After that wild scene in mid-Channel, the rest of the journey to Paris
lingers in my mind as a quiet and cool aftermath. The train at Calais
was packed as only a French boat-train can be packed; I managed to
secure seats in the first-class coach for Helen and June, but the latter
elected to surrender hers to a lady who had been very ill during the
crossing. So we sat on our suit-cases in the corridor, June and I; and
there wasn't much room, even there, for the holiday season was at its
height, and all the well-known advertised tours to Paris were in full
swing. June had passed through Paris before, but had never stayed there
or seen the city. "I should like to have done," she said, "but mother
was always in a hurry to get through to somewhere else."
"That's rather odd," I remarked, "considering that Paris is your
mother's native place. One would have expected her to enjoy re-visiting
the old familiar scenes."
June answered quietly: "That's just the sort of thing she would hate
most of all. She loathes sentiment about the past. That's why she likes
America--because its beauty isn't so dreadfully steeped in memories ...
Palm Beach, for instance."
"You've been there? I suppose you've travelled rather a lot?"
"Well, I've always joined mother abroad during college vacations, and
now that I've finished my last year I daresay we should have practically
lived abroad but for this--this awful accident...." She paused for a
moment, and then went on: "Mother hates England, but _I_ don't. Do you
know, there's one place more than any other that I've wanted to visit
during the last few years, and I haven't had a chance yet?"
"Where's that?" I asked, and she replied:
"My own home at Hampstead. I used to love Hampstead Heath and the walk
across Parliament Hill Fields to Highgate. I can remember it all from
when I was a child."
"And since then you haven't been at home at all?"
"Just odd nights now and then. As soon as the terms were over at school
and at Newnham, I've always had to dash away to join my mother
in Sweden or Algeria or somewhere.... Of course I've enjoyed it
all--immensely--but"--she smiled--"I'd have preferred a week or two in
London now and again."
The dawn was stealing in from over the grey Normandy fields, and a misty
rain dimmed the windowpanes. We were silent for a few miles, and then
she resumed, thoughtfully: "I feel so sorry that I haven't been at home
oftener."
"Why?"
"Because I would like to have known my father better."
I looked at her and saw that her blue, tranquil eyes were shining with
tears. But the tears did not fall; she had perfect control of herself.
She went on: "I don't think it's been quite fair to him to leave him as
my mother has done. Of course, he's awfully busy, and isn't home a great
deal himself, but still--we _might_ have had more to do with him."
I said nothing; there seemed nothing to say. She was evidently eager to
pour out her mind on the subject, for she continued: "So you see, my
father's almost a stranger to me. I've seen him perhaps once every three
months or so during the past ten years, and I've always liked him....
Mostly, though, I _remember_ him--just as if he were dead. I remember
him teaching me to skate on Highgate Ponds, and I remember him giving me
a gold sovereign on the night when he first got elected to Parliament."
"Ah--the Manchester South bye-election. That was a good many years ago."
"But I remember it quite well. I remember you visiting us a lot in those
days, and also a man called Terry, who used to do chemistry experiments
in the kitchen."
"Terry!" I echoed; and then, before I knew what I was saying, I had
replied: "He's in Paris now."
"Is he?" she exclaimed. "Oh, I would like to see him. He must be getting
quite old."
"Thirty-one. That's not old."
"It sounds horribly old to me."
I don't know what answer I made; I only know that I was thinking
furiously: She's bound to tell Helen that Terry's in Paris, and _then_
what will happen? ... The blunder was clumsy and irrevocable, for I
dared not face June's puzzled eyes by asking her not to mention Terry to
her mother. The only thing to hope for was that he and I would be on our
way to England before any complications could ensue.