THE PINK SILK STORY.
To call on the concierge at Betty's old address, and to ask for news of
her had come to seem to Vernon the unbroken habit of a life-time. There
never was any news: there never would be any news. But there always
might be.
The days went by, days occupied in these fruitless gold-edged enquiries,
in the other rose-accompanied enquiries after the health of Lady St.
Craye, and in watching for the postman who should bring the answer to
his formal proposal of marriage.
To his deep surprise and increasing disquietude, no answer came. Was the
Reverend Cecil dead, or merely inabordable? Had Betty despised his offer
too deeply to answer it? The lore learned in, as it seemed, another life
assured him that a woman never despises an offer too much to say "No" to
it.
Watch for the postman. Look at Betty's portrait. Call on the concierge.
(He had been used to dislike the employment of dirty instruments.) Call
on the florist. (There was a decency in things, even if all one's being
were contemptibly parched for the sight of another woman.) Call and
enquire for the poor Jasmine Lady. Studio--think of Betty--look at her
portrait--pretend to work. Meals at fairly correct intervals. Call on
the concierge. Look at the portrait again. Such were the recurrent
incidents of Vernon's life. Between the incidents came a padding of
futile endeavour. Work, he had always asserted, was the cure for
inconvenient emotions. Only now the cure was not available.
And the postman brought nothing interesting, except a letter, post-mark
Denver, Col., a letter of tender remonstrance from the Brittany girl,
Miss Van Tromp.
Then came the morning when the concierge, demurely assuring him of her
devotion to his interests, offered to post a letter. No bribe--and he
was shameless in his offers--could wring more than that from her. And
even the posting of the letter cost a sum that the woman chuckled over
through all the days during which the letter lay in her locked drawer,
under Lady St. Craye's bank note and the divers tokens of "_ce
monsieur's_" interest in the intrigue--whatever the intrigue might
be--its details were not what interested.
Vernon went home, pulled the table into the middle of the bare studio
and wrote. This letter wrote itself without revision.
"Why did you go away?" it said. "Where are you? where can I see you?
What has happened? Have your people found out?"
A long pause--the end of the pen bitten.
"I want to have no lies or deceit any more between us. I must tell
you the truth. I have never been engaged to anyone. But you would
not let me see you without that, so I let you think it. Will you
forgive me? Can you? For lying to you? If you can't I shall know
that nothing matters at all. But if you can forgive me--then I shall
let myself hope for impossible things.
"Dear, whether it's all to end here or not, let me write this once
without thinking of anything but you and me. I have written to your
father asking his permission to ask you to marry me. To you I want
to say that I love you, love you, love you--and I have never loved
anyone else. That's part of my punishment for--I don't know what
exactly. Playing with fire, I suppose. Dear--can you love me? Ever
since I met you at Long Barton" (Pause: what about Miss Van Tromp?
Nothing, nothing, nothing!) "I've not thought of anything but you. I
want you for my very own. There is no one like you, my love, my
Princess.
"You'll write to me. Even if you don't care a little bit you'll
write. Dear, I hardly dare hope that you care, but I daren't fear
that you don't. I shall count the minutes till I get your answer. I
feel like a schoolboy.
"Dear it's my very heart I'm sending you here. If I didn't love you,
love you, love you I could write a better letter, tell you better
how I love you. Write now. You will write?
"Did someone tell you something or write you something that made you
go away? It's not true, whatever it is. Nothing's true, but that I
want you. As I've never wanted anything. Let me see you. Let me tell
you. I'll explain everything--if anyone _has_ been telling lies.
"If you don't care enough to write, I don't care enough to go on
living. Oh, my dear Dear, all the words and phrases have been used
up before. There's nothing new to _say_, I know. But what's in my
heart for you--that's new, that's all that matters--that and what
your heart might hold for me. Does it? Tell me. If I can't have your
love, I can't bear my life. And I won't.--You'll think this letter
isn't like me. It isn't, I know. But I can't help it. I am a new
man: and you have made me. Dear,--can't you love the man you've
made? Write, write, write!
"Yours--as I never thought I could be anyone's,
"Eustace Vernon."
"It's too long," he said, "most inartistic, but I won't re-write it.
Contemptible ass! If she cares it won't matter. If she doesn't, it won't
matter either."
