Jack's hand, inside Mr. Stokes's beautiful, tall collar...“Jack's hand, inside Mr. Stokes's beautiful, tall collar, shook Bertie back and forth until his teeth chattered like castanets”
“Jack's hand, inside Mr. Stokes's beautiful, tall collar, shook Bertie back and forth until his teeth chattered like castanets”
Bertie had come out into the woods with a neat little stick, which during part of our conversation he had tucked jauntily under his arm. It now lay on the ground. I saw Jack glance at it.
"Ah!"—I faltered. "Do—do you think you'dbetter?"
"I know I had. Go, child."
I went.
I had great faith in Jack, faith that he knew what was best for everyone.
Unfortunately I forgot to ask for instructions as to how I should behave when I came to the hotel. And I had the bursting sun still in my hand.
I thought things over, as well as I could with a pounding pulse for every square inch in my body.
If I were a rabbit, I could scurry into my hole and "lay low" while other people fought out their destiny and arranged mine; but being a girl, tingling with my share of American pluck, and blazing with French fire, rabbits seemed to me at the instant only worthy of being made into pie.
Bertie, at this moment, was being made into pie—humble pie; and I don't doubt that the chauffeur, whom he had consistently tortured (because of me) would make him eat a large slice of himself when the humble pie was finished—also because of me. And because it was because of me, I knocked at the Turnours' sitting-room door with a bold, brave knock, as if I thought myself their social equal.
They had had tea, and were sitting about, looking graceful in the expectation of seeing Bertie and his French friend.
It was a disappointment to her ladyship to see only me, and she showed it with a frown, but Sir Samuel looked up kindly, as usual.
I laid the bursting sun on the table, and told them everything, very fast, without pausing to take breath, so that they wouldn't have time to stop me. But I didn't begin with the bursting sun, or even with the beating that Bertie was enjoying in the woods; I began with the Princess Boriskoff, and Lady Kilmarny; and I addressed Sir Samuel, from beginning to end. Somehow, I felt I had his sympathy, even when I rushed at the most embarrassing part, which concerned his stepson and the necktie.
Just as I'd told about the brooch, and Bertie's threat, and was coming to his punishment, another knock at the door produced the two young men, both pale, but Jack with a noble pallor, while Bertie's was the sick paleness of pain and shame.
"I've brought him to apologize to Miss d'Angely, in your presence, Sir Samuel, and Lady Turnour's," said the chauffeur. "I see you know something of the story."
"They know all now," said I. For Bertie's face proved the truth of my words, if they had needed proof. His eyes were swimming in tears, and he looked like a whipped school-boy.
But suddenly a whim roused her ladyship to speak up in his defence—or at least to criticize the chauffeur for presuming to take her stepson's chastisement into his hands.
"What right have you to set yourself up as Elise's champion, anyway?" she demanded, shrilly. "Have you and she been getting engaged to each other behind our backs?"
"It would be my highest happiness to be engaged to Miss d'Angely if she would marry me," said Jack, with such a splendidly sincere ring in his voice that I could almost have believed him if I hadn't known he was in love with another woman. "But I am no match for her. It's only as her friend that I have acted in her defence, as any decent man has a right to act when a lady is insulted."
Then Bertie apologized, in a dull voice, with his eyes on the ground, and mumbled a kind of confession, mixed with self-justification. He had pocketed the brooch, yes, meaning to play a trick, but had intended no harm, only a little fun—pretty girl—lady's-maids didn't usually mind a bit of a flirtation and a present or two; how was he to know this one was different? Sorry if he had caused annoyance; could say no more—and so on, and so on, until I stopped him, having heard enough.
Poor Sir Samuel was crestfallen, but not too utterly crushed to reproach his bride with unwonted sharpness, when she would have scolded me for carelessness in not putting the brooch away. "Let the girl alone!" he grumbled, "she's a very good girl, and has behaved well. I wish I could say the same of others nearer to me."
"Of course, Sir Samuel, after what's happened, you wouldn't want me to stay in your employ, any more than I would want to stay," said Jack. "Unfortunately the Aigle will be hung up two or three days, till new pinions can be fitted in, at the garage. I can send them out from Paris, if you like; but no doubt you'll prefer tohave my engagement with you to come to an end to-day. Mr. Stokes has driven the car, and can again."
