the +door.</p> + +<p>Vernon opened the door—to Betty.</p> + +<p>"Oh—come in," he said cordially, and his pause of absolute +astonishment was brief as an eye-flash. "This is delightful—"</p> + +<p>And as she passed into the room he caught her eyes and, looking a +warning, said: "I am so glad to see you. I began to be afraid you +wouldn't be able to come."</p> + +<p>"I saw you in the Bois the other day," said Lady St. Craye, "and I +have been wanting to know you ever since."</p> + +<p>"You are very kind," said Betty. Her hat was on one side, her hair was +very untidy, and it was not a becoming untidiness either. She had no +gloves, and a bit of the velvet binding of her skirt was loose. Her +eyes were red and swollen with crying. There was a black smudge on her +cheek.</p> + +<p>"Take this chair," said Vernon, and moved a comfortable one with its +back to the light.</p> + +<p>"Temple—let me present you to Miss Desmond."</p> + +<p>Temple bowed, with no flicker of recognition visible in his face. But +Betty, flushing scarlet, said:</p> + +<p>"Mr. Temple and I have met before."</p> + +<p>There was the tiniest pause. Then Temple said: "I am so glad to meet +you again. I thought you had perhaps left Paris."</p> + +<p>"Let me give you some tea," said Vernon.</p> + +<p>Tea was made for her,—and conversation. She drank the tea, but she +seemed not to know what to do with the conversation.</p> + +<p>It fluttered, aimlessly, like a bird with a broken wing. Lady St. +Craye did her best, but talk is not easy when each one of a party has +its own secret pre-occupying interest, and an overlapping interest in +the preoccupation of the others. The air was too electric.</p> + +<p>Lady St. Craye had it on her lips that she must go—when Betty rose +suddenly.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye," she said generally, looking round with miserable eyes that +tried to look merely polite.</p> + +<p>"Must you go?" asked Vernon, furious with the complicated emotions +that, warring in him, left him just as helpless as anyone else.</p> + +<p>"I do hope we shall meet again," said Lady St. Craye.</p> + +<p>"Mayn't I see you home?" asked Temple unexpectedly, even to himself.</p> + +<p>Betty's "No, thank you," was most definite.</p> + +<p>She went. Vernon had to let her go. He had guests. He could not leave +them. He had lost wholly his ordinary control of circumstances. All +through the petrifying awkwardness of the late talk he had been +seeking an excuse to go with Betty—to find out what was the matter.</p> + +<p>He closed the door and came back. There was no help for it.</p> + +<p>But there was help. Lady St. Craye gave it. She rose as Vernon came +back.</p> + +<p>"Quick!" she said, "Shall we go? Hadn't you better bring her back +here? Go after her at once."</p> + +<p>"You're an angel," said Vernon. "No, don't go. Temple, look after Lady +St. Craye. If you'll not think me rude?—Miss Desmond is in trouble, +I'm afraid."</p> + +<p>"Of course she is—poor little thing. Oh, Mr. Vernon, do run! She +looks quite despairing. There's your hat. Go—go!"</p> + +<p>The door banged behind her.</p> + +<p>The other two, left alone, looked at each other.</p> + +<p>"I wonder—" said she.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said he, "it's certainly mysterious."</p> + +<p>"We ought to have gone at once," said she. "I should have done, of +course, only Mr. Vernon so elaborately explained that he expected her. +One had to play up. And so she's a friend of yours?"</p> + +<p>"She's not a friend of mine," said Temple rather ruefully, "and I +didn't know Vernon was a friend of hers. You saw that she wouldn't +have my company at any price."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Vernon's a friend of her people, I believe. We saw her the other +day in the Bois, and he told me he knew them in England. Did you know +them there too? Poor child, what a woe-begone little face it was!"</p> + +<p>"No, not in England. I met her in Paris about a fortnight ago, but she +didn't like me, from the first, and our acquaintance broke off short."</p> + +<p>There was a silence. Lady St. Craye perceived a ring-fence of +reticence round the subject that interested her, and knew that she had +no art strong enough to break it down.</p> + +<p>She spoke again suddenly:</p> + +<p>"Do you know you're not a bit the kind of man I expected you to be, +Mr. Temple? I've heard so much of you from Mr. Vernon. We're such old +friends, you know."</p> + +<p>"Apparently he can't paint so well with words as he does with oils. +May I ask exactly how flattering the portrait was?"</p> + +<p>"It wasn't flattering at all.—In fact it wasn't a portrait."</p> + +<p>"A caricature?"</p> + +<p>"But you don't mind what people say of you, do you?"</p> + +<p>"You are trying to frighten me."</p> + +<p>"No, really," she said with pretty earnestness; "it's only that he has +always talked about you as his best friend, and I imagined you would +be like him."</p> + +<p>Temple's uneasy wonderings about Betty's trouble, her acquaintance +with Vernon, the meaning of her visit to him, were pushed to the back +of his mind.</p> + +<p>"I wish I were like him," said he,—"at any rate, in his paintings."</p> + +<p>"At any rate—yes. But one can't have everything, you know. You have +qualities which he hasn't—qualities that you wouldn't exchange for +any qualities of his."</p> + +<p>"That wasn't what I meant; I—the fact is, I like old Vernon, but I +can't understand him."</p> + +<p>"That philosophy of life eludes you still? Now, I understand him, but +I don't always like him—not all of him."</p> + +<p>"I wonder whether anyone understands him?"</p> + +<p>"He's not such a sphinx as he looks!" Her tone betrayed a slight +pique—"Now, your character would be much harder to read. That's one +of the differences."</p> + +<p>"We are all transparent enough—to those who look through the right +glasses," said Temple. "And part of my character is my inability to +find any glass through which I could see him clearly."</p> + +<p>This comparison of his character and Vernon's, with its sudden +assumption of intimacy, charmed yet embarrassed him.</p> + +<p>She saw both emotions and pitied him a little. But it was necessary to +interest this young man enough to keep him there till Vernon should +return. Then Vernon would see her home, and she might find out +something, however little, about Betty. But if this young man went she +too must go. She could not outstay him in the rooms of his friend. So +she talked on, and Temple was just as much at her mercy as Betty had +been at the mercy of the brother artist in the rabbit warren at Long +Barton.</p> + +<p>But at seven o'clock Vernon had not returned, and it was, after all, +Temple who saw her home.</p> + +<p>Temple, free from the immediate enchantment of her presence, felt the +revival of a resentful curiosity.</p> + +<p>Why had Betty refused his help? Why had she sought Vernon's? Why did +women treat him as though he were a curate and Vernon as though he +were a god? Well—Lady St. Craye at least had not treated him as +curates are treated.</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER XIV.</p> + +<p> +RENUNCIATION.</p> + +<p>Vernon tore down the stairs three and four at a time, and caught Betty +as she was stepping into a hired carriage.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" he asked. "What's the matter?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, go back to your friends!" said Betty angrily.</p> + +<p>"My friends are all right. They'll amuse each other. Tell me."</p> + +<p>"Then you must come with me," said she. "If I try to tell you here I +shall begin to cry again. Don't speak to me. I can't bear it."</p> + +<p>He got into the carriage. It was not until Betty had let herself into +her room and he had followed her in—not till they stood face to face +in the middle of the carpet that he spoke again.</p> + +<p>"Now," he said, "what is it? Where's your aunt, and—"</p> + +<p>"Sit down, won't you?" she said, pulling off her hat and throwing it +on the couch; "it'll take rather a long time to tell, but I must tell +you all about it, or else you can't help me. And if you don't help me +I don't know what I shall do."</p> + +<p>Despair was in her voice.</p> + +<p>He sat down. Betty, in the chair opposite his, sat with hands +nervously locked together.</p> + +<p>"Look here," she said abruptly, "you're sure to think that everything +I've done is wrong, but it's no use your saying so."</p> + +<p>"I won't say so."</p> + +<p>"Well, then—that day, you know, after I saw you at the Bête—Madame +Gautier didn't come to fetch me, and I waited, and waited, and at last +I went to her flat, and she was dead,—and I ought to have telegraphed +to my step-father to fetch me, but I thought I would like to have one +night in Paris first—you know I hadn't seen Paris at all, really."</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said, trying not to let any anxiety into his voice. "Yes—go +on."</p> + +<p>"And I went to the Café d'Harcourt—What did you say?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing."</p> + +<p>"I thought it was where the art students went. And I met a girl there, +and she was kind to me."</p> + +<p>"What sort of a girl? Not an art student?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Betty hardly, "she wasn't an art student. She told me what +she was."</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>"And I—I don't think I should have done it just for me alone, but—I +did want to stay in Paris and work—and I wanted to help her to be +good—she <i>is</i> good really, in spite of everything. Oh, I know you're +horribly shocked, but I can't help it! And now she's gone,—and I +can't find her."</p> + +<p>"I'm not shocked," he said deliberately, "but I'm extremely stupid. +How gone?"</p> + +<p>"She was living with me here.—Oh, she found the rooms and showed me +where to go for meals and gave me good advice—oh, she did everything +for me! And now she's gone. And I don't know what to do. Paris is such +a horrible place. Perhaps she's been kidnapped or something. And I +don't know even how to tell the police. And all this time I'm talking +to you is wasted time."</p> + +<p>"It isn't wasted. But I must understand. You met this girl and she—"</p> + +<p>"She asked your friend Mr. Temple—he was passing and she called out +to him—to tell me of a decent hotel, but he asked so many questions. +He gave me an address and I didn't go. I went back to her, and we went +to a hotel and I persuaded her to come and live with me."</p> + +<p>"But your aunt?"</p> + +<p>Betty explained about her aunt.</p> + +<p>"And your father?"</p> + +<p>She explained about her father.</p> + +<p>"And now she has gone, and you want to find her?"</p> + +<p>"Want to find her?"—Betty started up and began to walk up and down +the room.—"I don't care about anything else in the world! She's a +dear; you don't know what a dear she is—and I know she was happy +here—and now she's gone! I never had a girl friend before—what?"</p> + +<p>Vernon had winced, just as Paula had winced, and at the same words.</p> + +<p>"You've looked for her at the Café d'Harcourt?"</p> + +<p>"No; I promised her that I'd never go there again."</p> + +<p>"She seems to have given you some good advice."</p> + +<p>"She advised me not to have anything to do with <i>you</i>" said Betty, +suddenly spiteful.</p> + +<p>"That was good advice—when she gave it," said Vernon, quietly; "but +now it's different."</p> + +<p>He was silent a moment, realising with a wonder beyond words how +different it was. Every word, every glance between him and Betty had, +hitherto, been part of a play. She had been a charming figure in a +charming comedy. He had known, as it were by rote, that she had +feelings—a heart, affections—but they had seemed pale, dream-like, +just a delightful background to his own sensations, strong and +conscious and delicate. Now for the first time he perceived her as +real, a human being in the stress of a real human emotion. And he was +conscious of a feeling of protective tenderness, a real, open-air +primitive sentiment, with no smell of the footlights about it. He was +alone with Betty. He was the only person in Paris to whom she could +turn for help. What an opportunity for a fine scene in his best +manner! And he found that he did not want a scene: he wanted to help +her.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you say something?" she said impatiently. "What am I to +do?"</p> + +<p>"You can't do anything. I'll do everything. You say she knows Temple. +Well, I'll find him, and we'll go to her lodgings and find out if +she's there. You don't know the address?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Betty. "I went there, but it was at night and I don't even +know the street."</p> + +<p>"Now look here." He took both her hands and held them firmly. "You +aren't to worry. I'll do everything. Perhaps she has been taken ill. +In that case, when we find her, she'll need you to look after her. You +must rest. I'm certain to find her. You must eat something. I'll send +you in some dinner. And then lie down."</p> + +<p>"I couldn't sleep," said Betty, looking at him with the eyes of a +child that has cried its heart out.</p> + +<p>"Of course you couldn't. Lie down, and make yourself read. I'll get +back as soon as I can. Good-bye." There was something further that +wanted to get itself said, but the words that came nearest to +expressing it were "God bless you,"—and he did not say them.</p> + +<p>On the top of his staircase he found Temple lounging.</p> + +<p>"Hullo—still here? I'm afraid I've been a devil of a time gone, but +Miss Desmond's—"</p> + +<p>"I don't want to shove my oar in," said Temple, "but I came back when +I'd seen Lady St. Craye home. I hope there's nothing wrong with Miss +Desmond."</p> + +<p>"Come in," said Vernon. "I'll tell you the whole thing."</p> + +<p>They went into the room desolate with the disorder of half empty cups +and scattered plates with crumbs of cake on them.</p> + +<p>"Miss Desmond told me about her meeting you. Well, she gave you the +slip; she went back and got that woman—Lottie what's her name—and +took her to live with her."</p> + +<p>"Good God! She didn't know, of course?"</p> + +<p>"But she did know—that's the knock-down blow. She knew, and she +wanted to save her."</p> + +<p>Temple was silent a moment.</p> + +<p>"I say, you know, though—that's rather fine," he said presently.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," said Vernon impatiently, "it's very romantic and all that. +Well, the woman stayed a fortnight and disappeared to-day. Miss +Desmond is breaking her heart about her."</p> + +<p>"So she took her up, and—she's rather young for rescue work."</p> + +<p>"Rescue work? Bah! She talks of the woman as the only girl friend +she's ever had. And the woman's probably gone off with her watch and +chain and a collection of light valuables. Only I couldn't tell Miss +Desmond that. So I promised to try and find the woman. She's a +thorough bad lot. I've run up against her once or twice with chaps I +know."</p> + +<p>"She's not <i>that</i> sort," said Temple. "I know her fairly well."</p> + +<p>"What—Sir Galahad? Oh, I won't ask inconvenient questions." Vernon's +sneer was not pretty.</p> + +<p>"She used to live with de Villermay," said Temple steadily; "he was +the first—the usual coffee maker business, you know, though God knows +how an English girl got into it. When he went home to be married—It +was rather beastly. The father came up—offered her a present. She +threw it at him. Then Schauermacher wanted her to live with him. No. +She'd go to the devil her own way. And she's gone."</p> + +<p>"Can't something be done?" said Vernon.</p> + +<p>"I've tried all I know. You can save a woman who doesn't know where +she's going. Not one who knows and means to go. Besides, she's been at +it six months; she's past reclaiming now."</p> + +<p>"I wonder," said Vernon—and his sneer had gone and he looked ten +years younger—"I wonder whether anybody's past reclaiming? Do you +think I am? Or you?"</p> + +<p>The other stared at him.</p> + +<p>"Well," Vernon's face aged again instantly, "the thing is: we've got +to find the woman."</p> + +<p>"To get her to go back and live with that innocent girl?"</p> + +<p>"Lord—no! To find her. To find out why she bolted, and to make +certain that she won't go back and live with that innocent girl. Do +you know her address?"</p> + +<p>But she was not to be found at her address. She had come back, paid +her bill, and taken away her effects.</p> + +<p>It was at the Café d'Harcourt, after all, that they found her, one of +a party of four. She nodded to them, and presently left her party and +came to spread her black and white flounces at their table.</p> + +<p>"What's the best news with you?" she asked gaily. "It's a hundred +years since I saw you, Bobby, and at least a million since I saw your +friend."</p> + +<p>"The last time I saw you," Temple said, "was the night when you asked +me to take care of a girl."</p> + +<p>"So it was! And did you?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Temple; "she wouldn't let me. She went back to you."</p> + +<p>"So you've seen her again? Oh, I see—you've come to ask me what I +meant by daring to contaminate an innocent girl by my society?—Well, +you can go to Hell, and ask there."</p> + +<p>She rose, knocking over a chair.</p> + +<p>"Don't go," said Vernon. "That's not what we want to ask."</p> + +<p>"'<i>We</i>' too," she turned fiercely on him: "as if you were a king or a +deputation."</p> + +<p>"One and one <i>are</i> two," said Vernon; "and I did very much want to +talk to you."</p> + +<p>"And two are company."</p> + +<p>She had turned her head away.</p> + +<p>"You aren't going to be cruel," Vernon asked.</p> + +<p>"Well, send him off then. I won't be bullied by a crowd of you."</p> + +<p>Temple took off his hat and went.</p> + +<p>"I've got an appointment. I've no time for fool talk," she said.</p> + +<p>"Sit down," said Vernon. "First I want to thank you for the care +you've taken of Miss Desmond, and for all your kindness and goodness +to her."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" was all Paula could say. She had expected something so +different. "I don't see what business it is of yours, though," she +added next moment.</p> + +<p>"Only that she's alone here, and I'm the only person she knows in +Paris. And I know, much better than she does, all that you've done for +her sake."</p> + +<p>"I did it for my own sake. It was no end of a lark," said Paula +eagerly, "that little dull pious life. And all the time I used to +laugh inside to think what a sentimental fool she was."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Vernon slowly, "it must have been amusing for you."</p> + +<p>"I just did it for the fun of the thing. But I couldn't stand it any +longer, so I just came away. I was bored to death."</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said, "you must have been. Just playing at cooking and +housework, reading aloud to her while she drew—yes, she told me that. +And the flowers and all her little trumpery odds and ends about. +Awfully amusing it must have been."</p> + +<p>"Don't," said Paula.</p> + +<p>"And to have her loving you and trusting you as she did—awfully +comic, wasn't it? Calling you her girl-friend—"</p> + +<p>"Shut up, will you?"</p> + +<p>"And thinking she had created a new heaven and a new earth for you. +Silly sentimental little school-girl!"</p> + +<p>"Will you hold your tongue?"</p> + +<p>"So long, Lottie," cried the girl of her party; "we're off to the +Bullier. You've got better fish to fry, I see."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Paula with sudden effrontery; "perhaps we'll look in +later."</p> + +<p>The others laughed and went.</p> + +<p>"Now," she said, turning furiously on Vernon, "will you go? Or shall +I? I don't want any more of you."</p> + +<p>"Just one word more," he said with the odd change of expression that +made him look young. "Tell me why you left her. She's crying her eyes +out for you."</p> + +<p>"Why I left her? Because I was sick of—"</p> + +<p>"Don't. Let me tell you. You went with her because she was alone and +friendless. You found her rooms, you set her in the way of making +friends. And when you saw that she was in a fair way to be happy and +comfortable, you came away, because—"</p> + +<p>"Because?" she leaned forward eagerly.</p> + +<p>"Because you were afraid."</p> + +<p>"Afraid?"</p> + +<p>"Afraid of handicapping her. You knew you would meet people who knew +you. You gave it all up—all the new life, the new chances—for her +sake, and came away. Do I understand? Is it fool-talk?"</p> + +<p>Paula leaned her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands.</p> + +<p>"You're not like most men," she said; "you make me out better than I +am. That's not the usual mistake. Yes, it <i>was</i> all that, partly. And +I should have liked to stay—for ever and ever—if I could. But +suppose I couldn't? Suppose I'd begun to find myself wishing for—all +sorts of things, longing for them. Suppose I'd stayed till I began to +think of things that I <i>wouldn't</i> think of while <i>she</i> was with me. +<i>That's</i> what I was afraid of."</p> + +<p>"And you didn't long for the old life at all?"</p> + +<p>She laughed. "Long for that? But I might have. I might have. It was +safer.—Well, go back to her and tell her I've gone to the devil and +it's not her fault. Tell her I wasn't worth saving. But I did try to +save her. If you're half a man you won't undo my one little bit of +work."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"You know well enough what I mean. Let the girl alone."</p> + +<p>He leaned forward, and spoke very earnestly. "Look here," he said, "I +won't jaw. But this about you and her—well, it's made a difference to +me that I can't explain. And I wouldn't own that to anyone but <i>her</i> +friend. I mean to be a friend to her too, a good friend. No nonsense."</p> + +<p>"Swear it by God in Heaven," she said fiercely.</p> + +<p>"I do swear it," he said, "by God in Heaven. And I can't tell her +you've gone to the devil. You must write to her. And you can't tell +her that either."</p> + +<p>"What's the good of writing?"</p> + +<p>"A lie or two isn't much, when you've done all this for her. Come up +to my place. You can write to her there."</p> + +<p>This was the letter that Paula wrote in Vernon's studio, among the +half-empty cups and the scattered plates with cake-crumbs on them.</p> + +<p> "My Dear Little Betty:</p> + +<p> "I must leave without saying good-bye, and I shall never see you + again. My father has taken me back. I wrote to him and he came and + found me. He has forgiven me everything, only I have had to promise + never to speak to anyone I knew in Paris. It is all your doing, + dear. God bless you. You have saved me. I shall pray for you every + day as long as I live.</p> + +<p> "Your poor</p> + +<p> "Paula."</p> + +<p>"Will that do?" she laughed as she held out the letter.</p> + +<p>He read it. And he did not laugh.</p> + +<p>"Yes—that'll do," he said. "I'll tell her you've gone to England, and +I'll send the letter to London to be posted."</p> + +<p>"Then that's all settled!"</p> + +<p>"Can I do anything for <i>you</i>?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"God Himself can't do anything for me," she said, biting the edge of +her veil.</p> + +<p>"Where are you going now?"</p> + +<p>"Back to the d'Harcourt. It's early yet."</p> + +<p>She stood defiantly smiling at him.</p> + +<p>"What were you doing there—the night you met her?" he asked abruptly.</p> + +<p>"What does one do?"</p> + +<p>"What's become of de Villermay?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Gone home—got married."</p> + +<p>"And so you thought—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, if you want to know what I thought you're welcome! I thought I'd +damn myself as deep as I could—to pile up the reckoning for him; and +I've about done it. Good-bye. I must be getting on."</p> + +<p>"I'll come a bit of the way with you," he said.</p> + +<p>At the door he turned, took her hand and kissed it gently and +reverently.</p> + +<p>"That's very sweet of you." She opened astonished eyes at him. "I +always used to think you an awful brute."</p> + +<p>"It was very theatrical of me," he told himself later. "But it summed +up the situation. Sentimental ass you're growing!"</p> + +<p>Betty got her letter from England and cried over it and was glad over +it.</p> + +<p>"I have done one thing, anyway," she told herself, "one really truly +good thing. I've saved my poor dear Paula. Oh, how right I was! How I +knew her!"</p> + +<br><br><br><br> +<a name="b3"></a> +<br><br> + +<h2> +Book 3.—The Other Woman</h2> + +<br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER XV.</p> + +<p> +ON MOUNT PARNASSUS.</p> + +<p>At Long Barton the Reverend Cecil had strayed into Betty's room, now +no longer boudoir and bedchamber, but just a room, swept, dusted, +tidy, with the horrible tidiness of a room that is not used. There +were squares of bright yellow on the dull drab of the wall-paper, +marking the old hanging places of the photographs and pictures that +Betty had taken to Paris. He opened the cupboard door: one or two +faded skirts, a flattened garden hat and a pair of Betty's old shoes. +He shut the door again quickly, as though he had seen Betty's ghost.</p> + +<p>The next time he went to Sevenoaks he looked in at the builders and +decorators, gave an order, and chose a wall paper with little pink +roses on it. When Betty came home for Christmas she should not find +her room the faded desert it was now. He ordered pink curtains to +match the rosebuds. And it was when he got home that he found the +letter that told him she was not to come at Christmas.</p> + +<p>But he did not countermand his order. If not at Christmas then at +Easter; and whenever it was she should find her room a bower. Since +she had been away he had felt more and more the need to express his +affection. He had expressed it, he thought, to the uttermost, by +letting her go at all. And now he wanted to express it in detail, by +pink curtains, satin-faced wall-paper with pink roses. The paper cost +two shillings a piece, and he gloated over the extravagance and over +his pretty, poetic choice. Usually the wall-papers at the Rectory had +been chosen by Betty, and the price limited to sixpence. He would +refrain from buying that Fuller's Church History, the beautiful brown +folio whose perfect boards and rich yellow paper had lived in his +dreams for the last three weeks, ever since he came upon it in the rag +and bone shop in the little back street in Maidstone. When the rosebud +paper and the pink curtains were in their place, the shabby carpet was +an insult to their bright prettiness. The Reverend Cecil bought an +Oriental carpet—of the bright-patterned jute variety—and was +relieved to find that it only cost a pound.</p> + +<p>The leaves were falling in brown dry showers in the Rectory garden, +the chrysanthemums were nearly over, the dahlias blackened and +blighted by the first frosts. A few pale blooms still clung to the +gaunt hollyhock stems; here and there camomile flowers, "medicine +daisies" Betty used to call them when she was little, their whiteness +tarnished, showed among bent dry stalks of flowers dead and forgotten. +Round Betty's window the monthly rose bloomed pale and pink amid +disheartened foliage. The damp began to shew on the North walls of the +rooms. A fire in the study now daily, for the sake of the books: one +in the drawing-room, weekly, for the sake of the piano and the +furniture. And for Betty, in far-away Paris, a fire of crackling twigs +and long logs in the rusty fire-basket, and blue and yellow flames +leaping to lick the royal arms of France on the wrought-iron +fire-back.</p> + +<p>The rooms were lonely to Betty now that Paula was gone. She missed her +inexpressibly. But the loneliness was lighted by a glow of pride, of +triumph, of achievement. Her deception of her step-father was +justified. She had been the means of saving Paula. But for her Paula +would not have returned, like the Prodigal son, to the father's house. +Betty pictured her there, subdued, saddened, but inexpressibly happy, +warming her cramped heart in the sun of forgiveness and love.</p> + +<p>"Thank God, I have done some good in the world," said Betty.</p> + +<p>In the brief interview which Vernon took to tell her that Paula had +gone to England with her father, Betty noticed no change in him. She +had no thought for him then. And in the next weeks, when she had +thoughts for him, she did not see him.</p> + +<p>She could not but be glad that he was in Paris. In the midst of her +new experiences he seemed to her like an old friend. Yet his being +there put a different complexion on her act of mutiny. When she +decided to deceive her step-father, and to stay on in Paris alone +Paula had been to be saved, and <i>he</i> had been, to her thought, in +Vienna, not to be met. Now Paula was gone—and he was here. In the +night when Betty lay wakeful and heard the hours chimed by a convent +bell whose voice was toneless and gray as an autumn sky it seemed to +her that all was wrong, that she had committed a fault that was almost +a crime, that there was nothing now to be done but to confess, to go +home and to expiate, as the Prodigal Son doubtless did among the +thorny roses of forgiveness, those days in the far country. But always +with the morning light came the remembrance that it was not her +father's house to which she must go to make submission. It was her +step-father's. And after all, it was her own life—she had to live it. +Once that confession and submission made she saw herself enslaved +beyond hope of freedom. Meanwhile here was the glad, gay life of +independence, new experiences, new sensations. And her step-father was +doubtless glad to be rid of her.</p> + +<p>"It isn't as though anyone wanted me at home," she said; "and +everything here is so new and good, and I have quite a few friends +already—and I shall have more. This is what they call seeing life."</p> + +<p>Life as she saw it was good to see. The darker, grimmer side of the +student life was wholly hidden from Betty. She saw only a colony of +young artists of all nations—but most of England and America—all +good friends and comrades, working and playing with an equal +enthusiasm. She saw girls treated as equals and friends by the men +students. If money were short it was borrowed from the first friend +one met, and quite usually repaid when the home allowance arrived. A +young man would borrow from a young woman or a young woman from a +young man as freely as school-boys from each other. Most girls had a +special friend among the boys. Betty thought at first that these must +be betrothed lovers. Miss Voscoe, the American, stared when she put +the question about a pair who had just left the restaurant together +with the announcement that they were off to the Musée Cluny for the +afternoon.</p> + +<p>"Engaged? Not that I know of. Why should they be?" she said in a tone +that convicted Betty of a social lapse in the putting of the question. +Yet she defended herself.</p> + +<p>"Well, you know, in England people don't generally go about together +like that unless they're engaged, or relations."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Miss Voscoe, filling her glass from the little bottle of +weak white wine that costs threepence at Garnier's, "I've heard that +is so in your country. Your girls always marry the wrong man, don't +they, because he's the first and only one they've ever had the +privilege of conversing with?"</p> + +<p>"Not quite always, I hope," said Betty good humouredly.</p> + +<p>"Now in our country," Miss Voscoe went on, "girls look around so as +they can tell there's more different sorts of boys than there are of +squashes. Then when they get married to a husband it's because they +like him, or because they like his dollars, or for some reason that +isn't just that he's the only one they've ever said five words on end +to."</p> + +<p>"There's something in that," Betty owned; "but my aunt says men never +want to be friends with girls—they always want—"</p> + +<p>"To flirt? May be they do, though I don't think so. Our men don't, any +way. But if the girl doesn't want to flirt things won't get very +tangled up."</p> + +<p>"But suppose a man got really fond of you, then he might think you +liked him too, if you were always about with him—"</p> + +<p>"Do him good to have his eyes opened then! Besides, who's always about +with anyone? You have a special friend for a bit, and just walk around +and see the sights,—and then change partners and have a turn with +somebody else. It's just like at a dance. Nobody thinks you're in love +because you dance three or four times running with one boy."</p> + +<p>Betty reflected as she ate her <i>noix de veau</i>. It was certainly true +that she had seen changes of partners. Milly St. Leger, the belle of +the students' quarter, changed her partners every week.</p> + +<p>"You see," the American went on, "We're not the +stay-at-home-and-mind-Auntie kind that come here to study. What we +want is to learn to paint and to have a good time in between. Don't +you make any mistake, Miss Desmond. This time in Paris is <i>the</i> time +of our lives to most of us. It's what we'll have to look back at and +talk about. And suppose every time there was any fun going we had to +send around to the nearest store for a chaperon how much fun would +there be left by the time she toddled in? No—the folks at home who +trust us to work trust us to play. And we have our little heads +screwed on the right way."</p> + +<p>Betty remembered that she had been trusted neither for play nor work. +Yet, from the home standpoint she had been trustworthy, more +trustworthy than most. She had not asked Vernon, her only friend, to +come and see her, and when he had said, "When shall I see you again?" +she had answered, "I don't know. Thank you very much. Good-bye."</p> + +<p>"I don't know how <i>you</i> were raised," Miss Voscoe went on, "but I +guess it was in the pretty sheltered home life. Now I'd bet you fell +in love with the first man that said three polite words to you!"</p> + +<p>"I'm not twenty yet," said Betty, with ears and face of scarlet.</p> + +<p>"Oh, you mean I'm to think nobody's had time to say those three polite +words yet? You come right along to my studio, I've got a tea on, and +I'll see if I can't introduce my friends to you by threes, so as you +get nine polite words at once. You can't fall in love with three boys +a minute, can you?"</p> + +<p>Betty went home and put on her prettiest frock. After all, one was +risking a good deal for this Paris life, and one might as well get as +much out of it as one could. And one always had a better time of it +when one was decently dressed. Her gown was of dead-leaf velvet, with +green undersleeves and touches of dull red and green embroidery at +elbows and collar.</p> + +<p>Miss Voscoe's studio was at the top of a hundred and seventeen +polished wooden steps, and as Betty neared the top flight the sound of +talking and laughter came down to her, mixed with the rattle of china +and the subdued tinkle of a mandolin. She opened the door—the room +seemed full of people, but she only saw two. One was Vernon and the +other was Temple.</p> + +<p>Betty furiously resented the blush that hotly covered neck, ears and +face.