And that was the letter that lay in the locked drawer for a week. And
through that week the watching for the postman went on--went on. And the
enquiries, mechanically.
And no answer came at all, to either of his letters. Had the Concierge
deceived him? Had she really no address to which to send the letter?
"Are you sure that you posted the letter?"
"Altogether, monsieur," said the concierge, fingering the key of the
drawer that held it.
And the hot ferment of Paris life seethed and fretted all around him. If
Betty were at Long Barton--oh, the dewy gray grass in the warren--and
the long shadows on the grass!
Three days more went by.
"You have posted the letter?"
"But yes, Monsieur. Be tranquil. Without doubt it was a letter that
should exact time for the response."
It was on the fifth day that he met Mimi Chantal, the prettiest model on
the left bank.
"Is monsieur by chance painting the great picture which shall put him
between Velasquez and Caran d'Ache on the last day?"
"I am painting nothing," said Vernon. "And why is the prettiest model in
Paris not at work?"
"I was in lateness but a little quarter of an hour, Monsieur. And behold
me--chucked."
"It wasn't for the first time, then?"
"A nothing one or two days last week. Monsieur had better begin to paint
that _chef d'oeuvre_--to-day even. It isn't often that the prettiest
model in Paris is free to sit at a moment's notice."
"But," said Vernon, "I haven't an idea for a picture even. It is too hot
for ideas. I'm going into the country at the end of the month, to do
landscape."
"To paint a picture it is then absolutely necessary to have an idea?"
"An idea--or a commission."
"There is always something that lacks! With me it is the technique that
is to seek; with you the ideas! Otherwise we should both be masters. For
you have technique both hands full; I have ideas, me."
"Tell me some of them," said Vernon, strolling along by her side. It was
not his habit to stroll along beside models. But to-day he was fretted
and chafed by long waiting for that answer to his letter. Anything
seemed better than the empty studio where one waited.
"Here is one! I have the idea that artists have no eyes. How they pose
me ever as l'Été or La Source or Leda, or that clumsy Suzanne with her
eternal old men. As if they knew better than I do how a woman holds
herself up or sits herself down, or nurses a duck, or defends herself!"
"Your idea is probably correct. I understand you to propose that I
should paint a picture called The Blind Artist?"
"Don't do the imbecile. I propose for subject Me--not posed; me as I am
in the Rest. Is it not that it is then that I am the most pretty, the
most chic?"
"It certainly is," said he. "And you propose that I should paint you as
you appear in the Rest?"
"Perfectly," she interrupted. "Tender rose colour--it goes to a marvel
with my Cléo de Mérode hair. And if you want a contrast--or one of those
little tricks to make people say: 'What does it mean?'"
"I don't, thank you," he laughed.
"Paint that white drowned girl's face that hangs behind your stove.
Paint her and me looking at each other. She has the air of felicitating
herself that she is dead. Me, I will have the air of felicitating myself
that I am alive. You will see, Monsieur. Essay but one sole little
sketch, and you will think of nothing else. One might entitle it 'The
Rivals.'"
"Or 'The Rest,'" said Vernon, a little interested. "Oh, well, I'm not
doing anything.--I'll make a sketch and give it you as a present. Come
in an hour."
* * * * *
"Auntie, wake up, wake up!" Betty, white-faced and determined, was
pulling back the curtain with fingers that rigidly would not tremble.
"Shut the door and spare my blushes," said her aunt. "What's up now?"
She looked at the watch on the bed-table. "Why its only just six."
"I can't help it," said Betty; "you've had all the night to sleep in. I
haven't. I want you to get up and dress and come to Paris with me by the
early train."
"Sit down," said the aunt. "No, not on the bed. I hate that. In this
chair. Now remember that we all parted last night in the best of
spirits, and that as far as I know nothing has happened since."
"Oh, no--nothing of course!" said Betty.
"Don't be ironical," said Miss Desmond; "at six in the morning it's
positively immoral. Tell me all--let me hear the sad sweet story of your
life."
"Very well," said Betty, "if you're only going to gibe I'll go alone. Or
I'll get Mr. Temple to take me."
"To see the other man? That _will_ be nice."
"Who said anything about--?"
