I never mentioned my one-day romance to anybody. Only very silly,
sentimental girls would put such an episode into words, and flatter
themselves by calling it a romance. But now that you and Jimmy Beckett
have both given your lives for the great cause, and are in the same
mysterious Beyond while I'm still down here at Crucifix Corner, I can
tell you the story. If you and he meet, it may make it easier for him to
forgive me the thing I have done.
When Brian and I were having that great summer holiday of ours, the year
before the war--one day we were in a delicious village near a cathedral
town on the Belgian border. A piece of luck had fallen in our way, like
a ripe apple tumbling off a tree. A rich Parisian and his wife came
motoring along, and stopped out of sheer curiosity to look at a picture
Brian was painting, under a white umbrella near the roadside. I was not
with him. I think I must have been in the garden of our quaint old hotel
by the canal side, writing letters--probably one to you; but the couple
took such a fancy to Brian's "impression," that they offered to buy it.
The bargain was struck, there and then. Two days later arrived a
telegram from Paris asking for another picture to "match" the first at
the same price. I advised Brian to choose out two or three sketches for
the people to select from, and carry them to Paris himself, rather than
trust the post. He went; and it was on the one day of his absence that
my romance happened.
Ours was a friendly little hotel, with a darling landlady, who was
almost as much interested in Brian and me as if she'd been our
foster-mother. The morning after Brian left, she came waddling out to
the adorable, earwiggy, rose-covered summer-house that I'd annexed as a
private sitting room. "Mademoiselle," she breathlessly announced, "there
is a young millionaire of a monsieur Anglais or Américain just arrived.
What a pity he should be wasted because Monsieur your brother has gone!
I am sure if he could but see one of the exquisite pictures he would
wish to buy all!"
"How do you know that the monsieur is a millionaire, and what makes you
think he would care about pictures?" I enquired.
"I know he is a millionaire because he has come in one of those grand
automobiles which only millionaires ever have. And I think he cares for
pictures because the first thing he did when he came into the hall was
to stare at the old prints on the wall. He praised the two best which
the real artists always praise, and complimented me on owning them" the
dear creature explained. "Besides, he is in this neighbourhood expressly
to see the cathedral; and monsieur your brother has made a most
beautiful sketch of the cathedral. It is now in his portfolio. Is there
nothing we can do? I have already induced the monsieur to drink a glass
of milk while I have come to consult Mademoiselle."
I thought hard for a minute, because it would be grand if I could say
when Brian came back, "I have sold your cathedral for you." But I might
have saved myself brain fag. Madame Mounet had settled everything in her
head, and was merely playing me, like a foolish fish.
"What I have thought of is this," she said. "I told the monsieur that he
could see something better than my prints if he would give himself the
pain of waiting till I could fetch the key of a room where an
artist-client of ours has a marvellous exhibition. There is _no_ such
room yet, but there can be, and the exhibition can be, too, if
Mademoiselle will make haste to pin her brother's pictures to the walls
of the yellow _salon_. With a hammer and a few tacks--_voilà_ the thing
is done. What does Mademoiselle say?"
Mademoiselle said "Yes--yes!" to her part of the programme. But what of
the millionaire monsieur? Would he not balk? Would he not refuse to be
bothered?
Madame was absolutely confident that he would not do these disappointing
things. She was so confident that I vaguely suspected she had something
up her sleeve: but time pressed, and instead of Sherlock Holmesing I
darted to my work. Afterward she confessed, with pride rather than
repentance. She described graphically how the face of the monsieur had
fallen when she asked him to look at an exhibition of pictures; how he
had begun to make an excuse that he must be off at once to the
cathedral; and how she had ventured to cut him short by remarking,
"Mademoiselle the sister of the artist, she who will show the work, ah,
it is a _jeune fille_ of the most _romantic_ beauty!" On hearing this,
the monsieur had said no more about the cathedral, but had ordered the
glass of milk.
In fifteen minutes the exhibition (consisting of six sketches!) was
ready in the showroom of the hotel, the yellow salon which had been
occupied as a bedchamber one night by the Empress Eugénie, and was
always kept locked except on gala occasions. I, not knowing how I had
been over-praised to the audience, was also ready, quivering with the
haste I had made in pinning up the pictures and opening the musty, close
room to the air. Then came in a young man.
As I write, Padre, I am back again in that _salon jaune_, and he is
walking in at the door, pausing a second on the threshold at sight of
me. I will give you the little play in one act. We smile. The hero of
the comedy-drama has a rather big mouth, and such white teeth that his
smile, in his brown face, is a lightning-flash at dusk. It is a thin
face with two dimples that make lines when he laughs. His eyes are gray
and long, with the eagle-look that knows far spaces; deep-set eyes under
straight black brows, drawn low. His lashes are black, too, but his
short crinkly hair is brown. He has a good square forehead, and a high
nose like an Indian's. He is tall, and has one of those lean, lanky
loose-jointed figures that crack tennis-players and polo men have. I
like him at once, and I think he likes me, for his eyes light up; and
just for an instant there's a feeling as if we looked through clear
windows into each other's souls. It is almost frightening, that effect!
