XVI
The first thing I learned when I reached theappartementwas that the Duchesse had returned, and wished to see me. This was good news—and without even telephoning to Maurice, I got into my one horse Victoria and repaired to the Hotel de Courville—.
The Duchesse was sitting in her boudoir upstairs when I got in.—She had a quaint expression upon her face. I was not certain that her greeting was as cordial as usual—Has gossip reached her ears also?
I sat down near her and she took my crutch from me tenderly, her instinct for "blessés" never failing her.
I thought I would begin at once before she could say anything which might make questioning her impossible.
"I have been longing to see you, Duchesse, to ask you if you could help me to find out who my secretary, Miss Sharp, is?—because I saw her here in the passage one day, and I thought you might possibly be able to identify her—."
"Tiens?"
"Her christian name is 'Alathea'—I heard her little sister call her that once when I saw them and they did not see me, in theBois—She is a lady—and I feel Sharp is not her name at all."
The Duchesse put on her eyeglasses—.
"She has not shown a sign that she wishes you to know her history?"
"No—"
"Then, my son, do you think it is very good taste to endeavor to discover it?"
"Perhaps not—" I was nettled—I hated that the Duchesse should be displeased with me, then I went on—"I fear that she is very poor and I know that her little brother died just lately, and I would give anything in the world to help them in some way."
"Sometimes one helps more by showing discretion."
"You won't assist me then, Duchesse? Ifeelthat you know Miss Sharp."
She frowned—.
"Nicholas—if I did not love you really, I should be angry.—Am I the character to betray friends—presuming that I have friends—for a young man's curiosity?"
"Indeed it is not curiosity—it is because I want to help—."
"Camouflage!"
I felt angry now.
"You assume that your secretary is ademoiselle du monde"—she went on—"if you have reached that far—you should know that there is some honor, sometenueleft in old families,—and so you should treat her with consideration, and respect her incognito.—All this is not like you, my son!"
The Duchesse had dropped the "thee and thou"—it hurt me.
"I want to treat her with every respect—" I reiterated.
"Then believe me it is unnecessary for you to know her name—I am not altogether pleased with you, Nicholas."
"Dear Duchesse! that grieves me—I wish I could explain—I have only wanted to be kind—and I don't even know her address and could not send flowers when her brother died."
"They did not want flowers, perhaps—Take my advice—of the best I can give—Pay your secretary her wages—as high ones as she will accept—and then treat her as if she were fifty years old—and wore glasses!"
"She does wear glasses—abominable yellow horn rimmed spectacles!" I announced excitedly.—"Have you never seen them?"
The Duchesse's eyes flashed—.
"I have not said I ever met Miss Sharp, Nicholas—"
I knew the affair was now hopeless—and that I would only risk the real displeasure of my dear old friend if I continued in this way. So I subsided.—I had some instinct too that I would not receive sympathy even if I owned that my intentions were strictly honourable.
"I will say no more—except that should you know these peoplecherè Duchesse—and you ever discover that I could help them in any way—that you will call upon me to any extent."
The fiery vixen Suzette (Renee Adoree) is enraged to learn of Sir Nicholas' (Lew Cody) attentions to other women, and leaves in a flurry. (A scene from Elinor Glyn's production "Man and Maid" for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer)The fiery vixen Suzette (Renee Adoree) is enraged to learn of Sir Nicholas' (Lew Cody) attentions to other women, and leaves in a flurry. (A scene from Elinor Glyn's production "Man and Maid" for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer)
She looked at me very searchingly and said laconically.
"Bien."
Then we talked of other things, and I tried to reingratiate myself—The war was going better—Foch would wish to push his advantage. Things must have some end—in the near future.—When was I going to England?—All these subjects we discussed.
"When I am out of the hands of these doctors and have my new leg and eye—I will return, and then, I want to go into Parliament."
The Duchesse warmed up at once.—That was just the thing for me to do—that and to marry some nice girl of my own world, of which there must be an embarrassment of choice—with all the men killed in my country!
"I would want such an exceptional woman, Duchesse!"
"Do not look for the moon, my son—Be thankful if she has been sufficiently well brought up to have a decent conduct—the manners of the young girls now revolt me.—I try to go with the times——but these new fashions are disgusting."
"Do you think a woman ought to be perfectly innocent and ignorant of life to make the marriage happy—" I asked.
"The insides of the minds of young girls one is never sure of, but thetenueshould be correct at all costs, so that they may have something to uphold them as wellas religion—which is no longer so surrounding as it used to be."
"Duchesse, I want someone who would love me passionately, and whom I could passionately love."
