Chapter VIII: Book III: XVII (2)

She did not ask him to what he referred, and he saw that her parting words to him lived as vividly in her memory as in his.

“Is it so important that you should be sure?” she finally questioned.

“Not to you, naturally,” he returned with involuntary asperity. It was incredible, yet it was a fact, that for the moment his immediate purpose in seeking to speak to her was lost under a rush of resentment at counting for so little in her fate. Of what stuff, then, was his feeling for her made? A few hours earlier she had touched his thoughts as little as his senses; but now he felt old sleeping instincts stir in him... A rush of rain dashed against his face, and, catching Sophy’s hat, strained it back from her loosened hair. She put her hands to her head with a familiar gesture...He came closer and held his umbrella over her...

At the lodge he waited while she went in. The rain continued to stream down on him and he shivered in the dampness and stamped his feet on the flags. It seemed to him that a long time elapsed before the door opened and she reappeared. He glanced into the house for a glimpse of Anna, but obtained none; yet the mere sense of her nearness had completely altered his mood.

The child, Sophy told him, was doing well; but Mrs. Leath had decided to wait till the surgeon came. Darrow, as they turned away, looked through the gates, and saw the doctor’s old-fashioned carriage by the roadside.

“Let me tell the doctor’s boy to drive you back,” he suggested; but Sophy answered: “No; I’ll walk,” and he moved on toward the house at her side. She expressed no surprise at his not remaining at the lodge, and again they walked on in silence through the rain. She had accepted the shelter of his umbrella, but she kept herself at such a carefully measured distance that even the slight swaying movements produced by their quick pace did not once bring her arm in touch with his; and, noticing this, he perceived that every drop of her blood must be alive to his nearness.

“What I meant just now,” he began, “was that you ought to have been sure of my good wishes.”

She seemed to weigh the words. “Sure enough for what?”

“To trust me a little farther than you did.”

“I’ve told you that yesterday I wasn’t free to speak.”

“Well, since you are now, may I say a word to you?”

She paused perceptibly, and when she spoke it was in so low a tone that he had to bend his head to catch her answer. “I can’t think what you can have to say.”

“It’s not easy to say here, at any rate. And indoors I sha’n’t know where to say it.” He glanced about him in the rain. “Let’s walk over to the spring-house for a minute.”

To the right of the drive, under a clump of trees, a little stucco pavilion crowned by a balustrade rose on arches of mouldering brick over a flight of steps that led down to a spring. Other steps curved up to a door above. Darrow mounted these, and opening the door entered a small circular room hung with loosened strips of painted paper whereon spectrally faded Mandarins executed elongated gestures. Some black and gold chairs with straw seats and an unsteady table of cracked lacquer stood on the floor of red-glazed tile.

Sophy had followed him without comment. He closed the door after her, and she stood motionless, as though waiting for him to speak.

“Now we can talk quietly,” he said, looking at her with a smile into which he tried to put an intention of the frankest friendliness.

She merely repeated: “I can’t think what you can have to say.”

Her voice had lost the note of half-wistful confidence on which their talk of the previous day had closed, and she looked at him with a kind of pale hostility. Her tone made it evident that his task would be difficult, but it did not shake his resolve to go on. He sat down, and mechanically she followed his example. The table was between them and she rested her arms on its cracked edge and her chin on her interlocked hands. He looked at her and she gave him back his look.

“Have you nothing to say to ME?” he asked at length.

A faint smile lifted, in the remembered way, the left corner of her narrowed lips.

“About my marriage?”

“About your marriage.”

She continued to consider him between half-drawn lids. “What can I say that Mrs. Leath has not already told you?”

“Mrs. Leath has told me nothing whatever but the fact--and her pleasure in it.”

“Well; aren’t those the two essential points?”

“The essential points to YOU? I should have thought----”

“Oh, to YOU, I meant,” she put in keenly.

He flushed at the retort, but steadied himself and rejoined: “The essential point to me is, of course, that you should be doing what’s really best for you.”

She sat silent, with lowered lashes. At length she stretched out her arm and took up from the table a little threadbare Chinese hand-screen. She turned its ebony stem once or twice between her fingers, and as she did so Darrow was whimsically struck by the way in which their evanescent slight romance was symbolized by the fading lines on the frail silk.

“Do you think my engagement to Mr. Leath not really best for me?” she asked at length.

Darrow, before answering, waited long enough to get his words into the tersest shape--not without a sense, as he did so, of his likeness to the surgeon deliberately poising his lancet for a clean incision. “I’m not sure,” he replied, “of its being the best thing for either of you.”

She took the stroke steadily, but a faint red swept her face like the reflection of a blush. She continued to keep her lowered eyes on the screen.

“From whose point of view do you speak?”

“Naturally, that of the persons most concerned.”

“From Owen’s, then, of course? You don’t think me a good match for him?”