</p> + +<p>"Here you are!" cried Miss Voscoe. She was kind: she gave but one +fleet glance at the blush and, linking her arm in Betty's, led her +round the room. Betty heard her name and other names. People were +being introduced to her. She heard:</p> + +<p>"Pleased to know you,—"</p> + +<p>"Pleased to make your acquaintance,—"</p> + +<p>"Delighted to meet you—"</p> + +<p>and realised that her circle of American acquaintances was widening. +When Miss Voscoe paused with her before the group of which Temple and +Vernon formed part Betty felt as though her face had swelled to that +degree that her eyes must, with the next red wave, start out of her +head. The two hands, held out in successive greeting, gave Miss Voscoe +the key to Betty's flushed entrance.</p> + +<p>She drew her quickly away, and led her up to a glaring poster where a +young woman in a big red hat sat at a café table, and under cover of +Betty's purely automatic recognition of the composition's talent, +murmured:</p> + +<p>"Which of them was it?"</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon?" Betty mechanically offered the deferent defence.</p> + +<p>"Which was it that said the three polite words—before you'd ever met +anyone else?"</p> + +<p>"Ah!" said Betty, "you're so clever—"</p> + +<p>"Too clever to live, yes," said Miss Voscoe; "but before I die—which +was it?"</p> + +<p>"I was going to say," said Betty, her face slowly drawing back into +itself its natural colouring, "that you're so clever you don't want to +be told things. If you're sure it's one of them, you ought to know +which."</p> + +<p>"Well," remarked Miss Voscoe, "I guess Mr. Temple."</p> + +<p>"Didn't I say you were clever?" said Betty.</p> + +<p>"Then it's the other one."</p> + +<p>Before the studio tea was over, Vernon and Temple both had conveyed to +Betty the information that it was the hope of meeting her that had +drawn them to Miss Voscoe's studio that afternoon.</p> + +<p>"Because, after all," said Vernon, "we <i>do</i> know each other better +than either of us knows anyone else in Paris. And, if you'd let me, I +could put you to a thing or two in the matter of your work. After all, +I've been through the mill."</p> + +<p>"It's very kind of you," said Betty, "but I'm all alone now Paula's +gone, and—"</p> + +<p>"We'll respect the conventions," said Vernon gaily, "but the +conventions of the Quartier Latin aren't the conventions of Clapham."</p> + +<p>"No, I know," said she, "but there's a point of honour." She paused. +"There are reasons," she added, "why I ought to be more conventional +than Clapham. I should like to tell you, some time, only—But I +haven't got anyone to tell anything to. I wonder—"</p> + +<p>"What? What do you wonder?"</p> + +<p>Betty spoke with effort.</p> + +<p>"I know it sounds insane, but, you know my stepfather thought you—you +wanted to marry me. You didn't ever, did you?"</p> + +<p>Vernon was silent: none of his habitual defences served him in this +hour.</p> + +<p>"You see," Betty went on, "all that sort of thing is such nonsense. If +I knew you cared about someone else everything would be so simple."</p> + +<p>"Eliminate love," said Vernon, "and the world is a simple example in +vulgar fractions."</p> + +<p>"I want it to be simple addition," said Betty. "Lady St. Craye is very +beautiful."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Vernon.</p> + +<p>"Is she in love with you?"</p> + +<p>"Ask her," said Vernon, feeling like a schoolboy in an examination.</p> + +<p>"If she were—and you cared for her—then you and I could be friends: +I should like to be real friends with you."</p> + +<p>"Let us be friends," said he when he had paused a moment. He made the +proposal with every possible reservation.</p> + +<p>"Really?" she said. "I'm so glad."</p> + +<p>If there was a pang, Betty pretended to herself that there was none. +If Vernon's conscience fluttered him he was able to soothe it; it was +an art that he had studied for years.</p> + +<p>"Say, you two!"</p> + +<p>The voice of Miss Voscoe fell like a pebble into the pool of silence +that was slowly widening between them.</p> + +<p>"Say—we're going to start a sketch-club for really reliable girls. We +can have it here, and it'll only be one franc an hour for the model, +and say six sous each for tea. Two afternoons a week. Three, five, +nine of us—you'll join, Miss Desmond?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—oh, yes!" said Betty, conscientiously delighted with the idea of +more work.</p> + +<p>"That makes—nine six sous and two hours model—how much is that, Mr. +Temple?—I see it written on your speaking brow that you took the +mathematical wranglership at Oxford College."</p> + +<p>"Four francs seventy," said Temple through the shout of laughter.</p> + +<p>"Have I said something comme il ne faut pas?" said Miss Voscoe.</p> + +<p>"You couldn't," said Vernon: "every word leaves your lips without a +stain upon its character."</p> + +<p>"Won't you let us join?" asked an Irish student. "You'll be lost +entirely without a Lord of Creation to sharpen your pencils."</p> + +<p>"We mean to <i>work</i>," said Miss Voscoe; "if you want to work take a box +of matches and a couple of sticks of brimstone and make a little +sketch class of your own."</p> + +<p>"I don't see what you want with models," said a very young and shy boy +student. "Couldn't you pose for each other, and—"</p> + +<p>A murmur of dissent from the others drove him back into shy silence.</p> + +<p>"No amateur models in this Academy," said Miss Voscoe. "Oh, we'll make +the time-honoured institutions sit up with the work we'll do. Let's +all pledge ourselves to send in to the Salon—or anyway to the +Indépendants! What we're suffering from in this quarter's +git-up-and-git. Why should we be contented to be nobody?"</p> + +<p>"On the contrary," said Vernon, "Miss Voscoe is everybody—almost!"</p> + +<p>"I'm the nobody who can't get a word in edgeways anyhow," she said. +"What I've been trying to say ever since I was born—pretty near—is +that what this class wants is a competent Professor, some bully +top-of-the-tree artist, to come and pull our work all to pieces and +wipe his boots on the bits. Mr. Vernon, don't you know any one who's +pining to give us free crits?"</p> + +<p>"Temple is," said Vernon. "There's no mistaking that longing glance of +his."</p> + +<p>"As a competent professor I make you my bow of gratitude," said +Temple, "but I should never have the courage to criticise the work of +nine fair ladies."</p> + +<p>"You needn't criticise them all at once," said a large girl from +Minneapolis, "nor yet all in the gaudy eye of heaven. We'll screen off +a corner for our Professor—sort of confessional business. You sit +there and we'll go to you one by one with our sins in our hand."</p> + +<p>"<i>That</i> would scare him some I surmise," said Miss Voscoe.</p> + +<p>"Not at all," said Temple, a little nettled, he hardly knew why.</p> + +<p>"I didn't know you were so brave," said the Minneapolis girl.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps he didn't want you to know," said Miss Voscoe; "perhaps +that's his life's dark secret."</p> + +<p>"People often pretend to a courage that they haven't," said Vernon. "A +consistent pose of cowardice, that would be novel and—I see the idea +developing—more than useful."</p> + +<p>"Is that <i>your</i> pose?" asked Temple, still rather tartly, "because if +it is, I beg to offer you, in the name of these ladies, the chair of +Professor-behind-the-screen."</p> + +<p>"I'm not afraid of the nine Muses," Vernon laughed back, "as long as +they are nine. It's the light that lies in woman's eyes that I've +always had such a nervous dread of."</p> + +<p>"It does make you blink, bless it," said the Irish student, "but not +from nine pairs at once, as you say. It's the light from one pair that +turns your head."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Vernon isn't weak in the head," said the shy boy suddenly.</p> + +<p>"No," said Vernon, "it's the heart that's weak with me. I have to be +very careful of it."</p> + +<p>"Well, but will you?" said a downright girl.</p> + +<p>"Will I what? I'm sorry, but I've lost my cue, I think. Where were +we—at losing hearts, wasn't it?"</p> + +<p>"No," said the downright girl, "I didn't mean that. I mean will you +come and criticise our drawings?"</p> + +<p>"Fiddle," said Miss Voscoe luminously. "Mr. Vernon's too big for +that."</p> + +<p>"Oh, well," said Vernon, "if you don't think I should be competent!"</p> + +<p>"You don't mean to say you would?"</p> + +<p>"Who wouldn't jump at the chance of playing Apollo to the fairest set +of muses in the Quartier?" said Temple; "but after all, I had the +refusal of the situation—I won't renounce—"</p> + +<p>"Bobby, you unman me," interrupted Vernon, putting down his cup, "you +shall <i>not</i> renounce the altruistic pleasure which you promise to +yourself in yielding this professorship to me. I accept it."</p> + +<p>"I'm hanged if you do!" said Temple. "You proposed me yourself, and +I'm elected—aren't I, Miss Voscoe?"</p> + +<p>"That's so," said she; "but Mr. Vernon's president too."</p> + +<p>"I've long been struggling with the conviction that Temple and I were +as brothers. Now I yield—Temple, to my arms!"</p> + +<p>They embraced, elegantly, enthusiastically, almost as Frenchmen use; +and the room applauded the faithful burlesque.</p> + +<p>"What's come to me that I should play the goat like this?" Vernon +asked himself, as he raised his head from Temple's broad shoulder. +Then he met Betty's laughing eyes, and no longer regretted his +assumption of that difficult role.</p> + +<p>"It's settled then. Tuesdays and Fridays, four to six," he said. "At +last I am to be—"</p> + +<p>"The light of the harem," said Miss Voscoe.</p> + +<p>"Can there be two lights?" asked Temple anxiously. "If not, consider +the fraternal embrace withdrawn."</p> + +<p>"No, you're <i>the</i> light, of course," said Betty. "Mr. Vernon's the +Ancient Light. He's older than you are, isn't he?"</p> + +<p>The roar of appreciation of her little joke surprised Betty, and, a +little, pleased her—till Miss Voscoe whispered under cover of it:</p> + +<p>"<i>Ancient</i> light? Then he <i>was</i> the three-polite-word man?"</p> + +<p>Betty explained her little jest.</p> + +<p>"All the same," said the other, "it wasn't any old blank walls you +were thinking about. I believe he is the one."</p> + +<p>"It's a great thing to be able to believe anything," said Betty; and +the talk broke up into duets. She found that Temple was speaking to +her.</p> + +<p>"I came here to-day because I wanted to meet you, Miss Desmond," he +was saying. "I hope you don't think it's cheek of me to say it, but +there's something about you that reminds me of the country at home."</p> + +<p>"That's a very pretty speech," said Betty. He reminded her of the Café +d'Harcourt, but she did not say so.</p> + +<p>"You remind me of a garden," he went on, "but I don't like to see a +garden without a hedge round it."</p> + +<p>"You think I ought to have a chaperon," said Betty bravely, "but +chaperons aren't needed in this quarter."</p> + +<p>"I wish I were your brother," said Temple.</p> + +<p>"I'm so glad you're not," said Betty. She wanted no chaperonage, even +fraternal. But the words made him shrink, and then sent a soft warmth +through him. On the whole he was not sorry that he was not her +brother.</p> + +<p>At parting Vernon, at the foot of the staircase, said:</p> + +<p>"And when may I see you again?"</p> + +<p>"On Tuesday, when the class meets."</p> + +<p>"But I didn't mean when shall I see the class. When shall I see Miss +Desmond?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, whenever you like," Betty answered gaily; "whenever Lady St. +Craye can spare you."</p> + +<p>He let her say it.</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER XVI.</p> + +<p> +"LOVE AND TUPPER."</p> + +<p>"Whenever Vernon liked" proved to be the very next day. He was waiting +outside the door of the atelier when Betty, in charcoal-smeared +pinafore, left the afternoon class.</p> + +<p>"Won't you dine with me somewhere to-night?" said he.</p> + +<p>"I am going to Garnier's," she said. Not even for him, friend of hers +and affianced of another as he might be, would she yet break the rule +of a life Paula had instituted.</p> + +<p>"Fallen as I am," he answered gaily, "I am not yet so low as to be +incapable of dining at Garnier's."</p> + +<p>So when Betty passed through the outer room of the restaurant and +along the narrow little passage where eyes and nose attest strongly +the neighborhood of the kitchen, she was attended by a figure that +aroused the spontaneous envy of all her acquaintances. In the inner +room where they dined it was remarked that such a figure would be more +at home at Durand's or the Café de Paris than at Garnier's. That night +the first breath of criticism assailed Betty. To afficher oneself with +a fellow-student—a "type," Polish or otherwise—that was all very +well, but with an obvious Boulevardier, a creature from the other +side, this dashed itself against the conventions of the Artistic +Quartier. And conventions—even of such quarters—are iron-strong.</p> + +<p>"Fiddle-de-dee," said Miss Voscoe to her companions' shocked comments, +"they were raised in the same village, or something. He used to give +her peanuts when he was in short jackets, and she used to halve her +candies with him. Friend of childhood's hour, that's all. And besides +he's one of the presidents of our Sketch Club."</p> + +<p>But all Garnier's marked that whereas the habitués contented +themselves with an omelette aux champignons, sauté potatoes and a +Petit Suisse, or the like modest menu, Betty's new friend ordered for +himself, and for her, "a real regular dinner," beginning with hors +d'oeuvre and ending with "mendiants." "Mendiants" are raisins and +nuts, the nearest to dessert that at this season you could get at +Garniers. Also he passed over with smiling disrelish the little +carafons of weak wine for which one pays five sous if the wine be red, +and six if it be white. He went out and interviewed Madame at her +little desk among the flowers and nuts and special sweet dishes, and +it was a bottle of real wine with a real cork to be drawn that adorned +the table between him and Betty. To her the whole thing was of the +nature of a festival. She enjoyed the little sensation created by her +companion; and the knowledge which she thought she had of his +relations to Lady St. Craye absolved her of any fear that in dining +with him tête-à-tête she was doing anything "not quite nice." To her +the thought of his engagement was as good or as bad as a chaperon. For +Betty's innocence was deeply laid, and had survived the shock of all +the waves that had beaten against it since her coming to Paris. It was +more than innocence, it was a very honest, straightforward childish +naiveté.</p> + +<p>"It's almost the same as if he was married," she said: "there can't be +any harm in having dinner with a man who's married—or almost +married."</p> + +<p>So she enjoyed herself. Vernon exerted himself to amuse her. But he +was surprised to find that he was not so happy as he had expected to +be. It was good that Betty had permitted him to dine with her alone, +but it was flat. After dinner he took her to the Odeon, and she said +good-night to him with a lighter heart than she had known since Paula +left her.</p> + +<p>In these rooms now sometimes it was hard to keep one's eyes shut. And +to keep her eyes shut was now Betty's aim in life, even more than the +art for which she pretended to herself that she lived. For now that +Paula had gone the deception of her father would have seemed less +justifiable, had she ever allowed herself to face the thought of it +for more than a moment; but she used to fly the thought and go round +to one of the girls' rooms to talk about Art with a big A, and forget +how little she liked or admired Betty Desmond.</p> + +<p>She was now one of a circle of English, American and German students. +The Sketch Club had brought her eight new friends, and they went about +in parties by twos and threes, or even sevens and eights, and Betty +went with them, enjoying the fun of it all, which she liked, and +missing all that she would not have liked if she had seen it. But +Vernon was the only man with whom she dined tête-à-tête or went to the +theatre alone.</p> + +<p>To him the winter passed in a maze of doubt and self-contempt. He +could not take what the gods held out: could not draw from his +constant companionship of Betty the pleasure which his artistic +principles, his trained instincts taught him to expect. He had now all +the tête-à-têtes he cared to ask for, and he hated that it should be +so. He almost wanted her to be in a position where such things should +be impossible to her. He wanted her to be guarded, watched, sheltered. +And he had never wanted that for any woman in his life before.</p> + +<p>"I shall be wishing her in a convent next," he said, "with high walls +with spikes on the top. Then I should walk round and round the outside +of the walls and wish her out. But I should not be able to get at her. +And nothing else would either."</p> + +<p>Lady St. Craye was more charming than ever. Vernon knew it and +sometimes he deliberately tried to let her charm him. But though he +perceived her charm he could not feel it. Always before he had felt +what he chose to feel. Or perhaps—he hated the thought and would not +look at it—perhaps all his love affairs had been just pictures, +perhaps he had never felt anything but an artistic pleasure in their +grouping and lighting. Perhaps now he was really feeling natural human +emotion, didn't they call it? But that was just it. He wasn't. What he +felt was resentment, dissatisfaction, a growing inability to control +events or to prearrange his sensations. He felt that he himself was +controlled. He felt like a wild creature caught in a trap. The trap +was not gilded, and he was very uncomfortable in it. Even the affairs +of others almost ceased to amuse him. He could hardly call up a +cynical smile at Lady St. Craye's evident misapprehension of those +conscientious efforts of his to be charmed by her. He was only moved +to a very faint amusement when one day Bobbie Temple, smoking in the +studio, broke a long silence abruptly to say:</p> + +<p>"Look here. Someone was saying the other day that a man can be in love +with two women at a time. Do you think it's true?"</p> + +<p>"Two? Yes. Or twenty."</p> + +<p>"Then it's not love," said Temple wisely.</p> + +<p>"They call it love," said Vernon. "<i>I</i> don't know what they mean by +it. What do <i>you</i> mean?"</p> + +<p>"By love?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"I don't exactly know," said Temple slowly. "I suppose it's wanting to +be with a person, and thinking about nothing else. And thinking +they're the most beautiful and all that. And going over everything +that they've ever said to you, and wanting—"</p> + +<p>"Wanting?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I suppose if it's really love you want to marry them."</p> + +<p>"You can't marry <i>them</i>, you know," said Vernon; "at least not +simultaneously. That's just it. Well?"</p> + +<p>"Well that's all. If that's not love, what is?"</p> + +<p>"I'm hanged if <i>I</i> know," said Vernon.</p> + +<p>"I thought you knew all about those sort of things."</p> + +<p>"So did I," said Vernon to himself. Aloud he said:</p> + +<p>"If you want a philosophic definition: it's passion transfigured by +tenderness—at least I've often said so."</p> + +<p>"But can you feel that for two people at once?"</p> + +<p>"Or," said Vernon, getting interested in his words, "it's tenderness +intoxicated by passion, and not knowing that it's drunk—"</p> + +<p>"But can you feel that for two—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, bother," said Vernon, "every sort of fool-fancy calls itself +love. There's the pleasure of pursuit—there's vanity, there's the +satisfaction of your own amour-propre, there's desire, there's +intellectual attraction, there's the love of beauty, there's the +artist's joy in doing what you know you can do well, and getting a +pretty woman for sole audience. You might feel one or two or twenty of +these things for one woman, and one or two or twenty different ones +for another. But if you mean do you love two women in the same way, I +say no. Thank Heaven it's new every time."</p> + +<p>"It mayn't be the same way," said Temple, "but it's the same thing to +you—if you feel you can't bear to give either of them up."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, you can marry one and keep on with the other. Or be +'friends' with both and marry neither. Or cut the whole show and go to +the Colonies."</p> + +<p>"Then you have to choose between being unhappy or being a blackguard."</p> + +<p>"My good chap, that's the situation in which our emotions are always +landing us—our confounded emotions and the conventions of Society."</p> + +<p>"And how are you to know whether the thing's love—or—all those other +things?"</p> + +<p>"You don't know: you can't know till it's too late for your knowing to +matter. Marriage is like spinach. You can't tell that you hate it till +you've tried it. Only—"</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"I think I've heard it said," Vernon voiced his own sudden conviction, +very carelessly, "that love wants to give and passion wants to take. +Love wants to possess the beloved object—and to make her happy. +Desire wants possession too—but the happiness is to be for oneself; +and if there's not enough happiness for both so much the worse. If I'm +talking like a Sunday School book you've brought it on yourself."</p> + +<p>"I like it," said Temple.</p> + +<p>"Well, since the Dissenting surplice has fallen on me, I'll give you a +test. I believe that the more you love a woman the less your thoughts +will dwell on the physical side of the business. You want to take care +of her."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Temple.</p> + +<p>"And then often," Vernon went on, surprised to find that he wanted to +help the other in his soul-searchings, "if a chap's not had much to do +with women—the women of our class, I mean—he gets a bit dazed with +them. They're all so nice, confound them. If a man felt he was falling +in love with two women at once, and he had the tiresome temperament +that takes these things seriously, it wouldn't be a bad thing for him +to go away into the country, and moon about for a few weeks, and see +which was the one that bothered his brain most. Then he'd know where +he was, and not be led like a lamb to the slaughter by the wrong one. +They can't both get him, you know, unless his intentions are strictly +dishonourable."</p> + +<p>"I wasn't putting the case that either of them wished to get him," +said Temple carefully.</p> + +<p>Vernon nodded.</p> + +<p>"Of course not. The thing simplifies itself wonderfully if neither of +them wants to get him. Even if they both do, matters are less +complicated. It's when only one of them wants him that it's the very +devil for a man not to be sure what <i>he</i> wants. That's very clumsily +put—what I mean is—"</p> + +<p>"I see what you mean," said Temple impatiently.</p> + +<p>"—It's the devil for him because then he lets himself drift and the +one who wants him collars him and then of course she always turns out +to be the one he didn't want. My observations are as full of wants as +an advertisement column. But the thing to do in all relations of life +is to make up your mind what it is that you <i>do</i> want, and then to +jolly well see that you get it. What I want is a pipe."</p> + +<p>He filled and lighted one.</p> + +<p>"You talk," said Temple slowly, "as though a man could get anyone—I +mean anything, he wanted."</p> + +<p>"So he can, my dear chap, if he only wants her badly enough."</p> + +<p>"Badly enough?"</p> + +<p>"Badly enough to make the supreme sacrifice to get her."</p> + +<p>"?" Temple enquired.</p> + +<p>"Marriage," Vernon answered; "there's only one excuse for marriage."</p> + +<p>"Excuse?"</p> + +<p>"Excuse. And that excuse is that one couldn't help it. The only excuse +one will have to offer, some day, to the recording angel, for all +one's other faults and follies. A man who <i>can</i> help getting married, +and doesn't, deserves all he gets."</p> + +<p>"I don't agree with you in the least," said Temple,—"about marriage, I +mean. A man <i>ought</i> to want to get married—"</p> + +<p>"To anybody? Without its being anybody in particular?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Temple stoutly. "If he gets to thirty without wanting to +marry any one in particular, he ought to look about till he finds some +one he does want. It's the right and proper thing to marry and have +kiddies."</p> + +<p>"Oh, if you're going to be Patriarchal," said Vernon. "What a symbolic +dialogue! We begin with love and we end with marriage! There's the +tragedy of romance, in a nut-shell. Yes, life's a beastly rotten show, +and the light won't last more than another two hours."</p> + + +<a name="04"></a> +<br><br> +<center> +<img alt="4w_unfinished.jpg (127K)" src="images/4w_unfinished.jpg" height="1277" width="700"> +</center> +<br><br> + + +<p>"Your hints are always as delicate as gossamer," said Temple. "Don't +throw anything at me. I'm going."</p> + +<p>He went, leaving his secret in Vernon's hands.</p> + +<p>"Poor old Temple! That's the worst of walking carefully all your days: +you do come such an awful cropper when you do come one. Two women. The +Jasmine lady must have been practising on his poor little heart. +Heigh-ho, I wish she could do as much for me! And the other one? +<i>Her</i>—I suppose."</p> + +<p>The use of the pronoun, the disuse of the grammar pulled him up short.</p> + +<p>"By Jove," he said, "that's what people say when—But I'm not in +love—with anybody. I want to work."</p> + +<p>But he didn't work. He seldom did now. And when he did the work was +not good. His easel held most often the portrait of Betty that had +been begun at Long Barton—unfinished, but a disquieting likeness. He +walked up and down his room not thinking, but dreaming. His dreams +took him to the warren, in the pure morning light; he saw Betty; he +told himself what he had said, what she had said.</p> + +<p>"And it was I who advised her to come to Paris. If only I'd known +then—"</p> + +<p>He stopped and asked himself what he knew now that he had not known +then, refused himself the answer, and went to call on Lady St. Craye.</p> + +<p>Christmas came and went; the black winds of January swept the +Boulevards, and snow lay white on the walls of court and garden. +Betty's life was full now.</p> + +<p>The empty cage that had opened its door to love at Long Barton had now +other occupants. Ambition was beginning to grow its wing feathers. She +could draw—at least some day she would be able to draw. Already she +had won a prize with a charcoal study of a bare back. But she did not +dare to name this to her father, and when he wrote to ask what was the +subject of her prize drawing she replied with misleading truth that it +was a study from nature. His imagination pictured a rustic cottage, a +water-wheel, a castle and mountains in the distance and cows and a +peasant in the foreground.</p> + +<p>But though her life was now crowded with new interests that +first-comer was not ousted. Only he had changed his plumage and she +called him Friendship. She blushed sometimes and stamped her foot when +she remembered those meetings in the summer mornings, her tremors, her +heart-beats. And oh, the "drivel" she had written in her diary!</p> + +<p>"Girls ought never to be allowed to lead that 'sheltered home life,'" +she said to Miss Voscoe, "with nothing real in it. It makes your mind +all swept and garnished and then you hurry to fill it up with +rubbish."</p> + +<p>"That's so," said her friend.</p> + +<p>"If ever <i>I</i> have a daughter," said Betty, "she shall set to work at +<i>something</i> definite the very instant she leaves school—if it's only +Hebrew or algebra. Not just Parish duties that she didn't begin, and +doesn't want to go on with. But something that's her <i>own</i> work."</p> + +<p>"You're beginning to see straight. I surmised you would by and by. But +don't you go to the other end of the see-saw, Miss Daisy-Face!"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" asked Betty. It was the morning interval when +students eat patisserie out of folded papers. The two were on the +window ledge of the Atelier, looking down on the convent garden where +already the buds were breaking to green leaf.</p> + +<p>"Why, there's room for the devil even if your flat ain't swept and +garnished. He folds up mighty small, and gets into less space than a +poppy-seed."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" asked Betty again.</p> + +<p>"I mean that Vernon chap," said Miss Voscoe down-rightly. "I told you +to change partners every now and then. But with you it's that Vernon +this week and last week and the week after next."</p> + +<p>"I've known him longer than I have the others, and I like him," said +Betty.</p> + +<p>"Oh, he's all right; fine and dandy!" replied Miss Voscoe. "He's a big +man, too, in his own line. Not the kind you expect to see knocking +about at a students' crémerie. Does he give you lessons?"</p> + +<p>"He did at home," said Betty.</p> + +<p>"Take care he doesn't teach you what's the easiest thing in creation +to learn about a man."</p> + +<p>"What's that?" Betty did not like to have to ask the question.</p> + +<p>"Why, how not to be able to do without him, of course," said Miss +Voscoe.</p> + +<p>"You're quite mistaken," said Betty eagerly: "one of the reasons I +don't mind going about with him so much is that he's engaged to be +married."</p> + +<p>"Acquainted with the lady?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Betty, sheltering behind the convention that an +introduction at a tea-party constitutes acquaintanceship. She was glad +Miss Voscoe had not asked her if she <i>knew</i> Lady St. Craye.</p> + +<p>"Oh, well"—Miss Voscoe jumped up and shook the flakes of pastry off +her pinafore—"if she doesn't mind, I guess I've got no call to. But +why don't you give that saint in the go-to-hell collar a turn?"</p> + +<p>"Meaning?"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Temple. He admires you no end. He'd be always in your pocket if +you'd let him. He's worth fifty of the other man <i>as</i> a man, if he +isn't as an artist. I keep my eyes skinned—and the Sketch Club gives +me a chance to tot them both up. I guess I can size up a man some. The +other man isn't <i>fast</i>. That's how it strikes me."</p> + +<p>"Fast?" echoed Betty, bewildered.</p> + +<p>"Fast dye: fast colour. I suspicion he'd go wrong a bit in the wash. +Temple's fast colour, warranted not to run."</p> + +<p>"I know," said Betty, "but I don't care for the colour, and I'm rather +tired of the pattern."</p> + +<p>"I wish you'd tell me which of the two was the three-polite-word man."</p> + +<p>"I know you do. But surely you see <i>now</i>?"</p> + +<p>"You're too cute. Just as likely it's the Temple one, and that's why +you're so sick of the pattern by now."</p> + +<p>"Didn't I tell you you were clever?" laughed Betty.</p> + +<p>But, all the same, next evening when Vernon called to take her to +dinner, she said:</p> + +<p>"Couldn't we go somewhere else? I'm tired of Garnier's."</p> + +<p>Vernon was tired of Garnier's, too.</p> + +<p>"Do you know Thirion's?" he said. "Thirion's in the Boulevard St. +Germain, Thirion's where Du Maurier used to go, and Thackeray, and all +sorts of celebrated people; and where the host treats you like a +friend, and the waiter like a brother?"</p> + +<p>"I should love to be treated like a waiter's brother. Do let's go," +said Betty.</p> + +<p>"He's a dream of a waiter," Vernon went on as they turned down the +lighted slope of the Rue de Rennes, "has a voice like a trumpet, and +takes a pride in calling twenty orders down the speaking-tube in one +breath, ending up with a shout. He never makes a mistake either. Shall +we walk, or take the tram, or a carriage?"</p> + +<p>The Fate who was amusing herself by playing with Betty's destiny had +sent Temple to call on Lady St. Craye that afternoon, and Lady St. +Craye had seemed bored, so bored that she had hardly appeared to +listen to Temple's talk, which, duly directed by her quite early into +the channel she desired for it, flowed in a constant stream over the +name, the history, the work, the personality of Vernon. When at last +the stream ebbed Lady St. Craye made a pretty feint of stifling a +yawn.</p> + +<p>"Oh, how horrid I am!" she cried with instant penitence, "and how very +rude you will think me! I think I have the blues to-day, or, to be +more French and more poetic, the black butterflies. It <i>is</i> so sweet +of you to have let me talk to you. I know I've been as stupid as an +owl. Won't you stay and dine with me? I'll promise to cheer up if you +will."</p> + +<p>Mr. Temple would, more than gladly.</p> + +<p>"Or no," Lady St. Craye went on, "that'll be dull for you, and perhaps +even for me if I begin to think I'm boring you. Couldn't we do +something desperate—dine at a Latin Quarter restaurant for instance? +What was that place you were telling me of, where the waiter has a +wonderful voice and makes the orders he shouts down the tube sound +like the recitative of the basso at the Opera."</p> + +<p>"Thirion's," said Temple; "but it wasn't I, it was Vernon."</p> + +<p>"Thirion's, that's it!" Lady St. Craye broke in before Vernon's name +left his lips. "Would you like to take me there to dine, Mr. Temple?"</p> + +<p>It appeared that Mr. Temple would like it of all things.</p> + +<p>"Then I'll go and put on my hat," said she and trailed her sea-green +tea-gown across the room. At the door she turned to say: "It will be +fun, won't it?"—and to laugh delightedly, like a child who is +promised a treat.</p> + +<p>That was how it happened that Lady St. Craye, brushing her dark furs +against the wall of Thirion's staircase, came, followed by Temple, +into the room where Betty and Vernon, their heads rather close +together, were discussing the menu.</p> + +<p>This was what Lady St. Craye had thought of more than a little. Yet it +was not what she had expected. Vernon, perhaps, yes: or the girl. But +not Vernon and the girl together. Not now. At her very first visit. It +was not for a second that she hesitated. Temple had not even had time +to see who it was to whom she spoke before she had walked over to the +two, and greeted them.</p> + +<p>"How perfectly delightful!" she said. "Miss Desmond, I've been meaning +to call on you, but it's been so cold, and I've been so cross, I've +called on nobody. Ah, Mr. Vernon, you too?"</p> + +<p>She looked at the vacant chair near his, and Vernon had to say:</p> + +<p>"You'll join us, of course?"</p> + +<p>So the two little parties made one party, and one of the party was +angry and annoyed, and no one of the party was quite pleased, and all +four concealed what they felt, and affected what they did not feel, +with as much of the tact of the truly well-bred as each could call up. +In this polite exercise Lady St. Craye was easily first.</p> + +<p>She was charming to Temple, she was very nice to Betty, and she spoke +to Vernon with a delicate, subtle, faint suggestion of proprietorship +in her tone. At least that was how it seemed to Betty. To Temple it +seemed that she was tacitly apologising to an old friend for having +involuntarily broken up a dinner à deux. To Vernon her tone seemed to +spell out an all but overmastering jealousy proudly overmastered. All +that pretty fiction of there being now no possibility of sentiment +between him and her flickered down and died. And with it the interest +that he had felt in her. "<i>She</i> have unexplored reserves? Bah!" he +told himself, "she is just like the rest." He felt that she had not +come from the other side of the river just to dine with Temple. He +knew she had been looking for him. And the temptation assailed him to +reward her tender anxiety by devoting himself wholly to Betty. Then he +remembered what he had let Betty believe, as to the relations in which +he stood to this other woman.