"For that, my poor boy—" and she sighed—"it is not found among young girls—these things come after one knows, and can discriminate—put them aside from your thoughts—they are temptations which one resists if one can, and at all events makes no scandals about.—Love!Mon Dieu, it is the song of the poets, it cannot happen in the world—with satisfaction—It must be a pain always—Do your duty to your race, and your class—and try not to mix up sentiment with it!"
"There is no hope of my finding someone I could really love, then?"
"I do not know—in your own country it may be—here it is the wife of someone else who holds the charm—and if it were not fortenuesociety could not exist.
"All that one must ask of the young is that they act with discretion, so that they can reach the autumn of life without scandals against their names—If theBon Dieuadds love—then they have been indeed fortunate."
"But Duchesse—with your great heart—have you never loved—?"
Her eyes seemed to grow beautiful and young again—they diffused a fire—.
"Loved—Nicholas—! All women love once in their lives—happy for them if it has not burnt their souls in its passage—Happy if theBon Dieuhas let itmerge into love for humanity—" And soft tears dimmed the dark blue brilliancy.
I leaned forward and kissed her hand with deep devotion—then the ancient servitor came in and she was called to a ward—but I left feeling that if there is really some barrier of family between Alathea and me—there would be no use in my appealing to the Duchesse—Sorrows she understands—and war and suffering—and self-sacrifice—Love she understands and passion—and all that appertains thereto—but all these things go to the wall before the conception of the meaning ofnoblesse obligewhich ruled when Adelaide de Mont Orgeuil—wedded the Duc de Courville-Hautevine, in the eighties! The only thing left now was to telephone to Maurice—.
He came in for a few minutes just before dinner—.
He has questioned Alwood Chester of the American Red Cross, who had told him that Miss Sharp had been Miss Sharp always while she worked for them, and that no one knew anything further about her.
Well!—if her father is a convict, and her mother—in a mad house, and her sister consumptive—I still want her for herself—.
Is that true—Could I face disease and insanity coming into my family—?
I don't know—All I know is that I do not believe whatever curse hangs over the rest it has touched her—She is the picture of health and balance and truth—Herevery action is noble—and I love her—I love her—there!
Next day she came in at ten as usual—She brought all the chapters annotated—. As her attitude towards me had been as cold as it was possible for an attitude to be, I cannot say that there was any added shade of contempt since her interview with Suzette—What had passed between them perhaps Burton will be able gradually to discover—.
I controlled myself, and behaved with a businesslike reserve—She had nothing to snub me for, or to disturb her—She took the papers at twelve o'clock—and I sighed as she left the room—I had watched her furtively for nearly two hours—Her face was a mask—And she might indeed really have been concentrating upon the work in hand. Her hands are whitening considerably—. I believe their redness had something to do with her little brother, perhaps she put very hot things on his chest.—I have never seen such a white skin—it shows like mother of pearl against the cheap black frock—The line of the throat is like my fascinating Nymph with the shell—indeed the mouth is not unlike her's also. I wonder if she has dimp—but I had better not think of those things—!
I am now determined to ask her to marry me on the first occasion I can screw up my courage sufficiently. I have decided what I am going to say. I am going to be quite matter of fact—I shan't tell her that I love her even—I feel if I can secure her first I shall have a betterchance afterwards. If she thought I loved her, her nature is of that honest kind that she might think it was dishonorable to make so uneven a bargain with me—but if she just thinks I want her for my secretary and to play to me—and even perhaps that there is some brute part which she despises mixed up in my feeling for her—and which I would promise to keep in check—she may feel that it is fair for her to take my name, and my money, and give me nothing in return.
After lunch, which we did not have together, George Harcourt came in, and diverted me until four o'clock.
After we had discussed the war news for a long time he began as usual about Violetta—.
She was perfection!—She had fulfilled all he had ever asked of a woman—but—or rather in consequence of this—she had begun to bore him, while a new vixen with no heart and the brain of a rabbit—now drew him strangely!
"And what are you going to do about it, my dear George?"
"Deceive her of course, Nicholas. It is a painful necessity that my kind heart forces me to perpetrate."
He was smoking contemplatively.
I laughed—.
"You see, dear boy—one can't be brutal with the little darlings, so that is the only course open to one, for their limited reasoning power does not enable them to grasp that it is not one's fault at all when one ceases to care—the trouble lies with their own weakening attraction.—Soone has to go on bluffing until they themselves weary, or find out inadvertently that one's affection has been transferred!"
"Don't you think there are some to whom you could tell the truth?"
"I have not met any—if they do exist."
"If I were a woman it would insult me far more for a man to think I was so stupid that he could deceive me, than if he said frankly he no longer cared."
