That evening when the sun was dropping out of sight they started for the
city of Somerset’s pilgrimage. Paula seated herself with her face toward
the western sky, watching from her window the broad red horizon, across
which moved thin poplars lopped to human shapes, like the walking forms
in Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace. It was dark when the travellers drove into
Caen.
She still persisted in her wish to casually encounter Somerset in some
aisle, lady-chapel, or crypt to which he might have betaken himself to
copy and learn the secret of the great artists who had erected those
nooks. Mrs. Goodman was for discovering his inn, and calling upon him in
a straightforward way; but Paula seemed afraid of it, and they went out
in the morning on foot. First they searched the church of St. Sauveur;
he was not there; next the church of St. Jean; then the church of St.
Pierre; but he did not reveal himself, nor had any verger seen or heard
of such a man. Outside the latter church was a public flower-garden, and
she sat down to consider beside a round pool in which water-lilies grew
and gold-fish swam, near beds of fiery geraniums, dahlias, and verbenas
just past their bloom. Her enterprise had not been justified by its
results so far; but meditation still urged her to listen to the little
voice within and push on. She accordingly rejoined her aunt, and they
drove up the hill to the Abbaye aux Dames, the day by this time having
grown hot and oppressive.
The church seemed absolutely empty, the void being emphasized by its
grateful coolness. But on going towards the east end they perceived a
bald gentleman close to the screen, looking to the right and to the
left as if much perplexed. Paula merely glanced over him, his back being
toward her, and turning to her aunt said softly, ‘I wonder how we get
into the choir?’
‘That’s just what I am wondering,’ said the old gentleman, abruptly
facing round, and Paula discovered that the countenance was not
unfamiliar to her eye. Since knowing Somerset she had added to her
gallery of celebrities a photograph of his father, the Academician, and
he it was now who confronted her.
For the moment embarrassment, due to complicated feelings, brought a
slight blush to her cheek, but being well aware that he did not know
her, she answered, coolly enough, ‘I suppose we must ask some one.’
‘And we certainly would if there were any one to ask,’ he said, still
looking eastward, and not much at her. ‘I have been here a long time,
but nobody comes. Not that I want to get in on my own account; for
though it is thirty years since I last set foot in this place, I
remember it as if it were but yesterday.’
‘Indeed. I have never been here before,’ said Paula.
‘Naturally. But I am looking for a young man who is making sketches in
some of these buildings, and it is as likely as not that he is in the
crypt under this choir, for it is just such out-of-the-way nooks that
he prefers. It is very provoking that he should not have told me more
distinctly in his letter where to find him.’
Mrs. Goodman, who had gone to make inquiries, now came back, and
informed them that she had learnt that it was necessary to pass through
the Hotel-Dieu to the choir, to do which they must go outside. Thereupon
they walked on together, and Mr. Somerset, quite ignoring his troubles,
made remarks upon the beauty of the architecture; and in absence of
mind, by reason either of the subject, or of his listener, retained his
hat in his hand after emerging from the church, while they walked all
the way across the Place and into the Hospital gardens.
‘A very civil man,’ said Mrs. Goodman to Paula privately.
‘Yes,’ said Paula, who had not told her aunt that she recognized him.
One of the Sisters now preceded them towards the choir and crypt, Mr.
Somerset asking her if a young Englishman was or had been sketching
there. On receiving a reply in the negative, Paula nearly betrayed
herself by turning, as if her business there, too, ended with the
information. However, she went on again, and made a pretence of looking
round, Mr. Somerset also staying in a spirit of friendly attention to
his countrywomen. They did not part from him till they had come out from
the crypt, and again reached the west front, on their way to which he
additionally explained that it was his son he was looking for, who had
arranged to meet him here, but had mentioned no inn at which he might be
expected.
When he had left them, Paula informed her aunt whose company they had
been sharing. Her aunt began expostulating with Paula for not telling
Mr. Somerset what they had seen of his son’s movements. ‘It would have
eased his mind at least,’ she said.
‘I was not bound to ease his mind at the expense of showing what I would
rather conceal. I am continually hampered in such generosity as that by
the circumstance of being a woman!’
‘Well, it is getting too late to search further tonight.’