</p> + +<p>His face lighted up with a smile of answering tenderness. Without +neglecting Betty he seemed to lay the real homage of his heart at the +feet of that heart's lady.</p> + +<p>"By Jove," he thought, as the dark, beautiful eyes met his in a look +of more tenderness than he had seen in them this many a day, "if only +she knew how she's playing my game for me!"</p> + +<p>Betty, for her part, refused to recognise a little pain that gnawed at +her heart and stole all taste from the best dishes of Thirion's. She +talked as much as possible to Temple, because it was the proper thing +to do, she told herself, and she talked very badly. Lady St. Craye was +transfigured by Vernon's unexpected acceptance of her delicate +advances, intoxicated by the sudden flutter of a dream she had only +known with wings in full flight, into the region where dreams, clasped +to the heart, become realities. She grew momently more beautiful. The +host, going from table to table, talking easily to his guests, could +not keep his fascinated eyes from her face. The proprietor of +Thirion's had good taste, and knew a beautiful woman when he saw her.</p> + +<p>Betty's eyes, too, strayed more and more often from her plate, and +from Temple to the efflorescence of this new beauty-light. She felt +mean and poor, ill-dressed, shabby, dowdy, dull, weary and +uninteresting. Her face felt tired. It was an effort to smile.</p> + +<p>When the dinner was over she said abruptly:</p> + +<p>"If you'll excuse me—I've got a dreadful headache—no, I don't want +anyone to see me home. Just put me in a carriage."</p> + +<p>She insisted, and it was done.</p> + +<p>When the carriage drew up in front of the closed porte cochère of 57 +Boulevard Montparnasse, Betty was surprised and wounded to discover +that she was crying.</p> + +<p>"Well, you <i>knew</i> they were engaged!" she said as she let herself into +her room with her latchkey. "You knew they were engaged! What did you +expect?"</p> + +<p>Temple could not remember afterwards exactly how he got separated from +the others. It just happened, as such unimportant things will. He +missed them somehow, at a crossing, looked about him in vain, shrugged +his shoulders and went home.</p> + +<p>Lady St. Craye hesitated a moment with her latchkey in her hand. Then +she threw open the door of her flat.</p> + +<p>"Come in, won't you?" she said, and led the way into her fire-warm, +flower-scented, lamplit room. Vernon also hesitated a moment. Then he +followed. He stood on the hearth-rug with his back to the wood fire. +He did not speak.</p> + +<p>Somehow it was difficult for her to take up their talk at the place +and in the strain where it had broken off when Betty proclaimed her +headache.</p> + +<p>Yet this was what she must do, it seemed to her, or lose all the +ground she had gained.</p> + +<p>"You've been very charming to me this evening," she said at last, and +knew as she said it that it was the wrong thing to say.</p> + +<p>"You flatter me," said Vernon.</p> + +<p>"I was so surprised to see you there," she went on.</p> + +<p>Vernon was surprised that she should say it. He had thought more +highly of her powers.</p> + +<p>"The pleasure was mine," he said in his most banal tones, "the +surprise, alas, was all for you—and all you gained."</p> + +<p>"Weren't <i>you</i> surprised?"—Lady St. Craye was angry and humiliated. +That she—she—should find herself nervous, at fault, find herself +playing the game as crudely as any shopgirl!</p> + +<p>"No," said Vernon.</p> + +<p>"But you couldn't have expected me?" She knew quite well what she was +doing, but she was too nervous to stop herself.</p> + +<p>"I've always expected you," he said deliberately, "ever since I told +you that I often dined at Thirion's."</p> + +<p>"You expected me to—"</p> + +<p>"To run after me?" said Vernon with paraded ingenuousness; "yes, +didn't you?"</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> run after <i>you</i>? You—" she stopped short, for she saw in his +eyes that, if she let him quarrel with her now, it was forever.</p> + +<p>He at the same moment awoke from the trance of anger that had come +upon him when he found himself alone with her; anger at her, and at +himself, fanned to fury by the thought of Betty and of what she, at +this moment, must be thinking. He laughed:</p> + +<p>"Ah, don't break my heart!" he said, "I've been so happy all the +evening fancying that you had—you had—"</p> + +<p>"Had what?" she asked with dry lips, for the caress in his tone was +such as to deceive the very elect.</p> + +<p>"Had felt just the faintest little touch of interest in me. Had cared +to know how I spent my evenings, and with whom!"</p> + +<p>"You thought I could stoop to spy on you?" she asked. "Monsieur +flatters himself."</p> + +<p>The anger in him was raising its head again.</p> + +<p>"Monsieur very seldom does," he said.</p> + +<p>She took that as she chose to take it.</p> + +<p>"No, you're beautifully humble."</p> + +<p>"And you're proudly beautiful."</p> + +<p>She flushed and looked down.</p> + +<p>"Don't you like to be told that you're beautiful?"</p> + +<p>"Not by you. Not like that!"</p> + +<p>"And so you didn't come to Thirion's to see me? How one may deceive +oneself! The highest hopes we cherish here! Another beautiful illusion +gone!"</p> + +<p>She said to herself: "I can do nothing with him in this mood," and +aloud she could not help saying: "Was it a beautiful one?"</p> + +<p>"Very," he answered gaily. "Can you doubt it?"</p> + +<p>She found nothing to say. And even as she fought for words she +suddenly found that he had caught her in his arms, and kissed her, and +that the sound of the door that had banged behind him was echoing in +her ears.</p> + +<p>She put her hands to her head. She could not see clearly.</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER XVII.</p> + +<p> +INTERVENTIONS.</p> + +<p>That kiss gave Lady St. Craye furiously to think, as they say in +France.</p> + +<p>Had it meant—? What had it meant? Was it the crown of her hopes, her +dreams? Was it possible that now, at last, after all that had gone +before, she might win him—had won him, even?</p> + +<p>The sex-instinct said "No."</p> + +<p>Then, if "No" were the answer to that question, the kiss had been mere +brutality. It had meant just:</p> + +<p>"You chose to follow me—to play the spy. What the deuce do you want? +Is it this? God knows you're welcome," the kiss following.</p> + +<p>The kiss stung. It was not the first. But the others—even the last of +them, two years before, had not had that sting.</p> + +<p>Lady St. Craye, biting her lips in lonely dissection of herself and of +him, dared take no comfort. Also, she no longer dared to follow him, +to watch him, to spy on him.</p> + +<p>In her jasmine-scented leisure Lady St. Craye analysed herself, and +him and Her. Above all Her—who was Betty. To find out how it all +seemed to her—that, presently, seemed to Lady St. Craye the one +possible, the one important thing. So after she had given a few days +to the analysis of that kiss, had failed to reach certainty as to its +elements, had writhed in her failure, and bitterly resented the +mysteries constituent that falsified all her calculations, she dressed +herself beautifully, and went to call on the constituent, Betty.</p> + +<p>Betty was at home. She was drawing at a table, cunningly placed at +right angles to the window. She rose with a grace that Lady St. Craye +had not seen in her. She was dressed in a plain gown, that hung from +the shoulders in long, straight, green folds. Her hair was down.—And +Betty had beautiful hair. Lady St. Craye's hair had never been long. +Betty's fell nearly to her knees.</p> + +<p>"Oh, was the door open?" she said. "I didn't know, I've—I'm so +sorry—I've been washing my hair."</p> + +<p>"It's lovely," said the other woman, with an appreciation quite +genuine. "What a pity you can't always wear it like that!"</p> + +<p>"It's long," said Betty disparagingly, "but the colour's horrid. What +Miss Voscoe calls Boy colour."</p> + +<p>"Boy colour?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, just nothing in particular. Mousy."</p> + +<p>"If you had golden hair, or black, Miss Desmond, you'd have a quite +unfair advantage over the rest of us."</p> + +<p>"I don't think so," said Betty very simply; "you see, no one ever sees +it down."</p> + +<p>"What a charming place you've got here," Lady St. Craye went on.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Betty, "it is nice," and she thought of Paula.</p> + +<p>"And do you live here all alone?"</p> + +<p>"Yes: I had a friend with me at first, but she's gone back to +England."</p> + +<p>"Don't you find it very dull?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no! I know lots of people now."</p> + +<p>"And they come to see you here?"</p> + +<p>Lady St. Craye had decided that it was not necessary to go delicately. +The girl was evidently stupid, and one need not pick one's words.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Betty.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Vernon's a great friend of yours, isn't he?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"I suppose you see a great deal of him?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Is there anything else you would like to know?"</p> + +<p>The scratch was so sudden, so fierce, so feline that for a moment Lady +St. Craye could only look blankly at her hostess. Then she recovered +herself enough to say:</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm so sorry! Was I asking a lot of questions? It's a dreadful +habit of mine, I'm afraid, when I'm interested in people."</p> + +<p>Betty scratched again quite calmly and quite mercilessly.</p> + +<p>"It's quite natural that Mr. Vernon should interest you. But I don't +think I'm likely to be able to tell you anything about him that you +don't know. May I get you some tea?"</p> + +<p>It was impossible for Lady St. Craye to reply: "I meant that I was +interested in <i>you</i>—not in Mr. Vernon;" so she said:</p> + +<p>"Thank you—that will be delightful."</p> + +<p>Betty went along the little passage to her kitchen, and her visitor +was left to revise her impressions.</p> + +<p>When Betty came back with the tea-tray, her hair was twisted up. The +kettle could be heard hissing in the tiny kitchen.</p> + +<p>"Can't I help you?" Lady St. Craye asked, leaning back indolently in +the most comfortable chair.</p> + +<p>"No, thank you: it's all done now."</p> + + +<a name="05"></a> +<br><br> +<center> +<img alt="5w_alldone.jpg (121K)" src="images/5w_alldone.jpg" height="1552" width="692"> +</center> +<br><br> + + +<p>Betty poured the tea for the other woman to drink. Her own remained +untasted. She exerted herself to manufacture small-talk, was very +amiable, very attentive. Lady St. Craye almost thought she must have +dreamed those two sharp cat-scratches at the beginning of the +interview. But presently Betty's polite remarks came less readily. +There were longer intervals of silence. And Lady St. Craye for once +was at a loss. Her nerve was gone. She dared not tempt the claws +again. After the longest pause of all Betty said suddenly:</p> + +<p>"I think I know why you came to-day."</p> + +<p>"I came to see you, because you're a friend of Mr. Vernon's."</p> + +<p>"You came to see me because you wanted to find out exactly how much +I'm a friend of Mr. Vernon's. Didn't you?"</p> + +<p>Candour is the most disconcerting of the virtues.</p> + +<p>"Not in the least," Lady St. Craye found herself saying. "I came to +see you—because—as I said."</p> + +<p>"I don't think it is much use your coming to see me," Betty went on, +"though, if you meant it kindly—But you didn't—you didn't! If you +had it wouldn't have made any difference. We should never get on with +each other, never."</p> + +<p>"Really, Miss Desmond"—Lady St. Craye clutched her card-case and half +rose—"I begin to think we never should."</p> + +<p>Betty's ignorance of the usages of good society stood her friend. She +ignored, not consciously, but by the prompting of nature, the social +law which decrees that one should not speak of things that really +interest one.</p> + +<p>"Do sit down," she said. "I'm glad you came—because I know exactly +what you mean, now."</p> + +<p>"If the knowledge were only mutual!" sighed Lady St. Craye, and found +courage to raise eyebrows wearily.</p> + +<p>"You don't like my going about with Mr. Vernon. Well, you've only to +say so. Only when you're married you'll find you've got your work cut +out to keep him from having any friends except you."</p> + +<p>Lady St. Craye had the best of reasons for believing this likely to be +the truth. She said:</p> + +<p>"When I'm married?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Betty firmly. "You're jealous; you've no cause to be—and +I tell you that because I think being jealous must hurt. But it would +have been nicer of you, if you'd come straight to me and said: 'Look +here, I don't like you going about with the man I'm engaged to.' I +should have understood then and respected you. But to come like a +child's Guide to Knowledge—"</p> + +<p>The other woman was not listening. "Engaged to him!"—The words sang +deliciously, disquietingly in her ears.</p> + +<p>"But who said I was engaged to him?"</p> + +<p>"He did, of course. He isn't ashamed of it—if you are."</p> + +<p>"He told you that!"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Now aren't you ashamed of yourself?"</p> + +<p>Country-bred Betty, braced by the straightforward directness of Miss +Voscoe, and full of the nervous energy engendered by a half-understood +trouble, had routed, for a moment, the woman of the world. But only +for a moment. Then Lady St. Craye, unable to estimate the gain or loss +of the encounter, pulled herself together to make good her retreat.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, with her charming smile. "I am ashamed of myself. I +<i>was</i> jealous—I own it. But I shouldn't have shown it as I did if I'd +known the sort of girl you are. Come, forgive me! Can't you +understand—and forgive?"</p> + +<p>"It was all my fault." The generosity of Betty hastened to meet what +it took to be the generosity of the other. "Forgive me. I won't see +him again at all—if you don't want me to."</p> + +<p>"No, no." Even at that moment, in one illuminating flash, Lady St. +Craye saw the explications that must follow the announcement of that +renunciatory decision. "No, no. If you do that I shall feel sure that +you don't forgive me for being so silly. Just let everything go +on—won't you? And please, please don't tell him anything about—about +to-day."</p> + +<p>"How could I?" asked Betty.</p> + +<p>"But promise you won't. You know—men are so vain. I should hate him +to know"—she hesitated and then finished the sentence with fine +art—"to know—how much I care."</p> + +<p>"Of course you care," said Betty downrightly. "You ought to care. It +would be horrid of you if you didn't."</p> + +<p>"But I don't, <i>now</i>. Now I <i>know</i> you, Miss Desmond. I understand so +well—and I like to think of his being with you."</p> + +<p>Even to Betty's ears this did not ring quite true.</p> + +<p>"You like—?" she said.</p> + +<p>"I mean I quite understand now. I thought—I don't know what I +thought. You're so pretty, you know. And he has had so very +many—love-affairs."</p> + +<p>"He hasn't one with me," said Betty briefly.</p> + +<p>"Ah, you're still angry. And no wonder. Do forgive me, Miss Desmond, +and let's be friends."</p> + +<p>Betty's look as she gave her hand was doubtful. But the hand was +given.</p> + +<p>"And you'll keep my poor little secret?"</p> + +<p>"I should have thought you would have been proud for him to know how +much you care."</p> + +<p>"Ah, my dear," Lady St. Craye became natural for an instant under the +transfiguring influence of her real thoughts as she spoke them, "my +dear, don't believe it! When a man's sure of you he doesn't care any +more. It's while he's not quite sure that he cares."</p> + +<p>"I don't think that's so always," said Betty.</p> + +<p>"Ah, believe me, there are 'more ways of killing a cat than choking it +with butter.' Forgive the homely aphorism. When you have a lover of +your own—or perhaps you have now?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I have." Betty stood on guard with a steady face.</p> + +<p>"Well, when you have—or if you have—remember never to let him be +quite sure. It's the only way."</p> + +<p>The two parted, with a mutually kindly feeling that surprised one as +much as the other. Lady St. Craye drove home contrasting bitterly the +excellence of her maxims with the ineptitude of her practice. She had +let him know that she cared. And he had left her. That was two years +ago. And, now that she had met him again, when she might have played +the part she had recommended to that chit with the long hair—the part +she knew to be the wise one—she had once more suffered passion to +overcome wisdom, and had shown him that she loved him. And he had +kissed her.</p> + +<p>She blushed in the dusk of her carriage for the shame of that kiss.</p> + +<p>But he had told that girl that he was engaged to her.</p> + +<p>A delicious other flush replaced the blush of shame. Why should he +have done that unless he really meant—? In that case the kiss was +nothing to blush about. And yet it was. She knew it.</p> + +<p>She had time to think in the days that followed, days that brought +Temple more than once to her doors, but Vernon never.</p> + +<p>Betty left alone let down her damp hair and tried to resume her +drawing. But it would not do. The emotion of the interview was too +recent. Her heart was beating still with anger, and resentment, and +other feelings less easily named.</p> + +<p>Vernon was to come to fetch her at seven. She would not face him. Let +him go and dine with the woman he belonged to!</p> + +<p>Betty went out at half-past six. She would not go to Garnier's, nor to +Thirion's. That was where he would look for her.</p> + +<p>She walked steadily on, down the boulevard. She would dine at some +place she had never been to before. A sickening vision of that first +night in Paris swam before her. She saw again the Café d'Harcourt, +heard the voices of the women who had spoken to Paula, saw the eyes of +the men who had been the companions of those women. In that rout the +face of Temple shone—clear cut, severe. She remembered the instant +resentment that had thrilled her at his protective attitude, +remembered it and wondered at it a little. She would not have felt +that now. She knew her Paris better than she had done then.</p> + +<p>And with the thought, the face of Temple came towards her out of the +crowd. He raised his hat in response to her frigid bow, and had almost +passed her, when she spoke on an impulse that surprised herself.</p> + +<p>"Oh—Mr. Temple!"</p> + +<p>He stopped and turned.</p> + +<p>"I was looking for a place to dine. I'm tired of Garnier's and +Thirion's."</p> + +<p>He hesitated. And he, too, remembered the night at the Café +d'Harcourt, when she had disdained his advice and gone back to take +the advice of Paula.</p> + +<p>He caught himself assuring himself that a man need not be ashamed to +risk being snubbed—making a fool of himself even—if he could do any +good. So he said: "You know I have horrid old-fashioned ideas about +women," and stopped short.</p> + +<p>"Don't you know of any good quiet place near here?" said Betty.</p> + +<p>"I think women ought to be taken care of. But some of them—Miss +Desmond, I'm so afraid of you—I'm afraid of boring you—"</p> + +<p>Remorse stirred her.</p> + +<p>"You've always been most awfully kind," she said warmly. "I've often +wanted to tell you that I'm sorry about that first time I saw you—I'm +not sorry for what I <i>did</i>," she added in haste; "I can never be +anything but glad for that. But I'm sorry I seemed ungrateful to you."</p> + +<p>"Now you give me courage," he said. "I do know a quiet little place +quite near here. And, as you haven't any of your friends with you, +won't you take pity on me and let me dine with you?"</p> + +<p>"You're sure you're not giving up some nice engagement—just to—to be +kind to me?" she asked. And the forlornness of her tone made him +almost forget that he had half promised to join a party of Lady St. +Craye's.</p> + +<p>"I should like to come with you—I should like it of all things," he +said; and he said it convincingly.</p> + +<p>They dined together, and the dinner was unexpectedly pleasant to both +of them. They talked of England, of wood, field and meadow, and Betty +found herself talking to him of the garden at home and of the things +that grew there, as she had talked to Paula, and as she had never +talked to Vernon.</p> + +<p>"It's so lovely all the year," she said. "When the last mignonette's +over, there are the chrysanthemums, and then the Christmas roses, and +ever so early in January the winter aconite and the snow-drops, and +the violets under the south wall. And then the little green daffodil +leaves come up and the buds, though it's weeks before they turn into +flowers. And if it's a mild winter the primroses—just little baby +ones—seem to go on all the time."</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said, "I know. And the wallflowers, they're green all the +time.—And the monthly roses, they flower at Christmas. And then when +the real roses begin to bud—and when June comes—and you're drunk +with the scent of red roses—the kind you always long for at +Christmas."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," said Betty—"do you feel like that too? And if you get +them, they're soft limp-stalked things, like caterpillars half +disguised as roses by some incompetent fairy. Not like the stiff solid +heavy velvet roses with thick green leaves and heaps of thorns. Those +are the roses one longs for."</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said. "Those are the roses one longs for." And an odd pause +punctuated the sentence.</p> + +<p>But the pause did not last. There was so much to talk of—now that +barrier of resentment, wattled with remorse, was broken down. It was +an odd revelation to each—the love of the other for certain authors, +certain pictures, certain symphonies, certain dramas. The discovery of +this sort of community of tastes is like the meeting in far foreign +countries of a man who speaks the tongue of one's mother land. The two +lingered long over their coffee, and the "Grand Marnier" which their +liking for "The Garden of Lies" led to their ordering. Betty had +forgotten Vernon, forgotten Lady St. Craye, in the delightful +interchange of:</p> + +<p>"Oh, I do like—"</p> + +<p>"And don't you like—?"</p> + +<p>"And isn't that splendid?"</p> + +<p>These simple sentences, interchanged, took on the value of intimate +confidences.</p> + +<p>"I've had such a jolly time," Temple said. "I haven't had such a talk +for ages."</p> + +<p>And yet all the talk had been mere confessions of faith—in Ibsen, in +Browning, in Maeterlinck, in English gardens, in Art for Art's sake, +and in Whistler and Beethoven.</p> + +<p>"I've liked it too," said Betty.</p> + +<p>"And it's awfully jolly," he went on, "to feel that you've forgiven +me"—the speech suddenly became difficult,—"at least I mean to say—" +he ended lamely.</p> + +<p>"It's I who ought to be forgiven," said Betty. "I'm very glad I met +you. I've enjoyed our talk ever so much."</p> + +<p>Vernon spent an empty evening, and waylaid Betty as she left her class +next day.</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry," she said. "I couldn't help it. I suddenly felt I wanted +something different. So I dined at a new place."</p> + +<p>"Alone?" said Vernon.</p> + +<p>"No," said Betty with her chin in the air.</p> + +<p>Vernon digested, as best he might, his first mouthful of +jealousy—real downright sickening jealousy. The sensation astonished +him so much that he lacked the courage to dissect it.</p> + +<p>"Will you dine with me to-night?" was all he found to say.</p> + +<p>"With pleasure," said Betty. But it was not with pleasure that she +dined. There was something between her and Vernon. Both felt it, and +both attributed it to the same cause.</p> + +<p>The three dinners that followed in the next fortnight brought none of +that old lighthearted companionship which had been the gayest of +table-decorations. Something was gone—lost—as though a royal rose +had suddenly faded, a rainbow-coloured bubble had broken.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad," said Betty; "if he's engaged, I don't want to feel happy +with him."</p> + +<p>She did not feel happy without him. The Inward Monitor grew more and +more insistent. She caught herself wondering how Temple, with the +serious face and the honest eyes, would regard the lies, the +trickeries, the whole tissue of deceit that had won her her chance of +following her own art, of living her own life.</p> + +<p>Vernon understood, presently, that not even that evening at Thirion's +could give the key to this uncomforting change. He had not seen Lady +St. Craye since the night of the kiss.</p> + +<p>It was after the fourth flat dinner with Betty that he said good-night +to her early and abruptly, and drove to Lady St. Craye's.</p> + +<p>She was alone. She rose to greet him, and he saw that her eyes were +dark-rimmed, and her lips rough.</p> + +<p>"This is very nice of you," she said. "It's nearly a month since I saw +you."</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said. "I know it is. Do you remember the last time? Hasn't +that taught you not to play with me?"</p> + +<p>The kiss was explained now. Lady St. Craye shivered.</p> + +<p>"I don't know what you mean?" she said, feebly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, you do! You're much too clever not to understand. Come to +think of it, you're much too everything—too clever, too beautiful, +too charming, too everything."</p> + +<p>"You overwhelm me," she made herself say.</p> + +<p>"Not at all. You know your points. What I want to know is just one +thing—and that's the thing you're going to tell me."</p> + +<p>She drew her dry lips inward to moisten them.</p> + +<p>"What do you want to know? Why do you speak to me like that? What have +I done?"</p> + +<p>"That's what you're going to tell me."</p> + +<p>"I shall tell you nothing—while you ask in that tone."</p> + +<p>"Won't you? How can I persuade you?" his tone caressed and stung. +"What arguments can I use? Must I kiss you again?"</p> + +<p>She drew herself up, called wildly on all her powers to resent the +insult. Nothing came at her call.</p> + +<p>"What do you want me to tell you?" she asked, and her eyes implored +the mercy she would not consciously have asked.</p> + +<p>He saw, and he came a little nearer to her—looking down at her +upturned face with eyes before which her own fell.</p> + +<p>"You don't want another kiss?" he said. "Then tell me what you've been +saying to Miss Desmond."</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER XVIII.</p> + +<p> +THE TRUTH.</p> + +<p>There was a silence.</p> + +<p>"Come, my pretty Jasmine lady, speak the truth."</p> + +<p>"I will: What a brute you are!"</p> + +<p>"So another lady told me a few months ago. Come, tell me."</p> + +<p>"Why should I tell you anything?" She tried to touch her tone with +scorn.</p> + +<p>"Because I choose. You thought you could play with me and fool me and +trick me out of what I mean to have—"</p> + +<p>"What you mean to have?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, what I mean to have. I mean to marry Miss Desmond—if she'll +have me."</p> + +<p>"<i>You</i>—mean to marry? Saul is among the prophets with a vengeance!" +The scorn came naturally to her voice now.</p> + +<p>Vernon stood as if turned to stone. Nothing had ever astonished him so +much as those four words, spoken in his own voice, "I mean to marry." +He repeated them. "I mean to marry Miss Desmond, if she'll have me. +And it's your doing."</p> + +<p>"Of course," she shrugged her shoulders. "Naturally it would be. Won't +you sit down? You look so uncomfortable. Those French tragedy scenes +with the hero hat in one hand and gloves in the other always seem to +me so comic."</p> + +<p>That was her score, the first. He put down the hat and gloves and came +towards her. And as he came he hastily sketched his plan of action. +When he reached her it was ready formed. His anger was always short +lived. It had died down and left him competent as ever to handle the +scene.</p> + +<p>He took her hands, pushed her gently into a chair near the table, and +sat down beside her with his elbows on the table and his head in his +hands.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me, dear," he said. "I was a brute. Forgive me—and help me. +No one can help me but you."</p> + +<p>It was a master-stroke: and he had staked a good deal on it. The stake +was not lost. She found no words.</p> + +<p>"My dear, sweet Jasmine lady," he said, "let me talk to you. Let me +tell you everything. I can talk to you as I can talk to no one else, +because I know you're fond of me. You are fond of me—a little, aren't +you—for the sake of old times?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, "I am fond of you."</p> + +<p>"And you forgive me—you do forgive me for being such a brute? I +hardly knew what I was doing."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, speaking as one speaks in dreams, "I forgive you."</p> + +<p>"Thank you," he said humbly; "you were always generous. And you always +understand."</p> + +<p>"Wait—wait. I'll attend to you presently," she was saying to her +heart. "Yes, I know it's all over. I know the game's up. Let me pull +through this without disgracing myself, and I'll let you hurt me as +much as you like afterwards."</p> + +<p>"Tell me," she said gently to Vernon, "tell me everything."</p> + +<p>He was silent, his face still hidden. He had cut the knot of an +impossible situation and he was pausing to admire the cleverness of +the stroke. In two minutes he had blotted out the last six +months—months in which he and she had been adversaries. He had thrown +himself on her mercy, and he had done wisely. Never, even in the days +when he had carefully taught himself to be in love with her, had he +liked her so well as now, when she got up from her chair to come and +lay her hand softly on his shoulder and to say:</p> + +<p>"My poor boy,—but there's nothing for you to be unhappy about. Tell +me all about it—from the very beginning."</p> + +<p>There was a luxurious temptation in the idea. It was not the first +time, naturally, that Vernon had "told all about it" with a +sympathetic woman-hand on his shoulder. He knew the strategic value of +confidences. But always he had made the confidences fit the +occasion—serve the end he had in view. Now, such end as had been in +view was gained. He knew that it was only a matter of time now, before +she should tell him of her own accord, what he could never by any +brutality have forced her to tell. And the temptation to speak, for +once, the truth about himself was overmastering. It is a luxury one +can so very rarely afford. Most of us go the whole long life-way +without tasting it. There was nothing to lose by speaking the truth. +Moreover, he must say something, and why not the truth? So he said:</p> + +<p>"It all comes of that confounded habit of mine of wanting to be in +love."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, "you were always so anxious to be—weren't you? And +you never were—till now."</p> + +<p>The echo of his hidden thought made it easier for him to go on.</p> + +<p>"It was at Long Barton," he said,—"it's a little dead and alive place +in Kent. I was painting that picture that you like—the one that's in +the Salon, and I was bored to death, and she walked straight into the +composition in a pink gown that made her look like a La France rose +that has been rained on—you know the sort of pink-turning-to-mauve."</p> + +<p>"And it was love at first sight?" said she, and took away her hand.</p> + +<p>"Not it," said Vernon, catching the hand and holding it; "it was just +the usual thing. I wanted it to be like all the others."</p> + +<p>"Like mine," she said, looking down on him.</p> + +<p>"Nothing could be like <i>that</i>," he had the grace to say, looking up at +her: "that was only like the others in one thing—that it couldn't +last.—What am I thinking of to let you stand there?"</p> + +<p>He got up and led her to the divan. They sat down side by side. She +wanted to laugh, to sing, to scream. Here was he sitting by her like a +lover—holding her hand, the first time these two years, three years +nearly—his voice tender as ever. And he was telling her about Her.</p> + +<p>"No," he went on, burrowing his shoulder comfortably in the cushions, +"it was just the ordinary outline sketch. But it was coming very +nicely. She was beginning to be interested, and I had taught myself +almost all that was needed—I didn't want to marry her; I didn't want +anything except those delicate delightful emotions that come before +one is quite, quite sure that she—But you know."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said. "I know."</p> + +<p>"Then her father interfered, and vulgarized the whole thing. He's a +parson—a weak little rat, but I was sorry for him. Then an aunt came +on the scene—a most gentlemanly lady,"—he laughed a little at the +recollection,—"and I promised not to go out of my way to see Her +again. It was quite easy. The bloom was already brushed from the +adventure. I finished the picture, and went to Brittany and forgot the +whole silly business."</p> + +<p>"There was some one in Brittany, of course?"</p> + +<p>"Of course," said he; "there always is. I had a delightful summer. +Then in October, sitting at the Café de la Paix, I saw her pass. It +was the same day I saw you."</p> + +<p>"Before or after you saw me?"</p> + +<p>"After."</p> + +<p>"Then if I'd stopped—if I'd made you come for a drive then and there, +you'd never have seen her?"</p> + +<p>"That's so," said Vernon; "and by Heaven I almost wish you had!"</p> + +<p>The wish was a serpent in her heart. She said: "Go on."</p> + +<p>And he went on, and, warming to his subject, grew eloquent on the +events of the winter, his emotions, his surmises as to Betty's +emotions, his slow awakening to the knowledge that now, for the first +time—and so on and so forth.</p> + +<p>"You don't know how I tried to fall in love with you again," he said, +and kissed her hand. "You're prettier than she is, and cleverer and a +thousand times more adorable. But it's no good; it's a sort of +madness."</p> + +<p>"You never were in love with me."</p> + +<p>"No: I don't think I was: but I was happier with you than I shall ever +be with her for all that. Talk of the joy of love! Love hurts—hurts +damnably. I beg your pardon."</p> + +<p>"Yes. I believe it's painful. Go on."</p> + +<p>He went on. He was enjoying himself, now, thoroughly.</p> + +<p>"And so," the long tale ended, "when I found she had scruples about +going about with me alone—because her father had suggested that I was +in love with her—I—I let her think that I was engaged to you."</p> + +<p>"That is too much!" she cried and would have risen: but he kept her +hand fast.</p> + +<p>"Ah, don't be angry," he pleaded. "You see, I knew you didn't care +about me a little bit: and I never thought you and she would come +across each other."