"Probably—but then women don't reason in that way—you might prove by every law of logic that it was because they themselves had disillusioned you, and that you had no control over the coming or going of your emotion—but at the end of your peroration they would still reproach you for being a fickle brute, and believe themselves blameless, and sinned against!"
"It is all very difficult!"—I sighed unconsciously—.
—"Are you in some mess, my son?" George asked concernedly.—"In your case with Suzette, money can always smooth things—she has perhaps been annoying?"
"I have entirely finished with Suzette—George, how a man pays for all his follies—Have you, with all your affairs, ever got off scot free?"
George leaned back in his chair—his well cut face which expresses as a rule a rather kindly whimsical cynicism grew stern—and his very voice altered.
"Nicholas—one has to pay one's shot every time—A man pays in money, or in jewels or in disgrace, or in regret and remorse—and he has to calculate beforehandto what extent that which he desires is worth the price which will become due—It is a brainless idiot who does not calculate, or who laments when he has to stump up. I admit women are of supreme interest to me, and their companionship and affection—bought or otherwise—are necessary to my existence—So I resignedly discharged my debt every time."
"How will you pay it then about Violetta whom you say is an angel, and blameless?"
"I shall have some disgusting moments of discomfort and remorse—and feel a moral Bluebeard—I shan't go scot free—."
"And she—? That won't help her."
"She will pay in tears for having been weak enough to love me—she will feel the consolation of martyrdom—and soon forget me."
"And you don't think one incurs some kind of hoodoo—in indulging in these things—I am thinking of Suzette—her shadow—almost one would say projected by fate, is what is causing me trouble now, not any deliberate action she is committing against me."
"Part of the price, my boy! You can't steal anything, or do anything against the law, be it of man or of morals or of the spirit—that you don't have to pay for it—and there is no use in haggling beforehand or in squealing after. The thing is to learn early enough in life what is worth while and what you really want, before you lay up for yourself limitations."
"That is true—."
"Now let us analyse what gains and losses you have had in the Suzette business. Let us take the gains first—You had a jolly little companion during some months of pain and weariness—She helped you over a difficult moment—You were not leading her astray. To be the friend of war-heroes was hermétier—you paid her highly in solid cash—You are under no obligation to her—. But the law has decreed that man must have no illicit relations, so the force of that current, or belief, or whatever it is, makes you pay some price for having broken the law—Accept it and get through with it—And if the price has been too heavy decide not to incur such debts again. The whole bother occurs because you don't look ahead, my boy! There was a case when I was a youngster and just joined my Battalion of Guards which will illustrate what I mean, of Bobby Bulteel, Hartelford's brother.—He cheated at cards—He was a kind of cousin of my mother's so the family felt the scandal awfully—He was kicked out of course, and utterly broke, and Lady Hilda Marchant ran off with him, and left her husband. She adored the fellow who had every charm—Well that was not worth while—The odds are too heavy for anyone ever to have the ghost of a chance to pull cheating off. He was simply a fool, you see. Take chances, but never when the scales have gone beyond the angle of forty-five degrees!"—Then having finished his cigar George rose in the best of tempers—.
"You may take it from me Nicholas—it sounds oldfashioned—but to behave like a gentleman and always be ready to discharge your obligations, are the best rules for life.——Ta ta, dear boy—Shall look in on you soon again—" and he went!
Of course his logic is unanswerable—So I had better accept the shadow of Suzette falling upon my relation with Alathea, and try to gain my end in spite of it—And what is my very end?
Not of course that I shall spend the rest of my life as Alathea's husband-in-name-only, hungry and longing and miserable—but that after securing her certain companionship I shall overcome her prejudices, conquer her aversion, and make her love me.—But to have the chance to do all this it is absolutely necessary that I shall be near her always—So my idea of marriage is not so far-fetched after all!
And if she will accept me, someday, uponany terms—provided they do not mean separation—I shall believe that half the battle is won—I feel more cheerful already!—How sound reasoning does one good, even if it is as baldly brutal as George's!
XVII
Burton gave forth some information this evening, as he was dressing me for dinner. He had now discovered from Pierre how Suzette had behaved when she intruded upon Alathea. She had entered the room—"Passing Pierre without so much as asking his leave, and he with his wooden leg not so nimble as might be!" She had gone to the writing table and demanded my address. "An affair of business which must be attended to at once," she had announced. Pierre standing at the door had heard all this. Burton added "He said that Mam'zelle was that scented and that got up, of course Miss Sharp must have known what she was."
Alathea apparently had answered with dignity, that she had received no orders to give any address, but that letters would be forwarded.
