II
When he had dutifully seen Miss Lorenzi off at the ship, leaving herwith as many flowers, novels, and sweets as even she could wish, Stephenexpected to feel a sense of relief. But somehow, in a subtle way, he wasmore feverishly wretched than when Margot was near, and while planningto hurry on the marriage. He had been buoyed up with a rather youthfulsense of defiance of the world, a hot desire to "get everything over."The flatness of the reaction which he felt on finding himself free, atleast of Margot's society, was a surprise; and yet Stephen vaguelyunderstood its real meaning. To be free, yet not free, was anaggravation. And besides, he did not know what to do or where to go, nowthat old friends and old haunts had lost much of their attraction.
Since the announcement of his engagement to Miss Lorenzi, and especiallysince the famous interview, copied in all the papers, he dislikedmeeting people he knew well, lest they should offer good advice, or lethim see that they were dying to do so.
If it had been weak to say, "Be my wife, if you think I can make youhappy," one day when Margot Lorenzi had tearfully confessed her love forhim, it would be doubly weak--worse than weak, Stephen thought--to throwher over now. It would look to the world as if he were a coward, and itwould look to himself the same--which would be more painful in the end.So he could listen to no advice, and he wished to hear none. Fortunatelyhe was not in love with any other woman. But then, if he had lovedsomebody else, he would not have made the foolish mistake of sayingthose unlucky, irrevocable words to Margot.
Stephen would have liked to get away from England for a while, but hehardly knew where to look for a haven. Since making a dash throughFrance and Italy just after leaving Oxford, he had been too busy amusinghimself in his own country to find time for any other, with theexception of an occasional run over to Paris. Now, if he stopped inEngland it would be difficult to evade officious friends, and sooneverybody would be gossiping about his quarrel with Northmorland. TheDuchess was not reticent.
Stephen had not yet made up his mind what to do, or whether to doanything at all in his brief interval of freedom, when a letter came, tothe flat near Albert Gate, where he had shut himself up after thesailing of Margot. The letter was post-marked Algiers, and it was a longtime since he had seen the writing on the envelope--but not so long thathe had forgotten it.
"Nevill Caird!" he said to himself as he broke the neat seal which wascharacteristic of the writer. And he wondered, as he slowly, almostreluctantly, unfolded the letter, whether Nevill Caird had been remindedof him by reading the interview with Margot. Once, he and Caird had beenvery good friends, almost inseparable during one year at Oxford. Stephenhad been twenty then, and Nevill Caird about twenty-three. That wouldmake him thirty-two now--and Stephen could hardly imagine what "Wings"would have developed into at thirty-two. They had not met sinceStephen's last year at Oxford, for Caird had gone to live abroad, and ifhe came back to England sometimes, he had never made any sign of wishingto pick up the old friendship where it had dropped. But here was thisletter.
Stephen knew that Caird had inherited a good deal of money, and a housein Paris, from an uncle or some other near relative; and a common friendhad told him that there was also an Arab palace, very ancient and verybeautiful, in or near Algiers. Several years had passed since NevillCaird's name had been mentioned in his hearing, and lately it had noteven echoed in his mind; but now, the handwriting and the neat seal onthis envelope brought vividly before him the image of his friend: small,slight, boyish in face and figure, with a bright, yet dreamy smile, andblue-grey eyes which had the look of seeing beautiful things that nobodyelse could see.
"DEAR LEGS,"
began the letter ("Legs" being the name which Stephen's skill as arunner, as well as the length of his limbs, had given him inundergraduate days).
"Dear Legs,
"I've often thought about you in the last nine years, and hope you've occasionally thought of me, though somehow or other we haven't written. I don't know whether you've travelled much, or whether England has absorbed all your interests. Anyhow, can't you come out here and make me a visit--the longer it is, the more I shall be pleased. This country is interesting if you don't know it, and fascinating if you do. My place is rather nice, and I should like you to see it. Still better, I should like to see you. Do come if you can, and come soon. I should enjoy showing you my garden at its best. It's one of the things I care for most, but there are other things. Do let me introduce you to them all. You can be as quiet as you wish, if you wish. I'm a quiet sort myself, as you may remember, and North Africa suits me better than London or Paris. I haven't changed for the worse I hope, and I'm sure you haven't, in any way.
"You can hardly realize how much pleasure it will give me if you'll say 'yes' to my proposal.
"Yours as ever
"NEVILL CAIRD, alias 'Wings,'"
Not a word of "the case," though, of course, he must know all aboutit--even in Algiers. Stephen's gratitude went out to his old friend,and his heart felt warmer because of the letter and the invitation. Manypeople, even with the best intentions, would have contrived to say thewrong thing in these awkward circumstances. There would have been someveiled allusion to the engagement; either silly, well-meantcongratulations and good wishes, or else a stupid hint of advice to getout of a bad business while there was time. But Caird wrote as he mighthave written if there had been no case, and no entanglement; and actingon his first impulse, Stephen telegraphed an acceptance, saying that hewould start for Algiers in two or three days. Afterwards, when he hadgiven himself time to think, he did not regret his decision. Indeed, hewas glad of it, and glad that he had made it so soon.
