“But, back there, in the room,” Tony interrupted, “you told me that you wished I had come in.”
“Yes,” she answered. “And it is quite true; I wish now that you had come in.”
She told him of the drive round Regent’s Park, and of the consent she gave that night to Lionel Callon.
“I think you know everything now,” she said. “I have tried to forget nothing. I want you, whatever you decide to do, to decide knowing everything.”
“Thank you,” said Tony, simply. And she added —
“I am not the first woman I know who has thrown away the substance for the shadow.”
Upon the rest of that walk little was said. They went forward beneath the stars. A great peace lay upon sea and land. The hills rose dark and high upon their left hand, the sea murmured and whispered to them upon the right. Millie walked even more slowly as they neared the hotel at Eze, and Tony turned to her with a question —
“You are tired?”
“No,” she answered.
She was thinking that very likely she would never walk again on any road with Tony at her side, and she was minded to prolong this last walk to the last possible moment. For in this one night Tony had reconquered her. It was not merely that his story had filled her with amazement and pride, but she had seen him that night strong and dominant, as she had never dreamed of seeing him. She loved his very sternness towards herself. Not once had he spoken her name and called her “Millie.” She had watched for that and longed for it, and yet because he had not used it she was the nearer to worship. Once she said to him with a start of anxiety —
“You are not staying here under your own name?”
“No,” he replied. “A friend has taken rooms in Monte Carlo for both of us. Only his name has been given.”
“And you will leave France to-morrow?”
“Yes.”
“Promise!” she cried.
Tony promised, with a look of curiosity at his wife. Why should she be so eager for his safety? He did not understand. He was wondering what he must do in this crisis of their lives. Was he to come, in spite of all his efforts, to that ordinary compromise which it had been his object to avoid?
They reached the door of the hotel, and there Tony halted.
“Good night!” he said; he did not hold out his hand. He stood confronting Millie with the light from the hall lamp falling full upon his face. Millie hoped that he would say something more — just a little word of kindness or forgiveness — if only she waited long enough without answering him; and she was willing to wait until the morning came, he did indeed speak again, and then Millie was sorry that she had waited. For he said the one really cruel thing amongst all the words he had said that night. He was not aware of its cruelty, he was only conscious of its truth.
“Do you know.” he said — and upon his tired face there came a momentary smile— “to-night I miss the Legion very much.” Again he said “Good night.”
This time Millie answered him; and in an instant he was gone. She could have cried out; she could hardly restrain her voice from calling him back to her. “Was this the end?” she asked of herself. “That one cruel sentence, and then the commonplace Good night, without so much as a touch of the hands. Was this the very end?” A sharp fear stabbed her. For a few moments she heard Tony’s footsteps upon the flags in front of the hotel, and then for a few moments upon the gravel of the garden path; and after that she heard only the murmur of the sea. And all at once for her the world was empty. “Was this the end?” she asked herself again most piteously; “this, which might have been the beginning.” Slowly she went up to her rooms. Sleep did not visit her that night.
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE NEXT MORNING
THERE WAS ANOTHER who kept a vigil all the night In the Villa Pontignard Pamela Mardale saw from her window the morning break, and wondered in dread what had happened upon that broad terrace by the sea. She dressed and went down into the garden. As yet the world was grey and cool, and something of its quietude entered into her and gave her peace. A light mist hung over the sea, birds sang sweetly in the trees, and from the chimneys of Roquebrune the blue smoke began to coil. In the homely suggestions of that blue smoke Pamela found a comfort. She watched it for a while, and then there came a flush of rose upon the crests of the hills. The mist was swept away from the floor of the sea, shadows and light suddenly ran down the hillsides, and the waves danced with a sparkle of gold. The sun had risen. Pamela saw a man coming up the open slope from Roquebrune to the villa. It was M. Giraud. She ran to the gate and met him there.
“Well?” she asked. And he answered sadly —
“I arrived too late.”
The colour went from Pamela’s cheeks. She set a hand upon the gate to steady herself. There was an expression of utter consternation on her face.
“Too late, I mean,” the schoolmaster explained hurriedly, “to help you, to be of any real service to you. But the harm done is perhaps not so great as you fear.”
He described to her what he had seen — Lionel Callon lying outstretched and insensible upon the pavement, Tony and Millie Stretton within the room.
“We removed M. Callon to his bedroom,” he said. “Then I fetched a doctor. M. Callon will recover — it is a concussion of the brain. He will be ill for a little time, but he will get well.”
“And the man and the woman?” Pamela asked eagerly. “The two within the room? What of them?”
“They were standing opposite to one another.” The schoolmaster had not seen Millie on her knees. “A chair was overturned, the chair on which she had sat. She was in great distress, and, I think, afraid; but he spoke quietly.” He described how he had offered Tony the letter, and how Tony had closed the door of the room upon the waiters.
“The manager did not know what to do, whether to send for help or not. But I did not think that there was any danger to the woman in the room, and I urged him to do nothing.”
“Thank you,” said Pamela, gratefully. “Indeed, you were in time to help me.”
