  It is quite useless for me to comment upon the utterly annoying circumstance of that mixup of cheque-books—Such things are fate—and fate I am beginning to believe is nothing but a reflex of our own actions. If Suzette had not been my little friend, I should not have given her eight thousand francs—but as she has been—and I did—I must stand by the consequences. After all—a man?—Well—what is the use of writing about it. I am so utterly mad and resentful that I have no words. It is Sunday morning, and this afternoon I shall hire the one motor which can be obtained here, at a fabulous price, and go into Paris. There are some books I want to get out of my bookcase—and somehow I have lost interest here. But this morning I shall go and sit in the parish church and hear Mass.—I feel so completely wretched, the music may comfort me and give me courage to forget all about Miss Sharp. And in any case there is a soothing atmosphere in a Roman Catholic church, which is agreeable. I love the French people! They are a continual tonic, if one takes them rightly. So filled with common sense, simply using sentiment as an ornament, and a relaxation; and never allowing it to interfere with the practical necessities of life. Ignorant people say they are hysterical, and over I am waiting for the motor now—and trying to be resigned.—Mass did me good—I sat in a corner and kept my crutch by me. The Church itself told me stories, I tried to see it in Louis XV's time—I dare say it looked much the same, only dirtier—And life was made up with etiquette and forms and ceremonies, more exasperating than anything now. But they were ahead of us in manners, and a sense of beauty. A little child came and sat beside me for about ten minutes, and looked at me and my crutch sympathetically. "BlessÉ de la guerre," I heard her whisper to her mother—"Comme Jean." The organ was not bad—and before I came out I felt calmer. After all it is absurd of Miss Sharp to be disgusted about Suzette—She must know, at nearly twenty-four, and living in France, that there are Suzettes—and I am sure she is not narrow-minded in any way—What can have made her so censorious? If she took a personal interest in me it would be different, but entirely indifferent as she is, how can it matter to I'll make Burton find out if Coralie is really staying here, and get her to dine with me to-night—Coralie always pretended to have a bÉguin for me—even when most engaged elsewhere. Monday: Sunday was a memorable day—. I went through the Bois de Marne on that bad road because the trees were so lovely—and then through the parc de St. Cloud. Even in war time this wonderful people can enjoy the open air life!— I think of Henriette d' Angleterre looking from the terrace of her ChÂteau over the tree tops—The poor ChÂteau! not a stone of which is standing to-day—Did she feel sentimental with her friend the Comte de Guiche—as I would like to feel now?—If I had someone to be sentimental with. Alas! There was an ominous hot stillness in the air, and the sky beyond the Eiffel tower had a heavy, lurid tone in it. When we got across the river into the Bois de Boulogne it seemed as if all Paris was enjoying a holiday. I told the chauffeur to go down a side allÉe and to go slowly, and presently I made him draw up at the side of the road. It was so hot, and I wanted to rest for a little, the motion was jarring my leg. I think I must have been half asleep, when my attention And a boy of thirteen, and a girl of eleven were at either side of her, the boy clinging on to her arm, he was lame and seemed to be a dreadfully delicate, rickety person. The little girl was very small and sickly looking too—but Miss Sharp—my secretary!—appeared blooming and young and lovely in her inexpensive foulard frock—No glasses hid her blue eyes. Her hair was not torn back and screwed into a knot, but might have been dressed by Alice's maid—and her hat, the simplest thing possible, was most becoming, with the proper modish "look."— Refinement and perfect taste proclaimed themselves from every inch of her, even if everything had only cost a small sum. So that dowdy get-up is for my benefit, and is not habitual to her!—Or is it, that she has only one costume and keeps it for Sundays and days of fÊte?— In spite of my determination to put all thought of her from me—a wild emotion arose—a passionate longing to spring from the car and join her—to talk to her, and tell her how lovely I thought she was looking. They came nearer and nearer—I could see that her face was rippling with smiles at something the little brother had said—Its expression was gentle and sympathetic The children might have been drawn by Du Maurier in Punch long ago, to express a family who were overbred. Race run to seed expressed itself in every line of them. The boy wore an Eton jacket and collar and a tall hat—and it looked quite strange in this place. As they got close to me I could hear him cough in the hollow way which tells its own story—. I cowered down behind the hood of the motor, and they passed without seeing me—or perhaps Miss Sharp did see me but was determined not to look—. I felt utterly alone and deserted by all the world—and the same nervous trembling came over me which once before made me suffer so, and again I was conscious that my cheek was wet with a tear. The humiliation of it! the disgrace of such feebleness!