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diff --git a/9385.txt b/9385.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7935076 --- /dev/null +++ b/9385.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12745 @@ +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: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INCOMPLETE AMORIST *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Beth Trapaga and PG +Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + + + + +THE INCOMPLETE AMORIST + + +By E. NESBIT + + + +Illustrated by CLARENCE F. UNDERWOOD + + +1906 + + +To + +Richard Reynolds +and +Justus Miles Forman + + +"Faire naitre un desir, le nourrir, le developper, le grandir, le +satisfaire, c'est un poeme tout entier." + +--_Balzac_. + + + + +CONTENTS + +BOOK I. THE GIRL + +Chapter I. The Inevitable +Chapter II. The Irresistible +Chapter III. Voluntary +Chapter IV. Involuntary +Chapter V. The Prisoner +Chapter VI. The Criminal +Chapter VII. The Escape + +BOOK II. THE MAN + +Chapter VIII. The One and the Other +Chapter IX. The Opportunity +Chapter X. Seeing Life +Chapter XI. The Thought +Chapter XII. The Rescue +Chapter XIII. Contrasts +Chapter XIV. Renunciation + +BOOK III. THE OTHER WOMAN + +Chapter XV. On Mount Parnassus +Chapter XVI. "Love and Tupper" +Chapter XVII. Interventions +Chapter XVIII. The Truth +Chapter XIX. The Truth with a Vengeance +Chapter XX. Waking-up Time + +BOOK IV. THE OTHER MAN + +Chapter XXI. The Flight +Chapter XXII. The Lunatic +Chapter XXIII. Temperatures +Chapter XXIV. The Confessional +Chapter XXV. The Forest +Chapter XXVI. The Miracle +Chapter XXVII. The Pink Silk Story +Chapter XXVIII. "And so--" + + + + +PEOPLE OF THE STORY + +Eustace Vernon. The Incomplete Amorist +Betty Desmond The Girl +The Rev. Cecil Underwood Her Step-Father +Miss Julia Desmond Her Aunt +Robert Temple The Other Man +Lady St. Craye The Other Woman +Miss Voscoe The Art Student +Madame Chevillon. The Inn-Keeper at Crez +Paula Conway A Soul in Hell +Mimi Chantal A Model +Village Matrons, Concierges, Art Students, Etc. + + + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + +"'Oh, what a pity,' said Betty from the heart, 'that we aren't +introduced now!'" + +"'Ah, don't be cross!' she said." + +"Betty stared at him coldly." + +"Betty looked nervously around--the scene was agitatingly unfamiliar." + +"Unfinished, but a disquieting likeness." + +"'No, thank you: it's all done now.'" + +"On the further arm of the chair sat, laughing also, a very pretty +young woman." + +"The next morning brought him a letter." + + + + +Book 1.--The Girl + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +THE INEVITABLE. + +"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. + +"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. + +"That's a joke, Mrs. James," said Betty. "How clever you are!" + +"I try to be what's fitting," said Mrs. James, complacently. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"These cheap thimbles ain't fit to put in your mouth, no more than +coppers," said Mrs. James, her mouth full of pins. + +"Oh, nothing hurts you if you like it," said Betty recklessly. She had +been reading the works of Mr. G.K. Chesterton. + +A shocked murmur arose. + +"Oh, Miss, what about the publy kows?" said Mrs. Symes heavily. The +others nodded acquiescence. + +"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. + +A murmur arose far more shocked than the first. + +"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." + +The door was shut. + +"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." + +"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." + +Every woman in the room was waiting, feverishly alert, for the pause +that should allow her to begin her own detailed narrative of disease. + +Mrs. James was easily first in the competition. + +"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. + +"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--" + +Betty clapped her hands. + +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? + +Betty, rather pale, began: "This is a story about a little boy called +Wee Willie Winkie." + +"I call that a silly sort of name," whispered Mrs. Smith. + +"Did he make a good end, Miss?" asked Mrs. James plaintively. + +"You'll see," said Betty. + +"I like it best when they dies forgiving of everybody and singing +hymns to the last." + +"And when they says, 'Mother, I shall meet you 'ereafter in the better +land'--that's what makes you cry so pleasant." + +"Do you want me to read or not?" asked Betty in desperation. + +"Yes, Miss, yes," hummed the voices heavy and shrill. + +"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." + +Betty read. + +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. + +"Your Pa's out a-parishing," said Letitia, bumping down the tray in +front of her. + +"That's a let-off anyhow," said Betty to herself, and she propped up a +Stevenson against the tea-pot. + +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. + +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. + +Her step-father only spoke once during the meal; he was luxuriating in +the thought of the _Summa Theologiae_ 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: + +"How extremely untidy your hair is, Lizzie. I wish you would take more +pains with your appearance." + +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. + +She went to bed early. + +"And that's my life," she said as she blew out the candle. + +Said Mrs. James to Mrs. Symes over the last and strongest cup of tea: + +"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." + +"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." + +Betty's blameless father had been killed in the hunting field. + +"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." + +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." + +Mrs. Symes was not so wrong as the delicate minded may suppose. + +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. + +"Oh, God," she said, "do please let something happen!" + +That was all. A girl had her little reticences, even with herself, +even with her Creator. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"I suppose even he was young once," she said, "but I'm sure he doesn't +remember it." + +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. + +"Well, well," he said, "well, well," locked it away, and went back to +_De Poenis Parvulorum_. + +"I _will_ go out," said Betty, as she parted with the peas. "I don't +care!" + +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. + +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--Telemaque 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. + +What the gardener called the gravel path was black earth, moss-grown. +Very pretty, but Betty thought it shabby. + +It was soft and cool, though, to the feet, and the dust of the white +road sparkled like diamond dust in the sunlight. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"I will sketch that," said Eighteen, confidently. + +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. + +"And he's an artist, too!" said Betty. "How awfully interesting! I +wish I could see his face." + +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. + +She went on sketching with feverish unskilled fingers, and a pulse +that had actually quickened its beat. + +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? + +"Oh, what a pity," said Betty from the heart, "that we aren't +introduced _now_!" + +Her sketch grew worse and worse. + +"It's no good," she said. "I can't do anything with it." + +She glanced at him. He had pushed back the hat. She saw quite plainly +that he was smiling--a very little, but he _was_ 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. + +She paled with fury. + +"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. + +The stranger raised his hat and called eagerly. + +"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!" + +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. + +"It's no use," he called; "don't bother any more. The pose is gone." + +She rose to her feet and he came towards her. + +"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. + +She took the torn papers from his hand with a bow, and turned to go. + +"Don't go," he said. "You're not going? Don't you want to look at my +picture?" + +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. + +"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." + +When she saw the picture she merely said, "Oh," and stood at gaze. For +it _was_ 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. + +"Oh!" said Betty again. + +"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!" + +"Yes," said Betty; "oh, yes." + +"Do you often go a-sketching?" he asked. + +"How modest he is," thought Betty; "he changes the subject so as not +to seem to want to be praised." + +Aloud she answered with shy fluttered earnestness: "Yes--no. I don't +know. Sometimes." + +His lips were grave, but there was the light behind his eyes that goes +with a smile. + +"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." + +"I've no one to teach me," said Betty, innocently phrasing a long-felt +want. + +The man raised his eyebrows. "Well, after that, here goes!" he said to +himself. "I wish you'd let _me_ teach you," he said to her, beginning +to put his traps together. + +"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!" + +"No; but I do," he said. + +"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." + +"I don't give lessons for money," his lips tightened--"only for love." + +"That means nothing, doesn't it?" she said, and flushed to find +herself on the defensive feebly against--nothing. + +"At tennis, yes," he said, and to himself he added: "_Vieux jeu_, my +dear, but you did it very prettily." + +"But I couldn't let you give me lessons for nothing." + +"Why not?" he asked. And his calmness made Betty feel ashamed and +sordid. + +"I don't know," she answered tremulously, "but I don't think my +step-father would want me to." + +"You think it would annoy him?" + +"I'm sure it would, if he knew about it." + +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. + +"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. + +"Oh," she said innocently, "I never thought of that! But wouldn't it +be wrong?" + +"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?" + +"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." + +"Well played! We're getting on!" he thought, and added aloud: "But +perhaps I shan't get nothing in return?" + +Her eyes dropped over the wonderful thought that perhaps she might do +something for _him_. 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-- + +"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?" + +"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. + +"Well, for one thing you could let me paint your portrait." + +Betty was silent. + +"Come, play up, you little duffer," he urged inwardly. + +When she spoke her voice trembled. + +"I don't know how to thank you," she said. + +"And you will?" + +"Oh, I will; indeed I will!" + +"How good and sweet you are," he said. Then there was a silence. + +Betty tightened the strap of her sketching things and said: + +"I think I ought to go home now." + +He had the appropriate counter ready. + +"Ah, don't go yet!" he said; "let us sit down; see, that bank is quite +in the shade now, and tell me--" + +"Tell you what?" she asked, for he had made the artistic pause. + +"Oh, anything--anything about yourself." + +Betty was as incapable of flight as any bird on a limed twig. + +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: + +"And when shall I see you again?" + +"You take the words out of my mouth," said he. And indeed she had. +"She has no _finesse_ yet," he told himself. "She might have left that +move to me." + +"The lessons, you know," said Betty, "and, and the picture, if you +really do want to do it." + +"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?" + +She did know it. + +"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. + +"I could come out at six if you liked, or--or five," said Betty, +humbly anxious to do her part. + +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." + +"Then will you meet me here to-morrow at six?" he said. "You won't +disappoint me, will you?" he added tenderly. + +"No," said downright Betty, "I'll be sure to come. But not to-morrow," +she added with undisguised regret; "to-morrow's Sunday." + +"Monday then," said he, "and good-bye." + +"Good-bye, and--oh, I don't know how to thank you!" + +"I'm very much mistaken if you don't," he said as he stood bareheaded, +watching the pink gown out of sight. + +"Well, adventures to the adventurous! A clergyman's daughter, too! I +might have known it." + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +THE IRRESISTIBLE. + +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 _Him_. +Already the stranger was Him to Betty. But, then, she did not know his +name. + +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. + +"You are late again, Lizzie," said her step-father. + +"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. + +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. + +"I wish you would contrive to keep yourself clean, or else wear a +pinafore," he said. + +Betty flushed scarlet. + +"I'm very sorry," she said, "but it's only water colour. It will wash +out." + +"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? + +"Eighteen," she said. + +"It is almost time you began to think about being a lady." + +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. + +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. + +The mutton was taken away. + +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. + +"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." + +He put on his spectacles and looked at her with wistful kindness. She +read in his glance only a frozen contempt. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +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!" + +"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." + +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. + +"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. + +Betty set her teeth and went, black rage in her heart, to cut out the +hateful little chemises. + +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. + +"Father doesn't care a single bit, he hates me," she said, "and I hate +him. Oh, I do." + +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. + +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. + +"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--" + +"But he couldn't have meant me, of course," she told herself. + +And on Monday she would see him again,--and he would give her a +lesson! + +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." + +Then she hid the diary in a drawer, under her confirmation dress and +veil, and locked the drawer carefully. + +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. + +"I shall see her soon enough," he thought, "curse my impulsive +generosity! Six o'clock, forsooth, and all to please a clergyman's +daughter." + +She came back from church with tired steps. + +"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." + +She was awake before five. + +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. + +"Oh, dear," said Betty, jumping out of bed. "I'm going out, to meet +Him, and have a drawing-lesson!" + +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. + +When she was dressed she dug out the diary and wrote: + + "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 _is_ love--well, it + will be once and forever with me, I know. + + "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!" + +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. + +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. + +But she was first at the rendezvous, after all. + +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. + +Her thoughts went back to what she had written in her diary. If that +_should_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +She walked a hundred yards or so towards the village on the spur of +this thought. + +Or perhaps he had come by another way to the trysting place? That +thought drove her back. He was not there. + +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 _not_ wait? She went slowly back. + +She sat down again, schooled herself to patience. + +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! + +"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." + + * * * * * + +Mr. Eustace Vernon roused himself, and yawned. + +"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." + +The church clock struck the half-hour as he turned into the wood. +Something palely violet came towards him. + +"So you _are_ here," he said. "Where's the pink frock?" + +"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?" + +"Not very long," he said, smiling; "but--Great Heavens, what on earth +is the matter?" + +"Nothing," she said. + +"But you've been--you are--" + +"I'm not," she said defiantly,--"besides, I've got neuralgia. It +always makes me look like that." + +"My Aunt!" he thought. "Then she _was_ 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?" + +"Yes," she said, smiling faintly, "much better. It was rather sharp +while it lasted, though." + +"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?" + +He knew it would be: and it was. + +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. + +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, _mais elle a des moyens_. 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." + +They parted with another tryst set for the next morning. The brother +artist note had been skilfully kept vibrating. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +VOLUNTARY. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He knew the sea well, and it would be pleasant to steer on it one to +whom it was all new--all, all. + +"Dear little girl," he said, "I don't suppose she has ever even +thought of love." + +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: + + Yes. I have loved before; I know + This longing that invades my days, + This shape that haunts life's busy ways + I know since long and long ago. + + This starry mystery of delight + That floats across my eager eyes, + This pain that makes earth Paradise, + These magic songs of day and night, + + I know them for the things they are: + A passing pain, a longing fleet, + A shape that soon I shall not meet, + A fading dream of veil and star. + + Yet, even as my lips proclaim + The wisdom that the years have lent, + Your absence is joy's banishment + And life's one music is your name. + + I love you to the heart's hid core: + Those other loves? How can one learn + From marshlights how the great fires burn? + Ah, no--I never loved before! + +When he read it through he entitled it, "The Veil of Maya," so that it +might pretend to have no personal application. + +After that more than ever rankled the memory of that first morning. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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." + +Well, something had happened now. + +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. + +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: + +"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 _of that sort_. 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!" + +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 _parti pris_ working +together, it seemed to him that he could never forget Betty, could +never wish to forget her. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Dear child, she only wanted a word in season," he thought. And he +said: + +"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." + +"I daresay," said Betty, adding between her teeth, "If you only knew!" + +"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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +INVOLUNTARY. + +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. + +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. + +"He'll never go," she thought, and her heart sank. + +He, shaving, in the chill damp air by his open dimity-draped window, +was saying: + +"She'll be there, of course. Women are all perfectly insensible to +weather." + +Two mackintoshed figures met in the circle of pines. + +"You have come," he said. "I never dreamed you would. How cold your +hand is!" + +He held it for a moment warmly clasped. + +"I thought it might stop any minute," said Betty; "it seemed a pity to +waste a morning." + +"Yes," he said musingly, "it would be a pity to waste a morning. I +would not waste one of these mornings for a kingdom." + +Betty fumbled with her sketching things as a sort of guarantee of good +faith. + +"But it's too wet to work," said she. "I suppose I'd better go home +again." + +"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?" + +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. + +"I should think breakfast and being dry would cheer you up better than +anything," said she. "And it's very wet here." + +"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." + +"I hope they'll be nice to us," laughed Betty; "it's dreadful to go +where you're not wanted." + +"How do you know?" he asked, laughing too. "Come, give me your hand +and let's run for it." + +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. + +"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." + +"I'm glad he can't come forward to welcome us," said Betty. "His teeth +look very fierce." + +"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. + +"I don't know," said Betty truly. "Are you?" + +"No--not quite perfectly." + +"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." + +He sighed and looked grave. "So you don't want me to be perfectly +happy?" + +She looked at him with her head on one side. + +"Not here," she said. "I can't trust that harrow." + +His eyelids narrowed over his eyes--then relaxed. No, she was merely +playing at enchanted harrows. + +"Are you cold still?" he asked, and reached for her hand. She gave it +frankly. + +"Not a bit," she said, and took it away again. "The run warmed me. In +fact--" + +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. + +"May I sit down too? Can Mrs. Plough find room for two children on her +lap?" + +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. + +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. + +"Did you ever have your fortune told?" he asked. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +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: + +"Your fortune is that I love you. Is it good or bad fortune?" + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"But the fortunes of the fortune-faced people are the ones one likes +best to tell." + +"Of course," she admitted wistfully, "but what's going to happen to +you is just as interesting to _you_, 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." + +"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." + +"But can it?" + +"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." + +"Then you don't care to tell fortunes for people who haven't fortune +faces?" + +"I should like to tell yours, if you would let me. Shall I?" + +He held out his hand, but her hand was withheld. + +"I ought to cross your hand with silver, oughtn't I?" she asked. + +"It's considered correct--but--" + +"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." + +"You could cross my hand with your watch," he said, "and I could take +the crossing as an I.O.U. of the sixpence." + +She detached the old watch. He held out his hand and she gravely +traced a cross on it. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +Neither heard the furtive rustic tread, or noted the gleam of the pale +rustic eye. + +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. + +"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. + +Vernon had forced his eyes to leave the face of Betty. + +"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?" + +"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?" + +"That depends on oneself, doesn't it? Adventures are to the +adventurous." + +"Yes, that's all very well--girls can't be adventurous." + +"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." + +"But half the fun must be the seeking for it," said Betty. + +"You're right," said he, "it is." + +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. + +"Do you really see it in my hand?" asked Betty,--"about my crossing +the sea, I mean." + +"It's there; but it depends on yourself, like everything else." + +"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." + +"And he wouldn't, of course?" + +"No; he said Paris was a wicked place. It isn't really, is it?" + +"Every place is wicked," said he, "and every place is good. It's all +as one takes things." + +The Rectory gate clicked sharply as it swung to behind the labourer. +The Rectory gravel scrunched beneath the labourer's boots. + +Yes, the Master was up; he could be seen. + +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. + +"You have the artistic lines very strongly marked," Vernon was saying. +"One, two, three--yes, painting--music perhaps?" + +"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. + +"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." + +"But there isn't any other talent that I can think of." + +"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." + +"Shall I be successful in any of the arts?" + +"In one, certainly." + +"Ah," said Betty, "if I could only go to Paris!" + +"It's not always necessary to go to Paris for success in one's art," +he said. + +"But I want to go. I'm sure I could do better there." + +"Aren't you satisfied with your present Master?" + +"Oh!"