High up in one of the houses on the shady side of the Rue Ruhmhorff,
Katharine sat on her balcony and thought. Her reflections were of the
desultory order begotten of early spring lethargy and early spring
sunshine, relating to street cries innumerable and to the mingled
scent of violets and asphalt in the air, to the children playing their
perpetual game of hop-scotch on the white pavements, and to the
artisan opposite who was mixing his salad by the open window with a
naïve disregard for the public gaze. Her pupils were all in the Bois
under the able supervision of the excellent Miss Smithson, and there
was temporary calm in the three _étages_ that formed Mrs. Downing's
Parisian establishment for the daughters of gentlemen.
"Will he ever have done, I wonder?" speculated Katharine lazily. She
was taking quite a languid interest in the progress of the salad, and
smiled to herself when the man took off his blue blouse and attacked
it afresh in his shirt sleeves. His wife joined him after a while,
evidently, to judge from her emphatic gestures, with critical intent.
But the man received her volley of suggestions with an expressive
shrug of the shoulders, and they finally went off to their mid-day
meal.
"What pitiable jargon we talk, all the world over, about the triumph
of mind over matter," murmured Katharine, yawning as she spoke. "And
all the while matter goes on triumphing over mind on every conceivable
occasion! It even gets into the street cries," she added with another
yawn, as a flower vender came along the street below and sent up his
minor refrain in unvarying repetition. "Des violettes pour embaumer la
chambre," he chanted, "du cresson pour la santé du corps!"
It was more than a year since she had accepted Mrs. Downing's offer
and settled here in Paris; more than a year since Ted had gone abroad
and Paul Wilton had bidden her farewell. But she never looked back on
those days now, though not so much from design as from lack of
incentive; for her life had strayed into another channel, and her days
were full of the kind of occupation that leaves no room for the luxury
of reminiscence. It never even occurred to her to wonder whether she
was happy or not; she seemed to have completely lost her old trick of
wanting a reason for everything she thought or felt, and for the time
being she had become eminently practical. Even now, in spite of the
enervating effect of the first spring weather, her thoughts returned
to the business of the moment, and she wondered why the father of her
newest pupil, who had made an appointment with her for eleven o'clock,
was so late in coming. A ring at the electric bell seemed to answer
her thought, and the maid came in almost immediately with a
gentleman's card on a tray.
"British caution," was Katharine's criticism, as Julie explained that
the English monsieur had not attempted to teach her his name. By the
merest chance she glanced at the card before her visitor came in, and
was spared the annoyance of betraying the surprise she must otherwise
have felt. As it was, she had time to recover from her astonishment,
even to remark how different the familiar name and address seemed to
her when, for the first time as now, she saw them transcribed on a
visiting card,--"Mr. Paul Wilton, Essex Court, Temple."
"I am so glad to see you," she exclaimed, with a look that did not
contradict the welcome in her voice. And Julie, who had never seen
her mistress look so joyous before, went back to Marie in the kitchen
with a highly coloured account of the meeting she had just witnessed,
which explained to that frivolous but astute little person how it was
that Madame always looked so leniently on her flirtations with the
_charcutier_ round the corner.
"I have never caught you idling before," said Paul, referring to the
attitude in which he had seen her through the open door before she had
turned round with that glad look in her eyes.
"I don't suppose you have," she said. "It isn't so very long since I
learnt how to idle. Do you remember how bitterly you used to complain
because I never wanted to lounge? I often lounge now; and my greatest
joy is to think about nothing at all. Don't you know how restful it is
to think about nothing at all?"
"You must have altered a good deal," he observed.
"Do you think I have, then?"
"Ask me that presently," he replied, with an answering smile. "I have
got to hear all the news first,--how keeping school agrees with you,
and everything there is to tell about yourself. So make haste and
begin, please."
"Oh, there is nothing to tell about myself; at least, nothing more
than you can learn from the prospectus! Would you like to see one? You
can read it and learn what an important person I am, while I go and
leave a message for Miss Smithson."
When she came back, he regarded her with a look of amused interest.
"This is a very novel sensation," he remarked.
"I am glad it amuses you," said Katharine; "but I never knew before
that the prospectus was funny."
"Oh, no; it isn't that," he explained. "The humour of a prospectus is
the kind of grim joke that could only be expected to appeal to a
parent. What I meant was the fact of your appearing to me for the
first time in the character of hostess."
"I wondered how it was that I did not feel so awed by your presence as
usual," she remarked. "Now I know it is because you, even you, are
sensible to the chastening atmosphere of the home of the young idea.
You had better come round the establishment at once, before the
favourable impression begins to wear off."