"You did, the moment you came in. Come child; sit down and tell me. I'm
not unsympathetic. I'm only very, very sleepy. And I _did_ think
everything was arranged. I was dreaming of orange blossoms and The Voice
That Breathed. And the most beautiful trousseau marked E.T. And silver
fish-knives, and salt-cellars in a case lined with purple velvet."
"Go on," said Betty, "if it amuses you."
"No, no. I'm sorry. Forgive the ravings of delirium. Go on. Poor little
Betty! Don't worry. Tell its own aunt."
"It's not a joke," said Betty.
"So I more and more perceive, now that I'm really waking up," said the
aunt, sitting up and throwing back her thick blond hair. "Come, I'll get
up now. Give me my stockings--and tell me--"
"They were under my big hat," said Betty, doing as she was told; "the
one I wore the night you came. And I'd thrown it down on the chest of
drawers--and they were underneath."
"My stockings?"
"No--my letters. Two of them. And one of them's from Him. It's a week
old. And he says he won't live if I don't love him."
"They always do," said Miss Desmond, pouring water into the basin.
"Well?"
"And he wants me to marry him, and he was never engaged to Lady St.
Craye; and it was a lie. I've had a letter from _her_."
"I can't understand a word you say," said Miss Desmond through
splashings.
"My friend Paula, that I told you about. She never went home to her
father. Mr. Vernon set her up in a restaurant! Oh, how good and noble he
is! Here are your shoes--and he says he won't live without me; and I'm
going straight off to him, and I wouldn't go without telling you. It's
no use telling father yet, but I did think _you'd_ understand."
"Hand me that green silk petticoat. Thank you. _What_ did you think I'd
understand?"
"Why that I--that it's him I love."
"You do, do you?"
"Yes, always, always! And I must go to him. But I won't go and leave
Bobbie to think I'm going to marry him some day. I must tell him first,
and then I'm going straight to Paris to find him, and give him the
answer to his letter."
"You must do as you like. It's your life, not mine. But it's a pity,"
said her aunt, "and I should send a telegram to prepare him."
"The office won't be open. There's a train at seven forty-five. Oh, do
hurry. I've ordered the pony. We'll call and tell Mr. Temple."
It was not the 7:45 that was caught, however, but the 10:15, because
Temple was, naturally, in bed. When he had been roused, and had dressed
and come out to them, in the gay terrace overhanging the river where the
little tables are and the flowers in pots and the vine-covered trellis,
Miss Desmond turned and positively fled before the gay radiance of his
face.
"This is dear and sweet of you," he said to Betty.
"What lovely scheme have you come to break to me? But what's the matter?
You're not ill?"
"Oh, don't," said Betty; "don't look like that! I couldn't go without
telling you. It's all over, Bobbie."
She had never before called him by that name, and now she did not know
what she had called him.
"What's all over?" he asked mechanically.
"Everything," she said; "your thinking I was going to, perhaps, some
time--and all that. Because now I never shall. O, Bobbie, I do hate
hurting you, and I do like you so frightfully much! But he's written to
me: the letter's been delayed. And it's all a mistake. And I'm going to
him now. Oh,--I hope you'll be able to forgive me!"
"It's not your fault," he said. "Wait a minute. It's so sudden. Yes, I
see. Don't you worry about me, dearest, I shall be all right. May I know
who it is?"
"It's Mr. Vernon," said Betty.
"Oh, my God!" Temple's hand clenched. "No, no, no, no!"
"I am so very, very sorry," said Betty in the tone one uses who has
trodden on another's foot in an omnibus.
He had sat down at one of the little tables, and was looking out over
the shining river with eyes half shut.
"But it's not true," he said. "It can't be true! He's going to marry
Lady St. Craye."
"That's all a mistake," said Betty eagerly; "he only said that
because--I haven't time to tell you all about it now. But it was all a
mistake."
"Betty, dear," he said, using in his turn, for the first time, her
Christian name, "don't do it. Don't marry him. You don't know."
"I thought you were his friend."
"So I am," said Temple. "I like him right enough. But what's all the
friendship in the world compared with your happiness? Don't marry
him--dear. Don't."
"I shall marry whom I choose," said Betty, chin in air, "and it won't be
you." ("I don't care if I am vulgar and brutal," she told herself, "it
serves him right")
"It's not for me, dear. It's not for me--it's for you. I'll go right
away and never see you again. Marry some straight chap--anyone--But not
Vernon."