It was indeed almost evening twilight in the streets, though the
graceful freestone spires to a depth of about twenty feet from their
summits were still dyed with the orange tints of a vanishing sun. The
two relatives dined privately as usual, after which Paula looked out
of the window of her room, and reflected upon the events of the day. A
tower rising into the sky quite near at hand showed her that some church
or other stood within a few steps of the hotel archway, and saying
nothing to Mrs. Goodman, she quietly cloaked herself, and went out
towards it, apparently with the view of disposing of a portion of a dull
dispiriting evening. The church was open, and on entering she found
that it was only lighted by seven candles burning before the altar of a
chapel on the south side, the mass of the building being in deep
shade. Motionless outlines, which resolved themselves into the forms
of kneeling women, were darkly visible among the chairs, and in the
triforium above the arcades there was one hitherto unnoticed radiance,
dim as that of a glow-worm in the grass. It was seemingly the effect of
a solitary tallow-candle behind the masonry.
A priest came in, unlocked the door of a confessional with a click which
sounded in the silence, and entered it; a woman followed, disappeared
within the curtain of the same, emerging again in about five minutes,
followed by the priest, who locked up his door with another loud click,
like a tradesman full of business, and came down the aisle to go out.
In the lobby he spoke to another woman, who replied, ‘Ah, oui, Monsieur
l’Abbe!’
Two women having spoken to him, there could be no harm in a third doing
likewise. ‘Monsieur l’Abbe,’ said Paula in French, ‘could you indicate
to me the stairs of the triforium?’ and she signified her reason for
wishing to know by pointing to the glimmering light above.
‘Ah, he is a friend of yours, the Englishman?’ pleasantly said the
priest, recognizing her nationality; and taking her to a little door he
conducted her up a stone staircase, at the top of which he showed her
the long blind story over the aisle arches which led round to where the
light was. Cautioning her not to stumble over the uneven floor, he left
her and descended. His words had signified that Somerset was here.
It was a gloomy place enough that she found herself in, but the seven
candles below on the opposite altar, and a faint sky light from the
clerestory, lent enough rays to guide her. Paula walked on to the bend
of the apse: here were a few chairs, and the origin of the light.
This was a candle stuck at the end of a sharpened stick, the latter
entering a joint in the stones. A young man was sketching by the
glimmer. But there was no need for the blush which had prepared
itself beforehand; the young man was Mr. Cockton, Somerset’s youngest
draughtsman.
Paula could have cried aloud with disappointment. Cockton recognized
Miss Power, and appearing much surprised, rose from his seat with a bow,
and said hastily, ‘Mr. Somerset left to-day.’
‘I did not ask for him,’ said Paula.
‘No, Miss Power: but I thought--’
‘Yes, yes--you know, of course, that he has been my architect. Well, it
happens that I should like to see him, if he can call on me. Which way
did he go?’
‘He’s gone to Etretat.’
‘What for? There are no abbeys to sketch at Etretat.’
Cockton looked at the point of his pencil, and with a hesitating motion
of his lip answered, ‘Mr. Somerset said he was tired.’
‘Of what?’
‘He said he was sick and tired of holy places, and would go to some
wicked spot or other, to get that consolation which holiness could not
give. But he only said it casually to Knowles, and perhaps he did not
mean it.’
‘Knowles is here too?’
‘Yes, Miss Power, and Bowles. Mr. Somerset has been kind enough to give
us a chance of enlarging our knowledge of French Early-pointed, and pays
half the expenses.’
Paula said a few other things to the young man, walked slowly round
the triforium as if she had come to examine it, and returned down the
staircase. On getting back to the hotel she told her aunt, who had just
been having a nap, that next day they would go to Etretat for a change.
‘Why? There are no old churches at Etretat.’
‘No. But I am sick and tired of holy places, and want to go to some
wicked spot or other to find that consolation which holiness cannot
give.’
‘For shame, Paula! Now I know what it is; you have heard that he’s gone
there! You needn’t try to blind me.’
‘I don’t care where he’s gone!’ cried Paula petulantly. In a moment,
however, she smiled at herself, and added, ‘You must take that for what
it is worth. I have made up my mind to let him know from my own lips how
the misunderstanding arose. That done, I shall leave him, and probably
never see him again. My conscience will be clear.’
The next day they took the steamboat down the Orne, intending to
reach Etretat by way of Havre. Just as they were moving off an elderly
gentleman under a large white sunshade, and carrying his hat in his
hand, was seen leisurely walking down the wharf at some distance, but
obviously making for the boat.
‘A gentleman!’ said the mate.
‘Who is he?’ said the captain.
‘An English,’ said Clementine.