“From yours, first of all. I don’t think him a good match for you.”

He brought the answer out abruptly, his eyes on her face. It had grown extremely pale, but as the meaning of his words shaped itself in her mind he saw a curious inner light dawn through her set look. She lifted her lids just far enough for a veiled glance at him, and a smile slipped through them to her trembling lips. For a moment the change merely bewildered him; then it pulled him up with a sharp jerk of apprehension.

“I don’t think him a good match for you,” he stammered, groping for the lost thread of his words.

She threw a vague look about the chilly rain-dimmed room. “And you’ve brought me here to tell me why?”

The question roused him to the sense that their minutes were numbered, and that if he did not immediately get to his point there might be no other chance of making it.

“My chief reason is that I believe he’s too young and inexperienced to give you the kind of support you need.”

At his words her face changed again, freezing to a tragic coldness. She stared straight ahead of her, perceptibly struggling with the tremor of her muscles; and when she had controlled it she flung out a pale-lipped pleasantry. “But you see I’ve always had to support myself!”

“He’s a boy,” Darrow pushed on, “a charming, wonderful boy; but with no more notion than a boy how to deal with the inevitable daily problems ... the trivial stupid unimportant things that life is chiefly made up of.” “I’ll deal with them for him,” she rejoined.

“They’ll be more than ordinarily difficult.”

She shot a challenging glance at him. “You must have some special reason for saying so.”

“Only my clear perception of the facts.”

“What facts do you mean?”

Darrow hesitated. “You must know better than I,” he returned at length, “that the way won’t be made easy to you.”

“Mrs. Leath, at any rate, has made it so.”

“Madame de Chantelle will not.”

“How do YOU know that?” she flung back.

He paused again, not sure how far it was prudent to reveal himself in the confidence of the household. Then, to avoid involving Anna, he answered: “Madame de Chantelle sent for me yesterday.”

“Sent for you--to talk to you about me?” The colour rose to her forehead and her eyes burned black under lowered brows. “By what right, I should like to know? What have you to do with me, or with anything in the world that concerns me?”

Darrow instantly perceived what dread suspicion again possessed her, and the sense that it was not wholly unjustified caused him a passing pang of shame. But it did not turn him from his purpose.

“I’m an old friend of Mrs. Leath’s. It’s not unnatural that Madame de Chantelle should talk to me.”

She dropped the screen on the table and stood up, turning on him the same small mask of wrath and scorn which had glared at him, in Paris, when he had confessed to his suppression of her letter. She walked away a step or two and then came back.

“May I ask what Madame de Chantelle said to you?”

“She made it clear that she should not encourage the marriage.”

“And what was her object in making that clear to YOU?”

Darrow hesitated. “I suppose she thought----”

“That she could persuade you to turn Mrs. Leath against me?”

He was silent, and she pressed him: “Was that it?” “That was it.”

“But if you don’t--if you keep your promise----”

“My promise?”

“To say nothing ... nothing whatever...” Her strained look threw a haggard light along the pause.

As she spoke, the whole odiousness of the scene rushed over him. “Of course I shall say nothing ... you know that...” He leaned to her and laid his hand on hers. “You know I wouldn’t for the world...”

She drew back and hid her face with a sob. Then she sank again into her seat, stretched her arms across the table and laid her face upon them. He sat still, overwhelmed with compunction. After a long interval, in which he had painfully measured the seconds by her hard-drawn breathing, she looked up at him with a face washed clear of bitterness.

“Don’t suppose I don’t know what you must have thought of me!”

The cry struck him down to a lower depth of self-abasement. “My poor child,” he felt like answering, “the shame of it is that I’ve never thought of you at all!” But he could only uselessly repeat: “I’ll do anything I can to help you.”

She sat silent, drumming the table with her hand. He saw that her doubt of him was allayed, and the perception made him more ashamed, as if her trust had first revealed to him how near he had come to not deserving it. Suddenly she began to speak.

“You think, then, I’ve no right to marry him?”

“No right? God forbid! I only meant----”

“That you’d rather I didn’t marry any friend of yours.” She brought it out deliberately, not as a question, but as a mere dispassionate statement of fact.

Darrow in turn stood up and wandered away helplessly to the window. He stood staring out through its small discoloured panes at the dim brown distances; then he moved back to the table.

“I’ll tell you exactly what I meant. You’ll be wretched if you marry a man you’re not in love with.”

He knew the risk of misapprehension that he ran, but he estimated his chances of success as precisely in proportion to his peril. If certain signs meant what he thought they did, he might yet--at what cost he would not stop to think--make his past pay for his future.

The girl, at his words, had lifted her head with a movement of surprise. Her eyes slowly reached his face and rested there in a gaze of deep interrogation. He held the look for a moment; then his own eyes dropped and he waited.

At length she began to speak. “You’re mistaken--you’re quite mistaken.”

He waited a moment longer. “Mistaken----?”