A few weeks ago, a sudden break in his plans would have caused him agreat deal of trouble. There would have been dozens of luncheons anddinners to escape from, and twice as many letters to write. But nowadayshe had few invitations and scarcely any letters to write, except thoseof business, and an occasional line to Margot. People were willing to beneglected by him, willing to let him alone, for now that he hadquarrelled with Northmorland and the Duchess, and had promised to marryan impossible woman, he must be gently but firmly taught to expectlittle of Society in future.
Stephen broke the news to his man that he was going away, alone, andthough the accomplished Molton had regrets, they were not as poignant asthey would have been some weeks earlier. Most valets, if not all, arehuman, and have a weakness for a master whose social popularity is asunbounded as his generosity.
Molton's services did not cease until after he had packed Stephen'sluggage, and seen him off at Victoria. He flattered himself, as he leftthe station with three months' wages in his pocket, that he would bemissed; but Stephen was surprised at the sense of relief which came asMolton turned a respectable back, and the boat-train began to slide outof the station. It was good to be alone, to have loosed his moorings,and to be drifting away where no eyes, once kind, would turn from him,or turn on him with pity. Out there in Algiers, a town of which he hadthe vaguest conception, there would be people who read the papers, ofcourse, and people who loved to gossip; but Stephen felt a pleasantconfidence that Nevill Caird would know how to protect him from suchpeople. He would not have to meet many strangers. Nevill would arrangeall that, and give him plenty to think about during his weeks offreedom.
Algiers seemed a remote place to Stephen, who had loved life at home toopassionately to care for foreign travel. Besides, there was always agreat deal to do in England at every season of the year, and it had beendifficult to find a time convenient for getting away. Town engagementsbegan early in the spring, and lasted till after Cowes, when he was keenfor Scotland. Being a gregarious as well as an idle young man, he waspleased with his own popularity, and the number of his invitations forcountry-house visits. He could never accept more than half, but even so,he hardly saw London until January; and then, if he went abroad at all,the
re was only time for a few days in Paris, and a fortnight on theRiviera, perhaps, before he found that he must get back. Just afterleaving Oxford, before his father's death, he had been to Rome, toBerlin, and Vienna, and returned better satisfied than ever with his owncapital; but of course it was different now that the capital wasdissatisfied with him.
He had chosen the night train and it was not crowded. All the way toDover he had the compartment to himself, and there was no rush for theboat. It was a night of stars and balmy airs; but after the start thewind freshened, and Stephen walked briskly up and down the deck,shivering slightly at first, till his blood warmed. By and by it grew socold that the deck emptied, save for half a dozen men with pipes thatglowed between turned-up coat collars, and one girl in a blue sergedress, with no other cloak than the jacket that matched her frock.Stephen hardly noticed her at first, but as men buttoned their coats orwent below, and she remained, his attention was attracted to the slimfigure leaning on the rail. Her face was turned away, looking over thesea where the whirling stars dipped into dark waves that sprang toengulf them. Her elbows rested on the railing, and her chin lay in thecup of her two hands; but her hair, under a blue sailor-hat held downwith a veil, hung low in a great looped-up plait, tied with a wide blackribbon, so that Stephen, without wasting much thought upon her, guessedthat she must be very young. It was red hair, gleaming where the lighttouched it, and the wind thrashed curly tendrils out from the thickclump of the braid, tracing bright threads in intricate, lacy lines overher shoulders, like the network of sunlight that plays on the surface ofwater.
Stephen thought of that simile after he had passed the girl once ortwice, and thinking of it made him think of the girl herself. He wassure she must be cold in her serge jacket, and wondered why she didn'tgo below to the ladies' cabin. Also he wondered, even more vaguely, whyher people didn't take better care of the child: there must be some onebelonging to her on board.
At last she turned, not to look at him, but to pace back and forth asothers were pacing. She was in front of Stephen, and he saw only herback, which seemed more girlish than ever as she walked with a light,springing step, that might have kept time to some dainty dance-musicwhich only she could hear. Her short dress, of hardly more than anklelength, flowed past her slender shape as the black, white-frothing wavesflowed past the slim prow of the boat; and there was somethingindividual, something distinguished in her gait and the bearing of herhead on the young throat. Stephen noticed this rather interestingpeculiarity, remarking it more definitely because of the almost meansimplicity of the blue serge dress. It was of provincial cut, andlooked as if the wearer might have bought it ready made in some countrytown. Her hat, too, was of the sort that is turned out by the thousandand sold at a few shillings for young persons between the ages of twelveand twenty.
