The End of Her Honeymoon by Marie Belloc Lowndes
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Marie Belloc Lowndes >> The End of Her Honeymoon
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Senator Burton, well as he believed himself to be acquainted with his
landlady, would have been very much taken aback had he visioned what
followed his own and Mrs. Dampier's departure from the Hotel Saint Ange.
Madame Poulain remained at the door of the porte cochere till the open
carriage turned the corner of the narrow street. Then she looked at
her nephew.
"How much did she give you?" she asked roughly. And the young man
reluctantly opened a grimy hand and showed a two franc piece.
She snatched it from him, and motioned him back imperiously towards the
courtyard.
After he had gone quite out of sight she walked quickly up the little
street till she came to a low, leather-bound door which gave access to the
church whose fine buttress bestowed such distinction on the otherwise
rather sordid Rue Saint Ange. Pushing open the door she passed through into
the dimly-lit side aisle where stood the Lady Altar.
This old church held many memories for Madame Poulain. It was here that
Virginie had been christened, here that there had taken place the funeral
service of the baby son she never mentioned and still bitterly mourned, and
it was there, before the High Altar, to the right of which she now stood,
that she hoped to see her beloved daughter stand ere long a happy bride.
She looked round her for a moment, bewildered by the sudden change from the
bright sunlit street to the shadowed aisle. Then she suddenly espied what
she had come to seek. Close to where she stood an alms-box clamped to the
stone wall had written upon it the familiar legend, "Pour les Pauvres."
Madame Poulain took a step forward, then dropped the three francs Nancy
Dampier had just paid her, and the two francs she had extracted from
Jules's reluctant hand, into the alms-box.
CHAPTER III
That the cabman was evidently familiar with the odd address, "Impasse des
Nonnes," brought a measure of relief to Senator Burton's mind, and as he
turned and gazed into the candid eyes of the girl sitting by his side he
was ashamed of his vague suspicions.
The little carriage bowled swiftly across the great square behind which
wound the Rue Saint Ange, up one of the steep, picturesque streets which
lead from thence to the Luxembourg Gardens.
When they had gone some considerable way round the gay and stately
pleasance so dear to the poets and students of all nations, they suddenly
turned into the quaintest, quietest thoroughfare imaginable, carved out of
one of those old convent gardens which till lately were among the most
beautiful and characteristic features of the "Quartier."
An architect, who happened also to be an artist, had set up in this remote
and peaceful oasis his household gods, adding on this, his own domain, a
few studios with living rooms attached.
A broad, sanded path ran between the low picturesque buildings, and so the
carriage was obliged to draw up at the entrance to the Impasse.
Senator Burton looked up at the cabman: "Better not take off the lady's
trunk just yet," he said quickly in French, and though Nancy Dampier made
no demur, she looked surprised.
They began walking up the shaded path, for above the low walls on either
side sprang flowering shrubs and trees.
"What a charming place!" exclaimed the Senator, smiling down at her. "How
fond you and your husband must be of it!"
But his companion shook her head. "I've never been here," she said slowly.
"You see this is my first visit to Paris. Though I ought not to call it a
visit, for Paris is to be my home now," and she smiled at last, happy in
the belief that in a few moments she would see Jack.
She was a little troubled at the thought that Jack would be disappointed at
her coming here in this way, with a stranger. But surely after she had
explained the extraordinary occurrence of the morning he would understand?
They were now opposite No. 3. It was a curious, mosque-like building, with
the domed roof of what must be the studio, in the centre. Boldly inscribed
on a marble slab set above the door was the name, "John Dampier."
Before the bell had well stopped ringing, a sturdy apple-faced old woman,
wearing the Breton dress Jack so much admired, stood before them.
Nancy of course knew her at once for Mere Bideau.
A pleasant smile lit up the gnarled face, and Nancy remembered what Jack
had so often said as to Mere Bideau's clever way of dealing with visitors,
especially with possible art patrons.
Mrs. Dampier looked very kindly at the old woman who had been so good and
so faithful a servant to her Jack, and who, she hoped, would also serve her
well and faithfully.
Before the Senator had time to speak, Mere Bideau, shaking her head,
observed respectfully, "Mr. Dampier is not yet arrived. But if you,
monsieur, and you, madame, will give yourselves the trouble of coming back
this afternoon he will certainly be here, for I am expecting him
any moment--"
"Do you mean that Mr. Dampier has not been here at all this morning?"
enquired the Senator.
