I suppressed a groan and said to myself that I must really get away from there.
Mrs. Blunt was fairly launched now.
“For all his superiority he is a man of the world and shares to a certain extent its current opinions. He has no power over her. She intimidates him. He wishes he had never set eyes on her. Once or twice this morning he looked at me as if he could find it in his heart to hate his old mother. There is no doubt about it—he loves her, Monsieur George. He loves her, this poor, luckless, perfect homme du monde.”
The silence lasted for some time and then I heard a murmur: “It’s a matter of the utmost delicacy between two beings so sensitive, so proud. It has to be managed.”
I found myself suddenly on my feet and saying with the utmost politeness that I had to beg her permission to leave her alone as I had an engagement; but she motioned me simply to sit down—and I sat down again.
“I told you I had a request to make,” she said. “I have understood from Mr. Mills that you have been to the West Indies, that you have some interests there.”
I was astounded. “Interests! I certainly have been there,” I said, “but . . .”
She caught me up. “Then why not go there again? I am speaking to you frankly because . . .”
“But, Madame, I am engaged in this affair with Doña Rita, even if I had any interests elsewhere. I won’t tell you about the importance of my work. I didn’t suspect it but you brought the news of it to me, and so I needn’t point it out to you.”
And now we were frankly arguing with each other.
“But where will it lead you in the end? You have all your life before you, all your plans, prospects, perhaps dreams, at any rate your own tastes and all your life-time before you. And would you sacrifice all this to—the Pretender? A mere figure for the front page of illustrated papers.”’
“I never think of him,” I said curtly, “but I suppose Doña Rita’s feelings, instincts, call it what you like—or only her chivalrous fidelity to her mistakes—”
“Doña Rita’s presence here in this town, her withdrawal from the possible complications of her life in Paris has produced an excellent effect on my son. It simplifies infinite difficulties, I mean moral as well as material. It’s extremely to the advantage of her dignity, of her future, and of her peace of mind. But I am thinking, of course, mainly of my son. He is most exacting.”
I felt extremely sick at heart. “And so I am to drop everything and vanish,” I said, rising from my chair again. And this time Mrs. Blunt got up, too, with a lofty and inflexible manner but she didn’t dismiss me yet.
“Yes,” she said distinctly. “All this, my dear Monsieur George, is such an accident. What have you got to do here? You look to me like somebody who would find adventures wherever he went as interesting and perhaps less dangerous than this one.”
She slurred over the word dangerous but I picked it up.
“What do you know of its dangers, Madame, may I ask?” But she did not condescend to hear.
“And then you, too, have your chivalrous feelings,” she went on, unswerving, distinct, and tranquil. “You are not absurd. But my son is. He would shut her up in a convent for a time if he could.”
“He isn’t the only one,” I muttered.
“Indeed!” she was startled, then lower, “Yes. That woman must be the centre of all sorts of passions,” she mused audibly. “But what have you got to do with all this? It’s nothing to you.”
She waited for me to speak.
“Exactly, Madame,” I said, “and therefore I don’t see why I should concern myself in all this one way or another.”
“No,” she assented with a weary air, “except that you might ask yourself what is the good of tormenting a man of noble feelings, however absurd. His Southern blood makes him very violent sometimes. I fear—” And then for the first time during this conversation, for the first time since I left Doña Rita the day before, for the first time I laughed.
“Do you mean to hint, Madame, that Southern gentlemen are dead shots? I am aware of that—from novels.”
I spoke looking her straight in the face and I made that exquisite, aristocratic old woman positively blink by my directness. There was a faint flush on her delicate old cheeks but she didn’t move a muscle of her face. I made her a most respectful bow and went out of the studio.
CHAPTER IV
Through the great arched window of the hall I saw the hotel brougham waiting at the door. On passing the door of the front room (it was originally meant for a drawing-room but a bed for Blunt was put in there) I banged with my fist on the panel and shouted: “I am obliged to go out. Your mother’s carriage is at the door.” I didn’t think he was asleep. My view now was that he was aware beforehand of the subject of the conversation, and if so I did not wish to appear as if I had slunk away from him after the interview. But I didn’t stop—I didn’t want to see him—and before he could answer I was already half way up the stairs running noiselessly up the thick carpet which also covered the floor of the landing. Therefore opening the door of my sitting-room quickly I caught by surprise the person who was in there watching the street half concealed by the window curtain. It was a woman. A totally unexpected woman. A perfect stranger. She came away quickly to meet me. Her face was veiled and she was dressed in a dark walking costume and a very simple form of hat. She murmured: “I had an idea that Monsieur was in the house,” raising a gloved hand to lift her veil. It was Rose and she gave me a shock. I had never seen her before but with her little black silk apron and a white cap with ribbons on her head. This outdoor dress was like a disguise. I asked anxiously:
“What has happened to Madame?”
“Nothing. I have a letter,” she murmured, and I saw it appear between the fingers of her extended hand, in a very white envelope which I tore open impatiently. It consisted of a few lines only. It began abruptly:
“If you are gone to sea then I can’t forgive you for not sending the usual word at the last moment. If you are not gone why don’t you come? Why did you leave me yesterday? You leave me crying—I who haven’t cried for years and years, and you haven’t the sense to come back within the hour, within twenty hours! This conduct is idiotic”—and a sprawling signature of the four magic letters at the bottom.
While I was putting the letter in my pocket the girl said in an earnest undertone: “I don’t like to leave Madame by herself for any length of time.”
“How long have you been in my room?” I asked.
“The time seemed long. I hope Monsieur won’t mind the liberty. I sat for a little in the hall but then it struck me I might be seen. In fact, Madame told me not to be seen if I could help it.”
“Why did she tell you that?”
“I permitted myself to suggest that to Madame. It might have given a false impression. Madame is frank and open like the day but it won’t do with everybody. There are people who would put a wrong construction on anything. Madame’s sister told me Monsieur was out.”
“And you didn’t believe her?”
“Non, Monsieur. I have lived with Madame’s sister for nearly a week when she first came into this house. She wanted me to leave the message, but I said I would wait a little. Then I sat down in the big porter’s chair in the hall and after a while, everything being very quiet, I stole up here. I know the disposition of the apartments. I reckoned Madame’s sister would think that I got tired of waiting and let myself out.”
“And you have been amusing yourself watching the street ever since?”
“The time seemed long,” she answered evasively. “An empty coupé came to the door about an hour ago and it’s still waiting,” she added, looking at me inquisitively.