When he had dutifully seen Miss Lorenzi off at the ship, leaving her
with as many flowers, novels, and sweets as even she could wish, Stephen
expected to feel a sense of relief. But somehow, in a subtle way, he was
more feverishly wretched than when Margot was near, and while planning
to hurry on the marriage. He had been buoyed up with a rather youthful
sense of defiance of the world, a hot desire to "get everything over."
The flatness of the reaction which he felt on finding himself free, at
least of Margot's society, was a surprise; and yet Stephen vaguely
understood its real meaning. To be free, yet not free, was an
aggravation. And besides, he did not know what to do or where to go, now
that old friends and old haunts had lost much of their attraction.
Since the announcement of his engagement to Miss Lorenzi, and especially
since the famous interview, copied in all the papers, he disliked
meeting people he knew well, lest they should offer good advice, or let
him see that they were dying to do so.
If it had been weak to say, "Be my wife, if you think I can make you
happy," one day when Margot Lorenzi had tearfully confessed her love for
him, it would be doubly weak--worse than weak, Stephen thought--to throw
her over now. It would look to the world as if he were a coward, and it
would look to himself the same--which would be more painful in the end.
So he could listen to no advice, and he wished to hear none. Fortunately
he was not in love with any other woman. But then, if he had loved
somebody else, he would not have made the foolish mistake of saying
those unlucky, irrevocable words to Margot.
Stephen would have liked to get away from England for a while, but he
hardly knew where to look for a haven. Since making a dash through
France and Italy just after leaving Oxford, he had been too busy amusing
himself in his own country to find time for any other, with the
exception of an occasional run over to Paris. Now, if he stopped in
England it would be difficult to evade officious friends, and soon
everybody would be gossiping about his quarrel with Northmorland. The
Duchess was not reticent.
Stephen had not yet made up his mind what to do, or whether to do
anything at all in his brief interval of freedom, when a letter came, to
the flat near Albert Gate, where he had shut himself up after the
sailing of Margot. The letter was post-marked Algiers, and it was a long
time since he had seen the writing on the envelope--but not so long that
he had forgotten it.
"Nevill Caird!" he said to himself as he broke the neat seal which was
characteristic of the writer. And he wondered, as he slowly, almost
reluctantly, unfolded the letter, whether Nevill Caird had been reminded
of him by reading the interview with Margot. Once, he and Caird had been
very good friends, almost inseparable during one year at Oxford. Stephen
had been twenty then, and Nevill Caird about twenty-three. That would
make him thirty-two now--and Stephen could hardly imagine what "Wings"
would have developed into at thirty-two. They had not met since
Stephen's last year at Oxford, for Caird had gone to live abroad, and if
he came back to England sometimes, he had never made any sign of wishing
to pick up the old friendship where it had dropped. But here was this
letter.
Stephen knew that Caird had inherited a good deal of money, and a house
in Paris, from an uncle or some other near relative; and a common friend
had told him that there was also an Arab palace, very ancient and very
beautiful, in or near Algiers. Several years had passed since Nevill
Caird's name had been mentioned in his hearing, and lately it had not
even echoed in his mind; but now, the handwriting and the neat seal on
this envelope brought vividly before him the image of his friend: small,
slight, boyish in face and figure, with a bright, yet dreamy smile, and
blue-grey eyes which had the look of seeing beautiful things that nobody
else could see.
"DEAR LEGS,"
began the letter ("Legs" being the name which Stephen's skill as a
runner, as well as the length of his limbs, had given him in
undergraduate days).