"Not if I have anything to say about it," murmured her ladyship. "Scattering the poor thing's teeth all over the place!"
"There are plenty of good chauffeurs to be got at short notice in Paris," Jack suggested, "and you are certain to find one by the time you're ready to start."
"You're right, Dane. We'll have to part company," said Sir Samuel. "As for Elise here—"
"She'll have to go too," broke in her ladyship. "It's most inconvenient, and all your stepson's fault—though she's far from blameless, in my humble opinion, whatever yours may be. Don't tell me that a young man will go about flirting with lady's maids unless they encourage him!"
"I shall leave of course, immediately," said I, my ears tingling.
"Who wants you to do anything else? Though nobody cares formyconvenience.Ican always go to the wall. But thank heaven there are maids in Paris as well as chauffeurs. And talking of that combination, my advice to you is, if Dane's willing to have you, don't turn up your nose at him, but marry him as quickly as you can. I suppose even in your class of life there's such a thing asgossip."
I was scarlet. Somehow I got out of the room, and while I was scurrying my few belongings into my dressing bag, and spreading out the red satin frock to leave as a legacy to Lady Turnour (in any case, nothing could have induced me to wear it again), Sir Samuel sent me up anenvelope containing a month's wages, and something over. I enclosed the "something over" in another envelope, with a grateful line of refusal, and sent it back.
Thus ends my experience as a motor maid!
What was going to become of me I didn't know, but while I was jamming in hatpins and praying for ideas, there came a knock at the door. A pencilled note from the late chauffeur, signed hastily, "Yours ever, J.D.," and inviting me down to the couriers' dining-room for a conference. There would be no one there but ourselves at this hour, he said, and we should be able to talk over our plans in peace.
What a place to say farewell forever to the only man I ever had, could or would love—a couriers' dining room, with grease spots on the tablecloth! However, there was no help for it, since I was facing the world with fifty francs, and could not afford to pay for a romantic background.
After all that had happened, and especially after certain impertinent references made to our private affairs, I felt a new and very embarrassing shyness in meeting the man with whom I'd been playing that pleasant little game called "brother and sister." He was waiting for me in the couriers' room, which was even dingier and had more grease spots than I had fancied, and I hurried into speech to cover my nervousness.
"I don't know how I'm going to thank you for all you've done for me," I stammered. "That horrible Bertie—"
"Let's not talk of him," said Jack. "Put him out of your mind for ever. He has no place there, or in yourlife—and no more have any of the incidents that led up to him. You've had a very bad time of it, poor little girl, and now—"
"Oh, I haven't," I exclaimed. "I've been happier than ever before in my life. That is—I—it was all so novel, and like a play—"
"Well, now the play's over," Jack broke in, pitying my evident embarrassment. "I wanted to ask you if you'd let me advise and perhaps help you. Wehavebeen brother and sister, you know. Nothing can take that away from us."
"No," said I, in a queer little voice. "Nothing can."
"You want to go to England, I know," he went on. "And—if you'll forgive my taking liberties, you haven't much money in hand, you've almost told me. I suppose you haven't changed your mind about your relations in Paris? You wouldn't like to go back to them, or write, and tell them firmly that you won't marry the person they seem to have set their hearts on for you? That you've made your own choice, and intend to abide by it; but that if they'll be sensible and receive you, you're willing to stop with them until—until the man in England—"
"Whatman in England?" I cut him short, in utter bewilderment.
"Why, the—er—you didn't tell me his name, of course, but that rich chap you expected to meet when you got over to England. Don't you think it would be better if he came to you at your cousins', if they—"
"Thereisn'tany 'rich chap'," I exclaimed. "I don't know what you mean—oh,yes, I do, too. I did speak about someone who was very rich, and would be kind tome. I rather think—I remember now—Iguessedyou imagined it was a man; but that seemed the greatest joke, so I didn't try to undeceive you. Fancy your believing that, all this time, though, and thinking about it!"
"I've thought of it on an average once every three minutes," said Jack.
