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The Incomplete Amorist
Temple flushed.
"Now isn't it odd," Vernon asked, "that however much one plumes oneself on one's blamelessness, one hates to hear it attributed to one by others? One is good by stealth and blushes to find it fame. I myself—"
"Yes!" said Lady St. Craye with an accent of finality.
"What a man really likes is to be saint with the reputation of being a bit of a devil."
"And a woman likes, you think, to be a bit of a devil, with the reputation of a saint?"
"Or a bit of a saint with a reputation that rhymes to the reality. It's the reputation that's important, isn't it?"
"Isn't the inward truth the really important thing?" said Temple rather heavily.
Lady St. Craye looked at him in such a way as to make him understand that she understood. Vernon looked at them both, and turning to the window looked out on his admired roofs.
"Yes," she said very softly, "but one doesn't talk about that, any more than one does of one's prayers or one's love affairs."
The plural vexed Temple, and he told himself how unreasonable the vexation was.
Lady St. Craye turned her charming head to look at him, to look at Vernon. One had been in love with her. The other might be. There is in the world no better company than this.
Temple, always deeply uninterested in women's clothes, was noting the long, firm folds of her skirt. Vernon had turned from the window to approve the loving closeness of those violets against her hair. Lady St. Craye in her graceful attitude of conscious unconsciousness was the focus of their eyes.
"Here comes a millionaire, to buy your pictures," she said suddenly,—"no—a millionairess, by the sound of her high-heeled shoes. How beautiful are the feet—"
The men had heard nothing, but following hard on her words came the sound of footsteps along the little corridor, an agitated knock on the door.
Vernon opened the door—to Betty.
"Oh—come in," he said cordially, and his pause of absolute astonishment was brief as an eye-flash. "This is delightful—"
And as she passed into the room he caught her eyes and, looking a warning, said: "I am so glad to see you. I began to be afraid you wouldn't be able to come."
"I saw you in the Bois the other day," said Lady St. Craye, "and I have been wanting to know you ever since."
"You are very kind," said Betty. Her hat was on one side, her hair was very untidy, and it was not a becoming untidiness either. She had no gloves, and a bit of the velvet binding of her skirt was loose. Her eyes were red and swollen with crying. There was a black smudge on her cheek.
"Take this chair," said Vernon, and moved a comfortable one with its back to the light.
"Temple—let me present you to Miss Desmond."
Temple bowed, with no flicker of recognition visible in his face. But Betty, flushing scarlet, said:
"Mr. Temple and I have met before."
There was the tiniest pause. Then Temple said: "I am so glad to meet you again. I thought you had perhaps left Paris."
"Let me give you some tea," said Vernon.
Tea was made for her,—and conversation. She drank the tea, but she seemed not to know what to do with the conversation.
It fluttered, aimlessly, like a bird with a broken wing. Lady St. Craye did her best, but talk is not easy when each one of a party has its own secret pre-occupying interest, and an overlapping interest in the preoccupation of the others. The air was too electric.
Lady St. Craye had it on her lips that she must go—when Betty rose suddenly.
"Good-bye," she said generally, looking round with miserable eyes that tried to look merely polite.
"Must you go?" asked Vernon, furious with the complicated emotions that, warring in him, left him just as helpless as anyone else.
"I do hope we shall meet again," said Lady St. Craye.
"Mayn't I see you home?" asked Temple unexpectedly, even to himself.
Betty's "No, thank you," was most definite.
She went. Vernon had to let her go. He had guests. He could not leave them. He had lost wholly his ordinary control of circumstances. All through the petrifying awkwardness of the late talk he had been seeking an excuse to go with Betty—to find out what was the matter.
He closed the door and came back. There was no help for it.
But there was help. Lady St. Craye gave it. She rose as Vernon came back.
"Quick!" she said, "Shall we go? Hadn't you better bring her back here? Go after her at once."
"You're an angel," said Vernon. "No, don't go. Temple, look after Lady St. Craye. If you'll not think me rude?—Miss Desmond is in trouble, I'm afraid."
"Of course she is—poor little thing. Oh, Mr. Vernon, do run! She looks quite despairing. There's your hat. Go—go!"
The door banged behind her.