"Dear Legs,
"I've often thought about you in the last nine years, and hope
you've occasionally thought of me, though somehow or other we
haven't written. I don't know whether you've travelled much, or
whether England has absorbed all your interests. Anyhow, can't you
come out here and make me a visit--the longer it is, the more I
shall be pleased. This country is interesting if you don't know it,
and fascinating if you do. My place is rather nice, and I should
like you to see it. Still better, I should like to see you. Do come
if you can, and come soon. I should enjoy showing you my garden at
its best. It's one of the things I care for most, but there are
other things. Do let me introduce you to them all. You can be as
quiet as you wish, if you wish. I'm a quiet sort myself, as you may
remember, and North Africa suits me better than London or Paris. I
haven't changed for the worse I hope, and I'm sure you haven't, in
any way.
"You can hardly realize how much pleasure it will give me if you'll
say 'yes' to my proposal.
"Yours as ever
"NEVILL CAIRD, alias 'Wings,'"
Not a word of "the case," though, of course, he must know all about
it--even in Algiers. Stephen's gratitude went out to his old friend,
and his heart felt warmer because of the letter and the invitation. Many
people, even with the best intentions, would have contrived to say the
wrong thing in these awkward circumstances. There would have been some
veiled allusion to the engagement; either silly, well-meant
congratulations and good wishes, or else a stupid hint of advice to get
out of a bad business while there was time. But Caird wrote as he might
have written if there had been no case, and no entanglement; and acting
on his first impulse, Stephen telegraphed an acceptance, saying that he
would start for Algiers in two or three days. Afterwards, when he had
given himself time to think, he did not regret his decision. Indeed, he
was glad of it, and glad that he had made it so soon.
A few weeks ago, a sudden break in his plans would have caused him a
great deal of trouble. There would have been dozens of luncheons and
dinners to escape from, and twice as many letters to write. But nowadays
he had few invitations and scarcely any letters to write, except those
of business, and an occasional line to Margot. People were willing to be
neglected by him, willing to let him alone, for now that he had
quarrelled with Northmorland and the Duchess, and had promised to marry
an impossible woman, he must be gently but firmly taught to expect
little of Society in future.
Stephen broke the news to his man that he was going away, alone, and
though the accomplished Molton had regrets, they were not as poignant as
they would have been some weeks earlier. Most valets, if not all, are
human, and have a weakness for a master whose social popularity is as
unbounded as his generosity.
Molton's services did not cease until after he had packed Stephen's
luggage, and seen him off at Victoria. He flattered himself, as he left
the station with three months' wages in his pocket, that he would be
missed; but Stephen was surprised at the sense of relief which came as
Molton turned a respectable back, and the boat-train began to slide out
of the station. It was good to be alone, to have loosed his moorings,
and to be drifting away where no eyes, once kind, would turn from him,
or turn on him with pity. Out there in Algiers, a town of which he had
the vaguest conception, there would be people who read the papers, of
course, and people who loved to gossip; but Stephen felt a pleasant
confidence that Nevill Caird would know how to protect him from such
people. He would not have to meet many strangers. Nevill would arrange
all that, and give him plenty to think about during his weeks of
freedom.
Algiers seemed a remote place to Stephen, who had loved life at home too
passionately to care for foreign travel. Besides, there was always a
great deal to do in England at every season of the year, and it had been
difficult to find a time convenient for getting away. Town engagements
began early in the spring, and lasted till after Cowes, when he was keen
for Scotland. Being a gregarious as well as an idle young man, he was
pleased with his own popularity, and the number of his invitations for
country-house visits. He could never accept more than half, but even so,
he hardly saw London until January; and then, if he went abroad at all,
there was only time for a few days in Paris, and a fortnight on the
Riviera, perhaps, before he found that he must get back. Just after
leaving Oxford, before his father's death, he had been to Rome, to
Berlin, and Vienna, and returned better satisfied than ever with his own
capital; but of course it was different now that the capital was
dissatisfied with him.
He had chosen the night train and it was not crowded. All the way to
Dover he had the compartment to himself, and there was no rush for the
boat. It was a night of stars and balmy airs; but after the start the
wind freshened, and Stephen walked briskly up and down the deck,
shivering slightly at first, till his blood warmed. By and by it grew so
cold that the deck emptied, save for half a dozen men with pipes that
glowed between turned-up coat collars, and one girl in a blue serge
dress, with no other cloak than the jacket that matched her frock.
