Madame Claire was glad she was not included in the ban of silence. She
was much interested in the affair. She was also--though she took care
not to let Judy see it--a little excited. It was not, she felt, one of
those incidents that seem to have no consequences, nor leave any mark.
Something new, she believed, had been set in motion, and that something
new meant to poke a disturbing finger into Judy's life. But she forbore
to ask too many questions.
She heard about it the next day, and Judy told her that Noel had already
talked to Major Stroud over the telephone, and had learned that Major
Crosby was still unconscious.
"He told Noel we were not to worry--the doctor's orders I believe--and
then he went on to say that he'd once been unconscious for twenty-eight
hours himself, and had come to at the end of it as lively as a cricket.
But then he's a hopeless optimist, and you never can believe optimists."
"You and Noel seem to have taken him to your hearts from the first,"
commented Madame Claire. "Chip, I mean. Well, I'd back your judgments
against anybody's."
"I think you would have felt like that too. But he isn't going to be
easy to know," said her granddaughter.
"Isn't he? Why?"
"He's very shy," answered Judy. "He had the shyest rooms I ever saw.
Not a photograph to be seen, nor an ornament, nor even a novel. You
know, you can guess at such a lot if there are things like that about
to help you. No, there wasn't a single clue. But the greatest clue, in
a way, was the lack of clues. As though, because of his shyness, he had
tried to cover up his tracks. I don't think he wants to be known."
"If he had to be knocked down by a motor," said Madame Claire, "I
consider it a fortunate thing that you were in it. After all, it might
have been any Tom or Dick--or Miss Tom or Dick."
"I only wish he might take that view of it," answered Judy. "What news
of Louise?"
Madame Claire hoped to hear more about Chip, but she was always quick to
feel when a change of subject was wanted.
"She's with her people in Norfolk. She wrote Eric that she was enjoying
the change, but that she felt it was her duty to come back at the end of
the week. Of course Eric wrote to her that she wasn't to think of him,
but that she must stay as long as she felt inclined."
"How that must have annoyed her! For what she wanted was to come home
as a martyr before she was ready. What a woman! Don't you think it a
miracle that Eric doesn't fall in love with some one else?"
Madame Claire shook her head.
"I doubt if he ever will. He finds consolation in his friends, and in
his books, and in his work of course. Eric isn't a man who falls in love
easily. And besides, I can't help thinking that he still has hopes of
Louise."
"You think he still loves her?"
"Louise is his wife," answered Madame Claire, "and I believe that it
hurts Eric intolerably to feel that the one person in the world who
should be nearest to him, and who should understand him the best,
deliberately keeps aloof. He feels he has failed--and Eric hates
failure."
"If he has failed, it isn't his fault," said Judy. "It isn't for lack of
trying. If he'd been just a nonentity she'd have enjoyed condescending
to him. As long as he is what he is--sought-after and charming--she'll
be what she is--jealous and bitter. I don't see how he stands it."
"Like Eric," Madame Claire said gently, "I can't help hoping."
A day or two later, Judy found her reading a letter from Old Stephen.
"There's a good deal about Connie," she told her. "Isn't it odd the way
she seems to be coming into our lives again? Here's what he says:
"_'And now a few words about Connie and her Count. I've talked to him
several times, and he's like some poisonous thing in a stagnant
pond. I do wish you could persuade her to leave him, for he insults
and humiliates her at every turn. She confessed to me yesterday what
I already suspected--that he had gambled away most of his money and
much of hers at Monte Carlo, and that he is constantly demanding
more. I think it would be advisable for Eric to come here if he
possibly can. She is frightened, and her nerves are on edge. I
suppose he threatens her, poor woman. What do you think ought to be
done?'_"
"He stopped there," said Madame Claire, "and finished the letter next
day. I'll read you the rest.
