"YOU DO NOT BELIEVE IN ME!"
Saton deliberately turned into the Park, and sauntered along under the
trees in the wake of a throng of fashionable promenaders. He exchanged
greetings with many acquaintances, and here and there he stopped to
say a few words. He noted, as usual, and with a recurrence of his
constant discontent, the extraordinary difference in the demeanor of
the women and the men of his acquaintance. The former, gracious and
smiling, accepted him without reservation. Their murmured words and
smiles were even more than gracious. On the other hand, there was
scarcely a man whose manner did not denote a certain tolerance, not
unmixed with contempt, as though, indeed, they were willing to accept
the fact that he was of their acquaintance, but desired at the same
time to emphasize the fact that he was outside the freemasonry of
their class--a freak, whom they acknowledged on sufferance, as they
might have done a wonderful lion-tamer, or a music-hall singer, or a
steeplejack. He knew very well that there was not one of them who
accepted his qualifications, notwithstanding the approval of their
womankind, and the knowledge stung him bitterly.
Presently he came face to face with Lois, walking with Vandermere.
His face darkened for a moment. He had expressed his desire that she
should see as little of this young man as possible, and here they
were, not only walking together, but laughing and talking with all the
easy naturalness of old acquaintanceship.
Saton drew a little breath of anger through his teeth as he paused and
waited for them. He recognised the terms of intimacy upon which they
were. He recognised that between them there was something which had
never existed between Lois and himself, something which made their
friendship a natural and significant thing. It was the freemasonry of
class again, the magic ring against which he had torn his fingers in
vain.
They saw him. The whole expression of the girl's face changed. All the
animation seemed to leave her manner. For a moment she clung
instinctively to her companion. Afterwards she looked at him no more.
She came to Saton at once, and held out her hand without any show of
reluctance, yet wholly without spontaneity. It was as though she was
obeying orders from a superior.
"Only this morning," he said, "the Comtesse was speaking of you, Lois.
She was so sorry that you had not been to see her lately."
"I will come this afternoon," Lois said quietly.
Vandermere, who had frowned heavily at the sound of her Christian name
upon Saton's lips, could scarcely conceal his anger at her promise.
"I have never had the pleasure," he said, "of meeting the Comtesse.
Perhaps I might be permitted to accompany Miss Champneyes?"
"You are very kind," Saton answered. "I am sorry, but the Comtesse is
beginning to feel her age, and she receives scarcely anyone. I am
afraid that the days are past when she would care to make new
acquaintances."
"In any case," Vandermere said, turning to his companion, "weren't we
going to Hurlingham this afternoon?"
"We were," she said doubtfully, "but I think----"
She looked towards Saton. His face was inexpressive, but she seemed to
read there something which prompted her words.
"I think that we must put off Hurlingham, if you do not mind," she
said to Vandermere. "I ought to go and see the Comtesse."
"It is very kind of you," Saton said slowly. "She will, I am sure, be
glad to see you."
Vandermere turned aside for a moment to exchange greetings with some
acquaintances.
"Lois," Saton said in a low tone, "you know I have told you that I do
not like to see you so much with Captain Vandermere."
"I cannot help it," she answered. "He is always at the house. He is a
great friend of Mr. Rochester's. Besides," she added, raising her eyes
to his, "I like being with him."
"You must consider also my likes and dislikes," Saton said. "Think how
hard it is for me to see you so very little."
"Oh, you don't care!" Lois exclaimed tremulously. "You know very well
that you don't care. It is all pretence, this. Why do you do it? Why
do you make me so unhappy?"
"No, Lois," he answered, "it is not pretence. I do care for you, and
in a very few weeks I am coming to fetch you away to make you my wife.
You will be glad, then," he went on. "You will be quite happy."
Vandermere turned back towards them. He had heard nothing of their
conversation, but he saw that Lois was white, and he had hard work to
speak calmly.
"Come," he said to Lois, "I think we had better go on. Good morning,
Mr. Saton!"
Saton stood aside to let them pass. He knew very well that Lois would
have stayed with him, had he bidden it, but he made no attempt to
induce her to do so.
"Till this afternoon," he said, taking off his hat with a little
flourish.
"Hang that fellow!" Vandermere muttered, as he looked at Lois, and saw
the change in her. "Why do you let him talk to you, dear? You don't
like him. I am sure that you do not. Why do you allow him to worry
you?"
"I think," Lois answered, "that I do like him. Oh, I must like him,
Maurice!"
"Yes?" he answered.
"Don't let us talk about him. He has gone away now. Come with me to
the other end of the Park. Let us hurry...."
