Chapter X
Clandonald had now been two whole days in Cannes without treating himself to a glimpse of the young woman with whom he had parted in a fog off Liverpool. And yet this was not through indifference, or forgetfulness, for in all his wanderings the image of the fair American, his “Goddess of Liberty,” as he liked to think of her, had gone with him persistently, in spite of the unpleasant fact that he knew her to be engaged to, and now on the point of matrimony with, another man. Even Mariol had not found out how keenly the news of the forthcoming nuptials of Miss Winstanley and Mr. Glynn had cut into his friend’s sensibilities. Rather than meet her, Clandonald would fain have avoided the Riviera altogether, to go on direct to London, but for the pleading image of his dear old aunt, who was counting upon him to come to her. Nobody suspected that in a long, flat pocket-book of Viennese leather, presented to him at parting by Lady Campstown—and for a wonder in woman’s gifts, actually available by the male recipient—he carried a picture of Posey, cut out of an English illustrated paper, found in a wayside inn in Roumania, among other “Beauties of the Day and Hour.” It was a charming characteristic pose in which the photographer had caught her, and the gown and coiffure showed the girl’s advance in worldly style and knowledge of how to make the most of her advantages. Here, indeed, would have been a Lady Clandonald, amply equipped to take her place in the picture gallery of Beaumanoir among the beauties of their line! And in her frank young face he could read no trace of the unwholesome tastes and proclivities that had wrecked him through Ruby Darien. It was a folly, a childish weakness, to treasure this scrap of paper in his breast pocket close over his heart, and he had resolved that he would soon violently dispossess himself of the same by casting it in the fire. Let him meet her once again, have speech with her in the ordinary way, realize that she was entirely absorbed in preparations for her union with another, and it would be easier to be done for good and all with this strange, obstinate, enduring obsession.
It was not the best atmosphere for a man in his state of mind to find himself in daily intercourse with his impulsive old aunt, whose life had been for weeks and months saturated with the influence of Posey’s personality. Although Lady Campstown honestly believed herself to be doing everything that feminine tact and zeal could inspire to extol to him the desirability of Helen Carstairs as a wife, she was really setting forth Posey’s charm from morning until night. She told Clandonald how the girl had first come to her, tall and nymph-like, through the avenue of palms, with violets, white and blue, clustered around her footprints. How, immediately, her first distaste of the dreaded American neighbor had been swept away in the girl’s sweet appeal to her friendship; how she had then only done for her what she would have had another woman do, in like case, for her own Lucy, had she lived. And how, little by little, she had grown to wait upon Posey’s daily coming, to laugh with her, to sympathize in her needs and perplexities, until she counted a day lost when Miss Winstanley did not appear to irradiate it.
“At the same time, my dear,” the dowager said, interrupting herself, “I am not going to pretend that there are not other girls in the world as engaging and lovable as she. Miss Carstairs, for example, is—er—most distinguished in her appearance, and has admirable manners. Posey tells me that her friend Helen is so highly educated she makes her feel as ignorant as a street Arab. Of course, that’s only the child’s American habit of exaggeration. She really reads and studies part of every day, and her literature teacher, Miss Barton, says Miss Winstanley’s memory for facts and grasp of ideas is something quite out of the common. As I was saying, Helen Carstairs is just the kind of person I should think would bear transplanting into English life. She is so simple and unemotional and self-contained. When you go to Heine des Fées to call—when did you say you were going to call, Clan dear?”
“I don’t think I said, Aunt Lucy,” answered her nephew, with a twinkle in his eye.
“Ah, well, dear, probably it will be to-day, as you have now had time to draw breath after telling me all about your travels. You must have had a very pleasant journey from Naples in company with Miss Carstairs.”
“Yes, very pleasant, what Mariol would let me have of her. He was very absorbent, it must be said. You know I told you once, long ago, that I believed good old Mariol had actually knocked under to a fair Yankee, and I have now every reason to believe that this lady is the object of his secret cult.”