“In thinking what you think. I’m as happy as if I deserved it!” she suddenly proclaimed with a laugh.

She stood up and moved toward the door. “NOW are you satisfied?” she asked, turning her vividest face to him from the threshold.

XXI

Down the avenue there came to them, with the opening of the door, the voice of Owen’s motor. It was the signal which had interrupted their first talk, and again, instinctively, they drew apart at the sound. Without a word Darrow turned back into the room, while Sophy Viner went down the steps and walked back alone toward the court.

At luncheon the presence of the surgeon, and the non-appearance of Madame de Chantelle--who had excused herself on the plea of a headache--combined to shift the conversational centre of gravity; and Darrow, under shelter of the necessarily impersonal talk, had time to adjust his disguise and to perceive that the others were engaged in the same re-arrangement. It was the first time that he had seen young Leath and Sophy Viner together since he had learned of their engagement; but neither revealed more emotion than befitted the occasion. It was evident that Owen was deeply under the girl’s charm, and that at the least sign from her his bliss would have broken bounds; but her reticence was justified by the tacitly recognized fact of Madame de Chantelle’s disapproval. This also visibly weighed on Anna’s mind, making her manner to Sophy, if no less kind, yet a trifle more constrained than if the moment of final understanding had been reached. So Darrow interpreted the tension perceptible under the fluent exchange of commonplaces in which he was diligently sharing. But he was more and more aware of his inability to test the moral atmosphere about him: he was like a man in fever testing another’s temperature by the touch.

After luncheon Anna, who was to motor the surgeon home, suggested to Darrow that he should accompany them. Effie was also of the party; and Darrow inferred that Anna wished to give her step-son a chance to be alone with his betrothed. On the way back, after the surgeon had been left at his door, the little girl sat between her mother and Darrow, and her presence kept their talk from taking a personal turn. Darrow knew that Mrs. Leath had not yet told Effie of the relation in which he was to stand to her. The premature divulging of Owen’s plans had thrown their own into the background, and by common consent they continued, in the little girl’s presence, on terms of an informal friendliness.

The sky had cleared after luncheon, and to prolong their excursion they returned by way of the ivy-mantled ruin which was to have been the scene of the projected picnic. This circuit brought them back to the park gates not long before sunset, and as Anna wished to stop at the lodge for news of the injured child Darrow left her there with Effie and walked on alone to the house. He had the impression that she was slightly surprised at his not waiting for her; but his inner restlessness vented itself in an intense desire for bodily movement. He would have liked to walk himself into a state of torpor; to tramp on for hours through the moist winds and the healing darkness and come back staggering with fatigue and sleep. But he had no pretext for such a flight, and he feared that, at such a moment, his prolonged absence might seem singular to Anna.

As he approached the house, the thought of her nearness produced a swift reaction of mood. It was as if an intenser vision of her had scattered his perplexities like morning mists. At this moment, wherever she was, he knew he was safely shut away in her thoughts, and the knowledge made every other fact dwindle away to a shadow. He and she loved each other, and their love arched over them open and ample as the day: in all its sunlit spaces there was no cranny for a fear to lurk. In a few minutes he would be in her presence and would read his reassurance in her eyes. And presently, before dinner, she would contrive that they should have an hour by themselves in her sitting-room, and he would sit by the hearth and watch her quiet movements, and the way the bluish lustre on her hair purpled a little as she bent above the fire.

A carriage drove out of the court as he entered it, and in the hall his vision was dispelled by the exceedingly substantial presence of a lady in a waterproof and a tweed hat, who stood firmly planted in the centre of a pile of luggage, as to which she was giving involved but lucid directions to the footman who had just admitted her. She went on with these directions regardless of Darrow’s entrance, merely fixing her small pale eyes on him while she proceeded, in a deep contralto voice, and a fluent French pronounced with the purest Boston accent, to specify the destination of her bags; and this enabled Darrow to give her back a gaze protracted enough to take in all the details of her plain thick-set person, from the square sallow face beneath bands of grey hair to the blunt boot-toes protruding under her wide walking skirt.

She submitted to this scrutiny with no more evidence of surprise than a monument examined by a tourist; but when the fate of her luggage had been settled she turned suddenly to Darrow and, dropping her eyes from his face to his feet, asked in trenchant accents: “What sort of boots have you got on?”

Before he could summon his wits to the consideration of this question she continued in a tone of suppressed indignation: “Until Americans get used to the fact that France is under water for half the year they’re perpetually risking their lives by not being properly protected. I suppose you’ve been tramping through all this nasty clammy mud as if you’d been taking a stroll on Boston Common.”

