Well, I write all this down calmly, the record of the morning, to let
myself look back on it, and to where the new intimacy might have led us,
but for the sickening end to the day.
Burton did not question her lunching with me this time--he had given the
order as a matter of course--He is very fine in his distinctions, and
understood that to make any change after she once had eaten with me
would be invidious.
By the time the waiters came in to lay the table, that sense of hurt,
and then of numbness, had worn off--I was quite interested again in the
work, and intensely intrigued about the possible history of the Sharp
family!
I was using cunning, too, and displaying casual indifference, so
watchfulness was allowed to rest a little with the strange girl.
"I believe if you will give me your help I shall be able to make quite
a decent book of it after all,--but does it not seem absurd to trouble
about such thing's as furniture with the world in ruins and Empires
tottering!"--I remarked while the ark-relic handed the omelette--.
"All that is only temporary--presently people will be glad to take up
civilized interests again."
"You never had any doubt as to how the war would end?"
"Never."
"Why?"
"Because I believe in the gallantry of France, and the tenacity of
England, and the--youth of America."
"And what of Germany?"
"The vulgarity."
This was quite a new reason for Germany's certain downfall--! It
delighted me--.
"But vulgarity does not mean weakness!"
"Yes it does--Vulgar people have imperfect sensibilities, and cannot
judge of the psychology of others, they appraise everything by their own
standard--and so cannot calculate correctly possible contingencies--that
shows weakness."
"How wise you are--and how you think!"
She was silent.
"All the fighting nations will be filled with vulgarians even when we do
win, though with most of the decent people killed--" I ventured to
say--.
"Oh! no--Lots of their souls are not vulgar, only their environment has
caused their outward self-expression to seem so. Once you get below the
pompous _bourgeoisie_ in France, for instance, the more delightful you
find the spirit, and I expect it is the same in England. It is the
pretentious aspiring would-bes who are vulgar--and Germany seems filled
with them,"
"You know it well?"
"Yes, pretty well."
"If it is not a frightfully impertinent question--how old are you
really, Miss Sharp--?" I felt that she could not be only twenty-three
after this conversation.
She smiled--the second smile I have seen--.
"On the twentieth of October I shall be twenty-four."
"Where on earth did you learn all your philosophy of life in the time!"
"It is life which teaches us everything--if we are not half
asleep--especially if it is difficult--."
"And the stupid people are like me--not liking to learn any lessons and
kicking against the pricks--.",
"Yes--."
"I would try to learn anything you would teach me though, Miss Sharp."
"Why?"
"Because I have confidence in you"--I did not add--because I loved her
voice and respected her character and----.
"Thank you"--she said.
"Will you teach me?"
"What?"
"How not to be a rotter--."
"A man knows that himself--."
"How to learn serenity then?"
"That would be difficult."
"Am I so impossible?"
"I cannot say--but."
"But--what?"
"One would have to begin from the beginning--."
"Well?"
"And I have not time--."
I looked at her as she said this--there was in the tone a faint echo of
regret, so I wanted to see the expression of her mouth--It told me
nothing.
I could not get anything further out of her, because the waiters came in
and out after this rather frequently, changing the courses--and so I did
not have any success.
After lunch I suggested as it had cleared up that we should go at least
as far as the parterre, and sit under the shadow of the terrace--the
flower beds are full of beans now--their ancient glories departed. Miss
Sharp followed my bath chair,--and with extreme diligence kept me to the
re-arranging of the first chapter. For an hour I watched her darling
small face whenever I could. A sense of peace was upon me. We were
certainly on the first rung of the ladder of friendship--and
presently--presently--If only I could keep from annoying her in any way!
When we had finished our task she rose--.
"If you don't mind, as it is Saturday I have promised Burton"--and she
looked at him, seated on a chair beyond earshot enjoying the sun--"to do
up the accounts and prepare the cheques for you to sign--. So I will go
in now and begin."
I wanted to say "Damn the accounts"--but I let her go--I must play the
tortoise in this game, not the hare. She smiled faintly--the third
smile--as she made me a little bow, and walked off.
After a few paces she came back again.
"May I ask Burton for the bread ticket I lent you on Thursday," she
said--"No one can afford to be generous with them now, can they!"
I was delighted at this. I would have been delighted at anything which
kept her with me an extra minute.
I watched her as she disappeared down towards the Reservoirs with
longing eyes, then I must have dozed for a while, because it was a
quarter to five when I got back to my sitting-room.
And when I was safely in my chair there was a knock on the door, and in
she came--with a cheque-book in her hand. Before I opened it or even
took it up I knew something had happened which had changed her again.
Her manner had its old icy respect as of a person employed, all the
friendliness which had been growing in the last two or three days had
completely departed. I could not imagine why--.
She put the cheque-book open, and handed me a pen to sign with, and then
I signed the dozen that she had filled in, and tore them off as I did
so. She was silent, and when I had finished she took them, saying
casually that she would bring the corrected chapter typed again on
Tuesday, and was now going to catch her train--and before I could reply,
she had gone into the other room--.
A frightful sense of depression fell upon me--What could it possibly
be--?
Idly I picked up the cheque-book--and absently fingered the leaves--then
my eye caught a counterfoil where I had chanced to open it. It was not
in Miss Sharp's handwriting, although this was the house cheque-book
which Burton usually keeps, but in my own and there was written, just
casually as I scribble in my private account.--"For Suzette 5000 francs"
and the date of last Saturday--and on turning the page there was the
further one of "For Suzette 3000 francs" and the date of Monday!!
