Complete Novels of E Nesbit, page 338
“Why did you promise?” she asked herself. And herself replied:
“Don’t you bother. We’ll talk about all that when we’ve got away from Paris. He was quite right. You can’t think here.”
“You’d better tell the cabman some other station. That cat of a concierge is sure to be listening.”
“Ah, right. I don’t want to give him any chance of finding me, even if he did say he wanted to marry me.”
A fleet lovely picture of herself in bridal smart travelling clothes arriving at the Rectory on Vernon’s arm:
“Aren’t you sorry you misjudged him so, Father?” Gentle accents refraining from reproach. A very pretty picture. Yes. Dismissed.
Now the carriage swaying under the mound of Betty’s luggage starts for the Gare du Nord. In the Rue Notre Dame des Champs Betty opens her mouth to say, “Gare de Lyons.” No: this is his street. Better cross it as quickly as may be. At the Church of St. Germain — yes.
The coachman smiles at the new order: like the concierge he scents an intrigue, whips up his horse, and swings round to the left along the prettiest of all the boulevards, between the full-leafed trees. Past Thirion’s. Ah!
That thought, or pang, or nausea — Betty doesn’t quite know what it is — keeps her eyes from the streets till the carriage is crossing the river. Why — there is Notre Dame! It ought to be miles away. Suppose Vernon should have been leaning out of his window when she passed across the street, seen her, divined her destination, followed her in the fleetest carriage accessible? The vision of a meeting at the station:
“Why are you going away? What have I done?” The secret of this, her great renunciation — the whole life’s sacrifice to that life’s idol — honor, wrung from her. A hand that would hold hers — under pretence of taking her bundle of rugs to carry. — She wished the outermost rug were less shabby! Vernon’s voice.
“But I can’t let you go. Why ruin two lives — nay, three? For it is you only that I—”
Dismissed.
It is very hot. Paris is the hottest place in the world. Betty is glad she brought lavender water in her bag. Wishes she had put on her other hat. This brown one is hot; and besides, if Vernon were to be at the station. Interval. Dismissed.
Betty has never before made a railway journey alone. This gives one a forlorn feeling. Suppose she has to pay excess on her luggage, or to wrangle about contraband? She has heard all about the Octroi. Is lavender water smuggling? And what can they do to you for it? Vernon would know all these things. And if he were going into the country he would be wearing that almost-white rough suit of his and the Panama hat. A rose — Madame Abel de Chatenay — would go well with that coat. Why didn’t brides consult their bridegrooms before they bought their trousseaux? You should get your gowns to rhyme with your husband’s suits. A dream of a dress that would be, with all the shades of Madame Abel cunningly blended. A honeymoon lasts at least a month. The roses would all be out at Long Barton by the time they walked up that moss-grown drive, and stood at the Rectory door, and she murmured in the ear of the Reverend Cecil: “Aren’t you sorry you—”
Dismissed. And perforce, for the station was reached.
Betty, even in the brown hat, attracted the most attractive of the porters — also, of course, the most attractable. He thought he spoke English, and though this was not so, yet the friendly blink of his Breton-blue eyes and his encouraging smile gave to his:
“Bourron? Mais oui — dix heures vingt. Par ici, Meess. Je m’occuperai de vous. Et des bagages aussi — all right,” quite the ring of one’s mother tongue.
He made everything easy for Betty, found her a carriage without company (“I can cry here if I like,” said the Betty that Betty liked least), arranged her small packages neatly in the rack, took her 50 centime piece as though it had been a priceless personal souvenir, and ran half the length of the platform to get a rose from another porter’s button-hole. He handed it to her through the carriage window.
“Pour égayer le voyage de Meess. All right!” he smiled, and was gone.
She settled herself in the far corner, and took off her hat. The carriage was hot as any kitchen. With her teeth she drew the cork of the lavender water bottle, and with her handkerchief dabbed the perfume on forehead and ears.
“Ah, Mademoiselle — De grace!” — the voice came through the open window beside her. A train full of young soldiers was beside her train, and in the window opposite hers three boys’ faces crowded to look at her. Three hands held out three handkerchiefs — not very white certainly, but —
Betty smiling reached out the bottle and poured lavender water on each outheld handkerchief.
“Ah, le bon souvenir!” said one.
“We shall think of the beauty of an angel of Mademoiselle every time we smell the perfume so delicious,” said the second.
“And longer than that — oh, longer than that by all a life!” cried the third.
The train started. The honest, smiling boy faces disappeared. Instinctively she put her head out of the window to look back at them. All three threw kisses at her.
“I ought to be offended,” said Betty, and instantly kissed her hand in return.
“How nice French people are!” she said as she sank back on the hot cushions.
And now there was leisure to think — real thoughts, not those broken, harassing dreamings that had buzzed about her between 57 Boulevard Montparnasse and the station. Also, as some one had suggested, one could cry.
She leaned back, eyes shut. Her next thought was:
“I have been to sleep.”
She had. The train was moving out of a station labelled Fontainebleau.
“And oh, the trees!” said Betty, “the green thick trees! And the sky. You can see the sky.”