"She took no more notice of Mam'zelle than if she was a chair," Pierre had told him—who, having his own troubles with women, was prepared to see a conflict! Suzette became nonplussed, and losing her temper a little told Alathea that she hoped she would get as much out of the situation as she herself had done! Alathea continued writing as though she had not heard, and then told her quite politely in French, that if she would kindly leave whatever letters were to be sent on, she would see that they went that night, and had added:
"Now, I need not detain you longer." Suzette became furious, and stamping, said she was "Mademoiselle la Blonde," and had more right there than Alathea!
Pierre had here interfered, and catching hold of Suzette's arm, had dragged her from the room.
I tingled with shame and wrath. That the person I respect most in the world should have been exposed to such a scene—! Burton too was horrified—.
I had the most awful sensation of discomfort—the very fact of having to hear of all this through servants was sufficiently disgusting, without the events themselves being so degrading.
What must Alathea think of me! And I cannot even allude to the subject. How wonderful her dignity has been that she has allowed no extra contempt to come into her manner.
How shall I have the pluck to ask her to marry me? I mean to do so to-morrow when she comes.
Saturday:
I am going to write the events of these last days down without any comment.
I came in to the sitting-room after Alathea had arrived. She was writing at her desk in the little salon. I looked in and asked her if she would come in and speak to me. Then I got to my chair. She entered obediently with the block in her hand, ready to begin work.
"Will you sit down, please," I said, indicating a chair, where she would face me and the light, so that no shade of her expression should be lost upon me. (I shall become quite an expert in reading mouths. I am obliged to study hers so closely!)
I felt less nervous than I have ever felt when with her. I thought there was the faintest shade of alertness in her manner.
"I am going to say something which will surprise you very much, Miss Sharp," I began.
She raised her head a little.
"I will put the case to you quite baldly—I am very rich as you know—I am still horrid to look at—I am lonely and I want a companion who would play the piano to me, and who would help me to write books, and who would travel with me. I cannot have any of these simple things because of the scandal people would make—so there is only one course open to me—that is to go through the marriage ceremony—Miss Sharp—under those terms will you marry me?"
Her attitude had become tense—her face did not flush, it became very pale. She remained perfectly silent for a moment. I felt just the same as I used to do before going over the top—a queer kind of excitement—a wonder if I'd come through or not.
As she did not answer I went on. "I would not expect anything from you except a certain amount of your company. There would not be any question of living with me as a wife—I would promise even to keep in check that side which you once saw and which I wasso sorry about. I would settle lots of money on you, and give anything to your family you might wish. I would not bother you, you would be quite free—only I would like you to take interest in my work in a way—and to play to me—even if you would not talk to me."
My voice broke a little at the end of this; I was conscious of it, and of how weak it was of me. Her hands clasped together suddenly—and she appeared as though she was going to speak, then remained silent.
"Won't you answer me at all?" I pleaded.
"It is such a strange proposal—I would wish to refuse it at once——"
"It is quite bald, I know," I interrupted quickly. "I want to buy you—that is all—you can name the price. I know if you consented it would merely be for the same reason which makes you work. I presume it is for your family, not for yourself; therefore, I am counting upon that to influence you. Whatever you would want for your family I should be delighted to give you."
She twisted her locked hands—the first sign of real emotion I have seen in her.
"You would marry me—without knowing anything about me? It is very strange—."
"Yes. I think you are extremely intelligent—if you would consent to talk to me sometimes. I want to go into Parliament—when I am patched up and more decent looking, and I believe you would be of the greatest help to me."
"You mean the whole thing simply as a business arrangement?"
"I have already stated that."
She started to her feet.
"The bargain," I went on, "would be quite a fair one. I am offering to buy a thing which is not for sale—therefore, I am willing to pay whatever would tempt the owner to part with it. I am not mixing up any sentiment in the affair. I want the brain of you for my scheme of life, and the laws of the quaintly civilized society to which we belong, do not permit me to hire it—I must buy it outright. I put it to you net—is there any way we can effect this deal?"
Her lips were quivering—.
"You would say this, no matter what you might hear of my family?"
"I am quite unconcerned as to their history. I have observed you, and you possess all the qualities which I want in the partner who can help me to live my new life. For me you are just a personality—" (thus I lied valiantly!) "not a woman."
"Can I believe you?" she asked a little breathlessly.
"You are thinking of that day when I kissed you—" her lips told me by their sudden drawing in, that she was agitated.
"Well—I expect really that you know men well enough, Miss Sharp, to know that they have sudden temptations—but that a strong will can overcome them. I was very much moved about your grief that afternoon,and the suppressed emotion, and the exasperation you had caused me, unbalanced me—I am quite unlikely ever to feel again—if you will marry me, I will give you my word I will never touch you, or expect anything, of you except what you agree to give in the bargain. You can lead your own life—and I can lead mine."