Darrow, with a laugh, affirmed his previous experience of French dampness, and the degree to which he was on his guard against it; but the lady, with a contemptuous snort, rejoined: “You young men are all alike----“; to which she appended, after another hard look at him: “I suppose you’re George Darrow? I used to know one of your mother’s cousins, who married a Tunstall of Mount Vernon Street. My name is Adelaide Painter. Have you been in Boston lately? No? I’m sorry for that. I hear there have been several new houses built at the lower end of Commonwealth Avenue and I hoped you could tell me about them. I haven’t been there for thirty years myself.”

Miss Painter’s arrival at Givre produced the same effect as the wind’s hauling around to the north after days of languid weather. When Darrow joined the group about the tea-table she had already given a tingle to the air. Madame de Chantelle still remained invisible above stairs; but Darrow had the impression that even through her drawn curtains and bolted doors a stimulating whiff must have entered.

Anna was in her usual seat behind the tea-tray, and Sophy Viner presently led in her pupil. Owen was also there, seated, as usual, a little apart from the others, and following Miss Painter’s massive movements and equally substantial utterances with a smile of secret intelligence which gave Darrow the idea of his having been in clandestine parley with the enemy. Darrow further took note that the girl and her suitor perceptibly avoided each other; but this might be a natural result of the tension Miss Painter had been summoned to relieve.

Sophy Viner would evidently permit no recognition of the situation save that which it lay with Madame de Chantelle to accord; but meanwhile Miss Painter had proclaimed her tacit sense of it by summoning the girl to a seat at her side.

Darrow, as he continued to observe the newcomer, who was perched on her arm-chair like a granite image on the edge of a cliff, was aware that, in a more detached frame of mind, he would have found an extreme interest in studying and classifying Miss Painter. It was not that she said anything remarkable, or betrayed any of those unspoken perceptions which give significance to the most commonplace utterances. She talked of the lateness of her train, of an impending crisis in international politics, of the difficulty of buying English tea in Paris and of the enormities of which French servants were capable; and her views on these subjects were enunciated with a uniformity of emphasis implying complete unconsciousness of any difference in their interest and importance. She always applied to the French race the distant epithet of “those people”, but she betrayed an intimate acquaintance with many of its members, and an encyclopaedic knowledge of the domestic habits, financial difficulties and private complications of various persons of social importance. Yet, as she evidently felt no incongruity in her attitude, so she revealed no desire to parade her familiarity with the fashionable, or indeed any sense of it as a fact to be paraded. It was evident that the titled ladies whom she spoke of as Mimi or Simone or Odette were as much “those people” to her as the bonne who tampered with her tea and steamed the stamps off her letters (“when, by a miracle, I don’t put them in the box myself.”) Her whole attitude was of a vast grim tolerance of things-as-they-came, as though she had been some wonderful automatic machine which recorded facts but had not yet been perfected to the point of sorting or labelling them.

All this, as Darrow was aware, still fell short of accounting for the influence she obviously exerted on the persons in contact with her. It brought a slight relief to his state of tension to go on wondering, while he watched and listened, just where the mystery lurked. Perhaps, after all, it was in the fact of her blank insensibility, an insensibility so devoid of egotism that it had no hardness and no grimaces, but rather the freshness of a simpler mental state. After living, as he had, as they all had, for the last few days, in an atmosphere perpetually tremulous with echoes and implications, it was restful and fortifying merely to walk into the big blank area of Miss Painter’s mind, so vacuous for all its accumulated items, so echoless for all its vacuity.

His hope of a word with Anna before dinner was dispelled by her rising to take Miss Painter up to Madame de Chantelle; and he wandered away to his own room, leaving Owen and Miss Viner engaged in working out a picture-puzzle for Effie.

Madame de Chantelle--possibly as the result of her friend’s ministrations--was able to appear at the dinner-table, rather pale and pink-nosed, and casting tenderly reproachful glances at her grandson, who faced them with impervious serenity; and the situation was relieved by the fact that Miss Viner, as usual, had remained in the school-room with her pupil.

Darrow conjectured that the real clash of arms would not take place till the morrow; and wishing to leave the field open to the contestants he set out early on a solitary walk. It was nearly luncheon-time when he returned from it and came upon Anna just emerging from the house. She had on her hat and jacket and was apparently coming forth to seek him, for she said at once: “Madame de Chantelle wants you to go up to her.”

“To go up to her? Now?”

“That’s the message she sent. She appears to rely on you to do something.” She added with a smile: “Whatever it is, let’s have it over!”

Darrow, through his rising sense of apprehension, wondered why, instead of merely going for a walk, he had not jumped into the first train and got out of the way till Owen’s affairs were finally settled.

“But what in the name of goodness can I do?” he protested, following Anna back into the hall.

“I don’t know. But Owen seems so to rely on you, too----”

“Owen! Is HE to be there?”

“No. But you know I told him he could count on you.”

“But I’ve said to your mother-in-law all I could.”

“Well, then you can only repeat it.”

This did not seem to Darrow to simplify his case as much as she appeared to think; and once more he had a movement of recoil. “There’s no possible reason for my being mixed up in this affair!”

