1
Burton, who had enlisted in the Worcesters soon after Stephen had found
work in London, Burton was now back again in Paris, loudly demanding a
brand-new motor.
‘The car looks awful! Snub-nosed she looks—peculiar—all tucked up in
the bonnet;’ he declared.
So Stephen bought a touring Renault and a smart little landaulette for
Mary. The choosing of the cars was the greatest fun; Mary climbed in and
out of hers at least six times while it stood in the showroom.
‘Is it comfortable?’ Stephen must keep on asking, ‘Do you want them to
pad it out more at the back? Are you perfectly sure you like the grey
whip-cord? Because if you don’t it can be re-upholstered.’
Mary laughed: ‘I’m climbing in and out from sheer swank, just to show
that it’s mine. Will they send it soon?’
‘Almost at once, I hope,’ smiled Stephen.
Very splendid it seemed to her now to have money, because of what money
could do for Mary; in the shops they must sometimes behave like two
children, having endless things dragged out for inspection. They drove
to Versailles in the new touring car and wandered for hours through the
lovely gardens. The Hameau no longer seemed sad to Stephen, for Mary and
she brought love back to the Hameau. Then they drove to the forest of
Fontainebleau, and wherever they went there was singing of
birds—challenging, jubilant, provocative singing: ‘Look at us, look at
us! We’re happy, Stephen!’ And Stephen’s heart shouted back: ‘So are we.
Look at us, look at us, look at us! We’re happy!’
When they were not driving into the country, or amusing themselves by
ransacking Paris, Stephen would fence, to keep herself fit—would fence
as never before with Buisson, so that Buisson would sometimes say with a
grin:
‘Mais voyons, voyons! I have done you no wrong, yet it almost appears
that you wish to kill me!’
The foils laid aside, he might turn to Mary, still grinning: ‘She fence
very well, eh, your friend? She lunge like a man, so strong and so
graceful.’ Which considering all things was generous of Buisson.
But suddenly Buisson would grow very angry: ‘More than seventy francs
have I paid to my cook and for nothing! Bon Dieu! Is this winning the
war? We starve, we go short of our butter and chickens, and before it is
better it is surely much worse. We are all imbeciles, we kind-hearted
French; we starve ourselves to fatten the Germans. Are they grateful?
Sacré Nom! Mais oui, they are grateful—they love us so much that they
spit in our faces!’ And quite often this mood would be vented on
Stephen.
To Mary, however, he was usually polite: ‘You like our Paris? I am
glad—that is good. You make the home with Mademoiselle Gordon; I hope
you prevent her injurious smoking.’
And in spite of his outbursts Mary adored him, because of his interest
in Stephen’s fencing.
2
One evening towards the end of June, Jonathan Brockett walked in
serenely: ‘Hallo, Stephen! Here I am, I’ve turned up again—not that I
love you, I positively hate you. I’ve been keeping away for weeks and
weeks. Why did you never answer my letters? Not so much as a line on a
picture postcard! There’s something in this more than meets the eye. And
where’s Puddle? She used to be kind to me once—I shall lay my head down
on her bosom and weep. . . .’ He stopped abruptly, seeing Mary
Llewellyn, who got up from her deep arm-chair in the corner.
Stephen said: ‘Mary, this is Jonathan Brockett—an old friend of mine;
we’re fellow writers. Brockett, this is Mary Llewellyn.’
Brockett shot a swift glance in Stephen’s direction, then he bowed and
gravely shook hands with Mary.
And now Stephen was to see yet another side of this strange and
unexpected creature. With infinite courtesy and tact he went out of his
way to make himself charming. Never by so much as a word or a look did
he once allow it to be inferred that his quick mind had seized on the
situation. Brockett’s manner suggested an innocence that he was very far
from possessing.
Stephen began to study him with interest; they two had not met since
before the war. He had thickened, his figure was more robust, there was
muscle and flesh on his wide, straight shoulders. And she thought that
his face had certainly aged; little bags were showing under his eyes,
and rather deep lines at the sides of his mouth—the war had left its
mark upon Brockett. Only his hands remained unchanged; those white and
soft skinned hands of a woman.
He was saying: ‘So you two were in the same Unit. That was a great
stroke of luck for Stephen; I mean she’d be feeling horribly lonely now
that old Puddle’s gone back to England. Stephen’s distinguished herself
I see—Croix de Guerre and a very becoming scar. Don’t protest, my dear
Stephen, you know it’s becoming. All that happened to me was a badly
sprained ankle;’ he laughed, ‘fancy going out to Mesopotamia to slip on
a bit of orange peel! I might have done better than that here in Paris.
By the way, I’m in my own flat again now; I hope you’ll bring Miss
Llewellyn to luncheon.’
He did not stay embarrassingly late, nor did he leave suggestively
early; he got up to go at just the right moment. But when Mary went out
of the room to call Pierre, he quite suddenly put his arm through
Stephen’s.
‘Good luck, my dear, you deserve it;’ he murmured, and his sharp grey
eyes had grown almost gentle: ‘I hope you’ll be very, very happy.’
Stephen quietly disengaged her arm with a look of surprise: ‘Happy?
Thank you, Brockett,’ she smiled, as she lighted a cigarette.