I felt suddenly that these last words were not very wise—for they aroused in her mind the thought that I should go on having friends like Suzette. I hastened to add—
"You will have my deepest respect, and as my wife shall be treated with every courtesy and honour."
She sat down again and raised her hands to her eyes as though to remove her glasses, and then remembered and dropped them.
"I see that you would rather not answer to-day, Miss Sharp—you might prefer to go now and think about it?"
"Thank you." She turned and walked back into the little salon without a word more, and when she went I closed my eye exhausted with the great strain.
But I did not feel altogether hopeless until Burton came in to tell me lunch was ready and said that Alathea had gone.
"The young lady said as how she would not be back she expected, and she took her own pens and things in her bag. She was as white as a lily, give you my word, Sir Nicholas."
I am ashamed to say that I felt a little faint then.Had I overstepped the mark, and should I never see her again?
A whole party of the fluffies were coming to dinner, and we were to have a very gay evening. I ordered my one horse Victoria and went for a drive in theBois, to calm myself, and the trees with their early autumn tints seemed to mock at me. I could see too much beauty in them, and it hurt. Everything hurt! This was certainly the worst afternoon I have had to bear since I came to on No-Man's Land near Langemarke. But I suppose at dinner I played the game, for Coralie and the rest congratulated me.
"Getting quite well, Nicholas! And of achic!Va!"
We played poker afterwards and the stakes were high, and I was the winner the whole time, until I could see anxiety creep into more than one eye (pair of eyes! I have got so accustomed to writing of eyes in the singular that I forget!) We had quantities of champagne and some exotic musicians Maurice had procured for me, and a nude Hindoo dancer.
Everyone went more or less mad.
They left about four in the morning, all rather drunk, if one must write it. But the more I had drunk the more hideously sober and filled with anguish I seemed to become, until when I had called the last cheery good-night and was at last alone in my bed, I felt as if the end had come, and that death would be the next and only good thing which could happen to me.
I have never before had this strange detached sensein such measure as this night. As of a hungry agonized spirit standing outside its wretched body, and watching its feeble movements, conscious of their futility, conscious of being chained to the miserable thing, and only knowing rebellion and agony.
Burton gave me a sleeping draught, and I slept far into the next day to awake more unhappy than ever, obsessed with self-contempt and degradation.
In the afternoon, I received a note from Maurice, telling me that he had inadvertently heard that a fellow in the American Red Cross had seen Miss Sharp's passport, when she had been sent down to Brest for them, and the name on it was Alathea Bulteel Sharp, and judging that the second name sounded as if it might be a well-known English one, he hastened to tell me, in case it should be a clue. I could not think where I had heard it before, or with what memory it was connecting in my brain. I had a feeling it was something to do with George Harcourt. I puzzled for a while, and then I looked back over the pages of my journal, and there found what I had written of his conversation—Bobby Bulteel—Hartelford's brother—cheating at cards—and married to Lady Hilda Marchant——
Of course!—The whole thing became plain to me! This would account for everything. I hobbled up and got down the peerage. I turned to the Hartelford title, and noted the brothers—the Hon'bles—John Sinclair, Charles Henry, and Robert Edgar. This last must be "Bobby" Then I read the usualthings—"Educated at Eton and Christchurch, etc., etc." "Left the Guards in 1893." "Married in 1894—Lady Hilda Farwell, only daughter of the Marquess of Braxted (title extinct) and divorced wife of William Marchant, Esquire." "Issue—"
"Alathea—born 1894, John Robert born 1905, and Hilda born 1907."
So the whole tragic story seemed to unfold itself before me.
Alathea is the child of that great love and sacrifice of her Mother—I read again the words George had used: "She adored the fellow who had every charm." All the world might cast him out, but that one faithful woman gave up home and name and honour, to follow him in his disgrace. That was love indeed, however misplaced! I looked again at the dates and made a calculation of the time divorces took then, and I saw that my little darling girl could only have escaped illegitimacy by perhaps a few hours!
What had her life been? I pictured it. They must have hidden diminished heads in hole and corner places during the dreary years. Such a man as Bobby Bulteel must have been, as George said, a weakling. The Hartlefords were poor as church mice, and were not likely to assist a scapegrace, who had dishonoured them. I remembered hearing that on the old Lord Braxted's death years ago, Braxted was sold to the Merrion-Walters, Ironfounders from Leeds. No doubt the old man had cut his daughter off without the traditionalshilling, but even so, some hundreds a year must have been theirs. What then did the poverty of Alathea suggest? That some constant drain must be going on all the time. Could the scapegrace still be a gambler, and that could account for it? This seemed the most probable explanation.
