Raine had judged her very gently. He had rightly guessed that she had
fallen upon the thorns wherewith society strews the land outside its
own beaten paths. His insight into the depths of her nature had awakened
within him a strong man's yearning pity. In his eyes she was the frail
tender thing that had been torn and wounded, and he had taken to his
heart the joy of the knowledge that his arms would give her rest and
peace at the last.
Although Hockmaster's revelation had jarred through his whole being,
he judged her gently now. He was honest-souled enough to disintegrate
æsthetic disgust from abiding emotion. He was keenly sensible of the
agony she had endured at dinner, and he suffered with her truly
and loyally. But the ignobleness attendant on all the conditions of
Hockmaster's drunken confidence spread itself for the time like a foul
curtain over finer feelings. He could not help wishing that she had
told him her story. That the consciousness of her position as a divorced
woman had been the cause of the constraint of her letters, he could
no longer doubt. That she intended to make all clear to him before
she definitely pledged herself to him as his wife, he was absolutely
certain. His nature was too loyal for him to suspect otherwise. There he
read her truly. But why had she waited? It would have made his present
course of action so much more simple, had the spoken confidence between
them enabled him to take the initiative. Now his hands were tied. He
could do nothing but wait until she made the sign. Thus the thought, in
calmer, nobler moments. But then the common story of seduction, with its
vulgar stigma of the divorce court, and the personality of the reeling,
hiccoughing man, sent a shiver through his flesh.
In the morning he spent an hour with his father, forgetting for the
while his own troubles in endeavours to cheer and amuse. On his way
out, he met Mme. Boccard, who greeted him with plaintive volubility.
His American friend had paid his bill and left orders for his bag to
be given to the porter from the Hôtel National. She was sorry her
establishment had not been to his liking. What did Monsieur Chetwynd
think of the dinner? What had been lacking? And the bed? It was a
beautiful bed--as it happened, the best in all the pension. Raine
consoled her, as best he could, for the American's defection, but in his
heart he was grimly pleased at this sign of grace in his late friend.
He had some idea, at least, when sober, of common decency. Mme. Boccard
enquired concernedly after the professor, was delighted to hear that he
was mending.
“Ah, that is good,” she said, “it would not be suitable if too many
people were ill. The pension would get a bad name. That poor Mme.
Stapleton is still suffering this morning. It is Mr. Chetwynd who will
be sorry.”
“Nothing serious?” asked Raine, in some alarm.
“Oh no--_une crise des nerfs. Que voulez-vous? Les dames sont comme
cela._”
In spite of this information, however, he looked into his room, on his
way out, in the vague hope of finding a note from Katherine. But there
was none. He felt himself in a cruelly false position. Yet he could do
nothing. Like a wise man he resolved to await events and in the meantime
to proceed with his usual habits. In accordance therefore with the
latter, he walked up the Grand Quai and sat down at one of the tables
outside the Café du Nord, where he had been accustomed, before his
absence at Chamonix, to read the _Journal de Geneve_ and the previous
day's _Figaro_. It was pleasant to get back to a part of the former way
of life, when Hockmaster was undreamed of. The retirement of his late
friend from the pension was a relief to him. He felt he could breathe
more freely. If he could be assured that Hockmaster would retire from
Geneva as well, and vanish into the Unknown whence he came, he would
have been almost happy. He wanted never to set eyes on his face
again.
But the particularly undesired invariably happens. He was trying to
concentrate his mind upon the literary supplement of the _Figaro_, when
the ingenuous but now detested voice fell upon his ear.
“I was just on my way to ransack the town of Geneva for you.”
Raine looked up frowningly. Hockmaster was standing by his side,
sprucely attired, clean-shaven, the pink of freshness. His shirt cuffs
were immaculately conspicuous, he wore patent-leather boots and carried
a new pair of gloves in his hand. His pale-blue eyes looked as innocent
as if they had never gazed upon liquid stronger than a pellucid lake.
Immediately after he had spoken he sat down and airily waved away the
waiter, who was hovering near for orders.
“Did you particularly desire to see me?” asked Raine, stiffly.
“I do. Particularly. I guess I riled you considerably last night, and my
mind would not be easy until I apologized. For anything I did last night
and anything I said, I apologize most humbly. I know,” he added with one
of his child-like smiles, “that I fell by a long chalk from the image of
my Maker, and I can't expect you to forgive me all at once--but if you
were to do it by degrees, beginning from now, you would make me feel
that I am gradually approximating to it again.”
There was a quaint charm in the manner of this astonishing man, to
which Raine could not help being susceptible, in spite of his dislike.
Besides, the ordinary conventions of life bound him to accept an apology
so amply tendered.
“You did put me to some trouble,” he said gravely, “and for that I most
cordially accept your excuses. For the rest--” he completed the sense
with a gesture..
But Hockmaster looked pained.
“I see, Mr. Chetwynd. What you can't do is to pal on to a man who has
betrayed a woman's honour.”
Raine felt embarrassed. He was aware that he had been disingenuous
in shifting the whole weight of his disgust and anger on to that
one particular point. The direct appeal did not lack manliness, was
evidently sincere. It stirred within him the sense of justice. He tried
to realize his attitude towards Hockmaster in the case of Katherine
being merely a chance acquaintance. Obviously all the complex feelings
centering round his love for her ought to go for nothing in his judgment
of Hockmaster. Raine was an honourable man, who hated hypocrisy and
prejudice and unfair dealing, and the detection of them in himself
brought with it an irritating sense of shame.