"Oh, please!" he implored. "You will surely let me off? I haven't a
daughter or a niece, or any kind of feminine relation who could be of
the least commercial value to you. And I really don't feel equal to
facing crowds of unsophisticated girls in short frocks, with pocket
editions of their favourite poets in their hands. Girls of that age
always expect you to be so well informed, and I haven't run a
favourite poet for years."
"When you first met me," she said emphatically, "_I_ was an
unsophisticated girl in a short frock, with a whole list of favourite
poets. And I distinctly remember one occasion on which I bored you for
half an hour with my views on Browning."
"I am not here to deny it," said Paul. "It is only an additional
reason for my wishing to stay and talk to you, now that you have
ceased to have any views on any subject whatever. Besides, I exhausted
the subject of unsophistication in short frocks when I first had the
pleasure of meeting you, four years ago. And, interesting as I found
it then, I have no particular wish to renew it now."
"All of which is an unpleasant reflection on the enormous age I seem
to have acquired in four years," she cried. "They must have been
singularly long years to you!"
"With the exception of the last one," said Paul, "they were much the
same as any other years to me."
"Now, that's odd," she remarked; "because last year has seemed to go
more quickly than any other year in my life. I wonder why it seemed so
long to you?"
"It didn't," he replied promptly. "It was the other three that did
that, because I spent them in learning wisdom."
"And the last one in forgetting it? How you must have wasted the other
three! Ah, there are the girls at last," she added, springing to her
feet. "That means déjeûner, and I am as hungry as two wolves. You will
stop of course?"
"More developments," he murmured. "You used to scorn such mundane
matters as meals, in the days when the poets were food enough for you.
But please don't imagine for a moment that I am going to face that
Anglo-French crowd out there; I would almost as soon listen to your
opinion of Browning."
"Do you mean to say," she complained, "that you expect me to minister
to your wants in here? What will Miss Smithson say, what will the dear
children say in their weekly letters home? You don't really mean it?"
"On the contrary," he replied, placidly, "I am going to take you out
to lunch in the most improper restaurant this improper city can
produce. So go and put on that Parisian hat of yours, and be as quick
as you like about it. I am rather hungry, too."
"You really seem to forget," she said, "that I am the respectable head
of a high-class seminary for--"
"I only wish you would allow me to forget it," he interrupted. "It is
just because you have been occupying yourself for a whole year, and
with the most lamentable success, in growing elderly and respectable,
that I intend to give you this opportunity of being regenerated. May I
ask what you are waiting for, now?"
"I am waiting for some of the conventional dogma you used to preach to
me in the days when _I_ wanted to be improper," she retorted. "It
would really save a great deal of trouble if our respective moral
codes could be induced to coincide sometimes, wouldn't it?"
"It would save a great deal of trouble if you were to do as you are
told, without talking quite so much about it. It is now half-past--"
"I tell you it is impossible," she protested. "You must have your
déjeûner here, with unsophistication twenty-five strong--and Miss
Smithson. What is the use of my having acquired a position of
importance if I deliberately throw it away again by behaving like an
improper schoolgirl?"
"What is the use of a position at all," replied Paul, "if it doesn't
enable you to be improper when you choose? Don't you think we might
consider the argument at an end? I am quite willing to concede to Miss
Smithson, or to any other person in authority, that you have made all
the objections necessary to the foolish possessor of a conscience, if
you will only go and tell her that you do not intend to be in to
lunch."
"I have told her," said Katharine inadvertently, and then laughed
frankly at her own admission. "I always spoil all my deceptions by
being truthful again too soon," she added plaintively.
"Women always spoil their vices by incompletion," observed Paul. "They
have reduced virtue to an art, but there is a crudity about their vice
that always gives them away sooner or later. That is why they are so
easily found out; it is not because they are worse than men, but
because they are better. They repent too soon, and your sins always
find you out when you begin to repent."
"That's perfectly true," said Katharine, half jestingly. "You would
never have discovered that I was a prig if I had not become partly
conscious of it first."
"That," said Paul deliberately, "is a personal application of my
remarks which I should never have dreamed of making myself; but, since
you are good enough to allow it, I must say that the way you have
bungled the only vice you possess is quite singular. If you had been a
man no one would have detected your priggishness at all; at its worst
it would have been called personality. It is the same with everything.
When a woman writes an improper book she funks the crisis, and gets
called immoral for her pains; a man goes the whole hog, and we call it
art."
"According to that," objected Katharine, "it is impossible to tell
whether a man is good or bad. In fact, the better he appears to be the
worse he must be in reality; because it only means that he is cleverer
at concealing it."
