V
At the porter's desk a brief "Pas de lettres" fell destructively on thefabric of these hopes. Mrs. Leath had not written--she had not taken thetrouble to explain her telegram. Darrow turned away with a sharp pangof humiliation. Her frugal silence mocked his prodigality of hopes andfears. He had put his question to the porter once before, on returningto the hotel after luncheon; and now, coming back again in the lateafternoon, he was met by the same denial. The second post was in, andhad brought him nothing.
A glance at his watch showed that he had barely time to dress beforetaking Miss Viner out to dine; but as he turned to the lift a newthought struck him, and hurrying back into the hall he dashed offanother telegram to his servant: "Have you forwarded any letter withFrench postmark today? Telegraph answer Terminus."
Some kind of reply would be certain to reach him on his return from thetheatre, and he would then know definitely whether Mrs. Leath meantto write or not. He hastened up to his room and dressed with a lighterheart.
Miss Viner's vagrant trunk had finally found its way to its owner;and, clad in such modest splendour as it furnished, she shone at Darrowacross their restaurant table. In the reaction of his wounded vanity hefound her prettier and more interesting than before. Her dress, slopingaway from the throat, showed the graceful set of her head on its slenderneck, and the wide brim of her hat arched above her hair like a duskyhalo. Pleasure danced in her eyes and on her lips, and as she shone onhim between the candle-shades Darrow felt that he should not be at allsorry to be seen with her in public. He even sent a careless glanceabout him in the vague hope that it might fall on an acquaintance.
At the theatre her vivacity sank into a breathless hush, and she satintent in her corner of their baignoire, with the gaze of a neophyteabout to be initiated into the sacred mysteries. Darrow placed himselfbehind her, that he might catch her profile between himself and thestage. He was touched by the youthful seriousness of her expression. Inspite of the experiences she must have had, and of the twenty-fouryears to which she owned, she struck him as intrinsically young; and hewondered how so evanescent a quality could have been preserved in thedesiccating Murrett air. As the play progressed he noticed that herimmobility was traversed by swift flashes of perception. She was notmissing anything, and her intensity of attention when Cerdine was on thestage drew an anxious line between her brows.
After the first act she remained for a few minutes rapt and motionless;then she turned to her companion with a quick patter of questions. Hegathered from them that she had been less interested in followingthe general drift of the play than in observing the details of itsinterpretation. Every gesture and inflection of the great actress'shad been marked and analyzed; and Darrow felt a secret gratification inbeing appealed to as an authority on the histrionic art. His interest init had hitherto been merely that of the cultivated young man curious ofall forms of artistic expression; but in reply to her questions he foundthings to say about it which evidently struck his listener as impressiveand original, and with which he himself was not, on the whole,dissatisfied. Miss Viner was much more concerned to hear his viewsthan to express her own, and the deference with which she received hiscomments called from him more ideas about the theatre than he had eversupposed himself to possess.
With the second act she began to give more attention to the developmentof the play, though her interest was excited rather by what she called"the story" than by the conflict of character producing it. Oddlycombined with her sharp apprehension of things theatrical, her knowledgeof technical "dodges" and green-room precedents, her glibness about"lines" and "curtains", was the primitive simplicity of her attitudetoward the tale itself, as toward something that was "really happening"and at which one assisted as at a street-accident or a quarrel overheardin the next room. She wanted to know if Darrow thought the lovers"really would" be involved in the catastrophe that threatened them,and when he reminded her that his predictions were disqualified by hishaving already seen the play, she exclaimed: "Oh, then, please don'ttell me what's going to happen!" and the next moment was questioninghim about Cerdine's theatrical situation and her private history. On thelatter point some of her enquiries were of a kind that it is not inthe habit of young girls to make, or even to know how to make; but herapparent unconsciousness of the fact seemed rather to reflect on herpast associates than on herself.
When the second act was over, Darrow suggested their taking a turnin the foyer; and seated on one of its cramped red velvet sofas theywatched the crowd surge up and down in a glare of lights and gilding.Then, as she complained of the heat, he led her through the press to thecongested cafe at the foot of the stairs, where orangeades were thrustat them between the shoulders of packed consommateurs and Darrow,lighting a cigarette while she sucked her straw, knew the primitivecomplacency of the man at whose companion other men stare.
On a corner of their table lay a smeared copy of a theatrical journal.It caught Sophy's eye and after poring over the page she looked up withan excited exclamation.
"They're giving Oedipe tomorrow afternoon at the Francais! I supposeyou've seen it heaps and heaps of times?"
He smiled back at her. "You must see it too. We'll go tomorrow."
She sighed at his suggestion, but without discarding it. "How can I? Thelast train for Joigny leaves at four."
"But you don't know yet that your friends will want you."
"I shall know tomorrow early. I asked Mrs. Farlow to telegraph as soonas she got my letter." A twinge of compunction shot through Darrow. Herwords recalled to him that on their return to the hotel after luncheonshe had given him her letter to post, and that he had never thought ofit again. No doubt it was still in the pocket of the coat he had takenoff when he dressed for dinner. In his perturbation he pushed back hischair, and the movement made her look up at him.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing. Only--you know I don't fancy that letter can have caught thisafternoon's post."
