When she rose the next morning the bell was clanging for the second
breakfast, and people were pouring in from the beach in every variety
of attire. Paula, whom a restless night had left with a headache,
which, however, she said nothing about, was reluctant to emerge from the
seclusion of her chamber, till her aunt, discovering what was the matter
with her, suggested that a few minutes in the open air would refresh
her; and they went downstairs into the hotel gardens.
The clatter of the big breakfast within was audible from this spot, and
the noise seemed suddenly to inspirit Paula, who proposed to enter.
Her aunt assented. In the verandah under which they passed was a rustic
hat-stand in the form of a tree, upon which hats and other body-gear
hung like bunches of fruit. Paula’s eye fell upon a felt hat to which
a small block-book was attached by a string. She knew that hat and
block-book well, and turning to Mrs. Goodman said, ‘After all, I don’t
want the breakfast they are having: let us order one of our own as
usual. And we’ll have it here.’
She led on to where some little tables were placed under the tall
shrubs, followed by her aunt, who was in turn followed by the
proprietress of the hotel, that lady having discovered from the French
maid that there was good reason for paying these ladies ample personal
attention.
‘Is the gentleman to whom that sketch-book belongs staying here?’ Paula
carelessly inquired, as she indicated the object on the hat-stand.
‘Ah, no!’ deplored the proprietress. ‘The Hotel was full when Mr.
Somerset came. He stays at a cottage beyond the Rue Anicet Bourgeois: he
only has his meals here.’
Paula had taken her seat under the fuchsia-trees in such a manner that
she could observe all the exits from the salle a manger; but for the
present none of the breakfasters emerged, the only moving objects on the
scene being the waitresses who ran hither and thither across the court,
the cook’s assistants with baskets of long bread, and the laundresses
with baskets of sun-bleached linen. Further back towards the inn-yard,
stablemen were putting in the horses for starting the flys and coaches
to Les Ifs, the nearest railway-station.
‘Suppose the Somersets should be going off by one of these conveyances,’
said Mrs. Goodman as she sipped her tea.
‘Well, aunt, then they must,’ replied the younger lady with composure.
Nevertheless she looked with some misgiving at the nearest stableman as
he led out four white horses, harnessed them, and leisurely brought a
brush with which he began blacking their yellow hoofs. All the vehicles
were ready at the door by the time breakfast was over, and the inmates
soon turned out, some to mount the omnibuses and carriages, some to
ramble on the adjacent beach, some to climb the verdant slopes, and some
to make for the cliffs that shut in the vale. The fuchsia-trees which
sheltered Paula’s breakfast-table from the blaze of the sun, also
screened it from the eyes of the outpouring company, and she sat on
with her aunt in perfect comfort, till among the last of the stream came
Somerset and his father. Paula reddened at being so near the former at
last. It was with sensible relief that she observed them turn towards
the cliffs and not to the carriages, and thus signify that they were not
going off that day.
Neither of the two saw the ladies, and when the latter had finished
their tea and coffee they followed to the shore, where they sat for
nearly an hour, reading and watching the bathers. At length footsteps
crunched among the pebbles in their vicinity, and looking out from her
sunshade Paula saw the two Somersets close at hand.
The elder recognized her, and the younger, observing his father’s action
of courtesy, turned his head. It was a revelation to Paula, for she was
shocked to see that he appeared worn and ill. The expression of his
face changed at sight of her, increasing its shade of paleness; but he
immediately withdrew his eyes and passed by.
Somerset was as much surprised at encountering her thus as she had been
distressed to see him. As soon as they were out of hearing, he asked his
father quietly, ‘What strange thing is this, that Lady De Stancy should
be here and her husband not with her? Did she bow to me, or to you?’
‘Lady De Stancy--that young lady?’ asked the puzzled painter. He
proceeded to explain all he knew; that she was a young lady he had met
on his journey at two or three different times; moreover, that if
she were his son’s client--the woman who was to have become Lady De
Stancy--she was Miss Power still; for he had seen in some newspaper
two days before leaving England that the wedding had been postponed on
account of her illness.