"_'I was interrupted yesterday by Miss McPherson, who wouldn't let me
write more. So I left the letter open, and I'm glad I did, for
there's a sequel. Connie left here this morning for Paris, without a
word to anybody. I thought she would have written me a letter to say
good-bye, but she hasn't. I don't know what brought matters to this
head, but I suspect it had something to do with Mademoiselle
Pauline, the dancer, with whom the Count has been spending much of
his time, and more, I imagine, of his money. Miss McPherson, who has
her human side, has taken a considerable interest in Connie's
affairs, and tells me she is sure there was a scene of some sort
last night. However that may be, Connie has gone. They told me at
the office that she went to Paris, but left no forwarding address.
Well, my dear Claire, I fear all this will distress you, but you
have a brave heart, and would wish to know. If you have any idea
where Connie would be likely to have gone, to what friends or to
what hotel, I cannot help thinking it would be wise to send Eric to
look for her. I say this because she seemed to me a desperately
unhappy woman.'_
"That's all about that," said Madame Claire, putting the letter away.
"What do you think ought to be done?" Judy asked her.
"Eric is coming here to-night, and I'll talk it over with him. If he can
spare the time to go to Paris, I think it would be a good thing."
"But if he doesn't know where she is?"
"I think I can guess," answered her grandmother. "Years ago, before the
children were grown up, we used to go and stay at a little private hotel
off the Avenue de la Grande Armée. In the autumn I recommended it to a
friend of your mother's, and she was delighted with it. Judging from her
description, I don't think it can have changed much. She told me that
the granddaughter of the old Madame Peritôt remembered me perfectly and
said that Connie, whom she described as 'la belle Madame,' often went
there when she wished to be quiet. I feel sure she would wish to be
quiet now, and I believe that if Eric goes there he will find her."
"Do you want him to bring her to London?" inquired Judy.
"I think I had better leave that to him," answered Madame Claire.
* * * * * *
Eric went to Paris the day following. He had no idea, when he left,
whether he would try to persuade Connie to come back to London or not.
He would decide that when he had seen her. Nor did he explain matters to
Louise, to whom the very name of his once beautiful sister was anathema.
He sent her a wire, however, which said merely, "Called out of town for
few days. Probably back Monday."
He had been working very hard, and welcomed a change of scene. He had
not been out of England since serving with his regiment in France, and
later in Italy, from which campaign he was invalided home shortly before
the Armistice. He was now member for a London borough, having given up
soldiering for politics. His rather disconcerting honesty and policy of
no compromise won him more friends in the former calling than in the
latter, and though he had enthusiastic friends he had equally
whole-hearted enemies, among whom he began to fear he must number his
wife.
The thought of a lifelong companionship with a woman who disliked, or
seemed to dislike his every attribute, appalled him. He had a way of
reducing problems to their simplest form, and being a clear thinker,
saw facts in all their nakedness. Louise was his wife. He had tried to
make her happy. She either liked him or she did not. If she did not like
him, why live with him? And if she did like him, why not show that she
did? It came to that. Other women liked him. Why could not his wife?
He had never tried to please any other woman as he had tried to please
her. The thing was an enigma. They could have had such delightful
times together, for they had everything--health, youth, money, friends.
Her coldness was inexplicable. She was not only cold to him, but to
all men, and to most women. If she had cared for any one else he would
have found a way to release her. He tried to put it out of his mind on
the journey to Paris, and thought instead of Connie. He had been so
proud of her beauty in the old days. He remembered her at dances,
surrounded by respectfully admiring young men. How she had queened it
for a while! And then--Petrovitch!
From Calais he shared a compartment with a rather charming woman with
whom he fell easily into talk. He had a gift of nonsense which, when he
cared to use it, most people--his wife of course excepted--found
irresistible. So they sparred pleasantly till the train neared Paris.
But in the end she struck a too personal note, talking about herself and
her affairs with an astonishing lack of reserve, whereupon he liked her
less. When they separated she gave him her address, but he forgot both
it and her. She never forgot him. If he had liked her more they would
have parted friends, or on the way to friendship, which would have
annoyed Louise, who only made friends with people she had known or known
of for years. But her candor was without simplicity, and her
impulsiveness not without calculation, so she passed out of his life,
for he was fastidious about women.