John Strange Winter

There is occasionally a time in our life which proves a veritable oasis in a desert of doubt and suspicion.

During the month which they spent in the fascinating little town on the northern coast, Regina lived a very dolce far niente kind of life. Her anxieties as to the hussy were, for a time, lulled to sleep. They stayed at a comfortable hotel on the front, had rooms overlooking that wonderful stretch of sea which is one of the great charms of Dieppe, and they did themselves remarkably well; that is to say, they went without nothing that would give them pleasure. As soon as they arrived and were settled down, Alfred Whittaker went to the extravagance of engaging a motor car for their exclusive use during their stay. It was a very comfortable car, and held six persons in addition to the chauffeur, and almost every day they made excursions into the green heart of the quiet country, lunching at some snug French hostelry on homely but delicious fare. Personally, I have always thought that one of the chief reasons why art and sentiment nourish and thrive apace in sunny France is because the people live upon food so much less gross than is the case with ourselves. In the poorest little inn on the other side of the Channel one is always sure of an excellent soup, a delicious omelette, bread and butter that are beyond reproach, and a sound and excellent drink, be it of red wine or only of homely cider. To Regina, the freedom from household cares, which she detested, and from all questions of orderings and caterings, made this quite the most charming holiday of her whole life. She was happy, too, that Julia was happy, that Julia made many friends of her own age and condition, that she, as the phrase goes, danced her feet off four nights a week, and was able to enter with zest and enjoyment into the young life of the place. As for Alfred Whittaker himself, he so thoroughly enjoyed the rest and change, seemed so happy and contented with himself and everything around him, that sometimes Regina caught herself wondering if she had been entirely mistaken in imagining that there was, after all, a hussy in the background. He was loud in his expressions of satisfaction in the new ground which they had broken. How they ever came to go year after year to a dull English watering-place, and never thought of coming abroad, was really beyond him.

“But we have been abroad,” said Regina.

“Yes, for a trip, for a fortnight in Paris, for tours in different parts of Europe; there’s no rest in that kind of thing, it is an excitement, an opening of one’s mind—quite different to this,” he rejoined. “It’s very improving to one’s mind to go up the Rhine in a steamer, and go round all the sights of Cologne; to gaze at Ehrenbreitstein, and wonder whether it really is like Gibraltar or not; to feed the carp at Frankfort; to gaze at the falls at Schaffhausen; but it is not restful, it is not really a holiday. It is a nice fillip for a placid, blank or uneventful life, but for a man overdone with the stress of business, give me this. Restful without being dull, interesting without being overwhelming, and bright and gay without being fagging.”

“You are always so sensible,” said Regina. She felt at that moment that the hussy was farther away than ever. Yet, a little later, when she and Alfred were taking a stroll down the Grande Rue, it being market morning, and therefore unusually interesting, she was reminded of the skeleton in her cupboard as sharply and unexpectedly as the jerk with which the proverbial bird, tied by a string to the leg, is stopped in its peregrinations. As a rule on market morning the world promenades in the middle of the street, in the actual roadway, but it happened on this occasion that Alfred and Regina met a carriage and pair coming slowly between the market people squalling on the edge of the pavement. To avoid the carriage they stepped on to the trottoir, and this brought them under the awning of a jeweler’s shop.

“I think I ought to buy you a present,” said Alfred, “for I won last night.”

“Did you? You never told me.”

“I didn’t think of it. I was so sleepy I was glad to tumble into bed and forget everything,” Alfred replied. “I only had five louis in my pocket when I went into the Casino, and this morning I find that I have twenty-five. Now, twenty louis is sixteen pounds. If I keep it I shall lose it all back to the tables again, whether it is at the fascinating little horses or the more fascinating green cloth in the Grand Cercle. Come, what would you like? Here’s a jeweler’s shop; there are sixteen good English pounds lying at your feet, make your choice.”

“In francs?” asked Regina.

“In francs—well, in francs it’s four hundred. Now, there’s a ring, I call that a very good bargain for four hundred francs—there’s something for your money, there’s body in it.” He pointed to a large and deep-colored sapphire set in a circle of diamonds. Regina saw that the ring was beautiful, but, womanlike, her eyes wandered to the other gewgaws displayed in the window.