But even then she did not know how much she was indebted to the schoolmaster’s advice. She was thinking of the scandal which must have arisen had the police been called in, of the publication of Millie’s folly to the world of her acquaintances. That was prevented now. If Tony took back his wife — as with all her heart she hoped he would — he would not, at all events, take back one of whom gossip would be speaking with a slighting tongue. She was not aware that Tony had deserted from the Legion to keep his tryst upon the thirty-first of the month. Afterwards, when she did learn this, she was glad that she had not lacked warmth when she had expressed her gratitude to M. Giraud. A look of pleasure came into the schoolmaster’s face.
“I am very glad,” he said. “When I brought the doctor back the two within the room were talking quietly together; we could hear their voices through the door. So I came away. I walked up to the villa here. But it was already late, and the lights were out — except in one room on an upper floor looking over the sea — that room,” and he pointed to a window.
“Yes, that is my room,” said Pamela.
“I thought it was likely to be yours, and I hesitated whether I should fling up a stone; but I was not sure that it was your room. So I determined to wait until the morning. I am sorry, for you have been very anxious and have not slept — I can see that. I could have saved you some hours of anxiety.”
Pamela laughed in friendliness, and the laugh told him surely that her distress had gone from her.
“That does not matter,” she said. “You have brought me very good news. I could well afford to wait for it.”
The schoolmaster remained in an awkward hesitation at the gate; it was clear that he had something more to say. It was no less clear that he found the utterance of it very difficult. Pamela guessed what was in his mind, and, after her own fashion, she helped him to speak it. She opened the gate, which up till now had stood closed between them.
“Come in for a littl
e while, won’t you?” she said; and she led the way through the garden to that narrow corner on the bluff of the hill which had so many associations for them both. If M. Giraud meant to say what she thought he did, here was the one place where utterance would be easy. Here they had interchanged, in other times, their innermost thoughts, their most sacred confidences. The stone parapet, the bench, the plot of grass, the cedar in the angle of the corner — among these familiar things memories must throb for him even as they did for her. Pamela sat down upon the parapet and, leaning over, gazed into the torrent far below. She wished him to take his time. She had a thought that even if he had not in his mind that utterance which she hoped to hear, the recollection of those other days, vividly renewed, might suggest it. And in a moment or two he spoke.
“It is true, mademoiselle, that I was of service to you last night?”
“Yes,” replied Pamela, gently; “that is quite true.”
“I am glad,” he continued. “I shall have that to remember. I do not suppose that I shall see you often any more. Very likely you will not come back to Roquebrune — very likely I shall never see you again. And if I do not, I should like you to know that last night will make a difference to me.”
He was now speaking with a simple directness. Pamela raised her face towards his. He could see that his words greatly rejoiced her; a very tender smile was upon her lips, and her eyes shone. There were tears in them.
“I am so glad,” she said.
“I resented your coming to me at first,” he went on— “I was a fool; I am now most grateful that you did come. I learnt that you had at last found the happiness which I think you have always deserved. You know I have always thought that it is a bad thing when such a one as you is wasted upon loneliness and misery — the world is not so rich that it can afford such waste. And if only because you told me that a change had come for you, I should be grateful for the visit which you paid me. But there is more. You spoke a very true word last night when you told me it was a help to be needed by those one needs.”
“You think that too?” said Pamela.
“Yes, now I do,” he answered. “It will always be a great pride to me that you needed me. I shall never forget that you knocked upon my door one dark night in great distress. I shall never forget your face, as I saw it framed in the light when I came out into the porch. I shall never forget that you stood within my room, and called upon me, in the name of our old comradeship, to rise up and help you. I think my room will be hallowed by that recollection.” And he lowered his voice suddenly and said, “I think I shall see you as I saw you when I opened the door, between myself and the threshold of the wineshop; that is what I meant to say.”
He held out his hand, and, as Pamela took it, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.
“Good-bye,” he said; and turning away quickly he left her up in the place where she had known the best of him, and went down to his schoolroom in the square of Roquebrune. Very soon the sing-song of the children’s voices was droning from the open windows.
Pamela remained upon the terrace. The breaking of old ties is always a melancholy business, and here was one broken to-day. It was very unlikely, she thought, that she would ever see her friend the little schoolmaster again. She would be returning to England immediately, and she would not come back to the Villa Pontignard.
She was still in that corner of the garden when another visitor called upon her. She heard his footsteps on the gravel of the path, and, looking up, saw Warrisden approaching her. She rose from the parapet and went forward to meet him. She understood that he had come with his old question, and she spoke first. The question could wait just for a little while.
“You have seen Tony?” she asked.
“Yes; late last night,” he replied. “I waited at the hotel for him. He said nothing more than ‘Good night,’ and went at once to his room.”
“And this morning?”
“This morning,” said Warrisden, “he has gone. I did not see him. He went away with his luggage before I was up, and he left no message.”
Pamela stood thoughtful and silent.
“It is the best thing he could have done,” Warrisden continued; “for he is not safe in France.”