"No, monsieur, but as I have just had the honour of informing you, my
master is to arrive to-day without fail. Everything is ready for him and
for his lady. I had a letter from Mr. Dampier the day before yesterday."
She waited a moment, and then added, "Won't monsieur come in and wait? Mr.
Dampier would indeed be sorry to miss monsieur!"
So far so good. Senator Burton eagerly acknowledged to himself that here
was confirmation--as much confirmation as any reasonable man could
expect--of Mrs. Dampier's story.
This respectable old woman was evidently expecting her master and his bride
to-day--of that there could now be no doubt.
"I beg of you to enter," said Mere Bideau again. "Monsieur and madame may
like to visit the studio? I do not say that it is very tidy--but my
master's beautiful paintings are not affected by untidiness--" and she
smiled ingratiatingly.
This important-looking gentleman, whom her shrewd Parisian eyes and ears
had already told her was an American, might be an important picture-buyer;
in any case, he was evidently gravely disappointed at not finding Mr.
Dampier at home.
"My master may arrive any moment," she said again; "and though I've had to
put all the luggage he sent on some time ago, in the studio--well, monsieur
and madame will excuse that!"
She stood aside to allow the strangers to step through into the little
passage.
The Senator turned to Nancy: "Hadn't we better go in and wait?" he asked.
"You must remember that if Mr. Dampier has gone to the hotel they will
certainly tell him we are here."
"No," said Nancy in a low voice, "I would rather not go in--now. My husband
doesn't want me to see the place until he has got it ready for me." Her
lips quivered. "But oh, Mr. Burton, where can Jack be? What can he be
doing?" She put her hands together with a helpless, childish gesture of
distress. Then, making an effort over herself, she said in a more composed
voice, "But I should like you to go in and just see some of Jack's
pictures."
With a smiling face Mere Bideau preceded the Senator down a sunny corridor
into the large studio. It was circular in shape, lighted by a skylight, and
contained a few pieces of fine old furniture, now incongruously allied to a
number of unopened packing-cases and trunks.
Mere Bideau went on talking volubly. She was evidently both fond and proud
of her master. Suddenly she waved her lean arm towards a large, ambitious
painting showing a typical family group of French bourgeois sitting in
an arbour.
"This is what won Mr. Dampier his first Salon medal," she explained. "But
his work has much improved since then, as monsieur can see for himself!"
and she uncovered an unframed easel portrait. It was a really interesting,
distinguished presentment of a man. "Is not this excellent?" exclaimed Mere
Bideau eagerly. "What expression, what strength in the mouth, in the eyes!"
Senator Burton, had the circumstances been other, would perhaps have smiled
at the old woman's enthusiasm, and at her intelligent criticism. But now he
simply nodded his head gravely. "Yes, that is a very good portrait," he
said absently. "And--and--where are the living rooms?"
"This way, monsieur!" Then, with some surprise, "Would monsieur care to see
the appartement? Then I presume monsieur is a friend of my master."
But the Senator shook his head quickly. "No, no, I don't want to see the
rooms," he said. "I was only curious to know if Mr. Dampier actually
lived here."
As there was a suite of living rooms attached to the studio, why had the
Dampiers gone to an hotel?
"Yes, monsieur, there are three beautiful bedrooms, also a bath-room, and a
room which was not used by us, but which my master is going to turn into a
little salon for his lady. As for their meals--" she shrugged her
shoulders--"they will have to be served as heretofore in the studio." Then,
"Does monsieur know the new Madame Dampier?" enquired Mere Bideau a trifle
anxiously.
"Yes," he answered uncomfortably. "Yes, I do know her."
"And if monsieur will excuse the question, is she a nice lady? It will make
a great difference to me--"
"Yes, yes--she is very charming, very pretty."
He could not bring himself to inform the good woman that the lady who had
come with him, and who was now waiting outside the house, claimed to be
Mrs. Dampier. It would be too--too unpleasant if it turned out to be--well,
a mistake!
The Senator was telling himself ruefully that though there was now ample
evidence of the existence of John Dampier, there was not evidence at all as
yet that the artist had ever been at the Hotel Saint Ange: still less that
the young Englishwoman who had just now refused to accompany him into the
studio was John Dampier's wife. However, that fact, as she had herself
pointed out rather piteously, could very soon be put to the proof.
Slowly Senator Burton left the studio and made his way into the open air,
where Nancy was waiting for him.