Then all over me there rushed a mad worship for my little love. Her splendid unselfishness, her noble self-sacrifice, her dignity, her serenity. I could have kissed the ground under her feet.
I made Burton spend untold time telephoning to the Embassy, and then to Versailles to Colonel Harcourt—would he not dine with me? He was sorry he was engaged but he would lunch the next day. Then when the long evening was in front of me alone—I could hardly bear it. And, driven to desperation at last, when Burton was undressing me, I said to him:
"Did you ever know anything of the Hartlefords, Burton—Bulteel is the family name?"
"Can't say as I did personally, Sir Nicholas," he answered, "but of course, when I was a young boy taking my first fourth-footman's place, before I came to your father, Sir Guy, at Her Grace of Wiltshire's, I could not help hearing of the scandal about the cheating at cards. The whole nobility and gentry was put to about it, and nothing else was talked of at dinner."
"Try and tell me what you remember of the story."
So Burton held forth in his own way for a quarter of an hour. There had been no possible doubt of thecrime, it was the week after the Derby, and Bulteel had lost heavily it was said. He was caught red-handed and got off abroad that night, and the matter would have been hushed up probably but for the added sensation of Lady Hilda's elopement with him. That set society by the ears, and the thing was the thrill of the season. Mr. Marchant had been "all broken-up" by it, and delayed the divorce so that as far as Burton could remember, Captain Bulteel could not marry Lady Hilda for more than a year afterwards. All this coincided with what I already knew. Lord Braxted too, "took on fearful," and died of a broken heart it was said, leaving every cent to charity. The entail had been cut in the generation before and the title became extinct at his death.
I did not tell Burton then of my discovery, and lay long hours in the dark, thinking and thinking.
What did the Duchesse's attitude mean? In the eyes of the Duchesse de Courville-Hautevine,neéAdelaide de Mont Orgeuil—to cheat at cards would be the worst of all the cardinal sins. Such a man as Bobby Bulteel must be separated from his kind. She knew Lady Hilda probably (the Duchesse often stayed in England with my mother) and she probably felt a disapproving pity for the poor lady. The great charity of her mind would be touched by suffering, if the suffering was apparent, and perhaps she had some affection for the girl Alathea. But no affection could bridge the gulf which separated the child of an outcast fromher world. The sins of the father would inevitably be visited upon the children by an unwritten law, and although she might love Alathea herself, she could not countenance her union with me. The daughter of a man who had cheated at cards should go into a convent. I instinctively felt somehow that this would be her viewpoint.
Does Alathea know this tragedy about her father? Has she had to live always under this curse? Oh! The pity of it all.
Morning found me more restless and miserable than I have ever been, and it brought no sign of my love!
XVIII
George Harcourt was called suddenly to Rome that morning and so even hearing him talk further about the Bulteels was denied me for the time. I passed some days of the cruelest unrest. There was no sign of Alathea. I allowed Maurice to drag me out into the world and spent my evenings among my kind.
A number of my old pals have been killed lately, such an irony when the war seems to be drawing to a close! There is still an atmosphere of tension and unrestfulness in the air, though.
After an awful week George Harcourt came back and dropped in to see me. I opened fire at once, and asked him to tell me all that he knew of the Bulteels, especially his old brother officer Bobby.
"I have a particular reason for asking, George," I said.
"Very curious your speaking of them, Nicholas, because there has just been the devil of a fuss in the French Foreign Legion about that infernal blackguard; it came to my knowledge in my work."
"Has he been cheating at cards again?"
George nodded.
"Tell me from the beginning."
So he started—many of the bits I already knew. Lady Hilda had been a great friend of his and he dwelt upon the life of suffering she had had.
"There were a few years of frantic love and some sort of happiness, I expect, and then funds began to give out, and Bobbie's insane desire to gamble led him into the shadiest society, at Baden-Baden and Nice, and other warm spots. Poor Hilda used to go about with him then in a shamed, defiant way, running from any old friend, or staring over his head. I happened upon them once or twice in my wanderings; then I lost sight of them for some years, and the next thing was someone told me the poor woman had broken down and was a nervous wreck, and two children had been born in quick succession, when the first one was about eleven years old, and the whole family were in miserable straits. I think relations paid up that time—with the understanding that never again were they to be applied to. And since then I have heard nothing until the other day it came to my ears that the eldest girl—she must be over twenty now, was supporting the entire family. One of the children died lately, and now Bobby has put the cap on it. I am sorry for them, but Bobby is impossible."
