TEMPERATURES.
"It isn't as though she were the sort of girl who can't take care of
herself," said Lady St. Craye to the Inward Monitor who was buzzing its
indiscreet common-places in her ear. "I've really done her a good turn
by sending her to Grez. No--it's not in the least compromising for a
girl to stay at the same hotel. And besides, there are lots of amusing
people there, I expect. She'll have a delightful time, and get to know
that Temple boy really well. I'm sure he'd repay investigation. If I
weren't a besotted fool I could have pursued those researches myself.
But it's not what's worth having that one wants; it's--it's what one
_does_ want. Yes. That's all."
Paris was growing intolerable. But for--well, a thousand reasons--Lady
St. Craye would already have left it. The pavements were red-hot. When
one drove it was through an air like the breath from the open mouth of
a furnace.
She kept much within doors, filled her rooms with roses, and lived
with every window open. Her balcony, too, was full of flowers, and the
striped sun-blinds beyond each open window kept the rooms in pleasant
shadow.
"But suppose something happens to her--all alone there," said the
Inward Monitor.
"Nothing will. She's not that sort of girl." Her headache had been
growing worse these three days. The Inward Monitor might have had
pity, remembering that--but no.
"You told Him that all girls were the same sort of girls," said the
pitiless voice.
"I didn't mean in that way. I suppose you'd have liked me to write
that anonymous letter and restore her to the bosom of her furious
family? I've done the girl a good turn--for what she did for me. She's
a good little thing--too good for him, even if I didn't happen to--And
Temple's her ideal mate. I wonder if he's found it out yet? He must
have by now: three weeks in the same hotel."
Temple, however, was not in the same hotel. The very day of the river
rescue and the double omelette he had moved his traps a couple of
miles down the river to Montigny.
A couple of miles is a good distance. Also a very little way, as you
choose to take it.
"You know it was a mean trick," said the Inward Monitor. "Why not have
let the girl go away where she could be alone--and get over it?"
"Oh, be quiet!" said Lady St. Craye. "I never knew myself so tiresome
before. I think I must be going to be ill. My head feels like an ice
in an omelette."
Vernon, strolling in much later, found her with eyes closed, leaning
back among her flowers as she had lain all that long afternoon.
"How pale you look," he said. "You ought to get away from here."
"Yes," she said, "I suppose I ought. It would be easier for you if you
hadn't the awful responsibility of bringing me roses every other day.
What beauty-darlings these are!" She dipped her face in the fresh pure
whiteness of the ones he had laid on her knee. Their faces felt cold,
like the faces of dead people. She shivered.
"Heaven knows what I should do without you to--to bring my--my roses
to," he said.
"Do you bring me anything else to-day?" she roused herself to ask.
"Any news, for instance?"
"No," he said. "There isn't any news--there never will be. She's gone
home--I'm certain of it. Next week I shall go over to England and
propose for her formally to her step-father."
"A very proper course!"
It was odd that talking to some one else should make one's head throb
like this. And it was so difficult to know what to say. Very odd. It
had been much easier to talk to the Inward Monitor.
She made herself say: "And suppose she isn't there?" She thought she
said it rather well.
"Well, then there's no harm done."
"He doesn't like you." She was glad she had remembered that.
"He didn't--but the one little word 'marriage,' simply spoken, is a
magic spell for taming savage relatives. They'll eat out of your hand
after that--at least so I'm told."
It was awful that he should decide to do this--heart-breaking. But it
did not seem to be hurting her heart. That felt as though it wasn't
there. Could one feel emotion in one's hands and feet? Hers were ice
cold--but inside they tingled and glowed, like a worm of fire in a
chrysalis of ice. What a silly simile.
"Must you go?" was what she found herself saying. "Suppose she isn't
there at all? You'll simply be giving her away--all her secret--and
he'll fetch her home."
That at least was quite clearly put.
"I'm certain she is at home," he said. "And I don't see why I am
waiting till next week. I'll go to-morrow."
If you are pulling a rose to pieces it is very important to lay the
petals in even rows on your lap, especially if the rose be white.
"Eustace," she said, suddenly feeling quite coherent, "I wish you
wouldn't go away from Paris just now. I don't believe you'd find her.
I have a feeling that she's not far away. I think that is quite
sensible. I am not saying it because I--And--I feel very ill, Eustace.
I think I am--Oh, I am going, to be ill, very ill, I think! Won't you
wait a little? You'll have such years and years to be happy in. I
don't want to be ill here in Paris with no one to care."
She was leaning forward, her hands on the arms of her chair, and for
the first time that day, he saw her face plainly. He said: "I shall go
out now, and wire for your sister."