Saton walked on until he saw a certain mauve parasol raised a little
over one of the seats. A moment afterwards, hat in hand, he was
standing before Pauline.
"Has he come?" she asked, as he bent over her fingers.
Saton's face clouded.
"Yes!" he answered. "He came last night. To tell you the truth, he has
just gone away in a temper. I do not know whether he will return to
the house or not."
"Why?" she asked quickly.
Saton laughed to cover his annoyance.
"He does not approve of the luxury of my surroundings," he answered.
"He declined to write at my desk, or to sit in my room."
"I don't wonder at it," she answered. "You know how he worships
simplicity."
"Simplicity!" Saton exclaimed. "You should see the place where he
writes himself. There is no carpet upon the floor, a block of wood for
a writing-table, a penny bottle of ink, and a gnawed and bitten
penholder only an inch or two long."
Pauline nodded.
"I can understand it," she said. "I can understand, too, how your
rooms would affect him. You should have thought of that. If he has
gone away altogether, how will you be able to finish your work?"
"I must do without him," Saton answered.
Pauline looked at him critically, dispassionately.
"I do not believe that you can do without him," she said. "You are
losing your hold upon your work. I have noticed it for weeks. Don't
you think that you are frittering away a great deal of your time and
thoughts? Don't you think that the very small things of life, things
that are not worth counting, have absorbed a good deal of your
attention lately?"
He was annoyed, and yet flattered that she should speak to him so
intimately.
"It may be so," he admitted. "And yet, do you know why I have chosen
to mix a little more with my fellows?"
"No!" she answered. "I do not know why."
"It is because I must," he said, lowering his tone. "It is because I
must see something of you."
The lace of her parasol drooped a little. Her face was hidden now, and
her voice seemed to come from a long way off.
"That is very foolish," she said. "In the first place, if my opinion
of you is worth anything, I tell you frankly that I would rather see
you with ink-stained fingers and worn clothes, climbing your way up
toward the truth, working and thinking in an atmosphere which was not
befouled with all the small and petty things of life. It seems to me
that since it amused you to play the young man of fashion, you have
lost your touch--some portion of it, at any rate--upon the greater
things."
Saton was very angry now. He was only indifferently successful in his
attempt to conceal the fact.
"You, too," he muttered. "Well, we shall see. Naudheim has brains, and
he has worked for many years. He had worked, indeed, for many years
when the glimmerings of this thing first came to me. He could help me
if he would, but if he will not, I can do it alone."
"I wonder."
"You do not believe in me," he declared.
"No," she answered, "I do not believe in you--not altogether!"
Rochester and his wife drove down the Park. Saton followed her eyes,
noticing her slight start, and gazed after them with brooding face.
"Rochester is becoming quite a devoted husband," he remarked, with a
sneer.
"Quite," she answered. "They spend most of their time together now."
"And Lady Mary, I understand," he went on, "has reformed. Yesterday
she was opening the new wing of a hospital, and the day before she was
speaking at a Girls' Friendly Society meeting. It's an odd little
place, the world, or rather this one particular corner of it."
She rose, with a little shrug of the shoulders, and held out her hand.
"I must go," she said. "I am lunching early."
"May I walk a little way with you?" he begged.
She hesitated. After all, perhaps, it was a phase of snobbery to
dislike being seen with him--something of that same feeling which she
had never failed to remark in him.
"If you please," she answered. "I am going to take a taximeter at the
Park gates."
"I will walk with you as far as there," he said.
He tried to talk to her on ordinary topics, but he felt at once a
disadvantage. He knew so little of the people, the little round of
life in which she lived. Before they reached the gates they had
relapsed into silence.
"It is foolish of me," he said, as he called a taximeter, "to come
here simply in the hope of seeing you, to beg for a few words, and to
go away more miserable than ever."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"It is certainly very foolish," she admitted.
"I don't see why," he protested, "you should disapprove of me so
utterly."
"I do not disapprove," she told him. "I have not the right. I have not
the desire to have the right. Only, since you will have me tell you, I
am interested in your work. I like to talk about it, to hear you talk
when you are enthusiastic. It does not amuse me to see you come down
to the level of these others, who while their morning away doing
nothing. You are not at home amongst them. You have no place there.
When you come to me as a young man in Society, you bore me."
She stepped into the taximeter and drove away, with a farewell nod,
abrupt although not altogether unkindly. Yet as she looked behind, a
few seconds later, her face was very much softer--her eyes were almost
regretful.
"It may hurt him," she said to herself, "but it is very good that he
should hear the truth."