Somerset was so greatly moved that he could hardly speak connectedly to
his father as they paced on together. ‘But she is not ill, as far as I
can see,’ he said. ‘The wedding postponed?--You are sure the word was
postponed?--Was it broken off?’
‘No, it was postponed. I meant to have told you before, knowing you
would be interested as the castle architect; but it slipped my memory in
the bustle of arriving.’
‘I am not the castle architect.’
‘The devil you are not--what are you then?’
‘Well, I am not that.’
Somerset the elder, though not of penetrating nature, began to see that
here lay an emotional complication of some sort, and reserved further
inquiry till a more convenient occasion. They had reached the end of
the level beach where the cliff began to rise, and as this impediment
naturally stopped their walk they retraced their steps. On again nearing
the spot where Paula and her aunt were sitting, the painter would have
deviated to the hotel; but as his son persisted in going straight on, in
due course they were opposite the ladies again. By this time Miss
Power, who had appeared anxious during their absence, regained her
self-control. Going towards her old lover she said, with a smile, ‘I
have been looking for you!’
‘Why have you been doing that?’ said Somerset, in a voice which he
failed to keep as steady as he could wish.
‘Because--I want some architect to continue the restoration. Do you
withdraw your resignation?’
Somerset appeared unable to decide for a few instants. ‘Yes,’ he then
answered.
For the moment they had ignored the presence of the painter and Mrs.
Goodman, but Somerset now made them known to one another, and there was
friendly intercourse all round.
‘When will you be able to resume operations at the castle?’ she asked,
as soon as she could again speak directly to Somerset.
‘As soon as I can get back. Of course I only resume it at your special
request.’
‘Of course.’ To one who had known all the circumstances it would have
seemed a thousand pities that, after again getting face to face with
him, she did not explain, without delay, the whole mischief that
had separated them. But she did not do it--perhaps from the inherent
awkwardness of such a topic at this idle time. She confined herself
simply to the above-mentioned business-like request, and when the party
had walked a few steps together they separated, with mutual promises to
meet again.
‘I hope you have explained your mistake to him, and how it arose, and
everything?’ said her aunt when they were alone.
‘No, I did not.’
‘What, not explain after all?’ said her amazed relative.
‘I decided to put it off.’
‘Then I think you decided very wrongly. Poor young man, he looked so
ill!’
‘Did you, too, think he looked ill? But he danced last night. Why did he
dance?’ She turned and gazed regretfully at the corner round which the
Somersets had disappeared.
‘I don’t know why he danced; but if I had known you were going to be so
silent, I would have explained the mistake myself.’
‘I wish you had. But no; I have said I would; and I must.’
Paula’s avoidance of tables d’hote did not extend to the present one.
It was quite with alacrity that she went down; and with her entry the
antecedent hotel beauty who had reigned for the last five days at that
meal, was unceremoniously deposed by the guests. Mr. Somerset the elder
came in, but nobody with him. His seat was on Paula’s left hand, Mrs.
Goodman being on Paula’s right, so that all the conversation was between
the Academician and the younger lady. When the latter had again retired
upstairs with her aunt, Mrs. Goodman expressed regret that young Mr.
Somerset was absent from the table. ‘Why has he kept away?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know--I didn’t ask,’ said Paula sadly. ‘Perhaps he doesn’t care
to meet us again.’
‘That’s because you didn’t explain.’
‘Well--why didn’t the old man give me an opportunity?’ exclaimed the
niece with suppressed excitement. ‘He would scarcely say anything but
yes and no, and gave me no chance at all of introducing the subject. I
wanted to explain--I came all the way on purpose--I would have begged
George’s pardon on my two knees if there had been any way of beginning;
but there was not, and I could not do it!’