"Well?" he said questioningly. "Well, Mrs. Dampier, what is it that you
would like to do now?"
"I don't know what I ought to do," said Nancy helplessly. She had again
become very pale and she looked bewildered, as well as distressed. "You see
I felt so sure that we should find Jack here!"
"The only thing I can suggest your doing," the American spoke kindly, if a
little coldly, "is to come back with me to the Hotel Saint Ange. It is
probable that we shall find Mr. Dampier there, waiting for you. A dozen
things may have happened to him, none of which need give you any cause for
anxiety." He pulled out his watch. "Hum! It's close on twelve--yes, the
only thing to do is to go back to the hotel. It's almost certain we shall
find him there--" it was on his lips to add, "if he really did come with
you last night," but he checked himself in time.
"But Mr. Burton? Suppose Jack is not there?"
"If he doesn't return within the next two or three hours, then I will
consult with my son, who, young though he be, has a very good head on his
shoulders, as to what will be the best step for you to take. But don't
let's meet trouble half-way! I have little doubt that we shall find Mr.
Dampier waiting for you, vowing vengeance against the bold man who has
eloped, even with the best of motives, with his wife!" he smiled, and poor
Nancy gave a quivering smile in return.
"I should so much have preferred not to go back to that hotel," she said,
in a low voice. "I do hope Jack won't make me stay on there for the next
two or three days."
And with the remembrance of what she had considered to be the gross insult
put upon her by Madame Poulain, Nancy Dampier reddened deeply, while her
new friend felt more and more bewildered and puzzled.
On the one hand Senator Burton had the testimony of three trustworthy
persons that the young Englishwoman had arrived alone at the hotel the
night before; and against this positive testimony there was nothing but her
bare word.
Very, very reluctantly, he felt compelled to believe the Poulains' version
of what had happened. He could think of no motive--in fact there was no
motive--which could prompt a false assertion on their part.
As they were driving back, each silent, each full of painful misgivings,
the kindly American began to wonder whether he had not met with that, if
rare yet undoubted, condition known as entire loss of memory.
If, as Madame Poulain had suggested, Mr. Dampier had left his wife just
before their arrival at the hotel, was it not conceivable that by some kind
of kink in Mrs. Dampier's brain--the kind of kink which brings men and
women to entertain, when otherwise sane, certain strange delusions--she had
imagined the story she now told with so much circumstantial detail and
clearness?
When they were nearing the hotel, Nancy put her hand nervously on her
companion's arm.
"Mr. Burton," she whispered, "I'm horribly afraid of the Poulains! I keep
thinking of such dreadful things."
"Now look here, Mrs. Dampier--" Senator Burton turned, and looking down
into her agitated face, spoke gently and kindly--"though I quite admit to
you these people's conduct must seem inexplicable, I feel sure you are
wronging the Poulains. They are very worthy, respectable folk--I've known
them long enough to vouch for that fact. This extraordinary
misunderstanding, this mistake--for it must be either a misunderstanding or
a mistake on some one's part--will soon be cleared up, so much is certain:
till then I beg you not to treat them as enemies."
And yet even Senator Burton felt taken aback when he saw the undisguised
annoyance, the keen irritation with which their return to the Hotel Saint
Ange was greeted by the woman to whom he had just given so good a
certificate of character.
Madame Poulain was standing on the street side of the open porte cochere,
as the carriage drove down the narrow street, and the American was
astonished to see the change which came over her face.
An angry, vindictive, even a cruel expression swept over it, and instead of
waiting to greet them as the carriage drew up at the door she turned
abruptly away, and shuffled out of sight.
"Wait a moment," he said, as the fiacre drew up, "don't get out of the
carriage yet, Mrs. Dampier--"
And meekly Nancy obeyed him.
The Senator hurried through into the courtyard. Much would he have given,
and he was a careful man, to have seen the image he had formed of Jack
Dampier standing on the sun-flecked flagstones. But the broad space
stretching before him was empty, deserted; during the daylight hours of
each day the Exhibition drew every one away much as a honey cask might have
done a hive of bees.
Madame Poulain did not come out of her kitchen as was her usual hospitable
wont when she heard footsteps echoing under the vaulted porte cochere, and
so her American guest had to go across, and walk right into her
special domain.
"We did not find the gentleman at his studio," he said shortly, "and I
presume, Madame Poulain, that he has not yet been here?"