Anna gave him a reproachful glance. “Not the fact that I am?” she reminded him; but even this only stiffened his resistance.

“Why should you be, either--to this extent?”

The question made her pause. She glanced about the hall, as if to be sure they had it to themselves; and then, in a lowered voice: “I don’t know,” she suddenly confessed; “but, somehow, if THEY’RE not happy I feel as if we shouldn’t be.”

“Oh, well--” Darrow acquiesced, in the tone of the man who perforce yields to so lovely an unreasonableness. Escape was, after all, impossible, and he could only resign himself to being led to Madame de Chantelle’s door.

Within, among the bric-a-brac and furbelows, he found Miss Painter seated in a redundant purple armchair with the incongruous air of a horseman bestriding a heavy mount. Madame de Chantelle sat opposite, still a little wan and disordered under her elaborate hair, and clasping the handkerchief whose visibility symbolized her distress. On the young man’s entrance she sighed out a plaintive welcome, to which she immediately appended: “Mr. Darrow, I can’t help feeling that at heart you’re with me!”

The directness of the challenge made it easier for Darrow to protest, and he reiterated his inability to give an opinion on either side.

“But Anna declares you have--on hers!”

He could not restrain a smile at this faint flaw in an impartiality so scrupulous. Every evidence of feminine inconsequence in Anna seemed to attest her deeper subjection to the most inconsequent of passions. He had certainly promised her his help--but before he knew what he was promising.

He met Madame de Chantelle’s appeal by replying: “If there were anything I could possibly say I should want it to be in Miss Viner’s favour.”

“You’d want it to be--yes! But could you make it so?”

“As far as facts go, I don’t see how I can make it either for or against her. I’ve already said that I know nothing of her except that she’s charming.”

“As if that weren’t enough--weren’t all there OUGHT to be!” Miss Painter put in impatiently. She seemed to address herself to Darrow, though her small eyes were fixed on her friend.

“Madame de Chantelle seems to imagine,” she pursued, “that a young American girl ought to have a dossier--a police-record, or whatever you call it: what those awful women in the streets have here. In our country it’s enough to know that a young girl’s pure and lovely: people don’t immediately ask her to show her bank-account and her visiting-list.”

Madame de Chantelle looked plaintively at her sturdy monitress. “You don’t expect me not to ask if she’s got a family?”

“No; nor to think the worse of her if she hasn’t. The fact that she’s an orphan ought, with your ideas, to be a merit. You won’t have to invite her father and mother to Givre!”

“Adelaide--Adelaide!” the mistress of Givre lamented.

“Lucretia Mary,” the other returned--and Darrow spared an instant’s amusement to the quaint incongruity of the name--“you know you sent for Mr. Darrow to refute me; and how can he, till he knows what I think?”

“You think it’s perfectly simple to let Owen marry a girl we know nothing about?”

“No; but I don’t think it’s perfectly simple to prevent him.”

The shrewdness of the answer increased Darrow’s interest in Miss Painter. She had not hitherto struck him as being a person of much penetration, but he now felt sure that her gimlet gaze might bore to the heart of any practical problem.

Madame de Chantelle sighed out her recognition of the difficulty.

“I haven’t a word to say against Miss Viner; but she’s knocked about so, as it’s called, that she must have been mixed up with some rather dreadful people. If only Owen could be made to see that--if one could get at a few facts, I mean. She says, for instance, that she has a sister; but it seems she doesn’t even know her address!”

“If she does, she may not want to give it to you. I daresay the sister’s one of the dreadful people. I’ve no doubt that with a little time you could rake up dozens of them: have her ‘traced’, as they call it in detective stories. I don’t think you’d frighten Owen, but you might: it’s natural enough he should have been corrupted by those foreign ideas. You might even manage to part him from the girl; but you couldn’t keep him from being in love with her. I saw that when I looked them over last evening. I said to myself: ‘It’s a real old-fashioned American case, as sweet and sound as home-made bread.’ Well, if you take his loaf away from him, what are you going to feed him with instead? Which of your nasty Paris poisons do you think he’ll turn to? Supposing you succeed in keeping him out of a really bad mess--and, knowing the young man as I do, I rather think that, at this crisis, the only way to do it would be to marry him slap off to somebody else--well, then, who, may I ask, would you pick out? One of your sweet French ingenues, I suppose? With as much mind as a minnow and as much snap as a soft-boiled egg. You might hustle him into that kind of marriage; I daresay you could--but if I know Owen, the natural thing would happen before the first baby was weaned.”

“I don’t know why you insinuate such odious things against Owen!”

“Do you think it would be odious of him to return to his real love when he’d been forcibly parted from her? At any rate, it’s what your French friends do, every one of them! Only they don’t generally have the grace to go back to an old love; and I believe, upon my word, Owen would!”