"Not for worlds! I forbid it. She'd drive me mad. No--but my head's
running round like a beetle on a pin. I think you'd better go now. But
don't go to-morrow. I mean I think I'll go to sleep. I feel as if I'd
tumbled off the Eiffel tower and been caught on a cloud--one side of
it's cold and the other's blazing."
He took her hand, felt her pulse. Then he kissed the hand.
"My dear, tired Jasmine Lady," he said, "I'll send in a doctor. And
don't worry. I won't go to-morrow. I'll write."
"Oh, very well," she said, "write then,--and it will all come
out--about her being here alone. And she'll always hate you. _I_ don't
care what you do!"
"I suppose I can write a letter as though--as though I'd not seen her
since Long Barton." He inwardly thanked her for that hint.
"A letter written from Paris? That's so likely, isn't it? But do what
you like. _I_ don't care what you do."
She was faintly, agreeably surprised to notice that she was speaking
the truth. "It's rather pleasant, do you know," she went on dreamily,
"when everything that matters suddenly goes flat, and you wonder what
on earth you ever worried about. Why do people always talk about cold
shivers? I think hot shivers are much more amusing. It's like a
skylark singing up close to the sun, and doing the tremolo with its
wings. I'm sorry you're going away, though."
"I'm not going away," he said. "I wouldn't leave you when you're ill
for all the life's happinesses that ever were. Oh, why can't you cure
me? I don't want to want her; I want to want you."
"I'm certain," said Lady St. Craye brightly, "that what you've just
been saying's most awfully interesting, but I like to hear things said
ever so many times. Then the seventh time you understand everything,
and the coldness and the hotness turn into silver and gold and
everything is quite beautiful, and I think I am not saying exactly
what you expected.--Don't think I don't know that what I say sounds
like nonsense. I know that quite well, only I can't stop talking. You
know one is like that sometimes. It was like that the night you hit
me."
"I? _Hit you_?"
He was kneeling by her low chair holding her hand, as she lay back
talking quickly in low, even tones, her golden eyes shining
wonderfully.
"No--you didn't call it hitting. But things aren't always what we call
them, are they? You mustn't kiss me now, Eustace. I think I've got
some horrid fever--I'm sure I have. Because of course nobody could be
bewitched nowadays, and put into a body that feels thick and thin in
the wrong places. And my head _isn't_ too big to get through the
door.--Of course I know it isn't. It would be funny if it were. I do
love funny things.--So do you. I like to hear you laugh. I wish I
could say something funny, so as to hear you laugh now."
She was holding his hand very tightly with one of hers. The other held
the white roses. All her mind braced itself to a great exertion as the
muscles do for a needed effort. She spoke very slowly.
"Listen, Eustace. I am going to be ill. Get a nurse and a doctor and
go away. Perhaps it is catching. And if I fall through the floor," she
added laughing, "it is so hard to stop!"
"Put your arms round my neck," he said, for she had risen and was
swaying like a flame in the wind--the white rose leaves fell in
showers.
"I don't think I want to, now," she said, astonished that it should be
so.
"Oh, yes, you do!"--He spoke as one speaks to a child. "Put your arms
round Eustace's neck,--your own Eustace that's so fond of you."
"Are you?" she said, and her arms fell across his shoulders.
"Of course I am," he said. "Hold tight."
He lifted her and carried her, not quite steadily, for carrying a
full-grown woman is not the bagatelle novelists would have us believe
it.
He opened her bedroom door, laid her on the white, lacy coverlet of
her bed.
"Now," he said, "you are to lie quite still. You've been so good and
dear and unselfish. You've always done everything I've asked, even
difficult things. This is quite easy. Just lie and think about me till
I come back."
He bent over the bed and kissed her gently.
"Ah!" she sighed. There was a flacon on the table by the bed. He
expected it to be jasmine. It was lavender water; he drenched her hair
and brow and hands.
"That's nice," said she. "I'm not really ill. I think it's nice to be
ill. Quite still do you mean, like that?"
She folded her hands, the white roses still clasped. The white bed,
the white dress, the white flowers. Horrible!
"Yes," he said firmly, "just like that. I shall be back in five
minutes."
He was not gone three. He came back and--till the doctor came,
summoned by the concierge--he sat by her, holding her hands, covering
her with furs from the wardrobe when she shivered, bathing her wrists
with perfumed water when she threw off the furs and spoke of the fire
that burned in her secret heart of cold clouds.
When the doctor came he went out by that excellent Irishman's
direction and telegraphed for a nurse.
Then he waited in the cool shaded sitting-room, among the flowers.