"You're chaffing now, of course. Why, the person I hoped might be kind to me in England is an old lady—oh, but such a funny old lady!—who wanted me to be her companion, and said, no matter when I came, if it were years from now, I must let her know, for she would like to have me with her to help chase away a dragon of a maid she's afraid of. I met her only once, in the train the night before I arrived at Cannes; but she and I got to be the greatest friends, and her bulldog, Beau—."
"Her bulldog, Beau!"
"A perfect lamb, though he looks like a cross between a crocodile and a gnome. The old lady's name is Miss Paget—"
"My aunt!"
I stared at Jack, not knowing how to take this exclamation. The few Englishmen I met when mamma and I were together, or when I lived with the Milvaines, were rather fond of using that ejaculation when it was apparently quite irrelevant. If you told a youthful Englishman that you were not allowed to walk or bicycle alone in the Bois, he was as likely as not to say "My aunt!" In fact, whatever surprised him was apt to elicit this cry. I have known several young men who gave vent to it at intervals of from half to three-quarters of an hour; but I had never before heard Jackmake the exclamation, so when I had looked at him and he had looked at me in an emotional kind of silence for a few seconds, I asked him, "Why 'My aunt'?"
"Because she is my aunt."
"Surely not my Miss Paget?"
"I should think it highly improbable that your Miss Paget and my Miss Paget could be the same, if you hadn't mentioned her bulldog, Beau. There can't be a quantity of Miss Pagets going about the world with bulldogs named Beau. Only my Miss Paget never does go about the world. She hates travelling."
"So does mine. She said that being in a train was no pursuit for a gentlewoman."
"That sounds like her. She's quite mad."
"She seemed very kind."
"I'm glad she did—to you. She has seemed rather the contrary to me."
"Oh, what did she do to you?"
"Did her best to spoil my life, that's all—with the best intentions, no doubt. Still, by Jove, I thank her! If it hadn't been for my aunt I should never have seen—my sister."
"Thank you. You're always kind—and polite. Do you mean it was because ofheryou took to what you call 'shuvving'?"
"Exactly."
"But I thought—I thought—"
"What?"
"I—don't dare tell you."
"I should think you might know by this time that you can tell me anything. Youmusttell me!"
"I thought it was the beautiful lady who was with you the first time you saw the battlement garden at Beaucaire, who ruined your life?"
"Beautiful lady—battlement garden? Good heavens, what extraordinary things we seem to have been thinking about each other: I with my man in England; you with your beautiful lady—"
"She's a different thing. Youtalkedto me about her," I insisted. "Surely you must remember?"
"I remember the conversation perfectly. I didn't explain my meaning as a professor demonstrates a rule in higher mathematics, but I thought you couldn't help understanding well enough, especially a vain little thing like you."
"I, vain? Oh!"
"You are, aren't you?"
"I—well, I'm afraid I am, a little."
"You could never have looked in the glass if you weren't. Didn't you see, or guess, that I was talking about an Ideal whom I had conjured into being, as a desirable companion in that garden? I can't understand from the way the conversation ran, how you could have helped it. When I first went to the battlement garden I was several years younger, steeped with the spirit of Provence and full of thoughts of Nicolete. I was just sentimental enough to imagine that such a girl as Nicolete was with me there, and always afterward I associated the vision of the Ideal with that garden. I said to myself, that I should like to come there again with that Ideal in the flesh. And then—then I did come again—with you."
"But you said—you thought of her always—that because you couldn't have her—or something of the sort—"
"Well, all that was no surprise to you, was it? You must have known perfectly well—ever since that night at Avignon when you let your hair down, anyhow, if not before, that I was trying desperately hard not to be an idiot about you—and not exactly radiant with joy in the thought that whoever the man was who would get you, it couldn't be I?"
"O-oh!" I breathed a long, heavenly breath, that seemed to let all the sorrows and worries pour out of my heart, as the air rushed out of my lungs. "O-oh, youcan'tmean, truly and really, that you're in love with Me, can you?"
"Surely it isn't news to you."
"I should think it was!" I exclaimed, rapturously. "Oh, I'm so happy!"
"Another scalp—though a humble one?"
"Don't be a beast. I'm so horribly in love with you, you know. It's been hurting sodreadfully."
Then I rather think he said "My darling!" but I'm not quite sure, for I was so busy falling into his arms, and he was holding me so very, very tightly.