</p> + +<p>"So you knew all the time that I didn't care?" her self-respect +clutched at the spar he threw out.</p> + +<p>"Of course. I'm not such a fool as to think—Ah, forgive me for +letting her think that. It bought me all I cared to ask for of her +time. She's so young, so innocent—she thought it was quite all right +as long as I belonged to someone else, and couldn't make love to her."</p> + +<p>"And haven't you?"</p> + +<p>"Never—never once—since the days at Long Barton when it had to be +'made;' and even then I only made the very beginnings of it. Now—"</p> + +<p>"I suppose you've been very, very happy?"</p> + +<p>"Don't I tell you? I've never been so wretched in my life! I despise +myself. I've always made everything go as I wanted it to go. Now I'm +like a leaf in the wind—<i>Pauvre feuille desechée</i>, don't you know. +And I hate it. And I hate her being here without anyone to look after +her. A hundred times I've had it on the tip of my pen to send that +doddering old Underwood an anonymous letter, telling him all about +it."</p> + +<p>"Underwood?"</p> + +<p>"Her step-father.—Oh, I forgot—I didn't tell you." He proceeded to +tell her Betty's secret, the death of Madame Gautier and Betty's bid +for freedom.</p> + +<p>"I see," she said slowly. "Well, there's no great harm done. But I +wish you'd trusted me before. You wanted to know, at the beginning of +this remarkable interview," she laughed rather forlornly, "what I had +told Miss Desmond. Well, I went to see her, and when she told me that +you'd told her you were engaged to me, I—I just acted the jealous a +little bit. I thought I was helping you—playing up to you. I suppose +I overdid it. I'm sorry."</p> + +<p>"The question is," said he anxiously, "whether she'll forgive me for +that lie. She's most awfully straight, you know."</p> + +<p>"She seems to have lied herself," Lady St. Craye could not help +saying.</p> + +<p>"Ah, yes—but only to her father."</p> + +<p>"That hardly counts, you think?"</p> + +<p>"It's not the same thing as lying to the person you love. I wish—I +wonder whether you'd mind if I never told her it was a lie? Couldn't I +tell her that we were engaged but you've broken it off? That you found +you liked Temple better, or something?"</p> + +<p>She gasped before the sudden vision of the naked gigantic egotism of a +man in love.</p> + +<p>"You can tell her what you like," she said wearily: "a lie or two more +or less—what does it matter?"</p> + +<p>"I don't want to lie to her," said Vernon. "I hate to. But she'd never +understand the truth."</p> + +<p>"You think <i>I</i> understand? It <i>is</i> the truth you've been telling me?"</p> + +<p>He laughed. "I don't think I ever told so much truth in all my life."</p> + +<p>"And you've thoroughly enjoyed it! You alway did enjoy new +sensations!"</p> + +<p>"Ah, don't sneer at me. You don't understand—not quite. Everything's +changed. I really do feel as though I'd been born again. The point of +view has shifted—and so suddenly, so completely. It's a new Heaven +and a new earth. But the new earth's not comfortable, and I don't +suppose I shall ever get the new Heaven. But you'll help me—you'll +advise me? Do you think I ought to tell her at once? You see, she's so +different from other girls—she's—"</p> + +<p>"She isn't," Lady St. Craye interrupted, "except that she's the one +you love; she's not a bit different from other girls. No girl's +different from other girls."</p> + +<p>"Ah, you don't know her," he said. "You see, she's so young and brave +and true and—what is it—Why—"</p> + +<p>Lady St. Craye had rested her head against his coat-sleeve and he knew +that she was crying.</p> + +<p>"What is it? My dear, don't—you musn't cry."</p> + +<p>"I'm not.—At least I'm very tired."</p> + +<p>"Brute that I am!" he said with late compunction. "And I've been +worrying you with all my silly affairs. Cheer up,—and smile at me +before I go! Of course you're tired!"</p> + +<p>His hand on her soft hair held her head against his arm.</p> + +<p>"No," she said suddenly, "it isn't that I'm tired, really. You've told +the truth,—why shouldn't I?" Vernon instantly and deeply regretted +the lapse.</p> + +<p>"You're really going to marry the girl? You mean it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Then I'll help you. I'll do everything I can for you."</p> + +<p>"You're a dear," he said kindly. "You always were."</p> + +<p>"I'll be your true friend—oh, yes, I will! Because I love you, +Eustace. I've always loved you—I always shall. It can't spoil +anything now to tell you, because everything <i>is</i> spoilt. She'll never +love you like I do. Nobody ever will."</p> + +<p>"You're tired. I've bothered you. You're saying this just +to—because—"</p> + +<p>"I'm saying it because it's true. Why should you be the only one to +speak the truth? Oh, Eustace—when you pretended to think I didn't +care, two years ago, I was too proud to speak the truth then. I'm not +proud now any more. Go away. I wish I'd never seen you; I wish I'd +never been born."</p> + +<p>"Yes, dear, yes. I'll go" he said, and rose. She buried her face in +the cushion where his shoulder had been.</p> + +<p>He was looking round for his hat and gloves—more uncomfortable than +he ever remembered to have been.</p> + +<p>As he reached the door she sprang up, and he heard the silken swish of +her gray gown coming towards him.</p> + +<p>"Say good-night," she pleaded. "Oh, Eustace, kiss me again—kindly, +not like last time."</p> + +<p>He met her half-way, took her in his arms and kissed her forehead very +gently, very tenderly.</p> + +<p>"My dearest Jasmine lady," he said, "it sounds an impertinence and I +daresay you won't believe it, but I was never so sorry in my life as I +am now. I'm a beast, and I don't deserve to live. Think what a beast I +am—and try to hate me."</p> + +<p>She, clung to him and laid her wet cheek against his. Then her lips +implored his lips. There was a long silence. It was she—she was +always glad of that—who at last found her courage, and drew back.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye," she said. "I shall be quite sane to-morrow. And then I'll +help you."</p> + +<p>When he got out into the street he looked at his watch. It was not yet +ten o'clock. He hailed a carriage.</p> + +<p>"Fifty-seven Boulevard Montparnasse," he said.</p> + +<p>He could still feel Lady St. Craye's wet cheek against his own. The +despairing passion of her last kisses had thrilled him through and +through.</p> + +<p>He wanted to efface the mark of those kisses. He would not be haunted +all night by any lips but Betty's.</p> + +<p>He had never called at her rooms in the evening. He had been careful +for her in that. Even now as he rang the bell he was careful, and when +the latch clicked and the door was opened a cautious inch he was +ready, as he entered, to call out, in passing the concierge's door not +Miss Desmond's name, but the name of the Canadian artist who occupied +the studio on the top floor.</p> + +<p>He went softly up the stairs and stood listening outside Betty's door. +Then he knocked gently. No one answered. Nothing stirred inside.</p> + +<p>"She may be out," he told himself. "I'll wait a bit."</p> + +<p>At the same time he tapped again; and this time beyond the door +something did stir.</p> + +<p>Then came Betty's voice:</p> + +<p>"<i>Qui est la</i>?"</p> + +<p>"It's me—Vernon. May I come in?"</p> + +<p>A moment's pause. Then:</p> + +<p>"No. You can't possibly. Is anything the matter?"</p> + +<p>"No—oh, no, but I wanted so much to see you. May I come to-morrow +early?"</p> + +<p>"You're sure there's nothing wrong? At home or anything? You haven't +come to break anything to me?"</p> + +<p>"No—no; it's only something I wanted to tell you."</p> + +<p>He began to feel a fool, with his guarded whispers through a locked +door.</p> + +<p>"Then come at twelve," said Betty in the tones of finality. +"Good-night."</p> + +<p>He heard an inner door close, and went slowly away. He walked a long +way that night. It was not till he was back in his rooms and had +lighted his candle and wound up his watch that Lady St. Craye's kisses +began to haunt him in good earnest, as he had known they would.</p> + +<hr> + +<p>Lady St. Craye, left alone, dried her eyes and set to work, with heart +still beating wildly to look about her at the ruins of her world.</p> + +<p>The room was quiet with the horrible quiet of a death chamber. And yet +his voice still echoed in it. Only a moment ago she had been in his +arms, as she had never hoped to be again—more—as she had never been +before.</p> + +<p>"He would have loved me now," she told herself, "if it hadn't been for +that girl. He didn't love me before. He was only playing at love. He +didn't know what love was. But he knows now. And it's all too late!"</p> + +<p>But was it?</p> + +<p>A word to Betty—and—</p> + +<p>"But you promised to help him."</p> + +<p>"That was before he kissed me."</p> + +<p>"But a promise is a promise."</p> + +<p>"Yes,—and your life's your life. You'll never have another."</p> + +<p>She stood still, her hands hanging by her sides—clenched hands that +the rings bit into.</p> + +<p>"He will go to her early to-morrow. And she'll accept him, of course. +She's never seen anyone else, the little fool."</p> + +<p>She knew that she herself would have taken him, would have chosen him +as the chief among ten thousand.</p> + +<p>"She could have Temple. She'd be much happier with Temple. She and +Eustace would make each other wretched. She'd never understand him, +and he'd be tired of her in a week."</p> + +<p>She had turned up the electric lights now, at her toilet table, and +was pulling the pins out of her ruffled hair.</p> + +<p>"And he'd never care about her children. And they'd be ugly little +horrors."</p> + +<p>She was twisting her hair up quickly and firmly.</p> + +<p>"I <i>have</i> a right to live my own life," she said, just as Betty had +said six months before. "Why am I to sacrifice everything to +her—especially when I don't suppose she cares—and now that I know I +could get him if she were out of the way?"</p> + +<p>She looked at herself in the silver-framed mirror and laughed.</p> + +<p>"And you always thought yourself a proud woman!"</p> + +<p>Suddenly she dropped the brush; it rattled and spun on the polished +floor.</p> + +<p>She stamped her foot.</p> + +<p>"That settles it!" she said. For in that instant she perceived quite +clearly and without mistake that Vernon's attitude had been a +parti-pris: that he had thrown, himself on her pity of set purpose, +with an end to gain.</p> + +<p>"Laughing at me all the time too, of course! And I thought I +understood him. Well, I don't misunderstand him for long, anyway," she +said, and picked up the hair brush.</p> + +<p>"You silly fool," she said to the woman in the glass.</p> + +<p>And now she was fully dressed—in long light coat and a hat with, as +usual, violets in it. She paused a moment before her writing-table, +turned up its light, turned it down again.</p> + +<p>"No," she said, "one doesn't write anonymous letters. Besides it would +be too late. He'll see her to-morrow early—early."</p> + +<p>The door of the flat banged behind her as it had banged behind Vernon +half an hour before. Like him, she called a carriage, and on her lips +too, as the chill April air caressed them, was the sense of kisses.</p> + +<p>And she, too, gave to the coachman the address:</p> + +<p>Fifty-seven Boulevard Montparnasse.</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER XIX.</p> + +<p> +THE TRUTH WITH A VENGEANCE.</p> + +<p>In those three weeks whose meetings with Vernon had been so lacking in +charm there had been other meetings for Betty, and in these charm had +not been to seek. But it was the charm of restful, pleasant +companionship illuminated by a growing certainty that Mr. Temple +admired her very much, that he liked her very much, that he did not +think her untidy and countrified and ill-dressed, and all the things +she had felt herself to be that night when Lady St. Craye and her furs +had rustled up the staircase at Thirion's. And she had dined with Mr. +Temple and lunched with Mr. Temple, and there had been an afternoon at +St. Cloud, and a day at Versailles. Miss Voscoe and some of the other +students had been in the party, but not of it as far as Betty was +concerned. She had talked to Temple all the time.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad to see you've taken my advice," said Miss Voscoe, "only you +do go at things so—like a bull at a gate. A month ago it was all that +ruffian Vernon. Now it's all Mr. Go-to-Hell. Why not have a change? +Try a Pole or a German."</p> + +<p>But Betty declined to try a Pole or a German.</p> + +<p>What she wanted to do was to persuade herself that she liked Temple as +much as she liked Vernon, and, further, that she did not care a straw +for either.</p> + +<p>Of course it is very wrong indeed to talk pleasantly with a young man +when you think you know that he might, just possibly, be falling in +love with you. But then it is very interesting, too. To be loved, even +by the wrong person, seems in youth's selfish eyes to light up the +world as the candle lights the Japanese lantern. And besides, after +all, one can't be sure. And it is not maidenly to say "No," even by +the vaguest movements of retreat, to a question that has not been +asked and perhaps never will be.</p> + +<p>And when she was talking to Temple she was not thinking so much of +Vernon, and of her unselfish friendship for him, and the depth of her +hope that he really <i>would</i> be happy with that woman.</p> + +<p>So that it was with quite a sick feeling that her days had been robbed +of something that made them easier to live, if not quite worth living, +that she read and reread the letter that she found waiting for her +after that last unsuccessful dinner with the man whom Temple helped +her to forget.</p> + +<p>You will see by the letter what progress friendship can make in a +month between a young man and woman, even when each is half in love +with some one else.</p> +<blockquote> +<p> "Sweet friend," said the letter: "This is to say good-bye for a + little while. But you will think of me when I am away, won't you? + I am going into the country to make some sketches and to think. I + don't believe it is possible for English people to think in Paris. + And I have things to think over that won't let themselves be thought + over quietly here. And I want to see the Spring. I won't ask you to + write to me, because I want to be quite alone, and not to have even + a word from my sweet and dear friend. I hope your work will go well.</p> + +<p> "Yours,</p> + +<p> "Robert Temple."</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Betty, in bed, was re-reading this when Vernon's knock came at her +door. She spoke to him through the door with the letter in her hand. +And her real thought when she asked him if he had come to break bad +news was that something had happened to Temple.</p> + +<p>She went back to bed, but not to sleep. Try as she would, she could +not keep away the wonder—what could Vernon have had to say that +wanted so badly to get itself said? She hid her eyes and would not +look in the face of her hope. There had been a tone in his voice as he +whispered on the other side of that stupid door, a tone she had not +heard since Long Barton.</p> + +<p>Oh, why had she gone to bed early that night of all nights? She would +never go to bed early again as long as she lived!</p> + +<p>What?—No, impossible! Yes. Another knock at her door. She sprang out +of bed, and stood listening. There was no doubt about it. Vernon had +come back. After all what he had to say would not keep till morning. A +wild idea of dressing and letting him in was sternly dismissed. For +one thing, at topmost speed, it took twenty minutes to dress. He would +not wait twenty minutes. Another knock.</p> + +<p>She threw on her dressing gown and ran along her little passage—and +stooped to the key-hole just as another tap, discreet but insistent, +rang on the door panel.</p> + +<p>"Go away," she said low and earnestly. "I can't talk to you to-night +<i>whatever it is</i>. It must wait till the morning."</p> + +<p>"It's I," said the very last voice in all Paris that she expected to +hear, "it's Lady St. Craye.—Won't you let me in?"</p> + +<p>"Are you alone?" said Betty.</p> + +<p>"Of course I'm alone. It's most important. Do open the door."</p> + +<p>The door was slowly opened. The visitor rustled through, and Betty +shut the door. Then she followed Lady St. Craye into the sitting-room, +lighted the lamp, drew the curtain across the clear April night, and +stood looking enquiry—and not looking it kindly. Her lips were set in +a hard line and she was frowning.</p> + +<p>She waited for the other to speak, but after all it was she who broke +the silence.</p> + +<p>"Well," she said, "what do you want now?"</p> + +<p>"I hardly know how to begin," said Lady St. Craye with great truth.</p> + +<p>"I should think not!" said Betty. "I don't want to be disagreeable, +but I can't think of anything that gives you the right to come and +knock me up like this in the middle of the night."</p> + +<p>"It's only just past eleven," said Lady St. Craye. And there was +another silence. She did not know what to say. A dozen openings +suggested themselves, and were instantly rejected. Then, quite +suddenly, she knew exactly what to say, what to do. That move of +Vernon's—it was a good one, a move too often neglected in this +cynical world, but always successful on the stage.</p> + +<p>"May I sit down?" she asked forlornly.</p> + +<p>Betty, rather roughly, pushed forward a chair.</p> + +<p>Lady St. Craye sank into it, looked full at Betty for a long minute; +and by the lamp's yellow light Betty saw the tears rise, brim over and +fall from the other woman's lashes. Then Lady St. Craye pulled out her +handkerchief and began to cry in good earnest.</p> + +<p>It was quite easy.</p> + +<p>At first Betty looked on in cold contempt. Lady St. Craye had counted +on that: she let herself go, wholly. If it ended in hysterics so much +the more impressive. She thought of Vernon, of all the hopes of these +months, of the downfall of them—everything that should make it +impossible for her to stop crying.</p> + +<p>"Don't distress yourself," said Betty, very chill and distant.</p> + +<p>"Can you—can you lend me a handkerchief?" said the other +unexpectedly, screwing up her own drenched cambric in her hand.</p> + +<p>Betty fetched a handkerchief.</p> + +<p>"I haven't any scent," she said. "I'm sorry."</p> + +<p>That nearly dried the tears—but not quite: Lady St. Craye was a +persevering woman.</p> + +<p>Betty watching her, slowly melted, just as the other knew she would. +She put her hand at last on the shoulder of the light coat.</p> + +<p>"Come," she said, "don't cry so. I'm sure there's nothing to be so +upset about—"</p> + +<p>Then came to her sharp as any knife, the thought of what there might +be.</p> + +<p>"There's nothing wrong with anyone? There hasn't been an accident or +anything?"</p> + +<p>The other, still speechless, conveyed "No."</p> + +<p>"Don't," said Betty again. And slowly and very artistically the flood +was abated. Lady St. Craye was almost calm, though still her breath +caught now and then in little broken sighs.</p> + +<p>"I <i>am</i> so sorry," she said, "so ashamed.—Breaking down like this. +You don't know what it is to be as unhappy as I am."</p> + +<p>Betty thought she did. We all think we do, in the presence of any +grief not our own.</p> + +<p>"Can I do anything?" She spoke much more kindly than she had expected +to speak.</p> + +<p>"Will you let me tell you everything? The whole truth?"</p> + +<p>"Of course if you want to, but—"</p> + +<p>"Then do sit down—and oh, don't be angry with me, I am so wretched. +Just now you thought something had happened to Mr. Vernon. Will you +just tell me one thing?—Do you love him?"</p> + +<p>"You've no right to ask me that."</p> + +<p>"I know I haven't. Well, I'll trust you—though you don't trust me. +I'll tell you everything. Two years ago Mr. Vernon and I were +engaged."</p> + +<p>This was not true; but it took less time to tell than the truth would +have taken, and sounded better.</p> + +<p>"We were engaged, and I was very fond of him. But he—you know what he +is about Women?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Betty steadily. "I don't want to hear anything about him."</p> + +<p>"But you must.—He is—I don't know how to put it. There's always some +woman besides the One with him. I understand that now; I didn't then. +I don't think he can help it. It's his temperament."</p> + +<p>"I see," said Betty evenly. Her hands and feet were very cold. She was +astonished to find how little moved she was in this interview whose +end she foresaw so very plainly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, and there was a girl at that time—he was always about with her. +And I made him scenes—always a most stupid thing to do with a man, +you know; and at last I said he must give her up, or give me up. And +he gave me up. And I was too proud to let him think I cared—and just +to show him how little I cared I married Sir Harry St. Craye. I might +just as well have let it alone. He never even heard I had been married +till last October! And then it was I who told him. My husband was a +brute, and I'm thankful to say he didn't live long. You're very much +shocked, I'm afraid?"</p> + +<p>"Not at all," said Betty, who was, rather.</p> + +<p>"Well, then I met Him again, and we got engaged again, as he told you. +And again there was a girl—oh, and another woman besides. But this +time I tried to bear it—you know I did try not to be jealous of you."</p> + +<p>"You had no cause," said Betty.</p> + +<p>"Well, I thought I had. That hurts just as much. And what's the end of +it all—all my patience and trying not to see things, and letting him +have his own way? He came to me to-night and begged me to release him +from his engagement, because—oh, he was beautifully candid—because +he meant to marry you."</p> + +<p>Betty's heart gave a jump.</p> + +<p>"He seems to have been very sure of me," she said loftily.</p> + +<p>"No, no; he's not a hairdresser's apprentice—to tell one woman that +he's sure of another. He said: 'I mean to marry Miss Desmond if she'll +have me.'"</p> + +<p>"How kind of him!"</p> + +<p>"I wish you'd heard the way he spoke of you."</p> + +<p>"I don't want to hear."</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> had to. And I've released him. And now I've come to you. I was +proud two years ago. I'm not proud now. I don't care what I do. I'll +kneel down at your feet and pray to you as if you were God not to take +him away from me. And if you love him it'll all be no good. I know +that."</p> + +<p>"But—supposing I weren't here—do you think you could get him back?"</p> + +<p>"I know I could. Unless of course you were to tell him I'd been here +to-night. I should have no chance after that—naturally. I wish I knew +what to say to you. You're very young; you'll find someone else, a +better man. He's not a good man. There's a girl at Montmartre at this +very moment—a girl he's set up in a restaurant. He goes to see her. +You'd never stand that sort of thing. I know the sort of girl you are. +And you're quite right. But I've got beyond that. I don't care what he +is, I don't care what he does. I understand him. I can make allowances +for him. I'm his real mate. I could make him happy. You never +would—you're too good. Ever since I first met him I've thought of +nothing else, cared for nothing else. If he whistled to me I'd give up +everything else, everything, and follow him barefoot round the world."</p> + +<p>"I heard someone say that in a play once," said Betty musing.</p> + +<p>"So did I," said Lady St. Craye very sharply—"but it's true for all +that. Well—you can do as you like."</p> + +<p>"Of course I can," said Betty.</p> + +<p>"I've done all I can now. I've said everything there is to say. And if +you love him as I love him every word I've said won't make a scrap of +difference. I know that well enough. What I want to know is—<i>do</i> you +love him?"</p> + +<p>The scene had been set deliberately. But the passion that spoke in it +was not assumed. Betty felt young, school-girlish, awkward in the +presence of this love—so different from her own timid dreams. The +emotion of the other woman had softened her.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," she said.</p> + +<p>"If you don't know, you don't love him.—At least don't see him till +you're sure. You'll do that? As long as he's not married to anyone, +there's just a chance that he may love me again. Won't you have pity? +Won't you go away like that sensible young man Temple? Mr. Vernon told +me he was going into the country to decide which of the two women he +likes best is the one he really likes best! Won't you do that?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Betty slowly, "I'll do that. <i>Look</i> here, I am most +awfully sorry, but I don't know—I can't think to-night. I'll go right +away—I won't see him to-morrow. Oh, no. I can't come between you and +the man you're engaged to," her thoughts were clearing themselves as +she spoke. "Of course I knew you were engaged to him. But I never +thought. At least—Yes. I'll go away the first thing to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"You are very, very good," said Lady St. Craye, and she meant it.</p> + +<p>"But I don't know where to go. Tell me where to go."</p> + +<p>"Can't you go home?"</p> + +<p>"No: I won't. That's too much."</p> + +<p>"Go somewhere and sketch."</p> + +<p>"Yes,—but <i>where</i>?" said poor Betty impatiently.</p> + +<p>"Go to Grez," said the other, not without second thoughts. "It's a +lovely place—close to Fontainebleau—Hotel Chevillon. I'll write it +down for you.—Old Madame Chevillon's a darling. She'll look after +you. It <i>is</i> good of you to forgive me for everything. I'm afraid I +was a cat to you."</p> + +<p>"No," said Betty, "it was right and brave of you to tell me the whole +truth. Oh, truth's the only thing that's any good!"</p> + +<p>Lady St. Craye also thought it a useful thing—in moderation. She +rose.</p> + +<p>"I'll never forget what you're doing for me," she said. "You're a girl +in thousand. Look here, my dear: I'm not blind. Don't think I don't +value what you're doing. You cared for him in England a little,—and +you care a little now. And everything I've said tonight has hurt you +hatefully. And you didn't know you cared. You thought it was +friendship, didn't you—till you thought I'd come to tell you that +something had happened to him. And then you <i>knew</i>. I'm going to +accept your sacrifice. I've got to. I can't live if I don't. But I +don't want you to think I don't know what a sacrifice it is. I know +better than you do—at this moment. No—don't say anything. I don't +want to force your confidence. But I do understand."</p> + +<p>"I wish everything was different," said Betty.</p> + +<p>"Yes. You're thinking, aren't you, that if it hadn't been for Mr. +Vernon you'd rather have liked me? And I know now that if it hadn't +been for him I should have been very fond of you. And even as it is—"</p> + +<p>She put her arms round Betty and spoke close to her ear.</p> + +<p>"You're doing more for me than anyone has ever done for me in my +life," she said—"more than I'd do for you or any woman. And I love +you for it. Dear brave little girl. I hope it isn't going to hurt very +badly. I love you for it—and I'll never forget it to the day I die. +Kiss me and try to forgive me."</p> + +<p>The two clung together for an instant.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye," said Lady St. Craye in quite a different voice. "I'm sorry +I made a scene. But, really, sometimes I believe one isn't quite sane. +Let me write the Grez address. I wish I could think of any set of +circumstances in which you'd be pleased to see me again."</p> + +<p>"I'll pack to-night," said Betty. "I hope <i>you'll</i> be happy anyway. Do +you know I think I have been hating you rather badly without quite +knowing it."</p> + +<p>"Of course you have," said the other heartily, "but you don't now. Of +course you won't leave your address here? If you do that you might as +well not go away at all!"</p> + +<p>"I'm not quite a fool," said Betty.</p> + +<p>"No," said the other with a sigh, "it's I that am the fool. +You're—No, I won't say what you are. But—Well. Good night, dear. Try +not to hate me again when you come to think it all over quietly."</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER XX.</p> + +<p> +WAKING-UP TIME.</p> +<blockquote> +<p> Dear Mr. Vernon. This is to thank you very much for all your help + and criticism of my work, and to say good-bye. I am called away + quite suddenly, so I can't thank you in person, but I shall never + forget your kindness. Please remember me to Lady St. Craye. I + suppose you will be married quite soon now. And I am sure you will + both be very happy.</p> + +<p> Yours very sincerely,</p> + +<p> Elizabeth Desmond.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>This was the letter that Vernon read standing in the shadow of the +arch by the concierge's window. The concierge had hailed him as he +hurried through to climb the wide shallow stairs and to keep his +appointment with Betty when she should leave the atelier.</p> + +<p>"But yes, Mademoiselle had departed this morning at nine o'clock. To +which station? To the Gare St. Lazare. Yes—Mademoiselle had charged +her to remit the billet to Monsieur. No, Mademoiselle had not left any +address. But perhaps chez Madame Bianchi?"</p> + +<p>But chez Madame Bianchi there was no further news. The so amiable +Mademoiselle Desmond had paid her account, had embraced Madame, +and—Voila! she was gone. One divined that she had been called +suddenly to return to the family roof. A sudden illness of Monsieur +her father without doubt.</p> + +<p>Could some faint jasmine memory have lingered on the staircase? Or was +it some subtler echo of Lady St. Craye's personality that clung there? +Abruptly, as he passed Betty's door, the suspicion stung him. Had the +Jasmine lady had any hand in this sudden departure?</p> + +<p>"Pooh—nonsense!" he said. But all the same he paused at the +concierge's window.</p> + +<p>"I am desolated to have deranged Madame,"—gold coin changed +hands.—"A lady came to see Mademoiselle this morning, is it not?"</p> + +<p>"No, no lady had visited Mademoiselle to-day: no one at all in +effect."</p> + +<p>"Nor last night—very late?"</p> + +<p>"No, monsieur," the woman answered meaningly; "no visitor came in last +night except Monsieur himself and he came, not to see Mademoiselle, +that understands itself, but to see Monsieur Beauchèsne an troisième. +No—I am quite sure—I never deceive myself. And Mademoiselle has had +no letters since three days. Thanks a thousand times, Monsieur. Good +morning."</p> + +<p>She locked up the gold piece in the little drawer where already lay +the hundred franc note that Lady St. Craye had given her at six +o'clock that morning.</p> + +<p>"And there'll be another fifty from her next month," she chuckled. +"The good God be blessed for intrigues! Without intrigues what would +become of us poor concierges?"</p> + +<p>For Vernon Paris was empty—the spring sunshine positively +distasteful. He did what he could; he enquired at the Gare St. Lazare, +describing Betty with careful detail that brought smiles to the lips +of the employés. He would not call on Miss Voscoe. He made himself +wait till the Sketch Club afternoon—made himself wait, indeed, till +all the sketches were criticised—till the last cup of tea was +swallowed, or left to cool—the last cake munched—the last student's +footfall had died away on the stairs, and he and Miss Voscoe were +alone among the scattered tea-cups, blackened bread-crumbs and torn +paper.</p> + +<p>Then he put his question. Miss Voscoe knew nothing. Guessed Miss +Desmond knew her own business best.</p> + +<p>"But she's so young," said Vernon; "anything might have happened to +her."</p> + +<p>"I reckon she's safe enough—where she is," said Miss Voscoe with +intention.</p> + +<p>"But haven't you any idea why she's gone?" he asked, not at all +expecting any answer but "Not the least."</p> + +<p>But Miss Voscoe said:</p> + +<p>"I have a quite first-class idea and so have you."</p> + +<p>He could but beg her pardon interrogatively.</p> + +<p>"Oh, you know well enough," said she. "She'd got to go. And it was up +to her to do it right now, I guess."</p> + +<p>Vernon had to ask why.</p> + +<p>"Well, you being engaged to another girl, don't you surmise it might +kind of come home to her there were healthier spots for you than the +end of her apron strings? Maybe she thought the other lady's apron +strings 'ud be suffering for a little show?"</p> + +<p>"I'm not engaged," said Vernon shortly.</p> + +<p>"Then it's time you were," the answer came with equal shortness. +"You'll pardon me making this a heart-to-heart talk—and anyway it's +no funeral of mine. But she's the loveliest girl and I right down like +her. So you take it from me. That F.F.V. Lady with the violets—Oh, +don't pretend you don't know who I mean—the one you're always about +with when you aren't with Betty. <i>She's</i> your ticket. Betty's not. +Your friend's her style. You pass, this hand, and give the girl a +chance."</p> + +<p>"I really don't understand—"</p> + +<p>"I bet you do," she interrupted with conviction. "I've sized you up +right enough, Mr. Vernon. You're no fool. If you've discontinued your +engagement Betty doesn't know it. Nor she shan't from me. And one of +these next days it'll be borne in on your friend that she's <i>the</i> girl +of his life—and when he meets her again he'll get her to see it his +way. Don't you spoil the day's fishing."</p> + +<p>Vernon laughed.</p> + +<p>"You have all the imagination of the greatest nation in the world, +Miss Voscoe," he said. "Thank you. These straight talks to young men +are the salt of life. Good-bye."</p> + +<p>"You haven't all the obfuscation of the stupidest nation in the +world," she retorted. "If you had had you'd have had a chance to find +out what straight talking means—which it's my belief you never have +yet. Good-bye. You take my tip. Either you go back to where you were +before you sighted Betty, or if the other one's sick of you too, just +shuffle the cards, take a fresh deal and start fair. You go home and +spend a quiet evening and think it all over."</p> + +<p>Vernon went off laughing, and wondering why he didn't hate Miss +Voscoe. He did not laugh long. He sat in his studio, musing till +it was too late to go out to dine. Then he found some biscuits +and sherry—remnants of preparations for the call of a picture +dealer—ate and drank, and spent the evening in the way recommended +by Miss Voscoe. He lay face downward on the divan, in the dark, and +he did "think it all over."</p> + +<p>But first there was the long time when he lay quite still—did not +think at all, only remembered her hands and her eyes and her hair, and +the pretty way her brows lifted when she was surprised or +perplexed—and the four sudden sweet dimples that came near the +corners of her mouth when she was amused, and the way her mouth +drooped when she was tired.</p> + +<p>"I want you. I want you. I want you," said the man who had been the +Amorist. "I want you, dear!"</p> + +<p>When he did begin to think, he moved uneasily in the dark as thought +after thought crept out and stung him and slunk away. The verses he +had written at Long Barton—ironic verses, written with the tongue in +the cheek—came back with the force of iron truth:</p> +<br> +<blockquote><blockquote> +<p> "I love you to my heart's hid core:<br> + Those other loves? How can one learn<br> + From marshlights how the great fires burn?