  I was awfully glad to see old Maurice again—he was looking brown and less dilettante—though his socks and tie and eyes matched as well as ever! He congratulated me on the improvement in health in myself too, and then he gave me all the news—. Odette has been "painting the lily," and used some new skin tightener which has disfigured her for the moment, and she has retired to the family place near Bordeaux to weep until her complexion is restored again—. "Very unfortunate for her," Maurice said—"because she had nearly secured a roving English peer who had enjoyed 'cushy' jobs during the war, and had been recruiting from the fatigues of red-taping at Deauville—and now, with this whisper of a spoiled skin, he had transferred his attentions to Coralie—and there was trouble among the graces!"—Alice's plaintiveness had actually caught a very rich neutral who was forwarding philanthropic schemes for great ladies—and she hoped soon to wed. Coralie seemed in the most secure and happy case, since she is already established, and can enjoy herself without anxiety.—Maurice hinted that but for her bÉguin for me, she could land the English peer, and divorce poor RenÉ—her docile war husband—and become an English Countess! "Thou hast upset everything, Nicholas. Duquesnois is desolated—Coralie changed directly she saw you here—he says—and then to divert herself and forget you, took Lord Brockelbank from Odette!" "Vieux coquin! Va!" and Maurice patted me on the back—. They were enchanted with my presents to them lately, he added, and were all longing to return to Paris soon and thank me. The war was simply growing into a nuisance and the quicker it was over the better for everyone.(!) Then he beat about the bush for a little longer and at last began to grow nearer the vital subject!— He had seen some of my Mont Aubin relations—fortunately for me, they have been far from Paris in this last year—and they had anxiously asked him if I thought of marrying?—What in fact was I doing with myself now that my wounds were healing? I laughed—. "I am so glad my mother was an only child and they are none of them near enough to have the right to bore me—they had better continue their good works at Biarritz—I am told my cousin Marguerite's convalescent home is a marvel! I have sent her frequent donations." Then Maurice plunged in—. "You are not—becoming entangled in any way with your secretary, are you Mon ami?" he asked. I had decided beforehand that I would not get angry at anything he said—so I was ready for this. "No, Maurice—" and I poured out a second glass of port for him—Burton had left us alone by now—. "Miss Sharp does not know that I exist—she is simply here to do her work, and is the best secretary any man could want—I knew Coralie would infect you with some silly idea." Maurice sipped his port.—"Coralie said that in spite of the girl's glasses there was some air of distinction about her—as she walked on—and that she knew and felt you were interested." I remained undisturbed. "I am, immensely interested—I want to know who she really is. She is a lady—even a lady of our world.—I mean she knows about things in England—where she has never been—that she could not possibly know unless her family had spoken of them always. She has that unconscious air of familiarity and ease with subjects which would surprise you. Can't you find anything out for me, old boy, as to who she is?" "I will certainly try—Sharp?—it is not a name of the great world—no—?" "Of course that is not her real name—" "Why not ask her yourself, Mon brave!" "I'd like to find a man with pluck enough to ask her anything she did not wish him to!" "That little girl!—but she appeared meek and plain, and respectable, Nicholas—You intrigue me!" "Well, put your wits to work Maurice, and promise me you will not talk to the others about anything. I shall be very angry if you do." He gave me every assurance he would be silent as the grave—and then he changed the topic to that of Suzette—He was sorry I had given her her congÉ, because I would find it hard to replace her—Those so honest and really not too rapacious, were very difficult to find—Since he had heard that Suzette was no longer my little friend, he had been looking out for me, but as yet had seen nothing suitable!! "You need not trouble, Maurice," I told him, "I am absolutely finished with that part of my life—I loathe the whole idea of it now—." Maurice inspected me with grave concern—. "My dear chap—this appears serious—You are not in love with your secretary are you?—or is it possible that you are bluffing, and that she has replaced Suzette, and you wish tranquility about the subject?" I felt a hot flush mounting to my forehead—The very thought of my adored little girl in the category of Suzette!—I could have struck my old friend—but I had just sense enough to reason things. Maurice was only speaking as any of the Paris world would speak. A secretary, whom a man was obviously interested in, was certainly not out of the running for the post of "Maitresse-en-titre!" He meant no personal disrespect to Alathea. For him women were either of the world or they were not!—True, there was an intermediate class "Les braves gens"—Bourgeoises—servants, typists, etc., etc.—But one could only be interested in one of these for one "Look here Maurice—I want you to understand—that Miss Sharp is a lady in every way—I have already told you this but you don't seem to have grasped it—and that she has my greatest respect—and it makes me sick to think of anyone talking of her as you have just done. Although I know you did not mean anything low, you old owl!—She treats me as though I were a tiresome, elderly employer—whom she must give obedience to, but is not obliged to converse with. She would not permit the slightest friendship or familiarity from any man she worked for." "Your interest is then serious, Nicholas?" Maurice was absolutely aghast! "My respect is serious—my curiosity is hot—and I want information."—— Maurice tried to feel relieved—. "Supposing financial disaster fell upon your family, old boy—would you consider your sister less of a lady because she had to earn bread for you all by being a typist!" "Of course not—but it would be very dreadful!—Marie!—Oh! I could not think of it!" "Then try to get the idea into your thick head that Miss Sharp is Marie—and behave accordingly—That is how I look at her." Maurice promised that he would, and our talk "You will be quite well enough to dine out, Nicholas—Or if not you must move to the Ritz with me, so that you at least have entertainment on the spot, Mon cher!" We spoke then of the book—Furniture was a really refined and interesting subject for me to be delving into. Maurice longed to read the proofs, he averred. When he had left me, I lay back in my chair and asked myself what had happened to me?