“I have the privilege of the friendship of the lady in question,” he
replied to the American, “and therefore felt a personal resentment of
your confidence last night.”
“Mr. Chetwynd,” returned Hockmaster, leaning forward earnestly with his
elbows on the table, “there is only one way in which I can make things
square, and that is to take you into my confidence still further.”
“Oh, for God's sake, man, let us drop the subject!”
“No. For I think you'll be pleased. You are a straight, honourable man,
and I want to act in a straight, honourable way. Do you see that?”
“Perfectly,” said Raine. “But don't you also see that this is a matter
that cannot be discussed? A woman's name cannot be bandied about by two
men. Come, we will let bygones be bygones.”
He rose, grasping his stick, as if to depart, and held out his hand.
But the American, somewhat to Raine's astonishment, made a deprecating
gesture and also rose to his feet.
“No. Not yet,” he said blandly. “Not before you feel sure I am doing the
straight thing. You called me a cad, last night, didn't you?”
“Yes. But perhaps I was hasty.”
“Oh no. I own up. Honest Injun, as we say in America. I was a cad.
Only, having called your friend a cad, you owe it to him to allow him to
retrieve his character in your eyes.”
“Why should you be so anxious to do so?” asked Raine, struck with the
man's earnestness.
“Because I've got sort of fond of you,” replied the American. “Will you
listen to me for two minutes?”
“Certainly.”
“Then I'll tell you that I'm going direct, this very minute, to ask that
lady to marry me.
“To marry you?” cried Raine, with the blood in his cheeks. “It would be
an insult!”
“It's a pity you think so,” returned Hockmaster reflectively. “I wish I
could unmake my mind, but you see it's all fixed up already.”
“What's fixed up?”
“That I should ask her. Mr. Chetwynd, this is the first chance I have
had. For eight years I have lost every trace of her. If you know a more
honourable way of repairing the wrong, you just tell me.”
“Man alive! leave Geneva and never let her hear of you again.”
“I will, if she refuses me. That's fixed up too. I must be going.”
“Mrs. Stapleton is ill, and can't see you this morning,” said Raine
desperately.
“I have an appointment with her in five minutes' time,” replied the
other imperturbably. “Now, Mr. Chetwynd, I shall be proud to shake hands
with you.”
He extended his hand, which Raine, thrown off his balance for the
moment, took mechanically; and then he gave him a parting nod, jerked
forward his shirt-cuffs, squared his shoulders and marched away,
evidently pleased with himself.
Raine sat down again by the marble table, took a mouthful of the
vermouth in front of him, and tried to recover his equilibrium.
Katherine was going to see this man, to listen to a proposal of
marriage. A spasm of pain shot through him. Perhaps the older love had
smouldered through the years and had burst forth again. His hand shook
as he put the glass to his lips again.
People came and went in the _café_, sat down to their bock or absinthe
and departed. The busy life of Geneva passed by on the sunny pavement;
brown-cheeked, pale-eyed Swiss peasants, blue-bloused workmen, tourists
with veils and puggarees and Baedekers. Barefooted children, spying
the waiter's inattention, whined forward with decrepit bunches of
edelweiss. Smart flower-sellers, in starched white sleeves, displayed
their great baskets to the idlers. Cabs, hired by family parties of
Germans or Americans, drove off with raucous shouts and cracking of
whips, from the rank in the shade opposite, by the garden railings. The
manager of the _café_, in correct frock-coat, stood under the awning in
the gangway, and smiled benignly on his customers. The time passed. But
Raine sat there chin in hand, staring at the blue veins of the marble,
his thoughts and emotions as inchoate as they.
At last he became aware that someone looked at him and bowed. Rousing
himself from his daze he recognized Felicia, who was advancing along the
pavement by the outer row of chairs. With a sudden impulse, he rose, and
leaving some money for the waiter, went out and greeted her.
“Isn't it a lovely day?” she said brightly. “I couldn't stay in the
pension after déjeuner, so I came out to do some shopping.”
“Déjeuner!” cried Raine, “Do you mean to say it is over?”
“Why, of course. Haven't you had any?”
“No--the time has passed. However, I am not very hungry. Do you mind if
I go shopping with you?”
“I should feel flattered, Mr. Chetwynd.” She laughed up at him from
under her red parasol. The sight of her, fresh in her youthful colouring
and dainty white dress, seemed to soothe the man's somewhat weary
senses. A feeling of restfulness in her company stole over his heart, as
he walked by her side.
“What are you going to buy?” he asked as they passed by the shops.
“I really don't know. I must consider. Perhaps some needles and tape.
But you must stay outside.”
“Oh no. I will come with you and see how it is done,” said Raine with a
smile.
“Then I'll have to buy something important that I don't want,” said
Felicia.
A laughing argument, which lasted until the needles and tape were
purchased. Then they continued their walk down the Rue de la Corraterie
and came to the Bastion gardens, where they sat down under the trees.
Felicia was happy. The brotherly kiss of the previous evening had
restored to her the self-respect that her maidenhood seemed to have
lost. He was still the prince of her girl's heart, she could serve him
now, she felt, without shame or shrinking. The growing woman in her
divined his mood and strove to cheer him with her most lightsome self.
Womanhood divined the mood, but inexperience was blind to its
dangerousness. Unconsciously her sweet charm of youth drew Raine nearer
to her. When they parted, he felt that he had gone within an ace of
making love to her, and committing a base action. The thought stung
him. He had not reckoned upon such weakness in himself. Spurred by
an impatient scorn of his cowardice, his heart turned all the more
passionately to Katherine.