This was where he had hit her--as she said. There on the divan she had
cried, leaning her head against his sleeve. Here, half-way to the
door, they had kissed each other. No, he would certainly not go to
England while she was ill. He felt sufficiently like a murderer
already. But he would write. He glanced at her writing-table.
A little pang pricked him, and drove him to the balcony.
"No," he said, "if we are to hit people, at least let us hit them
fairly." But all the same he found himself playing with the
word-puzzle whose solution was the absolutely right letter to Betty's
father, asking her hand in marriage.
"Well," he asked the doctor who closed softly the door of the bedroom
and came forward, "is it brain-fever?"
"Holy Ann, no! Brain fever's a fell disease invented by novelists--I
never met it in all _my_ experience. The doctors in novels have
special advantages. No, it's influenza--pretty severe touch too. She
ought to have been in bed days ago. She'll want careful looking
after."
"I see," said Vernon. "Any danger?"
"There's always danger, Lord--Saint-Croix isn't it?"
"I have not the honour to be Lady St. Craye's husband," said Vernon
equably. "I was merely calling, and she seemed so ill that I took upon
myself to--"
"I see--I see. Well, if you don't mind taking on yourself to let her
husband know? It's a nasty case. Temperature 104. Perhaps her husband
'ud be as well here as anywhere."
"He's dead," said Vernon.
"Oh!" said the doctor with careful absence of expression. "Get some
woman to put her to bed and to stay with her till the nurse comes.
She's in a very excitable state. Good afternoon. I'll look in after
dinner."
When Vernon had won the concierge to the desired service, had seen the
nurse installed, had dined, called for news of Lady St. Craye, learned
that she was "_toujours très souffrante_," he went home, pulled a
table into the middle of his large, bare, hot studio, and sat down to
write to the Reverend Cecil Underwood.
"I mean to do it," he told himself, "and it can't hurt _her_ my doing
it now instead of a month ahead, when she's well again. In fact, it's
better for all of us to get it settled one way or another while she's
not caring about anything."
So he wrote. And he wrote a great deal, though the letter that at last
he signed was quite short:
My Dear Sir:
I have the honour to ask the hand of your daughter in marriage. When
you asked me, most properly, my intentions, I told you that I was
betrothed to another lady. This is not now the case. And I have
found myself wholly unable to forget the impression made upon me
last year by Miss Desmond. My income is about £1,700 a year, and
increases yearly. I beg to apologise for anything which may have
annoyed you in my conduct last year, and to assure you that my
esteem and affection for Miss Desmond are lasting and profound, and
that, should she do me the honour to accept my proposal, I shall
devote my life's efforts to secure her happiness.
I am, my dear Sir, Your obedient servant,
Eustace Vernon.
"That ought to do the trick," he told himself. "Talk of old world
courtesy and ceremonial! Anyhow, I shall know whether she's at Long
Barton by the time it takes to get an answer. If it's two days, she's
there. If it's longer she isn't. He'll send my letter on to
her--unless he suppresses it. Your really pious people are so
shockingly unscrupulous."
There is nothing so irretrievable as a posted letter. This came home
to Vernon as the envelope dropped on the others in the box at the Café
du Dóme--came home to him rather forlornly.
Next morning he called with more roses for Lady St. Craye, pinky ones
this time.
"Milady was toujours _très souffrante_. It would be ten days, at the
least, before Milady could receive, even a very old friend, like
Monsieur."
The letter reached Long Barton between the Guardian and a catalogue of
Some Rare Books. The Reverend Cecil read it four times. He was trying
to be just. At first he thought he would write "No" and tell Betty
years later. But the young man had seen the error of his ways. And
£1,700 a year!--
The surprise visit with which the Reverend Cecil had always intended
to charm his step-daughter suddenly found its date quite definitely
fixed. This could not be written. He must go to the child and break it
to her very gently, very tenderly--find out quite delicately and
cleverly exactly what her real feelings were. Girls were so shy about
those things.
Miss Julia Desmond had wired him from Suez that she would be in Paris
next week--had astonishingly asked him to meet her there.
"Paris next Tuesday Gare St. Lazare 6:45. Come and see Betty via
Dieppe," had been her odd message.
He had not meant to go--not next Tuesday. He was afraid of Miss Julia
Desmond. He would rather have his Lizzie all to himself. But now--
He wrote a cablegram to Miss Julia Desmond: "Care Captain S.S. Urania,
Brindisi: Will meet you in Paris." Then he thought that this might
seem to the telegraph people not quite nice, so he changed it to:
"Going to see Lizzie Tuesday."
The fates that had slept so long were indeed waking up and beginning
to take notice of Betty. Destiny, like the most attractive of the
porters at the Gare de Lyon, "_s'occupait d'elle_."