--It was a cry of genuine distress, of heartfelt disclaim. "You +_know_ I didn't mean that! But you won't always be here, and when +you've gone--why then--" + +Again he had to control the involuntary movement of his left arm. + +"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. + +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. + +"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!'" + +The Rector shivered at the implication. + +"Then I says, says I: 'Like as not the Rector won't thank you for +interferin'. Least said soonest mended,' says I." + +"I'm very much obliged to you," said the Rector difficultly, and his +hand shook on Ambrosius's yellow page. + +"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. + +The Rector spoke with an obvious effort, got his hand off the page and +closed the folio. + +"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." + +He replaced the two folios on the shelf. + +"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." + +"Thank you, George," said the Rector, "I will. Good morning. God bless +you." + +The formula came glibly, but it was from the lips only that it came. + +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-- + +The Rector was half way down his garden drive. + +"Your heart-line," Vernon was saying, "it's a little difficult. You +will be deeply beloved." + +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. + +"Soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor," she said, "which am I going to +marry, kind gipsy?" + +"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." + +"I'm not to be happy in my affairs of the heart then." Still a careful +flippancy seemed best to Betty. + +"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?" + +Betty had thought so, but it seemed coarse to own it. + +"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." + +"Oh, dear!" said Betty to herself. + +"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." + +Betty caught at her flippancy but it evaded her, and all she found to +say was, "Oh," and her eyes fell. + +There was a silence. Vernon still held her hand, but he was no longer +looking at it. + +A black figure darkened the daylight. + +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. + +"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." + +Betty went, like a beaten dog. + +The Rector turned to the young man. + +"Now, Sir," he said. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +THE PRISONER. + +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. + +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. + +The Rector spoke again, and Mr. Vernon listened, bare-headed, in +deepest deference. + +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. + +The Rector ran through a few texts. His pulpit denunciations of +iniquity, though always earnest, had lacked this eloquence. + +Vernon listened quietly. + +"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--" + +"Unconventional--to try to ruin--" + +Mr. Vernon held up his hand: he was genuinely shocked. + +"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." + +The Rector bit his lip, and Vernon went on: + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +"Then you'd have me believe that you don't even love her?" + +"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." + +"Serpent," said the Rector within himself, "Lying serpent!" + +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!" + +"I am really most awfully sorry," he said again. + +"I find it difficult to believe in the sincerity of your repentance," +said the Rector frowning. + +"My regret you may believe in," said Vernon stiffly. "There is no +ground for even the mention of such a word as repentance." + +"If your repentance is sincere"--he underlined the word--"you will +leave Long Barton to-day." + +Leave without a word, a sign from Betty--a word or a sign to her? It +might be best--if-- + +"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." + +"I will make no bargains with you!" cried the Rector. "Do your worst! +Thank God I can defend her from you!" + +"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." + +"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!" + +"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." + +"Long Barton shall know you in your true character, Sir, I promise +you." + +"So you would blacken her to blacken me? One sees how it is that she +does not love her father." + +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. + +Then it was that Vernon behaved well. When he thought of it afterwards +he decided that he had behaved astonishingly well. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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 _is_ up--absolutely up." + +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. + +He spent the day thinking of that and of other things. + +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. + +An hour had passed before he got stiffly up and went home, with her +cloak on his arm. + +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. + +Then he poured out his own tea, and sat stirring it till it was cold. + +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? + +"I am glad I struck him," the Reverend Cecil told himself again and +again; "_that_ brought it home to him. He was quite cowed. He could do +nothing but bow and cringe away. Yes, I am glad." + +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. + +Then quite suddenly he saw what to do. + +"That will be best," he said; "she will feel that less." + +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. + +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. + +"Oh, how cruel he is! He might have spoken to me _now_! 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!" + +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. + +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? + +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! + +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 _right_. + +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. + +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. + +"I'll leave a farewell letter," she said, "in case I never come back." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"Good-bye, little room," she said. "I feel I shall never see you +again." + +Slowly and sadly she crossed the room and turned the handle of the +door. The door was locked. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +"Come in," he said; and his landlady heavily followed up her tap on +his door. + +"A lady to see you, Sir," said she with a look that seemed to him to +be almost a wink. + +"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. + +"Shall I show her in?" the woman asked, and she eyed him curiously. + +"A lady," he repeated. "Did she give her name?" + +"Yes, Sir. Miss Desmond, Sir. Shall I shew her in?" + +"Yes; shew her in, of course," he answered irritably. + +And to himself he said: + +"The Devil!" + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +THE CRIMINAL. + +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." + +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 _cachet_--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. + +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. + +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. + +It was this moment that Letitia chose for rapping at the door. + +"You can't come in. What is it?" Betty was prompt to say. + +"Mrs. Edwardes's Albert, Miss, come for the Maternity bag." + +"It's all ready in the school-room cupboard," Betty called through the +door. "Number three." + +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. + +She did not cry. She was sick with fury, and anger made her heart beat +as Vernon had never had power to make it. + +"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. + +"What will become of me? What has become of _him_? 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. + +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. + +It was no Protestant sister to whom the Reverend Cecil had reached his +hand. It was only his umbrella. Betty breathed again. + +Well, now at least he'll come and speak to me: he must come himself; +even _he_ couldn't give the key to the servants and say: "Please go +and unlock Miss Lizzie and bring her down!" + +Betty would not move. "I shall just stay here and pretend I didn't +know the door was locked," said she. + +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. + +It was thrown away. + +The door only opened wide enough to admit a dinner tray pushed in by a +hand she knew. Then the door closed again. + +The same thing happened with tea and supper. + +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. + + * * * * * + +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! + +"Miss Desmond," said the landlady; and he braced his nerves to meet a +tearful, an indignant or a desperate Betty. + +But there was no Betty to be met; no Betty of any kind. + +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. + +He bowed with indescribable emotions. + +"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. + +Vernon bowed, and moved a chair towards her. + +"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." + +Vernon sat down and mechanically took out a cigarette, but he held it +unlighted. + +"Now," said the square lady, leaning her elbows on the table and her +chin on her hands, "I am Betty's aunt." + +"It is very good of you to come," said Vernon helplessly. + +"Not at all," she briskly answered. "Now tell me all about it." + +"There's nothing to tell," said Vernon. + +"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." + +Vernon laughed, and drew a breath of relief. + +"I fear Mr. Underwood misunderstood,--" he said, "and--" + +"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?" + +"You seem to have more to say than I, Miss Desmond." + +"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." + +"We were not," said Vernon. "I was telling her fortune--" + +"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." + +"Thank you," said Vernon, smiling a little. It is pleasant to be +appreciated. + +"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?" + +"Nothing," said Vernon. + +"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." + +"You mean--" + +"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?" + +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. + +"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. + +"Well?" + +"Well, that's all there is to it. I liked meeting her, and she liked +meeting me." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"No," said she. + +"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--" + +"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!" + +"Miss Betty is very charming," said he, "and--and if I hadn't met +her--" + +"If you hadn't met her some other man would. True; but I fancy her +father would rather it had been some other man." + +"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." + +"'Causing her unhappiness,'--poor little Betty, poor little trusting +innocent silly little girl! That's about it, isn't it?" + +It was so like it that he hotly answered: + +"Not in the least." + +"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." + +She lighted a second cigarette and sat very upright, the cigarette in +her mouth and her hands on the handle of her stick. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Upon my word," said Miss Desmond, "you are the coldest lover I've +ever set eyes on." + +"I'm not a lover," he answered swiftly. "Do you wish I were?" + +"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." + +"I'm not an incendiary, at any rate," said he, "and that's something, +with my coloured eyes, isn't it?" + +"Well," she said, "whatever your temperature is, I rather like you. I +don't wonder at Betty in the least." + +Vernon bowed. + +"All I ask is your promise that you'll not speak to her again." + +"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. + +"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: + +"You don't understand me." + +"Near enough," said Miss Desmond; "and now I'll go." + +"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--" + +"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?" + +"I give you my word. You won't believe in my regret--" + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"I'm sure we should," said he truly. "Mayn't I hope--" + +She laughed outright. + +"You have indeed the passion for acquaintance without introduction," +she said. "No, you may _not_ 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." + +"I wish I thought you forgave me." + +"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 _not_ see me to my carriage!" + +She shook hands cordially, and left Vernon to his thoughts. + +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. + + * * * * * + +Betty, worn out with crying, had fallen asleep. The sound of wheels +roused her. It seemed to rain cabs at the Rectory to-day. + +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. + +"All in the dark?" she said. "Where are you, child?" + +"Here," said Betty. + +"Let me strike a light. Oh, yes, there you are!" + +"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." + +"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." + +"Then he hasn't told you?" + +"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." + +"Aunty," said Betty, obediently beginning to unfasten her dress, "did +he say anything about _Him_?" + +"Well, yes--a little." + +"He hasn't--hasn't done anything to him, has he?" + +"What could he do? Giving drawing lessons isn't a hanging matter, +Bet." + +"I haven't heard anything from him all day,--and I thought--" + +"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." + +"Yes," said Betty, "of course I know that." + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +THE ESCAPE. + +"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." + +"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?" + +"Miss Betty's decline." Mrs. Symes laughed low and huskily. "What did +I tell you, Mrs. James?" + +"I don't quite remember not just at the minute," said Mrs. James; "you +tells so many things." + +"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?" + +"I don't know, I'm sure." + +"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." + +"To think of that, and me never hearing a word!" said Mrs. James with +frank regret. + +"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." + +"Lor," said Mrs. James feebly. + +"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." + +"No indeed," said Mrs. James, smoothing her hair, "and old +George--what silliness was he up to this time?" + +"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 _my_ way." + +"No, indeed," said Mrs. James. + +"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.'" + +"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. James with emotion. + +"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." + +"'Ard, I call it," said Mrs. James. + +"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." + +"We shall miss 'er when she goes," said Mrs. James. + +"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." + +"Poor young thing," said Mrs. James, very sympathetic. "I think I'll +drop in as I'm passing, and see how she takes it." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"Do you suppose," asked Mrs. Symes, "as no one ain't got no legs +except you? _I'm_ 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." + +"Mightn't I step up with you for company?" Mrs. James asked. + +"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." + +"Poor young thing," said Mrs. James again. + + * * * * * + +Betty was going to Paris. + +There had been "much talk about and about" the project. Now it was to +be. + +There had been interviews. + +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. + +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. + +The second interview was between the aunt and Betty. That was the one +in which so much good advice was given. + +"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?" + +"I did want to go," said Betty, "but I don't care about anything now. +Everything's hateful." + +"It always is," said the aunt, "but it won't always be." + +"Don't think I care a straw about not seeing Mr. Vernon again," said +Betty hastily. "It's not that." + +"Of course not," said the aunt sympathetically. + +"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." + +"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 _had_ been arranging an +elopement." + +"He _hadn't_ got his arm around me," insisted Betty; "it was somewhere +right away in the background. He was holding himself up with it." + +"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?" + +"I couldn't go if I wasn't." + +"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." + +"No, I don't," said Betty rather shortly. + +"If you went you'd have to work." + +"There's no chance of my going." + +"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." + +"Don't," said Betty; "how can you say nobody loves you?" + +"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." + +"Aunt Julia, you don't really mean it." + +"Of course not. I never mean anything except the things I don't say. +The Bradshaw!" + +Betty came and sat on the arm of her aunt's chair. + +"It's not fair to tease me," she said, "and tantalise me. You know how +mizzy I am." + +"No. I don't know anything. You won't tell me anything. Go and get--" + +"Dear, darling, pretty, kind, clever Aunt," cried Betty, "I'd give my +ears to go." + +"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." + +"Do you really mean you'd take me?" + +"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?" + +"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. + +"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." + +"I know you think so," said he, closing the heavy book over which he +had been stooping. + +"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!" + +"I was so alarmed, so shaken myself--" he began, but she interrupted +him. + +"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." + +The Reverend Cecil doubted this; but he said nothing. + +"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?" + +"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." + +"Then you mean to let everything go on in the old way?" + +"Why, of course," said he uneasily. + +"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. + +"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!" + +"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. + +"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." + +"Come together again," he repeated, and the paper-knife was still +restless, "do you want me to let her go away? To London?" + +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. + +"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?" + +"It certainly had not." + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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! + +"No," she said, "I know. But when people are young these thinks +rankle." + +"They won't with her," he said. "She has a singularly noble nature, +under that quiet exterior." + +Miss Desmond drew a long breath and began afresh. + +"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." + +"You mean that it was I who--" + +This was thin ice again. Miss Desmond skated quickly away from it +with, "Well, you see, I've been talking to her. She really _is_ +fretting. Why she's got ever so much thinner in the last week." + +"I could get a locum," he said slowly, "and take her to a Hydropathic +Establishment for a fortnight." + +"Oh dear, oh dear!" said Miss Desmond to herself. Aloud she said: +"That _would_ 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--" + +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. + +"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." + +Two people sitting down together and thinking over everything they had +against each other. + +"But I've nothing against Lizzie." + +"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. + +"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." + +"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: + +"Most kindly." + +He thought it over for so long that the aunt almost lost hope. + +"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!" + +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. + +"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?" + +Miss Desmond thought Betty had perhaps for the moment had almost +enough of quiet country places. + +"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--" + +"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. + +"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." + +"Does she speak English?" he asked, anxiously, and being reassured +questioned further. + +"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. + +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. + +He himself announced his decision to Betty. + +"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." + +"Do you really mean it?" said Betty, as coldly as he. + +"I am not in the habit of saying things which I do not mean." + +"Thank you very much," said Betty. "I will work hard, and try that the +money shan't be wasted." + +"Your aunt has kindly offered to pay your expenses." + +"When do I go?" asked Betty. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +The one thought Betty gave him was: + +"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!" + + * * * * * + +"'So you're going to foreign parts, Miss,' says I." + +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.' + +"'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. + +"'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.'" + +"'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." + +"I do," said Mrs. James sadly; "none don't know it better." + +"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.'" + +"I hope you said as how we should miss her something dreadful," said +Mrs. James anxiously, "Have another cup." + +"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." + +Mrs. James unrolled a violet petticoat. + +"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." + +"Dear, dear," said Mrs. James. + +"But you mark my words--she don't deceive _me_. 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." + +"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?" + + + + + +Book 2.--The Man + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +THE ONE AND THE OTHER. + +"Some idiot," remarked Eustace Vernon, sipping Vermouth at a little +table, "insists that, if you sit long enough outside the Cafe 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--_voila_." + +"You met me, half an hour ago," said the other man. + +"Oh, _you_!" said Vernon affectionately. + +"And your hat has gone off every half minute ever since," said the +other man. + +"Ah, that's to the people I've known. It's the people I've wanted to +know that are the rarity." + +"Do you mean people you have wanted to know and not known?" + +"There aren't many of those," said Vernon; "no it's--Jove, that's a +sweet woman!" + +"I hate the type," said the other man briefly: "all clothes--no real +human being." + +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. + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"I should like to look you up. Where do you hang out?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"Haven't you got one, my dear chap!--'sufficient unto' is my motto." + +"You paint pictures,", the other went on, "so very much too good for +the sort of life you lead." + +Vernon laughed. + +"My dear Temple," he said, "I live, mostly, the life of a vestal +virgin." + +"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." + +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. + +"The subject you've started," said he, "is of course, to me, the most +interesting. Please develop your thesis." + +"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." + +"I? No sentiment! Oh, Bobby, this is too much! Why, I'm a mass of it! +Ask--" + +"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." + +"I haven't tried." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"Oh, rot!" said Bobby. + +"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." + +"I sometimes think," said Temple, emptying his glass, "that the real +you isn't made yet. It's waiting for--" + +"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." + +"And is that what all the women think? + +"Ask them, my dear chap; ask them. They won't tell you the truth." + +"They're not the only ones who won't. I should like to know what you +really think of women, Vernon." + +"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--" + +"Plaything?" + +"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." + +"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." + +Miss Desmond's warning floated up through the dim waters of half a +year. + +"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." + +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. + +Suddenly his fingers tightened on his cigarette,--but he kept the +hand that held it before his face, and he bent his head forward. + +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. + +"That's the hand," he said, "that I held when we sat on the plough in +the shed and I told her fortune." + +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. + +"I am not breaking my word," he replied to the Inward Monitor. "Who's +going out of his way to speak to the girl?" + +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. + +"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. + +"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." + +And as he stood musing, the elder Miss Desmond came down the church +steps and walked briskly away. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"You?" she said, "_you_?" 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 Cafe de la Paix. + +"How are you?" he whispered. "Won't you shake hands?" + +She gave him a limp and unresponsive glove. + +"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." + +They stood on the steps behind one of the great pillars. + +"Do you think it is wise to stand here?" he said. "Your aunt might see +us." + +"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." + +"Why do you talk like that?" he said. "You don't think--you can't +think it was my fault?" + +"Your fault! What?" + +"Why, your father finding us and--" + +"Oh, _that_!" 