Madame de Chantelle looked at her with a mixture of awe and exultation. “Of course you realize, Adelaide, that in suggesting this you’re insinuating the most shocking things against Miss Viner?”

“When I say that if you part two young things who are dying to be happy in the lawful way it’s ten to one they’ll come together in an unlawful one? I’m insinuating shocking things against YOU, Lucretia Mary, in suggesting for a moment that you’ll care to assume such a responsibility before your Maker. And you wouldn’t, if you talked things straight out with him, instead of merely sending him messages through a miserable sinner like yourself!”

Darrow expected this assault on her adopted creed to provoke in Madame de Chantelle an explosion of pious indignation; but to his surprise she merely murmured: “I don’t know what Mr. Darrow’ll think of you!”

“Mr. Darrow probably knows his Bible as well as I do,” Miss Painter calmly rejoined; adding a moment later, without the least perceptible change of voice or expression: “I suppose you’ve heard that Gisele de Folembray’s husband accuses her of being mixed up with the Duc d’Arcachon in that business of trying to sell a lot of imitation pearls to Mrs. Homer Pond, the Chicago woman the Duke’s engaged to? It seems the jeweller says Gisele brought Mrs. Pond there, and got twenty-five per cent--which of course she passed on to d’Arcachon. The poor old Duchess is in a fearful state--so afraid her son’ll lose Mrs. Pond! When I think that Gisele is old Bradford Wagstaff’s grand-daughter, I’m thankful he’s safe in Mount Auburn!”

XXII

It was not until late that afternoon that Darrow could claim his postponed hour with Anna. When at last he found her alone in her sitting-room it was with a sense of liberation so great that he sought no logical justification of it. He simply felt that all their destinies were in Miss Painter’s grasp, and that, resistance being useless, he could only enjoy the sweets of surrender.

Anna herself seemed as happy, and for more explicable reasons. She had assisted, after luncheon, at another debate between Madame de Chantelle and her confidant, and had surmised, when she withdrew from it, that victory was permanently perched on Miss Painter’s banners.

“I don’t know how she does it, unless it’s by the dead weight of her convictions. She detests the French so that she’d back up Owen even if she knew nothing--or knew too much--of Miss Viner. She somehow regards the match as a protest against the corruption of European morals. I told Owen that was his great chance, and he’s made the most of it.”

“What a tactician you are! You make me feel that I hardly know the rudiments of diplomacy,” Darrow smiled at her, abandoning himself to a perilous sense of well-being.

She gave him back his smile. “I’m afraid I think nothing short of my own happiness is worth wasting any diplomacy on!”

“That’s why I mean to resign from the service of my country,” he rejoined with a laugh of deep content.

The feeling that both resistance and apprehension were vain was working like wine in his veins. He had done what he could to deflect the course of events: now he could only stand aside and take his chance of safety. Underneath this fatalistic feeling was the deep sense of relief that he had, after all, said and done nothing that could in the least degree affect the welfare of Sophy Viner. That fact took a millstone off his neck.

Meanwhile he gave himself up once more to the joy of Anna’s presence. They had not been alone together for two long days, and he had the lover’s sense that he had forgotten, or at least underestimated, the strength of the spell she cast. Once more her eyes and her smile seemed to bound his world. He felt that their light would always move with him as the sunset moves before a ship at sea.

The next day his sense of security was increased by a decisive incident. It became known to the expectant household that Madame de Chantelle had yielded to the tremendous impact of Miss Painter’s determination and that Sophy Viner had been “sent for” to the purple satin sitting-room.

At luncheon, Owen’s radiant countenance proclaimed the happy sequel, and Darrow, when the party had moved back to the oak-room for coffee, deemed it discreet to wander out alone to the terrace with his cigar. The conclusion of Owen’s romance brought his own plans once more to the front. Anna had promised that she would consider dates and settle details as soon as Madame de Chantelle and her grandson had been reconciled, and Darrow was eager to go into the question at once, since it was necessary that the preparations for his marriage should go forward as rapidly as possible. Anna, he knew, would not seek any farther pretext for delay; and he strolled up and down contentedly in the sunshine, certain that she would come out and reassure him as soon as the reunited family had claimed its due share of her attention.

But when she finally joined him her first word was for the younger lovers.

“I want to thank you for what you’ve done for Owen,” she began, with her happiest smile.

“Who--I?” he laughed. “Are you confusing me with Miss Painter?”

“Perhaps I ought to say for ME,” she corrected herself. “You’ve been even more of a help to us than Adelaide.”

“My dear child! What on earth have I done?”

“You’ve managed to hide from Madame de Chantelle that you don’t really like poor Sophy.”

Darrow felt the pallour in his cheek. “Not like her? What put such an idea into your head?”

“Oh, it’s more than an idea--it’s a feeling. But what difference does it make, after all? You saw her in such a different setting that it’s natural you should be a little doubtful. But when you know her better I’m sure you’ll feel about her as I do.”