"None of us are either good or bad," replied Paul. "It is all a
question of brains. Goodness is only badness done well, and morality
is mostly goodness done badly. I should like to know what I have said
to make you smile?"
"It isn't what you have said," laughed Katharine; "it is the way you
said it. There is something so familiar in the way you are inventing a
whole new ethical system on the spur of the moment, and delivering it
just as weightily as if you had been evolving it for a lifetime. Do go
on; it has such an additional charm after one has had a holiday for
more than a year!"
"When you have done being brilliant and realised the unimportance of
being conscientious, perhaps you will kindly go and get ready," said
Paul severely. And she laughed again at nothing in particular, and
raised no further objection to following what was distinctly her
inclination.
When they had had déjeûner and were strolling through the Palais
Royal, he alluded for the first time to their parting at Ivingdon more
than a year ago. She gave a little start and reddened.
"Oh, don't let us talk about that; I am so ashamed of myself whenever
I think of it," she said hastily.
"I am sorry," he replied with composure, "because I particularly wish
to talk about it just now. You must remember that, until I met Ted in
town last week, I had no idea you were not married."
She turned and stared at him suddenly.
"I never thought of that," she said, slowly.
"Of course you didn't. In fact, all your proceedings immediately
following that particular day in December seem to have been
characterised by the same lack of reflection. You might have known
that there was no one who could tell me of your erratic actions. And
how was I to guess that you would go flying off to Paris just when
everything was made easy for you to stop in England? I was naturally
forced to conclude, as I neither saw nor heard from you again, that
you had carried out your absurdly heroic purpose of marrying Ted. I
must say, Katharine, you have a wonderful faculty for complicating
matters."
"Nothing of the sort," she said indignantly. "And your memory is no
better than mine, for you seem to forget that it was you who made our
parting final. You were so tragic that of course I thought you meant
it."
"Before we criticise my own action in the matter," said Paul, "I
should rather like to know why you did come and bury yourself here,
without telling anybody?"
"Oh, it is easy for you to smile and be sarcastic! I had to come, of
course; it was the only thing to be done. Nature had made me a prig,
and everything was forcing me to continue to be a prig, and all my
attempts at being anything else didn't come off. What chance is there
for any one with priggish tendencies in a world like ours? It simply
bristles with opportunities for behaving in a superior way, unless you
resolutely make up your mind to skim over the surface of it and never
to think deeply at all. What was I to do? Ted had gone abroad to
escape from my overbearing superiority, and you had left in disgust
because marrying for love wasn't good enough for me; and then I had
Mrs. Downing's letter, and she persisted in thinking that I was the
only person in the world who could manage the mothers of her
fashionable pupils. It seemed as though I were destined to remain a
superior person to the end of my days, and I wasn't going to fight
against my natural tendencies any longer. I determined that if I had
got to be a prig at all, I would at least make as good a prig as
possible. Now do you understand why I came?"
"Before I attempt to do that, do you mind mentioning where you are
going to take me?" said Paul casually. She looked round quickly and
found that they had wandered down to the Seine and were close to the
landing-stage of the boats that went to St. Cloud; and an importunate
proprietor was representing to them in broken English the charms of a
trip down the river.
"Oh, let us go!" she cried impulsively. "It would be so beautiful!
Miss Smithson will never respect me again, but I don't feel as though
I _could_ go back to all those girls just yet. Oh, don't be so musty!
It _won't_ be chilly, and you are not a bit too old, and you have just
got to come. Oh, don't I remember those moods of yours when everything
was too youthful for you! I never knew any one with such a plastic age
as yours."
He smiled perfunctorily, and gave in; and they were soon journeying
down the Seine. Katharine was in a mood to appreciate everything, and
she leaned over the side of the boat and made a running commentary on
the beauty of the scene as they glided along between the banks. Paul
tried two or three seats in succession, and finally chose one with an
air of resignation and felt for his tobacco pouch.
"There is a smell of oil," he said. "And the chestnuts at Bushey are
far finer."
"Can't you lower your standard just for this one afternoon?" she
suggested mockingly. "It would be so pleasant if you were to allow
that Nature, for once, was almost good enough for you. I am so glad it
is always good enough for me; it gives one's critical faculty such a
rest."
"Or proves the non-existence of one," added Paul.
"It is surprising," she continued in the same tone, "how you always
manage to spoil the light side of life by treating it seriously. Do
you ever allow yourself a happy, irresponsible moment?"
