_Wherein a Comely Young Woman broods upon the Years_
Horace shook hands with them all amidst their hearty promises to come
and see him off, bade them good-night, and climbed the dark stairs to
his rooms.
He pushed open the door of his studio to find the room possessed by the
sombre twilight of the dawn. The heavy curtains that had hung across
the great windows had been flung open, and the beginnings of light
showed the deserted banquet, discovering a young woman who sat at the
table, her face buried in her arms.
Horace shut the door gently and went and sat down beside her; took off
his black hat; flung it on the table; and, leaning towards her, his
golden hair touching her dark masses, he put his hand upon her pretty
head:
“Babette,” said he.
She raised her head wearily, and leaning her elbow on the table, she
set her dainty chin in her hand, and wiped the tears hurriedly from her
eyes. She gazed moodily before her.
Horace took her hand:
“What are you thinking of, Babette?”
She sighed.
“Why should I fill your heart with my sadness, Horace?”
“Come, Babette.”
“I have been thinking of the days that are gone, Horace--you have
always been very gentle with me.... And--I have been thinking of the
days that are to come----”
Her lips trembled; and a tear stole down her cheek.
Horace nodded:
“Yes, Babette--and of the days to come!”
She sighed:
“I have been wondering whether you will think of me, Horace--as the
days pass. I have been wondering--wondering--wondering----”
“Yes, Babette?”
“But why should I tell you?”
“Tell me, Babette,” he said; and he stroked her hair, gazing at her
hungrily.
She uttered a little sob.
“Hush, Babette,” said he. “Tell me everything.”
She waited a little while:
“I have loved thee for love, Horace.” She smiled sadly and stroked
his hand. “Must I love now for livelihood?... To me the moonlight
nights by lake and river can never be the nights they have been with
thee. And he who walks beside me must needs feel it so.... You go
home, Horace, to life--I go on here, growing old, year by year. I
have been sitting here in the dark, peering at the years. One day the
gaiety will go out of my heart, the freshness out of my looks, the
colour out of my face, the light out of my eyes. Men turn and look at
me now--their eyes smile at me. The time will come when men’s eyes
will pass me by. Students in the Boule Miche will say, ‘She was some
clever fellow’s mistress--once.’ And there will be laughter. So, one
day I shall sit at the tables--alone; my only prospect--the grave.
Yet--with some--memories.... My haggard eyes have been staring at these
things all through the long night, and the disillusioning dawn has
but confirmed the nightmare.... Yet, Horace, dear heart, I have done
nothing to deserve it--except in loving thee ... except in loving thee,
dear heart.”
The tears brimmed over her eyelids, and her voice was stayed in a sob.
Horace took her tear-wet face between his hands and kissed her upon the
eyes and mouth:
“Listen, Babette,” said he hoarsely--“thou hast wept thy last and thy
only tears for any harshness from me. Dost thou think, dear heart, that
I who have never found thee guilty of the smallest meanness will leave
thee alone because, forsooth, thou hast loved me well! Dost thou think
that thy dear hands and thy sight and thy breath and thy hearing and
thy sweet bosom are not become a part of me! Tush! we have been married
these many months. In a month from now thou must go through the law’s
farce with me--but thou art my very wife--thou canst be no more to me
than that, nor I to thee----”
“No, Horace--thou hadst better leave me. It would be a jibe against
thee----”
“Tush!” He laughed huskily. “Thy train and steamboat passage are bought
hours ago--there is a room preparing for thee in my father’s house....
Thou canst surely bear to be a maid again for thirty days!”
She laughed, and flung her arms about him and kissed his hair:
“I love thee, fool,” she said; “and will share thy folly....”
“Look,” said Horace--“the room is full of light--the sun will soon be
peeping over the roofs. We must be packing. I have kept my best trunk
for thy belongings, Babette.”
She laughed:
“It will take no time--I have as little wardrobe as dowry to bring
thee, Horace.”
“You always look so well, Babette,” said he--“I had not realized thou
hadst not even a trunk till the night before last.... Thou must be at
the Louvre as early as the big shops open this morning, and buy all
thou canst buy of gowns and kickshaws in an hour.... It will save thee
from fretting upon the hardship of thy life with me, Babette, until we
leave. Where is thy purse?”
She laughed and handed him her light purse.
He bulged it out with banknotes.
“Thou must spend all this in gowns,” he said.
She took the notes and unfolded them upon the table:
“But--but, Horace, this will buy me many silk gowns--we must not
waste----”
He kissed her, and laughed:
“I forgot to tell thee about the insignificant things--we are rich,
Babette.”
The tears came into her eyes:
“But--but--I shall shame thee, Horace----”
He kissed her quivering lips to silence her:
“Then God send me shame, Babette,” he said; and he added, with a
twinkle in his laughing eyes: “My sisters will judge thee largely by
thy clothes, so buy for thyself as thou wouldst buy for my honour and
my credit.”
She laughed gaily; then a frown knit the handsome brows.
“What is it, Babette?”
“Only an hour to buy a trousseau!” she sighed. “An hour is such a
little while.”
He laughed loud and long; and she laughed at his laughter.
“No, Babette,” said he--“no, no, not thy wedding-dresses. Buy just
thy few gowns to fill my trunk. Thou wouldst not rob my sisters of a
month’s shopping, thou selfish egoist. They are rich--and must have
employment.”
“I may not find gowns that will fit me,” she said.
“Thy needle will do the fitting.”
She sat, the happy tears in her handsome eyes, her hand in his, and
gazed at the coming day.
“What!” said he--“thou wouldst weep!”
She kissed his fingers, put her dainty palm on his lips:
“Supposing thy sisters----”
She hesitated.
“I am taking thee home, Babette, to teach my sisters manners,” he said.
She laughed:
“And thy father, Horace?”
He put his hands on her slender shoulders:
“Babette,” said he--“I have told my father you are of the De la Rues of
Paris.”
She laughed gaily.
He frowned at her in mock solemnity:
“Thou must not laugh at that jest before my father,” he said. “My
father believes in the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Nobility and
Me. It’s his only creed. Thou must never shake a man’s religious faith,
my Babette. And he will love thee, with his rough love--for thou art
very beautiful--and--thou lovest me.”
She slipped her hand through his arm, and nestled her face close to his:
“Horace,” she said simply--“I will tell thee now what I had intended to
tell thee never: there is a little one coming--a little child----”
He was filled with a great silence and wonder.
He sat holding her slender fingers and gazing at her shy eyes. He put
out his hand and placed it upon her breasts:
“And what if it usurp my place and oust me from thy fragrant bosom?” he
said.
She laughed a low happy laugh:
“Ah, Horace; that would be fearful,” she said in gay raillery, “for
thou mightest then treat the little one as harshly as thou hast used
me....”
Thus they thou’d and thee’d and kissed and kissed again, until the sun
peeped in over the eastern window’s ledge, and touched the young man’s
hair.
She put her hand upon his head:
“Thou art pure gold,” she said.