Oh! My poor little girl, what a life! How I longed to take her out of it!
He went on.
"Strange how certain instincts show themselves under every condition. Bobby was no physical coward, and to talk to and mix with casually, the most perfect gentleman you ever met. Awfully well read and a topper at classics and history, and sang like a bird. Hehad the grand manner, and could attract any woman, though to give the devil his due—I believe for some years he was faithful to Lady Hilda."
"I should think so!" I said indignantly. "After accepting her great sacrifice!"
"Nothing lasts, my dear boy, that is not fundamental. Bobby was a rotter through and through, and so he couldn't even behave decently to the woman who had given up everything for him, once her charm went. But—that something in human beings which is unaccountable, when they are well bred, made him join the French Foreign Legion immediately war broke out, and behave with great gallantry."
"What brought on the last episode?"
"He was probably bored in the dull post where he was, with not much fighting to do lately, and resorted to his old game to cover up losses, which he could not pay, and had the bad luck to be caught for the second time. I told you he was a fool and did not know how to calculate the price of his follies."
"When did you hear of this?"
"Only last night on my return, and there will be a disgusting scandal, and the old story will be raked up and it is pretty beastly for Englishmen."
"Can money keep it quiet, George?"
"I expect so, but who would be fool enough to pay for such a fellow?"
"I would, and will, if you can manage it without letting my name appear."
"My dear boy, how does it interest you? Why should you do such a quixotic thing? It is twenty-five thousand francs."
"Only twenty-five thousand francs! I'll give you the cheque this minute George, if you can, in your own way, free the poor devil."
"But Nicholas—you must be mad my dear boy!—Or you have some strong motive I do not know of."
"Yes, I have—I want this chap freed from disaster, not for his sake, but for the sake of the family. What must that poor lady have gone through, and that poor girl!"
George looked at me with his whimsical cynical eye.
"It's awfully decent of you, Nicholas," was all he said though, and I reached for my cheque-book, and wrote a cheque for thirty thousand francs with my stylo.
"You may need the extra five thousand, George—to make sure of the thing, and I count on you to patch it up as soon as you can."
He left after that, promising to see into the affair at once, and telephone me the result—and when he had gone I tried to think over what it all means?
Alathea did not know of this when I asked her to marry me last week. She must never know that I am paying, even if that makes matters easy enough for her to refuse me. The reason of her long silence is because this fresh trouble has fallen upon them, I am sure. I feel so awfully, not being able to comfort her. The whole burden upon those young shoulders.—
Just as I wrote that yesterday, Burton came in tosay that Miss Sharp was in the little salon, and wished to see me, and I sent him to pray her to come in. I rose from my chair to bow to her when she entered, she never shakes hands. I was awfully pained to see the change in her. Her poor little white face was thin and woebegone and even her lips pale, and her air was not so proud as usual.
"Won't you sit down," I said with whatever of homage I could put into my voice.
She was so humbled and miserable, that I knew she would even have taken off her glasses if I had asked her to, but of course I would not do that.
She seemed to find it hard to begin. I felt troubled for her and started.
"I am awfully glad that you have come back."
She locked her hands together, in the shabby, black suede gloves.
"I have come to tell you that if you will give me twenty-five thousand francs this afternoon, I will accept your offer, and will marry you."
I held out my hand in my infinite joy, but I tried to control all other exhibition of emotion.
"That is awfully good of you—I can't say how I thank you," I said in a voice which sounded quite stern. "Of course I will give you anything in the world you want." And again I reached for my cheque-book and wrote a cheque for fifty thousand and handed it to her.
She looked at it, and went crimson.
"I do not want all that, twenty-five thousand is enough. That is the price of the bargain."
I would not let this hurt me.
"Since you have consented to marry me, I have the right to give you what I please—you may need more than you have suggested, and I want everything to be smooth and as you would wish."
She trembled all over.
"I—I cannot argue now, I must go at once; but I will think over what I must say about it."
"If you are going to be my wife, you must know that all that is mine will be yours; so how can a few thousand francs more or less now make any difference, though if you have any feeling concerning it, you can pay me back out of your first month's dress allowance!" and I tried to smile.
She started to her feet.
"When shall I see you again?" I pleaded.
"In two days."
"When will you marry me?"
"Whenever you arrange."
"Must you go now?"
"Yes—I must—I am grateful for your generosity, I will fulfill my side of the bargain."
"And I mine."
I tried to rise, and she handed me my crutch, and then went towards the door, there she turned.
"I will come on Friday at ten o'clock as usual, Good-bye," and she bowed and left me.