Stephen hardly noticed her at first, but as men buttoned their coats or
went below, and she remained, his attention was attracted to the slim
figure leaning on the rail. Her face was turned away, looking over the
sea where the whirling stars dipped into dark waves that sprang to
engulf them. Her elbows rested on the railing, and her chin lay in the
cup of her two hands; but her hair, under a blue sailor-hat held down
with a veil, hung low in a great looped-up plait, tied with a wide black
ribbon, so that Stephen, without wasting much thought upon her, guessed
that she must be very young. It was red hair, gleaming where the light
touched it, and the wind thrashed curly tendrils out from the thick
clump of the braid, tracing bright threads in intricate, lacy lines over
her shoulders, like the network of sunlight that plays on the surface of
water.
Stephen thought of that simile after he had passed the girl once or
twice, and thinking of it made him think of the girl herself. He was
sure she must be cold in her serge jacket, and wondered why she didn't
go below to the ladies' cabin. Also he wondered, even more vaguely, why
her people didn't take better care of the child: there must be some one
belonging to her on board.
At last she turned, not to look at him, but to pace back and forth as
others were pacing. She was in front of Stephen, and he saw only her
back, which seemed more girlish than ever as she walked with a light,
springing step, that might have kept time to some dainty dance-music
which only she could hear. Her short dress, of hardly more than ankle
length, flowed past her slender shape as the black, white-frothing waves
flowed past the slim prow of the boat; and there was something
individual, something distinguished in her gait and the bearing of her
head on the young throat. Stephen noticed this rather interesting
peculiarity, remarking it more definitely because of the almost mean
simplicity of the blue serge dress. It was of provincial cut, and
looked as if the wearer might have bought it ready made in some country
town. Her hat, too, was of the sort that is turned out by the thousand
and sold at a few shillings for young persons between the ages of twelve
and twenty.
By and by, when she had walked as far forward as possible, the deck
rising under her feet or plunging down, while thin spray-wreaths sailed
by on the wind, the girl wheeled and had the breeze at her back. It was
then Stephen caught his first glimpse of her face, in a full white blaze
of electric light: and he had the picture to himself, for by this time
nearly every one else had gone.
He had not expected anything wonderful, but it seemed to him in a flash
of surprise that this was an amazing beauty. He had never seen such
hair, or such a complexion. The large eyes gave him no more than a
passing glance, but they were so vivid, so full of blue light as they
met his, that he had a startled impression of being graciously accosted.
It seemed as if the girl had some message to give him, for which he must
stop and ask.
As soon as they had passed each other, however, that curious, exciting
impression was gone, like the vanishing glint on a gull's wing as it
dips from sun into shadow. Of course she had not spoken; of course she
had no word to give him. He had seemed to hear her speak, because she
was a very vital sort of creature, no doubt, and therefore physically,
though unconsciously, magnetic.
At their next crossing under the light she did not look at him at all,
and he realized that she was not so extraordinarily beautiful as he had
at first thought. The glory of her was more an effect of colouring than
anything else. The creamy complexion of a very young girl, whipped to
rose and white by the sea wind; brilliant turquoise blue eyes under a
glitter of wavy red hair; these were the only marvels, for the small,
straight nose was exactly like most pretty girls' noses, and the mouth,
though expressive and sweet, with a short upper lip, was not remarkable,
unless for its firmness.
