XVI
Dr. Dakinwas spending the night in town on his way to Paris.
For the previous fortnight, urged not so much by the impressive hints concerning his duty thrown out by Mrs. Carfax, as by a curious change in his wife’s letters to him, he had been on thorns of impatience to join her in Paris, and bring her home.
The serious illness of a patient, an exasperating case which always seemed on the point of mending, only to sink into another relapse, kept him prisoner.
Not till the previous day had he considered it safe to telegraph for the doctor he had engaged to look after his practice during his own absence, and a still further delay had been occasioned by the necessity of meeting this man in London to explain the peculiar nature of the case under treatment.
Leaving his hotel in the evening, he walked westward in search of a place to dine, meditating in a troubled fashion as hewalked. His wife had been away more than three months, and he had made no effort to recall her. The visit, accepted ostensibly at least, partly on the ground of her health, was in any case to have been a long one. Then followed the plea of the cure which a certain well-known physician had prescribed, and again her husband had agreed to her wishes. He told himself to be patient. After his talk with Miss Page, he had been full of hope. But it would not do to annoy Madge by bringing her home again before she wished to come. It would be wiser to let her tire of Paris, and then when she returned, he would take the advice of a wise and charming woman, and perhaps there might yet be happiness for Madge,—and for him too.
So he had waited, forcing himself to self-control through his hourly longing for her.
At first, for many weeks, her letters were discouraging;—hurried and indifferent. She was enjoying Paris. She felt better, or not so well. They were the letters of a woman who writes perfunctorily, from a sense of duty. Quite lately they had altered, and though the change in them filled him with delight, it was joy mingled with uneasiness. They were hysterical letters, composed of vague self-reproaches about her selfish neglect of him,mingled with terms of endearment, and assertions of her own unworthiness.
Fatal letters to write to a man who possessed a trace of cynicism, or of what is commonly called knowledge of the world, but to the simple mind of her husband, they suggested only alarming fears for her bodily health. He must go and fetch her home immediately. Poor little Madge! In the midst of his anxiety, he was not insensible of a thrill of joy at the thought that from whatever cause, her heart had turned to him.
With this thought in his mind, he again dismissed as an impertinence, a letter he had lately read containing more than a hint that his wife’s protracted stay in Paris was due to a certain bad influence exercised upon her in the past.
He had never considered the matter seriously, yet as he entered the dining-room a moment later, the whole circumstance of the letter and its accusation, was recalled by the sight of a face he remembered.
He had turned into a restaurant in the Haymarket, to which on their rare visits to town, he had once taken Madge to dine.
With the sentimental idea at which he scarcely smiled, of finding the exact place they had on that occasion occupied, hewent upstairs, and was glad to find the table in the corner disengaged. He had given his order to the waiter, before seated at some little distance across the room, he saw the man he recognized.
For the moment he was puzzled, then like a flash came the memory of a dinner party at Fairholme Court six months ago, and with it in a flood the further memory of other things he had for the moment forgotten.
Monsieur Fontenelle apparently did not see him, but apart from the fact that he had liked him, Dr. Dakin was quite determined to recall their previous meeting to his consciousness.
Madge had sometimes mentioned him in letters. If he had recently come from Paris, he would have news of her. He left his place and crossed to his neighbour’s table, with outstretched hand.
“We met at a very pleasant little dinner at Fairholme Court, some months ago,” he began. “My name is Dakin. I expect you’ve forgotten it. Yours is a name one can’t forget.”
Fontenelle gave him a hasty glance; then took the hand he offered, with a charming smile.
“But of course! When Miss Page was our hostess. Have you heard from her lately? I am told she is coming back.”
“Won’t you come to my table, as we have neither of us begun to feed?” suggested Dr. Dakin. “It’s quieter there. Out of the draught.”
“Delighted!” François assured him.
The change was effected.
“I can give you the latest news of your wife,” he said almost before he was seated. “I saw her only yesterday. I called in fact to make my farewells.”
“How is she?” inquired the doctor anxiously. It was the one question that concerned him.
“Not altogether well, I fancy. A little homesick. Paris possibly a little on her nerves.”
He took up the wine list. “Can we agree as to wine?”
The doctor made a hasty gesture. “Anything you like. I’m on my way to bring her home,” he observed.
Fontenelle, who was giving the waiter elaborate directions about warming the Burgundy he had selected, did not at once reply.
