CHAPTER LXX
Wherein a Comely Young Woman broods upon the Years
Horaceshook hands with them all amidst their hearty promises to come and see him off, bade them good-night, and climbed the dark stairs to his rooms.
He pushed open the door of his studio to find the room possessed by the sombre twilight of the dawn. The heavy curtains that had hung across the great windows had been flung open, and the beginnings of light showed the deserted banquet, discovering a young woman who sat at the table, her face buried in her arms.
Horace shut the door gently and went and sat down beside her; took off his black hat; flung it on the table; and, leaning towards her, his golden hair touching her dark masses, he put his hand upon her pretty head:
“Babette,” said he.
She raised her head wearily, and leaning her elbow on the table, she set her dainty chin in her hand, and wiped the tears hurriedly from her eyes. She gazed moodily before her.
Horace took her hand:
“What are you thinking of, Babette?”
She sighed.
“Why should I fill your heart with my sadness, Horace?”
“Come, Babette.”
“I have been thinking of the days that are gone, Horace—you have always been very gentle with me.... And—I have been thinking of the days that are to come——”
Her lips trembled; and a tear stole down her cheek.
Horace nodded:
“Yes, Babette—and of the days to come!”
She sighed:
“I have been wondering whether you will think of me, Horace—as the days pass. I have been wondering—wondering—wondering——”
“Yes, Babette?”
“But why should I tell you?”
“Tell me, Babette,” he said; and he stroked her hair, gazing at her hungrily.
She uttered a little sob.
“Hush, Babette,” said he. “Tell me everything.”
She waited a little while:
“I have loved thee for love, Horace.” She smiled sadly and stroked his hand. “Must I love now for livelihood?... To me the moonlight nights by lake and river can never be the nights they have been with thee. And he who walks beside me must needs feel it so.... You go home, Horace, to life—I go on here, growing old, year by year. I have been sitting here in the dark, peering at the years. One day the gaiety will go out of my heart, the freshness out of my looks, the colour out of my face, the light out of my eyes. Men turn and look at me now—their eyes smile at me. The time will come when men’s eyes will pass me by. Students in the Boule Miche will say, ‘She was some clever fellow’s mistress—once.’ And there will be laughter. So, one day I shall sit at the tables—alone; my only prospect—the grave. Yet—with some—memories.... My haggard eyes have been staring at these things all through the long night, and the disillusioning dawn has but confirmed the nightmare.... Yet, Horace, dear heart, I have done nothing to deserve it—except in loving thee ... except in loving thee, dear heart.”
The tears brimmed over her eyelids, and her voice was stayed in a sob.
Horace took her tear-wet face between his hands and kissed her upon the eyes and mouth:
“Listen, Babette,” said he hoarsely—“thou hast wept thy last and thy only tears for any harshness from me. Dost thou think, dear heart, that I who have never found thee guilty of the smallest meanness will leave thee alone because, forsooth, thou hast loved me well! Dost thou think that thy dear hands and thy sight and thy breath and thy hearing and thy sweet bosom are not become a part of me! Tush! we have been married these many months. In a month from now thou must go through the law’s farce with me—but thou art my very wife—thou canst be no more to me than that, nor I to thee——”
“No, Horace—thou hadst better leave me. It would be a jibe against thee——”
“Tush!” He laughed huskily. “Thy train and steamboat passage are bought hours ago—there is a room preparing for thee in my father’s house.... Thou canst surely bear to be a maid again for thirty days!”
She laughed, and flung her arms about him and kissed his hair:
“I love thee, fool,” she said; “and will share thy folly....”
“Look,” said Horace—“the room is full of light—the sun will soon be peeping over the roofs. We must be packing. I have kept my best trunk for thy belongings, Babette.”
She laughed:
“It will take no time—I have as little wardrobe as dowry to bring thee, Horace.”
“You always look so well, Babette,” said he—“I had not realized thou hadst not even a trunk till the night before last.... Thou must be at the Louvre as early as the big shops openthis morning, and buy all thou canst buy of gowns and kickshaws in an hour.... It will save thee from fretting upon the hardship of thy life with me, Babette, until we leave. Where is thy purse?”
She laughed and handed him her light purse.
He bulged it out with banknotes.
“Thou must spend all this in gowns,” he said.
She took the notes and unfolded them upon the table:
“But—but, Horace, this will buy me many silk gowns—we must not waste——”
He kissed her, and laughed:
“I forgot to tell thee about the insignificant things—we are rich, Babette.”
The tears came into her eyes:
“But—but—I shall shame thee, Horace——”
He kissed her quivering lips to silence her:
“Then God send me shame, Babette,” he said; and he added, with a twinkle in his laughing eyes: “My sisters will judge thee largely by thy clothes, so buy for thyself as thou wouldst buy for my honour and my credit.”
She laughed gaily; then a frown knit the handsome brows.
“What is it, Babette?”
“Only an hour to buy a trousseau!” she sighed. “An hour is such a little while.”
He laughed loud and long; and she laughed at his laughter.
“No, Babette,” said he—“no, no, not thy wedding-dresses. Buy just thy few gowns to fill my trunk. Thou wouldst not rob my sisters of a month’s shopping, thou selfish egoist. They are rich—and must have employment.”
“I may not find gowns that will fit me,” she said.
“Thy needle will do the fitting.”
She sat, the happy tears in her handsome eyes, her hand in his, and gazed at the coming day.
“What!” said he—“thou wouldst weep!”
She kissed his fingers, put her dainty palm on his lips:
“Supposing thy sisters——”
She hesitated.
“I am taking thee home, Babette, to teach my sisters manners,” he said.
She laughed:
“And thy father, Horace?”
He put his hands on her slender shoulders:
“Babette,” said he—“I have told my father you are of the De la Rues of Paris.”
She laughed gaily.
He frowned at her in mock solemnity:
“Thou must not laugh at that jest before my father,” he said. “My father believes in the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Nobility and Me. It’s his only creed. Thou must never shake a man’s religious faith, my Babette. And he will love thee, with his rough love—for thou art very beautiful—and—thou lovest me.”
She slipped her hand through his arm, and nestled her face close to his:
“Horace,” she said simply—“I will tell thee now what I had intended to tell thee never: there is a little one coming—a little child——”
He was filled with a great silence and wonder.
He sat holding her slender fingers and gazing at her shy eyes. He put out his hand and placed it upon her breasts:
“And what if it usurp my place and oust me from thy fragrant bosom?” he said.
She laughed a low happy laugh:
“Ah, Horace; that would be fearful,” she said in gay raillery, “for thou mightest then treat the little one as harshly as thou hast used me....”
Thus they thou’d and thee’d and kissed and kissed again, until the sun peeped in over the eastern window’s ledge, and touched the young man’s hair.
She put her hand upon his head:
“Thou art pure gold,” she said.