ALTHOUGH the thought of Lisa's old flirtations obtruded and pricked
occasionally, Paul went about the next morning in a state of subdued
happiness. A wonderful calm had come over him, disturbed only at the
moments when he had to thrust from him those images of other men kissing
Lisa's lips. Those meaningless loves had been long dead, he argued, and,
since she had made the confession voluntarily at the risk of estranging
his love, it would be unfair to her for him to dwell upon them now.
At the same time he could never have conceived the possibility of such a
line of argument on his part in the days before he had met Miss Brooke.
Love had, indeed, set at naught all the principles he had thought to
abide by--had made him yield his demand for that absolute soul-virginity
he had deemed the very basis of his choice.
But away with all that now! Her love for him was, of a surety, the first
that had come into her life since her great sorrow. As for Pemberton,
there had never been the slightest sentiment between her and him. No
doubt the fellow would now take a suitable place in the background of
their life, and they would welcome him as an acquaintance. Why should he
bear the man animosity?
He could not do any work that morning, but strolled hither and thither,
getting joyous impressions from the sun-lit city. Lisa had not only
promised to dine in the evening at the Cafe Pousset and afterwards to go
with him to see a melodrama at the Ambigu, most of the other theatres
having closed their doors, but she had given him permission to take his
holiday at Perros-Guirec during the whole two months of her stay there,
so that he would be virtually one of the party. The immediate outlook
was, therefore, very agreeable.
He returned to the _maison meublee_ where his quarters were, immediately
after his mid-day meal, and passed the afternoon packing away his
luggage, which occupation gave him the pleasurable feeling that his
preparations for the happy time to come were in full swing. He sang and
whistled as he worked, his overflowing vigour manifesting itself in the
bold ornamental letters with which he made out the labels for his
trunks: "Middleton, Paris a Perros-Guirec." At half-past five he began
to think of taking a stroll before dinner, and was on the point of doing
so when the _concierge_ brought him up a letter with the characteristic
explanation that it had come in the morning, shortly after monsieur had
gone out, and that he had forgotten about it as monsieur passed by
before.
Paul recognised his mother's writing, and stayed to read it. At first it
did not seem to contain anything of special importance, covering much
the same ground as many of its predecessors, and dealing with one or two
business matters. On the third page came a reproach that he had allowed
three weeks go by without writing.
"I can understand," continued his mother, "that all those hours of
engrossing work every day must leave you quite fatigued, my poor child.
But surely I am very reasonable in my demands, and one letter a week is
not such a very heavy tax on you. Are you sure you are not overworking
yourself, dear Paul? You were always a delicate child, and you are
certainly not strong enough to go on living in a French hotel, with
only strangers to look after you. Don't you think you ought to take a
long holiday now? I am going to take Celia to Dieppe--it has all been
decided and arranged to-day. The poor child has been worried and
fretting and poorly for a long time past, and sadly needs this entire
change of scene. Now suppose, dear Paul, you come and join us at Dieppe.
You will be near to me, and I can look after you again, if only for a
couple of months. We shall be starting the day after to-morrow, and we
shall be staying at the Hotel de Paris. Write to me, dear Paul, direct
there, or, better still, come down and surprise us. Celia, I am sure,
will be _delighted_ to see you. I never understood what happened between
you two exactly. You said 'good-bye' so stiffly that I made sure you had
quarrelled, though Celia assures me that was not so. She is a dear,
good girl, and I love her as if she were my own daughter."
Of course he couldn't go. What a bother to have to refuse! Why had they
just fixed on Dieppe when they might have gone to Norway or taken a
jaunt up to Scotland! And then, too, confound it! they might even make a
descent upon him at Perros-Guirec, for he would have to tell his mother
that was the place where he had already arranged to spend his holiday
with friends. He must discuss the matter with Lisa before replying to
her or telling her of his intended marriage.
But he had scarcely time to digest the letter before the man brought him
up another which the postman had just left. This time the writing was
Lisa's. What could she have to write to him about if it were not to
postpone the evening's engagement? His nervous fingers tore at the
envelope.
"DEAR PAUL.--Please don't come for me this
evening, and, indeed, you must never come for me
again. In writing this I am acting the part of a
very good friend to you, and it is as a very good
friend I should like you to remember me, as I
shall always remember you.--Yours sincerely,
"ELIZABETH BROOKE."
So all was over! Behind the simplicity of the words he perceived a
terrible inexorableness. If only she had signed "Lisa," it would not
have crushed him so much; but the "Elizabeth Brooke" was paralyzing.
When his hand was steady enough, he wrote:--
"DEAR LISA:--Need I say your note has quite
stunned me? Won't you give me a word of
explanation? PAUL."
The concierge's boy delivered this at Miss Brooke's _pension_.
He scarcely knew how he got through the night. Every now and again he
woke up and tossed about; and when he did lose consciousness, he had a
sense of a grey infinity in which there was a great chasm. He wanted to
rush to it to close it up, but was held back by some strange power.
The morning's post brought him Miss Brooke's reply.
"DEAR PAUL.--I am glad your letter is so sensible
and to the point. Of course I owe you an
explanation, but I want you not to insist on it,
because I fear it will hurt you too much. The pain
it would give me I deserve.--Yours, LISA."
He found this note infinitely softer than the first and was encouraged
to write again.
"DEAR LISA.--I am not strong enough to face the
punishment unless I know my sin. The pain of
listening to you can be nothing to the pain of
this horrible gap in my mind. Won't you let me see
you--for the last time? Remember it is only a day
since you told me you loved me. Don't refuse.
PAUL."
To which came the reply by his own messenger.
"DEAR PAUL.--Come this evening at eight and you
will find me alone.--Yours,
"LISA."
All day long he nerved himself for the interview. He would rehearse
nothing, anticipate nothing. When the time came, he would speak straight
from his heart. Perhaps he might yet move her.