"Not caught it? Why not?"
"Why, I'm afraid it will have been too late." He bent his head to lightanother cigarette.
She struck her hands together with a gesture which, to his amusement, henoticed she had caught from Cerdine.
"Oh, dear, I hadn't thought of that! But surely it will reach them inthe morning?"
"Some time in the morning, I suppose. You know the French provincialpost is never in a hurry. I don't believe your letter would have beendelivered this evening in any case." As this idea occurred to him hefelt himself almost absolved.
"Perhaps, then, I ought to have telegraphed?"
"I'll telegraph for you in the morning if you say so."
The bell announcing the close of the entr'-acte shrilled through thecafe, and she sprang to her feet.
"Oh, come, come! We mustn't miss it!"
Instantly forgetful of the Farlows, she slipped her arm through his andturned to push her way back to the theatre.
As soon as the curtain went up she as promptly forgot her companion.Watching her from the corner to which he had returned, Darrow saw thatgreat waves of sensation were beating deliciously against her brain. Itwas as though every starved sensibility were throwing out feelers to themounting tide; as though everything she was seeing, hearing, imagining,rushed in to fill the void of all she had always been denied.
Darrow, as he observed her, again felt a detached enjoyment in herpleasure. She was an extraordinary conductor of sensation: she seemed totransmit it physically, in emanations that set the blood dancing in hisveins. He had not often had the opportunity of studying the effects of aperfectly fresh impression on so responsive a temperament, and he felt afleeting desire to make its chords vibrate for his own amusement.
At the end of the next act she discovered with dismay that in theirtransit to the cafe she had lost the beautiful pictured programme hehad bought for her. She wanted to go back and hunt for it, but Darrowassured her that he would have no trouble in getting her another. Whenhe went out in quest of it she followed him protestingly
to the door ofthe box, and he saw that she was distressed at the thought of his havingto spend an additional franc for her. This frugality smote Darrow by itscontrast to her natural bright profusion; and again he felt the desireto right so clumsy an injustice.
When he returned to the box she was still standing in the doorway,and he noticed that his were not the only eyes attracted to her. Thenanother impression sharply diverted his attention. Above the faggedfaces of the Parisian crowd he had caught the fresh fair countenanceof Owen Leath signalling a joyful recognition. The young man, slim andeager, had detached himself from two companions of his own type, andwas seeking to push through the press to his step-mother's friend. Theencounter, to Darrow, could hardly have been more inopportune; it wokein him a confusion of feelings of which only the uppermost was allayedby seeing Sophy Viner, as if instinctively warned, melt back into theshadow of their box.
A minute later Owen Leath was at his side. "I was sure it was you! Suchluck to run across you! Won't you come off with us to supper after it'sover? Montmartre, or wherever else you please. Those two chaps overthere are friends of mine, at the Beaux Arts; both of them rather goodfellows--and we'd be so glad----"
For half a second Darrow read in his hospitable eye the termination "ifyou'd bring the lady too"; then it deflected into: "We'd all be so gladif you'd come."
Darrow, excusing himself with thanks, lingered on for a few minutes'chat, in which every word, and every tone of his companion's voice, waslike a sharp light flashed into aching eyes. He was glad when the bellcalled the audience to their seats, and young Leath left him with thefriendly question: "We'll see you at Givre later on?"
When he rejoined Miss Viner, Darrow's first care was to find out, by arapid inspection of the house, whether Owen Leath's seat had given him aview of their box. But the young man was not visible from it, and Darrowconcluded that he had been recognized in the corridor and not at hiscompanion's side. He scarcely knew why it seemed to him so importantthat this point should be settled; certainly his sense of reassurancewas less due to regard for Miss Viner than to the persistent vision ofgrave offended eyes...
During the drive back to the hotel this vision was persistently keptbefore him by the thought that the evening post might have brought aletter from Mrs. Leath. Even if no letter had yet come, his servantmight have telegraphed to say that one was on its way; and at thethought his interest in the girl at his side again cooled to thefraternal, the almost fatherly. She was no more to him, after all, thanan appealing young creature to whom it was mildly agreeable to haveoffered an evening's diversion; and when, as they rolled into theilluminated court of the hotel, she turned with a quick movement whichbrought her happy face close to his, he leaned away, affecting to beabsorbed in opening the door of the cab.
At the desk the night porter, after a vain search through thepigeon-holes, was disposed to think that a letter or telegram had infact been sent up for the gentleman; and Darrow, at the announcement,could hardly wait to ascend to his room. Upstairs, he and his companionhad the long dimly-lit corridor to themselves, and Sophy paused on herthreshold, gathering up in one hand the pale folds of her cloak, whileshe held the other out to Darrow.