“I have a good many rings,” she said hesitatingly. Then her eyes fell upon a thick gold curb bracelet clasped by a horse-shoe of diamonds.

“This is handsome,” she said. Her voice was quite faint, for she felt that she was approaching that subject which had troubled her so much.

“Oh, horrid!” said he. “I love to see you with plenty of rings, but as to bracelets—I can’t endure them.”

“Never?” said Regina. “Never?”

“No, I never buy a bracelet for anybody. I like to give you something that you can wear for weeks or years together. Bracelets always seem in the way, they don’t set off a pretty wrist, and they draw attention to an ugly one. Besides, they are intensely disagreeable if you happen to put your arm around my neck. Come, let us go inside and see how the sapphire suits your hand.”

He led the way into the shop, as a man always does when he is going to buy something for a woman. Have you ever noticed, my reader, how the most polite of men, who stands aside on all occasions for the lady to precede him, marches into a shop right in front of her when he is going to make her a present?

Now, Alfred Whittaker’s knowledge of French was what may be described as infinitesimal, and it being his habit to state his business whenever he entered a shop of any kind, he did not wait for Regina’s faulty but more understandable explanations.

“Vous-avez un ring la,” pointing with a sturdy British thumb toward the window, “sappheer.”

“Ah, ah, une broche, monsieur?”

“Regina, what does she mean by that?”

Now, for the life of her Regina could not think of the French word for ring.

“She means ‘brooch’ of course,” she replied. “I really don’t know what ring is in French.”

“Pas une broche?” the lady of the establishment demanded.

“No, not a brooch,” Alfred Whittaker shouted at her, as if her understanding lay at the back of deaf ears.

“Un bracelet, peut-etre?” the Frenchwoman asked, touching her wrist with a gesture that conveyed more than her words.

“No, no,” said Alfred, tapping his first finger.

“Ah, ah, une bague.” She quickly opened the window and brought out several sapphire rings, including the one which had taken Alfred’s fancy, and then, as he had already, being a business man, grasped the initial weakness of the Norman character, there began a period of haggling which Alfred Whittaker would never have thought of employing in the case of the establishment of Templeton. Eventually Regina left the shop with the beautiful sapphire ring upon her finger.

“My dear girl,” said Alfred (he always called her his dear girl when he was best pleased), “eighteen pounds for a ring like that is dirt cheap She said it was an occasion, what did she mean by ‘an occasion’?”

“I haven’t the least idea, but she certainly said it.”

“However, no matter what she may have meant, the ring is given away at the price—it’s worth thirty pounds if it’s worth a penny. You found it, so to speak, for I won the money that paid for it.”

“Not quite all.”

“No, not quite all, but the other was a mere bagatelle. I like to see you with plenty of rings; some women have not the hands to show them off.”

It occurred to Regina that the hussy’s hands were of the kind that look best in gloves. Then a second thought came, one of blame and reproach to herself for even thinking of the hussy at such a moment when Alfred had generously been thinking only of her.

“It is a beautiful ring, dear Alfred,” she said, putting her hand under his arm and squeezing it very gratefully, “it is a beautiful ring and you are very good to me, and I’m not quite sure that I deserve it.”

She meant what she said. A curious idea had taken possession of her that while Alfred was so kind and generous to her she ought not to inquire or wish to inquire into his outer life; there might be fifty explanations, and while she was evidently first with him it was her duty to remain content. It was wonderful how that little present, which, after all, had not cost Alfred Whittaker very much, soothed Regina’s suspicions and lulled them to sleep. And so, in perfect happiness and harmony, that month went by, and it was with genuine regret that they bade adieu to the town of many colors and turned their faces toward the duller tones of home.

“We will come back again next year,” said Regina, gazing sentimentally at the fast-receding shore, now looking most uninteresting. “Dear Dieppe, we have been so happy and had such a good time, we will come again next year.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Alfred Whittaker, in a tone of ludicrous jocosity, “I shouldn’t be surprised, for my part, if Darby and Joan found themselves at Dieppe by themselves. Just you and I, you know, Queenie.”

“Wherever you are, Alfred,” said she, leaning over the side of the ship and keeping her eyes carefully from observing the motion of the water, “wherever you are I am always perfectly happy and content.”