By and by, when she had walked as far forward as possible, the deckrising under her feet or plunging down, while thin spray-wreaths sailedby on the wind, the girl wheeled and had the breeze at her back. It wasthen Stephen caught his first glimpse of her face, in a full white blazeof electric light: and he had the picture to himself, for by this timenearly every one else had gone.
He had not expected anything wonderful, but it seemed to him in a flashof surprise that this was an amazing beauty. He had never seen suchhair, or such a complexion. The large eyes gave him no more than apassing glance, but they were so vivid, so full of blue light as theymet his, that he had a startled impression of being graciously accosted.It seemed as if the girl had some message to give him, for which he muststop and ask.
As soon as they had passed each other, however, that curious, excitingimpression was gone, like the vanishing glint on a gull's wing as itdips from sun into shadow. Of course she had not spoken; of course shehad no word to give him. He had seemed to hear her speak, because shewas a very vital sort of creature, no doubt, and therefore physically,though unconsciously, magnetic.
At their next crossing under the light she did not look at him at all,and he realized that she was not so extraordinarily beautiful as he hadat first thought. The glory of her was more an effect of colouring thananything else. The creamy complexion of a very young girl, whipped torose and white by the sea wind; brilliant turquoise blue eyes under aglitter of wavy red hair; these were the only marvels, for the small,straight nose was exactly like most pretty girls' noses, and the mouth,though expressive and sweet, with a short upper lip, was not remarkable,unless for its firmness.
The next time they passed, Stephen granted the girl a certain charm ofexpression which heightened the effect of beauty. She looked singularlyinnocent and interested in life, which to Stephen's mood seemedpathetic. He was convinced that he had seen through life, andconsequently ceased forever to be interested in it. But he admiredbeauty wherever he saw it, whether in the grace of a breaking wave, orthe sheen on a girl's bright hair, and it amused him faintly tospeculate about the young creature with the brilliant eyes and blowingred locks. He decided that she was a schoolgirl of sixteen, being takenover to Paris, probably to finish her education there. Her mother orguardian was no doubt prostrate with sea-sickness, careless for themoment whether the child paraded the deck insufficiently clad, orwhether she fell unchaperoned into the sea. Judging by her clothes, herfamily was poor, and she was perhaps intended for a governess: that waswhy they were sending her to France. She was to be given "everyadvantage," in order to command "desirable situations" by and by.Stephen felt dimly sorry for the little thing, who looked so radiantlyhappy now. She was much too pretty to be a governess, or to be obligedto earn her own living in any way. Women were brutes to each othersometimes. He had been finding this out lately. Few would care to bringa flowerlike creature of that type into their houses. The girl hadtrouble before her. He was sure she was going to be a governess.
After she had walked for half an hour she looked round for a shelteredcorner and sat down. But the place she had chosen was only comparativelysheltered, and presently Stephen fancied that he saw her shivering withcold. He could not bear this, knowing that he had a rug which Molton hadforced upon him to use on board ship between Marseilles and Algiers. Itwas in a rolled-up thing which Molton called a "hold-all," along withsome sticks and an umbrella, Stephen believed; and the rolled-up thingwas on deck, with other hand-luggage.
"Will you let me lend you a rug?" he asked, in the tone of a benevolentuncle addressing a child. "I have one close by, and it's rather coldwhen you don't walk."
"Thank you very much," said the girl. "I should like it, if it won't betoo much trouble to you."
She spoke simply, and had a pretty voice, but it was an American voice.Stephen was surprised, because to find that she was an American upsethis theories. He had never heard of American girls coming over to Pariswith the object of training to be governesses.
He went away and found the rug, returning with it in two or threeminutes. The girl thanked him again, getting up and wrapping the darksoft thing round her shoulders and body, as if it had been a big shawl.Then she sat down once more, with a comfortable little sigh. "That doesfeel good!" she exclaimed. "I _was_ cold."
"I think you would have been wiser to stop in the ladies' cabin," saidStephen, still with the somewhat patronizing air of the older person.
"I like lots of air," explained the girl. "And it doesn't do me any harmto be cold."
"How about getting a chill?" inquired Stephen.
"Oh, I never have such things. They don't exist. At least they don'tunless one encourages them," she replied.
He smiled, rather interested, and pleased to linger, since she evidentlyunderstood that he was using no arts to scrape an acquaintance. "Thatsounds like Christian Science," he ventured.
"I don't know that it's any kind of science," said she. "Nobody evertalked to me about it. Only if you're not afraid of things, they can'thurt you, can they?"
"Perhaps not. I suppose you mean you needn't let yourself feel them.There's something in the idea: be callous as an alligator and nothingcan hit you."
"
I don't mean that at all. I'd hate to be callous," she objected. "Wecouldn't enjoy things if we were callous."