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." + +"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." + +"You don't suppose," said Betty, opening her eyes at him, "that I +shan't tell her I've seen you?" + +He had supposed it, and cursed his clumsiness. + +"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." + +"Did you know that she came to see me?" + +"Of course. You seem to think we live in an atmosphere of deceit, Mr. +Vernon." + +"What's the matter with you?" he said bluntly, for finer weapons +seemed useless. "What have I done to make you hate me?" + +"I hate you? Oh, no--not in the least," said Betty spitefully. "I am +very grateful to you for all your kindness." + +"Where are you staying?" he asked. + +"Hotel Bete," said Betty, off her guard, "but--" + +The "but" marked his first score. + +"I wish I could have called to see your aunt," he said carelessly, +"but I am off to Vienna to-morrow." + +Betty believed that she did not change countenance by a hair's +breadth. + +"I hope you'll have a delightful time," she said politely. + +"Thanks. I am sure I shall. The only consolation for leaving Paris is +that one is going to Vienna. Are you here for long?" + +"I don't know." Betty was on her guard again. + +"Paris is a delightful city, isn't it?" + +"Most charming." + +"Have you been here long?" + +"No, not very long." + +"Are you still working at your painting? It would be a pity to give +that up." + +"I am not working just now." + +"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." + +"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." + +"What's the other?" he asked swiftly. + +"Your drawing-lessons," she demurely answered. + +"Then what's the one?" + +"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. + +"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." + +She believed this fully. + +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. + +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 Bete, or to +bribe Franz or Elise to smuggle notes to Miss Betty. + +"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." + + 'No diver brings up love again + Dropped once + In such cold seas!' + +"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!" + +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. + +Vernon was not fond of talking over old times, but Betty would be +dining at the Hotel Bete--some dull hole, no doubt; he had never heard +of it. Well, he could not dine at the Bete, 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. + +"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. + +"Bah," he said again, "she was perfectly charming, but what is the use +of charm, half the world away?" + +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. + +"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?" + +He did both, and the Jasmine lady might have found him dull. As it +happened, she only found him _distrait_, and that interested her. + +"When we parted," she said, "it was I who was in tears. Now it's you. +What is it?" + +"If I am in tears," he roused himself to say, "it is only because +everything passes, 'tout lasse, tout passe, tout casse.'" + +"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! + +"This is a grateful day for women," thought Vernon, looking the +interrogatory. + +"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." + +"You forget," he said, smiling. "It was you who broke my heart. And +it's not mended yet." + +"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 _is_ past--dead, you know, no nonsense about cataleptic +trances, but stone dead." + +"Yes," he said, "it is a link. But it isn't the past for me, you know. +It can never--" + +She held up a pretty jewelled hand. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Old letters--mine?" + +"I burned yours long ago." + +"And it isn't two years since we parted! How many have there been +since?" + +"Is this the Inquisition or is it Durand's?" + +"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? _And_ 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." + +She shewed a scar on her smooth arm. + +"What a woman it is for surprises! So he was very happy? But of course +he was." + +"Yes, of course, as you say. I was a model wife. I wore black for a +whole year too!" + +"Why did you marry him?" + +"Well, at the time I thought you might hear of it and be disappointed, +or hurt, or something." + +"So I am," said Vernon with truth. + +"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." + +"So you're--But this isn't proper! Here am I dining with a lady and I +don't even know her name!" + +"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." + +"That little--I beg your pardon, Lady St. Craye." + +"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!" + +"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. + +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. + +That was at night. In the morning Betty was at the Hotel Bete, and the +Hotel Bete 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: + +"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." + +This was Tuesday. + +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: + + "Hotel Bete, + Cite de Retraite, + Rue Boissy d'Anglais." + +"Now bear witness!" cried Vernon, appealing to the Universe, "bear +witness that this is _not_ my fault!" + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +THE OPPORTUNITY. + +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 _trop dit_. + +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. + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +The Hotel Bete 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 Cite de la Retraite. +Here the doors of the Hotel Bete 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 Bete. + +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. + +Monsieur Vernon was out. No, he had charged no one with a billet for +monsieur. Monsieur Vernon would doubtless return for the dejeuner; it +was certain that he would return for the diner. Would Monsieur wait? + +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. + +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. + +Even the waiter, now laying covers for the dejeuner, wore list +slippers and his movements were silent as a heron's ghost-gray flight. + +He came to the glass door presently. + +"Did Monsieur breakfast?" + +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. + +Yes, decidedly, Monsieur breakfasted. + +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. + +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 dejeuner? The idea of the possible meeting amused more +than it interested him. He crossed the hall and entered the long bare +salle a manger. + +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. + +He unfolded his table-napkin. In another moment, doubtless, Uncle +James would appear to fill the vacant place. + +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. + +With the waiter looking on, Betty had to give hers, but she gave it in +a way that said very plainly: + +"I am very surprised and not at all pleased to see you here." + +"This is a most unexpected pleasure," he said very distinctly, and +added the truth about his uncle. + +"Has Monsieur Vernon yet returned?" he asked the waiter who hovered +anxiously near. + +"No, Monsieur was not yet of return." + +"So you see," his look answered the speech of her hand, "it is not my +doing in the least." + +"I hope your aunt is well," he went on, the waiter handing baked eggs +the while. + +"Quite well, thank you," said Betty. "And how is your wife? I ought to +have asked yesterday, but I forgot." + +"My wife?" + +"Oh, perhaps you aren't married yet. Of course my father told me of +your engagement." + +She crumbled bread and smiled pleasantly. + +"So _that's_ it," thought Vernon. "Fool that I was to forget it!" + +"I am not married," he said coldly, "nor have I ever been engaged to +be married." + +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: + +"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." + +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. + +[Illustration: "'Ah, don't be cross!' she said"] + +"Anything you care to tell me will of course be of the greatest +possible interest," he was beginning, but Betty interrupted him. + +"_Ah, don't be cross_!" she said. "I know I was perfectly horrid +yesterday, but I own I was rather hurt." + +"Hold back," he adjured her, inwardly, "for Heaven's sake, hold back!" + +"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." + +"I see," said he, beginning to. + +"Of course I never dreamed that he'd lied, and even now I don't see--" +Then suddenly she did see and crimsoned again. + +"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." + +The waiter handed pale meat. + +"Yes, the scenery in Brittany is most charming; I did some good work +there. The people are so primitive and delightful too." + +The waiter withdrew, and Betty said: + +"How do you mean--he didn't lie?" + +"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?" + +"If you like," said she, chilly as December. + +"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?" + +"I have been working very hard," she said, "but every day I seem to +know less and less." + +"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?" + +"Some days it's custard," said Betty, "but we've only been here a +week." + +"We're friends again now, aren't we?" he questioned suddenly. + +"Yes--oh, yes!" + +"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." + +"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 _is_ a dear!" + +"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." + +"Yes," said Betty, "oh, yes!" + +But the salon window was darkened by a passing shape. + +"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?" + +"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." + +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." + +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 Bete. + +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. + + Dear Mr. Vernon: + + I am very glad we are good friends again, and I should like to tell + you everything that has happened. (_After you, after he--when my + step-father_). After the last time I saw you (_I was very unhappy + because I wanted to go to Paris_) I was very anxious to go to Paris + because of what you had said. My aunt came down and was very kind. + (_She told me_) She persuaded my step-father to let me go. I think + (_we_) he was glad to get rid of me, for (_somehow_) he never did + care about me, any more than I did about him. There are a great many + (_other_) things that he does not understand. Of course I was wild + with joy and thought of nothing but (_what you_) 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 + (_we_) 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 (_forgot_) 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--(_but_) it + (_was_) 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 (_everything_) 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. + + Yours sincerely, + + Betty Desmond. + +That was the letter which Betty posted. But the first letter she wrote +was quite different. It began: + + "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." + +She burned this letter. + +"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 _that's_ all right." + +She looked at her watch. The same silver watch with which she had once +crossed the hand of one who told her fortune. + +"How silly all that was!" she said. "I have learned wisdom now. Nearly +half-past three. I never knew Madame late before." + +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. + +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? + +Madame was lethargic and uninterested. She had no idea. She could not +advise. Probably Mademoiselle would do well to wait always. + +The concierge was less aloof. + +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. + +But Betty was not minded to stay the night alone at the Hotel Bete. +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? + +She decided to go now. No one opposed the idea much. Only Franz seemed +a little disturbed and the concierge tepidly urged patience. + +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. + +"I will return and take my trunks," she said; and a carriage was +called. + +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. + +"I wonder where all the people live," said Betty. + +The Place de la Concorde delighted her with its many lamps and its +splendid space. + +"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." + +She loved the river with its reflected lights,--but it made her +shudder, too. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"Pardon, Madame," said Betty. "I seek Madame Gautier." + +Everyone in the crowded stuffy lamplit little room drew a deep breath. + +"Mademoiselle is without doubt one of Madame's young ladies?" + +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: + +"I am a friend of Madame's. Is she at home?" + +"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." + +Betty felt sick. + +"Thank you," she said, "it is very sudden." + +"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." + +Again Betty said what she had not intended to say. She said: + +"Miss Brown." Perhaps the brother in the commerce vaguely suggested +the addition, "of Manchester." + +Then she turned away, and got out of the light into the friendly dusk +of the street. + +"Tiens, but it is droll," said the concierge's friend, "a young girl, +and all alone like that." + +"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." + +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. + +And she would never have lived in Paris at all! + +She walked down the street. + +"I can't think--I _must_ think! I'll have this night to myself to +think in, anyway. I'll go to some cheap hotel. I have enough for +that." + +She hailed a passing carriage, drove to the Hotel Bete, took her +luggage to the Gare du Nord, and left it there. + +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. + +She unfastened her dress and thrust the letter into her bosom, +buttoning the dress carefully over it. + +"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." + +She hailed a coachman. + +"Go," she said, "to some restaurant in the Latin Quarter--where the +art students eat." + +"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. + +"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." + +The horror of the picture helped by Betty's excitement brought the +tears and she encouraged them. + +"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. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + +SEEING LIFE. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +He studied the fire thoughtfully. + +"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 _say things_, or to leave them to be understood. It is more +delicate not to say them, perhaps." + +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: + +"This is how we shall sit when we are old and gray, dearest." It had +seemed so impossibly far-off then. + +And she had said: + +"I hope we shall die the same day, Cec." + +But this had not happened. + +And he had said: + +"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?" + +And she had laid her head on his shoulder and whispered: + +"I hope we shall have a little girl, dear." + +And he had said: + +"I shall call her Elizabeth, after my dear wife." + +"She must have eyes like yours though." + +"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. + +He had wanted them to put on her tombstone, Lizzie daughter of ---- +and affianced wife of Cecil Underwood, but her mother had said that +_there_ 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." + +Then came the long broken years, and then the little girl--Elizabeth, +his step-child. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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 +cafe, 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. + +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 Cafe she came to, which happened to be the Cafe +d'Harcourt. + +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 Cafe +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. + +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 soupcon 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? + +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. + +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 cafe 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. + +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. + +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: + +"How do you do?" + +Betty gave her hand, but "I don't remember you," said she. + +"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. + +"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." + +"I'm alone in Paris just now," said Betty. + +"Good God in Heaven, you little fool! Get back to your lodging. You've +no business here." + +"I've as much business as anyone else," said Betty. "I'm an artist, +too, and I want to see life." + +"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 _our_ trade is?" + +"Don't," said Betty; "oh, don't." + +"Go home," said the woman, "and say your prayers--I suppose you _do_ +say your prayers?--and thank God that it isn't your trade too." + +"I don't know what you mean," said Betty. + +"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 +Cafe d'Harcourt. What are your people about?" + +"My father's in England," said Betty; "he's a clergyman." + +"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. + +Betty laid a hand on the other woman's. + +"Couldn't you go home to your father--or--something?" she asked +feebly. + +"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 +_now_, too." She shook off Betty's hand and waved her own to a man who +was passing. + +"Here, Mr. Temple--" + +The man halted, hesitated and came up to them. + +"Look here," said the black-browed woman, "look what a pretty flower +I've found,--and here of all places!" + +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. + +"She won't listen to me--" + +"Oh, I did!" Betty put in reproachfully. + +"You talk to her like a father. Tell her where naughty little girls go +who stay out late at the Cafe d'Harcourt--fire and brimstone, you +know. She'll understand, she's a clergyman's daughter." + +"I really do think you'd better go home," said the new-comer to Betty +with gentle politeness. + +"I would, directly," said Betty, almost in tears, "but--the fact is I +haven't settled on a hotel, and I came to this cafe. I thought I could +ask one of these art students to tell me a good hotel, but--so that's +how it is." + +"I should think not," Temple answered the hiatus. Then he looked at +the black-browed, scowling woman, and his look was very kind. + +"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." + +"Right. I will." He turned to Betty. + +"Will you allow me," he said, "to find a carriage for you, and see you +to a hotel?" + +"Thank you," said Betty. + +He went out to the curbstone and scanned the road for a passing +carriage. + +"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." + +"Yes," said Betty, "I know. If you're not good you won't be happy." + +"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." + +"Oh, yes, it is," said Betty comfortingly, "and you're so kind. I +don't know how to thank you. Being kind _is_ being good too, isn't +it?" + +"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." + +"I think I do," said Betty. + +"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." + +"Good-bye," said Betty; "oh, good-bye! You _are_ kind, and good! +People can't all be good the same way," she added, vaguely and seeking +to comfort. + +"Women can," said the other, "don't you make any mistake. Good-bye." + +She watched the carriage drive away, and turned to meet the spiteful +chaff of Nini and her German friends. + +"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." + +Betty stared at him coldly. + +"I shall be greatly obliged if you can recommend me a good hotel," she +said. + +"I don't even know your name," said he. + +"No," she answered briefly. + +"I cannot advise you unless you will trust me a little," he said +gently. + +"You are very kind,--but I have not yet asked for anyone's advice." + +"I am sorry if I have offended you," he said, "but I only wish to be +of service to you." + +[Illustration: "She stared at him coldly"] + +"Thank you very much," said Betty: "the only service I want is the +name of a good hotel." + +"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." + +"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--" + +"That just shews," he said. + +"She was very kind, and I like her. But I don't intend to be +interfered with by any strangers, however well they mean." + +He laughed for the first time, and she liked him better when she had +heard the note of his laughter. + +"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?" + +"Of course." + +"Well the Cafe d'Harcourt is not a place for a respectable girl to go +to." + +"I gathered that," she answered quietly. "I won't go there again." + +"Have you quarreled with your friends?" he persisted; "have you run +away?" + +"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?" + +The dismissal was unanswerable. + +He took out his card-case and scribbled on a card. + +"Where is your luggage?" he asked. + +"Not here," she said briefly. + +"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. + +He stopped the carriage. "Hotel de l'Unicorne," he told the driver and +stood bareheaded till she was out of sight. + +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. + +She stood up and touched the coachman on the arm. + +"Go back to the Cafe d'Harcourt," she said. "I have forgotten +something." + +That was why, when Temple called, very early, at the Hotel de +l'Unicorne he heard that his cousin had not arrived there the night +before--Had not, indeed, arrived at all. + +He shrugged his shoulders. + +"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." + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + +THE THOUGHT. + +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. + +"What the devil!--You shouldn't do that!" she said roughly; "You +frightened me out of my wits." + +"I'm so sorry," said Betty, who was pale too. "Come away, won't you? I +want to talk to you." + +"Your little friend is charming," said one of the men in thick +German-French. "May I order for her a bock or a cerises?" + +"Do come," she urged. + +"Let's walk," she said. "What's the matter? Where's young Temple? +Don't tell me he's like all the others." + +"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?" + +"No you can't." + +"Well then, will you come with me?--not to the hotel he told me of, +but to some other--you must know of one." + +"What will you do if I don't?" + +"I don't know," said Betty very forlornly, "but you _will_, won't you. +You don't know how tired I am. Come with me, and then in the morning +we can talk. Do--do." + +The other woman took some thirty or forty steps in silence. Then she +asked abruptly: + +"Have you plenty of money?" + +"Yes, lots." + +"And you're an artist?" + +"Yes--at least I'm a student." + +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." + +"Of course," said Betty. + +"This _is_ an adventure! Where's your luggage?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"I'd rather not," said Betty, remembering the Germans and Nini. + +"Well then,--there'd be no harm for a few minutes. You can come with +me. This is really rather a lark!" + +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. + +"Don't say a word," she said, and pulled her through. + +It was very dark. + +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. + +Then "Come in," she said, and shut the door and bolted it. + +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. + +"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 passee these three years. A +gray chequered golf cape and the dulled hat completed the +transformation. + +"How nice you look," said Betty. + +The other bundled some linen and brushes into the portmanteau. + +"The poor old Gladstone's very thin still," she said, and folded +skirts; "we must plump it out somehow." + +When the portmanteau was filled and strapped, they carried it down +between them, in the dark, and got it out on to the pavement. + +"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." + +With the change in her dress a change had come over Miss Conway's +voice. + +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. + +"This is very jolly," said Betty, when they were alone. "It's like an +elopement." + +"Exactly," said Miss Conway. "Good night." + +"It's rather like a dream, though. I shan't wake up and find you gone, +shall I?" Betty asked anxiously. + +"No, no. We've all your affairs to settle in the morning." + +"And yours?" + +"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." + +"Good night, Miss Conway." + +"They call me Lotty." + +"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?" + +She spoke quickly and softly, and her face was flushed and her eyes +bright. + +There was a pause. + +"You silly little duffer--you silly dear little duffer." + +The other woman had turned away and was fingering the chains of an +ormolu candlestick on the mantelpiece. + +Betty put an arm over her shoulders. + +"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?" + +"Yes, they need," said the other; "that's just it." + +Her fingers were still twisting the bronze chains. + +"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 _me_ 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!" + +"My name's Paula." + +"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." + +"I should hope not indeed," Paula was roused to flash back; "dirty +little French gutter-cat." + +"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?" + +"You dear little fool!" said Paula gruffly. + +"Yes, but say yes--you must! I know you want to. I've got lots of +money. Kiss me, Paula." + +"I won't!--Don't kiss me!--I won't have it! Go away," said the woman, +clinging to Betty and returning her kisses. + +"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?" + +"For God's sake hold your tongue, and go to bed! Good night." + +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. + +Twin-born with her plan for saving her new friend was the plan for a +life that should not be life at Long Barton. + +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. + +Here she was in Paris, alone. Her aunt, train-borne, was every moment +further and further away. As for her step-father: + +"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 _really wrong_. 