The other two, left alone, looked at each other.
"I wonder—" said she.
"Yes," said he, "it's certainly mysterious."
"We ought to have gone at once," said she. "I should have done, of course, only Mr. Vernon so elaborately explained that he expected her. One had to play up. And so she's a friend of yours?"
"She's not a friend of mine," said Temple rather ruefully, "and I didn't know Vernon was a friend of hers. You saw that she wouldn't have my company at any price."
"Mr. Vernon's a friend of her people, I believe. We saw her the other day in the Bois, and he told me he knew them in England. Did you know them there too? Poor child, what a woe-begone little face it was!"
"No, not in England. I met her in Paris about a fortnight ago, but she didn't like me, from the first, and our acquaintance broke off short."
There was a silence. Lady St. Craye perceived a ring-fence of reticence round the subject that interested her, and knew that she had no art strong enough to break it down.
She spoke again suddenly:
"Do you know you're not a bit the kind of man I expected you to be, Mr. Temple? I've heard so much of you from Mr. Vernon. We're such old friends, you know."
"Apparently he can't paint so well with words as he does with oils. May I ask exactly how flattering the portrait was?"
"It wasn't flattering at all.—In fact it wasn't a portrait."
"A caricature?"
"But you don't mind what people say of you, do you?"
"You are trying to frighten me."
"No, really," she said with pretty earnestness; "it's only that he has always talked about you as his best friend, and I imagined you would be like him."
Temple's uneasy wonderings about Betty's trouble, her acquaintance with Vernon, the meaning of her visit to him, were pushed to the back of his mind.
"I wish I were like him," said he,—"at any rate, in his paintings."
"At any rate—yes. But one can't have everything, you know. You have qualities which he hasn't—qualities that you wouldn't exchange for any qualities of his."
"That wasn't what I meant; I—the fact is, I like old Vernon, but I can't understand him."
"That philosophy of life eludes you still? Now, I understand him, but I don't always like him—not all of him."
"I wonder whether anyone understands him?"
"He's not such a sphinx as he looks!" Her tone betrayed a slight pique—"Now, your character would be much harder to read. That's one of the differences."
"We are all transparent enough—to those who look through the right glasses," said Temple. "And part of my character is my inability to find any glass through which I could see him clearly."
This comparison of his character and Vernon's, with its sudden assumption of intimacy, charmed yet embarrassed him.
She saw both emotions and pitied him a little. But it was necessary to interest this young man enough to keep him there till Vernon should return. Then Vernon would see her home, and she might find out something, however little, about Betty. But if this young man went she too must go. She could not outstay him in the rooms of his friend. So she talked on, and Temple was just as much at her mercy as Betty had been at the mercy of the brother artist in the rabbit warren at Long Barton.
But at seven o'clock Vernon had not returned, and it was, after all, Temple who saw her home.
Temple, free from the immediate enchantment of her presence, felt the revival of a resentful curiosity.
Why had Betty refused his help? Why had she sought Vernon's? Why did women treat him as though he were a curate and Vernon as though he were a god? Well—Lady St. Craye at least had not treated him as curates are treated.
CHAPTER XIV.
RENUNCIATION
Vernon tore down the stairs three and four at a time, and caught Betty as she was stepping into a hired carriage.
"What is it?" he asked. "What's the matter?"
"Oh, go back to your friends!" said Betty angrily.
"My friends are all right. They'll amuse each other. Tell me."
"Then you must come with me," said she. "If I try to tell you here I shall begin to cry again. Don't speak to me. I can't bear it."
He got into the carriage. It was not until Betty had let herself into her room and he had followed her in—not till they stood face to face in the middle of the carpet that he spoke again.
"Now," he said, "what is it? Where's your aunt, and—"
"Sit down, won't you?" she said, pulling off her hat and throwing it on the couch; "it'll take rather a long time to tell, but I must tell you all about it, or else you can't help me. And if you don't help me I don't know what I shall do."
Despair was in her voice.
He sat down. Betty, in the chair opposite his, sat with hands nervously locked together.
"Look here," she said abruptly, "you're sure to think that everything I've done is wrong, but it's no use your saying so."
"I won't say so."