— When they had gone by, I started forward again to watch them—I could hear the little girl cry, "Oh! look Alathea!" as she pointed to the sky, and then all three began to quicken their pace down another allÉe, in the direction of Auteuil, and were soon out of sight. Then, still quivering with emotion, I too glanced heavenward—Ye Gods! what a storm was coming on—! Where were they going? there into the deep wood?—it was a good mile or two from the Auteuil gate—They All these thoughts tormented me, and I gave the chauffeur orders to take a road I thought might cut across the path they had followed, and when we reached the spot, I made him wait. The livid lightning rent the sky and the thunder roared like guns, and the few people in sight rushed, panic-stricken, in a hopeless search for shelter—far greater fear on their faces than they show at German bombs. My chauffeur complained audibly, as he got down to shut the car—Did Monsieur wish to be struck by lightning? he demanded, very enraged. Still I waited—but no Sharp family appeared—and at last I knew I had missed them somehow—a very easy thing in that path-bisected wood. So I told him he could drive like hell to my appartement in the Place des Etats Unis—and off we rushed in the now torrential rain—It was one of the worst thunder storms I have ever seen in my life. I was horribly worried as to what could have happened to that little party, for that alleÉ where I had seen them, was in the very middle of the Bois, and far from any gate or shelter. They must have got soaking wet if nothing worse had happened to them. And how could I hear anything about them?—What should I do? Was the Duchesse in Paris?—Could I find the address However, this was worth trying, and I could hardly wait to get out of the motor, and get to the telephone. The concierge came out with an umbrella in great concern and took me up in the lift herself—and there was Burton waiting for me, he had come in by train to take me back safely later on. How I cursed my folly in not having asked Miss Sharp herself for her address! Could Burton possibly know it?—How silly of me not to have thought of that before! "Burton, I saw Miss Sharp and her family in the Bois—do you know their address by chance?—I want to ring up and find out if they got home all right." Burton could see my anxiety—and actually hurried in his reply! "They live in Auteuil, Sir Nicholas, but I can't exactly say where—the young lady never seems very particular to give me the address. She said I should not be needing it, and that they were likely to move." "Get on to the Duchesse de Courville-Hautevine as quickly as you can—." Burton did so at once, but it seemed a long time. —No, Madame la Duchesse was down at Hautevine taking some fresh convalescents, and would not return until the middle of the week—if then! I nearly swore aloud—. "Are they talking from the concierge's lodge or the hotel?—Burton ask at both if they know the address of a Miss Sharp who brings bandages to the hospital!" Of course by this time the connection had been cut off, and it took quite ten minutes to get on again, and by that time I could have yelled aloud with the feverish fret of it all, and the pain! No one knew anything of a "Mees Shearp." "Mees Shearp—Mais non!" Many ladies brought bandages, hein?! I mastered myself as well as I could and got into my chair—. And in a few moments Burton brought me a brandy and soda, and put it into my hand. "It won't be cleared up enough to go back to Versailles before dinner, Sir Nicholas," he said—and coughed—"I was just thinking maybe—you'd be liking some friends to come in and dine—Pierre can get something in from the restaurant, if you'd feel inclined." The cough meant that Burton knows I am dreadfully upset, and that under the circumstances anything to distract me is the lesser of two evils—! "Ask whom you please," I answered and drank the brandy and soda down. Presently, after half an hour, Burton came back to me, beaming—I had been sitting in my chair too exhausted even to feel pain meanwhile—. He had telephoned everywhere, and no one was in Nina!—A pleasant thrill ran through me—Nina, and without Jim—! The wood fire was burning brightly, and the curtains were drawn when Nina, fresh as a rose, came in—. "Nicholas!" she cried delightedly—and held out both hands. "Nina!—this is a pleasure, you old dear!—now let me look at you and see what marriage has done—." Nina drew back and laughed! "Everything, Nicholas!" she said—. A feeling of envy came over me—Jim's ankle is stiff for life—it seems hard that an eye can make such a difference!