"Perhaps I haven't seen as much of the light side as you have," he
returned, quite unmoved. "And it is always easier to play our tragedy
than our comedy; the _mise en scène_ is better adapted to begin with.
That is why the mediocre writer generally ends his book badly; he gets
his effect much more easily than by ending it well."
"What has made you so cynical, I wonder?" she asked lazily.
"Principally, the happiness of the vulgar," returned Paul promptly.
"It is not our own unhappiness that makes us cynical, but the badly
done happiness of others. Quite an ordinary person may be able to
bear misfortune more or less nobly, but it takes a dash of genius to
be happy without being aggressive over it."
"I can't imagine your taking the trouble to be aggressive over
anything," observed Katharine. "That is probably why you prefer to
remain sombre, whether the occasion demands it or not. It is very
prosaic to have to acknowledge that a man's most characteristic pose
is merely due to his laziness. On the whole, I am rather glad I am
quite an ordinary person; I would much sooner be happy, even if it
does make me vulgar."
"Happiness is like wine," said Paul, without heeding her. "It
demoralises you at the time, and it leaves you flat afterwards. The
most difficult thing in life is to know how to take our happiness when
it comes."
"It is more difficult," murmured Katharine, "to know how to do without
it when it doesn't come."
They landed at St. Cloud, and walked up through the little village and
into the park where the ruins of the palace were. They had strayed
away from their fellow passengers by this time, and the complete
solitude of the place and its atmosphere of decay affected them both
in the same way, and they gradually dropped into silence. He was the
first to break the pause.
"Don't you think it is time we brought this farce to an end?" he asked
with a carelessness of manner that was obviously assumed.
"Who is being farcical?" she returned just as lightly.
"You did that admirably, but it hasn't deceived me," said Paul
serenely. "You know as well as I do that it is futile to go on any
longer like this. We have tried it for a year, and I for one don't
think very much of it. Your experiences have doubtless been happier
than mine; but if you mean to tell me that they have taught you to
prefer solitude to companionship, then you are as thorough a prig as
you came over here to become. And that I don't believe for a moment,
for at your worst you were always inconsistent, and inconsistency is
the saving grace of the prig."
"I appreciate the honour of your approval," replied Katharine with
exaggerated solemnity; "but, for all that, I still think that living
with unsophistication in short petticoats is likely to be less tiring,
on the whole, than living with some one for whom nothing in heaven or
earth has yet been brought to perfection."
She ended with a peal of laughter. Paul strolled on at the same
measured pace as before.
"Besides," she added, "I thought we had both done with the matter a
year ago. What is the use of dragging it up again?"
"I thought," added Paul, "that we had also done with taking ourselves
seriously, a year ago. But you seem to wish the process to be renewed.
Very well, then; let us begin at the beginning. The initial
difficulty, if I remember rightly, was the fact that we were very much
in love with each other."
"I know _I_ wasn't," said Katharine hotly. "I never hated any one so
much in my life, and--"
"Which gets over the initial difficulty, does it not? Secondly then,
you determined in the most unselfish manner possible that a wife would
inevitably cripple what you were kind enough to call my career. I need
hardly say how touched I felt by your charming consideration, but I
should like to point out--"
"It is perfectly detestable of you to have come all this way on
purpose to laugh at me," cried Katharine.
"I should like to point out," repeated Paul, "that I feel quite
capable of pursuing my career without any suggestions from my wife at
all, and that, engrossing as her presence would undoubtedly prove--"
"It seems to me," interrupted Katharine, "that you don't want a wife
at all; you only want an audience."
"I don't think," said Paul, smiling indulgently, "that we need quarrel
about terms, need we? Well, as I was saying, my career would probably
continue to take care of itself, even if there were two of us to be
asked out to dinner, instead of one. And that disposes of the second
obstacle, doesn't it? The third and last--"
"Last? There are millions of others!"
"The third and last," resumed Paul, "was, I think, the trifling fact
that I had once presumed to call you a prig, in consequence of which
you chose to pretend you were afraid of me. Wasn't that so?"
"Afraid of you? What a ridiculous idea!" she exclaimed. "Why, I was
never afraid of you in my life!"
"Which disposes of the third and last difficulty," said Paul promptly.
Katharine stamped her foot and walked on in front of him.
"You don't seem to think," she said, "that I might not _want_ to marry
you."
"Oh, no," said Paul; "I don't."
She said no more, but continued to walk a little way in front of him
so that he could not see her face. She only spoke once again on their
way down to the boat.
"How was Ted looking when you saw him?" she asked abruptly. "Perhaps
you didn't notice, though?"