<br> + Ah, no—I never loved before!"</p><br> +</blockquote></blockquote> + +<p>He had smiled at Temple's confidences—when Betty was at hand—to be +watched and guarded. Now Betty was away—anywhere. And Temple was +deciding whether it was she whom he loved. Suppose he did decide that +it was she, and, as Miss Voscoe had said, made her see it? "Damn," +said Vernon, "Oh, damn!"</p> + +<p>He was beginning to be a connoisseur in the fine flavours of the +different brands of jealousy. Anyway there was food for thought.</p> + +<p>There was food for little else, in the days that followed. Mr. +Vernon's heart, hungry for the first time, had to starve. He went +often to Lady St. Craye's. She was so gentle, sweet, yet not too +sympathetic—bright, amusing even, but not too vivacious. He approved +deeply the delicacy with which she ignored that last wild interview. +She was sister, she was friend—and she had the rare merit of seeming +to forget that she had been confidante.</p> + +<p>It was he who re-opened the subject, after ten days. She had told +herself that it was only a question of time. And it was.</p> + +<p>"Do you know she's disappeared?" he said abruptly.</p> + +<p>"<i>Disappeared</i>?" No one was ever more astonished than Lady St. Craye. +Quite natural, the astonishment. Not overdone by so much as a hair's +breadth.</p> + +<p>So he told her all about it, and she twisted her long topaz chain and +listened with exactly the right shade of interest. He told her what +Miss Voscoe had said—at least most of it.</p> + +<p>"And I worry about Temple," he said; "like any school boy, I worry. If +he <i>does</i> decide that he loves her better than you—You said you'd +help me. Can't you make sure that he won't love her better?"</p> + +<p>"I could, I suppose," she admitted. To herself she said: "Temple's at +Grez. <i>She's</i> at Grez. They've been there ten days."</p> + +<p>"If only you would," he said. "It's too much to ask, I know. But I +can't ask anything that isn't too much! And you're so much more noble +and generous than other people—"</p> + +<p>"No butter, thanks," she said.</p> + +<p>"It's the best butter," he earnestly urged. "I mean that I mean it. +Won't you?"</p> + +<p>"When I see him again—but it's not very fair to him, is it?"</p> + +<p>"He's an awfully good chap, you know," said Vernon innocently. And +once more Lady St. Craye bowed before the sublime apparition of the +Egoism of Man.</p> + +<p>"Good enough for me, you think? Well, perhaps you're right. He's a +dear boy. One would feel very safe if one loved a man like that."</p> + +<p>"Yes—wouldn't one?" said Vernon.</p> + +<p>She wondered whether Betty was feeling safe. No: ten days are a long +time, especially in the country—but it would take longer than that to +cure even a little imbecile like Betty of the Vernon habit. It was +worse than opium. Who ought to know if not she who sat, calm and +sympathetic, promising to entangle Temple so as to leave Betty free to +become a hopeless prey to the fell disease?</p> + +<p>Quite suddenly and to her own intense surprise, she laughed out loud.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" his alert vanity bristled in the query.</p> + +<p>"It's nothing—only everything! Life's so futile! We pat and pinch our +little bit of clay, and look at it and love it and think it's going to +be a masterpiece.—and then God glances at it—and He doesn't like +the modelling, and He sticks his thumb down, and the whole thing's +broken up, and there's nothing left to do but throw away the bits."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," said Vernon; "everything's bound to come right in the end. +It all works out straight somehow."</p> + +<p>She laughed again.</p> + +<p>"Optimism—from you?"</p> + +<p>"It's not optimism," he asserted eagerly, "it's only—well, if +everything doesn't come right somehow, somewhere, some day, what did +He bother to make the world for?"</p> + +<p>"That's exactly what I said, my dear," said she. She permitted herself +the little endearment now and then with an ironical inflection, as one +fearful of being robbed might show a diamond pretending that it was +paste.</p> + +<p>"You think He made it for a joke?"</p> + +<p>"If He did it's a joke in the worst possible taste," said she, "but I +see your point of view. There can't be so very much wrong with a world +that has Her in it,—and you—and possibilities."</p> + +<p>"Do you know," he said slowly, "I'm not at all sure that—Do you +remember the chap in Jane Eyre?—he knew quite well that that Rosamund +girl wouldn't make him the wife he wanted. Yet he wanted nothing else. +I don't want anything but her; and it doesn't make a scrap of +difference that I know exactly what sort of fool I am."</p> + +<p>"A knowledge of anatomy doesn't keep a broken bone from hurting," said +she, "and all even you know about love won't keep off the heartache. I +could have told you that long ago."</p> + +<p>"I know I'm a fool," he said, "but I can't help it. Sometimes I think +I wouldn't help it if I could."</p> + +<p>"I know," she said, and something in her voice touched the trained +sensibilities of the Amorist. He stooped to kiss the hand that teased +the topazes.</p> + +<p>"Dear Jasmine Lady," he said, "my optimism doesn't keep its colour +long, does it? Give me some tea, won't you? There's nothing so +wearing as emotion."</p> + +<p>She gave him tea.</p> + +<p>"It's a sort of judgment on you, though," was what she gave him with +his first cup: "you've dealt out this very thing to so many +women,—and now it's come home to roost."</p> + +<p>"I didn't know what a fearful wildfowl it was," he answered smiling. +"I swear I didn't. I begin to think I never knew anything at all +before."</p> + +<p>"And yet they say Love's blind."</p> + +<p>"And so he is! That's just it. My exotic flower of optimism withers at +your feet. It's all exactly the muddle you say it is. Pray Heaven for +a clear way out! Meantime thank whatever gods may be—I've got <i>you</i>."</p> + +<p>"Monsieur's confidante is always at his distinguished service," she +said. And thus sealed the fountain of confidences for that day.</p> + +<p>But it broke forth again and again in the days that came after. For +now he saw her almost every day. And for her, to be with him, to know +that she had of him more of everything, save the heart, than any other +woman, spelled something wonderfully like happiness. More like it than +she had the art to spell in any other letters.</p> + +<p>Vernon still went twice a week to the sketch-club. To have stayed away +would have been to confess, to the whole alert and interested class, +that he had only gone there for the sake of Betty.</p> + +<p>Those afternoons were seasons of salutary torture.</p> + +<p>He tried very hard to work, but, though he still remembered how a +paint brush should be handled, there seemed no good reason for using +one. He had always found his planned and cultivated emotions strongly +useful in forwarding his work. This undesired unrest mocked at work, +and at all the things that had made up the solid fabric of one's days. +The ways of love—he had called it love; it was a name like +another—had merely been a sort of dram-drinking. Such love was the +intoxicant necessary to transfigure life to the point where all +things, even work, look beautiful. Now he tasted the real draught. It +flooded his veins like fire and stung like poison. And it made work, +and all things else, look mean and poor and unimportant.</p> + +<p>"I want you—I want you—I want you," said Vernon to the vision with +the pretty kitten face, and the large gray eyes. "I want you more than +everything in the world," he said, "everything in the world put +together. Oh, come back to me—dear, dear, dear."</p> + +<p>He was haunted without cease by the little poem he had written when he +was training himself to be in love with Betty:</p> +<blockquote><blockquote> +<p> "I love you to my heart's hid core:<br> + Those other loves? How should one learn<br> + From marshlights how the great fires burn?<br> + Ah, no—I never loved before!"</p> +</blockquote></blockquote> +<p>"Prophetic, I suppose," he said, "though God knows I never meant it. +Any fool of a prophet must hit the bull's eye at least once in a life. +But there was a curious unanimity of prophecy about this. The aunt +warned me; that Conway woman warned me; the Jasmine Lady warned me. +And now it's happened," he told himself. "And I who thought I knew all +about everything!"</p> + +<p>Miss Conway's name, moving through his thoughts, left the trail of a +new hope.</p> + +<p>Next day he breakfasted at Montmartre.</p> + +<p>The neatest little Crémerie; white paint, green walls stenciled with +fat white geraniums. On each small table a vase of green Bruges ware +or Breton pottery holding not a crushed crowded bouquet, but one +single flower—a pink tulip, a pink carnation, a pink rose. On the +desk from behind which the Proprietress ruled her staff, enormous pink +peonies in a tall pot of Grez de Flandre.</p> + +<p>Behind the desk Paula Conway, incredibly neat and business-like, her +black hair severely braided, her plain black gown fitting a figure +grown lean as any grey-hound's, her lace collar a marvel of fine +laundry work.</p> + +<p>Dapper-waisted waitresses in black, with white aprons, served the +customers. Vernon was served by Madame herself. The clientele formed +its own opinion of the cause of this, her only such condescension.</p> + +<p>"Well, and how's trade?" he asked over his asparagus.</p> + +<p>"Trade's beautiful," Paula answered, with the frank smile that Betty +had seen, only once or twice, and had loved very much: "if trade will +only go on behaving like this for another six weeks my cruel creditor +will be paid every penny of the money that launched me."</p> + +<p>Her eyes dwelt on him with candid affection.</p> + +<p>"Your cruel creditor's not in any hurry," he said. "By the way, I +suppose you've not heard anything of Miss Desmond?"</p> + +<p>"How could I? You know you made me write that she wasn't to write."</p> + +<p>"I didn't <i>make</i> you write anything."</p> + +<p>"You approved. But anyway she hasn't my address. Why?"</p> + +<p>"She's gone away: and she also has left no address."</p> + +<p>"You don't think?—Oh, no—nothing <i>could</i> have happened to her!"</p> + +<p>"No, no," he hastened to say. "I expect her father sent for her, or +fetched her."</p> + +<p>"The best thing too," said Paula. "I always wondered he let her come."</p> + +<p>"Yes,"—Vernon remembered how little Paula knew.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, she's probably gone home."</p> + +<p>"Look here," said Miss Conway very earnestly; "there wasn't any love +business between you and her, was there?"</p> + +<p>"No," he answered strongly.</p> + +<p>"I was always afraid of that. Do you know—if you don't mind, when +I've really paid my cruel creditor everything, I should like to write +and tell her what he's done for me. I should like her to know that she +really <i>did</i> save me—and how. Because if it hadn't been for her you'd +never have thought of helping me. Do you think I might?"</p> + +<p>"It could do no harm," said Vernon after a silent moment. "You'd +really like her to know you're all right. You <i>are</i> all right?"</p> + +<p>"I'm right; as I never thought I could be ever again."</p> + +<p>"Well, you needn't exaggerate the little services of your cruel +creditor. Come to think of it, you needn't name him. Just say it was a +man you knew."</p> + +<p>But when Paula came to write the letter that was not just what she +said.</p> + +<br><br><br><br> +<a name="b4"></a> +<br><br> +<h2> +Book 4.—The Other Man</h2> + +<br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER XXI.</p> + +<p> +THE FLIGHT.</p> + +<p>The full sunlight streamed into the room when Betty, her packing done, +drew back the curtain. She looked out on the glazed roof of the +laundry, the lead roof of the office, the blank wall of the new +grocery establishment in the Rue de Rennes. Only a little blue sky +shewed at the end of the lane, between roofs, by which the sun came +in. Not a tree, not an inch of grass, in sight; only, in her room, +half a dozen roses that Temple had left for her, and the white +marguerite plant—tall, sturdy, a little tree almost—that Vernon had +sent in from the florist's next door but two. Everything was packed. +She would say good-bye to Madame Bianchi; and she would go, and leave +no address, as she had promised last night.</p> + +<p>"Why did you promise?" she asked herself. And herself replied:</p> + +<p>"Don't you bother. We'll talk about all that when we've got away from +Paris. He was quite right. You can't think here."</p> + +<p>"You'd better tell the cabman some other station. That cat of a +concierge is sure to be listening."</p> + +<p>"Ah, right. I don't want to give him any chance of finding me, even if +he did say he wanted to marry me."</p> + +<p>A fleet lovely picture of herself in bridal smart travelling clothes +arriving at the Rectory on Vernon's arm:</p> + +<p>"Aren't you sorry you misjudged him so, Father?" Gentle accents +refraining from reproach. A very pretty picture. Yes. Dismissed.</p> + +<p>Now the carriage swaying under the mound of Betty's luggage starts for +the Gare du Nord. In the Rue Notre Dame des Champs Betty opens her +mouth to say, "Gare de Lyons." No: this is <i>his</i> street. Better cross +it as quickly as may be. At the Church of St. Germain—yes.</p> + +<p>The coachman smiles at the new order: like the concierge he scents an +intrigue, whips up his horse, and swings round to the left along the +prettiest of all the boulevards, between the full-leafed trees. Past +Thirion's. Ah!</p> + +<p>That thought, or pang, or nausea—Betty doesn't quite know what it +is—keeps her eyes from the streets till the carriage is crossing the +river. Why—there is Notre Dame! It ought to be miles away. Suppose +Vernon should have been leaning out of his window when she passed +across the street, seen her, divined her destination, followed her in +the fleetest carriage accessible? The vision of a meeting at the +station:</p> + +<p>"Why are you going away? What have I done?" The secret of this, her +great renunciation—the whole life's sacrifice to that life's +idol—honor, wrung from her. A hand that would hold hers—under +pretence of taking her bundle of rugs to carry.—She wished the +outermost rug were less shabby! Vernon's voice.</p> + +<p>"But I can't let you go. Why ruin two lives—nay, three? For it is you +only that I—"</p> + +<p>Dismissed.</p> + +<p>It is very hot. Paris is the hottest place in the world. Betty is glad +she brought lavender water in her bag. Wishes she had put on her other +hat. This brown one is hot; and besides, if Vernon <i>were</i> to be at the +station. Interval. Dismissed.</p> + +<p>Betty has never before made a railway journey alone. This gives one a +forlorn feeling. Suppose she has to pay excess on her luggage, or to +wrangle about contraband? She has heard all about the Octroi. Is +lavender water smuggling? And what can they do to you for it? Vernon +would know all these things. And if he were going into the country he +would be wearing that almost-white rough suit of his and the Panama +hat. A rose—Madame Abel de Chatenay—would go well with that coat. +Why didn't brides consult their bridegrooms before they bought their +trousseaux? You should get your gowns to rhyme with your husband's +suits. A dream of a dress that would be, with all the shades of Madame +Abel cunningly blended. A honeymoon lasts at least a month. The roses +would all be out at Long Barton by the time they walked up that +moss-grown drive, and stood at the Rectory door, and she murmured in +the ear of the Reverend Cecil: "Aren't you sorry you—"</p> + +<p>Dismissed. And perforce, for the station was reached.</p> + +<p>Betty, even in the brown hat, attracted the most attractive of the +porters—also, of course, the most attractable. He thought he spoke +English, and though this was not so, yet the friendly blink of his +Breton-blue eyes and his encouraging smile gave to his:</p> + +<p>"Bourron? Mais oui—dix heures vingt. Par ici, Meess. Je m'occuperai +de vous. Et des bagages aussi—all right," quite the ring of one's +mother tongue.</p> + +<p>He made everything easy for Betty, found her a carriage without +company ("I can cry here if I like," said the Betty that Betty liked +least), arranged her small packages neatly in the rack, took her 50 +centime piece as though it had been a priceless personal souvenir, and +ran half the length of the platform to get a rose from another +porter's button-hole. He handed it to her through the carriage window.</p> + +<p>"<i>Pour égayer le voyage de Meess</i>. All right!" he smiled, and was +gone.</p> + +<p>She settled herself in the far corner, and took off her hat. The +carriage was hot as any kitchen. With her teeth she drew the cork of +the lavender water bottle, and with her handkerchief dabbed the +perfume on forehead and ears.</p> + +<p>"Ah, Mademoiselle—<i>De grace</i>!"—the voice came through the open +window beside her. A train full of young soldiers was beside her +train, and in the window opposite hers three boys' faces crowded to +look at her. Three hands held out three handkerchiefs—not very white +certainly, but—</p> + +<p>Betty smiling reached out the bottle and poured lavender water on each +outheld handkerchief.</p> + +<p>"<i>Ah, le bon souvenir</i>!" said one.</p> + +<p>"We shall think of the beauty of an angel of Mademoiselle every time +we smell the perfume so delicious," said the second.</p> + +<p>"And longer than that—oh, longer than that by all a life!" cried the +third.</p> + +<p>The train started. The honest, smiling boy faces disappeared. +Instinctively she put her head out of the window to look back at them. +All three threw kisses at her.</p> + +<p>"I ought to be offended," said Betty, and instantly kissed her hand in +return.</p> + +<p>"How <i>nice</i> French people are!" she said as she sank back on the hot +cushions.</p> + +<p>And now there was leisure to think—real thoughts, not those broken, +harassing dreamings that had buzzed about her between 57 Boulevard +Montparnasse and the station. Also, as some one had suggested, one +could cry.</p> + +<p>She leaned back, eyes shut. Her next thought was:</p> + +<p>"I have been to sleep."</p> + +<p>She had. The train was moving out of a station labelled Fontainebleau.</p> + +<p>"And oh, the trees!" said Betty, "the green thick trees! And the sky. +You can see the sky."</p> + +<p>Through the carriage window she drank delight from the far grandeur of +green distances, the intimate beauty of green rides, green vistas, as +a thirsty carter drinks beer from the cool lip of his can—a thirsty +lover madness from the warm lips of his mistress.</p> + +<p>"Oh, how good! How green and good!" she told herself over and over +again till the words made a song with the rhythm of the blundering +train and the humming metals.</p> + +<p>"Bourron!"</p> + +<p>Her station. Little, quiet, sunlit, like the station at Long Barton; a +flaming broom bush and the white of May and acacia blossom beyond prim +palings; no platform—a long leap to the dusty earth. The train went +on, and Betty and her boxes seemed dropped suddenly at the world's +end.</p> + +<p>The air was fresh and still. A chestnut tree reared its white blossoms +like the candles on a Christmas tree for giant children. The white +dust of the platform sparkled like diamond dust. May trees and +laburnums shone like silver and gold. And the sun was warm and the +tree-shadows black on the grass. And Betty loved it all.</p> + +<p>"<i>Oh</i>!" she said suddenly, "it's a year ago to-day since I met +<i>him</i>—in the warren."</p> + +<p>A shadow caressed and stung her. She would have liked it to wear the +mask of love foregone—to have breathed plaintively of hopes defeated +and a broken heart. Instead it shewed the candid face of a real +homesickness, and it spoke with convincing and abominably aggravating +plainness—of Long Barton.</p> + +<p>The little hooded diligence was waiting in the hot white dust outside +the station.</p> + +<p>"But yes.—It is I who transport all the guests of Madame Chevillon," +said the smiling brown-haired bonnetless woman who held the reins.</p> + +<p>Betty climbed up beside her.</p> + +<p>Along a straight road that tall ranks of trees guarded but did not +shade, through the patchwork neatness of the little culture that makes +the deep difference between peasant France and pastoral England, down +a steep hill into a little white town, where vines grew out of the +very street to cling against the faces of the houses and wistaria hung +its mauve pendants from every arch and lintel.</p> + +<p>The Hotel Chevillon is a white-faced house, with little unintelligent +eyes of windows, burnt blind, it seems, in the sun—neat with the +neatness of Provincial France.</p> + +<p>Out shuffled an old peasant woman in short skirt, heavy shoes and big +apron, her arms bared to the elbow, a saucepan in one hand, a ladle in +the other. She beamed at Betty.</p> + +<p>"I wish to see Madame Chevillon."</p> + +<p>"You see her, <i>ma belle et bonne</i>," chuckled the old woman. "It is me, +Madame Chevillon. You will rooms, is it not? You are artist? All who +come to the Hotel are artist. Rooms? Marie shall show you the rooms, +at the instant even. All the rooms—except one—that is the room of +the English Artist—all that there is of most amiable, but quite mad. +He wears no hat, and his brain boils in the sun. Mademoiselle can chat +with him: it will prevent that she bores herself here in the Forest."</p> + +<p>Betty disliked the picture.</p> + +<p>"I think perhaps," she said, translating mentally as she spoke, "that +I should do better to go to another hotel, if there is only one man +here and he is—"</p> + +<p>She saw days made tiresome by the dodging of a lunatic—nights made +tremulous by a lunatic's yelling soliloquies.</p> + +<p>"Ah," said Madame Chevillon comfortably, "I thought Mademoiselle was +artist; and for the artists and the Spaniards the <i>convenances</i> exist +not. But Mademoiselle is also English. They eat the convenances every +day with the soup.—See then, my cherished. The English man, he is not +a dangerous fool, only a beast of the good God; he has the atelier and +the room at the end of the corridor. But there is, besides the Hotel, +the Garden Pavilion, un appartement of two rooms, exquisite, on the +first, and the garden room that opens big upon the terrace. It is +there that Mademoiselle will be well!"</p> + +<p>Betty thought so too, when she had seen the "rooms exquisite on the +first"—neat, bare, well-scrubbed rooms with red-tiled floors, scanty +rugs and Frenchly varnished furniture—the garden room too, with big +open hearth and no furniture but wicker chairs and tables.</p> + +<p>"Mademoiselle can eat all alone on the terrace. The English mad shall +not approach. I will charge myself with that. Mademoiselle may repose +herself here as on the bosom of the mother of Mademoiselle."</p> + +<p>Betty had her déjeuner on the little stone terrace with rickety rustic +railings. Below lay the garden, thick with trees.</p> + +<p>Away among the trees to the left an arbour. She saw through the leaves +the milk-white gleam of flannels, heard the chink of china and +cutlery. There, no doubt, the mad Englishman was even now +breakfasting. There was the width of the garden between them. She sat +still till the flannel gleam had gone away among the trees. Then she +went out and explored the little town. She bought a blue packet of +cigarettes. Miss Voscoe had often tried to persuade her to smoke. Most +of the girls did. Betty had not wanted to do it any more for that. She +had had a feeling that Vernon would not like her to smoke.</p> + +<p>And in Paris one had to be careful. But now—</p> + +<p>"I am absolutely my own master," she said. "I am staying by myself at +a hotel, exactly like a man. I shall feel more at home if I smoke. And +besides, no one can see me. It's just for me. And it shows I don't +care what <i>he</i> likes."</p> + +<p>Lying in a long chair reading one of her Tauchnitz books and smoking, +Betty felt very manly indeed.</p> + +<p>The long afternoon wore on. The trees of the garden crowded round +Betty with soft whispers in a language not known of the trees on the +boulevards.</p> + +<p>"I am very very unhappy," said Betty with a deep sigh of delight.</p> + +<p>She went in, unpacked, arranged everything neatly. She always arranged +everything neatly, but nothing ever would stay arranged. She wrote to +her father, explaining that Madame Gautier had brought her and the +other girls to Grez for the summer, and she gave as her address:</p> + +<p>Chez Madame Chevillon, Pavilion du Jardin, Grez.</p> + +<p>"I shall be very very unhappy to-morrow," said Betty that night, +laying her face against the coarse cool linen of her pillow; "to-day I +have been stunned—-I haven't been able to feel anything. But +to-morrow."</p> + +<p>To-morrow, she knew, would be golden and green even as to-day. But she +should not care. She did not want to be happy. How could she be happy +now that she had of her own free will put away the love of her life? +She called and beckoned to all the thoughts that the green world shut +out, and they came at her call, fluttering black wings to hide the +sights and sounds of field and wood and green garden, and making their +nest in her heart.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, turning the hot rough pillow, "now it begins to hurt +again. I knew it would."</p> + +<p>It hurt more than she had meant it to hurt, when she beckoned those +black-winged thoughts. It hurt so much that she could not sleep. She +got up and leaned from the window.</p> + +<p>She wondered where Vernon was. It was quite early. Not eleven. Lady +St. Craye had called that quite early.</p> + +<p>"He's with <i>her</i>, of course," said Betty, "sitting at her feet, no +doubt, and looking up at her hateful eyes, and holding her horrid +hand, and forgetting that he ever knew a girl named Me."</p> + +<p>Betty dressed and went out.</p> + +<p>She crossed the garden. It was very dark among the trees. It would be +lighter in the road.</p> + +<p>The big yard door was ajar. She pushed it softly. It creaked and let +her through into the silent street. There were no lights in the hotel, +no lights in any of the houses.</p> + +<p>She stood a moment, hesitating. A door creaked inside the hotel. She +took the road to the river.</p> + +<p>"I wonder if people ever <i>do</i> drown themselves for love," said Betty: +"he'd be sorry then."</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER XXII.</p> + +<p> +THE LUNATIC.</p> + +<p>The night kept its promise. Betty, slipping from the sleeping house +into the quiet darkness, seemed to slip into a poppy-fringed pool of +oblivion. The night laid fresh, cold hands on her tired eyes, and shut +out many things. She paused for a minute on the bridge to listen to +the restful restless whisper of the water against the rough stone.</p> + +<p>Her eyes growing used to the darkness discerned the white ribbon of +road unrolling before her. The trees were growing thicker. This must +be the forest. Certainly it was the forest.</p> + +<p>"How dark it is," she said, "how dear and dark! And how still! I +suppose the trams are running just the same along the Boulevard +Montparnasse,—and all the lights and people, and the noise. And I've +been there all these months—and all the time this was here—this!"</p> + +<p>Paris was going on—all that muddle and maze of worried people. And +she was out of it all; here, alone.</p> + +<p>Alone? A quick terror struck at the heart of her content. An abrupt +horrible certainty froze her—the certainty that she was not alone. +There was some living thing besides herself in the forest, quite near +her—something other than the deer and the squirrels and the quiet +dainty woodland people. She felt it in every fibre long before she +heard that faint light sound that was not one of the forest noises. +She stood still and listened.</p> + +<p>She had never been frightened of the dark—of the outdoor dark. At +Long Barton she had never been afraid even to go past the church-yard +in the dark night—the free night that had never held any terrors, +only dreams.</p> + +<p>But now: she quickened her pace, and—yes—footsteps came on behind +her. And in front the long straight ribbon of the road unwound, gray +now in the shadow. There seemed to be no road turning to right or +left. She could not go on forever. She would have to turn, +sometime—if not now, yet sometime—in this black darkness, and then +she would meet this thing that trod so softly, so stealthily behind +her.</p> + +<p>Before she knew that she had ceased to walk, she was crouched in the +black between two bushes. She had leapt as the deer leaps, and +crouched, still as any deer.</p> + +<p>Her dark blue linen gown was one with the forest shadows. She breathed +noiselessly—her eyes were turned to the gray ribbon of road that had +been behind her. She had heard. Now she would see.</p> + +<p>She did see—something white and tall and straight. Oh, the relief of +the tallness and straightness and whiteness! She had thought of +something dwarfed and clumsy—dark, misshapen, slouching beast-like on +two shapeless feet. Why were people afraid of tall white ghosts?</p> + +<p>It passed. It was a man—in a white suit. Just an ordinary man. No, +not ordinary. The ordinary man in France does not wear white. Nor in +England, except for boating and tennis and—</p> + +<p>Flannels. Yes. The lunatic who boiled his brains in the sun!</p> + +<p>Betty's terror changed colour as the wave changes from green to white, +but it lost not even so much of its force as the wave loses by the +change. It held her moveless till the soft step of the tennis shoes +died away. Then softly and hardly moving at all, moving so little that +not a leaf of those friendly bushes rustled, she slipped off her +shoes: took them in her hand, made one leap through the crackling, +protesting undergrowth and fled back along the road, fleet as a +greyhound.</p> + +<p>She ran and she walked, very fast, and then she ran again and never +once did she pause to look or listen. If the lunatic caught her—well, +he would catch her, but it should not be <i>her</i> fault if he did.</p> + +<p>The trees were thinner. Ahead she saw glimpses of a world that looked +quite light, the bridge ahead. With one last spurt she ran across it, +tore up the little bit of street, slipped through the door, and +between the garden trees to her pavilion.</p> + +<p>She looked very carefully in every corner—all was still and empty. +She locked the door, and fell face downward on her bed.</p> + +<p>Vernon in his studio was "thinking things over" after the advice of +Miss Voscoe in much the same attitude.</p> + +<p>"Oh," said Betty, "I will never go out at night again! And I will +leave this horrible, horrible place the very first thing to-morrow +morning!"</p> + +<p>But to-morrow morning touched the night's events with new colours from +its shining palette.</p> + +<p>"After all, even a lunatic has a right to walk out in the forest if it +wants to," she told herself, "and it didn't know I was there, I +expect, really. But I think I'll go and stay at some other hotel."</p> + +<p>She asked, when her "complete coffee" came to her, what the mad +gentleman did all day.</p> + +<p>"He is not so stupid as Mademoiselle supposes," said Marie. "All the +artists are insane, and he, he is only a little more insane than the +others. He is not a real mad, all the same, see you. To-day he makes +drawings at Montigny."</p> + +<p>"Which way is Montigny?" asked Betty. And, learning, strolled, when +her coffee was finished, by what looked like the other way.</p> + +<p>It took her to the river.</p> + +<p>"It's like the Medway," said Betty, stooping to the fat cowslips at +her feet, "only prettier; and I never saw any cowslips here—You +dears!"</p> + +<p>Betty would not look at her sorrow in this gay, glad world. But she +knew at last what her sorrow's name was. She saw now that it was love +that had stood all the winter between her and Vernon, holding a hand +of each. In her blindness she had called it friendship,—but now she +knew its real, royal name.</p> + +<p>She felt that her heart was broken. Even the fact that her grief was a +thing to be indulged or denied at will brought her no doubts. She had +always wanted to be brave and noble. Well, now she was being both.</p> + +<p>A turn of the river brought to sight a wide reach dotted with green +islands, each a tiny forest of willow saplings and young alders.</p> + +<p>There was a boat moored under an aspen, a great clumsy boat, but it +had sculls in it. It would be pleasant to go out to the islands.</p> + +<p>She got into the boat, loosened the heavy rattling chain and flung it +in board, took up the sculls and began to pull. It was easy work.</p> + +<p>"I didn't know I was such a good oar," said Betty as the boat crept +swiftly down the river.</p> + +<p>As she stepped into the boat, she noticed the long river reeds +straining down stream like the green hair of hidden water-nixies.</p> + +<p>She would land at the big island—the boat steered easily and lightly +enough for all its size—but before she could ship her oars and grasp +at a willow root she shot past the island.</p> + +<p>Then she remembered the streaming green weeds.</p> + +<p>"Why, there must be a frightful current!" she said. What could make +the river run at this pace—a weir—or a waterfall?</p> + +<p>She turned the boat's nose up stream and pulled. Ah, this was work! +Then her eyes, fixed in the exertion of pulling, found that they saw +no moving banks, but just one picture: a willow, a clump of irises, +three poplars in the distance—and the foreground of the picture did +not move. All her pulling only sufficed to keep the boat from going +with the stream. And now, as the effort relaxed a little it did not +even do this. The foreground did move—the wrong way. The boat was +slipping slowly down stream. She turned and made for the bank, but the +stream caught her broadside on, whirled the boat round and swept it +calmly and gently down—towards the weir—or the waterfall.</p> + +<p>Betty pulled two strong strokes, driving the boat's nose straight for +the nearest island, shipped the sculls with a jerk, stumbled forward +and caught at an alder stump. She flung the chain round it and made +fast. The boat's stern swung round—it was thrust in under the bank +and held there close; the chain clicked loudly as it stretched taut.</p> + +<p>"Well!" said Betty. The island was between her and the riverside path. +No one would be able to see her. She must listen and call out when she +heard anyone pass. Then they would get another boat and come and fetch +her away. She would not tempt fate again alone in that boat. She was +not going to be drowned in any silly French river.</p> + +<p>She landed, pushed through the saplings, found a mossy willow stump +and sat down to get her breath.</p> + +<p>It was very hot on the island. It smelt damply of wet lily leaves and +iris roots and mud. Flies buzzed and worried. The time was very long. +And no one came by.</p> + +<p>"I may have to spend the day here," she told herself. "It's not so +safe in the boat, but it's not so fly-y either."</p> + +<p>And still no one passed.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the soft whistling of a tune came through the hot air. A tune +she had learned in Paris.</p> + +<p>"<i>C'etait deux amants</i>."</p> + +<p>"Hi!" cried Betty in a voice that was not at all like her voice. +"Help!—<i>Au secours</i>!" she added on second thoughts.