Through the carriage window she drank delight from the far grandeur of green distances, the intimate beauty of green rides, green vistas, as a thirsty carter drinks beer from the cool lip of his can — a thirsty lover madness from the warm lips of his mistress.
“Oh, how good! How green and good!” she told herself over and over again till the words made a song with the rhythm of the blundering train and the humming metals.
“Bourron!”
Her station. Little, quiet, sunlit, like the station at Long Barton; a flaming broom bush and the white of May and acacia blossom beyond prim palings; no platform — a long leap to the dusty earth. The train went on, and Betty and her boxes seemed dropped suddenly at the world’s end.
The air was fresh and still. A chestnut tree reared its white blossoms like the candles on a Christmas tree for giant children. The white dust of the platform sparkled like diamond dust. May trees and laburnums shone like silver and gold. And the sun was warm and the tree-shadows black on the grass. And Betty loved it all.
“Oh!” she said suddenly, “it’s a year ago to-day since I met him — in the warren.”
A shadow caressed and stung her. She would have liked it to wear the mask of love foregone — to have breathed plaintively of hopes defeated and a broken heart. Instead it shewed the candid face of a real homesickness, and it spoke with convincing and abominably aggravating plainness — of Long Barton.
The little hooded diligence was waiting in the hot white dust outside the station.
“But yes. — It is I who transport all the guests of Madame Chevillon,” said the smiling brown-haired bonnetless woman who held the reins.
Betty climbed up beside her.
Along a straight road that tall ranks of trees guarded but did not shade, through the patchwork neatness of the little culture that makes the deep difference between peasant France and pastoral England, down a steep hill into a little white town, where vines grew out of the very street to cling against the faces of the houses and wistaria hung its mauve pendants from every arch and lintel.
The Hotel Chevillon is a white-faced house, with little unintelligent eyes of windows, burnt blind, it seems, in the sun — neat with the neatness of Provincial France.
Out shuffled an old peasant woman in short skirt, heavy shoes and big apron, her arms bared to the elbow, a saucepan in one hand, a ladle in the other. She beamed at Betty.
“I wish to see Madame Chevillon.”
“You see her, ma belle et bonne,” chuckled the old woman. “It is me, Madame Chevillon. You will rooms, is it not? You are artist? All who come to the Hotel are artist. Rooms? Marie shall show you the rooms, at the instant even. All the rooms — except one — that is the room of the English Artist — all that there is of most amiable, but quite mad. He wears no hat, and his brain boils in the sun. Mademoiselle can chat with him: it will prevent that she bores herself here in the Forest.”
Betty disliked the picture.
“I think perhaps,” she said, translating mentally as she spoke, “that I should do better to go to another hotel, if there is only one man here and he is—”
She saw days made tiresome by the dodging of a lunatic — nights made tremulous by a lunatic’s yelling soliloquies.
“Ah,” said Madame Chevillon comfortably, “I thought Mademoiselle was artist; and for the artists and the Spaniards the convenances exist not. But Mademoiselle is also English. They eat the convenances every day with the soup. — See then, my cherished. The English man, he is not a dangerous fool, only a beast of the good God; he has the atelier and the room at the end of the corridor. But there is, besides the Hotel, the Garden Pavilion, un appartement of two rooms, exquisite, on the first, and the garden room that opens big upon the terrace. It is there that Mademoiselle will be well!”
Betty thought so too, when she had seen the “rooms exquisite on the first” — neat, bare, well-scrubbed rooms with red-tiled floors, scanty rugs and Frenchly varnished furniture — the garden room too, with big open hearth and no furniture but wicker chairs and tables.
“Mademoiselle can eat all alone on the terrace. The English mad shall not approach. I will charge myself with that. Mademoiselle may repose herself here as on the bosom of the mother of Mademoiselle.”
Betty had her déjeuner on the little stone terrace with rickety rustic railings. Below lay the garden, thick with trees.
Away among the trees to the left an arbour. She saw through the leaves the milk-white gleam of flannels, heard the chink of china and cutlery. There, no doubt, the mad Englishman was even now breakfasting. There was the width of the garden between them. She sat still till the flannel gleam had gone away among the trees. Then she went out and explored the little town. She bought a blue packet of cigarettes. Miss Voscoe had often tried to persuade her to smoke. Most of the girls did. Betty had not wanted to do it any more for that. She had had a feeling that Vernon would not like her to smoke.
And in Paris one had to be careful. But now —
“I am absolutely my own master,” she said. “I am staying by myself at a hotel, exactly like a man. I shall feel more at home if I smoke. And besides, no one can see me. It’s just for me. And it shows I don’t care what he likes.”
Lying in a long chair reading one of her Tauchnitz books and smoking, Betty felt very manly indeed.
The long afternoon wore on. The trees of the garden crowded round Betty with soft whispers in a language not known of the trees on the boulevards.
“I am very very unhappy,” said Betty with a deep sigh of delight.
She went in, unpacked, arranged everything neatly. She always arranged everything neatly, but nothing ever would stay arranged. She wrote to her father, explaining that Madame Gautier had brought her and the other girls to Grez for the summer, and she gave as her address:
Chez Madame Chevillon, Pavilion du Jardin, Grez.
