"I have an inkling of the laws that govern humanity," I replied.
"Well, and after the pleasant trip to the cemetery?"
"He asked me whether the café at the top of the hill was really the
only place to stay at in Ravetot. It's dreadful, you know--no one goes
there but fishermen and farm labourers--and it is the only place. The
hotel is shut up out of the season. I said that Ravetot didn't
encourage visitors during the winter. He looked disappointed, and said
that he would have to find quiet somewhere else. Then he asked whether
there wasn't any house that would take him in as a boarder?"
She paused.
"Well?" I enquired.
"Oh, doctor, he seemed so strong and kind, and his eyes were so frank.
I knew he was everything that a man ought to be. We were friends at
once, and I hated the thought of losing him. It is not gay at Ravetot
with only Jeanne to talk to from week's end to week's end. And then we
are so poor--and you know we do take in paying guests when we can get
them."
"I understand perfectly," said I.
She nodded. That was how it happened. Would a nice girl have done
such a thing? I replied that if she knew as much of the ways of nice
girls as I did, she would be astounded. She smiled wanly and went on
with her artless story. Of course Mr. Everest jumped at the
suggestion. It is not given to every young and unlamenting widower to
be housed beneath the same roof with so delicious a young woman as
Pauline. He brought his luggage and took possession of the best spare
room in the Villa, while Pauline and old, slatternly Jeanne, the _bonne
à tout faire_, went about with agitated minds and busy hands attending
to his comfort. Old Widdrington, however, in his morose
chimney-corner, did not welcome the visitor. He growled and grumbled
and rated his daughter for not having doubled the terms. Didn't she
know they wanted every penny they could get? Something was wrong with
his roulette machine which ought to be sent to Paris for repairs.
Where was the money to come from? Pauline's father is the most
unscrupulous, selfish old curmudgeon of my acquaintance!
Then, according to my young lady's incoherent and parenthetic
narrative, followed idyllic days. Pauline chattered to Mr. Everest in
the morning, walked with him in the afternoon, pretended to play the
piano to him in the evening, and in between times sat with him at
meals. The inevitable happened. She had met no one like him
before--he represented the strength and the music of the great world.
He flashed upon her as the realisation of the vague visions that had
floated before her eyes when she stared seawards in the driving wind.
That the man was a bit in love with her seems certain. I think that
one day, when a wayside shed was sheltering them from the rain, he must
have kissed her. A young girl's confidences are full of details; but
the important ones are generally left out. They can be divined,
however, by the old and experienced. At any rate Pauline was radiantly
happy, and Everest appeared contented to stay indefinitely at Ravetot
and watch her happiness.
Thus far the story was ordinary enough. Given the circumstances it
would have been extraordinary if my poor little Pauline had not fallen
in love with the man and if the man's heart had not been touched. If
he had found the girl's feelings too deep for his response and had
precipitately bolted from a confused sense of acting honourably towards
her, the story would also have been commonplace. The cause of his
sudden riding away was peculiarly painful. Somehow I cannot blame him;
and yet I am vain enough to imagine that I should have acted otherwise.
One morning Everest asked her if Jeanne might search his bedroom for a
twenty-franc piece which he must have dropped on the floor. In the
afternoon her father gave her twenty francs to get a postal order; he
was sending to Paris for some fresh mechanism for his precious
roulette-wheel. Everest accompanied her to the little Post Office.
They walked arm in arm through the village like an affianced couple,
and I fancy he must have said tenderer things than usual on the way,
for at this stage of the story she wept. When she laid the louis on
the stab below the _guichet_, she noticed that it was a a new Spanish
coin. Spanish gold is rare. She showed it to Everest, and meeting his
eyes read in them a curious questioning. The money order obtained,
they continued their walk happily, and Pauline forgot the incident.
Some days passed. Everest grew troubled and preoccupied. One
live-long day he avoided her society altogether. She lived through it
in a distressed wonder, and cried herself to sleep that night. How had
she offended? The next morning he gravely announced his departure.
Urgent affairs summoned him to Paris. In dazed misery she accepted the
payment of his account and wrote him a receipt. His face was set like
a mask, and he looked at her out of cold, stern eyes which frightened
her. In a timid way she asked him if he were going without one kind
word.
"There are times, Miss Widdrington," said he "when no word at all is
the kindest."
"But what have I done?" she cried.
"Nothing at all but what is good and right. You may think whatever you
like of me. Good-bye!"
He grasped his Gladstone bag, and through the window she saw him give
it to the fisher-lad who was to carry it three miles to the nearest
wayside station. He disappeared through the gate, and so out of her
life. Fat, slatternly Jeanne came upon her a few moments later moaning
her heart out, and administered comfort. It is very hard for
Mademoiselle--but what could Mademoiselle expect? Monsieur Everest
could not stay any longer in the house. Naturally. Of course,
Monsieur was a little touched in the brain, with his eternal
calculations--he was not responsible for his actions. Still, Monsieur
Everest did not like Monsieur to take money out of his room. But,
Great God of Pity! did not Mademoiselle know that was the reason of
Monsieur Everest going away?
"It was father who had stolen the Spanish louis," cried Pauline in a
passion of tears, as we leaned once more against the parapet of the
jetty. "He also stole a fifty-franc note. Then he was caught
red-handed by Mr. Everest rifling his despatch-box. Jeanne overheard
them talking. It is horrible, horrible! How he must despise me! I
feel wrapped in flames when I think of it--and I love him so--and I
haven't slept for a week--and my heart is broken."
I could do little to soothe this paroxysm, save let it spend itself
against my great-coat, while I again put my arm around her. The grey
tide was leaping in and the fine spray dashed in my face. The early
twilight began to settle over Ravetot, which appeared more desolate
than ever.
"Never mind, my dear," said I, "you are young, and as your soul is
sweet and clean you will get over this."
"Never," she moaned.
"You will leave Ravetot-sur-Mer and all its associations, and the
brightness of life will drive all the shadows away."
"No. It is impossible. My heart is broken and I only want to stay
here at the end of the jetty until I die."
"I shall die, anyhow," I remarked with a shiver, "if I stay here much
longer, and I don't want to. Let us go home."
She assented. We walked away from the sea and struck the gloomy inland
road. Then I said, somewhat meaningly:
"Haven't you the curiosity to enquire why I left my comfortable house
in London to come to this God-forsaken hole?"
"Why did you, Doctor, dear?" she asked listlessly.
"To inform you that your cross old aunt Caroline is dead, that she has
left you three thousand pounds a year under my trusteeship till you are
five-and-twenty, and that I am going to carry off the rich and
beautiful Miss Pauline Widdrington to England to-morrow."
She stood stock-still looking at me open-mouthed.
"Is it true?" she gasped.
"Of course," said I.
Her face was transfigured with a sudden radiance. Amazement, rapture,
youth--the pulsating wonder of her twenty years danced in her eyes. In
her excitement she pulled me by the lapels of my coat----
"_Doctor_! DOCTOR! Three thousand pounds a year! England! London!
Men and women! Everything I've longed for! All the glad and beautiful
things of life!"
"Yes, my dear."
She took my hands and swung them backwards and forwards.
"It's Heaven! Delicious Heaven!" she cried.
"But what about the broken heart?" I said maliciously.
She dropped my hands, sighed, and her face suddenly assumed an
expression of portentous misery.
"I was forgetting. What does anything matter now? I shall never get
over it. My heart _is_ broken."
"Devil a bit, my dear," said I.