3
They could not tear themselves away from their home, and that summer
they remained in Paris. There were always so many things to do, Mary’s
bedroom entirely to refurnish for instance—she had Puddle’s old room
overlooking the garden. When the city seemed to be growing too airless,
they motored off happily into the country, spending a couple of nights
at an auberge, for France abounds in green, pleasant places. Once or
twice they lunched with Jonathan Brockett at his flat in the Avenue
Victor Hugo, a beautiful flat since his taste was perfect, and he dined
with them before leaving for Deauville—his manner continued to be
studiously guarded. The Duphots had gone for their holiday and Buisson
was away in Spain for a month—but what did they want that summer with
people? On those evenings when they did not go out, Stephen would now
read aloud to Mary, leading the girl’s adaptable mind into new and
hitherto unexplored channels; teaching her the joy that can lie in
books, even as Sir Philip had once taught his daughter. Mary had read so
little in her life that the choice of books seemed practically endless,
but Stephen must make a start by reading that immortal classic of their
own Paris, _Peter Ibbetson_, and Mary said:
‘Stephen—if we were ever parted, do you think that you and I could
dream true?’
And Stephen answered: ‘I often wonder whether we’re not dreaming true
all the time—whether the only truth isn’t in dreaming.’ Then they
talked for a while of such nebulous things as dreams, which will seem
very concrete to lovers.
Sometimes Stephen would read aloud in French, for she wanted the girl to
grow better acquainted with the lure of that fascinating language. And
thus gradually, with infinite care, did she seek to fill the more
obvious gaps in Mary’s none too complete education. And Mary, listening
to Stephen’s voice, rather deep and always a little husky, would think
that words were more tuneful than music and more inspiring, when spoken
by Stephen.
At this time many gentle and friendly things began to bear witness to
Mary’s presence. There were flowers in the quiet old garden for
instance, and some large red carp in the fountain’s basin, and two
married couples of white fantail pigeons who lived in a house on a tall
wooden leg and kept up a convivial cooing. These pigeons lacked all
respect for Stephen; by August they were flying in at her window and
landing with soft, heavy thuds on her desk where they strutted until she
fed them with maize. And because they were Mary’s and Mary loved them,
Stephen would laugh, as unruffled as they were, and would patiently coax
them back into the garden with bribes for their plump little circular
crops. In the turret room that had been Puddle’s sanctum, there were now
three cagefuls of Mary’s rescues—tiny bright coloured birds with
dejected plumage, and eyes that had filmed from a lack of sunshine. Mary
was always bringing them home from the terrible bird shops along the
river, for her love of such helpless and suffering things was so great
that she in her turn must suffer. An ill-treated creature would haunt
her for days, so that Stephen would often exclaim half in earnest:
‘Go and buy up all the animal shops in Paris . . . anything, darling,
only don’t look unhappy!’
The tiny bright coloured birds would revive to some extent, thanks to
Mary’s skilled treatment; but since she always bought the most ailing,
not a few of them left this disheartening world for what we must hope
was a warm, wild heaven—there were several small graves already in the
garden.
Then one morning, when Mary went out alone because Stephen had letters
to write to Morton, she chanced on yet one more desolate creature who
followed her home to the Rue Jacob, and right into Stephen’s immaculate
study. It was large, ungainly and appallingly thin; it was coated with
mud which had dried on its nose, its back, its legs and all over its
stomach. Its paws were heavy, its ears were long, and its tail, like the
tail of a rat, looked hairless, but curved up to a point in a miniature
sickle. Its face was as smooth as though made out of plush, and its
luminous eyes were the colour of amber.
Mary said: ‘Oh, Stephen—he wanted to come. He’s got a sore paw; look at
him, he’s limping!’
Then this tramp of a dog hobbled over to the table and stood there
gazing dumbly at Stephen, who must stroke his anxious, dishevelled head:
‘I suppose this means that we’re going to keep him.’
‘Darling, I’m dreadfully afraid it does—he says he’s sorry to be such a
mongrel.’
‘He needn’t apologize,’ Stephen smiled, ‘he’s all right, he’s an Irish
water-spaniel, though what he’s doing out here the Lord knows; I’ve
never seen one before in Paris.’
They fed him, and later that afternoon they gave him a bath in Stephen’s
bathroom. The result of that bath, which was disconcerting as far as the
room went, they left to Adèle. The room was a bog, but Mary’s rescue had
emerged a mass of chocolate ringlets, all save his charming
plush-covered face, and his curious tail, which was curved like a
sickle. Then they bound the sore pad and took him downstairs; after
which Mary wanted to know all about him, so Stephen unearthed an
illustrated dog book from a cupboard under the study bookcase.
‘Oh, look!’ exclaimed Mary, reading over her shoulder, ‘He’s not Irish
at all, he’s really a Welshman: “We find in the Welsh laws of Howell Dda
the first reference to this intelligent spaniel. The Iberians brought
the breed to Ireland. . . .” Of course, that’s why he followed me home;
he knew I was Welsh the moment he saw me!’
Stephen laughed: ‘Yes, his hair grows up from a peak like yours—it must
be a national failing. Well, what shall we call him? His name’s
important; it ought to be quite short.’
‘David,’ said Mary.
The dog looked gravely from one to the other for a moment, then he lay
down at Mary’s feet, dropping his chin on his bandaged paw, and closing
his eyes with a grunt of contentment. And so it had suddenly come to
pass that they who had lately been two, were now three. There were
Stephen and Mary—there was also David.