"Well, then—that day, you know, after I saw you at the Bête—Madame Gautier didn't come to fetch me, and I waited, and waited, and at last I went to her flat, and she was dead,—and I ought to have telegraphed to my step-father to fetch me, but I thought I would like to have one night in Paris first—you know I hadn't seen Paris at all, really."
"Yes," he said, trying not to let any anxiety into his voice. "Yes—go on."
"And I went to the Café d'Harcourt—What did you say?"
"Nothing."
"I thought it was where the art students went. And I met a girl there, and she was kind to me."
"What sort of a girl? Not an art student?"
"No," said Betty hardly, "she wasn't an art student. She told me what she was."
"Yes?"
"And I—I don't think I should have done it just for me alone, but—I did want to stay in Paris and work—and I wanted to help her to be good—she is good really, in spite of everything. Oh, I know you're horribly shocked, but I can't help it! And now she's gone,—and I can't find her."
"I'm not shocked," he said deliberately, "but I'm extremely stupid. How gone?"
"She was living with me here.—Oh, she found the rooms and showed me where to go for meals and gave me good advice—oh, she did everything for me! And now she's gone. And I don't know what to do. Paris is such a horrible place. Perhaps she's been kidnapped or something. And I don't know even how to tell the police. And all this time I'm talking to you is wasted time."
"It isn't wasted. But I must understand. You met this girl and she—"
"She asked your friend Mr. Temple—he was passing and she called out to him—to tell me of a decent hotel, but he asked so many questions. He gave me an address and I didn't go. I went back to her, and we went to a hotel and I persuaded her to come and live with me."
"But your aunt?"
Betty explained about her aunt.
"And your father?"
She explained about her father.
"And now she has gone, and you want to find her?"
"Want to find her?"—Betty started up and began to walk up and down the room.—"I don't care about anything else in the world! She's a dear; you don't know what a dear she is—and I know she was happy here—and now she's gone! I never had a girl friend before—what?"
Vernon had winced, just as Paula had winced, and at the same words.
"You've looked for her at the Café d'Harcourt?"
"No; I promised her that I'd never go there again."
"She seems to have given you some good advice."
"She advised me not to have anything to do with you" said Betty, suddenly spiteful.
"That was good advice—when she gave it," said Vernon, quietly; "but now it's different."
He was silent a moment, realising with a wonder beyond words how different it was. Every word, every glance between him and Betty had, hitherto, been part of a play. She had been a charming figure in a charming comedy. He had known, as it were by rote, that she had feelings—a heart, affections—but they had seemed pale, dream-like, just a delightful background to his own sensations, strong and conscious and delicate. Now for the first time he perceived her as real, a human being in the stress of a real human emotion. And he was conscious of a feeling of protective tenderness, a real, open-air primitive sentiment, with no smell of the footlights about it. He was alone with Betty. He was the only person in Paris to whom she could turn for help. What an opportunity for a fine scene in his best manner! And he found that he did not want a scene: he wanted to help her.
"Why don't you say something?" she said impatiently. "What am I to do?"
"You can't do anything. I'll do everything. You say she knows Temple. Well, I'll find him, and we'll go to her lodgings and find out if she's there. You don't know the address?"
"No," said Betty. "I went there, but it was at night and I don't even know the street."
"Now look here." He took both her hands and held them firmly. "You aren't to worry. I'll do everything. Perhaps she has been taken ill. In that case, when we find her, she'll need you to look after her. You must rest. I'm certain to find her. You must eat something. I'll send you in some dinner. And then lie down."
"I couldn't sleep," said Betty, looking at him with the eyes of a child that has cried its heart out.
"Of course you couldn't. Lie down, and make yourself read. I'll get back as soon as I can. Good-bye." There was something further that wanted to get itself said, but the words that came nearest to expressing it were "God bless you,"—and he did not say them.
On the top of his staircase he found Temple lounging.
"Hullo—still here? I'm afraid I've been a devil of a time gone, but Miss Desmond's—"
"I don't want to shove my oar in," said Temple, "but I came back when I'd seen Lady St. Craye home. I hope there's nothing wrong with Miss Desmond."
"Come in," said Vernon. "I'll tell you the whole thing."