“It’s going to be hard for me not to feel about everything as you do.”

“Well, then--please begin with my daughter-in-law!”

He gave her back in the same tone of banter: “Agreed: if you ll agree to feel as I do about the pressing necessity of our getting married.”

“I want to talk to you about that too. You don’t know what a weight is off my mind! With Sophy here for good, I shall feel so differently about leaving Effie. I’ve seen much more accomplished governesses--to my cost!--but I’ve never seen a young thing more gay and kind and human. You must have noticed, though you’ve seen them so little together, how Effie expands when she’s with her. And that, you know, is what I want. Madame de Chantelle will provide the necessary restraint.” She clasped her hands on his arm. “Yes, I’m ready to go with you now. But first of all--this very moment!--you must come with me to Effie. She knows, of course, nothing of what’s been happening; and I want her to be told first about YOU.”

Effie, sought throughout the house, was presently traced to the school-room, and thither Darrow mounted with Anna. He had never seen her so alight with happiness, and he had caught her buoyancy of mood. He kept repeating to himself: “It’s over--it’s over,” as if some monstrous midnight hallucination had been routed by the return of day.

As they approached the school-room door the terrier’s barks came to them through laughing remonstrances.

“She’s giving him his dinner,” Anna whispered, her hand in Darrow’s.

“Don’t forget the gold-fish!” they heard another voice call out.

Darrow halted on the threshold. “Oh--not now!”

“Not now?”

“I mean--she’d rather have you tell her first. I’ll wait for you both downstairs.”

He was aware that she glanced at him intently. “As you please. I’ll bring her down at once.”

She opened the door, and as she went in he heard her say: “No, Sophy, don’t go! I want you both.”

The rest of Darrow’s day was a succession of empty and agitating scenes. On his way down to Givre, before he had seen Effie Leath, he had pictured somewhat sentimentally the joy of the moment when he should take her in his arms and receive her first filial kiss. Everything in him that egotistically craved for rest, stability, a comfortably organized middle-age, all the home-building instincts of the man who has sufficiently wooed and wandered, combined to throw a charm about the figure of the child who might--who should--have been his. Effie came to him trailing the cloud of glory of his first romance, giving him back the magic hour he had missed and mourned. And how different the realization of his dream had been! The child’s radiant welcome, her unquestioning acceptance of, this new figure in the family group, had been all that he had hoped and fancied. If Mother was so awfully happy about it, and Owen and Granny, too, how nice and cosy and comfortable it was going to be for all of them, her beaming look seemed to say; and then, suddenly, the small pink fingers he had been kissing were laid on the one flaw in the circle, on the one point which must be settled before Effie could, with complete unqualified assurance, admit the new-comer to full equality with the other gods of her Olympus.

“And is Sophy awfully happy about it too?” she had asked, loosening her hold on Darrow’s neck to tilt back her head and include her mother in her questioning look.

“Why, dearest, didn’t you see she was?” Anna had exclaimed, leaning to the group with radiant eyes.

“I think I should like to ask her,” the child rejoined, after a minute’s shy consideration; and as Darrow set her down her mother laughed: “Do, darling, do! Run off at once, and tell her we expect her to be awfully happy too.”

The scene had been succeeded by others less poignant but almost as trying. Darrow cursed his luck in having, at such a moment, to run the gauntlet of a houseful of interested observers. The state of being “engaged”, in itself an absurd enough predicament, even to a man only intermittently exposed, became intolerable under the continuous scrutiny of a small circle quivering with participation. Darrow was furthermore aware that, though the case of the other couple ought to have made his own less conspicuous, it was rather they who found a refuge in the shadow of his prominence. Madame de Chantelle, though she had consented to Owen’s engagement and formally welcomed his betrothed, was nevertheless not sorry to show, by her reception of Darrow, of what finely-shaded degrees of cordiality she was capable. Miss Painter, having won the day for Owen, was also free to turn her attention to the newer candidate for her sympathy; and Darrow and Anna found themselves immersed in a warm bath of sentimental curiosity.

It was a relief to Darrow that he was under a positive obligation to end his visit within the next forty-eight hours. When he left London, his Ambassador had accorded him a ten days’ leave. His fate being definitely settled and openly published he had no reason for asking to have the time prolonged, and when it was over he was to return to his post till the time fixed for taking up his new duties. Anna and he had therefore decided to be married, in Paris, a day or two before the departure of the steamer which was to take them to South America; and Anna, shortly after his return to England, was to go up to Paris and begin her own preparations.