</p> + +<p>"Where are you?" came a voice. How alike all Englishmen's voices +seemed—in a foreign land!</p> + +<p>"Here—on the island! Send someone out with a boat, will you? I can't +work my boat a bit."</p> + +<p>Through the twittering leaves she saw something white waving. Next +moment a big splash. She could see, through a little gap, a white +blazer thrown down on the bank—a pair of sprawling brown boots; in +the water a sleek wet round head, an arm in a blue shirt sleeve +swimming a strong side stroke. It was the lunatic; of course it was. +And she had called to him, and he was coming. She pushed back to the +boat, leaped in, and was fumbling with the chain when she heard the +splash and the crack of broken twigs that marked the lunatic's +landing.</p> + +<p>She would rather chance the weir or the waterfall than be alone on +that island with a maniac. But the chain was stretched straight and +stiff as a lance,—she could not untwist it. She was still struggling, +with pink fingers bruised and rust-stained, when something heavy +crashed through the saplings and a voice cried close to her:</p> + +<p>"Drop it! What are you doing?"—and a hand fell on the chain.</p> + +<p>Betty, at bay, raised her head. Lunatics, she knew, could be quelled +by the calm gaze of the sane human eye.</p> + +<p>She gave one look, and held out both hands with a joyous cry.</p> + +<p>"Oh,—it's <i>you</i>! I <i>am</i> so glad! Where did you come from? Oh, how wet +you are!"</p> + +<p>Then she sat down on the thwart and said no more, because of the +choking feeling in her throat that told her very exactly just how +frightened she had been.</p> + +<p>"You!" Temple was saying very slowly. "How on earth? Where are you +staying? Where's your party?"</p> + +<p>He was squeezing the water out of sleeves and trouser legs.</p> + +<p>"I haven't got a party. I'm staying alone at a hotel—just like a man. +I know you're frightfully shocked. You always are."</p> + +<p>"Where are you staying?" he asked, drawing the chain in hand over +hand, till a loose loop of it dipped in the water.</p> + +<p>"Hotel Chevillon. How dripping you are!"</p> + +<p>"Hotel Chevillon," he repeated. "Never! Then it was <i>you</i>!"</p> + +<p>"What was me?"</p> + +<p>"That I was sheep-dog to last night in the forest."</p> + +<p>"Then it was <i>you</i>? And I thought it was the lunatic! Oh, if I'd only +known! But why did you come after me—if you didn't know it <i>was</i> me?"</p> + +<p>Temple blushed through the runnels of water that trickled from his +hair.</p> + +<p>"I—well, Madame told me there was an English girl staying at the +hotel—and I heard some one go out—and I looked out of the window and +I thought it was the girl, and I just—well, if anything had gone +wrong—a drunken man, or anything—it was just as well there should be +someone there, don't you know."</p> + +<p>"That's very, very nice of you," said Betty. "But oh!"—She told him +about the lunatic.</p> + +<p>"Oh, that's me!" said Temple. "I recognise the portrait, especially +about the hat."</p> + +<p>He had loosened the chain and was pulling with strong even strokes +across the river towards the bank where his coat lay.</p> + +<p>"We'll land here if you don't mind."</p> + +<p>"Can't you pull up to the place where I stole the boat?"</p> + +<p>He laughed:</p> + +<p>"The man's not living who could pull against this stream when the +mill's going and the lower sluice gates are open. How glad I am that +I—And how plucky and splendid of you not to lose your head, but just +to hang on. It takes a lot of courage to wait, doesn't it?"</p> + +<p>Betty thought it did.</p> + +<p>"Let me carry your coat," said Betty as they landed. "You'll make it +so wet."</p> + +<p>He stood still a moment and looked at her.</p> + +<p>"Now we're on terra cotta," he said, "let me remind you that we've not +shaken hands. Oh, but it's good to see you again!"</p> + +<hr> + +<p>"Look well, my child," said Madame Chevillon, "and when you see +approach the Meess, warn me, that I may make the little omelette at +the instant."</p> + +<p>"Oh, la, la, madame!" cried Marie five minutes later. "Here it is that +she comes, and the mad with her. He talks with her, in laughing. She +carries his coat, and neither the one nor the other has any hat."</p> + +<p>"I will make a double omelette," said Madame. "Give me still more of +the eggs. The English are all mad—the one like the other; but even +mads must eat, my child. Is it not?"</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER XXIII.</p> + +<p> +TEMPERATURES.</p> + +<p>"It isn't as though she were the sort of girl who can't take care of +herself," said Lady St. Craye to the Inward Monitor who was buzzing its +indiscreet common-places in her ear. "I've really done her a good turn +by sending her to Grez. No—it's not in the least compromising for a +girl to stay at the same hotel. And besides, there are lots of amusing +people there, I expect. She'll have a delightful time, and get to know +that Temple boy really well. I'm sure he'd repay investigation. If I +weren't a besotted fool I could have pursued those researches myself. +But it's not what's worth having that one wants; it's—it's what one +<i>does</i> want. Yes. That's all."</p> + +<p>Paris was growing intolerable. But for—well, a thousand reasons—Lady +St. Craye would already have left it. The pavements were red-hot. When +one drove it was through an air like the breath from the open mouth of +a furnace.</p> + +<p>She kept much within doors, filled her rooms with roses, and lived +with every window open. Her balcony, too, was full of flowers, and the +striped sun-blinds beyond each open window kept the rooms in pleasant +shadow.</p> + +<p>"But suppose something happens to her—all alone there," said the +Inward Monitor.</p> + +<p>"Nothing will. She's not that sort of girl." Her headache had been +growing worse these three days. The Inward Monitor might have had +pity, remembering that—but no.</p> + +<p>"You told Him that all girls were the same sort of girls," said the +pitiless voice.</p> + +<p>"I didn't mean in that way. I suppose you'd have liked me to write +that anonymous letter and restore her to the bosom of her furious +family? I've done the girl a good turn—for what she did for me. She's +a good little thing—too good for him, even if I didn't happen to—And +Temple's her ideal mate. I wonder if he's found it out yet? He must +have by now: three weeks in the same hotel."</p> + +<p>Temple, however, was not in the same hotel. The very day of the river +rescue and the double omelette he had moved his traps a couple of +miles down the river to Montigny.</p> + +<p>A couple of miles is a good distance. Also a very little way, as you +choose to take it.</p> + +<p>"You know it was a mean trick," said the Inward Monitor. "Why not have +let the girl go away where she could be alone—and get over it?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, be quiet!" said Lady St. Craye. "I never knew myself so tiresome +before. I think I must be going to be ill. My head feels like an ice +in an omelette."</p> + +<p>Vernon, strolling in much later, found her with eyes closed, leaning +back among her flowers as she had lain all that long afternoon.</p> + +<p>"How pale you look," he said. "You ought to get away from here."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, "I suppose I ought. It would be easier for you if you +hadn't the awful responsibility of bringing me roses every other day. +What beauty-darlings these are!" She dipped her face in the fresh pure +whiteness of the ones he had laid on her knee. Their faces felt cold, +like the faces of dead people. She shivered.</p> + +<p>"Heaven knows what I should do without you to—to bring my—my roses +to," he said.</p> + +<p>"Do you bring me anything else to-day?" she roused herself to ask. +"Any news, for instance?"</p> + +<p>"No," he said. "There isn't any news—there never will be. She's gone +home—I'm certain of it. Next week I shall go over to England and +propose for her formally to her step-father."</p> + +<p>"A very proper course!"</p> + +<p>It was odd that talking to some one else should make one's head throb +like this. And it was so difficult to know what to say. Very odd. It +had been much easier to talk to the Inward Monitor.</p> + +<p>She made herself say: "And suppose she isn't there?" She thought she +said it rather well.</p> + +<p>"Well, then there's no harm done."</p> + +<p>"He doesn't like you." She was glad she had remembered that.</p> + +<p>"He didn't—but the one little word 'marriage,' simply spoken, is a +magic spell for taming savage relatives. They'll eat out of your hand +after that—at least so I'm told."</p> + +<p>It was awful that he should decide to do this—heart-breaking. But it +did not seem to be hurting her heart. That felt as though it wasn't +there. Could one feel emotion in one's hands and feet? Hers were ice +cold—but inside they tingled and glowed, like a worm of fire in a +chrysalis of ice. What a silly simile.</p> + +<p>"Must you go?" was what she found herself saying. "Suppose she isn't +there at all? You'll simply be giving her away—all her secret—and +he'll fetch her home."</p> + +<p>That at least was quite clearly put.</p> + +<p>"I'm certain she is at home," he said. "And I don't see why I am +waiting till next week. I'll go to-morrow."</p> + +<p>If you are pulling a rose to pieces it is very important to lay the +petals in even rows on your lap, especially if the rose be white.</p> + +<p>"Eustace," she said, suddenly feeling quite coherent, "I wish you +wouldn't go away from Paris just now. I don't believe you'd find her. +I have a feeling that she's not far away. I think that is quite +sensible. I am not saying it because I—And—I feel very ill, Eustace. +I think I am—Oh, I am going, to be ill, very ill, I think! Won't you +wait a little? You'll have such years and years to be happy in. I +don't want to be ill here in Paris with no one to care."</p> + +<p>She was leaning forward, her hands on the arms of her chair, and for +the first time that day, he saw her face plainly. He said: "I shall go +out now, and wire for your sister."</p> + +<p>"Not for worlds! I forbid it. She'd drive me mad. No—but my head's +running round like a beetle on a pin. I think you'd better go now. But +don't go to-morrow. I mean I think I'll go to sleep. I feel as if I'd +tumbled off the Eiffel tower and been caught on a cloud—one side of +it's cold and the other's blazing."</p> + +<p>He took her hand, felt her pulse. Then he kissed the hand.</p> + +<p>"My dear, tired Jasmine Lady," he said, "I'll send in a doctor. And +don't worry. I won't go to-morrow. I'll write."</p> + +<p>"Oh, very well," she said, "write then,—and it will all come +out—about her being here alone. And she'll always hate you. <i>I</i> don't +care what you do!"</p> + +<p>"I suppose I can write a letter as though—as though I'd not seen her +since Long Barton." He inwardly thanked her for that hint.</p> + +<p>"A letter written from Paris? That's so likely, isn't it? But do what +you like. <i>I</i> don't care what you do."</p> + +<p>She was faintly, agreeably surprised to notice that she was speaking +the truth. "It's rather pleasant, do you know," she went on dreamily, +"when everything that matters suddenly goes flat, and you wonder what +on earth you ever worried about. Why do people always talk about cold +shivers? I think hot shivers are much more amusing. It's like a +skylark singing up close to the sun, and doing the tremolo with its +wings. I'm sorry you're going away, though."</p> + +<p>"I'm not going away," he said. "I wouldn't leave you when you're ill +for all the life's happinesses that ever were. Oh, why can't you cure +me? I don't want to want her; I want to want you."</p> + +<p>"I'm certain," said Lady St. Craye brightly, "that what you've just +been saying's most awfully interesting, but I like to hear things said +ever so many times. Then the seventh time you understand everything, +and the coldness and the hotness turn into silver and gold and +everything is quite beautiful, and I think I am not saying exactly +what you expected.—Don't think I don't know that what I say sounds +like nonsense. I know that quite well, only I can't stop talking. You +know one is like that sometimes. It was like that the night you hit +me."</p> + +<p>"I? <i>Hit you</i>?"</p> + +<p>He was kneeling by her low chair holding her hand, as she lay back +talking quickly in low, even tones, her golden eyes shining +wonderfully.</p> + +<p>"No—you didn't call it hitting. But things aren't always what we call +them, are they? You mustn't kiss me now, Eustace. I think I've got +some horrid fever—I'm sure I have. Because of course nobody could be +bewitched nowadays, and put into a body that feels thick and thin in +the wrong places. And my head <i>isn't</i> too big to get through the +door.—Of course I know it isn't. It would be funny if it were. I do +love funny things.—So do you. I like to hear you laugh. I wish I +could say something funny, so as to hear you laugh now."</p> + +<p>She was holding his hand very tightly with one of hers. The other held +the white roses. All her mind braced itself to a great exertion as the +muscles do for a needed effort. She spoke very slowly.</p> + +<p>"Listen, Eustace. I am going to be ill. Get a nurse and a doctor and +go away. Perhaps it is catching. And if I fall through the floor," she +added laughing, "it is so hard to stop!"</p> + +<p>"Put your arms round my neck," he said, for she had risen and was +swaying like a flame in the wind—the white rose leaves fell in +showers.</p> + +<p>"I don't think I want to, now," she said, astonished that it should be +so.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, you do!"—He spoke as one speaks to a child. "Put your arms +round Eustace's neck,—your own Eustace that's so fond of you."</p> + +<p>"Are you?" she said, and her arms fell across his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"Of course I am," he said. "Hold tight."</p> + +<p>He lifted her and carried her, not quite steadily, for carrying a +full-grown woman is not the bagatelle novelists would have us believe +it.</p> + +<p>He opened her bedroom door, laid her on the white, lacy coverlet of +her bed.</p> + +<p>"Now," he said, "you are to lie quite still. You've been so good and +dear and unselfish. You've always done everything I've asked, even +difficult things. This is quite easy. Just lie and think about me till +I come back."</p> + +<p>He bent over the bed and kissed her gently.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" she sighed. There was a flacon on the table by the bed. He +expected it to be jasmine. It was lavender water; he drenched her hair +and brow and hands.</p> + +<p>"That's nice," said she. "I'm not really ill. I think it's nice to be +ill. Quite still do you mean, like that?"</p> + +<p>She folded her hands, the white roses still clasped. The white bed, +the white dress, the white flowers. Horrible!</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said firmly, "just like that. I shall be back in five +minutes."</p> + +<p>He was not gone three. He came back and—till the doctor came, +summoned by the concierge—he sat by her, holding her hands, covering +her with furs from the wardrobe when she shivered, bathing her wrists +with perfumed water when she threw off the furs and spoke of the fire +that burned in her secret heart of cold clouds.</p> + +<p>When the doctor came he went out by that excellent Irishman's +direction and telegraphed for a nurse.</p> + +<p>Then he waited in the cool shaded sitting-room, among the flowers. +This was where he had hit her—as she said. There on the divan she had +cried, leaning her head against his sleeve. Here, half-way to the +door, they had kissed each other. No, he would certainly not go to +England while she was ill. He felt sufficiently like a murderer +already. But he would write. He glanced at her writing-table.</p> + +<p>A little pang pricked him, and drove him to the balcony.</p> + +<p>"No," he said, "if we are to hit people, at least let us hit them +fairly." But all the same he found himself playing with the +word-puzzle whose solution was the absolutely right letter to Betty's +father, asking her hand in marriage.</p> + +<p>"Well," he asked the doctor who closed softly the door of the bedroom +and came forward, "is it brain-fever?"</p> + +<p>"Holy Ann, no! Brain fever's a fell disease invented by novelists—I +never met it in all <i>my</i> experience. The doctors in novels have +special advantages. No, it's influenza—pretty severe touch too. She +ought to have been in bed days ago. She'll want careful looking +after."</p> + +<p>"I see," said Vernon. "Any danger?"</p> + +<p>"There's always danger, Lord—Saint-Croix isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"I have not the honour to be Lady St. Craye's husband," said Vernon +equably. "I was merely calling, and she seemed so ill that I took upon +myself to—"</p> + +<p>"I see—I see. Well, if you don't mind taking on yourself to let her +husband know? It's a nasty case. Temperature 104. Perhaps her husband +'ud be as well here as anywhere."</p> + +<p>"He's dead," said Vernon.</p> + +<p>"Oh!" said the doctor with careful absence of expression. "Get some +woman to put her to bed and to stay with her till the nurse comes. +She's in a very excitable state. Good afternoon. I'll look in after +dinner."</p> + +<p>When Vernon had won the concierge to the desired service, had seen the +nurse installed, had dined, called for news of Lady St. Craye, learned +that she was "<i>toujours très souffrante</i>," he went home, pulled a +table into the middle of his large, bare, hot studio, and sat down to +write to the Reverend Cecil Underwood.</p> + +<p>"I mean to do it," he told himself, "and it can't hurt <i>her</i> my doing +it now instead of a month ahead, when she's well again. In fact, it's +better for all of us to get it settled one way or another while she's +not caring about anything."</p> + +<p>So he wrote. And he wrote a great deal, though the letter that at last +he signed was quite short:</p> +<blockquote> +<p> My Dear Sir:</p> + +<p> I have the honour to ask the hand of your daughter in marriage. When + you asked me, most properly, my intentions, I told you that I was + betrothed to another lady. This is not now the case. And I have + found myself wholly unable to forget the impression made upon me + last year by Miss Desmond. My income is about £1,700 a year, and + increases yearly. I beg to apologise for anything which may have + annoyed you in my conduct last year, and to assure you that my + esteem and affection for Miss Desmond are lasting and profound, and + that, should she do me the honour to accept my proposal, I shall + devote my life's efforts to secure her happiness.</p> + +<p> I am, my dear Sir, Your obedient servant,</p> + +<p> Eustace Vernon.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>"That ought to do the trick," he told himself. "Talk of old world +courtesy and ceremonial! Anyhow, I shall know whether she's at Long +Barton by the time it takes to get an answer. If it's two days, she's +there. If it's longer she isn't. He'll send my letter on to +her—unless he suppresses it. Your really pious people are so +shockingly unscrupulous."</p> + +<p>There is nothing so irretrievable as a posted letter. This came home +to Vernon as the envelope dropped on the others in the box at the Café +du Dóme—came home to him rather forlornly.</p> + +<p>Next morning he called with more roses for Lady St. Craye, pinky ones +this time.</p> + +<p>"Milady was toujours <i>très souffrante</i>. It would be ten days, at the +least, before Milady could receive, even a very old friend, like +Monsieur."</p> + +<p>The letter reached Long Barton between the Guardian and a catalogue of +Some Rare Books. The Reverend Cecil read it four times. He was trying +to be just. At first he thought he would write "No" and tell Betty +years later. But the young man had seen the error of his ways. And +£1,700 a year!—</p> + +<p>The surprise visit with which the Reverend Cecil had always intended +to charm his step-daughter suddenly found its date quite definitely +fixed. This could not be written. He must go to the child and break it +to her very gently, very tenderly—find out quite delicately and +cleverly exactly what her real feelings were. Girls were so shy about +those things.</p> + +<p>Miss Julia Desmond had wired him from Suez that she would be in Paris +next week—had astonishingly asked him to meet her there.</p> + +<p>"Paris next Tuesday Gare St. Lazare 6:45. Come and see Betty via +Dieppe," had been her odd message.</p> + +<p>He had not meant to go—not next Tuesday. He was afraid of Miss Julia +Desmond. He would rather have his Lizzie all to himself. But now—</p> + +<p>He wrote a cablegram to Miss Julia Desmond: "Care Captain S.S. Urania, +Brindisi: Will meet you in Paris." Then he thought that this might +seem to the telegraph people not quite nice, so he changed it to: +"Going to see Lizzie Tuesday."</p> + +<p>The fates that had slept so long were indeed waking up and beginning +to take notice of Betty. Destiny, like the most attractive of the +porters at the Gare de Lyon, "<i>s'occupait d'elle</i>."</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER XXIV.</p> + +<p> +THE CONFESSIONAL.</p> + +<p>The concierge sat at her window under the arch of the porte-cochère at +57 Boulevard Montparnasse. She sat gazing across its black shade to +the sunny street. She was thinking. The last twenty-four hours had +given food for thought.</p> + +<p>The trams passed and repassed, people in carriages, people on +foot—the usual crowd—not interesting.</p> + +<p>But the open carriage suddenly drawn up at the other side of the broad +pavement was interesting, very. For it contained the lady who had +given the 100 francs, and had promised another fifty on the first of +the month. She had never come with that fifty, and the concierge +having given up all hope of seeing her again, had acted accordingly.</p> + +<p>Lady St. Craye, pale as the laces of her sea-green cambric gown, came +slowly up the cobble-paved way and halted at the window.</p> + +<p>"Good morning, Madame," she said. "I bring you the little present."</p> + +<p>The concierge was genuinely annoyed. Why had she not waited a little +longer? Still, all was not yet lost.</p> + +<p>"Come in, Madame," she said. "Madame has the air very fatigued."</p> + +<p>"I have been very ill," said Lady St. Craye.</p> + +<p>"If Madame will give herself the trouble to go round by the other +door—" The concierge went round and met her visitor in the hall, and +brought her into the closely furnished little room with the high +wooden bed, the round table, the rack for letters, and the big lamp.</p> + +<p>"Will Madame give herself the trouble to sit down? Would it be +permitted to offer Madame something—a little glass of sugared water? +No? I regret infinitely not having known that Madame was suffering. I +should have acted otherwise."</p> + +<p>"What have you done?" she asked quickly. "You haven't told anyone that +I was here that night?"</p> + +<p>"Do not believe it for an instant," said the woman reassuringly. +"'No—after Madame's goodness I held myself wholly at the disposition +of Madame. But when the day appointed passed itself without your +visit, I said to myself: 'The little affaire has ceased to interest +this lady; she is weary of it!' My grateful heart found itself free to +acknowledge the kindness of others."</p> + +<p>"Tell me exactly," said Lady St. Craye, "what you have done."</p> + +<p>"It was but last week," the concierge went on, rearranging a stiff +bouquet in exactly the manner of an embarrassed ingénue on the stage, +"but only last week that I received a letter from Mademoiselle +Desmond. She sent me her address."</p> + +<p>She paused. Lady St. Craye laid the bank note on the table.</p> + +<p>"Madame wants the address?"</p> + +<p>"I have the address. I want to know whether you have given it to +anyone else."</p> + +<p>"No, Madame," said the concierge with simple pride, "when you have +given a thing you have it not any longer."</p> + +<p>"Well—pardon me—have you sold it?"</p> + +<p>"For the same good reason, no, Madame."</p> + +<p>"Take the note," said Lady St. Craye, "and tell me what you have done +with the address."</p> + +<p>"This gentleman, whom Madame did not wish to know that she had been +here that night—"</p> + +<p>"I didn't wish <i>anyone</i> to know!"</p> + +<p>"Perfectly: this gentleman comes without ceasing to ask of me news of +Mademoiselle Desmond. And always I have no news. But when Mademoiselle +writes me: 'I am at the hotel such and such—send to me, I pray you, +letters if there are any of them,'—then when Monsieur makes his +eternal demand I reply: 'I have now the address of Mademoiselle,—not +to give, but to send her letters. If Monsieur had the idea to cause to +be expedited a little billet? I am all at the service of Monsieur.'"</p> + +<p>"So he wrote to her. Have you sent on the letter?"</p> + +<p>"Alas, yes!" replied the concierge with heartfelt regret. "I kept it +during a week, hoping always to see Madame—but yesterday, even, I put +it at the post. Otherwise.... I beg Madame to have the goodness to +understand that I attach myself entirely to her interests. You may +rely on me."</p> + +<p>"It is useless," said Lady St. Craye; "the affair <i>is</i> ceasing to +interest me."</p> + +<p>"Do not say that. Wait only a little till you have heard. It is not +only Monsieur that occupies himself with Mademoiselle. Last night +arrives an aunt; also a father. They ask for Mademoiselle, are +consternated when they learn of her departing. They run all Paris at +the research of her. The father lodges at the Haute Loire. He is a +priest it appears. Madame the aunt occupies the ancient apartment of +Mademoiselle Desmond."</p> + +<p>"An instant," said Lady St. Craye; "let me reflect."</p> + +<p>The concierge ostentatiously went back to her flowers.</p> + +<p>"You have not given <i>them</i> Miss Desmond's address?"</p> + +<p>"Madame forgets," said the concierge, wounded virtue bristling in her +voice, "that I was, for the moment, devoted to the interest of +Monsieur. No. I am a loyal soul. I have told <i>nothing</i>. Only to +despatch the letter. Behold all!"</p> + +<p>"I will give myself the pleasure of offering you a little present next +week," said Lady St. Craye; "it is only that you should say +nothing—nothing—and send no more letters. And—the address?"</p> + +<p>"Madame knows it—by what she says."</p> + +<p>"Yes, but I want to know if the address you have is the same that I +have. Hotel Chevillon, Grez sur Loing. Is it so?"</p> + +<p>"It is exact. I thank you, Madame. Madame would do well to return +<i>chez elle</i> and to repose herself a little. Madame is all pale."</p> + +<p>"Is the aunt in Miss Desmond's rooms now?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; she writes letters without end, and telegrams; and the +priest-father he runs with them like a sad old black dog that has not +the habit of towns."</p> + +<p>"I shall go up and see her," said Lady St. Craye, "and I shall most +likely give her the address. But do not give yourself anxiety. You +will gain more by me than by any of the others. They are not rich. Me, +I am, Heaven be praised."</p> + +<p>She went out and along the courtyard. At the foot of the wide shallow +stairs she paused and leaned on the dusty banisters.</p> + +<p>"I feel as weak as any rat," she said, "but I must go through with +it—I must."</p> + +<p>She climbed the stairs, and stood outside the brown door. The nails +that had held the little card "Miss E. Desmond" still stuck there, but +only four corners of the card remained.</p> + +<p>The door was not shut—it always shut unwillingly. She tapped.</p> + +<p>"Come in," said a clear, pleasant voice. And she went in.</p> + +<p>The room was not as she had seen it on the two occasions when it had +been the battle ground where she and Betty fought for a man. Plaid +travelling-rugs covered the divans. A gold-faced watch in a leather +bracelet ticked on the table among scattered stationery. A lady in a +short sensible dress rose from the table, and the room was scented +with the smell of Hungarian cigarettes.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon. I thought it was my brother-in-law. Did you call +to see Miss Desmond? She is away for a short time."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Lady St. Craye. "I know. I wanted to see you. The +concierge told me—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, these concierges! They tell everything! It's what they were +invented for, I believe. And you wanted—" She stopped, looked hard at +the young woman and went on: "What you want is a good stiff brandy and +soda. Here, where's the head of the pin?—I always think it such a +pity bonnets went out. One could undo strings. That's it. Now, put +your feet up. That's right, I'll be back in half a minute."</p> + +<p>Lady St. Craye found herself lying at full length on Betty's divan, +her feet covered with a Tussore driving-rug, her violet-wreathed hat +on a table at some distance.</p> + +<p>She closed her eyes. It was just as well. She could get back a little +strength—she could try to arrange coherently what she meant to say. +No: it was not unfair to the girl. She ought to be taken care of. And, +besides, there was no such thing as "unfair." All was fair in—Well, +she was righting for her life. All was fair when one was fighting for +one's life—that was what she meant. Meantime, to lie quite still and +draw long, even breaths—telling oneself at each breath: "I am quite +well, I am quite strong—" seemed best.</p> + +<p>There was a sound, a dull plop, the hiss and fizzle of a spurting +syphon, then:</p> + +<p>"Drink this: that's right. I've got you."</p> + +<p>A strong arm round her shoulders—something buzzing and spitting in a +glass under her nose.</p> + +<p>"Drink it up, there's a good child."</p> + +<p>She drank. A long breath.</p> + +<p>"Now the rest." She was obedient.</p> + +<p>"Now shut your eyes and don't bother. When you're better we'll talk."</p> + +<p>Silence—save for the fierce scratching of a pen.</p> + +<p>"I'm better," announced Lady St. Craye as the pen paused for the +folding of the third letter.</p> + +<p>The short skirted woman came and sat on the edge of the divan, very +upright.</p> + +<p>"Well then. You oughtn't to be out, you poor little thing."</p> + +<p>The words brought the tears to the eyes of one weak with the +self-pitying weakness of convalescence.</p> + +<p>"I wanted—"</p> + +<p>"Are you a friend of Betty's?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—no—I don't know."</p> + +<p>"A hated rival perhaps," said the elder woman cheerfully. "You didn't +come to do her a good turn, anyhow, did you?"</p> + +<p>"I—I don't know." Again this was all that would come.</p> + +<p>"I do, though. Well, which of us is to begin? You see, child, the +difficulty is that we neither of us know how much the other knows and +we don't want to give ourselves away. It's so awkward to talk when +it's like that."</p> + +<p>"I think I know more than you do. I—you needn't think I want to hurt +her. I should have liked her awfully, if it hadn't been—"</p> + +<p>"If it hadn't been for the man. Yes, I see. Who was he?"</p> + +<p>Lady St. Craye felt absolutely defenceless. Besides, what did it +matter?</p> + +<p>"Mr. Vernon," she said.</p> + +<p>"Ah, now we're getting to the horses! My dear child, don't look so +guilty. You're not the first; you won't be the last—especially with +eyes the colour his are. And so you hate Betty?"</p> + +<p>"No, I don't. I should like to tell you all about it—all the truth."</p> + +<p>"You can't," said Miss Desmond, "no woman can. But I'll give you +credit for trying to, if you'll go straight ahead. But first of +all—how long is it since you saw her?"</p> + +<p>"Nearly a month."</p> + +<p>"Well; she's disappeared. Her father and I got here last night. She's +gone away and left no address. She was living with a Madame Gautier +and—"</p> + +<p>"Madame Gautier died last October," said Lady St. Craye—"the +twenty-fifth."</p> + +<p>"I had a letter from her brother—it got me in Bombay. But I couldn't +believe it. And who has Betty been living with?"</p> + +<p>"Look here," said Lady St. Craye. "I came to give the whole thing +away, and hand her over to you. I know where she is. But now I don't +want to. Her father's a brute, I know."</p> + +<p>"Not he," said Miss Desmond; "he's only a man and a very, very silly +one. I'll pledge you my word he'll never approach her, whatever she's +done. It's not anything too awful for words, I'm certain. Come, tell +me."</p> + +<p>Lady St. Craye told Betty's secret at some length.</p> + +<p>"Did she tell you this?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"He did then?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Oh, men are darlings! The soul of honour—unsullied blades! My word! +Do you mind if I smoke?"</p> + +<p>She lighted a cigarette.</p> + +<p>"I suppose <i>I'm</i> very dishonourable too," said Lady St. Craye.</p> + +<p>"You? Oh no, you're only a woman!—And then?"</p> + +<p>"Well, at last I asked her to go away, and she went."</p> + +<p>"Well, that was decent of her, wasn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"And now you're going to tell me where she is and I'm to take her home +and keep her out of his way. Is that it?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," said Lady St. Craye very truly, "why I came to you at +all. Because it's all no good. He's written and proposed for her to +her father—and if she cares—"</p> + +<p>"Well, if she cares—and he cares—Do you really mean that <i>you'd</i> +care to marry a man who's in love with another woman?"</p> + +<p>"I'd marry him if he was in love with fifty other women."</p> + +<p>"In that case," said Miss Desmond, "I should say you were the very +wife for him."</p> + +<p>"<i>She</i> isn't," said Lady St. Craye sitting up. "I feel like a silly +school-girl talking to you like this. I think I'll go now. I'm not +really so silly as I seem. I've been ill—influenza, you know—and I +got so frightfully tired. And I don't think I'm so strong as I used to +be. I've always thought I was strong enough to play any part I wanted +to play. But—you've been very kind. I'll go—" She lay back.</p> + +<p>"Don't be silly," said Miss Desmond briskly. "You <i>are</i> a school-girl +compared with me, you know. I suppose you've been trying to play the +rôle of the designing heroine—to part true lovers and so on, and then +you found you couldn't."</p> + +<p>"They're <i>not</i> true lovers," said Lady St. Craye eagerly; "that's just +it. She'd never make him happy. She's too young and too innocent. And +when she found out what a man like him is like, she'd break her heart. +And he told me he'd be happier with me than he ever had been with +her."</p> + +<p>"Was that true, or—?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, it was true enough, though he said it. You've met him—he +told me. But you don't know him."</p> + +<p>"I know his kind though," said Miss Desmond. "And so you love him very +much indeed, and you don't care for anything else,—and you think you +understand him,—and you could forgive him everything? Then you may +get him yet, if you care so very much—that is, if Betty doesn't."</p> + +<p>"She doesn't. She thinks she does, but she doesn't. If only he hadn't +written to her—"</p> + +<p>"My dear," said Miss Desmond, "I was a fool myself once, about a man +with eyes his colour. You can't tell me anything that I don't know. +Does he know how much you care?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Ah, that's a pity—still—Well, is there anything else you want to +tell me?"