The next time they passed, Stephen granted the girl a certain charm of
expression which heightened the effect of beauty. She looked singularly
innocent and interested in life, which to Stephen's mood seemed
pathetic. He was convinced that he had seen through life, and
consequently ceased forever to be interested in it. But he admired
beauty wherever he saw it, whether in the grace of a breaking wave, or
the sheen on a girl's bright hair, and it amused him faintly to
speculate about the young creature with the brilliant eyes and blowing
red locks. He decided that she was a schoolgirl of sixteen, being taken
over to Paris, probably to finish her education there. Her mother or
guardian was no doubt prostrate with sea-sickness, careless for the
moment whether the child paraded the deck insufficiently clad, or
whether she fell unchaperoned into the sea. Judging by her clothes, her
family was poor, and she was perhaps intended for a governess: that was
why they were sending her to France. She was to be given "every
advantage," in order to command "desirable situations" by and by.
Stephen felt dimly sorry for the little thing, who looked so radiantly
happy now. She was much too pretty to be a governess, or to be obliged
to earn her own living in any way. Women were brutes to each other
sometimes. He had been finding this out lately. Few would care to bring
a flowerlike creature of that type into their houses. The girl had
trouble before her. He was sure she was going to be a governess.
After she had walked for half an hour she looked round for a sheltered
corner and sat down. But the place she had chosen was only comparatively
sheltered, and presently Stephen fancied that he saw her shivering with
cold. He could not bear this, knowing that he had a rug which Molton had
forced upon him to use on board ship between Marseilles and Algiers. It
was in a rolled-up thing which Molton called a "hold-all," along with
some sticks and an umbrella, Stephen believed; and the rolled-up thing
was on deck, with other hand-luggage.
"Will you let me lend you a rug?" he asked, in the tone of a benevolent
uncle addressing a child. "I have one close by, and it's rather cold
when you don't walk."
"Thank you very much," said the girl. "I should like it, if it won't be
too much trouble to you."
She spoke simply, and had a pretty voice, but it was an American voice.
Stephen was surprised, because to find that she was an American upset
his theories. He had never heard of American girls coming over to Paris
with the object of training to be governesses.
He went away and found the rug, returning with it in two or three
minutes. The girl thanked him again, getting up and wrapping the dark
soft thing round her shoulders and body, as if it had been a big shawl.
Then she sat down once more, with a comfortable little sigh. "That does
feel good!" she exclaimed. "I _was_ cold."
"I think you would have been wiser to stop in the ladies' cabin," said
Stephen, still with the somewhat patronizing air of the older person.
"I like lots of air," explained the girl. "And it doesn't do me any harm
to be cold."
"How about getting a chill?" inquired Stephen.
"Oh, I never have such things. They don't exist. At least they don't
unless one encourages them," she replied.
He smiled, rather interested, and pleased to linger, since she evidently
understood that he was using no arts to scrape an acquaintance. "That
sounds like Christian Science," he ventured.
"I don't know that it's any kind of science," said she. "Nobody ever
talked to me about it. Only if you're not afraid of things, they can't
hurt you, can they?"
"Perhaps not. I suppose you mean you needn't let yourself feel them.
There's something in the idea: be callous as an alligator and nothing
can hit you."
"I don't mean that at all. I'd hate to be callous," she objected. "We
couldn't enjoy things if we were callous."
Stephen, on the point of saying something bitter, stopped in time,
knowing that his words would have been not only stupid but obvious,
which was worse. "It is good to be young," he remarked instead.
"Yes, but I'm glad to be grown up at last," said the girl; and Stephen
would not let himself laugh.
"I know how you feel," he answered. "I used to feel like that too."
"Don't you now?"
"Not always. I've had plenty of time to get tired of being grown up."
"Maybe you've been a soldier, and have seen sad things," she suggested.
"I was thinking when I first saw you, that you looked like a soldier."
"I wish I had been. Unfortunately I was too disgustingly young, when our
only war of my day was on. I mean, the sort of war one could volunteer
for."
"In South Africa?"
"Yes. You were a baby in that remote time."
"Oh no, I wasn't. I'm eighteen now, going on nineteen. I was in Paris
then, with my stepmother and my sister. We used to hear talk about the
war, though we knew hardly any English people."