When the man had hurried off with aBien Monsieur!he looked at his companion.
“You are going to fetch her you say? Good! I think all she wants is the rest and quiet of your charming village. Paris is notthe place for nervous women, doctor. The atmosphere is too exciting—too distracting.” He made a little comprehensive gesture with both hands.
“But you don’t think she’s ill?”
In spite of himself, in spite of his British horror of displaying emotion, the doctor’s voice shook a little.
“Mais non! Mais non. Rien de tout,” returned his companion, with a reassuring smile. “Madame is suffering a little from her ‘cure.’ That is only to be expected. Pardon!” he laughed genially. “For the moment I forgot I was not speaking to a layman.”
The doctor laughed also, and tried to forget that the mere mention of his wife’s name had set his heart beating.
He applied himself to his dinner.
“Did I understand that you’re going to leave Paris for long?” he asked. “I think you said you had been to say good-bye to Madge—to my wife?”
“I’m really uncertain,” returned François, regarding him with keen smiling eyes. “I’m over here on business connected with the exhibition to which your countrymen with more politeness than discretion have elected me President. After that?” He shruggedhis shoulders with a characteristic gesture. “I don’t know. A journey to Egypt, perhaps. But that depends on circumstances. Did I tell you that Miss Page is coming home? She may even be in Paris by this time. Mrs. Dakin is evidently looking forward to seeing her.”
For a moment the doctor was silent.
“Miss Page is an old friend of yours—a great friend?” he asked suddenly.
“I think I may say my best and dearest friend.”
At the mention of Anne’s name an imperceptible change crept into his manner. An undercurrent of irony, too subtle for his companion’s apprehension, vanished from his voice and from his words, which were grave and deliberate.
“I might with truth repeat what you have said,” returned the doctor slowly.
He took up his knife and fork, and absently replaced them on his plate, into which he stared, as though lost in thought.
“And so,” said François, watching him, “you are naturally indignant about a certain story——”
The other man looked up quickly.
“I know all about it,” Fontenelle went on. “Madame Didier, who belongs to acertain feminine type indigenous to every country, has worked with great industry, and Fortune has favoured her. During her visit to England, she came across a certain Mrs. Crosby, the wife of old Mrs. Burbage’s nephew.”
He paused, and critically tasted the wine which the waiter had just poured into his glass.
“Bon!” he exclaimed appreciatively.
“This woman,” he continued, “convinced that her husband’s inheritance was stolen from him by our friend, naturally paints her in the glaring colours of an adventuress.”
Both men smiled.
“The character suits Anne Page, doesn’t it? At any rate it suited Madame Didier, who with unfailing resource has patiently unearthed the story of twenty years ago. This story, I understand, she has lost no time in communicating to the wife of the vicar of your idyllic village, whence having reached the fountain head, I imagine it is flowing in refreshing streams through the entire county?”
“No,” returned the doctor quickly. “The vicar, whatever qualities he may lack, happens to be a gentleman, and is moreover one of Miss Page’s many friends. Fortunately thiswoman, Madame Didier, wrote to him, not to Mrs. Carfax, and as the letter to some extent concerned my wife, he brought it to me.”
Fontenelle gently raised his eyebrows, but refrained from comment.
“The vicar,” Dr. Dakin went on with a half smile, “is filled with righteous indignation about what he naturally believes an impudent lie. He has written to his correspondent, threatening pains and penalties if she communicates with his wife, or tries in any way to spread the scandal. He’s a wise man,” he added dryly. “Mrs. Carfax is not the woman to be trusted with the reputation of her dearest friends.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“I didn’t tell him,” continued the doctor, “that I had previously heard the story from my wife, who assures me it is true.”
François’s expression was inscrutable.
“And—pardon me—you, I imagine, regard the matter as, well let us say as an Englishman?”
“If as I suppose I am to understand, you mean that I’m naturally a hypocrite,” returned the doctor rather stiffly, “you are mistaken. Miss Page is the best, the most generous woman I have ever met. Whatever her life may have been, that is the result. The rest doesn’t concern me.”
A sudden light sprang into the other man’s eyes.
“I beg your pardon,” he said simply, in a tone of sincerity.
He looked round the room which was now hot, crowded, and noisy with the clink of glasses, and the babel of talk.
“Have you anything to do this evening? If not, will you come round to my club where we can smoke in peace?”
“I should like nothing better,” returned Dr. Dakin.