"Oh, yes," said Paul, blandly. "I've never seen him looking better; he
seemed to have had a splendid time out there. He asked after you, by
the way, and seemed rather surprised that I hadn't heard from you."
She made no comment, and they reached the boat in silence.
"You will come back to tea with me?" she said, as they stood waiting
for it to start.
"With you,--or with unsophistication?"
"Oh, with me of course! Don't you think you have been funny enough for
one afternoon?"
"Our best jokes are always our unconscious ones," murmured Paul.
"Seriously, though, I think I won't bother you any more. I shall only
be in the way if I stay any longer."
"Now what have I done," she demanded indignantly, "to make you think
you are in the way?"
"Oh, of course--nothing. So foolish of me!" said Paul humbly. "I shall
be delighted to return with you; there are still so many things we
want to say to each other, are there not?"
However, they did not say them on the way home, for Katharine soon
became thoughtful again, and he made no further attempt to draw her
out but remained studiously at the other end of the boat until they
landed; and after that, the noise of the cab in which they drove
across Paris was sufficient excuse for refraining from anything like
conversation. At the top of the stairs, as they stayed for a moment
outside her _appartement_ to recover their breath, she suddenly turned
to him with one of her unaccountable smiles.
"Well?" he said.
"You know I didn't mean to be cross, don't you?" she asked him in a
hurried undertone.
"You absurd little silly!" was all he said.
They sat for a long time over tea, and neither of them felt inclined
to talk. But the silence was not embarrassing. And the early spring
day drew to a close and the room grew dark with shadows; and still
they sat there, and it did not occur to either of them to make
conversation. At last, Katharine stirred in her seat at the end of the
sofa and looked towards the dim outline of his figure against the
window, and finished her reflections out loud.
"After all," she said thoughtfully, "the great thing is to be sane.
Nothing else matters much if one can only be sane about things. There
are heaps of reasons why you and I should not marry, if we were to
begin hunting them up; but why bother about it? You know and I know
that we have simply got to try the experiment, and chance the rest.
One must risk something. And it can't be much worse than going on
alone like this."
"No," said Paul, "it can't be worse than that."
He came and sat on the sofa, too, and there was silence once more. He
put out his hand to find hers, and she gave it him and laughed softly.
"I have an idea," she said irrelevantly. "We must marry Ted to
Marion."
"We?" said Paul, smiling. And she laughed again.
"Isn't it ridiculous," she said, "after all our views about marriage
and so on,--to end in behaving just like any one else who never had
any views at all?"
"Yes," agreed Paul. "We haven't even stuck to our priggishness."
"_We?_" exclaimed Katharine.
But there is always a limit to a man's confessions, and Paul's was
never finished.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
_AT THE RELTON ARMS._
Miss Evelyn Sharp is to be congratulated on having, through the mouth
of one of her characters, said one of the wisest words yet spoken on
what is rather absurdly called "The Marriage Question" (page 132). It
is an interesting and well-written story, with some smart
characterisation and quite a sufficiency of humour.--_Daily
Chronicle._
A delightful story. The most genuine piece of humour in a book that is
nowhere devoid of it, is that scene in the inn parlour where Digby
finds himself engaged to two young women within five minutes; while
the two brief colloquies of the landlady and her cronies make one
suspect that the author could produce an admirable study of village
humour.--_Athenæum._
A distinctly clever book, of a fresh conventionality.--_Academy._
_WYMPS: FAIRY TALES._
_With 8 coloured Illustrations and decorated cover by Mabel Dearmer._
Of the stories it is impossible to speak too highly; they are true
fairy literature, and the most exigent taste will be satisfied with
them.--_Truth (London)._
[Illustration]
A FLY-LEAF POEM.
(_To a little girl with a story-book,--"Wymps," by_ EVELYN SHARP).
Here, in this book, the wise may find
A world exactly to their mind.
From fairy kings to talking fish,
There's everything such people
wish.
Sweeter little maid than you
Never read a story through.
Through a sweeter little book
Little maid shall never look.
MR. WILLIAM WATSON
in _The Academy_.
The simple brilliancy of the cover alone reveals something of the
hidden delights of these charming new stories.--_Punch._
Quite the most gorgeously coloured book of the season. In a red,
green, and yellow cover that puts to the fade even a French poster,
and with most marvellous pictures, excelling even the cover, the
volume must take a literally blazing place on a child's book-shelf.
"Wymps" has other attractions,--six, _original_ fairy stories. Now,
originality is a rare thing in fairy stories, so that altogether we
find the book unique.--_Literary World (Boston)._
JOHN LANE
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I. April 1894, 272 pp., 15 Illustrations. [_Out of print._
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