"So Paris won't be a new experience to you?" said Stephen, disappointed
that he had been mistaken in all his surmises.
"I went back to America before I was nine, and I've been there ever
since, till a few weeks ago. Oh see, there are the lights of France! I
can't help being excited."
"Yes, we'll be in very soon--in about ten minutes."
"I am glad! I'd better go below and make my hair tidy. Thank you ever so
much for helping me to be comfortable."
She jumped up, unrolled herself, and began to fold the rug neatly.
Stephen would have taken it from her and bundled it together anyhow, but
she would not let him do that. "I like folded things," she said. "It's
nice to see them come straight, and I enjoy it more because the wind
doesn't want me to do it. To succeed in spite of something, is a kind of
little triumph--and seems like a sign. Good-bye, and thank you once
more."
"Good-bye," said Stephen, and added to himself that he would not soon
again see so pretty a child; as fresh, as frank, or as innocent. He had
known several delightful American girls, but never one like this. She
was a new type to him, and more interesting, perhaps, because she was
simple, and even provincial. He was in a state of mind to glorify women
who were entirely unsophisticated.
He did not see the girl getting into the train at Calais, though he
looked for her, feeling some curiosity as to the stepmother and the
sister whom he had imagined prostrate in the ladies' cabin. By the time
he had arrived at Paris he felt sleepy and dull after an aggravating
doze or two on the way, and had almost forgotten the red-haired child
with the vivid blue eyes, until, to his astonishment, he saw her alone
parleying with a _douanier_, over two great boxes, for one of which
there seemed to be no key.
"Those selfish people of hers have left her to do all the work," he said
to himself indignantly, and as she appeared to be having some difficulty
with the official, he went to ask if he could help.
"Thank you, it's all right now," she said. "The key of my biggest box is
mislaid, but luckily I've got the man to believe me when I say there's
nothing in it except clothes, just the same as in the other. Still it
would be very, very kind if you wouldn't mind seeing me to a cab. That
is, if it's no bother."
Stephen assured her that he would be delighted.
"Have your people engaged the cab already," he wanted to know, "or are
they waiting in this room for you?"
"I haven't any people," she answered. "I'm all by myself."
This was another surprise, and it was as much as Stephen could do not to
blame her family audibly for allowing the child to travel alone, at
night too. The thing seemed monstrous.
He took her into the court-yard, where the cabs stood, and engaged two,
one for the girl, and one for her large luggage.
"You have rooms already taken at an hotel, I hope?" he asked.
"I'm going to a boarding-house--a _pension_, I mean," explained the
girl. "But it's all right. They know I'm coming. I do thank you for
everything."
Seated in the cab, she held out her hand in a glove which had been
cleaned, and showed mended fingers. Stephen shook the small hand
gravely, and for the second time they bade each other good-bye.
In the cold grey light of a rainy dawn, which would have suited few
women as a background, especially after a night journey, the girl's face
looked pearly, and Stephen saw that her lashes, darker at the roots,
were bright golden at the turned-up ends.
It seemed to him that this pretty child, alone in the greyness and rain
of the big foreign city, was like a spring flower thrown carelessly into
a river to float with the stream. He felt an impulse of protection, and
it went against his instincts to let her drive about Paris unprotected,
while night had hardly yielded to morning. But he could not offer to go
with her. He was interested, as any man of flesh and blood must be
interested, in the fate of an innocent and charming girl left to take
care of herself, and entirely unfitted for the task; yet she seemed
happy and self-confident, and he had no right, even if he wished, to
disturb her mind. He was going away without another word after the
good-bye, but on second thoughts felt that he might ask if she had
friends in Paris.
"Not exactly friends, but people who will look after me, and be kind,
I'm sure," she answered. "Thank you for taking an interest. Will you
tell the man to go to 278A Rue Washington, and the other cab to follow?"
Stephen obeyed, and as she drove away the girl looked back, smiling at
him her sweet and childlike smile.