</p> + +<p>"I don't want to tell anyone anything. Only—when she said she'd go +away, I advised her where to go—and I told her of a quiet place—and +Mr. Temple's there. He's the other man who admires her."</p> + +<p>"I see. How Machiavelian of you!"—Miss Desmond touched the younger +woman's hand with brusque gentleness—"And—?"</p> + +<p>"And I didn't quite tell her the truth about Mr. Vernon and me," said +Lady St. Craye, wallowing in the abject joys of the confessional. "And +I am a beast and not fit to live. But," she added with the true +penitent's instinct of self-defence, "I <i>know</i> it's only—oh, I don't +know what—not love, with her. And it's my life."</p> + +<p>"Yes. And what about him?"</p> + +<p>"It's not love with him. At least it is—but she'd bore him. It's +really his waking-up time. He's been playing the game just for +counters all the while. Now he's learning to play with gold."</p> + +<p>"And it'll stay learnt. I see," said Miss Desmond. "Look here, I like +you. I know we shouldn't have said all we have if you weren't ill, and +I weren't anxious. But I'm with you in one thing. I don't want him to +marry Betty. She wouldn't understand an artist in emotion. Is this +Temple straight?"</p> + +<p>"As a yardstick."</p> + +<p>"And as wooden? Well, that's better. I'm on your side. But—we've been +talking without the veils on—tell me one thing. Are you sure you +could get him if Betty were out of the way?"</p> + +<p>"He kissed me once—since he's loved her," said Lady St. Craye, "and +then I knew I could. He liked me better than he liked her—in all the +other ways—before. I'm a shameless idiot; it's really only because +I'm so feeble."</p> + +<p>She rose and stood before the glass, putting on her hat.</p> + +<p>"I do respect a woman who has the courage to speak the truth to +another woman," said Miss Desmond. "I hope you'll get him—though it's +not a very kind wish."</p> + +<p>Lady St. Craye let herself go completely in a phrase whose memory +stung and rankled for many a long day.</p> + +<p>"Ah," she said, "even if he gets tired of me, I shall have got his +children. You don't know what it is to want a child. Good-bye."</p> + +<p>"Good-bye," said Miss Desmond. "No—of course I don't."</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER XXV.</p> + +<p> +THE FOREST.</p> + +<p>Nothing lifts the heart like the sense of a great self-sacrifice nobly +made. Betty was glad that she could feel so particularly noble. It was +a great help.</p> + +<p>"He was mine," she told herself; "he meant to be—And I have given him +up to her. It hurts—yes—but I did the right thing."</p> + +<p>She thought she hoped that he would soon forget her. And almost all +that was Betty tried quite sincerely, snatching at every help, to +forget him.</p> + +<p>Sometimes the Betty that Betty did not want to be would, quite +deliberately and of set purpose, take out the nest of hungry memories, +look at them, play with them, and hand over her heart for them to feed +on. But always when she had done this she felt, afterwards, a little +sorry, a little ashamed. It was too like the diary at Long Barton.</p> + +<p>Consciously or unconsciously one must make some concessions to every +situation or every situation would be impossible. Temple was +here—interested, pleased to see her, glad to talk to her. But he was +not at all inclined to be in love with her: that had been only a silly +fancy of hers—in Paris. He had made up his mind by now who it was +that he cared for. And it wasn't Betty. Probably she hadn't even been +one of the two he came to Grez to think about. He was only a good +friend—and she wanted a good friend. If he were not just a good +friend the situation would be impossible. And Betty chose that the +situation should be possible. For it was pleasant. It was a shield and +a shelter from all the thoughts that she wanted to hide from.</p> + +<p>"If she thinks I'm going to break my heart about <i>him</i>, she's +mistaken. And so's He. I must be miserable for a bit," said Betty +bravely, "but I'll not be miserable forever, so he needn't think it. +Of course, I shall never care for anyone ever again—unless he were to +love me for years and years before he ever said a word, and then I +might say I would try.—<i>And</i> try. But fall in love?—Never again! Oh, +good gracious, there he is,—and I've not <i>begun</i> to get ready."</p> + +<p>Temple was whistling <i>Deux Amants</i> very softly in the courtyard below. +She put her head out of the window.</p> + +<p>"I shan't be two minutes," she said, "You might get the basket from +Madame; and my sketching things are on the terrace all ready strapped +up."</p> + +<p>The hoofs of the smart gray pony slipped and rattled on the +cobble-stones of the hotel entry.</p> + +<p>"Au revoir: amuse yourselves well, my children." Madame Chevillon +stood, one hand on fat hip, the other shading old eyes that they might +watch the progress of the cart up the blinding whiteness of the +village street.</p> + +<p>"To the forest, and yet again to the forest and to the forest always," +she said, turning into the darkened billiard room. "Marie, beware, +thou, of the forest. The good God created it express for the +lovers,—but it is permitted to the devil to promenade himself there +also."</p> + +<p>"Those two there," said Marie—"it is very certain that they are in +love?"</p> + +<p>"How otherwise?" said Madame. "The good God made us women that the men +should be in love with us—and afterwards, to take care of the +children. There is no other use that a man has for a woman. +Friendship? The Art?—Bah! When a man wants those he demands them of a +man. Of a woman he demands but love, and one gives it to him—one +gives it to him without question!"</p> + +<p>The two who had departed for the forest drove on through the swimming, +spinning heat, in silence.</p> + +<p>It was not till they reached the little old well by Marlotte that +Betty spoke.</p> + +<p>"Don't let's work to-day, Mr. Temple," she said. "My hands are so hot +I could never hold a brush. And your sketch is really finished, you +know."</p> + +<p>"What would you like to do?" asked Temple: "river?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no,—not now that we've started for the forest! Its feelings +would be hurt if we turned back. I am sure it loves us to love it, +although it is so big—Like God, you know."</p> + +<p>"Yes: I'm sure it does. Do you really think God cares?"</p> + +<p>"Of course," said Betty, "because everything would be so silly if He +didn't, you know. I believe He likes us to love him, and what's more, +I believe He likes us to love all the pretty things He's made—trees +and rivers and sunsets and seas."</p> + +<p>"And each other," said Temple, and flushed to the ears: "human beings, +I mean, of course," he added hastily.</p> + +<p>"Of course," said Betty, unconscious of the flush; "but religion tells +you that—it doesn't tell you about the little things. It does say +about herbs of the field and the floods clapping their hands and all +that—but that's only His works praising Him, not us loving all His +works. I think He's most awfully pleased when we love some little, +nice, tiny thing that He never thought we'd notice."</p> + +<p>"Did your father teach you to think like this?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, dear no!" said Betty. "He doesn't like the little pretty things."</p> + +<p>"It's odd," said Temple. "Look at those yellow roses all over that +hideous villa."</p> + +<p>"My step-father would only see the villa. Well, must we work to-day?"</p> + +<p>"What would you like to do?"</p> + +<p>"I should like to go to those big rocks—the Rochers des Demoiselles, +aren't they?—and tie up the pony, and climb up, and sit in a black +shadow and look out over the green tops of the trees. You see things +when you're idle that you never see when you're working, even if +you're trying to paint those very things."</p> + +<p>So, by and by, the gray pony was unharnessed and tied to a tree in a +cool, grassy place where he also could be happy, and the two others +took the winding stony path.</p> + +<p>A turn in the smooth-worn way brought them to a platform overhanging +the precipice that fell a sheer thirty feet to the tops of the trees +on the slope below. White, silvery sand carpeted the ledge, and on the +sand the shadow of a leaning rock fell blue.</p> + +<p>"Here" said Betty, and sank down. Her sketchbook scooped the sand with +its cover. "Oh, I <i>am</i> hot!" She threw off her hat.</p> + +<p>"You don't look it," said Temple, and pulled the big bottle of weak +claret and water from the luncheon basket.</p> + +<p>"Drink!" he said, offering the little glass when he had filled it.</p> + +<p>Betty drank, in little sips.</p> + +<p>"How extraordinarily nice it is to drink when you're thirsty," she +said, "and how heavenly this shadow is."</p> + +<p>A long silence. Temple filled and lighted a pipe. From a slope of dry +grass a little below them came the dusty rattle of grasshoppers' talk.</p> + +<p>"It is very good here," said Betty. "Oh, how glad I am I came away +from Paris. Everything looks different here—I mean the things that +look as if they mattered there don't matter here—and the things that +didn't matter there—oh, here, they do!"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Temple, making little mounds of sand with the edge of his +hand as he lay, "I never expected to have such days in this world as +I've had here with you. We've grown to be very good friends here, +haven't we?"</p> + +<p>"We were very good friends in Paris," said Betty, remembering the +letter that had announced his departure.</p> + +<p>"But it wasn't the same," he persisted. "When did we talk in Paris as +we've talked here?"</p> + +<p>"I talked to you, even in Paris, more than I've ever talked to anyone +else, all the same," said Betty.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," he said; "that's the nicest thing you've ever said to +me."</p> + +<p>"It wasn't meant to be nice," said Betty; "it's true. Don't you know +there are some people you never can talk to without wondering what +they'll think of you, and whether you hadn't better have said +something else? It's nothing to do with whether you like them or not," +she went on, thinking of talks with Vernon, many talks—and in all of +them she had been definitely and consciously on guard. "You may like +people quite frightfully, and yet you can't talk to them."</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said, "but you couldn't talk to a person you disliked, could +you? Real talk, I mean?"</p> + +<p>"Of course not," said Betty. "Do you know I'm dreadfully hungry!"</p> + +<p>It was after lunch that Temple said:</p> + +<p>"When are you going home, Miss Desmond?" She looked up, for his use +of her name was rare.</p> + +<p>"I don't know: some time," she answered absently. But the question ran +through her mind like a needle drawing after it the thread on which +were strung all the little longings for Long Barton—for the familiar +fields and flowers, that had gathered there since she first saw the +silver may and the golden broom at Bourron station. That was nearly a +month ago. What a month it had been—the gleaming river, the neat +intimate simplicity of the little culture, white roads, and roses and +rocks, and more than all—trees, and trees and trees again.</p> + +<p>And with all this—Temple. He lodged at Montigny, true. And she at +Grez. But each day brought to her door the best companion in the +world. He had never even asked how she came to be at Grez. After that +first, "Where's your party?" he had guarded his lips. It had seemed so +natural, and so extremely fortunate that he should be here. If she had +been all alone she would have allowed herself to think too much of +Vernon—of what might have been.</p> + +<p>"I am going to England next week!" he said. Betty was shocked to +perceive that this news hurt her. Well, why shouldn't it hurt her? She +wasn't absolutely insensible to friendship, she supposed. And +sensibility to friendship was nothing to be ashamed of. On the +contrary.</p> + +<p>"I shall miss you most awfully," said she with the air of one +flaunting a flag.</p> + +<p>"I wish you'd go home," he said. "Haven't you had enough of your +experiment, or whatever it was, yet?"</p> + +<p>"I thought you'd given up interfering," she said crossly. At least she +meant to speak crossly.</p> + +<p>"I thought I could say anything to you now without your—your not +understanding."</p> + +<p>"So you can." She was suddenly not cross again.</p> + +<p>"Ah, no I can't," he said. "I want to say things to you that I can't +say here. Won't you go home? Won't you let me come to see you there? +Say I may. You will let me?"</p> + +<p>If she said Yes—she refused to pursue that train of thought another +inch. If she said No—then a sudden end—and forever an end—to this +good companionship. "I wish I had never, never seen <i>Him</i>!" she told +herself.</p> + +<p>Then she found that she was speaking.</p> + +<p>"The reason I was all alone in Paris," she was saying. The reason took +a long time to expound.—The shadow withdrew itself and they had to +shift the camp just when it came to the part about Betty's first +meeting with Temple himself.</p> + +<p>"And so," she said, "I've done what I meant to do—and I'm a hateful +liar—and you'll never want to speak to me again."</p> + +<p>She rooted up a fern and tore it into little ribbons.</p> + +<p>"Why have you told me all this?" he said slowly.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," said she.</p> + +<p>"It is because you care, a little bit about—about my thinking well of +you?"</p> + +<p>"I can't care about that, or I shouldn't have told you, should I? +Let's get back home. The pony's lost by this time, I expect."</p> + +<p>"Is it because you don't want to have any—any secrets between us?"</p> + +<p>"Not in the least," said Betty, chin in the air. "I shouldn't <i>dream</i> +of telling you my secrets—or anyone else of course, I mean," she +added politely.</p> + +<p>He sighed. "Well," he said, "I wish you'd go home."</p> + +<p>"Why don't you say you're disappointed in me, and that you despise me, +and that you don't care about being friends any more, with a girl +who's told lies and taken her aunt's money and done everything wrong +you can think of? Let's go back. I don't want to stay here any more, +with you being silently contemptuous as hard as ever you can. Why +don't you say something?"</p> + +<p>"I don't want to say the only thing I want to say. I don't want to say +it here. Won't you go home and let me come and tell you at Long +Barton?"</p> + +<p>"You do think me horrid. Why don't you say so?"</p> + +<p>"No. I don't."</p> + +<p>"Then it's because you don't care what I am or what I do. I thought a +man's friendship didn't mean much!" She crushed the fern into a rough +ball and threw it over the edge of the rock.</p> + +<p>"Oh, hang it all," said Temple. "Look here, Miss Desmond. I came away +from Paris because I didn't know what was the matter with me. I didn't +know who it was I really cared about. And before I'd been here one +single day, I knew. And then I met you. And I haven't said a word, +because you're here alone—and besides I wanted you to get used to +talking to me and all that. And now you say I don't care. No, confound +it all, it's too much! I wanted to ask you to marry me. And I'd have +waited any length of time till there was a chance for me." He had +almost turned his back on her, and leaning his chin on his elbow was +looking out over the tree-tops far below. "And now you've gone and +rushed me into asking you <i>now</i>, when I know there isn't the least +chance for me,—and anyhow I ought to have held my tongue! And now +it's all no good, and it's your fault. Why did you say I didn't care?"</p> + +<p>"You knew it was coming," Betty told herself, "when he asked if he +might come to Long Barton to see you. You knew it. You might have +stopped it. And you didn't. And now what are you going to do?"</p> + +<p>What she did was to lean back to reach another fern—to pluck and +smooth its fronds.</p> + +<p>"Are you very angry?" asked Temple forlornly.</p> + +<p>"No," said Betty; "how could I be? But I wish you hadn't. It's spoiled +everything."</p> + +<p>"Do you think I don't know all that?"</p> + +<p>"I wish I could," said Betty very sincerely, "but—"</p> + +<p>"Of course," he said bitterly. "I knew that."</p> + +<p>"He doesn't care about me," said Betty: "he's engaged to someone +else."</p> + +<p>"And you care very much?" He kept his face turned away.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," said Betty; "sometimes I think I'm getting not to care +at all."</p> + +<p>"Then—look here: may I ask you again some time, and we'll go on just +like we have been?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Betty. "I'm going back to England at the end of the week. +Besides, you aren't quite sure it's me you care for.—At least you +weren't when you came away from Paris. How can you be sure you're sure +now?"</p> + +<p>He turned and looked at her.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon," she said instantly. "I think I didn't understand. +Let's go back now, shall we?"</p> + +<p>"For Heaven's sake," he said, "don't let this break up everything! +Don't avoid me in the little time that's left. I won't talk about it +any more—I won't worry you—"</p> + +<p>"Don't be silly," she said, and she smiled at him a little sadly; "you +talk as though I didn't know you."</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER XXVI.</p> + +<p> +THE MIRACLE.</p> + +<p>It seemed quite dark down in the forest—or rather, it seemed, after +the full good light that lay upon the summit of the rocks, like the +gray dream-twilight under the eyelids of one who dozes in face of a +dying fire.</p> + +<p>"Don't let's go straight back to Grez," said Betty when the pony was +harnessed, "let's go on to Fontainebleau and have dinner and drive +back by moonlight. Don't you think it would be fun? We've never done +that."</p> + +<p>"Thank you," he said. "You <i>are</i> good."</p> + +<p>His eyes met hers in the green shadow, and she was satisfied because +he had understood that this was her reply to his appeal to her "not to +avoid him in the little time there was left."</p> + +<p>Both were gay as they drove along the golden roads, gayer than ever +they had been. The nearness of a volcano has never been a bar to +gaiety. Dinner was a joyous feast, and when it was over, and the other +guests had strolled out, Temple sang all the songs Betty liked best. +Betty played for him. It was all very pleasant, and both pretended, +quite beautifully, that they were the best of friends, and that it had +never, never been a question of anything else. The pretence lasted +through all the moonlight of the home drive—lasted indeed till the +pony was trotting along the straight avenue that leads down into Grez. +And even then it was not Temple who broke it. It was Betty, and she +laid her hand on his arm.</p> + +<p>"Look here," she said. "I've been thinking about it ever since you +said it. And I'm not going to let it spoil anything. Only I don't want +you to think I don't understand. And I'm most awfully proud that you +should.... I am really. And I'd rather be liked by you than by +anyone—"</p> + +<p>"Almost," said Temple a little bitterly.</p> + +<p>"I don't feel sure about that part of it—really. One feels and thinks +such a lot of different things—and they all contradict everything +else, till one doesn't know what anything means, or what it is one +really—I can't explain. But I don't want you to think your having +talked about it makes any difference. At least I don't mean that at +all. What I mean is that of course I like you ever so much better now +I know that you like me, and—oh, I don't want to—I don't want you to +think it's all no good, because really and truly I don't know."</p> + +<p>All this time she had kept her hand on his wrist.</p> + +<p>Now he laid his other hand over it.</p> + +<p>"Dear," he said, "that's all I want, and more than I hoped for now. I +won't say another word about it—ever, if you'd rather not,—only if +ever you feel that it is me, and not that other chap, then you'll tell +me, won't you?"</p> + +<p>"I'll tell you now," said Betty, "that I wish with all my heart it +<i>was</i> you, and not the other."</p> + +<p>When he had said goodnight at the deserted door of the courtyard Betty +slipped through the trees to her pavilion. The garden seemed more +crowded with trees than it had ever been. It was almost as though new +trees from the forest had stolen in while she was at Fontainebleau, +and joined the ranks of those that stood sentinel round the pavilion. +There was a lamp in the garden room—as usual. Its light poured out +and lay like a yellow carpet on the terrace, and lent to the foliage +beyond that indescribable air of festivity, of light-heartedness that +green leaves can always borrow from artificial light.</p> + +<p>"I'll just see if there are any letters," she told herself. "There +always might be: from Aunt Julia or Miss Voscoe or—someone."</p> + +<p>She went along the little passage that led to the stairs. The door +that opened from it into the garden room was narrowly ajar. A slice of +light through the chink stood across the passage.</p> + +<p><i>Oh</i>!</p> + +<p>There was someone in the room. Someone was speaking. She knew the +voice. "She must be in soon," it said. It was her Aunt Julia's voice. +She stopped dead. And there was silence in the room.</p> + +<p>Oh! to be caught like this! In a trap. And just when she had decided +to go home! She would not be caught. She would steal up to her room, +get her money, leave enough on the table to pay her bill, and <i>go</i>. +She could walk to Marlotte—and go off by train in the morning to +Brittany—anywhere. She would not be dragged back like a prisoner to +be all the rest of her life with a hateful old man who detested her. +Aunt Julia thought she was very clever. Well, she would just find out +that she wasn't. Who was she talking to? Not Madame, for she spoke in +English. To some one from Paris? Who could have betrayed her? Only one +person knew. Lady St. Craye. Well, Lady St. Craye should not betray +her for nothing. She would not go to Brittany: she would go back to +Paris. That woman should be taught what it costs to play the traitor.</p> + +<p>All this in the quite small pause before her aunt's voice spoke again.</p> + +<p>"Unless she's got wind of our coming and flown," it said.</p> + +<p>"Our" coming? Who was the other?</p> + +<p>Betty was eavesdropping then? How dishonourable! Well, it is. And she +was.</p> + +<p>"I hope to Heaven she's safe," said another voice. Oh—it was her +step-father! He had come—Then he must know everything! She moved, +quite without meaning to move; her knee touched the door and it +creaked. Very very faintly, but it creaked. Would they hear? Had they +heard? No—the aunt's voice again:</p> + +<p>"The whole thing's inexplicable to me! I don't understand it. You let +Betty go to Paris."</p> + +<p>"By your advice."</p> + +<p>"By my advice, but also because you wanted her to be happy."</p> + +<p>"Yes—Heaven knows I wanted her to be happy." The old man's voice was +sadder than Betty had ever heard it.</p> + +<p>"So we found Madame Gautier for her—and when Madame Gautier dies, she +doesn't write to you, or wire to you, to come and find her a new +chaperone. Why?"</p> + +<p>"I can't imagine why."</p> + +<p>"Don't you think it may have been because she was afraid of you, +thought you'd simply make her come back to Long Barton?"</p> + +<p>"It would surely have been impossible for her to imagine that I should +lessen the time which I had promised her, on account of an unfortunate +accident. She knows the depth of my affection for her. No, no—depend +upon it there must have been some other reason for the deceit. I +almost fear to conjecture what the reason may have been. Do you think +it possible that she has been seeing that man again?"</p> + +<p>There was a sound as of a chair impatiently pushed back. Betty fled +noiselessly to the stairs. No footstep followed the movement of the +chair. She crept back.</p> + +<p>"—when you do see her?" her aunt was asking, "I suppose you mean to +heap reproaches on her, and take her home in disgrace?"</p> + +<p>"I hope I shall have strength given me to do my duty," said the +Reverend Cecil.</p> + +<p>"Have you considered what your duty is?"</p> + +<p>"It must be my duty to reprove, to show her her deceit in its full +enormity."</p> + +<p>"You'll enjoy that, won't you? It'll gratify your sense of power. +You'll stand in the place of God to the child, and you'll be glad to +see her humbled and ashamed."</p> + +<p>"Because a thing is painful to me it is none the less my duty."</p> + +<p>"Nor any the more," snapped Miss Desmond; "nor any the more! That's +what you won't see. She knows you don't care about her, and that's why +she kept away from you as long as she could."</p> + +<p>"She can't know it. It isn't true."</p> + +<p>"She thinks it is."</p> + +<p>"Do <i>you</i> think so? Do <i>you</i> imagine I don't care for her? Have you +been poisoning her mind and—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't let's talk about poison!" said Miss Desmond. "If she's lost +altogether it won't matter to you. You'll have done your duty."</p> + +<p>"If she's lost I—if she were lost I should not care to be saved. I am +aware that the thought is sinful. But I fear that it is so."</p> + +<p>"Of course," said Miss Desmond. "She's not your child—why should you +care? You never had a child."</p> + +<p>"What have I done to you that you should try to torture me like this?" +It was her step-father's voice, but Betty hardly knew it. "For pity's +sake, woman, be quiet! Let me bear what I have to bear without your +chatter."</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry," said Miss Desmond very gently. "Forgive me if I didn't +understand. And you do really care about her a little?"</p> + +<p>"Care about her a little! She's the only living thing I do care +for—or ever have cared for except one. Oh, it is like a woman to cast +it up at me as a reproach that I have no child! Why have I no child? +Because the woman whom Almighty God made for my child's mother was +taken from me—in her youth—before she was mine. Her name was Lizzie. +And my Lizzie, my little Lizzie that's lied and deceived us, she <i>is</i> +my child—the one <i>we</i> should have had. She's my heart's blood. Do you +think I want to scold her; do you think I want to humble her? Do you +not perceive how my own heart will be torn? But it is my duty. I will +not spare the rod. And she will understand as you never could. Oh, my +little Lizzie!—Oh, pray God she is safe! If it please God to restore +her safely to me, I will not yield to the wicked promptings of my own +selfish affection. I will show her her sin, and we will pray for +forgiveness together. Yes, I will not shrink, even if it break my +heart—I will tell her—"</p> + +<p>"I should tell her," said Miss Desmond, "just what you've told me."</p> + +<p>The old man was walking up and down the room. Betty could hear every +movement.</p> + +<p>"It's been the struggle of my life not to spoil her—not to let my +love for her lead me to neglect her eternal welfare—not to lessen her +modesty by my praises—not to condone the sin because of my love for +the sinner. My love has not been selfish.—It has been the struggle of +my life not to let my affection be a snare to her."</p> + +<p>"Then I must say," said Miss Desmond, "that you might have been better +employed."</p> + +<p>"Thank God I have done my duty! You don't understand. But my Lizzie +will understand."</p> + +<p>"Yes, she will understand," cried Betty, bursting open the door and +standing between the two with cheeks that flamed. "I do understand, +Father dear! Auntie, I don't understand <i>you</i>! You're cruel,—and it's +not like you. Will you mind going away, please?"</p> + +<p>The cruel aunt smiled, and moved towards the door. As she passed Betty +she whispered: "I thought you were <i>never</i> going to come from behind +that door. I couldn't have kept it up much longer."</p> + +<p>Then she went out and closed the door firmly.</p> + +<p>Betty went straight to her step-father and put her arms round his +neck.</p> + +<p>"You do forgive me—you will forgive me, won't you?" she said +breathlessly.</p> + +<p>He put an arm awkwardly round her.</p> + +<p>"There's nothing you could do that I couldn't forgive," he said in a +choked voice. "But it is my duty not to—"</p> + +<p>She interrupted him by drawing back to look at him, but she kept his +arm where it was, by her hand on his.</p> + +<p>"Father," she said, "I've heard everything you've been saying. It's no +use scolding me, because you can't possibly say anything that I +haven't said to myself a thousand times. Sit down and let me tell you +everything, every single thing! I <i>did</i> mean to come home this week, +and tell you; I truly did. I wish I'd gone home before."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Lizzie," said the old man, "how could you? How could you?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't understand. I didn't know. I was a blind idiot. Oh, Father, +you'll see how different I'll be now! Oh, if one of us had died—and +I'd never known!"</p> + +<p>"Known what, my child? Oh, thank God I have you safe! Known what?"</p> + +<p>"Why, that you—how fond you are of me."</p> + +<p>"You didn't know <i>that</i>?"</p> + +<p>"I—I wasn't always sure," Betty hastened to say. A miracle had +happened. She could read now in his eyes the appeal that she had +always misread before. "But now I shall always be sure—always. And +I'm going to be such a good daughter to you—you'll see—if you'll +only forgive me. And you will forgive me. Oh, you don't know how I +trust you now!"</p> + +<p>"Didn't you always?"</p> + +<p>"Not enough—not nearly enough. But I do now. Let me tell you—Don't +let me ever be afraid of you—oh, don't let me!" She had pushed him +gently into a chair and was half kneeling on the floor beside him.</p> + +<p>"Have you ever been afraid of me?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't know; a little perhaps sometimes! You don't know how +silly I am. But not now. You <i>are</i> glad to see me?"</p> + +<p>"Lizzie," he said, "God knows how glad I am! But it's my duty to ask +you at once whether you've done anything wrong."</p> + +<p>"Everything wrong you can think of!" she answered enthusiastically, +"only nothing really wicked, of course. I'll tell you all about it. +And oh, do remember you can't think worse of me than I do! Oh, it's +glorious not to be afraid!"</p> + +<p>"Of me?" His tone pleaded again.</p> + +<p>"No, no—of anything! Of being found out. I'm glad you've come for me. +I'm glad I've got to tell you everything—I did mean to go home next +week, but I'm glad it's like this. Because now I know how much you +care, and I might never have found that out if I hadn't listened at +the door like a mean, disgraceful cat. I ought to be miserable because +I've done wrong—but I'm not. I can't be. I'm really most frightfully +happy."</p> + +<p>"Thank God you can say that," he said, timidly stroking her hair with +the hand that she was not holding. "Now I'm not afraid of anything you +may have to tell me, my child—my dear child."</p> + +<hr> + +<p>To four persons the next day was one of the oddest in their lives.</p> + +<p>Arriving early to take Betty to finish her sketch, the stricken Temple +was greeted on the doorstep by a manly looking lady in gold-rimmed +spectacles, short skirts, serviceable brown boots and a mushroom hat.</p> + +<p>"I know who you are," said she; "you're Mr. Temple. I'm Betty Desmond's +aunt. Would you like to take me on the river? Betty is busy this morning +making the acquaintance of her step-father. She's taken him out in the +little cart."</p> + +<p>"I see," said Temple. "I shall be delighted to take you on the river."</p> + +<p>"Nice young man. You don't ask questions. An excellent trait."</p> + +<p>"An acquired characteristic, I assure you," said Temple, remembering his +first meeting with Betty.</p> + +<p>"Then you won't be able to transmit it to your children. That's a pity. +However, since you don't ask I'll tell you. The old man has +'persistently concealed his real nature' from Betty. You'd think it was +impossible, living in the same house all these years. Last night she +found him out. She's as charmed with the discovery as a girl child with +a doll that opens and shuts its eyes—or a young man with the nonentity +he calls his ideal. Come along. She'll spend the morning playing with +her new toy. Cheer up. You shall see her at <i>dejeuner</i>."</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> do not need cheering," said the young man. "And I don't want you to +tell me things you'd rather not. On the contrary—"</p> + +<p>"You want me not to tell you the things I'd rather tell you?"</p> + +<p>"No: I should like to tell you all about—"</p> + +<p>"All about yourself. My dear young man, there is nothing I enjoy more; +the passion for confidences is my only vice. It was really to indulge +that that I asked you to come on the river with me."</p> + +<p>"I thought," said Temple as they reached the landing stage, "that +perhaps you had asked me to console me for not seeing your niece this +morning."</p> + +<p>"Thank you kindly," Miss Desmond stepped lightly into the boat. "I +rather like compliments, especially when you're solidly built—like +myself. Oh, yes, I'll steer; pull hard, bow, she's got no way on her +yet, and the stream's strong just here under the bridge. I gather that +you've been proposing to my niece."</p> + +<p>"I didn't mean to," said Temple, pulling a racing stroke in his +agitation.</p> + +<p>"Gently, gently! The Diamond Sculls aren't at stake. She led you on, you +mean?"</p> + +<p>He rested on his oars a moment and laughed.</p> + +<p>"What is there about you that makes me feel that I've known you all my +life?"</p> + +<p>"Possibly it's my enormous age. Or it may be that I nursed you when you +were a baby. I have nursed one or two in my time, though I mayn't look +it.—So Betty entrapped you into a proposal?"</p> + +<p>"Are you trying to make me angry? It's a dangerous river. Can you swim."</p> + +<p>"Like any porpoise. But of course I misunderstand people if they won't +explain themselves. You needn't tremble like that. I'll be gentle with +you."</p> + +<p>"If I tremble it's with pleasure," said Temple.</p> + +<p>"Come, moderate your transports, and unfold your tale. My ears are red, +I know, but they are small, well-shaped and sympathetic."</p> + +<p>"Well then," said Temple; and the tale began. By the time it was ended +the boat was at a standstill on the little backwater below the pretties +of the sluices.</p> + +<p>There was a silence.</p> + +<p>"Well?" said Temple.</p> + +<p>"Well," said Miss Desmond, dipping her hand in the water—"what a stream +this is, to be sure!—Well, your means are satisfactory and you seem to +me to have behaved quite beautifully. I don't think I ever heard of such +profoundly correct conduct."</p> + +<p>"If I've made myself out a prig," said Temple, "I'm sorry. I could tell +you lots of things."</p> + +<p>"Please spare me! Why are people always so frightfully ashamed of having +behaved like decent human beings? I esteem you immensely."</p> + +<p>"I'd rather you liked me."</p> + +<p>"Well, so I do. But I like lots of people I don't esteem. If I'd married +anyone it would probably have been some one like that. But for Betty +it's different. I shouldn't have needed to esteem my own husband. But I +must esteem hers."</p> + +<p>"I'll try not to deserve your esteem more than I'm obliged," said +Temple, "but your liking—what can I do to deserve that—?"