“I never heard of such a thing!” exclaimed Lady Campstown, for her, almost sharply. “I can’t imagine a more unsuitable idea. These marriages with Frenchmen rarely turn out well. At least, unless the man has a title and a château, and the foreign wife would have some interests in the country. A mere brilliant, drifting, scoffing creature like M. de Mariol—! Think of that book of his I found on your table and tried to read. Why, there were ideas in it that made my hair stand on end.”
“Moral: Aunt Lucys shouldn’t carry off the French books they find on their nephews’ tables,” answered he, teasingly. “It is a fact, however, that Miss Carstairs seemed to find extreme satisfaction in her long-continued duet with my clever chum. It was as much as I could do to get a word in edgewise.”
“I am surprised, and I must say a little put out, Clan. I shouldn’t think you’d have given her up like that to any man, however friendly he might be.”
“To give up argues to have had. And I cannot truly claim to have established any monopoly in the young lady’s society. Aunt Lucy, dear, I won’t tease you any more. As our American friends say, ‘you’ve been barking up the wrong tree.’ It was never Miss Carstairs that turned my poor, weak brain. I admire, esteem her cordially, and think Mariol would get an ideal wife if she would smile on him—but love her—never in this world.”
“But you said I might think what I pleased as to your being spooney about an American girl, that day you brought her to Beaumanoir and afterward told me you had decided to go away again. It was virtually acknowledging that you loved her, and but for the abominable interference of a person who shall be nameless, would have pressed your suit.”
“They said that in Lord Byron’s days, Aunt Lucy, or was it Miss Edgeworth’s? And you have been dwelling on that rash admission of mine, and building air castles with me and Miss Carstairs looking out of the windows all these months in consequence? No, best of aunties, you are horribly out of focus. You’ve got hold of the wrong person altogether. I don’t in the least mind letting you know that I made all kinds of a fool of myself on that voyage over last October. I dreamed dreams never to be realized. And, as the powers of mischief willed it, Ruby seeing my name announced for that sailing, had taken a second-class passage on the same ship, with the laudable hope of ‘making it hot for me,’ she said. She succeeded but too well. She peppered an innocent young girl with vile anonymous notes that made her shun the sight of me. After I got to town, she wrote to me directly, and to buy her off I made certain sacrifices I could ill afford. As far as I know to the contrary, I did buy her off. I count any money well spent that would keep shame and sorrow out of the life of the girl I set out to champion. She never knew of it, she very likely wouldn’t care. She probably went on her straight, clean path of life, and forgot everything connected with me. Yes, it was an American girl, Aunt Lucy, but she wasn’t Helen Carstairs.”
“My poor boy, my darling Clan,” began the dowager, then choked and remained silent.
“I know you’ll never ask me who it was, dear, so I’ll make haste and put you out of your misery. Did it never occur to you that your admiration for Miss Winstanley might be a family failing?”
“Oh! not that, Clan. Never that! To think you got so near anything that would have given me such pure joy——”
“I didn’t get near, that was just the trouble. I believe she liked me, perhaps better than any other man on board, till Ruby’s doings came between us. But she gave me unmistakably to understand there could be nothing again after we parted then. Of course, when I heard later that she was engaged to this man Glynn——”
“Who is really a fine, manly fellow, Clan; you couldn’t help liking him. But, oh! why couldn’t he have fancied the Carstairs girl and left my Posey for you? And, my dear, it is just a marvel to me. Posey, who is as open as a spring morning when there isn’t a cloud in the sky; Posey, who never prevaricates or hesitates about the truth, how could she let me go on, day after day, hour after hour, talking about you——”
“A fine evidence of her polite endurance, Aunt Lucy. Poor Miss Winstanley!”
“How could she, I say, without giving me the least little hint that you had fallen in love with her?”
“I suppose because she considered that my secret.”
“Now that I think it over, it seems to me that she almost always managed to turn the conversation in your direction. She certainly showed the utmost relish in whatever I had to tell her, good, bad or indifferent.”
“There was no occasion for the use of either of the two last adjectives, when I was your subject,” said Clandonald, looking at her with tenderness, more touched than he chose to show.