We stayed like that for a long time, not saying anything, and not even thinking, but feeling—feeling. And the couriers' dining-room was a princess's boudoir in an enchanted palace. The grease spots were stars and moons that had rolled out of heaven to see how two poor mortals looked when they were perfectly happy. Just a poor chauffeur and a motor maid: but the world was theirs.
After a while we talked again, and explained all the cross-purposes to each other, with the most interesting pauses in between the explanations. And Jack told me about himself, and Miss Paget.
It seems that her only sister was his mother, and she had been in love with his father before he met the sister. The father's name was Claud, and Jack was named after him. It was Miss Paget's favourite name, because of the man she had loved. But the first Claud wasn't very lucky. He lost all his own money and most of his wife's, and died in South America, where he'd gone in the hope of making more. Then the wife, Jack's mother, died too, while he was at Eton. After that Miss Paget's house was his home. Whenever he was extravagant at Oxford, as he was sometimes, she would pay his debts quite happily, and tell him that everything she had would be his some day, so he was not to bother about money. Accordingly, he didn't bother, but lived rather a lazy life—so he said—and enjoyed himself. A couple of years before I met him he got interested, through a friend, in a newly invented motor, which they both thought would be a wonderful success. Jack tried to get his aunt interested, too, but she didn't like the friend who had invented it—seemed jealous of Jack's affection for him—and refused to have anything to do withthe affair. Jack had gone so far, however, while taking her consent for granted, that he felt bound to go on; and when Miss Paget would have nothing to do with floating the new invention, Jack sold out the investments of his own little fortune (all that was left of his mother's money), putting everything at his friend's disposal. Miss Paget was disgusted with him for doing this, and when the motor wouldn't mote and the invention wouldn't float, she just said, "I told you so!"
It was at this time, Jack went on to tell me, that Miss Paget bought Beau. She had had another dog, given her by Jack, which died, and she collected Beau herself. Only a few days after Beau's arrival, Jack went down into the country to see his aunt and talk things over; for she had brought him up to expect to be her heir; and as she wanted him with her continually, as if he had been her son, she had objected to his taking up any profession. Now that he'd lost his own money in this unfortunate speculation, he felt he ought to do something not to be dependent upon her, his income of two hundred a year having been sunk with the unfloatable motor invention. He meant to ask Miss Paget to lend him enough to go in as partner with another friend, who had a very thriving motor business, and to suggest paying her back so much a year. But everything was against him on that visit to his aunt's country house.
In the first place, she was in a very bad humour with him, because he had gone against her wishes, and she didn't want to hear anything more about motors or motor business. Then, there was Beau, as atertium quid.
Beau had been bought from a dreadful man who had probably stolen, and certainly ill-treated him. The dog was very young, and owing to his late owner's cruelty, feared and hated the sight of a man. Since she had had him Miss Paget had done her very best to spoil the poor animal, encouraging him to growl at the men-servants, and laughing when he frightened away any male creature who had come about the place. While she and Jack were arguing over money and motors, who should stroll in but Beau, who at sight of a stranger—a man—closeted with his indulgent mistress, flew into a rage. He seized Jack by the trouser-leg and began to worry it, and Jack had to choke him before the dog would let go his grip.
The sight of this dreadful deed threw Miss Paget into hysterics. She shrieked that her nephew was cruel, ungrateful—that he had never loved her, that he cared only for her money, and now that he grudged her the affection of a dog with whichhehad had nothing to do; that the dog's dislike for him was a warning to her, and made her see him in his true light at last. "Go—go—out of my sight—or I'll set my poor darling at you!" she cried, and Jack went, after saying several rather frank things.
At heart he was fond of his aunt, in spite of her eccentricities, and believed that she was of him, therefore he expected a letter of apology for her injustice and a request to come back. But no such letter ever arrived. Perhaps Miss Paget thought it washisplace to apologize, and was waiting for him to do so. In any case, they had never seen each other again; and after a few weeks,Jack received a formal note from his aunt's solicitor saying that, as she realized now he had "no real affection for her orhers" he need look for no future advantages from her, but was at liberty to take up any line of business he chose. Miss Paget would "no longer attempt to interfere with his wishes or direct his affairs."
