Part 6 (1/2)

For a moment he failed to understand her. ”Do you mean that there can be varying degrees in my opinion of you?”

She rose and pushed away her chair. ”I mean,” she said quickly, ”that it's better to have done nothing in bitterness--nothing in pa.s.sion.” And she began to walk.

Longmore followed her without answering at first. But he took off his hat and with his pocket-handkerchief wiped his forehead. ”Where shall you go? what shall you do?” he simply asked at last.

”Do? I shall do as I've always done--except perhaps that I shall go for a while to my husband's old home.”

”I shall go to MY old one. I've done with Europe for the present,” the young man added.

She glanced at him as he walked beside her, after he had spoken these words, and then bent her eyes for a long time on the ground. But suddenly, as if aware of her going too far she stopped and put out her hand. ”Good-bye. May you have all the happiness you deserve!”

He took her hand with his eyes on her, but something was at work in him that made it impossible to deal in the easy way with her touch.

Something of infinite value was floating past him, and he had taken an oath, with which any such case interfered, not to raise a finger to stop it. It was borne by the strong current of the world's great life and not of his own small one. Madame de Mauves disengaged herself, gathered in her long scarf and smiled at him almost as you would do at a child you should wish to encourage. Several moments later he was still there watching her leave him and leave him. When she was out of sight he shook himself, walked at once back to his hotel and, without waiting for the evening train, paid his bill and departed.

Later in the day M. de Mauves came into his wife's drawing-room, where she sat waiting to be summoned to dinner. He had dressed as he usually didn't dress for dining at home. He walked up and down for some moments in silence, then rang the bell for a servant and went out into the hall to meet him. He ordered the carriage to take him to the station, paused a moment with his hand on the k.n.o.b of the door, dismissed the servant angrily as the latter lingered observing him, re-entered the drawing-room, resumed his restless walk and at last stopped abruptly before his wife, who had taken up a book. ”May I ask the favour,” he said with evident effort, in spite of a forced smile as of allusion to a large past exercise of the very best taste, ”of having a question answered?”

”It's a favour I never refused,” she replied.

”Very true. Do you expect this evening a visit from Mr. Longmore?”

”Mr. Longmore,” said his wife, ”has left Saint-Germain.” M. de Mauves waited, but his smile expired. ”Mr. Longmore,” his wife continued, ”has gone to America.”

M. de Mauves took it--a rare thing for him--with confessed, if momentary, intellectual indigence. But he raised, as it were, the wind.

”Has anything happened?” he asked, ”Had he a sudden call?” But his question received no answer. At the same moment the servant threw open the door and announced dinner; Madame Clairin rustled in, rubbing her white hands, Madame de Mauves pa.s.sed silently into the dining-room, but he remained outside--outside of more things, clearly, than his mere salle-a-manger. Before long he went forth to the terrace and continued his uneasy walk. At the end of a quarter of an hour the servant came to let him know that his carriage was at the door. ”Send it away,” he said without hesitation. ”I shan't use it.” When the ladies had half-finished dinner he returned and joined them, with a formal apology to his wife for his inconsequence.

The dishes were brought back, but he hardly tasted them; he drank on the other hand more wine than usual. There was little talk, scarcely a convivial sound save the occasional expressive appreciative ”M-m-m!” of Madame Clairin over the succulence of some dish. Twice this lady saw her brother's eyes, fixed on her own over his winegla.s.s, put to her a question she knew she should have to irritate him later on by not being able to answer. She replied, for the present at least, by an elevation of the eyebrows that resembled even to her own humour the vain raising of an umbrella in antic.i.p.ation of a storm. M. de Mauves was left alone to finish his wine; he sat over it for more than an hour and let the darkness gather about him. At last the servant came in with a letter and lighted a candle. The letter was a telegram, which M. de Mauves, when he had read it, burnt at the candle. After five minutes' meditation he wrote a message on the back of a visiting-card and gave it to the servant to carry to the office. The man knew quite as much as his master suspected about the lady to whom the telegram was addressed; but its contents puzzled him; they consisted of the single word ”Impossible.” As the evening pa.s.sed without her brother's reappearing in the drawing-room Madame Clairin came to him where he sat by his solitary candle. He took no notice of her presence for some time, but this affected her as unexpected indulgence. At last, however, he spoke with a particular harshness. ”Ce jeune mufle has gone home at an hour's notice. What the devil does it mean?”

Madame Clairin now felt thankful for her umbrella. ”It means that I've a sister-in-law whom I've not the honour to understand.”

He said nothing more and silently allowed her, after a little, to depart. It had been her duty to provide him with an explanation, and he was disgusted with her blankness; but she was--if there was no more to come--getting off easily. When she had gone he went into the garden and walked up and down with his cigar. He saw his wife seated alone on the terrace, but remained below, wandering, turning, pausing, lingering.