I begin to talk, to shake off an odd embarrassment.
"Madame Mounet tells me you want to see my brother's pictures," I say.
"Here are a few sketches. He has taken all the rest worth looking at to
Paris."
"It's good of you to let me come in," the hero of the play answers.
Instantly I know he's not English. He has one of those nice American
voices, with a slight drawl, that somehow sound extraordinarily frank. I
don't speculate about his name. I don't stop to wonder who he is. I
think only of _what_ he is. I forget that Madame has exploited him as a
millionaire. I don't care whether or not he buys a picture. I want
nothing, except the pleasure of talking with him, and seeing how he
looks at me.
I mumble some polite nonsense in return for his. He gazes at Brian's
water-colours and admires them. Then he turns from the pictures to me.
We discuss the sketches and the scenes they represent. "Oh, have you
been _there_?" "Why, I was at that place a week ago!" "How odd!" "We
must have missed each other by a day." And we drift into gossip about
ourselves. Still we don't come to the subject of names. Names seem to be
of no importance. They belong to the world of conventions.
We talk and talk--mostly of France, and our travels, and pictures and
books we love; but our eyes speak of other things. I feel that his are
saying, "You are beautiful!" Mine answer, "I'm glad you think that. Why
do you seem so different to me from other people?" Then suddenly,
there's a look too long between us. "I wish my brother were here to
explain his pictures!" I cry; though I don't wish it at all. It is only
that I must break the silence.
This brings us back to the business in hand. He says, "May I really buy
one of these sketches?"
"Are you sure you _want_ to?" I laugh.
"Sure!" he answers. And I never heard that word sound so nice, even in
my own dear Ireland.
He chooses the cathedral--which he hasn't visited yet. Do I know the
price my brother has decided on? With that question I discover that he
has Madame Mounet's version of our name. Brian and I have laughed dozens
of laughs at her way of pronouncing O'Malley. "_Ommalee_" we are for
her, and "Mees Ommal_ee_" she has made me for her millionaire. For fun,
I don't correct him. Let him find out for himself who we really are! I
say that my brother hasn't fixed a price; but would six hundred francs
seem _very_ high? The man considers it ridiculously low. He refuses to
pay less than twice that sum. Even so, he argues he will be cheating us,
and getting me into hot water when my brother comes. We almost quarrel,
and at last the hero has his way. He strikes me as one who is used to
that!
When the matter is settled, an odd look passes over his face. I wonder
if he has changed his mind, and doesn't know how to tell me his trouble.
Something is worrying him; that is clear. Just as I'm ready to make
things easy, with a question, he laughs.
"I'm going to take you into my confidence," he says, "and tell you a
story--about myself. In Paris, before I started on this tour, a friend
of mine gave a man's dinner for me. He and the other chaps were chaffing
because--oh, because of a silly argument we got into about--life in
general, and mine in particular. On the strength of it my chum bet me a
thing he knew I wanted, that I couldn't go through my trip under an
assumed name. I bet I could, and would. I bet a thing I want to keep.
That's the silly situation. I hate not telling you my real name, and
signing a cheque for your brother. But I've stuck it out for four weeks,
and the bet has only two more to run. I'm calling myself Jim Wyndham.
It's only my surname I've dropped for the bet. The rest is mine. May I
pay for the picture in cash--and may I come back here, or wherever you
are on the fifteenth day from now, and introduce myself properly?
Or--you've only to speak the word, and I'll throw over the whole
footling business this minute, and----"
I cut in, to say that I _won't_ speak the word, and he mustn't throw the
business over. It is quite amusing I tell him, and I hope he'll win his
bet. As for the picture--he may pay as he chooses. But about the proper
introduction--Heaven knows where I shall be in a fortnight. My brother
loves to make up his mind the night beforehand, _where_ to go next. We
are a pair of tramps.
"You don't do your tramping on foot?"
"Indeed we do! We haven't seen a railway station since our first day out
from Paris. We stop one day in a place we don't care for: three in a
place we like: a week or more in a place we _love_."
"Then at that rate you won't have got far in fifteen days. I know the
direction you've come from by what you've told me, and your brother's
sketches. You wouldn't be here on the border of Belgium if you didn't
mean to cross the frontier."
"Oh, we shall cross it, of course. But where we shall go when we get
across is another question."
"I'll find the answer, and I'll find you," he flings at me with a smile
of defiance.
"Why should you give yourself trouble?"
"To--see some more of your brother's pictures," he says gravely. I know
that he wishes to see me, not the pictures, and he knows that I know;
but I let it go at that.
When the sketch has been wrapped up between cardboards, and the twelve
hundred francs placed carelessly on a table, there seems no reason why
Mr. Jim Wyndham shouldn't start for the cathedral. But he suddenly
decides that the way of wisdom is to eat first, and begs me to lunch
with him. "Do, _please_," he begs, "just to show you're not offended
with my false pretences."