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?" + +She appealed to the Inward Monitor, but it refused to be propitiated. + +"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." + +"Do you think so?" said the Inward Monitor. + +"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?" + +Thus and thus, ringing the changes on resolve and explanation, her +thoughts ran. A clock chimed midnight. + +"Is it possible," she asked herself, "that it's not twelve hours since +I was at the Hotel Bete--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." + +She prayed that night as usual, but her mind was made up, and she +prayed outside a closed door. + +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. + +Paula seemed dazed when she first woke, but soon she was smiling and +listening to Betty's plans. + +"How young you look," said Betty, "almost as young as me." + +"I'm twenty-five." + +"You don't look it--with your hair in those pretty plaits, and your +nightie. You do have lovely nightgowns." + +"I'll get up now," said Paula. "Look out--I nearly upset the tray." + +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. + +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. + +She paid the hotel bill, and then the search for rooms began. + +"We must be very economical, you know," she said, "but you won't mind +that, will you? I think it will be rather fun." + +"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 +dejeuner, and we shall have it together on a little table with a nice +white cloth and a bunch of flowers on it." + +"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?" + +"I suppose one goes to church," said Paula. + +"Oh, I think not when we're working so hard all the week. We'll go +into the country." + +"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?" + +"Kent," said Betty. + +"My home's in Devonshire," said Paula. + +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. + +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. + +Then the weary hunt for rooms began again. + +It was five o'clock before a _concierge, unexpected amiable_ 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. + +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. + +"I _must_ have these rooms!" Betty whispered. "Oh, I could make them +so pretty!" + +The rent of the rooms was almost twice as much as the sum they fixed +on, and Paula murmured caution. + +"Its no use," said Betty. "We'll live on bread and water if you like, +but we'll live on it _here_." + +And she took the rooms. + +"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?" + +"Yes," said Paula thoughtfully; "it certainly is something that you've +got rooms in the house of a woman like that." + +"And that ducky little kitchen! Oh, we shall have such fun, cooking +our own meals! You shall get the dejeuner but I'll cook the dinner +while you lie on the sofa and read novels 'like a real lady.'" + +"Don't use that expression--I hate it," said Paula sharply. "But the +rooms are lovely, aren't they?" + +"Yes, it's a good place for you to be in--I'm sure of that," said the +other, musing again. + +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." + +"We'll have dinner out to-night," said Paula, "and to-morrow we'll go +marketing, and find you a studio to work at." + +"Why not here?" + +"That's an idea. Have you a lace collar you can lend me? This is not +fit to be seen." + +Betty pinned the collar on her friend. + +"I believe you get prettier every minute," she said. "I must just +write home and give them my address." + +She fetched her embroidered blotting-book. + +"It reminds one of bazaars," said Miss Conway. + + * * * * * + + 57 Boulevard Montparnasse. + + My dear Father: + + 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, + + Yours affectionately, + + E. Desmond. + +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. + +"But I won't do things by halves," she said. + +"What's this?" Paula asked sharply. She had stopped in front of one of +Betty's water colours. + +"That? Oh, I did it ages ago--before I learned anything. Don't look +at it." + +"But _what_ is it?" + +"Oh, only our house at home." + +"I wonder," said Paula, "why all English Vicarages are exactly alike." + +"It's a Rectory," said Betty absently. + +"That ought to make a difference, but it doesn't. I haven't seen an +English garden for four years." + +"Four years is a long time," said Betty. + +"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!" + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + +THE RESCUE. + +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. + +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. + +It was a simple straight-forward design, and one that carried success +in its pocket. No one could suspect anything. + +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. + +"Monsieur is not of the friends of Madame?" she asked curiously. + +He knew better than to resent the curiosity. He explained that he +desired to see Madame on business. + +"You will see her never," the woman said dramatically; "she sees no +one any more." + +"Is it that she is ill?" + +"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. + +"And the young ladies--they have returned to their parents?" + +"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." + +Vernon had money ready in his hand. + +"What was her name, Madame--the young lady with the aunt?" + +"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." + +"Thank you, Madame. I am desolated to have disturbed you. Good day." + +And Vernon was in the street again. + +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 Bete and Betty now was Heaven alone +knew where. Perhaps at Long Barton. Perhaps in Paris, with some other +dragon. + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"I wonder whether it would be--supposing it could be?" said he. + +They were driving in the Bois, among the autumn tinted trees where the +pale mist wreaths wandered like ghosts in the late afternoon. + +"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?" + +She laid her perfectly gloved hand on her sables. + +"Is there really a window? Can one see into your heart?" + +"_One_ 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?" + +"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." + +"Yes," she said, "you were always transparent enough. But one is so +blind when one is in love." + +Her calm references to the past always piqued him. + +"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." + +"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." + +"But I never begin to love people till they begin to love me. I'm too +modest." + +"And I never love people after they've done loving me. I'm too--" + +"Too what?" + +"Too something--forgetful, is it? I mean it takes two to make a +quarrel, and it certainly takes two to make a love affair." + +"And what about all the broken hearts?" + +"What broken hearts?" + +"The ones you find in the poets and the story books." + +"That's just where you do find them. Nowhere else.--Now, honestly, has +your heart ever been broken?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"I wish you wouldn't call me dear Lady," she said; "it's not the mode +any more now." + +"What may I call you?" he had to ask, turning to look in her eyes. + +"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." + +He turned to look. + +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. + +"Well?" said Lady St. Craye, breaking the silence that followed. + +"Well?" said he, rousing himself, but too late. "You were saying I +might call you--" + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"No question of your's could be im--could be anything but flattering. +But since you _are_ interested--" + +"Not at all," she said politely. + +"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?" + +"I should love it. When shall I come?" + +"Whenever you will." + +He wished she would ask another question about Betty, but she +wouldn't. He had to go on, a little awkwardly. + +"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." + +She listened but she did not speak. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +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: + +"Yes, it is a pity. However, I daresay it's safer for her that you +can't ask her to tea. She _is_ 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?" + +Her acting was as good as his. And his perception at the moment less +clear than hers. + +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." + +"We were talking," he said carefully, "about calling names." + +"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. + +The moment Betty had bowed to Mr. Vernon she turned her head in answer +to the pressure on her arm. + +"Who's that?" her friend asked. + +Betty named him, and in a voice genuinely unconcerned. + +"How long have you known him?" + +"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." + +"Does he know where you are?" + +"No." + +"Then mind he doesn't." + +"Why?" + +"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." + +"I've got you," said Betty affectionately. + +"Yes, you've got me," said her friend. + +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 _cachet_" +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +She rubbed out most of the lines she had put in and gasped for breath. + +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. + +[Illustration: "Betty looked nervously around--the scene was +agitatingly unfamiliar"] + +Some one held water to her lips. She was being fanned with a +handkerchief. + +"I'm all right," she said. + +"Yes, it's hotter than usual to-day," said the handkerchief-holder, +fanning vigorously. + +"Why do they have it so hot?" asked poor Betty. + +"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." + +Betty laughed and opened her eyes. + +"How jolly of you to come out after me," she said. + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Betty, who never lacked courage, took charcoal in hand and advanced +quite boldly to the easel next to her own. + +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. + +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. + +"Well done!" the girl next her said softly. "For a tenderfoot you hit +back fairly straight. I guess you'll do!" + +"You're very kind," said Betty haughtily. + +"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." + +She smiled so queer yet friendly a smile that Betty's haughtiness had +to dissolve in an answering smile. + +"My name's Betty Desmond," she said. "I wonder why you wanted to hit a +man when he was down." + +"My!" said the girl, "how was I to surmise about you being down? You +looked dandy enough--fit to lick all creation." + +"I've never been in a studio before," said Betty, fixing fresh paper. + +"My!" said the girl again. "Turn the faucet off now. The model don't +like us to whisper. Can't stand the draught." + +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. + +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. + +But Betty's friend had a headache that day. Betty went alone and came +home full of the party. + +"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." + +"Were there any young men?" asked Paula. + +"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 _we_ 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?" + +"They'd love it, I should think." Paula looked round the room which +already she loved. "And what did you all talk about?" + +"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?" + +"Yes," said the other, "you'll do now." + +"I said 'we,'" Betty corrected softly. + +"I meant we, of course," said Miss Conway. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + +CONTRASTS. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He lighted the spirit-lamp. + +"She was always confoundedly punctual," he said. + +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. + +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. + +He opened the door and went to the stair head. The voices were coming +up the steps. + +"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. + +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. + +"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!" + +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: + +"Am I inconvenient? Shall I borrow a book or something and go?" + +Vernon shook his head. It was annoying, but inevitable. He could only +hope that Lady St. Craye also was disappointed. + +"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?" + +"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." + +Her brilliant smile made the words seem neither banal nor impertinent. + +Vernon was pleased to note that he was not the only one who was +disappointed. + +"You are too kind," he said gravely. + +Temple was looking around the room. + +"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." + +"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." + +She held out the sable and Vernon laid it on the couch when he had +held it to his face for a moment. + +"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. + +"What ripping roofs!" he said. "Can one get out on them?" + +"Now what," demanded Vernon, "_is_ 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." + +"It's the exploring spirit, I suppose," said Temple idly; "the spirit +that has made England the Empire which--et cetera." + +"On which the sun never sets. Yes--but I think the sunset would be one +of the attractions of your roof, Mr. Vernon." + +"Sunset is never attractive to me," said he, "nor Autumn. Give me +sunrise, and Spring." + +"Ah, yes," said Lady St. Craye, "you only like beginnings. Even +Summer--" + +"Even Summer, as you say," he answered equably. "The sketch is always +so much better than the picture." + +"I believe that is your philosophy of life," said Temple. + +"This man," Vernon explained, "spends his days in doing ripping +etchings and black and white stuff and looking for my philosophy of +life." + +"One would like to see that in black and white. Will you etch it for +me, Mr. Temple, when you find it?" + +"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." + +"Iridescent, perhaps. Did you ever speculate as to the colour of +people's souls? I'm quite sure every soul has a colour." + +"What is yours?" asked Vernon of course. + +"I'm too humble to tell you. But some souls are thick--body-colour, +don't you know--and some are clear like jewels." + +"And mine's an opal, is it?" + +"With more green in it, perhaps; you know the lovely colour on the +dykes in the marshes?" + +"Stagnant water? Thank you!" + +"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." + +"And your soul--it is a pearl, isn't it?" + +"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!" + +"And Temple's--but you've not known him long enough to judge." + +"So it's no use my saying that I am sure his soul is a dewdrop." + +"To be dried up by the sun of life?" Temple questioned. + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The chair in which she sat wore a Chinese blue drapery. The yellow +tea-cups gave the highest note in the picture. + +"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." + +"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?" + +He had been thinking something a little like it. + +"Well," he said rather awkwardly, "you see dead people can't hit +back." + +"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." + +"Yet it doesn't seem fair, somehow," Temple insisted. + +"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." + +"Do you really think anyone worries about what anyone says?" + +"Don't you, Mr. Temple?" + +He reflected. + +"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." + +"The white flower of a blameless life? My felicitations," Lady St. +Craye smiled them. + +Temple flushed. + +"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--" + +"Yes!" said Lady St. Craye with an accent of finality. + +"What a man really likes is to be saint with the reputation of being a +bit of a devil." + +"And a woman likes, you think, to be a bit of a devil, with the +reputation of a saint?" + +"Or a bit of a saint with a reputation that rhymes to the reality. +It's the reputation that's important, isn't it?" + +"Isn't the inward truth the really important thing?" said Temple +rather heavily. + +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. + +"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." + +The plural vexed Temple, and he told himself how unreasonable the +vexation was. + +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. + +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. + +"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--" + +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. + +Vernon opened the door--to Betty. + +"Oh--come in," he said cordially, and his pause of absolute +astonishment was brief as an eye-flash. "This is delightful--" + +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." + +"I saw you in the Bois the other day," said Lady St. Craye, "and I +have been wanting to know you ever since." + +"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. + +"Take this chair," said Vernon, and moved a comfortable one with its +back to the light. + +"Temple--let me present you to Miss Desmond." + +Temple bowed, with no flicker of recognition visible in his face. But +Betty, flushing scarlet, said: + +"Mr. Temple and I have met before." + +There was the tiniest pause. Then Temple said: "I am so glad to meet +you again. I thought you had perhaps left Paris." + +"Let me give you some tea," said Vernon. + +Tea was made for her,--and conversation. She drank the tea, but she +seemed not to know what to do with the conversation. + +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. + +Lady St. Craye had it on her lips that she must go--when Betty rose +suddenly. + +"Good-bye," she said generally, looking round with miserable eyes that +tried to look merely polite. + +"Must you go?" asked Vernon, furious with the complicated emotions +that, warring in him, left him just as helpless as anyone else. + +"I do hope we shall meet again," said Lady St. Craye. + +"Mayn't I see you home?" asked Temple unexpectedly, even to himself. + +Betty's "No, thank you," was most definite. + +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. + +He closed the door and came back. There was no help for it. + +But there was help. Lady St. Craye gave it. She rose as Vernon came +back. + +"Quick!" she said, "Shall we go? Hadn't you better bring her back +here? Go after her at once." + +"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." + +"Of course she is--poor little thing. Oh, Mr. Vernon, do run! She +looks quite despairing. There's your hat. Go--go!" + +The door banged behind her. + +The other two, left alone, looked at each other. + +"I wonder--" said she. + +"Yes," said he, "it's certainly mysterious." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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!" + +"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." + +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. + +She spoke again suddenly: + +"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." + +"Apparently he can't paint so well with words as he does with oils. +May I ask exactly how flattering the portrait was?" + +"It wasn't flattering at all.--In fact it wasn't a portrait." + +"A caricature?" + +"But you don't mind what people say of you, do you?" + +"You are trying to frighten me." + +"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." + +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. + +"I wish I were like him," said he,--"at any rate, in his paintings." + +"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." + +"That wasn't what I meant; I--the fact is, I like old Vernon, but I +can't understand him." + +"That philosophy of life eludes you still? Now, I understand him, but +I don't always like him--not all of him." + +"I wonder whether anyone understands him?" + +"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." + +"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." + +This comparison of his character and Vernon's, with its sudden +assumption of intimacy, charmed yet embarrassed him. + +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. + +But at seven o'clock Vernon had not returned, and it was, after all, +Temple who saw her home. + +Temple, free from the immediate enchantment of her presence, felt the +revival of a resentful curiosity. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + +RENUNCIATION. + +Vernon tore down the stairs three and four at a time, and caught Betty +as she was stepping into a hired carriage. + +"What is it?" he asked. "What's the matter?" + +"Oh, go back to your friends!" said Betty angrily. + +"My friends are all right. They'll amuse each other. Tell me." + +"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." + +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. + +"Now," he said, "what is it? Where's your aunt, and--" + +"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." + +Despair was in her voice. + +He sat down. Betty, in the chair opposite his, sat with hands +nervously locked together. + +"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." + +"I won't say so." + +"Well, then--that day, you know, after I saw you at the Bete--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." + +"Yes," he said, trying not to let any anxiety into his voice. "Yes--go +on." + +"And I went to the Cafe d'Harcourt--What did you say?" + +"Nothing." + +"I thought it was where the art students went. And I met a girl there, +and she was kind to me." + +"What sort of a girl? Not an art student?" + +"No," said Betty hardly, "she wasn't an art student. She told me what +she was." + +"Yes?" + +"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 _is_ 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." + +"I'm not shocked," he said deliberately, "but I'm extremely stupid. +How gone?" + +"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." + +"It isn't wasted. But I must understand. You met this girl and she--" + +"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." + +"But your aunt?" + +Betty explained about her aunt. + +"And your father?" + +She explained about her father. + +"And now she has gone, and you want to find her?" + +"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?" + +Vernon had winced, just as Paula had winced, and at the same words. + +"You've looked for her at the Cafe d'Harcourt?" + +"No; I promised her that I'd never go there again." + +"She seems to have given you some good advice." + +"She advised me not to have anything to do with _you_" said Betty, +suddenly spiteful. + +"That was good advice--when she gave it," said Vernon, quietly; "but +now it's different." + +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. + +"Why don't you say something?" she said impatiently. "What am I to +do?" + +"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?" + +"No," said Betty. "I went there, but it was at night and I don't even +know the street." + +"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." + +"I couldn't sleep," said Betty, looking at him with the eyes of a +child that has cried its heart out. + +"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. + +On the top of his staircase he found Temple lounging. + +"Hullo--still here? I'm afraid I've been a devil of a time gone, but +Miss Desmond's--" + +"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." + +"Come in," said Vernon. "I'll tell you the whole thing." + +They went into the room desolate with the disorder of half empty cups +and scattered plates with crumbs of cake on them. + +"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." + +"Good God! She didn't know, of course?" + +"But she did know--that's the knock-down blow. She knew, and she +wanted to save her." + +Temple was silent a moment. + +"I say, you know, though--that's rather fine," he said presently. + +"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." + +"So she took her up, and--she's rather young for rescue work." + +"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." + +"She's not _that_ sort," said Temple. "I know her fairly well." + +"What--Sir Galahad? Oh, I won't ask inconvenient questions." Vernon's +sneer was not pretty. + +"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." + +"Can't something be done?" said Vernon. + +"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." + +"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?" + +The other stared at him. + +"Well," Vernon's face aged again instantly, "the thing is: we've got +to find the woman." + +"To get her to go back and live with that innocent girl?" + +"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?" + +But she was not to be found at her address. She had come back, paid +her bill, and taken away her effects. + +It was at the Cafe 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. + +"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." + +"The last time I saw you," Temple said, "was the night when you asked +me to take care of a girl." + +"So it was! And did you?" + +"No," said Temple; "she wouldn't let me. She went back to you." + +"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." + +She rose, knocking over a chair. + +"Don't go," said Vernon. "That's not what we want to ask." + +"'_We_' too," she turned fiercely on him: "as if you were a king or a +deputation." + +"One and one _are_ two," said Vernon; "and I did very much want to +talk to you." + +"And two are company." + +She had turned her head away. + +"You aren't going to be cruel," Vernon asked. + +"Well, send him off then. I won't be bullied by a crowd of you." + +Temple took off his hat and went. + +"I've got an appointment. I've no time for fool talk," she said. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Yes," said Vernon slowly, "it must have been amusing for you." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Don't," said Paula. + +"And to have her loving you and trusting you as she did--awfully +comic, wasn't it? Calling you her girl-friend--" + +"Shut up, will you?" + +"And thinking she had created a new heaven and a new earth for you. +Silly sentimental little school-girl!" + +"Will you hold your tongue?" + +"So long, Lottie," cried the girl of her party; "we're off to the +Bullier. You've got better fish to fry, I see." + +"Yes," said Paula with sudden effrontery; "perhaps we'll look in +later." + +The others laughed and went. + +"Now," she said, turning furiously on Vernon, "will you go? Or shall +I? I don't want any more of you." + +"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." + +"Why I left her? Because I was sick of--" + +"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--" + +"Because?" she leaned forward eagerly. + +"Because you were afraid." + +"Afraid?" + +"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?" + +Paula leaned her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands. + +"You're not like most men," she said; "you make me out better than I +am. That's not the usual mistake. Yes, it _was_ 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 _wouldn't_ think of while _she_ was with me. +_That's_ what I was afraid of." + +"And you didn't long for the old life at all?" + +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." + +"What do you mean?" + +"You know well enough what I mean. Let the girl alone." + +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 _her_ +friend. I mean to be a friend to her too, a good friend. No nonsense." + +"Swear it by God in Heaven," she said fiercely. + +"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." + +"What's the good of writing?" + +"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." + +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. + + "My Dear Little Betty: + + "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. + + "Your poor + + "Paula." + +"Will that do?" she laughed as she held out the letter. + +He read it. And he did not laugh. + +"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." + +"Then that's all settled!" + +"Can I do anything for _you_?" he asked. + +"God Himself can't do anything for me," she said, biting the edge of +her veil. + +"Where are you going now?" + +"Back to the d'Harcourt. It's early yet." + +She stood defiantly smiling at him. + +"What were you doing there--the night you met her?" he asked abruptly. + +"What does one do?" + +"What's become of de Villermay?" he asked. + +"Gone home--got married." + +"And so you thought--" + +"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." + +"I'll come a bit of the way with you," he said. + +At the door he turned, took her hand and kissed it gently and +reverently. + +"That's very sweet of you." She opened astonished eyes at him. "I +always used to think you an awful brute." + +"It was very theatrical of me," he told himself later. "But it summed +up the situation. Sentimental ass you're growing!" + +Betty got her letter from England and cried over it and was glad over +it. + +"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!" + + + + +Book 3.--The Other Woman + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + +ON MOUNT PARNASSUS. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Thank God, I have done some good in the world," said Betty. + +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. + +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 _he_ 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. + +"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." + +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 Musee Cluny for the +afternoon. + +"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. + +"Well, you know, in England people don't generally go about together +like that unless they're engaged, or relations." + +"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?" + +"Not quite always, I hope," said Betty good humouredly. + +"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." + +"There's something in that," Betty owned; "but my aunt says men never +want to be friends with girls--they always want--" + +"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." + +"But suppose a man got really fond of you, then he might think you +liked him too, if you were always about with him--" + +"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." + +Betty reflected as she ate her _noix de veau_. 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. + +"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 _the_ 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." + +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." + +"I don't know how _you_ 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!" + +"I'm not twenty yet," said Betty, with ears and face of scarlet. + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +Betty furiously resented the blush that hotly covered neck, ears and +face. + +"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: + +"Pleased to know you,--" + +"Pleased to make your acquaintance,--" + +"Delighted to meet you--" + +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. + +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 cafe table, and under cover of +Betty's purely automatic recognition of the composition's talent, +murmured: + +"Which of them was it?" + +"I beg your pardon?" Betty mechanically offered the deferent defence. + +"Which was it that said the three polite words--before you'd ever met +anyone else?" + +"Ah!" said Betty, "you're so clever--" + +"Too clever to live, yes," said Miss Voscoe; "but before I die--which +was it?" + +"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." + +"Well," remarked Miss Voscoe, "I guess Mr. Temple." + +"Didn't I say you were clever?" said Betty. + +"Then it's the other one." + +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. + +"Because, after all," said Vernon, "we _do_ 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." + +"It's very kind of you," said Betty, "but I'm all alone now Paula's +gone, and--" + +"We'll respect the conventions," said Vernon gaily, "but the +conventions of the Quartier Latin aren't the conventions of Clapham." + +"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--" + +"What? What do you wonder?" + +Betty spoke with effort. + +"I know it sounds insane, but, you know my stepfather thought you--you +wanted to marry me. You didn't ever, did you?" + +Vernon was silent: none of his habitual defences served him in this +hour. + +"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." + +"Eliminate love," said Vernon, "and the world is a simple example in +vulgar fractions." + +"I want it to be simple addition," said Betty. "Lady St. Craye is very +beautiful." + +"Yes," said Vernon. + +"Is she in love with you?" + +"Ask her," said Vernon, feeling like a schoolboy in an examination. + +"If she were--and you cared for her--then you and I could be friends: +I should like to be real friends with you." + +"Let us be friends," said he when he had paused a moment. He made the +proposal with every possible reservation. + +"Really?" she said. "I'm so glad." + +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. + +"Say, you two!" + +The voice of Miss Voscoe fell like a pebble into the pool of silence +that was slowly widening between them. + +"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?" + +"Yes--oh, yes!" said Betty, conscientiously delighted with the idea of +more work. + +"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." + +"Four francs seventy," said Temple through the shout of laughter. + +"Have I said something comme il ne faut pas?" said Miss Voscoe. + +"You couldn't," said Vernon: "every word leaves your lips without a +stain upon its character." + +"Won't you let us join?" asked an Irish student. "You'll be lost +entirely without a Lord of Creation to sharpen your pencils." + +"We mean to _work_," 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." + +"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--" + +A murmur of dissent from the others drove him back into shy silence. + +"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 +Independants! What we're suffering from in this quarter's +git-up-and-git. Why should we be contented to be nobody?" + +"On the contrary," said Vernon, "Miss Voscoe is everybody--almost!" + +"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?" + +"Temple is," said Vernon. "There's no mistaking that longing glance of +his." + +"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." + +"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." + +"_That_ would scare him some I surmise," said Miss Voscoe. + +"Not at all," said Temple, a little nettled, he hardly knew why. + +"I didn't know you were so brave," said the Minneapolis girl. + +"Perhaps he didn't want you to know," said Miss Voscoe; "perhaps +that's his life's dark secret." + +"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." + +"Is that _your_ 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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Mr. Vernon isn't weak in the head," said the shy boy suddenly. + +"No," said Vernon, "it's the heart that's weak with me. I have to be +very careful of it." + +"Well, but will you?" said a downright girl. + +"Will I what? I'm sorry, but I've lost my cue, I think. Where were +we--at losing hearts, wasn't it?" + +"No," said the downright girl, "I didn't mean that. I mean will you +come and criticise our drawings?" + +"Fiddle," said Miss Voscoe luminously. "Mr. Vernon's too big for +that." + +"Oh, well," said Vernon, "if you don't think I should be competent!" + +"You don't mean to say you would?" + +"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--" + +"Bobby, you unman me," interrupted Vernon, putting down his cup, "you +shall _not_ renounce the altruistic pleasure which you promise to +yourself in yielding this professorship to me. I accept it." + +"I'm hanged if you do!" said Temple. "You proposed me yourself, and +I'm elected--aren't I, Miss Voscoe?" + +"That's so," said she; "but Mr. Vernon's president too." + +"I've long been struggling with the conviction that Temple and I were +as brothers. Now I yield--Temple, to my arms!" + +They embraced, elegantly, enthusiastically, almost as Frenchmen use; +and the room applauded the faithful burlesque. + +"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. + +"It's settled then. Tuesdays and Fridays, four to six," he said. "At +last I am to be--" + +"The light of the harem," said Miss Voscoe. + +"Can there be two lights?" asked Temple anxiously. "If not, consider +the fraternal embrace withdrawn." + +"No, you're _the_ light, of course," said Betty. "Mr. Vernon's the +Ancient Light. He's older than you are, isn't he?" + +The roar of appreciation of her little joke surprised Betty, and, a +little, pleased her--till Miss Voscoe whispered under cover of it: + +"_Ancient_ light? Then he _was_ the three-polite-word man?" + +Betty explained her little jest. + +"All the same," said the other, "it wasn't any old blank walls you +were thinking about. I believe he is the one." + +"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. + +"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." + +"That's a very pretty speech," said Betty. He reminded her of the Cafe +d'Harcourt, but she did not say so. + +"You remind me of a garden," he went on, "but I don't like to see a +garden without a hedge round it." + +"You think I ought to have a chaperon," said Betty bravely, "but +chaperons aren't needed in this quarter." + +"I wish I were your brother," said Temple. + +"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. + +At parting Vernon, at the foot of the staircase, said: + +"And when may I see you again?" + +"On Tuesday, when the class meets." + +"But I didn't mean when shall I see the class. When shall I see Miss +Desmond?" + +"Oh, whenever you like," Betty answered gaily; "whenever Lady St. +Craye can spare you." + +He let her say it. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + +"LOVE AND TUPPER." + +"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. + +"Won't you dine with me somewhere to-night?" said he. + +"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. + +"Fallen as I am," he answered gaily, "I am not yet so low as to be +incapable of dining at Garnier's." + +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 Cafe 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. + +"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." + +But all Garnier's marked that whereas the habitues contented +themselves with an omelette aux champignons, saute 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 tete-a-tete 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 +naivete. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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 tete-a-tete or went to the +theatre alone. + +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 tete-a-tetes 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. + +"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." + +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: + +"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?" + +"Two? Yes. Or twenty." + +"Then it's not love," said Temple wisely. + +"They call it love," said Vernon. "_I_ don't know what they mean by +it. What do _you_ mean?" + +"By love?" + +"Yes." + +"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--" + +"Wanting?" + +"Well, I suppose if it's really love you want to marry them." + +"You can't marry _them_, you know," said Vernon; "at least not +simultaneously. That's just it. Well?" + +"Well that's all. If that's not love, what is?" + +"I'm hanged if _I_ know," said Vernon. + +"I thought you knew all about those sort of things." + +"So did I," said Vernon to himself. Aloud he said: + +"If you want a philosophic definition: it's passion transfigured by +tenderness--at least I've often said so." + +"But can you feel that for two people at once?" + +"Or," said Vernon, getting interested in his words, "it's tenderness +intoxicated by passion, and not knowing that it's drunk--" + +"But can you feel that for two--" + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Then you have to choose between being unhappy or being a blackguard." + +"My good chap, that's the situation in which our emotions are always +landing us--our confounded emotions and the conventions of Society." + +"And how are you to know whether the thing's love--or--all those other +things?" + +"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--" + +"Well?" + +"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." + +"I like it," said Temple. + +"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." + +"Yes," said Temple. + +"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." + +"I wasn't putting the case that either of them wished to get him," +said Temple carefully. + +Vernon nodded. + +"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 _he_ wants. That's very clumsily +put--what I mean is--" + +"I see what you mean," said Temple impatiently. + +"--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 _do_ want, and then to +jolly well see that you get it. What I want is a pipe." + +He filled and lighted one. + +"You talk," said Temple slowly, "as though a man could get anyone--I +mean anything, he wanted." + +"So he can, my dear chap, if he only wants her badly enough." + +"Badly enough?" + +"Badly enough to make the supreme sacrifice to get her." + +"?" Temple enquired. + +"Marriage," Vernon answered; "there's only one excuse for marriage." + +"Excuse?" + +"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 _can_ help getting married, +and doesn't, deserves all he gets." + +"I don't agree with you in the least," said Temple,--"about marriage, I +mean. A man _ought_ to want to get married--" + +"To anybody? Without its being anybody in particular?" + +"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." + +"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." + +[Illustration: "Unfinished, but a disquieting likeness"] + +"Your hints are always as delicate as gossamer," said Temple. "Don't +throw anything at me. I'm going." + +He went, leaving his secret in Vernon's hands. + +"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? +_Her_--I suppose." + +The use of the pronoun, the disuse of the grammar pulled him up short. + +"By Jove," he said, "that's what people say when--But I'm not in +love--with anybody. I want to work." + +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. + +"And it was I who advised her to come to Paris. If only I'd known +then--" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +"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." + +"That's so," said her friend. + +"If ever _I_ have a daughter," said Betty, "she shall set to work at +_something_ 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 _own_ work." + +"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!" + +"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. + +"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." + +"What do you mean?" asked Betty again. + +"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." + +"I've known him longer than I have the others, and I like him," said +Betty. + +"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' cremerie. Does he give you lessons?" + +"He did at home," said Betty. + +"Take care he doesn't teach you what's the easiest thing in creation +to learn about a man." + +"What's that?" Betty did not like to have to ask the question. + +"Why, how not to be able to do without him, of course," said Miss +Voscoe. + +"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." + +"Acquainted with the lady?" + +"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 _knew_ Lady St. Craye. + +"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?" + +"Meaning?" + +"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 _as_ 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 _fast_. That's how it strikes me." + +"Fast?" echoed Betty, bewildered. + +"Fast dye: fast colour. I suspicion he'd go wrong a bit in the wash. +Temple's fast colour, warranted not to run." + +"I know," said Betty, "but I don't care for the colour, and I'm rather +tired of the pattern." + +"I wish you'd tell me which of the two was the three-polite-word man." + +"I know you do. But surely you see _now_?" + +"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." + +"Didn't I tell you you were clever?" laughed Betty. + +But, all the same, next evening when Vernon called to take her to +dinner, she said: + +"Couldn't we go somewhere else? I'm tired of Garnier's." + +Vernon was tired of Garnier's, too. + +"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?" + +"I should love to be treated like a waiter's brother. Do let's go," +said Betty. + +"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?" + +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. + +"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 _is_ 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." + +Mr. Temple would, more than gladly. + +"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." + +"Thirion's," said Temple; "but it wasn't I, it was Vernon." + +"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?" + +It appeared that Mr. Temple would like it of all things. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +She looked at the vacant chair near his, and Vernon had to say: + +"You'll join us, of course?" + +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. + +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 a 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. "_She_ 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. + +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. + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +When the dinner was over she said abruptly: + +"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." + +She insisted, and it was done. + +When the carriage drew up in front of the closed porte cochere of 57 +Boulevard Montparnasse, Betty was surprised and wounded to discover +that she was crying. + +"Well, you _knew_ they were engaged!" she said as she let herself into +her room with her latchkey. "You knew they were engaged! What did you +expect?" + +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. + +Lady St. Craye hesitated a moment with her latchkey in her hand. Then +she threw open the door of her flat. + +"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. + +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. + +Yet this was what she must do, it seemed to her, or lose all the +ground she had gained. + +"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. + +"You flatter me," said Vernon. + +"I was so surprised to see you there," she went on. + +Vernon was surprised that she should say it. He had thought more +highly of her powers. + +"The pleasure was mine," he said in his most banal tones, "the +surprise, alas, was all for you--and all you gained." + +"Weren't _you_ 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! + +"No," said Vernon. + +"But you couldn't have expected me?" She knew quite well what she was +doing, but she was too nervous to stop herself. + +"I've always expected you," he said deliberately, "ever since I told +you that I often dined at Thirion's." + +"You expected me to--" + +"To run after me?" said Vernon with paraded ingenuousness; "yes, +didn't you?" + +"_I_ run after _you_? You--" she stopped short, for she saw in his +eyes that, if she let him quarrel with her now, it was forever. + +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: + +"Ah, don't break my heart!" he said, "I've been so happy all the +evening fancying that you had--you had--" + +"Had what?" she asked with dry lips, for the caress in his tone was +such as to deceive the very elect. + +"Had felt just the faintest little touch of interest in me. Had cared +to know how I spent my evenings, and with whom!" + +"You thought I could stoop to spy on you?" she asked. "Monsieur +flatters himself." + +The anger in him was raising its head again. + +"Monsieur very seldom does," he said. + +She took that as she chose to take it. + +"No, you're beautifully humble." + +"And you're proudly beautiful." + +She flushed and looked down. + +"Don't you like to be told that you're beautiful?" + +"Not by you. Not like that!" + +"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!" + +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?" + +"Very," he answered gaily. "Can you doubt it?" + +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. + +She put her hands to her head. She could not see clearly. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + +INTERVENTIONS. + +That kiss gave Lady St. Craye furiously to think, as they say in +France. + +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? + +The sex-instinct said "No." + +Then, if "No" were the answer to that question, the kiss had been mere +brutality. It had meant just: + +"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. + +The kiss stung. It was not the first. But the others--even the last of +them, two years before, had not had that sting. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Oh, was the door open?" she said. "I didn't know, I've--I'm so +sorry--I've been washing my hair." + +"It's lovely," said the other woman, with an appreciation quite +genuine. "What a pity you can't always wear it like that!" + +"It's long," said Betty disparagingly, "but the colour's horrid. What +Miss Voscoe calls Boy colour." + +"Boy colour?" + +"Oh, just nothing in particular. Mousy." + +"If you had golden hair, or black, Miss Desmond, you'd have a quite +unfair advantage over the rest of us." + +"I don't think so," said Betty very simply; "you see, no one ever sees +it down." + +"What a charming place you've got here," Lady St. Craye went on. + +"Yes," said Betty, "it is nice," and she thought of Paula. + +"And do you live here all alone?" + +"Yes: I had a friend with me at first, but she's gone back to +England." + +"Don't you find it very dull?" + +"Oh, no! I know lots of people now." + +"And they come to see you here?" + +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. + +"Yes," said Betty. + +"Mr. Vernon's a great friend of yours, isn't he?" + +"Yes." + +"I suppose you see a great deal of him?" + +"Yes. Is there anything else you would like to know?" + +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: + +"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." + +Betty scratched again quite calmly and quite mercilessly. + +"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?" + +It was impossible for Lady St. Craye to reply: "I meant that I was +interested in _you_--not in Mr. Vernon;" so she said: + +"Thank you--that will be delightful." + +Betty went along the little passage to her kitchen, and her visitor +was left to revise her impressions. + +When Betty came back with the tea-tray, her hair was twisted up. The +kettle could be heard hissing in the tiny kitchen. + +"Can't I help you?" Lady St. Craye asked, leaning back indolently in +the most comfortable chair. + +"No, thank you: it's all done now." + +[Illustration: "'No, thank you it's all done now'"] + +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: + +"I think I know why you came to-day." + +"I came to see you, because you're a friend of Mr. Vernon's." + +"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?" + +Candour is the most disconcerting of the virtues. + +"Not in the least," Lady St. Craye found herself saying. "I came to +see you--because--as I said." + +"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." + +"Really, Miss Desmond"--Lady St. Craye clutched her card-case and half +rose--"I begin to think we never should." + +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. + +"Do sit down," she said. "I'm glad you came--because I know exactly +what you mean, now." + +"If the knowledge were only mutual!" sighed Lady St. Craye, and found +courage to raise eyebrows wearily. + +"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." + +Lady St. Craye had the best of reasons for believing this likely to be +the truth. She said: + +"When I'm married?" + +"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--" + +The other woman was not listening. "Engaged to him!"--The words sang +deliciously, disquietingly in her ears. + +"But who said I was engaged to him?" + +"He did, of course. He isn't ashamed of it--if you are." + +"He told you that!" + +"Yes. Now aren't you ashamed of yourself?" + +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. + +"Yes," she said, with her charming smile. "I am ashamed of myself. I +_was_ 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?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"How could I?" asked Betty. + +"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." + +"Of course you care," said Betty downrightly. "You ought to care. It +would be horrid of you if you didn't." + +"But I don't, _now_. Now I _know_ you, Miss Desmond. I understand so +well--and I like to think of his being with you." + +Even to Betty's ears this did not ring quite true. + +"You like--?" she said. + +"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." + +"He hasn't one with me," said Betty briefly. + +"Ah, you're still angry. And no wonder. Do forgive me, Miss Desmond, +and let's be friends." + +Betty's look as she gave her hand was doubtful. But the hand was +given. + +"And you'll keep my poor little secret?" + +"I should have thought you would have been proud for him to know how +much you care." + +"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." + +"I don't think that's so always," said Betty. + +"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?" + +"Perhaps I have." Betty stood on guard with a steady face. + +"Well, when you have--or if you have--remember never to let him be +quite sure. It's the only way." + +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. + +She blushed in the dusk of her carriage for the shame of that kiss. + +But he had told that girl that he was engaged to her. + +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. + +She had time to think in the days that followed, days that brought +Temple more than once to her doors, but Vernon never. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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 Cafe 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. + +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. + +"Oh--Mr. Temple!" + +He stopped and turned. + +"I was looking for a place to dine. I'm tired of Garnier's and +Thirion's." + +He hesitated. And he, too, remembered the night at the Cafe +d'Harcourt, when she had disdained his advice and gone back to take +the advice of Paula. + +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. + +"Don't you know of any good quiet place near here?" said Betty. + +"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--" + +Remorse stirred her. + +"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 _did_," she added in haste; "I can never be +anything but glad for that. But I'm sorry I seemed ungrateful to you." + +"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?" + +"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. + +"I should like to come with you--I should like it of all things," he +said; and he said it convincingly. + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Yes," he said. "Those are the roses one longs for." And an odd pause +punctuated the sentence. + +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: + +"Oh, I do like--" + +"And don't you like--?" + +"And isn't that splendid?" + +These simple sentences, interchanged, took on the value of intimate +confidences. + +"I've had such a jolly time," Temple said. "I haven't had such a talk +for ages." + +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. + +"I've liked it too," said Betty. + +"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. + +"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." + +Vernon spent an empty evening, and waylaid Betty as she left her class +next day. + +"I'm sorry," she said. "I couldn't help it. I suddenly felt I wanted +something different. So I dined at a new place." + +"Alone?" said Vernon. + +"No," said Betty with her chin in the air. + +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. + +"Will you dine with me to-night?" was all he found to say. + +"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. + +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. + +"I'm glad," said Betty; "if he's engaged, I don't want to feel happy +with him." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +She was alone. She rose to greet him, and he saw that her eyes were +dark-rimmed, and her lips rough. + +"This is very nice of you," she said. "It's nearly a month since I saw +you." + +"Yes," he said. "I know it is. Do you remember the last time? Hasn't +that taught you not to play with me?" + +The kiss was explained now. Lady St. Craye shivered. + +"I don't know what you mean?" she said, feebly. + +"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." + +"You overwhelm me," she made herself say. + +"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." + +She drew her dry lips inward to moisten them. + +"What do you want to know? Why do you speak to me like that? What have +I done?" + +"That's what you're going to tell me." + +"I shall tell you nothing--while you ask in that tone." + +"Won't you? How can I persuade you?" his tone caressed and stung. +"What arguments can I use? Must I kiss you again?" + +She drew herself up, called wildly on all her powers to resent the +insult. Nothing came at her call. + +"What do you want me to tell you?" she asked, and her eyes implored +the mercy she would not consciously have asked. + +He saw, and he came a little nearer to her--looking down at her +upturned face with eyes before which her own fell. + +"You don't want another kiss?" he said. "Then tell me what you've been +saying to Miss Desmond." + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + +THE TRUTH. + +There was a silence. + +"Come, my pretty Jasmine lady, speak the truth." + +"I will: What a brute you are!" + +"So another lady told me a few months ago. Come, tell me." + +"Why should I tell you anything?" She tried to touch her tone with +scorn. + +"Because I choose. You thought you could play with me and fool me and +trick me out of what I mean to have--" + +"What you mean to have?" + +"Yes, what I mean to have. I mean to marry Miss Desmond--if she'll +have me." + +"_You_--mean to marry? Saul is among the prophets with a vengeance!" +The scorn came naturally to her voice now. + +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." + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"Forgive me, dear," he said. "I was a brute. Forgive me--and help me. +No one can help me but you." + +It was a master-stroke: and he had staked a good deal on it. The stake +was not lost. She found no words. + +"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?" + +"Yes," she said, "I am fond of you." + +"And you forgive me--you do forgive me for being such a brute? I +hardly knew what I was doing." + +"Yes," she said, speaking as one speaks in dreams, "I forgive you." + +"Thank you," he said humbly; "you were always generous. And you always +understand." + +"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." + +"Tell me," she said gently to Vernon, "tell me everything." + +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: + +"My poor boy,--but there's nothing for you to be unhappy about. Tell +me all about it--from the very beginning." + +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: + +"It all comes of that confounded habit of mine of wanting to be in +love." + +"Yes," she said, "you were always so anxious to be--weren't you? And +you never were--till now." + +The echo of his hidden thought made it easier for him to go on. + +"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." + +"And it was love at first sight?" said she, and took away her hand. + +"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." + +"Like mine," she said, looking down on him. + +"Nothing could be like _that_," 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?" + +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. + +"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." + +"Yes," she said. "I know." + +"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." + +"There was some one in Brittany, of course?" + +"Of course," said he; "there always is. I had a delightful summer. +Then in October, sitting at the Cafe de la Paix, I saw her pass. It +was the same day I saw you." + +"Before or after you saw me?" + +"After." + +"Then if I'd stopped--if I'd made you come for a drive then and there, +you'd never have seen her?" + +"That's so," said Vernon; "and by Heaven I almost wish you had!" + +The wish was a serpent in her heart. She said: "Go on." + +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. + +"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." + +"You never were in love with me." + +"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." + +"Yes. I believe it's painful. Go on." + +He went on. He was enjoying himself, now, thoroughly. + +"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." + +"That is too much!" she cried and would have risen: but he kept her +hand fast. + +"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." + +"So you knew all the time that I didn't care?" her self-respect +clutched at the spar he threw out. + +"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." + +"And haven't you?" + +"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--" + +"I suppose you've been very, very happy?" + +"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--_Pauvre feuille desechee_, 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." + +"Underwood?" + +"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. + +"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." + +"The question is," said he anxiously, "whether she'll forgive me for +that lie. She's most awfully straight, you know." + +"She seems to have lied herself," Lady St. Craye could not help +saying. + +"Ah, yes--but only to her father." + +"That hardly counts, you think?" + +"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?" + +She gasped before the sudden vision of the naked gigantic egotism of a +man in love. + +"You can tell her what you like," she said wearily: "a lie or two more +or less--what does it matter?" + +"I don't want to lie to her," said Vernon. "I hate to. But she'd never +understand the truth." + +"You think _I_ understand? It _is_ the truth you've been telling me?" + +He laughed. "I don't think I ever told so much truth in all my life." + +"And you've thoroughly enjoyed it! You alway did enjoy new +sensations!" + +"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--" + +"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." + +"Ah, you don't know her," he said. "You see, she's so young and brave +and true and--what is it--Why--" + +Lady St. Craye had rested her head against his coat-sleeve and he knew +that she was crying. + +"What is it? My dear, don't--you musn't cry." + +"I'm not.--At least I'm very tired." + +"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!" + +His hand on her soft hair held her head against his arm. + +"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. + +"You're really going to marry the girl? You mean it?" + +"Yes." + +"Then I'll help you. I'll do everything I can for you." + +"You're a dear," he said kindly. "You always were." + +"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 _is_ spoilt. She'll never +love you like I do. Nobody ever will." + +"You're tired. I've bothered you. You're saying this just +to--because--" + +"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." + +"Yes, dear, yes. I'll go" he said, and rose. She buried her face in +the cushion where his shoulder had been. + +He was looking round for his hat and gloves--more uncomfortable than +he ever remembered to have been. + +As he reached the door she sprang up, and he heard the silken swish of +her gray gown coming towards him. + +"Say good-night," she pleaded. "Oh, Eustace, kiss me again--kindly, +not like last time." + +He met her half-way, took her in his arms and kissed her forehead very +gently, very tenderly. + +"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." + +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. + +"Good-bye," she said. "I shall be quite sane to-morrow. And then I'll +help you." + +When he got out into the street he looked at his watch. It was not yet +ten o'clock. He hailed a carriage. + +"Fifty-seven Boulevard Montparnasse," he said. + +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. + +He wanted to efface the mark of those kisses. He would not be haunted +all night by any lips but Betty's. + +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. + +He went softly up the stairs and stood listening outside Betty's door. +Then he knocked gently. No one answered. Nothing stirred inside. + +"She may be out," he told himself. "I'll wait a bit." + +At the same time he tapped again; and this time beyond the door +something did stir. + +Then came Betty's voice: + +"_Qui est la_?" + +"It's me--Vernon. May I come in?" + +A moment's pause. Then: + +"No. You can't possibly. Is anything the matter?" + +"No--oh, no, but I wanted so much to see you. May I come to-morrow +early?" + +"You're sure there's nothing wrong? At home or anything? You haven't +come to break anything to me?" + +"No--no; it's only something I wanted to tell you." + +He began to feel a fool, with his guarded whispers through a locked +door. + +"Then come at twelve," said Betty in the tones of finality. +"Good-night." + +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. + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +"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!" + +But was it? + +A word to Betty--and-- + +"But you promised to help him." + +"That was before he kissed me." + +"But a promise is a promise." + +"Yes,--and your life's your life. You'll never have another." + +She stood still, her hands hanging by her sides--clenched hands that +the rings bit into. + +"He will go to her early to-morrow. And she'll accept him, of course. +She's never seen anyone else, the little fool." + +She knew that she herself would have taken him, would have chosen him +as the chief among ten thousand. + +"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." + +She had turned up the electric lights now, at her toilet table, and +was pulling the pins out of her ruffled hair. + +"And he'd never care about her children. And they'd be ugly little +horrors." + +She was twisting her hair up quickly and firmly. + +"I _have_ 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?" + +She looked at herself in the silver-framed mirror and laughed. + +"And you always thought yourself a proud woman!" + +Suddenly she dropped the brush; it rattled and spun on the polished +floor. + +She stamped her foot. + +"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. + +"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. + +"You silly fool," she said to the woman in the glass. + +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. + +"No," she said, "one doesn't write anonymous letters. Besides it would +be too late. He'll see her to-morrow early--early." + +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. + +And she, too, gave to the coachman the address: + +Fifty-seven Boulevard Montparnasse. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + +THE TRUTH WITH A VENGEANCE. + +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. + +"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." + +But Betty declined to try a Pole or a German. + +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. + +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. + +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 _would_ be happy with that woman. + +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. + +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. + + "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. + + "Yours, + + "Robert Temple." + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +"Go away," she said low and earnestly. "I can't talk to you to-night +_whatever it is_. It must wait till the morning." + +"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?" + +"Are you alone?" said Betty. + +"Of course I'm alone. It's most important. Do open the door." + +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. + +She waited for the other to speak, but after all it was she who broke +the silence. + +"Well," she said, "what do you want now?" + +"I hardly know how to begin," said Lady St. Craye with great truth. + +"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." + +"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. + +"May I sit down?" she asked forlornly. + +Betty, rather roughly, pushed forward a chair. + +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. + +It was quite easy. + +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. + +"Don't distress yourself," said Betty, very chill and distant. + +"Can you--can you lend me a handkerchief?" said the other +unexpectedly, screwing up her own drenched cambric in her hand. + +Betty fetched a handkerchief. + +"I haven't any scent," she said. "I'm sorry." + +That nearly dried the tears--but not quite: Lady St. Craye was a +persevering woman. + +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. + +"Come," she said, "don't cry so. I'm sure there's nothing to be so +upset about--" + +Then came to her sharp as any knife, the thought of what there might +be. + +"There's nothing wrong with anyone? There hasn't been an accident or +anything?" + +The other, still speechless, conveyed "No." + +"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. + +"I _am_ so sorry," she said, "so ashamed.--Breaking down like this. +You don't know what it is to be as unhappy as I am." + +Betty thought she did. We all think we do, in the presence of any +grief not our own. + +"Can I do anything?" She spoke much more kindly than she had expected +to speak. + +"Will you let me tell you everything? The whole truth?" + +"Of course if you want to, but--" + +"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?" + +"You've no right to ask me that." + +"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." + +This was not true; but it took less time to tell than the truth would +have taken, and sounded better. + +"We were engaged, and I was very fond of him. But he--you know what he +is about Women?" + +"No," said Betty steadily. "I don't want to hear anything about him." + +"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." + +"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. + +"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?" + +"Not at all," said Betty, who was, rather. + +"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." + +"You had no cause," said Betty. + +"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." + +Betty's heart gave a jump. + +"He seems to have been very sure of me," she said loftily. + +"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.'" + +"How kind of him!" + +"I wish you'd heard the way he spoke of you." + +"I don't want to hear." + +"_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." + +"But--supposing I weren't here--do you think you could get him back?" + +"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." + +"I heard someone say that in a play once," said Betty musing. + +"So did I," said Lady St. Craye very sharply--"but it's true for all +that. Well--you can do as you like." + +"Of course I can," said Betty. + +"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--_do_ you +love him?" + +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. + +"I don't know," she said. + +"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?" + +"Yes," said Betty slowly, "I'll do that. _Look_ 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." + +"You are very, very good," said Lady St. Craye, and she meant it. + +"But I don't know where to go. Tell me where to go." + +"Can't you go home?" + +"No: I won't. That's too much." + +"Go somewhere and sketch." + +"Yes,--but _where_?" said poor Betty impatiently. + +"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 _is_ good of you to forgive me for everything. I'm afraid I +was a cat to you." + +"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!" + +Lady St. Craye also thought it a useful thing--in moderation. She +rose. + +"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 _knew_. 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." + +"I wish everything was different," said Betty. + +"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--" + +She put her arms round Betty and spoke close to her ear. + +"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." + +The two clung together for an instant. + +"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." + +"I'll pack to-night," said Betty. "I hope _you'll_ be happy anyway. Do +you know I think I have been hating you rather badly without quite +knowing it." + +"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!" + +"I'm not quite a fool," said Betty. + +"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." + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + +WAKING-UP TIME. + + 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. + + Yours very sincerely, + + Elizabeth Desmond. + +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. + +"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?" + +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. + +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? + +"Pooh--nonsense!" he said. But all the same he paused at the +concierge's window. + +"I am desolated to have deranged Madame,"--gold coin changed +hands.--"A lady came to see Mademoiselle this morning, is it not?" + +"No, no lady had visited Mademoiselle to-day: no one at all in +effect." + +"Nor last night--very late?" + +"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 Beauchesne an troisieme. +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." + +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. + +"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?" + +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 employes. 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. + +Then he put his question. Miss Voscoe knew nothing. Guessed Miss +Desmond knew her own business best. + +"But she's so young," said Vernon; "anything might have happened to +her." + +"I reckon she's safe enough--where she is," said Miss Voscoe with +intention. + +"But haven't you any idea why she's gone?" he asked, not at all +expecting any answer but "Not the least." + +But Miss Voscoe said: + +"I have a quite first-class idea and so have you." + +He could but beg her pardon interrogatively. + +"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." + +Vernon had to ask why. + +"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?" + +"I'm not engaged," said Vernon shortly. + +"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. _She's_ your ticket. Betty's not. +Your friend's her style. You pass, this hand, and give the girl a +chance." + +"I really don't understand--" + +"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 _the_ 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." + +Vernon laughed. + +"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." + +"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." + +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." + +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. + +"I want you. I want you. I want you," said the man who had been the +Amorist. "I want you, dear!" + +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: + + "I love you to my heart's hid core: + Those other loves? How can one learn + From marshlights how the great fires burn? + Ah, no--I never loved before!" + +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!" + +He was beginning to be a connoisseur in the fine flavours of the +different brands of jealousy. Anyway there was food for thought. + +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. + +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. + +"Do you know she's disappeared?" he said abruptly. + +"_Disappeared_?" No one was ever more astonished than Lady St. Craye. +Quite natural, the astonishment. Not overdone by so much as a hair's +breadth. + +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. + +"And I worry about Temple," he said; "like any school boy, I worry. If +he _does_ 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?" + +"I could, I suppose," she admitted. To herself she said: "Temple's at +Grez. _She's_ at Grez. They've been there ten days." + +"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--" + +"No butter, thanks," she said. + +"It's the best butter," he earnestly urged. "I mean that I mean it. +Won't you?" + +"When I see him again--but it's not very fair to him, is it?" + +"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. + +"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." + +"Yes--wouldn't one?" said Vernon. + +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? + +Quite suddenly and to her own intense surprise, she laughed out loud. + +"What is it?" his alert vanity bristled in the query. + +"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." + +"Oh, no," said Vernon; "everything's bound to come right in the end. +It all works out straight somehow." + +She laughed again. + +"Optimism--from you?" + +"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?" + +"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. + +"You think He made it for a joke?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +She gave him tea. + +"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." + +"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." + +"And yet they say Love's blind." + +"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 _you_." + +"Monsieur's confidante is always at his distinguished service," she +said. And thus sealed the fountain of confidences for that day. + +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. + +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. + +Those afternoons were seasons of salutary torture. + +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. + +"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." + +He was haunted without cease by the little poem he had written when he +was training himself to be in love with Betty: + + "I love you to my heart's hid core: + Those other loves? How should one learn + From marshlights how the great fires burn? + Ah, no--I never loved before!" + +"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!" + +Miss Conway's name, moving through his thoughts, left the trail of a +new hope. + +Next day he breakfasted at Montmartre. + +The neatest little Cremerie; 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. + +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. + +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. + +"Well, and how's trade?" he asked over his asparagus. + +"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." + +Her eyes dwelt on him with candid affection. + +"Your cruel creditor's not in any hurry," he said. "By the way, I +suppose you've not heard anything of Miss Desmond?" + +"How could I? You know you made me write that she wasn't to write." + +"I didn't _make_ you write anything." + +"You approved. But anyway she hasn't my address. Why?" + +"She's gone away: and she also has left no address." + +"You don't think?--Oh, no--nothing _could_ have happened to her!" + +"No, no," he hastened to say. "I expect her father sent for her, or +fetched her." + +"The best thing too," said Paula. "I always wondered he let her come." + +"Yes,"--Vernon remembered how little Paula knew. + +"Oh, yes, she's probably gone home." + +"Look here," said Miss Conway very earnestly; "there wasn't any love +business between you and her, was there?" + +"No," he answered strongly. + +"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 _did_ 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?" + +"It could do no harm," said Vernon after a silent moment. "You'd +really like her to know you're all right. You _are_ all right?" + +"I'm right; as I never thought I could be ever again." + +"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." + +But when Paula came to write the letter that was not just what she +said. + + + + +Book 4.