What a remarkable way to become an engaged man!!But only joy filled me at that moment. I wanted to shout and sing—and thank God!
Alathea will be mine, and surely it will only be a question of time before I can make her love me, my little girl!
I rang for Burton. I must have rung vigorously for he came in hurriedly.
"Burton," I said, "Congratulate me, my old friend—Miss Sharp has promised to marry me."
For once Burton's imperturbability deserted him, he almost staggered and put his hand to his head.
"God bless my soul, Sir Nicholas," he gasped, and then went on, "Beg pardon, Sir, but that is the best piece of news I ever did hear in my life."
And his dear old eyes were full of tears while he blew his nose vigorously.
"It will be a very quiet wedding, Burton. We shall have it at the Consulate, and I suppose at the church in theRue d'Agesseau, if Miss Sharp is a Protestant—I have never asked her."
"The wedding don't so much matter, Sir Nicholas. It is having the young lady always here to look after you."
"Without her glasses, Burton!"
"As you say Sir, without them horn things." And there was a world of understanding in his faithful eyes.
He left the room presently with the walk of a boy,so elated was he, and I was left alone, thrilling in every nerve with triumph. How I long for Friday I cannot possibly say.
In the afternoon Maurice and Alwood Chester, and Madame de Clerté came to see me, and all exclaimed at my improved appearance.
"Why you look like a million dollars, Nicholas," Alwood said, "What is up, old bird?"
"I am getting well, that is all."
"We are going to have a party on Sunday to introduce you to the loveliest young girl in Paris," Solonge announced. "The daughter of a friend of mine without a great dot, but that does not matter for you, Nicholas. We think that you should marry and marry ajeune fille francaise!"
"That is sweet of you. I have shown how I appreciate young girls, have not I?"
"For that—no!" she laughed, "But the time has come—."
I felt amused, what will Alathea think of these, my friends? Solonge is the best of them.
Maurice had an air of anxiety underneath his watchful friendliness. He's fine enough tofeelatmospheres, or whatever it is that comes from people, not in words. He felt that some great change had taken place in me, and he was not sure what aspect it would have in regard to himself. He came back after he had seen Madame de Clerté to her coupé!—She has essence also now,—andhis rather ridiculous, kindly, effeminate, little dark face was appealing.
"Eh bien, mon ami?" he said.
"Eh bien?"
"There is something, Nicholas, what? Was the clue of any use to you?"
"Yes, thank you a thousand times, Maurice, I could trace the whole thing. Miss Sharp comes of a very distinguished family, which I know all about. Her uncle is a miserable Earl! That is respectable enough, especially a tenth Earl! And her maternal grandfather was a 'Marquess.'"
"Vrai, mon vieux?"
"Quite true!"
Maurice was duly interested.
"You were right then about the breeding, it always does show."
I had difficulty in not telling him my news, but I thought it wiser to remain silent until after Friday! Friday! Day of days!
Maurice suspected that there was something beyond in all this, and was not sure which course would be the best to pursue; one of sympathy or unconsciousness. He decided upon the latter and presently left me.
Then I telephoned to Cartier to have some rings sent up to look at. I have a feeling that I must be very discreet about giving Alathea presents, or she will be resentful and even suspect that my bargain is not entirely a business one. I am afraid I seemed a littletoo pleased at our interview; I must be indifferently aloof on Friday.
I suppose I had better not give her my mother's pearls until after the ceremony. I wonder if there will be a fuss when I suggest her going to theRue de la Paixfor clothes? I apprehend that there will be a stubborn resistance to almost everything I would wish to do.
How will the Duchesse take it! Probably philosophically, once it is an accomplished fact.
At that moment Burton brought me in a note from that very lady! I opened it eagerly, and its contents made me smile.
The Duchesse wrote to remind me of a request I once made her, that if a certain family were in trouble that I would assist them to any amount. Twenty-five thousand francs were now absolutely necessary on the moment, if I could send them to her by bearer, I would know that I was doing a good deed!
For the third time that day I reached for my cheque-book and wrote a cheque, but for only the sum asked on this occasion, and then when Burton had brought me note paper, I sent a little word with it, to the Duchesse, and when I was alone again I laughed aloud.
Three people determined upon it must surely save the scapegrace!—I wonder which of the three will get there first!
I would not go out anywhere to dinner, I wanted to be alone to think over the whole strange turn of fate. Do strong desires influence events? Or are all thesethings settled beforehand? Or is there something in reincarnation, which Alathea believes in, and the actions of one life cause that which looks like fate in the next? We shall have many talks on this subject, I hope.
I wonder, how long it will take for my little love to come voluntarily into my arms?——?