The End of Her Honeymoon by Marie Belloc Lowndes (books to read now .TXT) đź“•
Madame Poulain, turning a key, revealed a large roomy space now fitted upas a cupboard. "It's a way through into our bedroom, monsieur," she saidsmiling. "We could not of course allow our daughter to be far fromourselves."
And Dampier nodded. He knew the ways of French people and sympathised withthose ways.
He stepped up into the cupboard, curious to see if this too had been apowdering closet, and if that were so if the old panelling andornamentation had remained in their original condition.
Thus for a moment was Dampier concealed from those in the room. And duringthat moment there came the sound of footsteps on the staircase, followed bythe sudden appearance on the landing outside the open door of the curiouslittle apartment of two tall figures--a girl in a lace opera cloak, and ayoung man in evening dress.
Nancy Dampier, gazing at them, a little surprised at the abrupt apparition,told herself that they must be
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Madame Poulain opened her lips—then she shut them tight again. She longed to tell “Monsieur le Sénateur” that in that case she and Poulain must have the regret of asking him to leave their hotel.
But she did not dare to do this.
Her husband broke in conciliatingly: “No doubt it is as Monsieur le Sénateur says,” he observed; “the demoiselle is what we said she was only this morning—” and then he uttered the word which in French means so much and so little—the word “toquée.”
There came another interruption. “Here come Mademoiselle Daisy and Monsieur Gerald!” exclaimed Madame Poulain in a relieved tone.
The Senator’s son and daughter had just emerged across the courtyard, from the vestibule where ended the escalier d’honneur. There was a look of keen, alert interest and curiosity on Gerald Burton’s fine, intelligent face. He was talking eagerly to his sister, and Madame Poulain told herself that surely these two young people could not wish their stay in Paris to be complicated by this—this unfortunate business—for so the Frenchwoman in her own secret heart designated the mysterious affair which was causing her and her worthy husband so much unnecessary trouble.
Some little trouble, so she admitted to herself, they had expected to have, but they had not thought it would take this very strange and tiresome shape.
But the hotel-keeper was destined to be bitterly disappointed in her hope that Daisy and Gerald Burton would try and dissuade their father from having anything more to do with Mrs. Dampier.
“Well, father?” the two fresh voices rang out, and the Senator smiled back well pleased. He was one of those fortunate fathers who are on terms of full confidence and friendship as well as affection with their children. Indeed Senator Burton was specially blessed; Daisy was devoted to her father, and Gerald had never given him a moment of real unease: the young man had done well at college, and now seemed likely to become one of the most distinguished and successful exponents of that branch of art—architecture—modern America has made specially her own.
“Well?” said the Senator, “well, Daisy, I suppose you have told your brother about this odd affair?”
As his daughter nodded, he went on:—“As for me, I have unfortunately nothing to tell. We found the studio, and everything was exactly as this poor young lady said it would be—with the one paramount exception that her husband was not there! And though his housekeeper seems to be expecting Mr. Dampier every moment, she has had no news of him since he wrote, some days ago, saying he would arrive this morning. It certainly is a very inexplicable business—” he looked helplessly from one good-looking, intelligent young face to the other.
“But where is Mrs. Dampier now?” asked Daisy eagerly. “I do think you might have told me before you took her away, father. I would have loved to have said good-bye to her. I do like her so much!”
“You won’t have far to go to see her. Mrs. Dampier’s at the door, sitting in a carriage,” said her father drily. “I had to bring her back here: I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Why, of course, father, you did quite right!”
And Gerald Burton chimed in, “Yes, of course you were right to do that, father.”
Senator Burton smiled a little ruefully at his children’s unquestioning approval. He himself was by no means sure that he had done “quite right.”
They walked, the three of them, across to the porte-cochère.
Nancy Dampier was now sitting crouched up in a corner of the fiacre; a handkerchief was pressed to her face, and she was trying, not very successfully, to stifle her sobs of nervous fear and distress.
With an eager, impulsive gesture the American girl leapt up the step of the little open carriage. “Don’t cry,” she whispered soothingly. “It will all come right soon! Why, I expect your husband just went out to see a friend and got kept somehow. If it wasn’t for those stupid Poulains’ mistake about last night you wouldn’t feel really worried, now would you?”
Nancy dabbed her eyes. She felt ashamed of being caught crying by these kind people. “I know I’m being silly!” she gasped. “You must forgive me! It’s quite true I shouldn’t feel as worried as I feel now if it wasn’t for the Poulains—their saying, I mean, that they’ve never seen my husband. That’s what upset me. It all seems so strange and—and horrid. My sense tells me it’s quite probable Jack has gone in to see some friend, and was kept somehow.”
“And now,” said Daisy Burton persuasively, “you must come upstairs with us, and we’ll get Madame Poulain to send us up a nice déjeuner to our sitting-room.”