“No, my dear, there wasn’t, I must say. Oh! Clan, it all comes back to me with a rush. Why, Posey has been just living on talk of you and reminiscences of you ever since we have been together. And I thought it was only I!”
“Take care, Aunt Lucy,” the man said, getting up to stride back and forth across the room. “This is dangerous doctrine you’re preaching, when Miss Winstanley’s wedding-day is set.”
“God forgive me, so it is,” answered Lady Campstown, the tears rushing into her eyes.
“Let us make a pact, will you?” said Clandonald, stopping presently. “I have gone over and left my pasteboards in due form at Reine des Fées, at a time when you told me the ladies were likely to be at the Golf Club.”
“Yes, and I was really quite put out about it, but I see now that it was better so.”
“And I shall meet the young lady at dinner here this evening, according to your plan. There will be several outsiders. I shan’t have much chance to speak with her, and after that——”
“Clan, don’t suggest that you will leave me after that. Indeed, I couldn’t stand it; you positively must stay. I should tell you that you won’t run much chance of seeing Posey privately, in any case. She’s tremendously taken up with fitters and people who come down from Paris to bring things for her to see. Besides, Miss Carstairs isn’t in good spirits, I find, and no wonder—I believe she just broke and ran away from that dreadful vulgar stepmother. We heard enough of Mrs. Carstairs’ doings the little time she was here to be thankful she took herself off. There’s trouble brewing for the husband, if all one is told is true. Posey watches over Helen like a mother-bird, and hardly leaves her. Besides, they are expecting at any day or time the return of Mr. Glynn. He hasn’t cabled, but it was understood he was to get aboard the first available ship sailing for Cherbourg or the Mediterranean ports the hour after he finished some critical business he had on hand for his chief. (The way these Americans fly fairly takes one’s breath away!) So there is no reason for you to go from here, if you think there’s to be any embarrassment resulting from your meeting with her. The days will glide on fast enough to the wedding!” she ended with a deep and heartfelt sigh.
“I don’t want to run in face of the enemy, indeed,” he said, trying for a more cheerful face. “I think I’ll stroll out in the garden and smoke a pipe, and try and settle my perturbed spirit. And you, dear, what will you do with yourself this afternoon?”
“The carriage is ordered, soon, for a round of visits I have to make. How much rather had I spend the time, as I often do at this hour, going in through the green door to sit with Posey in the orange walk—near the fountain with the broken-nosed Triton, you remember. It’s her favorite spot, and nothing but rain will prevent her sitting there for an hour with her book or work.”
“Then I’ll see you at tea-time, if not before.”
“I’ll be back, you may trust me. Nothing I dislike more than having my tea out, at houses where a woman sits behind a little table, talking to everybody that comes, and mixing the most abominable doses of half-cold tea, and too much cream and sugar, for her unoffending guests, forgetting whether the water boils or the tea-pot has stood too long! Keep to the bamboo walk, my dear, the mistral is blowing hard to-day, and you’re not like me, acclimatized to it. Down there you’ll be sheltered and private, and can smoke your pipe in peace.”
Clandonald had hardly left his aunt standing before the fireplace in her sunny drawing-room, pondering upon the surprising intelligence he had communicated, when Lady Campstown’s parlor-maid came in with a rather frightened face.
“Well, Parks, what is it? Have you broken a piece of my old Sèvres in putting out the dessert service, or has pussy had a fit?”
“It’s only, my lady,” said the girl, haltingly, “that the—er—lady you gave us orders not to admit has driven up to the gate in a cab, and insists upon seeing you on business of the highest importance, so she says.”
“You mean the person calling herself Mrs. Darien?” asked the dowager, in icy tones.
“That were the name, your ladyship.”
“What can I do?” passed through Lady Campstown’s much-perturbed and angered brain. “Clan’s being here complicates matters dreadfully. She is quite capable of making a scene that will echo through the neighborhood. I have declared that I will not again hold speech with her. If she were herself, I believe even she would not push into my house and presence. The horrible fear is that she is not herself, but under the influence of drink. In that case I must get old Rosa, who loves her still, to take her off quietly.