In honour of the double betrothal Effie and Miss Viner were to appear that evening at dinner; and Darrow, on leaving his room, met the little girl springing down the stairs, her white ruffles and coral-coloured bows making her look like a daisy with her yellow hair for its centre. Sophy Viner was behind her pupil, and as she came into the light Darrow noticed a change in her appearance and wondered vaguely why she looked suddenly younger, more vivid, more like the little luminous ghost of his Paris memories. Then it occurred to him that it was the first time she had appeared at dinner since his arrival at Givre, and the first time, consequently, that he had seen her in evening dress. She was still at the age when the least adornment embellishes; and no doubt the mere uncovering of her young throat and neck had given her back her former brightness. But a second glance showed a more precise reason for his impression. Vaguely though he retained such details, he felt sure she was wearing the dress he had seen her in every evening in Paris. It was a simple enough dress, black, and transparent on the arms and shoulders, and he would probably not have recognized it if she had not called his attention to it in Paris by confessing that she hadn’t any other. “The same dress? That proves that she’s forgotten!” was his first half-ironic thought; but the next moment, with a pang of compunction, he said to himself that she had probably put it on for the same reason as before: simply because she hadn’t any other.

He looked at her in silence, and for an instant, above Effie’s bobbing head, she gave him back his look in a full bright gaze.

“Oh, there’s Owen!” Effie cried, and whirled away down the gallery to the door from which her step-brother was emerging. As Owen bent to catch her, Sophy Viner turned abruptly back to Darrow.

“You, too?” she said with a quick laugh. “I didn’t know----” And as Owen came up to them she added, in a tone that might have been meant to reach his ear: “I wish you all the luck that we can spare!”

About the dinner-table, which Effie, with Miss Viner’s aid, had lavishly garlanded, the little party had an air of somewhat self-conscious festivity. In spite of flowers, champagne and a unanimous attempt at ease, there were frequent lapses in the talk, and moments of nervous groping for new subjects. Miss Painter alone seemed not only unaffected by the general perturbation but as tightly sealed up in her unconsciousness of it as a diver in his bell. To Darrow’s strained attention even Owen’s gusts of gaiety seemed to betray an inward sense of insecurity. After dinner, however, at the piano, he broke into a mood of extravagant hilarity and flooded the room with the splash and ripple of his music.

Darrow, sunk in a sofa corner in the lee of Miss Painter’s granite bulk, smoked and listened in silence, his eyes moving from one figure to another. Madame de Chantelle, in her armchair near the fire, clasped her little granddaughter to her with the gesture of a drawing-room Niobe, and Anna, seated near them, had fallen into one of the attitudes of vivid calm which seemed to Darrow to express her inmost quality. Sophy Viner, after moving uncertainly about the room, had placed herself beyond Mrs. Leath, in a chair near the piano, where she sat with head thrown back and eyes attached to the musician, in the same rapt fixity of attention with which she had followed the players at the Francais. The accident of her having fallen into the same attitude, and of her wearing the same dress, gave Darrow, as he watched her, a strange sense of double consciousness. To escape from it, his glance turned back to Anna; but from the point at which he was placed his eyes could not take in the one face without the other, and that renewed the disturbing duality of the impression. Suddenly Owen broke off with a crash of chords and jumped to his feet.

“What’s the use of this, with such a moon to say it for us?”

Behind the uncurtained window a low golden orb hung like a ripe fruit against the glass.

“Yes--let’s go out and listen,” Anna answered. Owen threw open the window, and with his gesture a fold of the heavy star-sprinkled sky seemed to droop into the room like a drawn-in curtain. The air that entered with it had a frosty edge, and Anna bade Effie run to the hall for wraps.

Darrow said: “You must have one too,” and started toward the door; but Sophy, following her pupil, cried back: “We’ll bring things for everybody.”

Owen had followed her, and in a moment the three reappeared, and the party went out on the terrace. The deep blue purity of the night was unveiled by mist, and the moonlight rimmed the edges of the trees with a silver blur and blanched to unnatural whiteness the statues against their walls of shade.

Darrow and Anna, with Effie between them, strolled to the farther corner of the terrace. Below them, between the fringes of the park, the lawn sloped dimly to the fields above the river. For a few minutes they stood silently side by side, touched to peace beneath the trembling beauty of the sky. When they turned back, Darrow saw that Owen and Sophy Viner, who had gone down the steps to the garden, were also walking in the direction of the house. As they advanced, Sophy paused in a patch of moonlight, between the sharp shadows of the yews, and Darrow noticed that she had thrown over her shoulders a long cloak of some light colour, which suddenly evoked her image as she had entered the restaurant at his side on the night of their first dinner in Paris. A moment later they were all together again on the terrace, and when they re-entered the drawing-room the older ladies were on their way to bed.

Effie, emboldened by the privileges of the evening, was for coaxing Owen to round it off with a game of forfeits or some such reckless climax; but Sophy, resuming her professional role, sounded the summons to bed. In her pupil’s wake she made her round of good-nights; but when she proffered her hand to Anna, the latter ignoring the gesture held out both arms.

“Good-night, dear child,” she said impulsively, and drew the girl to her kiss.