The irony of fate!--I had picked this cheque-book up inadvertently I
suppose on these two days instead of my own.
X
It is quite useless for me to comment upon the utterly annoying
circumstance of that mixup of cheque-books--Such things are fate--and
fate I am beginning to believe is nothing but a reflex of our own
actions. If Suzette had not been my little friend, I should not have
given her eight thousand francs--but as she has been--and I did--I must
stand by the consequences.
After all--a man?--Well--what is the use of writing about it. I am so
utterly mad and resentful that I have no words.
It is Sunday morning, and this afternoon I shall hire the one motor
which can be obtained here, at a fabulous price, and go into Paris.
There are some books I want to get out of my bookcase--and somehow I
have lost interest here. But this morning I shall go and sit in the
parish church and hear Mass.--I feel so completely wretched, the music
may comfort me and give me courage to forget all about Miss Sharp. And
in any case there is a soothing atmosphere in a Roman Catholic church,
which is agreeable. I love the French people! They are a continual
tonic, if one takes them rightly. So filled with common sense, simply
using sentiment as an ornament, and a relaxation; and never allowing it
to interfere with the practical necessities of life. Ignorant people say
they are hysterical, and over passionate--They are nothing of the
kind--They believe in material things, and in the "_beau geste_." Where
they require a religion, they accept a comforting one; and meanwhile
they enjoy whatever comes in their way and get through disagreeables
philosophically. _Vive la France!_
* * * * *
I am waiting for the motor now--and trying to be resigned.--Mass did me
good--I sat in a corner and kept my crutch by me. The Church itself told
me stories, I tried to see it in Louis XV's time--I dare say it looked
much the same, only dirtier--And life was made up with etiquette and
forms and ceremonies, more exasperating than anything now. But they were
ahead of us in manners, and a sense of beauty.
A little child came and sat beside me for about ten minutes, and looked
at me and my crutch sympathetically.
"_Blessé de la guerre_," I heard her whisper to her mother--"_Comme
Jean_."
The organ was not bad--and before I came out I felt calmer.
After all it is absurd of Miss Sharp to be disgusted about Suzette--She
must know, at nearly twenty-four, and living in France, that there are
Suzettes--and I am sure she is not narrow-minded in any way--What can
have made her so censorious? If she took a personal interest in me it
would be different, but entirely indifferent as she is, how can it
matter to her?--As I write this, that hot sense of anger and rebellion
arises in me--I'll have to keep saying to myself that I am in the
trenches again and must not complain.
I'll make Burton find out if Coralie is really staying here, and get her
to dine with me to-night--Coralie always pretended to have a _béguin_
for me--even when most engaged elsewhere.
* * * * *
_Monday:_
Sunday was a memorable day--.
I went through the _Bois de Marne_ on that bad road because the trees
were so lovely--and then through the _parc de St. Cloud_. Even in war
time this wonderful people can enjoy the open air life!--
I think of Henriette d' Angleterre looking from the terrace of her
Château over the tree tops--The poor Château! not a stone of which is
standing to-day--Did she feel sentimental with her friend the Comte de
Guiche--as I would like to feel now?--If I had someone to be sentimental
with. Alas! There was an ominous hot stillness in the air, and the sky
beyond the Eiffel tower had a heavy, lurid tone in it.
When we got across the river into the _Bois de Boulogne_ it seemed as if
all Paris was enjoying a holiday. I told the chauffeur to go down a side
_allée_ and to go slowly, and presently I made him draw up at the side
of the road. It was so hot, and I wanted to rest for a little, the
motion was jarring my leg.
I think I must have been half asleep, when my attention was caught by
three figures coming up another by-path obliquely--the tallest of them
was undoubtedly Miss Sharp--but Miss Sharp as I had never seen her
before!--
And a boy of thirteen, and a girl of eleven were at either side of her,
the boy clinging on to her arm, he was lame and seemed to be a
dreadfully delicate, rickety person. The little girl was very small and
sickly looking too--but Miss Sharp--my secretary!--appeared blooming and
young and lovely in her inexpensive foulard frock--No glasses hid her
blue eyes. Her hair was not torn back and screwed into a knot, but might
have been dressed by Alice's maid--and her hat, the simplest thing
possible, was most becoming, with the proper modish "look."--
Refinement and perfect taste proclaimed themselves from every inch of
her, even if everything had only cost a small sum.
So that dowdy get-up is for my benefit, and is not habitual to her!--Or
is it, that she has only one costume and keeps it for Sundays and days
of _fête_?--
In spite of my determination to put all thought of her from me--a wild
emotion arose--a passionate longing to spring from the car and join
her--to talk to her, and tell her how lovely I thought she was looking.
They came nearer and nearer--I could see that her face was rippling with
smiles at something the little brother had said--Its expression was
gentle and sympathetic and it was obvious that fond affection held all
three.
The children might have been drawn by Du Maurier in Punch long ago, to
express a family who were overbred. Race run to seed expressed itself in
every line of them. The boy wore an Eton jacket and collar and a tall
hat--and it looked quite strange in this place.
As they got close to me I could hear him cough in the hollow way which
tells its own story--.
I cowered down behind the hood of the motor, and they passed without
seeing me--or perhaps Miss Sharp did see me but was determined not to
look--. I felt utterly alone and deserted by all the world--and the same
nervous trembling came over me which once before made me suffer so, and
again I was conscious that my cheek was wet with a tear.