“Say that Lady Campstown will see Mrs. Darien for ten minutes before she goes out to keep an engagement. And, Parks, tell the cab to wait. Not outside the front gate, but in the lane at the bottom of the garden. And, Parks, send Rosa to me at once.”
The Provençal servant, called Rosa, with a rather pale and guilt-stricken face and manner, came hastily into the drawing-room, stepping back to hold open its door for Mrs. Darien, who followed close upon her heels.
“Stop where you are, Rosa,” said the mistress of the dwelling, now the great lady in every muscle and fibre of her stately little form. She spoke in the woman’s own tongue, and her low, clear voice was charged with indignant emphasis. “From this lady’s appearance in my house, I assume that she is in some degree irresponsible for her actions, and that she needs a caretaker to escort her back whence she came. I desire you to make yourself ready to go with her, now, directly, without delay, and not to return under my roof until you can report to me that you have done so.”
“No such great hurry, Aunt Lucy,” said Mrs. Darien, with careless insolence. “I’m really in a very normal and pacific state of mind, considering the way the mistral is blowing, and that I, last night, spent my last sou at Monte Carlo, and will be turned out of my room at Nice if I can’t pay for it before a couple of days have passed.”
“You can stoop to ask me for money?” said Lady Campstown, in English.
“When one’s flat on the ground one hasn’t to stoop, you know,” answered the visitor, calmly arranging the folds of her veil drawn over a cheap plumed hat, under which a chalk-white countenance with gleaming eyes revealed itself menacingly. “I chanced to see in the local paper that Clan had arrived to stop with you, and so simply timed my visit when you would feel most impelled to pay to get rid of me. What, for instance, if he were to step in at this moment, through that window into the garden? Wouldn’t it be rather cheap at the price to see the last of me for a couple of hundred francs or so?”
Lady Campstown, with a swelling heart, walked over to her escritoire, unlocking a compartment thereof to take out two bank-notes of the amount indicated. She despised herself for the action, but could not trust her voice to speak.
“Thanks, so very much,” said Ruby, superbly putting her gains into a bag of gilded meshes hanging at her waist. “And as I see you flashing the lightning of your virtuous eye upon that poor, shuddering numbskull of a Rosa there, let me at least exonerate her from any complicity in the arrangement for my visit here to-day.”
“I have heard that you have been seen lately in the lane below my garden,” exclaimed the dowager hotly, “and that some one in my household is under suspicion of having been holding conversation with you in the bamboo walk. I can only say that if this happens again Rosa goes out of my service on the minute.”
Ruby, who had been covetously looking around the luxurious, familiar room, shrugged her shoulders indifferently.
“I suppose I must not detain you,” she said conventionally, turning to withdraw. “But since you have suggested it, I would be really quite glad to have Rosa escort me back to my hotel. The effort of coming here—perhaps the force of old associations—has proved something of an ordeal to me. My heart is rather spinning around, and I am not altogether sure I can answer for the strength necessary to support my legs on the retreat.”
“Go, Rosa, put on your hat and jacket as I bid you, and accompany Madame,” said Lady Campstown, nervously anxious to end the scene at any cost. A fuller view of Mrs. Darien’s face had showed her the awful extent to which time and an evil life had ravaged it. She would not look at her a second time, but, shuddering, walked away to the window and set it wide open, standing with her back to the offender, in speechless disgust and misery.
To be one minute unobserved was enough for Ruby Darien. She had been standing near a little cabinet, on a shelf of which was accustomed to lie Lady Campstown’s own especial pass-key through the little green door into the garden of Reine des Fées. Since the occupation of the place by tenants this had not been used. But things were not wont to change their position often at Villa Julia, and the key still lay in its old corner undisturbed. Ruby’s nimble fingers closed upon and transferred it to the interior of her little gilded bag, while Lady Campstown, resolved not to speak to her visitor again, kept her position at the window.
“I suppose, then, I may go?” said Ruby, laughing softly. “In view of your inhospitable attitude, I have really no excuse for lingering. Au revoir, Aunt Lucy. I will return to you your old Rosa unspotted by the world. And if it will add to Clan’s pleasure to hear I am near him, give him my compliments.”