And so the Senator found part of his new problem solved for him. Daisy, so much was dear, had determined to befriend—and that to the uttermost—this unfortunate young Englishwoman.
But now there arose another most disagreeable complication.
Madame Poulain had strolled out, her arms akimbo, to see what was going on. And, as if she had guessed the purport of Miss Burton’s words, she walked forward, and speaking this time respectfully, even suavely, to “Monsieur le Sénateur,” observed, “My husband and I regret very greatly that we cannot ask this lady to stay on in our hotel. We have no vacant room—no room at all!”
And then it was that Gerald Burton, who had stood apart from the discussion, saying nothing, simply looking intently, sympathetically at his sister and Mrs. Dampier—took a hand in the now complicated little human game.
“Father!” he exclaimed, speaking in low, sharp tones. “Of course Mrs. Dampier must stay on here with us till her husband comes back! If by some extraordinary chance he isn’t back by to-night she can have my room—I shall easily find some place outside.” And as his father looked at him a little doubtfully he went on:—“Will you explain to Madame Poulain what we’ve settled? I can’t trust myself to speak to the woman! She’s behaving in the most unkind, brutal way to this poor little lady.”
He went on between his teeth, “The Poulains have got some game on in connection with this thing. I wish I could guess what it is.”
And the Senator, much disliking his task, did speak to Madame Poulain. “I am arranging for Mrs. Dampier to stay with us, as our guest, till her husband’s—hem—arrival. My son will find a room outside, so you need not disturb yourself about the matter. Kindly send for Jules, and have her trunk carried up to our apartments.”
And Madame Poulain, after an uncomfortably long pause, turned and silently obeyed the Senator’s behest.
The afternoon wore itself away, and to two out of the four people who spent it together in the pleasant salon of the Burtons’ suite of rooms the hours, nay the very minutes, dragged as they had never dragged before.
Looking back to that first day of distress and bewilderment, Nancy later sometimes asked herself what would have happened, what she would have done, had she lacked the protection, the kindness—and what with Daisy Burton almost at once became the warm affection—of this American family?
Daisy and Gerald Burton not only made her feel that they understood, and, in a measure, shared in her distress, but they also helped her to bear her anguish and suspense.
Although she was not aware of it very different was the mental attitude of their father.
Senator Burton was one of those public men of whom modern America has a right to be proud. He was a hard worker—chairman of one Senate committee and a member of four others; he had never been a brilliant debater, but his more brilliant colleagues respected his sense of logic and force of character. He had always been unyielding in his convictions, absolutely independent in his views, a man to whom many of his fellow-countrymen would have turned in any kind of trouble or perplexity sure of clear and honest counsel.
And yet now, as to this simple matter, the Senator, try as he might, could not make up his mind. Nothing, in his long life, had puzzled him as he was puzzled now. No happening, connected with another human being, had ever so filled him with the discomfort born of uncertainty.
But the object of his—well, yes, his suspicions, was evidently quite unconscious of the mingled feelings with which he regarded her, and he was half ashamed of the ease with which he concealed his trouble both from his children and from their new friend.
Nancy Dampier was far too ill at ease herself to give any thought as to how others regarded her. She had now become dreadfully anxious, dreadfully troubled about Jack.
Much of her time was spent standing at a window of the corridor which formed a portion of the Burtons’ “appartement.” This corridor overlooked the square, sunny courtyard below; but during that first dreary afternoon of suspense and waiting the Hôtel Saint Ange might have been an enchanted palace of sleep. Not a creature came in or out through the porte cochère—with one insignificant exception: two workmen, dressed in picturesque blue smocks, clattered across the big white stones, the one swinging a pail of quaking lime in his hand, and whistling gaily as he went.
When a carriage stopped, or seemed to stop, in the street which lay beyond the other side of the quadrangular group of buildings, then Nancy’s heart would leap, and she would lean out, dangerously far over the grey bar of the window; but the beloved, and now familiar figure of her husband never followed on the sound, as she hoped against hope, it would do.
At last, when the long afternoon was drawing to a close, Senator Burton went down and had another long conversation with the Poulains.
The hotel-keeper and his wife by now had changed their tone; they were quite respectful, even sympathetic:
“Of course it is possible,” observed Madame Poulain hesitatingly, “that this young lady, as you yourself suggested this morning, Monsieur le Sénateur, is suffering from loss of memory, and that she has imagined her arrival here with this artist gentleman. But if so, what a strange thing to fancy about oneself! Is it not more likely—I say it with all respect, Monsieur le Sénateur—that for some reason unknown to us she is acting a part?”
And with a heavy heart “Monsieur le Sénateur” had to admit that Madame Poulain’s view might be the correct one. Nancy’s charm of manner, even her fragile and delicate beauty, told against her in the kindly but shrewd American’s mind. True, Mrs. Dampier—if indeed she were Mrs. Dampier—did not look like an adventuress: but then does any adventuress look like an adventuress till she is found to be one?
The Frenchwoman
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