This must have been a pleasant letter for a penniless young man, just robbed of all his future prospects. His own money gone, and no hope of any to put into a profession or business! Jack lived as he could for some months, trying for all sorts of positions, making a few guineas by sketches and motoring articles for newspapers, and somehow contriving to keep out of debt. He went to France to "write up" a great automobile race, as a special commission; but the paper which had given the commission—a new one devoted to the interests of motoring—suddenly failed. Jack found himself stranded; advertised for a position as chauffeur, and got it. There was the history which he "hadn't inflicted on me before, lest I should be bored."
He was interested to hear of Miss Paget's journey to Italy, and knew all about the cousin who had died, leaving her money which she didn't need, and a castle in Italy which she didn't want. He laughed when I told him how the redoubtable Simpkins refused to trust herself upon that "great nasty wet thing," which was the Channel: but nothing could hold his attention firmly exceptouraffairs. For his affairs and my affairs were not separate any longer. They were joined together for weal or woe. Whatever happened, however imprudent thestep might be, he decided that we must be married. We loved each other; each was the other's world, and nothing must part us. Besides, said Jack, I needed a protector. I had no home, and he could not have me persecuted by creatures who produced Corn Plasters. His idea was to take me to England at once, and have me there promptly made Mrs. John Dane, by special licence. He had a few pounds, and a few things which he could sell would bring in a few more. Then, with me for an incentive, he should get something to do that was worth doing.
I said "Yes" to everything, and Jack darted away to converse with a nice man he had met in the garage, who had a motor, and was going to Paris almost immediately. If he had not gone yet, perhaps he would take us.
Luckily he had not gone, and he did take us. He took us to the Gare du Nord, where we would just have time to eat something, and catch the boat train for Calais. We should be in London in the morning, and Jack would apply for a special licence as early as possible.
I stood guarding our humble heap of luggage, while Jack spent his hard-earned sovereigns for our tickets, when suddenly I heard a voice which sounded vaguely familiar. It was broken with distress and excitement; still I felt sure I had heard it before, and turned quickly, exclaiming "Miss Paget!"
There she was, with a dressing bag in one hand, and a broken dog-leash in the other. Tears were running down her fat face (not so fat as it had been) under spectacles, and her false front was put on anyhow.
"Oh, my dear girl!" she wailed, without showing the slightest sign of astonishment at sight of me. "What a mercy you've turned up, but it's just like you. Have you seen my Beau anywhere?"
"No," I said, rather stiffly, for I couldn't forgive her or her dog for their treatment of my Jack.
"Oh, dear, what shall I do!" she exclaimed. "He hates railway stations. You can't think the awful time we've had since you left me in the train at Cannes. And now he's broken his leash, and run away, and I can't speak any French, except to ask for hot water in Italian, and I don't see how I'm going to find my darling again. They'll snatch him up, to fling him into some terrible, murderous waggon, and take him to a lethal home, or whatever they call it. For heaven's sake, go and ask everybody where he is—and if you find him you can have anything on earth I've got, especially my Italian castle which I can't sell. You can come to England with me and Beau, when you've got him, and I'll make you happy all the rest of your life. Oh, go—dogo. I'll look after your luggage."
"It's half your own nephew's, Jack Dane's, luggage," said I, breathless and pulsing. "I'm going to England with him, andhe'sgoing to make me happy all the rest of my life, for we mean to be married, in spite of your cruelty which has made him poor, and turned him into a chauffeur. But—here he comes now. And—why, Miss Paget, there'sBeauwalking with him, without any leash. Beau must remember him."
"Beau with Jack Dane!" gasped the old lady. "Jack Dane's found Beau?Beau'sforgiven him! Then sowill I. You can both have the Italian castle—and everything that goes with it. And everything else that's mine, too, except Beau."
"Hello, aunt, here's your dog," said Jack.
Beau licked his foot.
Transcriber's note:In converting this book the following evident typographical errors were corrected, causing differences from the original:p. 65, correct spelling of "Gaspard de Besse";p. 79, correct accent in "Hyères";p. 102, correct spelling of "Le Buisson Ardent";p.140, insert t in "At first";p. 291, change "be began" to "he began."