“Not safe?”
“No. Did he not tell you? He deserted from the French Legion. It was the only way in which he could reach Roquebrune by the date you named.”
Pamela was startled, but she was startled into activity.
“Will you wait for me here?” she said. “I will get my hat.”
She ran into the villa, and coming out again said, “Let us go down to the station.”
They hurried down the steep flight of steps. At the station Warrisden asked, “Shall I book to Monte Carlo?”
“No; to Eze,” she replied.
She hardly spoke at all during the journey; and Warrisden kept his question in reserve — this was plainly no time to utter it. Pamela walked at once to the hotel.
“Is Lady Stretton in?” she asked; and the porter replied —
“No, Madame. She left for England an hour ago.”
“Alone?” asked Pamela.
“No. A gentleman came and took her away.”
Pamela turned towards Warrisden with a look of great joy upon her face.
“They have gone together,” she cried. “He has taken his risks. He has not forgotten that lesson learnt on the North Sea. I had a fear this morning that he had.”
“And you?” said Warrisden, putting his question at last.
Pamela moved away from the door until they were out of earshot. Then she said —
“I will take my risks too.” Her eyes dwelt quietly upon her companion, and she added, “And I think the risks are very small.”
CHAPTER XXXV
THE LITTLE HOUSE IN DEANERY STREET
PAMELA CONSTRUED THE departure of Tony and his wife together according to her hopes. They were united again. She was content with that fact, and looked no further, since her own affairs had become of an engrossing interest. But the last word has not been said about the Truants. It was not, indeed, until the greater part of a year had passed that the section of their history which is related in this book reached any point of finality.
In the early days of January the Truants arrived in London at the close of a long visit to Scotland. They got out upon Euston platform, and entering their brougham, drove off. They had not driven far before Millie looked out of the window and started forward with her hand upon the check-string. It was dusk, and the evening was not clear. But she saw, nevertheless, that the coachman had turned down to the left amongst the squares of Bloomsbury, and that is not the way from Euston to Regent’s Park. She did not pull the check-string, however. She looked curiously at Tony, who was sitting beside her, and then leaned back in the carriage. With her quick adaptability she had fallen into a habit of not questioning her husband. Since the night in the South of France she had given herself into his hands with a devotion which, to tell the truth, had something of slavishness. It was his wish, apparently, that the recollection of that night should still be a barrier between them, hindering them from anything but an exchange of courtesies. She bowed to the wish without complaint. Tonight, however, as they drove through the unaccustomed streets, there rose within her mind a hope. She would have stifled it, dreading disappointment; but it was stronger than her will. Moreover, it received each minute fresh encouragement. The brougham crossed Oxford Street, turned down South Audley Street, and traversed thence into Park Street. Millie now sat forward in her seat. She glanced at her husband. Tony, with a face of indifference, was looking out of the window. Yet the wonderful thing, it seemed, was coming to pass, nay, had come to pass. For already the brougham had stopped, and the door at which it stopped was the door of the little house in Deanery Street.
Tony turned to his wife with a smile.
“Home!” he said.
She sat there incredulous, even though the look of the house, the windows, the very pavemen
t were speaking to her memories. There was the blank wall on the north side which her drawing-room window overlooked, there was the sharp curve of the street into Park Lane, there was the end of Dorchester House. Here the happiest years of her life, yes, and of Tony’s, too, had been passed. She had known that to be truth for a long while now. She had come of late to think that they were the only really happy years which had fallen to her lot. The memories of them throbbed about her now with a vividness which was poignant.
“Is it true?” she asked, with a catch of her breath. “Is it really true, Tony?”
“Yes, this is our home.”
Millie descended from the carriage. Tony looked at her curiously. This sudden arrival at the new home, which was the old, had proved a greater shock to her than he had expected. For a little while after their return to England Millie had dwelt upon the words which Tony had spoken to her in the Réserve by the sea. He had dreamed of buying the house in Deanery Street, of resuming there the life which they had led together there, in the days when they had been good friends as well as good lovers. That dream for a time she had made her own. She had come to long for its fulfilment, as she had never longed for anything else in the world; she had believed that sooner or later Tony would relent, and that it would be fulfilled. But the months had passed, and now, when she had given up hope, unexpectedly it had been fulfilled. She stood upon the pavement, almost dazed.
“You never said a word of what you meant to do,” she said with a smile, as though excusing herself for her unresponsive manner. The door was open. She went into the house and Tony followed her. They mounted the stairs into the drawing-room.
“As far as I could,” Tony said, “I had the house furnished just as it used to be. I could not get all the pictures which we once had, but you see I have done my best.”
Millie looked round the room. There was the piano standing just as it used to do, the carpet, the wall-paper were all of the old pattern. It seemed to her that she had never left the house; that the years in Berkeley Square and Regent’s Park were a mere nightmare from which she had just awaked. And then she looked at Tony. No, these latter years had been quite real — he bore the marks of them upon his face. The boyishness had gone. No doubt, she thought, it was the same with her.
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 422