</p> + +<p>"Go on as you've begun, my dear young man, and you'll be Aunt Julia's +favourite nephew. No—don't blush. It's an acknowledgement of a tender +speech that I always dispense with."</p> + +<p>"Advise me," said he, red to the ears and hands. "She doesn't care for +me, at present. What can I do?"</p> + +<p>"What most of us have to do—when we want anything worth wanting. Wait. +We're going home the day after to-morrow. If you turn up at Long Barton +about the middle of September—you might come down for the Harvest +Festival; it's the yearly excitement. That's what I should do."</p> + +<p>"Must I wait so long as that?" he asked. "Why?"</p> + +<p>"Let me whisper in your ear," said Miss Desmond, loud above the chatter +of the weir. "Long Barton is very dull! Now let's go back."</p> + +<p>"I don't want her to accept me because she's bored."</p> + +<p>"No more do I. But one sees the proportions of things better when one's +dull. And—yes. I esteem you; I like you. You are ingenuous, and +innocuous.—No, really that was a yielding to the devil of alliteration. +I mean you are a real good sort. The other man has the harmlessness of +the serpent. As for me, I have the wisdom of the dove. You profit by it +and come to Long Barton in September."</p> + +<p>"It seems like a plot to catch her," said Temple.</p> + +<p>"A friend of yours told me you were straight. And you are. I thought +perhaps she flattered you."</p> + +<p>"Who?—No, I'm not to ask questions."</p> + +<p>"Lady St. Craye."</p> + +<p>"Do you know," he said, slowly pulling downstream, "there's one thing I +didn't tell you. I came away from Paris because I wasn't quite sure that +I wasn't in love with <i>her</i>."</p> + +<p>"Not you," said Miss Desmond. "She'd never have suited you. And now +she'll throw herself away on the man with the green eyes and the past. I +mean Pasts. And it's a pity. She's a woman after my own heart."</p> + +<p>"She's extraordinarily charming," said Temple with a very small sigh.</p> + +<p>"Yes extraordinarily, as you say. And so you came away from Paris! I +begin to think <i>you</i> have a little of the wisdom of the dove too. Pull +now—or we shall be late for breakfast."</p> + +<p>He pulled.</p> + +<hr> + +<p>"Now <i>that</i>," said the Reverend Cecil that evening to his sister-in-law, +"that is the kind of youth I should wish to see my Lizzie select for her +help-mate."</p> + +<p>"Well," said Miss Desmond, "if you keep that wish strictly to yourself, +I should think it had a better chance than most wishes of being +gratified."</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER XXVII</p> + +<p> +THE PINK SILK STORY.</p> + +<p>To call on the concierge at Betty's old address, and to ask for news of +her had come to seem to Vernon the unbroken habit of a life-time. There +never was any news: there never would be any news. But there always +might be.</p> + +<p>The days went by, days occupied in these fruitless gold-edged enquiries, +in the other rose-accompanied enquiries after the health of Lady St. +Craye, and in watching for the postman who should bring the answer to +his formal proposal of marriage.</p> + +<p>To his deep surprise and increasing disquietude, no answer came. Was the +Reverend Cecil dead, or merely inabordable? Had Betty despised his offer +too deeply to answer it? The lore learned in, as it seemed, another life +assured him that a woman never despises an offer too much to say "No" to +it.</p> + +<p>Watch for the postman. Look at Betty's portrait. Call on the concierge. +(He had been used to dislike the employment of dirty instruments.) Call +on the florist. (There was a decency in things, even if all one's being +were contemptibly parched for the sight of another woman.) Call and +enquire for the poor Jasmine Lady. Studio—think of Betty—look at her +portrait—pretend to work. Meals at fairly correct intervals. Call on +the concierge. Look at the portrait again. Such were the recurrent +incidents of Vernon's life. Between the incidents came a padding of +futile endeavour. Work, he had always asserted, was the cure for +inconvenient emotions. Only now the cure was not available.</p> + +<p>And the postman brought nothing interesting, except a letter, post-mark +Denver, Col., a letter of tender remonstrance from the Brittany girl, +Miss Van Tromp.</p> + +<p>Then came the morning when the concierge, demurely assuring him of her +devotion to his interests, offered to post a letter. No bribe—and he +was shameless in his offers—could wring more than that from her. And +even the posting of the letter cost a sum that the woman chuckled over +through all the days during which the letter lay in her locked drawer, +under Lady St. Craye's bank note and the divers tokens of "<i>ce +monsieur's</i>" interest in the intrigue—whatever the intrigue might +be—its details were not what interested.</p> + +<p>Vernon went home, pulled the table into the middle of the bare studio +and wrote. This letter wrote itself without revision.</p> + +<p> "Why did you go away?" it said. "Where are you? where can I see you? + What has happened? Have your people found out?"</p> + +<p>A long pause—the end of the pen bitten.</p> + +<p> "I want to have no lies or deceit any more between us. I must tell + you the truth. I have never been engaged to anyone. But you would + not let me see you without that, so I let you think it. Will you + forgive me? Can you? For lying to you? If you can't I shall know + that nothing matters at all. But if you can forgive me—then I shall + let myself hope for impossible things.</p> + +<p> "Dear, whether it's all to end here or not, let me write this once + without thinking of anything but you and me. I have written to your + father asking his permission to ask you to marry me. To you I want + to say that I love you, love you, love you—and I have never loved + anyone else. That's part of my punishment for—I don't know what + exactly. Playing with fire, I suppose. Dear—can you love me? Ever + since I met you at Long Barton" (Pause: what about Miss Van Tromp? + Nothing, nothing, nothing!) "I've not thought of anything but you. I + want you for my very own. There is no one like you, my love, my + Princess.</p> + +<p> "You'll write to me. Even if you don't care a little bit you'll + write. Dear, I hardly dare hope that you care, but I daren't fear + that you don't. I shall count the minutes till I get your answer. I + feel like a schoolboy.</p> + +<p> "Dear it's my very heart I'm sending you here. If I didn't love you, + love you, love you I could write a better letter, tell you better + how I love you. Write now. You will write?</p> + +<p> "Did someone tell you something or write you something that made you + go away? It's not true, whatever it is. Nothing's true, but that I + want you. As I've never wanted anything. Let me see you. Let me tell + you. I'll explain everything—if anyone <i>has</i> been telling lies.</p> + +<p> "If you don't care enough to write, I don't care enough to go on + living. Oh, my dear Dear, all the words and phrases have been used + up before. There's nothing new to <i>say</i>, I know. But what's in my + heart for you—that's new, that's all that matters—that and what + your heart might hold for me. Does it? Tell me. If I can't have your + love, I can't bear my life. And I won't.—You'll think this letter + isn't like me. It isn't, I know. But I can't help it. I am a new + man: and you have made me. Dear,—can't you love the man you've + made? Write, write, write!</p> + +<p> "Yours—as I never thought I could be anyone's,</p> + +<p> "Eustace Vernon."</p> + +<p>"It's too long," he said, "most inartistic, but I won't re-write it. +Contemptible ass! If she cares it won't matter. If she doesn't, it won't +matter either."</p> + +<p>And that was the letter that lay in the locked drawer for a week. And +through that week the watching for the postman went on—went on. And the +enquiries, mechanically.</p> + +<p>And no answer came at all, to either of his letters. Had the Concierge +deceived him? Had she really no address to which to send the letter?</p> + +<p>"Are you sure that you posted the letter?"</p> + +<p>"Altogether, monsieur," said the concierge, fingering the key of the +drawer that held it.</p> + +<p>And the hot ferment of Paris life seethed and fretted all around him. If +Betty were at Long Barton—oh, the dewy gray grass in the warren—and +the long shadows on the grass!</p> + +<p>Three days more went by.</p> + +<p>"You have posted the letter?"</p> + +<p>"But yes, Monsieur. Be tranquil. Without doubt it was a letter that +should exact time for the response."</p> + +<p>It was on the fifth day that he met Mimi Chantal, the prettiest model on +the left bank.</p> + +<p>"Is monsieur by chance painting the great picture which shall put him +between Velasquez and Caran d'Ache on the last day?"</p> + +<p>"I am painting nothing," said Vernon. "And why is the prettiest model in +Paris not at work?"</p> + +<p>"I was in lateness but a little quarter of an hour, Monsieur. And behold +me—chucked."</p> + +<p>"It wasn't for the first time, then?"</p> + +<p>"A nothing one or two days last week. Monsieur had better begin to paint +that <i>chef d'oeuvre</i>—to-day even. It isn't often that the prettiest +model in Paris is free to sit at a moment's notice."</p> + +<p>"But," said Vernon, "I haven't an idea for a picture even. It is too hot +for ideas. I'm going into the country at the end of the month, to do +landscape."</p> + +<p>"To paint a picture it is then absolutely necessary to have an idea?"</p> + +<p>"An idea—or a commission."</p> + +<p>"There is always something that lacks! With me it is the technique that +is to seek; with you the ideas! Otherwise we should both be masters. For +you have technique both hands full; I have ideas, me."</p> + +<p>"Tell me some of them," said Vernon, strolling along by her side. It was +not his habit to stroll along beside models. But to-day he was fretted +and chafed by long waiting for that answer to his letter. Anything +seemed better than the empty studio where one waited.</p> + +<p>"Here is one! I have the idea that artists have no eyes. How they pose +me ever as l'Été or La Source or Leda, or that clumsy Suzanne with her +eternal old men. As if they knew better than I do how a woman holds +herself up or sits herself down, or nurses a duck, or defends herself!"</p> + +<p>"Your idea is probably correct. I understand you to propose that I +should paint a picture called The Blind Artist?"</p> + +<p>"Don't do the imbecile. I propose for subject Me—not posed; me as I am +in the Rest. Is it not that it is then that I am the most pretty, the +most chic?"</p> + +<p>"It certainly is," said he. "And you propose that I should paint you as +you appear in the Rest?"</p> + +<p>"Perfectly," she interrupted. "Tender rose colour—it goes to a marvel +with my Cléo de Mérode hair. And if you want a contrast—or one of those +little tricks to make people say: 'What does it mean?'"</p> + +<p>"I don't, thank you," he laughed.</p> + +<p>"Paint that white drowned girl's face that hangs behind your stove. +Paint her and me looking at each other. She has the air of felicitating +herself that she is dead. Me, I will have the air of felicitating myself +that I am alive. You will see, Monsieur. Essay but one sole little +sketch, and you will think of nothing else. One might entitle it 'The +Rivals.'"</p> + +<p>"Or 'The Rest,'" said Vernon, a little interested. "Oh, well, I'm not +doing anything.—I'll make a sketch and give it you as a present. Come +in an hour."</p> + +<hr> + +<p>"Auntie, wake up, wake up!" Betty, white-faced and determined, was +pulling back the curtain with fingers that rigidly would not tremble.</p> + +<p>"Shut the door and spare my blushes," said her aunt. "What's up now?" +She looked at the watch on the bed-table. "Why its only just six."</p> + +<p>"I can't help it," said Betty; "you've had all the night to sleep in. I +haven't. I want you to get up and dress and come to Paris with me by the +early train."</p> + +<p>"Sit down," said the aunt. "No, not on the bed. I hate that. In this +chair. Now remember that we all parted last night in the best of +spirits, and that as far as I know nothing has happened since."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no—nothing of course!" said Betty.</p> + +<p>"Don't be ironical," said Miss Desmond; "at six in the morning it's +positively immoral. Tell me all—let me hear the sad sweet story of your +life."</p> + +<p>"Very well," said Betty, "if you're only going to gibe I'll go alone. Or +I'll get Mr. Temple to take me."</p> + +<p>"To see the other man? That <i>will</i> be nice."</p> + +<p>"Who said anything about—?"</p> + +<p>"You did, the moment you came in. Come child; sit down and tell me. I'm +not unsympathetic. I'm only very, very sleepy. And I <i>did</i> think +everything was arranged. I was dreaming of orange blossoms and The Voice +That Breathed. And the most beautiful trousseau marked E.T. And silver +fish-knives, and salt-cellars in a case lined with purple velvet."</p> + +<p>"Go on," said Betty, "if it amuses you."</p> + +<p>"No, no. I'm sorry. Forgive the ravings of delirium. Go on. Poor little +Betty! Don't worry. Tell its own aunt."</p> + +<p>"It's not a joke," said Betty.</p> + +<p>"So I more and more perceive, now that I'm really waking up," said the +aunt, sitting up and throwing back her thick blond hair. "Come, I'll get +up now. Give me my stockings—and tell me—"</p> + +<p>"They were under my big hat," said Betty, doing as she was told; "the +one I wore the night you came. And I'd thrown it down on the chest of +drawers—and they were underneath."</p> + +<p>"My stockings?"</p> + +<p>"No—my letters. Two of them. And one of them's from Him. It's a week +old. And he says he won't live if I don't love him."</p> + +<p>"They always do," said Miss Desmond, pouring water into the basin. +"Well?"</p> + +<p>"And he wants me to marry him, and he was never engaged to Lady St. +Craye; and it was a lie. I've had a letter from <i>her</i>."</p> + +<p>"I can't understand a word you say," said Miss Desmond through +splashings.</p> + +<p>"My friend Paula, that I told you about. She never went home to her +father. Mr. Vernon set her up in a restaurant! Oh, how good and noble he +is! Here are your shoes—and he says he won't live without me; and I'm +going straight off to him, and I wouldn't go without telling you. It's +no use telling father yet, but I did think <i>you'd</i> understand."</p> + +<p>"Hand me that green silk petticoat. Thank you. <i>What</i> did you think I'd +understand?"</p> + +<p>"Why that I—that it's him I love."</p> + +<p>"You do, do you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, always, always! And I must go to him. But I won't go and leave +Bobbie to think I'm going to marry him some day. I must tell him first, +and then I'm going straight to Paris to find him, and give him the +answer to his letter."</p> + +<p>"You must do as you like. It's your life, not mine. But it's a pity," +said her aunt, "and I should send a telegram to prepare him."</p> + +<p>"The office won't be open. There's a train at seven forty-five. Oh, do +hurry. I've ordered the pony. We'll call and tell Mr. Temple."</p> + +<p>It was not the 7:45 that was caught, however, but the 10:15, because +Temple was, naturally, in bed. When he had been roused, and had dressed +and come out to them, in the gay terrace overhanging the river where the +little tables are and the flowers in pots and the vine-covered trellis, +Miss Desmond turned and positively fled before the gay radiance of his +face.</p> + +<p>"This is dear and sweet of you," he said to Betty.</p> + +<p>"What lovely scheme have you come to break to me? But what's the matter? +You're not ill?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't," said Betty; "don't look like that! I couldn't go without +telling you. It's all over, Bobbie."</p> + +<p>She had never before called him by that name, and now she did not know +what she had called him.</p> + +<p>"What's all over?" he asked mechanically.</p> + +<p>"Everything," she said; "your thinking I was going to, perhaps, some +time—and all that. Because now I never shall. O, Bobbie, I do hate +hurting you, and I do like you so frightfully much! But he's written to +me: the letter's been delayed. And it's all a mistake. And I'm going to +him now. Oh,—I hope you'll be able to forgive me!"</p> + +<p>"It's not your fault," he said. "Wait a minute. It's so sudden. Yes, I +see. Don't you worry about me, dearest, I shall be all right. May I know +who it is?"</p> + +<p>"It's Mr. Vernon," said Betty.</p> + +<p>"Oh, my God!" Temple's hand clenched. "No, no, no, no!"</p> + +<p>"I am so very, very sorry," said Betty in the tone one uses who has +trodden on another's foot in an omnibus.</p> + +<p>He had sat down at one of the little tables, and was looking out over +the shining river with eyes half shut.</p> + +<p>"But it's not true," he said. "It can't be true! He's going to marry +Lady St. Craye."</p> + +<p>"That's all a mistake," said Betty eagerly; "he only said that +because—I haven't time to tell you all about it now. But it was all a +mistake."</p> + +<p>"Betty, dear," he said, using in his turn, for the first time, her +Christian name, "don't do it. Don't marry him. You don't know."</p> + +<p>"I thought you were his friend."</p> + +<p>"So I am," said Temple. "I like him right enough. But what's all the +friendship in the world compared with your happiness? Don't marry +him—dear. Don't."</p> + +<p>"I shall marry whom I choose," said Betty, chin in air, "and it won't be +you." ("I don't care if I am vulgar and brutal," she told herself, "it +serves him right")</p> + +<p>"It's not for me, dear. It's not for me—it's for you. I'll go right +away and never see you again. Marry some straight chap—anyone—But not +Vernon."</p> + +<p>"I am going to marry Mr. Vernon," said Betty with lofty calm, "and I am +very sorry for any annoyance I may have caused you. Of course, I see now +that I could never—I mean," she added angrily, "I hate people who are +false to their friends. Yes—and now I've missed my train."</p> + +<p>She had.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me," said Temple when the fact was substantiated, and the gray +pony put up, "after all, I was your friend before I—before you—before +all this that can't come to anything. Let me give you both some coffee +and see you to the station. And Betty, don't you go and be sorry about +me afterwards. Because, really, it's not your fault and," he laughed and +was silent a moment, "and I'd rather have loved you and have it end like +this, dear, than never have known you. I truly would."</p> + +<p>The journey to Paris was interminable. Betty had decided not to think of +Temple, yet that happy morning face of his would come between her and +the things she wanted to think of. To have hurt him like that!—It hurt +her horribly; much more than she would have believed possible. And she +had been cruel. "Of course it's natural that he should say things about +Him. He must hate anyone that—He nearly cried when he said that about +rather have loved me than not—Yes—" A lump came in Betty's own throat, +and her eyes pricked.</p> + +<p>"Come, don't cry," said her aunt briskly; "you've made your choice, and +you're going to your lover. Don't be like Lot's wife. You can't eat your +cake and have it too."</p> + +<p>Vernon's concierge assured these ladies that Monsieur was at home.</p> + +<p>"He makes the painting in this moment," she said. "Mount then, my +ladies."</p> + +<p>They mounted.</p> + +<p>Betty remembered her last—her first—visit to his studio: when Paula +had disappeared and she had gone to him for help. She remembered how the +velvet had come off her dress, and how awful her hair had been when she +had looked in the glass afterwards. And Lady St. Craye—how beautifully +dressed, how smiling and superior!</p> + +<p>"Hateful cat!" said Betty on the stairs.</p> + +<p>"Eh?" said her aunt.</p> + +<p>Now there would be no one in the studio but Vernon. He would be reading +over her letters—nothing in them—only little notes about whether she +would or wouldn't be free on Tuesday—whether she could or couldn't dine +with him on Wednesday. But he would be reading them over—perhaps—</p> + +<p>The key was in the door.</p> + +<p>"Do you mind waiting on the stairs, Auntie dear," said Betty in a voice +of honey; "just the first minute?—I would like to have it for us +two—alone. You don't mind?"</p> + +<p>"Do as you like," said the aunt rather sadly. "I should knock if I were +you."</p> + +<p>Betty did not knock. She opened the studio door softly. She would like +to see him before he saw her.</p> + +<p>She had her wish.</p> + +<p>A big canvas stood on the easel, a stool in front of it. The table was +in the middle of the room, a yellow embroidered cloth on it. There was +food on the cloth—little breads, pretty cakes and strawberries and +cherries, and wine in tall, beautiful, topaz-coloured glasses.</p> + +<p>Vernon sat in his big chair. Betty could see his profile. He sat there, +laughing. On the further arm of the chair sat, laughing also, a very +pretty young woman. Her black hair was piled high on her head and +fastened with a jewelled pin. The sunlight played in the jewels. She +wore a pink silk garment. She held cherries in her hand.</p> + + + +<a name="06"></a> +<br><br> +<center> +<img alt="6w_prettywoman.jpg (112K)" src="images/6w_prettywoman.jpg" height="1127" width="700"> +</center> +<br><br> + + + + +<p>"<i>V'la cheri</i>!" she said, and put one of the twin cherries in her mouth; +then she leant over him laughing, and Vernon reached his head forward to +take in his mouth the second cherry that dangled below her chin. His +mouth was on the cherry, and his eyes in the black eyes of the girl in +pink.</p> + +<p>Betty banged the door.</p> + +<p>"Come away!" she said to Miss Desmond. And she, who had seen, too, the +pink picture, came away, holding Betty's arm tight.</p> + +<p>"I wonder," she said as they reached the bottom of the staircase, "I +wonder he didn't come after us to—to—try to explain."</p> + +<p>"I locked the door," said Betty. "Don't speak to me, please."</p> + +<p>They were in the train before either broke silence. Betty's face was +white and she looked old—thirty almost her aunt thought.</p> + +<p>It was Miss Desmond who spoke.</p> + +<p>"Betty," she said, "I know how you feel. But you're very young. I think +I ought to say that that girl—"</p> + +<p>"<i>Don't</i>!" said Betty.</p> + +<p>"I mean what we saw doesn't necessarily mean that he doesn't love you."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps not," said Betty, fierce as a white flame. "Anyhow, it means +that I don't love him."</p> + +<p>Miss Desmond's tact, worn by three days of anxiety and agitation, broke +suddenly, and she said what she regretted for some months:</p> + +<p>"Oh, you don't love <i>him</i> now? Well, the other man will console you."</p> + +<p>"I hate you," said Betty, "and I hate him; and I hope I shall never see +a man again as long as I live!"</p> + +<br><br><br><br> + +<p> +CHAPTER XXVIII.</p> + +<p> +"AND SO—"</p> + +<p>The banging of his door, the locking of it, annoyed Vernon, yet +interested him but little. One's acquaintances have such queer notions +of humour. He had the excuse—and by good luck the rope—to explore his +celebrated roofs. Mimi was more agitated than he, so he dismissed her +for the day with many compliments and a bunch of roses, and spent what +was left of the light in painting in a background to the sketch of +Betty—the warren as his sketch-book helped him to remember it. Perhaps +he and she would go there together some day.</p> + +<p>He looked with extreme content at the picture on the easel.</p> + +<p>He had worked quickly and well. The thing was coming splendidly. Mimi +had been right. She could pose herself as no artist had ever posed her. +He would make a picture of the thing after all.</p> + +<p>The next morning brought him a letter. That he, who had hated letters, +should have come to care for a letter more than for anything that could +have come to him except a girl. He kissed the letter before he opened +it.</p> + + +<a name="07"></a> +<br><br> +<center> +<img alt="7w_morning.jpg (94K)" src="images/7w_morning.jpg" height="1610" width="543"> +</center> +<br><br> + + +<p>"At last," he said. "Oh, this minute was worth waiting for!"</p> + +<p>He opened the envelope with a smile mingled of triumph and something +better than triumph—and read:</p> + +<p> "Dear Mr. Vernon:</p> + +<p> "I hope that nothing in my manner has led you to expect any other + answer than the one I must give. That answer is, of course, <i>no</i>. + Although thanking you sincerely for your flattering offer, I am + obliged to say that I have never thought of you except as a friend. + I was extremely surprised by your letter. I hope I have not been in + any way to blame. With every wish for your happiness, and regrets + that this should have happened, I am yours faithfully,</p> + +<p> "Elizabeth Desmond."</p> + +<p>He read the letter, re-read it, raised his eyebrows. Then he took two +turns across the studio, shrugged his shoulders impatiently, lit a match +and watched the letter burn. As the last yellow moving sparks died in +the black of its ash, he bit his lip.</p> + +<p>"Damn," he said, "oh, damn!"</p> + +<p>Next day he went to Spain. A bunch of roses bigger and redder than any +roses he had ever sent her came to Lady St. Craye with his card—p.d.a. +in the corner.</p> + +<p>She, too, shrugged her shoulders, bit her lip and—arranged the roses in +water. Presently she tried to take up her life at the point where she +had laid it down when, last October, Vernon had taken it into his hands. +Succeeding as one does succeed in such enterprises.</p> + +<p>It was May again when Vernon found himself once more sitting at one of +the little tables in front of the Café de la Paix.</p> + +<p>"Sit here long enough," he said, "and you see every one you have ever +known or ever wanted to know. Last year it was the jasmine lady—and +that girl—on the same one and wonderful day. This year it's—by Jove!"</p> + +<p>He rose and moved among the closely set chairs and tables to the +pavement. The sightless stare of light-blanched spectacles met his eyes. +A gentlemanly-looking lady in short skirts stood awaiting him.</p> + +<p>"How are you?" she said. "Yes, I know you didn't see me, but I thought +you'd like to."</p> + +<p>"I do like to, indeed. May I walk with you—or—" he glanced back at the +table where his Vermouth stood untasted.</p> + +<p>"The impertinence of it! Frightfully improper to sit outside cafés, +isn't it?—for women, I mean—and this Café in particular. Yes, I'll +join you with the greatest pleasure. Coffee please."</p> + +<p>"It's ages since I saw you," he said amiably, "not since—"</p> + +<p>"Since I called on you at your hotel. How frightened you were!"</p> + +<p>"Not for long," he answered, looking at her with the eyes she loved, the +eyes of someone who was not Vernon—"Ah, me, a lot of water has run—"</p> + +<p>"Not under the bridges," she pleaded: "say off the umbrellas."</p> + +<p>"Since," he pursued, "we had that good talk. You remember, I wanted to +call on you in London and you wouldn't let me. You might let me now."</p> + +<p>"I will," she said. "97 Curzon Street. Your eyes haven't changed colour +a bit. Nor your nature, I suppose. Yet something about you's changed. +Got over Betty yet?"</p> + +<p>"Quite, thanks," he said tranquilly. "But last time we met, you remember +we agreed that I had no intentions."</p> + +<p>"Wrong lead," she said, smiling frankly at him; "and besides I hold all +the trumps. Ace, King, Queen; and Ace, Knave and Queen of another suit."</p> + +<p>"Expound, I implore."</p> + +<p>"Aces equal general definite and decisive information. King and Queen of +hearts equal Betty and the other man."</p> + +<p>"There was another man then?"</p> + +<p>"There always is, isn't there? Knave—your honoured self. Queen—where +is the Queen, by the way,—the beautiful Queen with the sad eyes, blind, +poor dear, quite blind to everything but the abominable Knave?"</p> + +<p>"Meaning me?"</p> + +<p>"It's not an unbecoming cap," she said, stirring her coffee, "and you +wear it with an air. Where's the Queen of your suit?"</p> + +<p>"I confess I'm at fault."</p> + +<p>"The odd trick is mine. And the honours. You may as well throw down your +hand. Yes. I play whist. Not bridge. Where is your Queen—Lady St.—what +is it?"</p> + +<p>"I haven't seen her," he said steadily, "since last June. I left Paris +on a sudden impulse, and I hadn't time to say good-bye to her."</p> + +<p>"Didn't you even leave a card? That's not like your eyes."</p> + +<p>"I think I sent a tub of hydrangeas or something, <i>pour dire adieu</i>."</p> + +<p>"That was definite. Remember the date?"</p> + +<p>"No," he said, remembering perfectly.</p> + +<p>"Not the eleventh, was it? That was the day when you would get Betty's +letter of rejection."</p> + +<p>"It may have been the eleventh.—In fact it <i>was</i>."</p> + +<p>"Ah, that's better! And the tenth—who let you out of your studio on the +tenth? I've often wondered."</p> + +<p>"I've often wondered who locked me in. It couldn't have been you, of +course?"</p> + +<p>"As you say. But I was there."</p> + +<p>"It wasn't—?"</p> + +<p>"But it was. I thought you'd guess that. She got your letter and came up +ready to fall into your arms—opened the door softly like any heroine +of fiction—I told her to knock—but no: beheld the pink silk picture +and fled the happy shore forever."</p> + +<p>"Damn!" he said. "I do beg your pardon, but really—"</p> + +<p>"Don't waste those really convincing damns on ancient history. I told +her it didn't mean that you didn't love her."</p> + +<p>"That was clear-sighted of you."</p> + +<p>"It was also quite futile. She said it means <i>she</i> didn't love <i>you</i> at +any rate. I suppose she wrote and told you so."</p> + +<p>A long pause. Then:</p> + +<p>"As you say," said Vernon, "it's ancient history. But you said something +about another man."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes—your friend Temple.—Say 'damn' again if it's the slightest +comfort to you—I've heard worse words."</p> + +<p>"When?" asked Vernon, and he sipped his Vermouth; "not straight away?"</p> + +<p>"Bless me, no! Months and months. That picture in your studio gave her +the distaste for all men for quite a long time. We took her home, her +father and me: by the way, he and she are tremendous chums now."</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"You don't want me to tell you the sweet secret tale of their betrothal? +He just came down—at Christmas it was. She was decorating the church. +Her father had a transient gleam of common sense and sent him down to +her. 'Is it you?' 'Is it you?'—All was over! They returned to that +Rectory an engaged couple. They were made for each other.—Same tastes, +same sentiments. They love the same things—gardens scenery, the simple +life, lofty ideals, cathedrals and Walt Whitman."</p> + +<p>"And when are they to be married?"</p> + +<p>"They are married. 'What are we waiting for, you and I?' No, I don't +know which of them said it. They were married at Easter: Sunday-school +children throwing cowslips—quite idyllic. All the old ladies from the +Mother's Mutual Twaddle Club came and shed fat tears. They presented a +tea-set; maroon with blue roses—most 'igh class and select."</p> + +<p>"Easter?" said Vernon, refusing interest to the maroon and blue +tea-cups. "She must indeed have been extravagantly fond of me."</p> + +<p>"Not she! She wanted to be in love. We all do, you know. And you were +the first. But she'd never have suited you. I've never known but two +women who would."</p> + +<p>"Two?" he said. "Which?"</p> + +<p>"Myself for one, saving your presence." She laughed and finished her +coffee. "If I'd happened to meet you when I was young—and not +bad-looking. It's only my age that keeps you from falling in love with +me. The other one's the Queen of your suit, poor lady, that you sent the +haystack of sunflowers to. Well—Good-bye. Come and see me when you're +in town—97 Curzon Street; don't forget."</p> + +<p>"I shan't forget," he said; "and if I thought you would condescend to +look at me, it isn't what you call your age that would keep me from +falling in love with you."</p> + +<p>"Heaven defend me!" she cried. "<i>Au revoir</i>."</p> + +<hr> + +<p>When Vernon had finished his Vermouth, he strolled along to the street +where last year Lady St. Craye had had a flat.</p> + +<p>Yes—Madame retained still the apartment. It was to-day that Madame +received. But the last of the friends of Madame had departed. Monsieur +would find Madame alone.</p> + +<p>Monsieur found Madame alone, and reading. She laid the book face +downwards on the table and held out the hand he had always +loved—slender, and loosely made, that one felt one could so easily +crush in one's own.</p> + +<p>"How time flies," she said. "It seems only yesterday that you were here. +How sweet you were to me when I had influenza. How are you? You look +very tired."</p> + +<p>"I am tired," he said. "I have been in Spain. And in Italy. And in +Algiers."</p> + +<p>"Very fatiguing countries, I understand. And what is your best news?"</p> + +<p>He stood on the hearth-rug, looking down at her.</p> + +<p>"Betty Desmond's married," he said.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered, "to that nice boy Temple, too. I saw it in the +paper. Dreadful isn't it? Here to-day and gone to-morrow!"</p> + +<p>"I'll tell you why she married him," said Vernon, letting himself down +into a chair, "if you'd like me to. At least I'll tell you why she +didn't marry me. But perhaps the subject has ceased to interest you?"</p> + +<p>"Not at all," she answered with extreme politeness.</p> + +<p>So he told her.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I suppose it would be like that. It must have annoyed you very +much. It's left marks on your face, Eustace. You look tired to death."</p> + +<p>"That sort of thing does leave marks."</p> + +<p>"That girl taught you something, Eustace; something that's stuck."</p> + +<p>"It is not impossible, I suppose," he said and then very carelessly, as +one leading the talk to lighter things, he added: "I suppose you +wouldn't care to marry me?"</p> + +<p>"Candidly," she answered, calling all her powers of deception to her +aid, "candidly, I don't think I should."</p> + +<p>"I knew it," said Vernon, smiling; "my heart told me so."</p> + +<p>"She," said Lady St. Craye, "was frightened away from her life's +happiness, as they call it, by seeing you rather near to a pink silk +model. I suppose you think <i>I</i> shouldn't mind such things?"</p> + +<p>"You forget," said Vernon demurely. "Such things never happen after one +is married."</p> + +<p>"No," she said, "of course they don't. I forgot that."</p> + +<p>"You might as well marry me," he said, and the look of youth had come +back suddenly, as it's way was, to his face.</p> + +<p>"I might very much better not."</p> + +<p>They looked at each other steadily. She saw in his eyes a little of what +it was that Betty had taught him.</p> + +<p>She never knew what he saw in hers, for all in a moment he was kneeling +beside her; his arm was across the back of her chair, his head was on +her shoulder and his face was laid against her neck, as the face of a +child, tired with a long play-day, is laid against the neck of its +mother.</p> + +<p>"Ah, be nice to me!" he said. "I am very tired."</p> + +<p>Her arm went round his shoulders as the mother's arm goes round the +shoulders of the child.</p> + +<p> +THE END.</p> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Incomplete Amorist, by E. 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