Stephen, on the point of saying something bitter, stopped in time,knowing that his words would have been not only stupid but obvious,which was worse. "It is good to be young," he remarked instead.
"Yes, but I'm glad to be grown up at last," said the girl; and Stephenwould not let himself laugh.
"I know how you feel," he answered. "I used to feel like that too."
"Don't you now?"
"Not always. I've had plenty of time to get tired of being grown up."
"Maybe you've been a soldier, and have seen sad things," she suggested."I was thinking when I first saw you, that you looked like a soldier."
"I wish I had been. Unfortunately I was too disgustingly young, when ouronly war of my day was on. I mean, the sort of war one could volunteerfor."
"In South Africa?"
"Yes. You were a baby in that remote time."
"Oh no, I wasn't. I'm eighteen now, going on nineteen. I was in Paristhen, with my stepmother and my sister. We used to hear talk about thewar, though we knew hardly any English people."
"So Paris won't be a new experience to you?" said Stephen, disappointedthat he had been mistaken in all his surmises.
"I went back to America before I was nine, and I've been there eversince, till a few weeks ago. Oh see, there are the lights of France! Ican't help being excited."
"Yes, we'll be in very soon--in about ten minutes."
"I am glad! I'd better go below and make my hair tidy. Thank you ever somuch for helping me to be comfortable."
She jumped up, unrolled herself, and began to fold the rug neatly.Stephen would have taken it from her and bundled it together anyhow, butshe would not let him do that. "I like folded things," she said. "It'snice to see them come straight, and I enjoy it more because the winddoesn't want me to do it. To succeed in spite of something, is a kind oflittle triumph--and seems like a sign. Good-bye, and thank you oncemore."
"Good-bye," said Stephen, and added to himself that he would not soonagain see so pretty a child; as fresh, as frank, or as innocent. He hadknown several delightful American girls, but never one like this. Shewas a new type to him, and more interesting, perhaps, because she wassimple, and even provincial. He was in a state of mind to glorify womenwho were entirely unsophisticated.
He did not see the girl getting into the train at Calais, though helooked for her, feeling some curiosity as to the stepmother and thesister whom he had imagined prostrate in the ladies' cabin. By the timehe had arrived at Paris he felt sleepy and dull after an aggravatingdoze or two on the way, and had almost forgotten the red-haired childwith the vivid blue eyes, until, to his astonishment, he saw her aloneparleying with a _douanier_, over two great boxes, for one of whichthere seemed to be no key.
"Those selfish people of hers have left her to do all the work," he saidto himself indignantly, and as she appeared to be having some difficultywith the official, he went to ask if he could help.
"Thank you, it's all right now," she said. "The key of my biggest box ismislaid, but luckily I've got the man to believe me when I say there'snothing in it except clothes, just the same as in the other. Still itwould be very, very kind if you wouldn't mind seeing me to a cab. Thatis, if it's no bother."
Stephen assured her that he would be delighted.
"Have your people engaged the cab already," he wanted to know, "or arethey waiting in this room for you?"
"I haven't any people," she answered. "I'm all by myself."
This was another surprise, and it was as much as Stephen could do not toblame her family audibly for allowing the child to travel alone, atnight too. The thing seemed monstrous.
He took her into the court-yard, where the cabs stood, and engaged two,one for the girl, and one for her large luggage.
"You have rooms already taken at an hotel, I hope?" he asked.
"I'm going to a boarding-house--a _pension_, I mean," explained thegirl. "But it's all right. They know I'm coming. I do thank you foreverything."
Seated in the cab, she held out her hand in a glove which had beencleaned, and showed mended fingers. Stephen shook the small handgravely, and for the second time they bade each other good-bye.
In the cold grey light of a rainy dawn, which would have suited fewwomen as a background, especially after a night journey, the girl's facelooked pearly, and Stephen saw that her lashes, darker at the roots,were bright golden at the turned-up ends.
It seemed to him that this pretty child, alone in the greyness and rainof the big foreign city, was like a spring flower thrown carelessly intoa river to float with the stream. He felt an impulse of protection, andit went against his instincts to let her drive about Paris unprotected,while night had hardly yielded to morning. But he could not offer to gowith her. He was interested, as any man of flesh and blood must beinterested, in the fate of an innocent and charming girl left to takecare of herself, and entirely unfitted for the task; yet she seemedhappy and self-confident, and he had no right, even if he wished, todisturb her mind. He was going away without another word after thegood-bye, but on second thoughts felt that he might ask if she hadfriends in Paris.
"Not exactly friends, but people who will look after me, and be kind,I'm sure," she answered. "Thank you for taking an interest. Will youtell the man to go to 278A Rue Washington, and the other cab to follow?"
Stephen obeyed, and as she drove away the girl looked back, smiling athim her sweet and childlike smile.