—Nina is in love with Jim, but no woman can be in love with me. Her face is much softer, she is more attractive altogether. "You look splendid, Nina," I told her—"I want to hear all about it." "So you shall when we have finished dinner," and she handed me my crutch as I got up from my chair. Pierre had secured some quite respectable food, and during dinner and afterwards when we were cosily smoking our cigarettes in the sitting-room, Nina gave me all the news of our friends at home.—Every "It is marvelous how they have stuck it," I responded—. "Oh no, not at all," Nina answered. "We as a nation are people of habit—the war is a habit to us now—heaps of us work from a sense of duty and patriotism, others because they are afraid what would be said of them if they did not—others because they are thankful to have some steady job to get off their superfluous energy on—So it ends by everyone being roped in—and you can't think, Nicholas, how divine it is to get home after long hours of drudgery, to find the person you love waiting for you, and to know you are going to have all the rest of the time together, until next day!" "No, I can't imagine the bliss of that, Nina—." She looked at me suddenly—. "Well, why don't you marry then, dear boy?" "I would, if I thought I could secure bliss—but you forget, it would be from pity and not love that a woman would be kind to me." "I am—not quite sure of that, Nicholas"—and she looked at me searchingly—"You are changed since last time—you are not so bitter and sardonic—and you, always have that—oh! you know what Elinor Glyn writes of in her books—that "it."—Some kind of attraction that has no name—but I am sure has a lot to do with love—." "So you think I have got 'it,' Nina?" "Yes, your clothes fit so well—and you say rather whimsical things—Yes, decidedly, Nicholas, now that you are not so bitter—I am sure—." "What a pity you did not find that out before you took Jim, Nina!" "Oh! Jim! that is different—You have much more brain than Jim, and would not have been nearly so easy to live with!" "Is it going well, Nina?" "Yes—perfectly—that is why I came to Paris alone—I knew it would be good for him—besides I wanted a rest, Nicholas." "I thought you had married for a rest!" "Well, if a man 'in love' is what you really want,—and not his just 'loving' you—you have to use your wits; it can't be a rest, not if he has made you care too.—When I was just tossing up between Jim and Rochester, then I had not to bother about how I behaved to them. You see I was the, as yet, unattained desired thing—but having accepted one of them, he has time to think of things, not having to fight to get me, and so I have to keep him thinking of things which have still speculation in them—don't you see?" "You have to keep the hunting instinct alive, in fact." "Yes—" "You don't think it would be possible to find someone who was just one's mate so that no game of any sort would be necessary?" She thought hard for a moment. "That, of course, would be heaven—" then she sighed—"I am afraid it is no use in hoping for that, Nicholas!" "Someone who would understand so well that silence was eloquent—someone who would read books with one, and think thoughts with one. Someone who would lie in one's arms and respond to caresses—and not be counting the dollars—or—doing her knitting—. Someone who was tender and kind and true—Oh! Nina!" I suppose my voice had taken on a tone of emotion—I was thinking of Miss Sharp—Alathea—that shall be her name always for me now—. "Nicholas!" Nina exclaimed—"My dear boy, of course you are in love!" "And if so?" Instantly I became of more value to Nina—she realized that she had lost me, and that some other woman drew me and not herself—and although Nina is the best sort in the world and more or less really in love with Jim, I knew that a new note could grow in our friendship if I wished to encourage it—Nina's fighting instinct had been aroused to try to get me back! "Who with?" she demanded laconically. "With a dream—." "Nonsense! you are much too cynical—Is it anyone I know?" "I should not think so—she has not materialised yet." "This is frightfully interesting, my dear old boy!" "So you think I'll have a chance then?" "Certainly when you are all finished." "My new eye is to be in before Christmas, and my new leg after the new year, and my shoulder gets straighter every day!" Nina laughed—. "Real love would be—I suppose—if you could make her adore you before you looked any handsomer!" And this sentence of Nina's rang in my ears long after she had gone, and often in the night. I could not sleep, I felt something had happened and that fate might be going to take Miss Sharp—Alathea—from me—.
And then before morning in fretful dreams I seemed to be obsessed by the cooing of love words between a woman and a child—. |
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