“I shall be very very unhappy to-morrow,” said Betty that night, laying her face against the coarse cool linen of her pillow; “to-day I have been stunned — I haven’t been able to feel anything. But to-morrow.”
To-morrow, she knew, would be golden and green even as to-day. But she should not care. She did not want to be happy. How could she be happy now that she had of her own free will put away the love of her life? She called and beckoned to all the thoughts that the green world shut out, and they came at her call, fluttering black wings to hide the sights and sounds of field and wood and green garden, and making their nest in her heart.
“Yes,” she said, turning the hot rough pillow, “now it begins to hurt again. I knew it would.”
It hurt more than she had meant it to hurt, when she beckoned those black-winged thoughts. It hurt so much that she could not sleep. She got up and leaned from the window.
She wondered where Vernon was. It was quite early. Not eleven. Lady St. Craye had called that quite early.
“He’s with her, of course,” said Betty, “sitting at her feet, no doubt, and looking up at her hateful eyes, and holding her horrid hand, and forgetting that he ever knew a girl named Me.”
Betty dressed and went out.
She crossed the garden. It was very dark among the trees. It would be lighter in the road.
The big yard door was ajar. She pushed it softly. It creaked and let her through into the silent street. There were no lights in the hotel, no lights in any of the houses.
She stood a moment, hesitating. A door creaked inside the hotel. She took the road to the river.
“I wonder if people ever do drown themselves for love,” said Betty: “he’d be sorry then.”
CHAPTER XXII. THE LUNATIC.
The night kept its promise. Betty, slipping from the sleeping house into the quiet darkness, seemed to slip into a poppy-fringed pool of oblivion. The night laid fresh, cold hands on her tired eyes, and shut out many things. She paused for a minute on the bridge to listen to the restful restless whisper of the water against the rough stone.
Her eyes growing used to the darkness discerned the white ribbon of road unrolling before her. The trees were growing thicker. This must be the forest. Certainly it was the forest.
“How dark it is,” she said, “how dear and dark! And how still! I suppose the trams are running just the same along the Boulevard Montparnasse, — and all the lights and people, and the noise. And I’ve been there all these months — and all the time this was here — this!”
Paris was going on — all that muddle and maze of worried people. And she was out of it all; here, alone.
Alone? A quick terror struck at the heart of her content. An abrupt horrible certainty froze her — the certainty that she was not alone. There was some living thing besides herself in the forest, quite near her — something other than the deer and the squirrels and the quiet dainty woodland people. She felt it in every fibre long before she heard that faint light sound that was not one of the forest noises. She stood still and listened.
She had never been frightened of the dark — of the outdoor dark. At Long Barton she had never been afraid even to go past the church-yard in the dark night — the free night that had never held any terrors, only dreams.
But now: she quickened her pace, and — yes — footsteps came on behind her. And in front the long straight ribbon of the road unwound, gray now in the shadow. There seemed to be no road turning to right or left. She could not go on forever. She would have to turn, sometime — if not now, yet sometime — in this black darkness, and then she would meet this thing that trod so softly, so stealthily behind her.
Before she knew that she had ceased to walk, she was crouched in the black between two bushes. She had leapt as the deer leaps, and crouched, still as any deer.
Her dark blue linen gown was one with the forest shadows. She breathed noiselessly — her eyes were turned to the gray ribbon of road that had been behind her. She had heard. Now she would see.
She did see — something white and tall and straight. Oh, the relief of the tallness and straightness and whiteness! She had thought of something dwarfed and clumsy — dark, misshapen, slouching beast-like on two shapeless feet. Why were people afraid of tall white ghosts?
It passed. It was a man — in a white suit. Just an ordinary man. No, not ordinary. The ordinary man in France does not wear white. Nor in England, except for boating and tennis and —
Flannels. Yes. The lunatic who boiled his brains in the sun!
Betty’s terror changed colour as the wave changes from green to white, but it lost not even so much of its force as the wave loses by the change. It held her moveless till the soft step of the tennis shoes died away. Then softly and hardly moving at all, moving so little that not a leaf of those friendly bushes rustled, she slipped off her shoes: took them in her hand, made one leap through the crackling, protesting undergrowth and fled back along the road, fleet as a greyhound.
She ran and she walked, very fast, and then she ran again and never once did she pause to look or listen. If the lunatic caught her — well, he would catch her, but it should not be her fault if he did.
The trees were thinner. Ahead she saw glimpses of a world that looked quite light, the bridge ahead. With one last spurt she ran across it, tore up the little bit of street, slipped through the door, and between the garden trees to her pavilion.
She looked very carefully in every corner — all was still and empty. She locked the door, and fell face downward on her bed.
Vernon in his studio was “thinking things over” after the advice of Miss Voscoe in much the same attitude.
“Oh,” said Betty, “I will never go out at night again! And I will leave this horrible, horrible place the very first thing to-morrow morning!”
But to-morrow morning touched the night’s events with new colours from its shining palette.