She shook her head sullenly, and then, with none of her usual suavity,
exclaimed, "I do not think, Monsieur le Senateur, that you should have
brought that demoiselle back here!"
She gave him so odd--some would have said, so insolent a look, that the
Senator realised for the first time what he was to realise yet further in
connection with this strange business, namely, that the many who go through
life refusing to act the part of good Samaritans have at any rate excellent
reasons for their abstention.
It was disagreeably dear that Madame Poulain thought him a foolish old man
who had been caught by an adventuress's pretty face....
To their joint relief Monsieur Poulain came strolling into his wife's
kitchen.
"I've been telling Monsieur le Senateur," exclaimed Madame Poulain, "that
we do not wish to have anything more to do with that young person who
asserts that she arrived here with a man last night. Monsieur le Senateur
has too good a heart: he is being deceived."
The hotel-keeper looked awkwardly, deprecatingly, at his valued American
client. "Paris is so full of queer people just now," he muttered. "They
keep mostly to the other side of the river, to the Opera quarter, but we
are troubled with them here too, during an Exhibition Year!"
"There is nothing at all queer about this poor young lady," said Senator
Burton sharply--somehow the cruel insinuation roused him to chivalrous
defence. But soon he changed his tone, "Now look here, my good friends"--he
glanced from the husband to the wife--"surely you have both heard of people
who have suddenly lost their memory, even to the knowledge of who they were
and where they came from? Now I fear--I very much fear--that something of
the kind has happened to this Mrs. Dampier! I am as sure that she is not
consciously telling a lie as I am that you are telling me the truth. For
one thing, I have ascertained that this lady's statement as to Mr. John
Dampier having a studio in Paris, where he was expected this morning, is
true. As to who she is herself that question can and will be soon set at
rest. Meanwhile my daughter and myself"--and then he hesitated, for, well
as he knew French, Senator Burton did not quite know how to convey his
meaning, namely, that they, he and his daughter, meant to see her through.
"My daughter and myself," he repeated firmly, "are going to do the best we
can to help her."
Madame Poulain opened her lips--then she shut them tight again. She longed
to tell "Monsieur le Senateur" that in that case she and Poulain must have
the regret of asking him to leave their hotel.
But she did not dare to do this.
Her husband broke in conciliatingly: "No doubt it is as Monsieur le
Senateur says," he observed; "the demoiselle is what we said she was only
this morning--" and then he uttered the word which in French means so much
and so little--the word "toquee."
There came another interruption. "Here come Mademoiselle Daisy and Monsieur
Gerald!" exclaimed Madame Poulain in a relieved tone.
The Senator's son and daughter had just emerged across the courtyard, from
the vestibule where ended the escalier d'honneur. There was a look of keen,
alert interest and curiosity on Gerald Burton's fine, intelligent face. He
was talking eagerly to his sister, and Madame Poulain told herself that
surely these two young people could not wish their stay in Paris to be
complicated by this--this unfortunate business--for so the Frenchwoman in
her own secret heart designated the mysterious affair which was causing her
and her worthy husband so much unnecessary trouble.
Some little trouble, so she admitted to herself, they had expected to have,
but they had not thought it would take this very strange and
tiresome shape.
But the hotel-keeper was destined to be bitterly disappointed in her hope
that Daisy and Gerald Burton would try and dissuade their father from
having anything more to do with Mrs. Dampier.
"Well, father?" the two fresh voices rang out, and the Senator smiled back
well pleased. He was one of those fortunate fathers who are on terms of
full confidence and friendship as well as affection with their children.
Indeed Senator Burton was specially blessed; Daisy was devoted to her
father, and Gerald had never given him a moment of real unease: the young
man had done well at college, and now seemed likely to become one of the
most distinguished and successful exponents of that branch of
art--architecture--modern America has made specially her own.
"Well?" said the Senator, "well, Daisy, I suppose you have told your
brother about this odd affair?"
As his daughter nodded, he went on:--"As for me, I have unfortunately
nothing to tell. We found the studio, and everything was exactly as this
poor young lady said it would be--with the one paramount exception that her
husband was not there! And though his housekeeper seems to be expecting Mr.
Dampier every moment, she has had no news of him since he wrote, some days
ago, saying he would arrive this morning. It certainly is a very
inexplicable business--" he looked helplessly from one good-looking,
intelligent young face to the other.
