Chapter XIII

Stephen's letter in reply to Madame Claire's last was brief. She guessed that he was still suffering, and was not up to writing at any length.

"_Bronchitis and phlebitis,_" he wrote, "_are not as pretty as they
sound, although your garden amused me very much. Miss McPherson
would be happy in it, that's certain. When I'm feeling better I see
her casting longing glances at old Jock Wetherby, who's got more
ailments than the doctors can put names to. But when I'm at my
worst she clucks over me like a proud hen._

"_Connie's Count seems to suspect collusion. He tried to pump me
about her yesterday. I was out in the sun for five minutes, and he
appeared so promptly I think he'd been waiting for me. As soon as
he began asking questions I had a coughing fit, so he went away.
From what I hear--for I listen to gossip when it suits me to do
so--Connie could get a divorce ten times over. I expect he misses
her in a way. He found he could make her suffer--an occupation his
sort delights in._

"_Well, Claire, my dear, I cannot write more to-night. You are
wonderful, and your letters are my great joy. They soothe me. I
find myself growing less short-tempered, less out of love with my
fellow man._

"_There is a little poem that comes to my mind now and speaks of
you._

"'The world is young to-day:
Forget the gods are old,
Forget the years of gold
When all the months were May.

A little flower of Love
Is ours, without a root,
Without the end of fruit,
Yet--take the scent thereof.

There may be hope above,
There may be rest beneath;
We see them not, but Death
Is palpable--and Love.'

"_It is a charming thing, and applies to old friends who love one
another and whose days are transient, as well as to young lovers,
whose love is perhaps transient._

"_Write soon. Tell me more about Judy._

"STEPHEN."

Madame Claire answered almost at once:

"_Dear Stephen,_

"_I have your little poem by heart. Thank you for it. The older I
grow, the more I value the poets. They are the bravest people I
know, for they sing in defiance of a world out of joint. Think of
touching the high peaks of rapture with coal at its present price,
in the midst of strikes, and a much advertised crime wave! It is
difficult to see that the world has improved since the war, but at
least one can see that it has changed, and I like to think that it
_+CAN+_ only change for the better. So I cling to that thought and
read the poets, not being one of those who can help to make it
better. I feel about the world as I might feel about an Inn where
I have supped and been kindly served. I hope it may flourish and
not fall into evil hands. Not that I expect to return. It was, after
all, only a night's stopping place. But I should like other
travelers to find it as I found it, or somewhat better._

"_Judy came here to tea a day or two ago, and there came also the
victim of the accident in the fog. He is, or soon will be, in love
with her, and something of the sort is happening to Judy. If
anything should come of it--and I feel that it may, things would not
be easy for them. Millie would give the clothes off her back, and so
would John, for the eldest son, but they expect their daughter to
marry for a living. I would do what I could, but that would be
little. My income since the war has dwindled surprisingly, and I
have some of Robert's poor relations to help. Of course, from
Millie's point of view, the man is utterly unsuitable, but he is a
gallant fellow, and life has been none too kind to him. I fear,
somehow, that he is one of life's inexplicable failures, but I like
him none the less for that._

"_Connie has conceived an extravagant admiration for Noel. I think I
said that she was not a woman to take up things, but I was wrong,
for she has 'taken up' Noel. And really, it is amazing the change
he has already wrought in her. She takes his frankness and frequent
scoldings in a way I never dreamed she would. He is kindness itself
to her, takes her to theaters and concerts, and seems to find her
an amusing companion. He thinks she has had a pretty bad time of
it--though he admits it's her own fault--and is bent on cheering
her up. She adores his brutal honesty and his entire lack of
respect for age, position, or human frailties. The first time they
lunched together, they met at the Ritz, and Connie, it appears,
was ablaze with paint. Noel refused to set foot in the dining room
until she had washed her face, and in the end she meekly sat down
with nothing more in the way of make-up than a dusting of powder
on her nose. Of course he is a godsend to her. Millie is very angry
with me, and Louise will have none of her. Judy gets on with her
well enough, but she doesn't amuse Judy as she does Noel._

"_Did I tell you Louise heard Eric was in Paris with a 'questionable
looking woman'? She was nobly prepared to forgive him, but when she
learned that it was only Connie, her humiliation knew no bounds. I
fear she is colder to him than ever now._

"_Well, well, they must all go through with it as we did. I thank
Heaven every day that Time has given me the right to sit quietly on
my hilltop. I can still hear the sounds of the conflict below, and
the cries of the wounded, but though they are my nearest and
dearest I am too conscious of the transience of things, too aware
of yesterdays and to-morrows--especially to-morrows--to concern
myself greatly. I want them to be happy, but I know they won't be,
and I am not God to confer or withhold. I can do nothing but laugh
at or comfort them a little. Do you think me hard? No, you know
that I am not. The happiest of them all is Noel, for he, like me,
is a looker-on. I don't know how he has managed to exchange the
arena for the spectators' gallery, but he has. I think it is
because he wants nothing for himself._

"_As for Gordon, he is too ambitious to be happy. He is marrying
partly to suit his mother, and partly to gratify his passion for
being among the big-wigs, where of course, as Lord Ottway's
son-in-law, he will be. But he doesn't know his Helen--yet. I think
I do. Her chin is too long and her nose too high._

"_Oh, the joy of wanting nothing! The joy of being eighty and
immune! But I, even I, have one wish. And that is to see you, my
old friend, again. But it is a pleasant want, like a hunger that
is soon to be satisfied. For I feel I cannot lose you. Here, or
there--what does it matter? I imagine you wince at that, foolish
old Stephen!_

"_Write to me soon. I do hope you are better._

"_Yours,_

"CLAIRE."