I yearn to say yes, and don't see why I shouldn't; so I do. We have
_déjeuner_ together in the summer-house where Brian and I always eat. We
chat about a million things. We linger over our coffee, and I smoke two
or three of his gold-tipped Egyptians. When we suppose an hour has gone
by, at most, behold, it is half-past four! I tell him he must start: he
will be too late for the cathedral at its best. He says, "Hang the
cathedral!" and refuses to stir unless I promise to dine with him when
he comes back.
"You mean in a fortnight?" I ask. "Probably we shan't be here."
"I mean this evening."
"But--you're not coming back! You're going another way. You told me----"
"Ah, that was before we were friends. Of course I'm coming back. I'd
like to stay to-morrow, and----"
"You certainly must not! I won't dine with you to-night if you do."
"Will you if I don't?"
"Perhaps."
"Then I'll order the dinner before I start for the cathedral. I want it
to be a perfect one."
"But--I've said only perhaps."
"Don't you want to pour a little honest gold into poor old Madame
Mounet's pocket?"
"Ye-es."
"If so, you mustn't chase away her customers."
"For her sake, the dinner is a bargain!"
"Not the least bit for my sake?"
"Oh, but yes! I've enjoyed our talk. And you've been so _nice_ about my
brother's pictures."
So it is settled. I put on my prettiest dress, white muslin, with some
fresh red roses Madame Mounet brings me; and the dinner-table in the
summer-house is a picture, with pink Chinese lanterns, pink-shaded
candles, and pink geraniums. Madame won't decorate with roses because
she explains, roses anywhere except on my _toilette_, "spoil the unique
effect of Mademoiselle."
The little inn on the canal-side buzzes with excitement. Not within the
memory of man or woman has there been so important a client as Mr. Jim
Wyndham. Most motoring millionaires dash by in a cloud of dust to the
cathedral town, where a smart modern hotel has been run up to cater for
tourists. This magnificent Monsieur Américain engages the "suite of the
Empress Eugénie," as it grandly advertises itself, for his own use and
that of his chauffeur, merely to bathe in, and rest in, though they are
not to stay the night. And the dinner ordered will enable Madame to show
what she can do, a chance she rarely gets from cheeseparing customers,
like Brian and me, and others of our ilk.
I am determined not to betray my childish eagerness by being first at
the rendezvous. I keep to my hot room, until I spy a tall young figure
of a man in evening dress striding toward the arbour. To see this sight,
I have to be at my window; but I hide behind a white curtain and a
screen of wistaria and roses. I count sixty before I go down. I walk
slowly. I stop and examine flowers in the garden. I could catch a
wonderful gold butterfly, but perhaps it is as happy as I am. I wouldn't
take its life for anything on earth! As I watch it flutter away, my host
comes out of the arbour to meet me.
We pass two exquisite hours in each other's company. I recall each
subject on which we touch and even the words we speak, as if all were
written in a journal. The air is so clear and still that we can hear the
famous chimes of the cathedral clock, far away, in the town that is a
bank of blue haze on the horizon. At half-past nine I begin to tell my
host that he must go, but he does not obey till after ten. Then at last
he takes my hand for good-bye--no, _au revoir_: he will not say
good-bye! "In two weeks," he repeats, "we shall meet again. I shall have
won my bet, and I shall bring _you_ the thing I win."
"I won't take it!" I laugh.
"Wait till you see it, before you make sure."
"I'm not even sure yet of seeing you," I remind him.
"You may be sure if I'm alive. I shall scour the country for miles
around to find you. I shall succeed--unless I'm dead."
All this time he had been holding my hand, while I have pretended to be
unconscious of the fact. Suddenly I seem to remember, and reluctantly he
lets my fingers slip through his.
We bid each other _adieu_ in the arbour. I do not go to "see him off,"
and I keep the picture of Jim Wyndham under the roof of roses, in the
moon-and candle-light.
Just so I have kept it for more than three years; for we never met
again. And now that I've seen the photograph of Jimmy Beckett, I know
that we never shall meet.
Why he did not find us when the fortnight of his bet was over I can't
imagine. It seems that, if he tried, he must have come upon our tracks,
for we travelled scarcely more than twenty miles in the two weeks.
Perhaps he changed his mind, and did not try. Perhaps he feared that my
"romantic beauty" might lose its romance, when seen for the second time.
Something like this must be the explanation; and I confess to you,
Padre, that the failure of the prince to keep our tryst was the biggest
disappointment and the sharpest humiliation of my life. It took most of
the conceit out of me, and since then I've never been vain of my alleged
"looks" or "charm" for more than two minutes on end. I've invariably
said to myself, "Remember Jim Wyndham, and how he didn't think you worth
the bother of coming back to see."
Now you know why I can't describe the effect upon my mind of learning
that Jim Wyndham, the hero of my one-day romance, and Jimmy Beckett, the
dead American aviator, were one.