Though she slept badly that night, Paula promptly appeared in the public
room to breakfast, and that not from motives of vanity; for, while not
unconscious of her accession to the unstable throne of queen-beauty in
the establishment, she seemed too preoccupied to care for the honour
just then, and would readily have changed places with her unhappy
predecessor, who lingered on in the background like a candle after
sunrise.
Mrs. Goodman was determined to trust no longer to Paula for putting an
end to what made her so restless and self-reproachful. Seeing old Mr.
Somerset enter to a little side-table behind for lack of room at the
crowded centre tables, again without his son, she turned her head and
asked point-blank where the young man was.
Mr. Somerset’s face became a shade graver than before. ‘My son is
unwell,’ he replied; ‘so unwell that he has been advised to stay indoors
and take perfect rest.’
‘I do hope it is nothing serious.’
‘I hope so too. The fact is, he has overdone himself a little. He was
not well when he came here; and to make himself worse he must needs go
dancing at the Casino with this lady and that--among others with a young
American lady who is here with her family, and whom he met in London
last year. I advised him against it, but he seemed desperately
determined to shake off lethargy by any rash means, and wouldn’t listen
to me. Luckily he is not in the hotel, but in a quiet cottage a hundred
yards up the hill.’
Paula, who had heard all, did not show or say what she felt at the news:
but after breakfast, on meeting the landlady in a passage alone, she
asked with some anxiety if there were a really skilful medical man in
Etretat; and on being told that there was, and his name, she went back
to look for Mr. Somerset; but he had gone.
They heard nothing more of young Somerset all that morning, but towards
evening, while Paula sat at her window, looking over the heads of
fuchsias upon the promenade beyond, she saw the painter walk by. She
immediately went to her aunt and begged her to go out and ask Mr.
Somerset if his son had improved.
‘I will send Milly or Clementine,’ said Mrs. Goodman.
‘I wish you would see him yourself.’
‘He has gone on. I shall never find him.’
‘He has only gone round to the front,’ persisted Paula. ‘Do walk that
way, auntie, and ask him.’
Thus pressed, Mrs. Goodman acquiesced, and brought back intelligence to
Miss Power, who had watched them through the window, that his son did
not positively improve, but that his American friends were very kind to
him.
Having made use of her aunt, Paula seemed particularly anxious to get
rid of her again, and when that lady sat down to write letters, Paula
went to her own room, hastily dressed herself without assistance, asked
privately the way to the cottage, and went off thitherward unobserved.
At the upper end of the lane she saw a little house answering to the
description, whose front garden, window-sills, palings, and doorstep
were literally ablaze with nasturtiums in bloom.
She entered this inhabited nosegay, quietly asked for the invalid, and
if he were well enough to see Miss Power. The woman of the house soon
returned, and she was conducted up a crooked staircase to Somerset’s
modest apartments. It appeared that some rooms in this dwelling had
been furnished by the landlady of the inn, who hired them of the tenant
during the summer season to use as an annexe to the hotel.
Admitted to the outer room she beheld her architect looking as
unarchitectural as possible; lying on a small couch which was drawn up
to the open casement, whence he had a back view of the window flowers,
and enjoyed a green transparency through the undersides of the same
nasturtium leaves that presented their faces to the passers without.
When the latch had again clicked into the catch of the closed door Paula
went up to the invalid, upon whose pale and interesting face a flush had
arisen simultaneously with the announcement of her name. He would have
sprung up to receive her, but she pressed him down, and throwing
all reserve on one side for the first time in their intercourse, she
crouched beside the sofa, whispering with roguish solicitude, her face
not too far from his own: ‘How foolish you are, George, to get ill just
now when I have been wanting so much to see you again!--I am so sorry to
see you like this--what I said to you when we met on the shore was not
what I had come to say!’
Somerset took her by the hand. ‘Then what did you come to say, Paula?’
he asked.
‘I wanted to tell you that the mere wanton wandering of a capricious
mind was not the cause of my estrangement from you. There has been a
great deception practised--the exact nature of it I cannot tell you
plainly just at present; it is too painful--but it is all over, and
I can assure you of my sorrow at having behaved as I did, and of my
sincere friendship now as ever.’