--The Other Man + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + +THE FLIGHT. + +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. + +"Why did you promise?" she asked herself. And herself replied: + +"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." + +"You'd better tell the cabman some other station. That cat of a +concierge is sure to be listening." + +"Ah, right. I don't want to give him any chance of finding me, even if +he did say he wanted to marry me." + +A fleet lovely picture of herself in bridal smart travelling clothes +arriving at the Rectory on Vernon's arm: + +"Aren't you sorry you misjudged him so, Father?" Gentle accents +refraining from reproach. A very pretty picture. Yes. Dismissed. + +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 _his_ street. Better cross +it as quickly as may be. At the Church of St. Germain--yes. + +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! + +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: + +"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. + +"But I can't let you go. Why ruin two lives--nay, three? For it is you +only that I--" + +Dismissed. + +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 _were_ to be at the +station. Interval. Dismissed. + +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--" + +Dismissed. And perforce, for the station was reached. + +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: + +"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. + +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. + +"_Pour egayer le voyage de Meess_. All right!" he smiled, and was +gone. + +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. + +"Ah, Mademoiselle--_De grace_!"--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-- + +Betty smiling reached out the bottle and poured lavender water on each +outheld handkerchief. + +"_Ah, le bon souvenir_!" said one. + +"We shall think of the beauty of an angel of Mademoiselle every time +we smell the perfume so delicious," said the second. + +"And longer than that--oh, longer than that by all a life!" cried the +third. + +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. + +"I ought to be offended," said Betty, and instantly kissed her hand in +return. + +"How _nice_ French people are!" she said as she sank back on the hot +cushions. + +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. + +She leaned back, eyes shut. Her next thought was: + +"I have been to sleep." + +She had. The train was moving out of a station labelled Fontainebleau. + +"And oh, the trees!" said Betty, "the green thick trees! And the sky. +You can see the sky." + +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. + +"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. + +"Bourron!" + +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. + +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. + +"_Oh_!" she said suddenly, "it's a year ago to-day since I met +_him_--in the warren." + +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. + +The little hooded diligence was waiting in the hot white dust outside +the station. + +"But yes.--It is I who transport all the guests of Madame Chevillon," +said the smiling brown-haired bonnetless woman who held the reins. + +Betty climbed up beside her. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"I wish to see Madame Chevillon." + +"You see her, _ma belle et bonne_," 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." + +Betty disliked the picture. + +"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--" + +She saw days made tiresome by the dodging of a lunatic--nights made +tremulous by a lunatic's yelling soliloquies. + +"Ah," said Madame Chevillon comfortably, "I thought Mademoiselle was +artist; and for the artists and the Spaniards the _convenances_ 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!" + +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. + +"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." + +Betty had her dejeuner on the little stone terrace with rickety rustic +railings. Below lay the garden, thick with trees. + +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. + +And in Paris one had to be careful. But now-- + +"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 _he_ likes." + +Lying in a long chair reading one of her Tauchnitz books and smoking, +Betty felt very manly indeed. + +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. + +"I am very very unhappy," said Betty with a deep sigh of delight. + +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: + +Chez Madame Chevillon, Pavilion du Jardin, Grez. + +"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." + +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. + +"Yes," she said, turning the hot rough pillow, "now it begins to hurt +again. I knew it would." + +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. + +She wondered where Vernon was. It was quite early. Not eleven. Lady +St. Craye had called that quite early. + +"He's with _her_, 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." + +Betty dressed and went out. + +She crossed the garden. It was very dark among the trees. It would be +lighter in the road. + +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. + +She stood a moment, hesitating. A door creaked inside the hotel. She +took the road to the river. + +"I wonder if people ever _do_ drown themselves for love," said Betty: +"he'd be sorry then." + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + +THE LUNATIC. + +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. + +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. + +"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!" + +Paris was going on--all that muddle and maze of worried people. And +she was out of it all; here, alone. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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-- + +Flannels. Yes. The lunatic who boiled his brains in the sun! + +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. + +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 _her_ fault if he did. + +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. + +She looked very carefully in every corner--all was still and empty. +She locked the door, and fell face downward on her bed. + +Vernon in his studio was "thinking things over" after the advice of +Miss Voscoe in much the same attitude. + +"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!" + +But to-morrow morning touched the night's events with new colours from +its shining palette. + +"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." + +She asked, when her "complete coffee" came to her, what the mad +gentleman did all day. + +"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." + +"Which way is Montigny?" asked Betty. And, learning, strolled, when +her coffee was finished, by what looked like the other way. + +It took her to the river. + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"I didn't know I was such a good oar," said Betty as the boat crept +swiftly down the river. + +As she stepped into the boat, she noticed the long river reeds +straining down stream like the green hair of hidden water-nixies. + +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. + +Then she remembered the streaming green weeds. + +"Why, there must be a frightful current!" she said. What could make +the river run at this pace--a weir--or a waterfall? + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +She landed, pushed through the saplings, found a mossy willow stump +and sat down to get her breath. + +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. + +"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." + +And still no one passed. + +Suddenly the soft whistling of a tune came through the hot air. A tune +she had learned in Paris. + +"_C'etait deux amants_." + +"Hi!" cried Betty in a voice that was not at all like her voice. +"Help!--_Au secours_!" she added on second thoughts. + +"Where are you?" came a voice. How alike all Englishmen's voices +seemed--in a foreign land! + +"Here--on the island! Send someone out with a boat, will you? I can't +work my boat a bit." + +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. + +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: + +"Drop it! What are you doing?"--and a hand fell on the chain. + +Betty, at bay, raised her head. Lunatics, she knew, could be quelled +by the calm gaze of the sane human eye. + +She gave one look, and held out both hands with a joyous cry. + +"Oh,--it's _you_! I _am_ so glad! Where did you come from? Oh, how wet +you are!" + +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. + +"You!" Temple was saying very slowly. "How on earth? Where are you +staying? Where's your party?" + +He was squeezing the water out of sleeves and trouser legs. + +"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." + +"Where are you staying?" he asked, drawing the chain in hand over +hand, till a loose loop of it dipped in the water. + +"Hotel Chevillon. How dripping you are!" + +"Hotel Chevillon," he repeated. "Never! Then it was _you_!" + +"What was me?" + +"That I was sheep-dog to last night in the forest." + +"Then it was _you_? 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 _was_ me?" + +Temple blushed through the runnels of water that trickled from his +hair. + +"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." + +"That's very, very nice of you," said Betty. "But oh!"--She told him +about the lunatic. + +"Oh, that's me!" said Temple. "I recognise the portrait, especially +about the hat." + +He had loosened the chain and was pulling with strong even strokes +across the river towards the bank where his coat lay. + +"We'll land here if you don't mind." + +"Can't you pull up to the place where I stole the boat?" + +He laughed: + +"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?" + +Betty thought it did. + +"Let me carry your coat," said Betty as they landed. "You'll make it +so wet." + +He stood still a moment and looked at her. + +"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!" + + * * * * * + +"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." + +"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." + +"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?" + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + +TEMPERATURES. + +"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 +_does_ want. Yes. That's all." + +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. + +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. + +"But suppose something happens to her--all alone there," said the +Inward Monitor. + +"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. + +"You told Him that all girls were the same sort of girls," said the +pitiless voice. + +"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." + +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. + +A couple of miles is a good distance. Also a very little way, as you +choose to take it. + +"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?" + +"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." + +Vernon, strolling in much later, found her with eyes closed, leaning +back among her flowers as she had lain all that long afternoon. + +"How pale you look," he said. "You ought to get away from here." + +"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. + +"Heaven knows what I should do without you to--to bring my--my roses +to," he said. + +"Do you bring me anything else to-day?" she roused herself to ask. +"Any news, for instance?" + +"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." + +"A very proper course!" + +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. + +She made herself say: "And suppose she isn't there?" She thought she +said it rather well. + +"Well, then there's no harm done." + +"He doesn't like you." She was glad she had remembered that. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +That at least was quite clearly put. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +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." + +"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." + +He took her hand, felt her pulse. Then he kissed the hand. + +"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." + +"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_ don't +care what you do!" + +"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. + +"A letter written from Paris? That's so likely, isn't it? But do what +you like. _I_ don't care what you do." + +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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"I? _Hit you_?" + +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. + +"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 _isn't_ 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." + +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. + +"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!" + +"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. + +"I don't think I want to, now," she said, astonished that it should be +so. + +"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." + +"Are you?" she said, and her arms fell across his shoulders. + +"Of course I am," he said. "Hold tight." + +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. + +He opened her bedroom door, laid her on the white, lacy coverlet of +her bed. + +"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." + +He bent over the bed and kissed her gently. + +"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. + +"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?" + +She folded her hands, the white roses still clasped. The white bed, +the white dress, the white flowers. Horrible! + +"Yes," he said firmly, "just like that. I shall be back in five +minutes." + +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. + +When the doctor came he went out by that excellent Irishman's +direction and telegraphed for a nurse. + +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. + +A little pang pricked him, and drove him to the balcony. + +"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. + +"Well," he asked the doctor who closed softly the door of the bedroom +and came forward, "is it brain-fever?" + +"Holy Ann, no! Brain fever's a fell disease invented by novelists--I +never met it in all _my_ 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." + +"I see," said Vernon. "Any danger?" + +"There's always danger, Lord--Saint-Croix isn't it?" + +"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--" + +"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." + +"He's dead," said Vernon. + +"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." + +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 "_toujours tres souffrante_," 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. + +"I mean to do it," he told himself, "and it can't hurt _her_ 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." + +So he wrote. And he wrote a great deal, though the letter that at last +he signed was quite short: + + My Dear Sir: + + 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 L1,700 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. + + I am, my dear Sir, Your obedient servant, + + Eustace Vernon. + +"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." + +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 Cafe +du Dome--came home to him rather forlornly. + +Next morning he called with more roses for Lady St. Craye, pinky ones +this time. + +"Milady was toujours _tres souffrante_. It would be ten days, at the +least, before Milady could receive, even a very old friend, like +Monsieur." + +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 +L1,700 a year!-- + +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. + +Miss Julia Desmond had wired him from Suez that she would be in Paris +next week--had astonishingly asked him to meet her there. + +"Paris next Tuesday Gare St. Lazare 6:45. Come and see Betty via +Dieppe," had been her odd message. + +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-- + +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." + +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, "_s'occupait d'elle_." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + +THE CONFESSIONAL. + +The concierge sat at her window under the arch of the porte-cochere 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. + +The trams passed and repassed, people in carriages, people on +foot--the usual crowd--not interesting. + +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. + +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. + +"Good morning, Madame," she said. "I bring you the little present." + +The concierge was genuinely annoyed. Why had she not waited a little +longer? Still, all was not yet lost. + +"Come in, Madame," she said. "Madame has the air very fatigued." + +"I have been very ill," said Lady St. Craye. + +"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. + +"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." + +"What have you done?" she asked quickly. "You haven't told anyone that +I was here that night?" + +"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." + +"Tell me exactly," said Lady St. Craye, "what you have done." + +"It was but last week," the concierge went on, rearranging a stiff +bouquet in exactly the manner of an embarrassed ingenue on the stage, +"but only last week that I received a letter from Mademoiselle +Desmond. She sent me her address." + +She paused. Lady St. Craye laid the bank note on the table. + +"Madame wants the address?" + +"I have the address. I want to know whether you have given it to +anyone else." + +"No, Madame," said the concierge with simple pride, "when you have +given a thing you have it not any longer." + +"Well--pardon me--have you sold it?" + +"For the same good reason, no, Madame." + +"Take the note," said Lady St. Craye, "and tell me what you have done +with the address." + +"This gentleman, whom Madame did not wish to know that she had been +here that night--" + +"I didn't wish _anyone_ to know!" + +"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.'" + +"So he wrote to her. Have you sent on the letter?" + +"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." + +"It is useless," said Lady St. Craye; "the affair _is_ ceasing to +interest me." + +"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." + +"An instant," said Lady St. Craye; "let me reflect." + +The concierge ostentatiously went back to her flowers. + +"You have not given _them_ Miss Desmond's address?" + +"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 _nothing_. Only to +despatch the letter. Behold all!" + +"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?" + +"Madame knows it--by what she says." + +"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?" + +"It is exact. I thank you, Madame. Madame would do well to return +_chez elle_ and to repose herself a little. Madame is all pale." + +"Is the aunt in Miss Desmond's rooms now?" + +"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." + +"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." + +She went out and along the courtyard. At the foot of the wide shallow +stairs she paused and leaned on the dusty banisters. + +"I feel as weak as any rat," she said, "but I must go through with +it--I must." + +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. + +The door was not shut--it always shut unwillingly. She tapped. + +"Come in," said a clear, pleasant voice. And she went in. + +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. + +"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." + +"Yes," said Lady St. Craye. "I know. I wanted to see you. The +concierge told me--" + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +There was a sound, a dull plop, the hiss and fizzle of a spurting +syphon, then: + +"Drink this: that's right. I've got you." + +A strong arm round her shoulders--something buzzing and spitting in a +glass under her nose. + +"Drink it up, there's a good child." + +She drank. A long breath. + +"Now the rest." She was obedient. + +"Now shut your eyes and don't bother. When you're better we'll talk." + +Silence--save for the fierce scratching of a pen. + +"I'm better," announced Lady St. Craye as the pen paused for the +folding of the third letter. + +The short skirted woman came and sat on the edge of the divan, very +upright. + +"Well then. You oughtn't to be out, you poor little thing." + +The words brought the tears to the eyes of one weak with the +self-pitying weakness of convalescence. + +"I wanted--" + +"Are you a friend of Betty's?" + +"Yes--no--I don't know." + +"A hated rival perhaps," said the elder woman cheerfully. "You didn't +come to do her a good turn, anyhow, did you?" + +"I--I don't know." Again this was all that would come. + +"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." + +"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--" + +"If it hadn't been for the man. Yes, I see. Who was he?" + +Lady St. Craye felt absolutely defenceless. Besides, what did it +matter? + +"Mr. Vernon," she said. + +"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?" + +"No, I don't. I should like to tell you all about it--all the truth." + +"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?" + +"Nearly a month." + +"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--" + +"Madame Gautier died last October," said Lady St. Craye--"the +twenty-fifth." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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." + +Lady St. Craye told Betty's secret at some length. + +"Did she tell you this?" + +"No." + +"He did then?" + +"Yes." + +"Oh, men are darlings! The soul of honour--unsullied blades! My word! +Do you mind if I smoke?" + +She lighted a cigarette. + +"I suppose _I'm_ very dishonourable too," said Lady St. Craye. + +"You? Oh no, you're only a woman!--And then?" + +"Well, at last I asked her to go away, and she went." + +"Well, that was decent of her, wasn't it?" + +"Yes." + +"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?" + +"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--" + +"Well, if she cares--and he cares--Do you really mean that _you'd_ +care to marry a man who's in love with another woman?" + +"I'd marry him if he was in love with fifty other women." + +"In that case," said Miss Desmond, "I should say you were the very +wife for him." + +"_She_ 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. + +"Don't be silly," said Miss Desmond briskly. "You _are_ a school-girl +compared with me, you know. I suppose you've been trying to play the +role of the designing heroine--to part true lovers and so on, and then +you found you couldn't." + +"They're _not_ 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." + +"Was that true, or--?" + +"Oh, yes, it was true enough, though he said it. You've met him--he +told me. But you don't know him." + +"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." + +"She doesn't. She thinks she does, but she doesn't. If only he hadn't +written to her--" + +"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?" + +"Yes." + +"Ah, that's a pity--still--Well, is there anything else you want to +tell me?" + +"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." + +"I see. How Machiavelian of you!"--Miss Desmond touched the younger +woman's hand with brusque gentleness--"And--?" + +"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 _know_ it's only--oh, I don't +know what--not love, with her. And it's my life." + +"Yes. And what about him?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"As a yardstick." + +"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?" + +"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." + +She rose and stood before the glass, putting on her hat. + +"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." + +Lady St. Craye let herself go completely in a phrase whose memory +stung and rankled for many a long day. + +"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." + +"Good-bye," said Miss Desmond. "No--of course I don't." + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + +THE FOREST. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"If she thinks I'm going to break my heart about _him_, 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.--_And_ try. But fall in love?