—that Maurice and all that lot seemed such miles and miles away from me—as miles and miles as they would have seemed in their triviality, when we used to discuss important questions in "Pop" at Eton. How I must have sunk in the years which followed those dear old days, ever even to have found divertisement among the people like Maurice and the fluffies. Surely even a one-eyed and one-legged man ought to be able to do something for his country politically, it suddenly seemed to me—and what a glorious picture to gaze at!—If I could some day go into Parliament, and have Alathea beside me, to give me inspiration and help me to the best in myself. How her poise would tell in English political society! How her brain and her power How I would love to have Alathea for my wife—and have children—It can't be possible that I have written that! I loathe children in the abstract—they bore me to death—Even Solonge de ClertÉ's two entertaining angels—but to have a son—with Alathea's eyes——God! how the thought makes me feel!—How I would like to sit and talk with her of how we should bring him up—I reached out my hand and picked up a volume of Charles Lamb and read "Dream Children"—and as I finished I felt that idiotic choky sensation which I have only begun to know since something in me has been awakened by Alathea—or since my nerves have been on the rack—I don't remember ever feeling much touched, or weak, or silly, before the war—. And now what have I to face—? A will, stronger, or as strong as my own—A prejudice of the deepest which I cannot explain away—A knowledge that I have no power to retain the thing I love—No guerdon to hold out to her mentally or physically—Nothing but the material thing of money—which I wish to God I knew. She will never marry me unless I give my word of honour that the thing will only be an empty ceremony—of that I feel sure even if circumstances aid me to force her into doing this much. And then one has to keep one's word of honour. And might not that be a greater hell than I am now in of suffering? Perhaps I had better go to the sea—like Suzette—and try to break the whole chain and forget her—. I rang the bell for Burton then, and told him of my new plan, as he put me to bed. We would go off to St. Malo,—for a week, and I gave orders that he should make the necessary arrangements to get permits. To travel anywhere now is no end of a difficulty. I wrote to Alathea without weakening—I asked her to collect the Mss. and make notes of what she thought still should be altered—during my absence—I wrote as stiffly, and in as business like a manner as possible—and finally I went to sleep, and slept better than I have done for some time.
St. Malo: How quaint these places are! I am at this deserted corner by the sea—where the hotel is comfortable, and hardly touched by the war—I am not happy—the air is doing me good, that is all—I have brought books—I am not trying to write—I just read and endeavor to sleep—and the hours pass. I tell myself continually that I am no more interested in Alathea—that I am going to get well, and go back to England—that I have emerged, and am a man with a free will once more—and I am a great deal better—. After all, how absurd to be thinking of a woman, from morning to night! When I get my new leg, and everything is all healed, up in a year or two, shall I be able to ride again?—Of course I shall, no doubt, and even play a little tennis?—I can shoot anyway—if we will be allowed to preserve partridges and pheasants when the war is over in England. Yes, of course life is a gorgeous thing—I like the fierce wind to blow in my face—and yesterday, much to Burton's displeasure, I went out sailing—. How could I be such a fool, he inferred—as to chance a wrench putting me back some months again—But one has to chance things occasionally. I never enjoyed a sail more because of this very knowledge.
A week has passed since we came to this end of the "I made so bold as to leave the young lady our address before we left, Sir Nicholas, in case she wanted to communicate with us, and she writes now to say, would I be good enough to ask you if you took with you Chapter Seven, because she cannot find it anywhere." Then he went on with evident constraint to tell me that the rest of the letter said that while she was working on Friday a "Mademoiselle la Blonde" called, and insisted upon passing Pierre who answered the door—and coming in to her—("It was Mam'zelle of course, Sir Nicholas!" Burton snapped!) And that she had demanded my address—but Miss Sharp had not felt she was justified in giving it to her—but had said letters would be forwarded—. "I hope to goodness that the baggage made no scene with the young lady, Sir Nicholas," Burton growled—"Of course she don't say in the letter—but it's more than likely—I would not have her insulted for the world." "Nor I either," I retorted angrily—"Suzette ought to know better now that I have given her everything she wanted—Will you let her understand please that this must not occur again—." "I'll see that the lawyer does it, Sir—that is the only way to deal with them persons—though Mam'zelle was the best of her sort. Seems to me Sir Nicholas, How I agreed with him! So here was a fresh barrier arisen between Alathea and myself!—a fresh barrier which I cannot explain away. The only comfort I get out of the whole thing is that imperative necessity must have been driving my little darling—or she would not put up with any of these things for a moment, and would have given her demission at the same time as she wrote. If money is so necessary to her—perhaps after all I could get her consent to marry me—The very thought made my pulses bound again—and all my calm flew to the winds! All the sage reasoning which was beginning to have an effect upon me evaporated!—I knew that once more I was as utterly under the spell of her attraction, as the moment when my passionate lips touched her soft reluctant ones—Ah! that thought! that memory—One I have never let myself indulge in—but now, all resistance broken on every side,—I spent the rest of the day dreaming about the joy of that kiss—until by night time I was as mad as a hatter, and more full of cruel unrest than ever—. I hate this place—I hate the sea—It is all of no use—I shall go back to Paris. |
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