They went into the room desolate with the disorder of half empty cups and scattered plates with crumbs of cake on them.
"Miss Desmond told me about her meeting you. Well, she gave you the slip; she went back and got that woman—Lottie what's her name—and took her to live with her."
"Good God! She didn't know, of course?"
"But she did know—that's the knock-down blow. She knew, and she wanted to save her."
Temple was silent a moment.
"I say, you know, though—that's rather fine," he said presently.
"Oh, yes," said Vernon impatiently, "it's very romantic and all that. Well, the woman stayed a fortnight and disappeared to-day. Miss Desmond is breaking her heart about her."
"So she took her up, and—she's rather young for rescue work."
"Rescue work? Bah! She talks of the woman as the only girl friend she's ever had. And the woman's probably gone off with her watch and chain and a collection of light valuables. Only I couldn't tell Miss Desmond that. So I promised to try and find the woman. She's a thorough bad lot. I've run up against her once or twice with chaps I know."
"She's not that sort," said Temple. "I know her fairly well."
"What—Sir Galahad? Oh, I won't ask inconvenient questions." Vernon's sneer was not pretty.
"She used to live with de Villermay," said Temple steadily; "he was the first—the usual coffee maker business, you know, though God knows how an English girl got into it. When he went home to be married—It was rather beastly. The father came up—offered her a present. She threw it at him. Then Schauermacher wanted her to live with him. No. She'd go to the devil her own way. And she's gone."
"Can't something be done?" said Vernon.
"I've tried all I know. You can save a woman who doesn't know where she's going. Not one who knows and means to go. Besides, she's been at it six months; she's past reclaiming now."
"I wonder," said Vernon—and his sneer had gone and he looked ten years younger—"I wonder whether anybody's past reclaiming? Do you think I am? Or you?"
The other stared at him.
"Well," Vernon's face aged again instantly, "the thing is: we've got to find the woman."
"To get her to go back and live with that innocent girl?"
"Lord—no! To find her. To find out why she bolted, and to make certain that she won't go back and live with that innocent girl. Do you know her address?"
But she was not to be found at her address. She had come back, paid her bill, and taken away her effects.
It was at the Café d'Harcourt, after all, that they found her, one of a party of four. She nodded to them, and presently left her party and came to spread her black and white flounces at their table.
"What's the best news with you?" she asked gaily. "It's a hundred years since I saw you, Bobby, and at least a million since I saw your friend."
"The last time I saw you," Temple said, "was the night when you asked me to take care of a girl."
"So it was! And did you?"
"No," said Temple; "she wouldn't let me. She went back to you."
"So you've seen her again? Oh, I see—you've come to ask me what I meant by daring to contaminate an innocent girl by my society?—Well, you can go to Hell, and ask there."
She rose, knocking over a chair.
"Don't go," said Vernon. "That's not what we want to ask."
"'We' too," she turned fiercely on him: "as if you were a king or a deputation."
"One and one are two," said Vernon; "and I did very much want to talk to you."
"And two are company."
She had turned her head away.
"You aren't going to be cruel," Vernon asked.
"Well, send him off then. I won't be bullied by a crowd of you."
Temple took off his hat and went.
"I've got an appointment. I've no time for fool talk," she said.
"Sit down," said Vernon. "First I want to thank you for the care you've taken of Miss Desmond, and for all your kindness and goodness to her."
"Oh!" was all Paula could say. She had expected something so different. "I don't see what business it is of yours, though," she added next moment.
"Only that she's alone here, and I'm the only person she knows in Paris. And I know, much better than she does, all that you've done for her sake."
"I did it for my own sake. It was no end of a lark," said Paula eagerly, "that little dull pious life. And all the time I used to laugh inside to think what a sentimental fool she was."
"Yes," said Vernon slowly, "it must have been amusing for you."
"I just did it for the fun of the thing. But I couldn't stand it any longer, so I just came away. I was bored to death."
"Yes," he said, "you must have been. Just playing at cooking and housework, reading aloud to her while she drew—yes, she told me that. And the flowers and all her little trumpery odds and ends about. Awfully amusing it must have been."
"Don't," said Paula.