Nobody knew more, but as leisure was the order of the day the engines
were stopped, on the chance of his being a passenger, and all eyes were
bent upon him in conjecture. He disappeared and reappeared from behind
a pile of merchandise and approached the boat at an easy pace, whereupon
the gangway was replaced, and he came on board, removing his hat to
Paula, quietly thanking the captain for stopping, and saying to Mrs.
Goodman, ‘I am nicely in time.’
It was Mr. Somerset the elder, who by degrees informed our travellers,
as sitting on their camp-stools they advanced between the green banks
bordered by elms, that he was going to Etretat; that the young man he
had spoken of yesterday had gone to that romantic watering-place instead
of studying art at Caen, and that he was going to join him there.
Paula preserved an entire silence as to her own intentions, partly from
natural reticence, and partly, as it appeared, from the difficulty of
explaining a complication which was not very clear to herself. At Havre
they parted from Mr. Somerset, and did not see him again till they were
driving over the hills towards Etretat in a carriage and four, when the
white umbrella became visible far ahead among the outside passengers of
the coach to the same place. In a short time they had passed and cut in
before this vehicle, but soon became aware that their carriage, like the
coach, was one of a straggling procession of conveyances, some mile and
a half in length, all bound for the village between the cliffs.
In descending the long hill shaded by lime-trees which sheltered their
place of destination, this procession closed up, and they perceived that
all the visitors and native population had turned out to welcome
them, the daily arrival of new sojourners at this hour being the chief
excitement of Etretat. The coach which had preceded them all the way, at
more or less remoteness, was now quite close, and in passing along the
village street they saw Mr. Somerset wave his hand to somebody in the
crowd below. A felt hat was waved in the air in response, the coach
swept into the inn-yard, followed by the idlers, and all disappeared.
Paula’s face was crimson as their own carriage swept round in the
opposite direction to the rival inn.
Once in her room she breathed like a person who had finished a long
chase. They did not go down before dinner, but when it was almost dark
Paula begged her aunt to wrap herself up and come with her to the shore
hard by. The beach was deserted, everybody being at the Casino; the
gate stood invitingly open, and they went in. Here the brilliantly lit
terrace was crowded with promenaders, and outside the yellow palings,
surmounted by its row of lamps, rose the voice of the invisible sea.
Groups of people were sitting under the verandah, the women mostly in
wraps, for the air was growing chilly. Through the windows at their
back an animated scene disclosed itself in the shape of a room-full of
waltzers, the strains of the band striving in the ear for mastery over
the sounds of the sea. The dancers came round a couple at a time, and
were individually visible to those people without who chose to look that
way, which was what Paula did.
‘Come away, come away!’ she suddenly said. ‘It is not right for us to be
here.’
Her exclamation had its origin in what she had at that moment seen
within, the spectacle of Mr. George Somerset whirling round the room
with a young lady of uncertain nationality but pleasing figure. Paula
was not accustomed to show the white feather too clearly, but she soon
had passed out through those yellow gates and retreated, till the mixed
music of sea and band had resolved into that of the sea alone.
‘Well!’ said her aunt, half in soliloquy, ‘do you know who I saw dancing
there, Paula? Our Mr. Somerset, if I don’t make a great mistake!’
‘It was likely enough that you did,’ sedately replied her niece. ‘He
left Caen with the intention of seeking distractions of a lighter kind
than those furnished by art, and he has merely succeeded in finding
them. But he has made my duty rather a difficult one. Still, it was
my duty, for I very greatly wronged him. Perhaps, however, I have done
enough for honour’s sake. I would have humiliated myself by an apology
if I had found him in any other situation; but, of course, one can’t he
expected to take MUCH trouble when he is seen going on like that!’
The coolness with which she began her remarks had developed into
something like warmth as she concluded.
‘He is only dancing with a lady he probably knows very well.’
‘He doesn’t know her! The idea of his dancing with a woman of that
description! We will go away tomorrow. This place has been greatly
over-praised.’
‘The place is well enough, as far as I can see.’
‘He is carrying out his programme to the letter. He plunges into
excitement in the most reckless manner, and I tremble for the
consequences! I can do no more: I have humiliated myself into following
him, believing that in giving too ready credence to appearances I had
been narrow and inhuman, and had caused him much misery. But he does not
mind, and he has no misery; he seems just as well as ever. How much this
finding him has cost me! After all, I did not deceive him. He must
have acquired a natural aversion for me. I have allowed myself to be
interested in a man of very common qualities, and am now bitterly alive
to the shame of having sought him out. I heartily detest him! I will
go back--aunt, you are right--I had no business to come.... His light
conduct has rendered him uninteresting to me!’