--Never again! Oh, +good gracious, there he is,--and I've not _begun_ to get ready." + +Temple was whistling _Deux Amants_ very softly in the courtyard below. +She put her head out of the window. + +"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." + +The hoofs of the smart gray pony slipped and rattled on the +cobble-stones of the hotel entry. + +"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. + +"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." + +"Those two there," said Marie--"it is very certain that they are in +love?" + +"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!" + +The two who had departed for the forest drove on through the swimming, +spinning heat, in silence. + +It was not till they reached the little old well by Marlotte that +Betty spoke. + +"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." + +"What would you like to do?" asked Temple: "river?" + +"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." + +"Yes: I'm sure it does. Do you really think God cares?" + +"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." + +"And each other," said Temple, and flushed to the ears: "human beings, +I mean, of course," he added hastily. + +"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." + +"Did your father teach you to think like this?" + +"Oh, dear no!" said Betty. "He doesn't like the little pretty things." + +"It's odd," said Temple. "Look at those yellow roses all over that +hideous villa." + +"My step-father would only see the villa. Well, must we work to-day?" + +"What would you like to do?" + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"Here" said Betty, and sank down. Her sketchbook scooped the sand with +its cover. "Oh, I _am_ hot!" She threw off her hat. + +"You don't look it," said Temple, and pulled the big bottle of weak +claret and water from the luncheon basket. + +"Drink!" he said, offering the little glass when he had filled it. + +Betty drank, in little sips. + +"How extraordinarily nice it is to drink when you're thirsty," she +said, "and how heavenly this shadow is." + +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. + +"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!" + +"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?" + +"We were very good friends in Paris," said Betty, remembering the +letter that had announced his departure. + +"But it wasn't the same," he persisted. "When did we talk in Paris as +we've talked here?" + +"I talked to you, even in Paris, more than I've ever talked to anyone +else, all the same," said Betty. + +"Thank you," he said; "that's the nicest thing you've ever said to +me." + +"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." + +"Yes," he said, "but you couldn't talk to a person you disliked, could +you? Real talk, I mean?" + +"Of course not," said Betty. "Do you know I'm dreadfully hungry!" + +It was after lunch that Temple said: + +"When are you going home, Miss Desmond?" She looked up, for his use +of her name was rare. + +"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. + +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. + +"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. + +"I shall miss you most awfully," said she with the air of one +flaunting a flag. + +"I wish you'd go home," he said. "Haven't you had enough of your +experiment, or whatever it was, yet?" + +"I thought you'd given up interfering," she said crossly. At least she +meant to speak crossly. + +"I thought I could say anything to you now without your--your not +understanding." + +"So you can." She was suddenly not cross again. + +"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?" + +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 _Him_!" she told +herself. + +Then she found that she was speaking. + +"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. + +"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." + +She rooted up a fern and tore it into little ribbons. + +"Why have you told me all this?" he said slowly. + +"I don't know," said she. + +"It is because you care, a little bit about--about my thinking well of +you?" + +"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." + +"Is it because you don't want to have any--any secrets between us?" + +"Not in the least," said Betty, chin in the air. "I shouldn't _dream_ +of telling you my secrets--or anyone else of course, I mean," she +added politely. + +He sighed. "Well," he said, "I wish you'd go home." + +"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?" + +"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?" + +"You do think me horrid. Why don't you say so?" + +"No. I don't." + +"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. + +"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 _now_, 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?" + +"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?" + +What she did was to lean back to reach another fern--to pluck and +smooth its fronds. + +"Are you very angry?" asked Temple forlornly. + +"No," said Betty; "how could I be? But I wish you hadn't. It's spoiled +everything." + +"Do you think I don't know all that?" + +"I wish I could," said Betty very sincerely, "but--" + +"Of course," he said bitterly. "I knew that." + +"He doesn't care about me," said Betty: "he's engaged to someone +else." + +"And you care very much?" He kept his face turned away. + +"I don't know," said Betty; "sometimes I think I'm getting not to care +at all." + +"Then--look here: may I ask you again some time, and we'll go on just +like we have been?" + +"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?" + +He turned and looked at her. + +"I beg your pardon," she said instantly. "I think I didn't understand. +Let's go back now, shall we?" + +"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--" + +"Don't be silly," she said, and she smiled at him a little sadly; "you +talk as though I didn't know you." + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + +THE MIRACLE. + +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. + +"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." + +"Thank you," he said. "You _are_ good." + +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." + +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. + +"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--" + +"Almost," said Temple a little bitterly. + +"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." + +All this time she had kept her hand on his wrist. + +Now he laid his other hand over it. + +"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?" + +"I'll tell you now," said Betty, "that I wish with all my heart it +_was_ you, and not the other." + +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. + +"I'll just see if there are any letters," she told herself. "There +always might be: from Aunt Julia or Miss Voscoe or--someone." + +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. + +_Oh_! + +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. + +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 _go_. +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. + +All this in the quite small pause before her aunt's voice spoke again. + +"Unless she's got wind of our coming and flown," it said. + +"Our" coming? Who was the other? + +Betty was eavesdropping then? How dishonourable! Well, it is. And she +was. + +"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: + +"The whole thing's inexplicable to me! I don't understand it. You let +Betty go to Paris." + +"By your advice." + +"By my advice, but also because you wanted her to be happy." + +"Yes--Heaven knows I wanted her to be happy." The old man's voice was +sadder than Betty had ever heard it. + +"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?" + +"I can't imagine why." + +"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?" + +"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?" + +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. + +"--when you do see her?" her aunt was asking, "I suppose you mean to +heap reproaches on her, and take her home in disgrace?" + +"I hope I shall have strength given me to do my duty," said the +Reverend Cecil. + +"Have you considered what your duty is?" + +"It must be my duty to reprove, to show her her deceit in its full +enormity." + +"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." + +"Because a thing is painful to me it is none the less my duty." + +"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." + +"She can't know it. It isn't true." + +"She thinks it is." + +"Do _you_ think so? Do _you_ imagine I don't care for her? Have you +been poisoning her mind and--" + +"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." + +"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." + +"Of course," said Miss Desmond. "She's not your child--why should you +care? You never had a child." + +"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." + +"I'm sorry," said Miss Desmond very gently. "Forgive me if I didn't +understand. And you do really care about her a little?" + +"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 _is_ +my child--the one _we_ 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--" + +"I should tell her," said Miss Desmond, "just what you've told me." + +The old man was walking up and down the room. Betty could hear every +movement. + +"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." + +"Then I must say," said Miss Desmond, "that you might have been better +employed." + +"Thank God I have done my duty! You don't understand. But my Lizzie +will understand." + +"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 _you_! You're cruel,--and it's +not like you. Will you mind going away, please?" + +The cruel aunt smiled, and moved towards the door. As she passed Betty +she whispered: "I thought you were _never_ going to come from behind +that door. I couldn't have kept it up much longer." + +Then she went out and closed the door firmly. + +Betty went straight to her step-father and put her arms round his +neck. + +"You do forgive me--you will forgive me, won't you?" she said +breathlessly. + +He put an arm awkwardly round her. + +"There's nothing you could do that I couldn't forgive," he said in a +choked voice. "But it is my duty not to--" + +She interrupted him by drawing back to look at him, but she kept his +arm where it was, by her hand on his. + +"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 _did_ mean to come home this week, +and tell you; I truly did. I wish I'd gone home before." + +"Oh, Lizzie," said the old man, "how could you? How could you?" + +"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!" + +"Known what, my child? Oh, thank God I have you safe! Known what?" + +"Why, that you--how fond you are of me." + +"You didn't know _that_?" + +"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!" + +"Didn't you always?" + +"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. + +"Have you ever been afraid of me?" + +"Oh, I don't know; a little perhaps sometimes! You don't know how +silly I am. But not now. You _are_ glad to see me?" + +"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." + +"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!" + +"Of me?" His tone pleaded again. + +"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." + +"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." + + * * * * * + +To four persons the next day was one of the oddest in their lives. + +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. + +"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." + +"I see," said Temple. "I shall be delighted to take you on the river." + +"Nice young man. You don't ask questions. An excellent trait." + +"An acquired characteristic, I assure you," said Temple, remembering his +first meeting with Betty. + +"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 _dejeuner_." + +"_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--" + +"You want me not to tell you the things I'd rather tell you?" + +"No: I should like to tell you all about--" + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"I didn't mean to," said Temple, pulling a racing stroke in his +agitation. + +"Gently, gently! The Diamond Sculls aren't at stake. She led you on, you +mean?" + +He rested on his oars a moment and laughed. + +"What is there about you that makes me feel that I've known you all my +life?" + +"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?" + +"Are you trying to make me angry? It's a dangerous river. Can you swim." + +"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." + +"If I tremble it's with pleasure," said Temple. + +"Come, moderate your transports, and unfold your tale. My ears are red, +I know, but they are small, well-shaped and sympathetic." + +"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. + +There was a silence. + +"Well?" said Temple. + +"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." + +"If I've made myself out a prig," said Temple, "I'm sorry. I could tell +you lots of things." + +"Please spare me! Why are people always so frightfully ashamed of having +behaved like decent human beings? I esteem you immensely." + +"I'd rather you liked me." + +"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." + +"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--?" + +"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." + +"Advise me," said he, red to the ears and hands. "She doesn't care for +me, at present. What can I do?" + +"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." + +"Must I wait so long as that?" he asked. "Why?" + +"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." + +"I don't want her to accept me because she's bored." + +"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." + +"It seems like a plot to catch her," said Temple. + +"A friend of yours told me you were straight. And you are. I thought +perhaps she flattered you." + +"Who?--No, I'm not to ask questions." + +"Lady St. Craye." + +"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 _her_." + +"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." + +"She's extraordinarily charming," said Temple with a very small sigh. + +"Yes extraordinarily, as you say. And so you came away from Paris! I +begin to think _you_ have a little of the wisdom of the dove too. Pull +now--or we shall be late for breakfast." + +He pulled. + + * * * * * + +"Now _that_," 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." + +"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." + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + + +THE PINK SILK STORY. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 "_ce +monsieur's_" interest in the intrigue--whatever the intrigue might +be--its details were not what interested. + +Vernon went home, pulled the table into the middle of the bare studio +and wrote. This letter wrote itself without revision. + + "Why did you go away?" it said. "Where are you? where can I see you? + What has happened? Have your people found out?" + +A long pause--the end of the pen bitten. + + "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. + + "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. + + "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. + + "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? + + "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 _has_ been telling lies. + + "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 _say_, 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! + + "Yours--as I never thought I could be anyone's, + + "Eustace Vernon." + +"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." + +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. + +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? + +"Are you sure that you posted the letter?" + +"Altogether, monsieur," said the concierge, fingering the key of the +drawer that held it. + +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! + +Three days more went by. + +"You have posted the letter?" + +"But yes, Monsieur. Be tranquil. Without doubt it was a letter that +should exact time for the response." + +It was on the fifth day that he met Mimi Chantal, the prettiest model on +the left bank. + +"Is monsieur by chance painting the great picture which shall put him +between Velasquez and Caran d'Ache on the last day?" + +"I am painting nothing," said Vernon. "And why is the prettiest model in +Paris not at work?" + +"I was in lateness but a little quarter of an hour, Monsieur. And behold +me--chucked." + +"It wasn't for the first time, then?" + +"A nothing one or two days last week. Monsieur had better begin to paint +that _chef d'oeuvre_--to-day even. It isn't often that the prettiest +model in Paris is free to sit at a moment's notice." + +"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." + +"To paint a picture it is then absolutely necessary to have an idea?" + +"An idea--or a commission." + +"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." + +"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. + +"Here is one! I have the idea that artists have no eyes. How they pose +me ever as l'Ete 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!" + +"Your idea is probably correct. I understand you to propose that I +should paint a picture called The Blind Artist?" + +"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?" + +"It certainly is," said he. "And you propose that I should paint you as +you appear in the Rest?" + +"Perfectly," she interrupted. "Tender rose colour--it goes to a marvel +with my Cleo de Merode hair. And if you want a contrast--or one of those +little tricks to make people say: 'What does it mean?'" + +"I don't, thank you," he laughed. + +"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.'" + +"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." + + * * * * * + +"Auntie, wake up, wake up!" Betty, white-faced and determined, was +pulling back the curtain with fingers that rigidly would not tremble. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Oh, no--nothing of course!" said Betty. + +"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." + +"Very well," said Betty, "if you're only going to gibe I'll go alone. Or +I'll get Mr. Temple to take me." + +"To see the other man? That _will_ be nice." + +"Who said anything about--?" + +"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 _did_ 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." + +"Go on," said Betty, "if it amuses you." + +"No, no. I'm sorry. Forgive the ravings of delirium. Go on. Poor little +Betty! Don't worry. Tell its own aunt." + +"It's not a joke," said Betty. + +"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--" + +"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." + +"My stockings?" + +"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." + +"They always do," said Miss Desmond, pouring water into the basin. +"Well?" + +"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 _her_." + +"I can't understand a word you say," said Miss Desmond through +splashings. + +"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 _you'd_ understand." + +"Hand me that green silk petticoat. Thank you. _What_ did you think I'd +understand?" + +"Why that I--that it's him I love." + +"You do, do you?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +"This is dear and sweet of you," he said to Betty. + +"What lovely scheme have you come to break to me? But what's the matter? +You're not ill?" + +"Oh, don't," said Betty; "don't look like that! I couldn't go without +telling you. It's all over, Bobbie." + +She had never before called him by that name, and now she did not know +what she had called him. + +"What's all over?" he asked mechanically. + +"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!" + +"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?" + +"It's Mr. Vernon," said Betty. + +"Oh, my God!" Temple's hand clenched. "No, no, no, no!" + +"I am so very, very sorry," said Betty in the tone one uses who has +trodden on another's foot in an omnibus. + +He had sat down at one of the little tables, and was looking out over +the shining river with eyes half shut. + +"But it's not true," he said. "It can't be true! He's going to marry +Lady St. Craye." + +"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." + +"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." + +"I thought you were his friend." + +"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." + +"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") + +"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." + +"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." + +She had. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +Vernon's concierge assured these ladies that Monsieur was at home. + +"He makes the painting in this moment," she said. "Mount then, my +ladies." + +They mounted. + +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! + +"Hateful cat!" said Betty on the stairs. + +"Eh?" said her aunt. + +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-- + +The key was in the door. + +"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?" + +"Do as you like," said the aunt rather sadly. "I should knock if I were +you." + +Betty did not knock. She opened the studio door softly. She would like +to see him before he saw her. + +She had her wish. + +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. + +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. + +"_V'la cheri_!" 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. + +Betty banged the door. + +"Come away!" she said to Miss Desmond. And she, who had seen, too, the +pink picture, came away, holding Betty's arm tight. + +"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." + +"I locked the door," said Betty. "Don't speak to me, please." + +They were in the train before either broke silence. Betty's face was +white and she looked old--thirty almost her aunt thought. + +[Illustration: "On the further arm of the chair sat, laughing also, a +very pretty young woman"] + +It was Miss Desmond who spoke. + +"Betty," she said, "I know how you feel. But you're very young. I think +I ought to say that that girl--" + +"_Don't_!" said Betty. + +"I mean what we saw doesn't necessarily mean that he doesn't love you." + +"Perhaps not," said Betty, fierce as a white flame. "Anyhow, it means +that I don't love him." + +Miss Desmond's tact, worn by three days of anxiety and agitation, broke +suddenly, and she said what she regretted for some months: + +"Oh, you don't love _him_ now? Well, the other man will console you." + +"I hate you," said Betty, "and I hate him; and I hope I shall never see +a man again as long as I live!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + +"AND SO--" + +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. + +He looked with extreme content at the picture on the easel. + +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. + +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. + +"At last," he said. "Oh, this minute was worth waiting for!" + +He opened the envelope with a smile mingled of triumph and something +better than triumph--and read: + + "Dear Mr. Vernon: + + "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, _no_. + 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, + + "Elizabeth Desmond." + +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. + +"Damn," he said, "oh, damn!" + +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. + +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. + +It was May again when Vernon found himself once more sitting at one of +the little tables in front of the Cafe de la Paix. + +"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!" + +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. + +"How are you?" she said. "Yes, I know you didn't see me, but I thought +you'd like to." + +"I do like to, indeed. May I walk with you--or--" he glanced back at the +table where his Vermouth stood untasted. + +"The impertinence of it! Frightfully improper to sit outside cafes, +isn't it?--for women, I mean--and this Cafe in particular. Yes, I'll +join you with the greatest pleasure. Coffee please." + +"It's ages since I saw you," he said amiably, "not since--" + +"Since I called on you at your hotel. How frightened you were!" + +"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--" + +"Not under the bridges," she pleaded: "say off the umbrellas." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"Quite, thanks," he said tranquilly. "But last time we met, you remember +we agreed that I had no intentions." + +[Illustration: "The next morning; brought him a letter"] + +"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." + +"Expound, I implore." + +"Aces equal general definite and decisive information. King and Queen of +hearts equal Betty and the other man." + +"There was another man then?" + +"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?" + +"Meaning me?" + +"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?" + +"I confess I'm at fault." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"Didn't you even leave a card? That's not like your eyes." + +"I think I sent a tub of hydrangeas or something, _pour dire adieu_." + +"That was definite. Remember the date?" + +"No," he said, remembering perfectly. + +"Not the eleventh, was it? That was the day when you would get Betty's +letter of rejection." + +"It may have been the eleventh.--In fact it _was_." + +"Ah, that's better! And the tenth--who let you out of your studio on the +tenth? I've often wondered." + +"I've often wondered who locked me in. It couldn't have been you, of +course?" + +"As you say. But I was there." + +"It wasn't--?" + +"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." + +"Damn!" he said. "I do beg your pardon, but really--" + +"Don't waste those really convincing damns on ancient history. I told +her it didn't mean that you didn't love her." + +"That was clear-sighted of you." + +"It was also quite futile. She said it means _she_ didn't love _you_ at +any rate. I suppose she wrote and told you so." + +A long pause. Then: + +"As you say," said Vernon, "it's ancient history. But you said something +about another man." + +"Oh, yes--your friend Temple.--Say 'damn' again if it's the slightest +comfort to you--I've heard worse words." + +"When?" asked Vernon, and he sipped his Vermouth; "not straight away?" + +"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." + +"Well?" + +"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." + +"And when are they to be married?" + +"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." + +"Easter?" said Vernon, refusing interest to the maroon and blue +tea-cups. "She must indeed have been extravagantly fond of me." + +"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." + +"Two?" he said. "Which?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"Heaven defend me!" she cried. "_Au revoir_." + + * * * * * + +When Vernon had finished his Vermouth, he strolled along to the street +where last year Lady St. Craye had had a flat. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"I am tired," he said. "I have been in Spain. And in Italy. And in +Algiers." + +"Very fatiguing countries, I understand. And what is your best news?" + +He stood on the hearth-rug, looking down at her. + +"Betty Desmond's married," he said. + +"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!" + +"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?" + +"Not at all," she answered with extreme politeness. + +So he told her. + +"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." + +"That sort of thing does leave marks." + +"That girl taught you something, Eustace; something that's stuck." + +"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?" + +"Candidly," she answered, calling all her powers of deception to her +aid, "candidly, I don't think I should." + +"I knew it," said Vernon, smiling; "my heart told me so." + +"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_ shouldn't mind such things?" + +"You forget," said Vernon demurely. "Such things never happen after one +is married." + +"No," she said, "of course they don't. I forgot that." + +"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. + +"I might very much better not." + +They looked at each other steadily. She saw in his eyes a little of what +it was that Betty had taught him. + +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. + +"Ah, be nice to me!" he said. "I am very tired." + +Her arm went round his shoulders as the mother's arm goes round the +shoulders of the child. + + +THE END. + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Incomplete Amorist, by E. 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