"And to have her loving you and trusting you as she did—awfully comic, wasn't it? Calling you her girl-friend—"
"Shut up, will you?"
"And thinking she had created a new heaven and a new earth for you. Silly sentimental little school-girl!"
"Will you hold your tongue?"
"So long, Lottie," cried the girl of her party; "we're off to the Bullier. You've got better fish to fry, I see."
"Yes," said Paula with sudden effrontery; "perhaps we'll look in later."
The others laughed and went.
"Now," she said, turning furiously on Vernon, "will you go? Or shall I? I don't want any more of you."
"Just one word more," he said with the odd change of expression that made him look young. "Tell me why you left her. She's crying her eyes out for you."
"Why I left her? Because I was sick of—"
"Don't. Let me tell you. You went with her because she was alone and friendless. You found her rooms, you set her in the way of making friends. And when you saw that she was in a fair way to be happy and comfortable, you came away, because—"
"Because?" she leaned forward eagerly.
"Because you were afraid."
"Afraid?"
"Afraid of handicapping her. You knew you would meet people who knew you. You gave it all up—all the new life, the new chances—for her sake, and came away. Do I understand? Is it fool-talk?"
Paula leaned her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands.
"You're not like most men," she said; "you make me out better than I am. That's not the usual mistake. Yes, it was all that, partly. And I should have liked to stay—for ever and ever—if I could. But suppose I couldn't? Suppose I'd begun to find myself wishing for—all sorts of things, longing for them. Suppose I'd stayed till I began to think of things that I wouldn't think of while she was with me. That's what I was afraid of."
"And you didn't long for the old life at all?"
She laughed. "Long for that? But I might have. I might have. It was safer.—Well, go back to her and tell her I've gone to the devil and it's not her fault. Tell her I wasn't worth saving. But I did try to save her. If you're half a man you won't undo my one little bit of work."
"What do you mean?"
"You know well enough what I mean. Let the girl alone."
He leaned forward, and spoke very earnestly. "Look here," he said, "I won't jaw. But this about you and her—well, it's made a difference to me that I can't explain. And I wouldn't own that to anyone but her friend. I mean to be a friend to her too, a good friend. No nonsense."
"Swear it by God in Heaven," she said fiercely.
"I do swear it," he said, "by God in Heaven. And I can't tell her you've gone to the devil. You must write to her. And you can't tell her that either."
"What's the good of writing?"
"A lie or two isn't much, when you've done all this for her. Come up to my place. You can write to her there."
This was the letter that Paula wrote in Vernon's studio, among the half-empty cups and the scattered plates with cake-crumbs on them.
"My Dear Little Betty:
"I must leave without saying good-bye, and I shall never see you again. My father has taken me back. I wrote to him and he came and found me. He has forgiven me everything, only I have had to promise never to speak to anyone I knew in Paris. It is all your doing, dear. God bless you. You have saved me. I shall pray for you every day as long as I live.
"Your poor
"Paula."
"Will that do?" she laughed as she held out the letter.
He read it. And he did not laugh.
"Yes—that'll do," he said. "I'll tell her you've gone to England, and I'll send the letter to London to be posted."
"Then that's all settled!"
"Can I do anything for you?" he asked.
"God Himself can't do anything for me," she said, biting the edge of her veil.
"Where are you going now?"
"Back to the d'Harcourt. It's early yet."
She stood defiantly smiling at him.
"What were you doing there—the night you met her?" he asked abruptly.
"What does one do?"
"What's become of de Villermay?" he asked.
"Gone home—got married."
"And so you thought—"
"Oh, if you want to know what I thought you're welcome! I thought I'd damn myself as deep as I could—to pile up the reckoning for him; and I've about done it. Good-bye. I must be getting on."
"I'll come a bit of the way with you," he said.
At the door he turned, took her hand and kissed it gently and reverently.
"That's very sweet of you." She opened astonished eyes at him. "I always used to think you an awful brute."
"It was very theatrical of me," he told himself later. "But it summed up the situation. Sentimental ass you're growing!"
Betty got her letter from England and cried over it and was glad over it.
"I have done one thing, anyway," she told herself, "one really truly good thing. I've saved my poor dear Paula. Oh, how right I was! How I knew her!"