‘There is nothing I shall value so much as that. It will make my work at
the castle very pleasant to feel that I can consult you about it without
fear of intruding on you against your wishes.’
‘Yes, perhaps it will. But--you do not comprehend me.’
‘You have been an enigma always.’
‘And you have been provoking; but never so provoking as now. I wouldn’t
for the world tell you the whole of my fancies as I came hither this
evening: but I should think your natural intuition would suggest what
they were.’
‘It does, Paula. But there are motives of delicacy which prevent my
acting on what is suggested to me.’
‘Delicacy is a gift, and you should thank God for it; but in some cases
it is not so precious as we would persuade ourselves.’
‘Not when the woman is rich, and the man is poor?’
‘O, George Somerset--be cold, or angry, or anything, but don’t be
like this! It is never worth a woman’s while to show regret for her
injustice; for all she gets by it is an accusation of want of delicacy.’
‘Indeed I don’t accuse you of that--I warmly, tenderly thank you for
your kindness in coming here to see me.’
‘Well, perhaps you do. But I am now in I cannot tell what mood--I will
not tell what mood, for it would be confessing more than I ought. This
finding you out is a piece of weakness that I shall not repeat; and I
have only one thing more to say. I have served you badly, George, I know
that; but it is never too late to mend; and I have come back to you.
However, I shall never run after you again, trust me for that, for it is
not the woman’s part. Still, before I go, that there may be no mistake
as to my meaning, and misery entailed on us for want of a word, I’ll add
this: that if you want to marry me, as you once did, you must say so;
for I am here to be asked.’
It would be superfluous to transcribe Somerset’s reply, and the
remainder of the scene between the pair. Let it suffice that
half-an-hour afterwards, when the sun had almost gone down, Paula walked
briskly into the hotel, troubled herself nothing about dinner, but went
upstairs to their sitting-room, where her aunt presently found her upon
the couch looking up at the ceiling through her fingers. They talked on
different subjects for some time till the old lady said ‘Mr. Somerset’s
cottage is the one covered with flowers up the lane, I hear.’
‘Yes,’ said Paula.
‘How do you know?’
‘I’ve been there.... We are going to be married, aunt.’
‘Indeed!’ replied Mrs. Goodman. ‘Well, I thought this might be the end
of it: you were determined on the point; and I am not much surprised at
your news. Your father was very wise after all in entailing everything
so strictly upon your offspring; for if he had not I should have been
driven wild with the responsibility!’
‘And now that the murder is out,’ continued Paula, passing over that
view of the case, ‘I don’t mind telling you that somehow or other I have
got to like George Somerset as desperately as a woman can care for any
man. I thought I should have died when I saw him dancing, and feared
I had lost him! He seemed ten times nicer than ever then! So silly we
women are, that I wouldn’t marry a duke in preference to him. There,
that’s my honest feeling, and you must make what you can of it; my
conscience is clear, thank Heaven!’
‘Have you fixed the day?’
‘No,’ continued the young lady, still watching the sleeping flies on the
ceiling. ‘It is left unsettled between us, while I come and ask you if
there would be any harm--if it could conveniently be before we return to
England?’
‘Paula, this is too precipitate!’
‘On the contrary, aunt. In matrimony, as in some other things, you
should be slow to decide, but quick to execute. Nothing on earth would
make me marry another man; I know every fibre of his character; and
he knows a good many fibres of mine; so as there is nothing more to be
learnt, why shouldn’t we marry at once? On one point I am firm: I will
never return to that castle as Miss Power. A nameless dread comes over
me when I think of it--a fear that some uncanny influence of the dead
De Stancys would drive me again from him. O, if it were to do that,’
she murmured, burying her face in her hands, ‘I really think it would be
more than I could bear!’
‘Very well,’ said Mrs. Goodman; ‘we will see what can be done. I will
write to Mr. Wardlaw.’