"But where is Mrs. Dampier now?" asked Daisy eagerly. "I do think you might
have told me before you took her away, father. I would have loved to have
said good-bye to her. I do like her so much!"
"You won't have far to go to see her. Mrs. Dampier's at the door, sitting
in a carriage," said her father drily. "I had to bring her back here: I
didn't know what else to do."
"Why, of course, father, you did quite right!"
And Gerald Burton chimed in, "Yes, of course you were right to do that,
father."
Senator Burton smiled a little ruefully at his children's unquestioning
approval. He himself was by no means sure that he had done "quite right."
They walked, the three of them, across to the porte-cochere.
Nancy Dampier was now sitting crouched up in a corner of the fiacre; a
handkerchief was pressed to her face, and she was trying, not very
successfully, to stifle her sobs of nervous fear and distress.
With an eager, impulsive gesture the American girl leapt up the step of the
little open carriage. "Don't cry," she whispered soothingly. "It will all
come right soon! Why, I expect your husband just went out to see a friend
and got kept somehow. If it wasn't for those stupid Poulains' mistake about
last night you wouldn't feel really worried, now would you?"
Nancy dabbed her eyes. She felt ashamed of being caught crying by these
kind people. "I know I'm being silly!" she gasped. "You must forgive me!
It's quite true I shouldn't feel as worried as I feel now if it wasn't for
the Poulains--their saying, I mean, that they've never seen my husband.
That's what upset me. It all seems so strange and--and horrid. My sense
tells me it's quite probable Jack has gone in to see some friend, and was
kept somehow."
"And now," said Daisy Burton persuasively, "you must come upstairs with us,
and we'll get Madame Poulain to send us up a nice dejeuner to our
sitting-room."
And so the Senator found part of his new problem solved for him. Daisy, so
much was dear, had determined to befriend--and that to the uttermost--this
unfortunate young Englishwoman.
But now there arose another most disagreeable complication.
Madame Poulain had strolled out, her arms akimbo, to see what was going on.
And, as if she had guessed the purport of Miss Burton's words, she walked
forward, and speaking this time respectfully, even suavely, to "Monsieur le
Senateur," observed, "My husband and I regret very greatly that we cannot
ask this lady to stay on in our hotel. We have no vacant room--no room
at all!"
And then it was that Gerald Burton, who had stood apart from the
discussion, saying nothing, simply looking intently, sympathetically at his
sister and Mrs. Dampier--took a hand in the now complicated little
human game.
"Father!" he exclaimed, speaking in low, sharp tones. "Of course Mrs.
Dampier must stay on here with us till her husband comes back! If by some
extraordinary chance he isn't back by to-night she can have my room--I
shall easily find some place outside." And as his father looked at him a
little doubtfully he went on:--"Will you explain to Madame Poulain what
we've settled? I can't trust myself to speak to the woman! She's behaving
in the most unkind, brutal way to this poor little lady."
He went on between his teeth, "The Poulains have got some game on in
connection with this thing. I wish I could guess what it is."
And the Senator, much disliking his task, did speak to Madame Poulain. "I
am arranging for Mrs. Dampier to stay with us, as our guest, till her
husband's--hem--arrival. My son will find a room outside, so you need not
disturb yourself about the matter. Kindly send for Jules, and have her
trunk carried up to our apartments."
And Madame Poulain, after an uncomfortably long pause, turned and silently
obeyed the Senator's behest.
CHAPTER IV
The afternoon wore itself away, and to two out of the four people who spent
it together in the pleasant salon of the Burtons' suite of rooms the hours,
nay the very minutes, dragged as they had never dragged before.
Looking back to that first day of distress and bewilderment, Nancy later
sometimes asked herself what would have happened, what she would have done,
had she lacked the protection, the kindness--and what with Daisy Burton
almost at once became the warm affection--of this American family?
Daisy and Gerald Burton not only made her feel that they understood, and,
in a measure, shared in her distress, but they also helped her to bear her
anguish and suspense.
Although she was not aware of it very different was the mental attitude of
their father.
Senator Burton was one of those public men of whom modern America has a
right to be proud. He was a hard worker--chairman of one Senate committee
and a member of four others; he had never been a brilliant debater, but his
more brilliant colleagues respected his sense of logic and force of
character. He had always been unyielding in his convictions, absolutely
independent in his views, a man to whom many of his fellow-countrymen would
have turned in any kind of trouble or perplexity sure of clear and
honest counsel.
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