"I am going to marry Mr. Vernon," said Betty with lofty calm, "and I am
very sorry for any annoyance I may have caused you. Of course, I see now
that I could never--I mean," she added angrily, "I hate people who are
false to their friends. Yes--and now I've missed my train."
She had.
"Forgive me," said Temple when the fact was substantiated, and the gray
pony put up, "after all, I was your friend before I--before you--before
all this that can't come to anything. Let me give you both some coffee
and see you to the station. And Betty, don't you go and be sorry about
me afterwards. Because, really, it's not your fault and," he laughed and
was silent a moment, "and I'd rather have loved you and have it end like
this, dear, than never have known you. I truly would."
The journey to Paris was interminable. Betty had decided not to think of
Temple, yet that happy morning face of his would come between her and
the things she wanted to think of. To have hurt him like that!--It hurt
her horribly; much more than she would have believed possible. And she
had been cruel. "Of course it's natural that he should say things about
Him. He must hate anyone that--He nearly cried when he said that about
rather have loved me than not--Yes--" A lump came in Betty's own throat,
and her eyes pricked.
"Come, don't cry," said her aunt briskly; "you've made your choice, and
you're going to your lover. Don't be like Lot's wife. You can't eat your
cake and have it too."
Vernon's concierge assured these ladies that Monsieur was at home.
"He makes the painting in this moment," she said. "Mount then, my
ladies."
They mounted.
Betty remembered her last--her first--visit to his studio: when Paula
had disappeared and she had gone to him for help. She remembered how the
velvet had come off her dress, and how awful her hair had been when she
had looked in the glass afterwards. And Lady St. Craye--how beautifully
dressed, how smiling and superior!
"Hateful cat!" said Betty on the stairs.
"Eh?" said her aunt.
Now there would be no one in the studio but Vernon. He would be reading
over her letters--nothing in them--only little notes about whether she
would or wouldn't be free on Tuesday--whether she could or couldn't dine
with him on Wednesday. But he would be reading them over--perhaps--
The key was in the door.
"Do you mind waiting on the stairs, Auntie dear," said Betty in a voice
of honey; "just the first minute?--I would like to have it for us
two--alone. You don't mind?"
"Do as you like," said the aunt rather sadly. "I should knock if I were
you."
Betty did not knock. She opened the studio door softly. She would like
to see him before he saw her.
She had her wish.
A big canvas stood on the easel, a stool in front of it. The table was
in the middle of the room, a yellow embroidered cloth on it. There was
food on the cloth--little breads, pretty cakes and strawberries and
cherries, and wine in tall, beautiful, topaz-coloured glasses.
Vernon sat in his big chair. Betty could see his profile. He sat there,
laughing. On the further arm of the chair sat, laughing also, a very
pretty young woman. Her black hair was piled high on her head and
fastened with a jewelled pin. The sunlight played in the jewels. She
wore a pink silk garment. She held cherries in her hand.
"_V'la cheri_!" she said, and put one of the twin cherries in her mouth;
then she leant over him laughing, and Vernon reached his head forward to
take in his mouth the second cherry that dangled below her chin. His
mouth was on the cherry, and his eyes in the black eyes of the girl in
pink.
Betty banged the door.
"Come away!" she said to Miss Desmond. And she, who had seen, too, the
pink picture, came away, holding Betty's arm tight.
"I wonder," she said as they reached the bottom of the staircase, "I
wonder he didn't come after us to--to--try to explain."
"I locked the door," said Betty. "Don't speak to me, please."
They were in the train before either broke silence. Betty's face was
white and she looked old--thirty almost her aunt thought.
[Illustration: "On the further arm of the chair sat, laughing also, a
very pretty young woman"]
It was Miss Desmond who spoke.
"Betty," she said, "I know how you feel. But you're very young. I think
I ought to say that that girl--"
"_Don't_!" said Betty.
"I mean what we saw doesn't necessarily mean that he doesn't love you."
"Perhaps not," said Betty, fierce as a white flame. "Anyhow, it means
that I don't love him."
Miss Desmond's tact, worn by three days of anxiety and agitation, broke
suddenly, and she said what she regretted for some months:
"Oh, you don't love _him_ now? Well, the other man will console you."
"I hate you," said Betty, "and I hate him; and I hope I shall never see
a man again as long as I live!"