"If the telegram comes early I shall be off by the first train; so Isuppose this is good-bye," she said, her eyes dimmed by a little shadowof regret.
Darrow, with a renewed start of contrition, perceived that he had againforgotten her letter; and as their hands met he vowed to himself thatthe moment she had left him he would dash down stairs to post it.
"Oh, I'll see you in the morning, of course!"
A tremor of pleasure crossed her face as he stood before her, smiling alittle uncertainly.
"At any rate," she said, "I want to thank you now for my good day."
He felt in her hand the same tremor he had seen in her face. "But it'sYOU, on the contrary--" he began, lifting the hand to his lips.
As he dropped it, and their eyes met, something passed through hers thatwas like a light carried rapidly behind a curtained window.
"Good night; you must be awfully tired," he said with a friendlyabruptness, turning away without even waiting to see her pass into herroom. He unlocked his door, and stumbling over the threshold groped inthe darkness for the electric button. The light showed him a telegram onthe table, and he forgot everything else as he caught it up.
"No letter from France," the message read.
It fell from Darrow's hand to the floor, and he dropped into a chairby the table and sat gazing at the dingy drab and olive pattern ofthe carpet. She had not written, then; she had not written, and itwas manifest now that she did not mean to write. If she had had anyintention of explaining her telegram she would certainly, withintwenty-four hours, have followed it up by a letter. But she evidentlydid not intend to explain it, and her silence could mean only that shehad no explanation to give, or else that she was too indifferent to beaware that one was needed.
Darrow, face to face with these alternatives, felt a recrudescence ofboyish misery. It was no longer his hurt vanity that cried out. He toldhimself that he could have borne an equal amount of pain, if only it hadleft Mrs. Leath's image untouched; but he could not bear to think of heras trivial or insincere. The thought was so intolerable that he felt ablind desire to punish some one else for the pain it caused him.
As he sat moodily staring at the carpet its silly intricacies meltedinto a blur from which the eyes of Mrs. Leath again looked out at him.He saw the fine sweep of her brows, and the deep look beneath them asshe had turned from him on their last evening in London. "This will begood-bye, then," she had said; and it occurred to him that her partingphrase had been the same as Sophy Viner's.
At the thought he jumped to his feet and took down from its hook thecoat in which he had left Miss Viner's letter. The clock marked thethird quarter after midnight, and he knew it would make no differenceif he went down to the post-box now or early the next morning; but hewanted to clear his conscience, and having found the letter he went tothe door.
A sound in the next room made him pause. He had become conscious againthat, a few feet off, on the other side of a thin partition, a smallkeen flame of life was quivering and agitating the air. Sophy's facecame hack to him insistently. It was as vivid now as Mrs. Leath's hadbeen a moment earlier. He recalled with a faint smile of retrospectivepleasure the girl's enjoyment of her evening, and the innumerable finefeelers of sensation she had thrown out to its impressions.
It gave him a curiously close sense of her presence to think that atthat moment she was living over her enjoyment as intensely as he wasliving over his unhappiness. His own case was irremediable, but it waseasy enough to give her a few more hours of pleasure. And did she notperhaps secretly expect it of him? After all, if she had been veryanxious to join her friends she would have telegraphed them on reachingParis, instead of writing. He wondered now that he had not been struckat the moment by so artless a device to gain more time. The fact of herhaving practised it did not make him think less well of her; it merelystrengthened the impulse to use his opportunity. She was starving, poorchild, for a little amusement, a little personal life--why not giveher the chance of another day in Paris? If he did so, should he not bemerely falling in with her own hopes?
At the thought his sympathy for her revived. She became of absorbinginterest to him as an escape from himself and an object about which histhwarted activities could cluster. He felt less drearily alone becauseof her being there, on the other side of the door, and in his gratitudeto her for giving him this relief he began, with indolent amusement, toplan new ways of detaining her. He dropped back into his chair, lit acigar, and smiled a little at the image of her smiling face. He tried toimagine what incident of the day she was likely to be recalling at thatparticular moment, and what part he probably played in it. That itwas not a small part he was certain, and the knowledge was undeniablypleasant.
Now and then a sound from her room brought before him more vividlythe reality of the situation and the strangeness
of the vast swarmingsolitude in which he and she were momentarily isolated, amid long linesof rooms each holding its separate secret. The nearness of all theseother mysteries enclosing theirs gave Darrow a more intimate sense ofthe girl's presence, and through the fumes of his cigar his imaginationcontinued to follow her to and fro, traced the curve of her slim youngarms as she raised them to undo her hair, pictured the sliding down ofher dress to the waist and then to the knees, and the whiteness of herfeet as she slipped across the floor to bed...
He stood up and shook himself with a yawn, throwing away the end ofhis cigar. His glance, in following it, lit on the telegram which haddropped to the floor. The sounds in the next room had ceased, and oncemore he felt alone and unhappy.
Opening the window, he folded his arms on the sill and looked out on thevast light-spangled mass of the city, and then up at the dark sky, inwhich the morning planet stood.
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