The End of Her Honeymoon by Marie Belloc Lowndes

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And yet now, as to this simple matter, the Senator, try as he might, could
not make up his mind. Nothing, in his long life, had puzzled him as he was
puzzled now. No happening, connected with another human being, had ever so
filled him with the discomfort born of uncertainty.

But the object of his--well, yes, his suspicions, was evidently quite
unconscious of the mingled feelings with which he regarded her, and he was
half ashamed of the ease with which he concealed his trouble both from his
children and from their new friend.

Nancy Dampier was far too ill at ease herself to give any thought as to how
others regarded her. She had now become dreadfully anxious, dreadfully
troubled about Jack.

Much of her time was spent standing at a window of the corridor which
formed a portion of the Burtons' "appartement." This corridor overlooked
the square, sunny courtyard below; but during that first dreary afternoon
of suspense and waiting the Hotel Saint Ange might have been an enchanted
palace of sleep. Not a creature came in or out through the porte
cochere--with one insignificant exception: two workmen, dressed in
picturesque blue smocks, clattered across the big white stones, the one
swinging a pail of quaking lime in his hand, and whistling gaily as
he went.

When a carriage stopped, or seemed to stop, in the street which lay beyond
the other side of the quadrangular group of buildings, then Nancy's heart
would leap, and she would lean out, dangerously far over the grey bar of
the window; but the beloved, and now familiar figure of her husband never
followed on the sound, as she hoped against hope, it would do.

At last, when the long afternoon was drawing to a close, Senator Burton
went down and had another long conversation with the Poulains.

The hotel-keeper and his wife by now had changed their tone; they were
quite respectful, even sympathetic:

"Of course it is possible," observed Madame Poulain hesitatingly, "that
this young lady, as you yourself suggested this morning, Monsieur le
Senateur, is suffering from loss of memory, and that she has imagined her
arrival here with this artist gentleman. But if so, what a strange thing to
fancy about oneself! Is it not more likely--I say it with all respect,
Monsieur le Senateur--that for some reason unknown to us she is acting
a part?"

And with a heavy heart "Monsieur le Senateur" had to admit that Madame
Poulain's view might be the correct one. Nancy's charm of manner, even her
fragile and delicate beauty, told against her in the kindly but shrewd
American's mind. True, Mrs. Dampier--if indeed she were Mrs. Dampier--did
not look like an adventuress: but then does any adventuress look like an
adventuress till she is found to be one?

The Frenchwoman suggested yet another theory. "I have been asking myself,"
she said, smiling a little wryly, "another question. Is it not possible
that this young lady and her husband had a quarrel? Such incidents do
occur, even during honeymoons. If the two had a little quarrel he may have
left her at our door--just to punish her, Monsieur le Senateur. He would
know she was safe in our respectable hotel. Your sex, if I may say so,
Monsieur le Senateur, is sometimes very unkind, very unfeeling, in their
dealings with mine."

Monsieur Poulain, who had said nothing, here intervened. "How you do run
on," he said crossly. "You talk too much, my wife. We haven't to account
for what has happened!"

But Senator Burton had been struck by Madame Poulain's notion. Men, and if
all the Senator had heard was true, especially Englishmen, do behave very
strangely sometimes to their women-folk. It was an Englishman who conceived
the character of Petruchio. He remembered Mrs. Dampier's flushed face, the
shy, embarrassed manner with which she had come forward to meet him that
morning. She had seemed rather unnecessarily distressed at not being able
to make the hotel people understand her: she had evidently been much
disappointed that her husband had not left a message for her.

"My son thinks it possible that Mr. Dampier may have met with an accident
on his way to the studio."

A long questioning look flashed from Madame Poulain to her husband, but
Poulain was a cautious soul, and he gave his wife no lead.

"Well," she said at last, "of course that could be ascertained," and the
Senator with satisfaction told himself that she was at last taking a proper
part in what had become his trouble, "but I cannot help thinking, Monsieur
le Senateur, that we might give this naughty husband a little longer--at
any rate till to-morrow--to come back to the fold."

And the Senator, perplexed and disturbed, told himself that after all this
might be good advice.

But when he again went upstairs and joined the young people, he found that
this was not at all a plan to which any one of the three was likely to
consent. In fact as he came into the sitting-room where Nancy Dampier was
now restlessly walking up and down, he noticed that his son's hat and his
son's stick were already in his son's hands.

"I think I ought to go off, father, to the local Commissaire of Police.
There's one in every Paris district," said Gerald Burton abruptly. "Mrs.
Dampier is convinced that her husband did go out this morning, even if the
Poulains did not see him doing so; and she and I think it possible, in
fact, we are afraid, that he may have met with an accident on his way to
the studio."

As he saw by his father's face that this theory did not commend itself to
the Senator, the young man went on quickly:--"At any rate my doing this can
do no harm. I might just inform the Commissaire that a gentleman has been
missing since this morning from the Hotel Saint Ange, and that the only
theory we can form which can account for his absence is that he may have
met with an accident. Mrs. Dampier has kindly provided me with a
description of her husband, and she has told me what she thinks he might
have been wearing."

Nancy stopped her restless pacing. "If only the Poulains would allow me to
see where Jack slept last night!" she cried, bursting into tears. "But oh,
everything is made so much more difficult by their extraordinary assertion
that he never came here at all! You see he had quite a large portmanteau
with him, and I can't possibly tell which of his suits he put on
this morning."

And the Senator looking down into her flushed, tearful face, wondered
whether she were indeed telling the truth--and most painfully he doubted,
doubted very much.

But when Gerald Burton came back at the end of two hours, after a long and
weary struggle with French officialdom, all he could report was that to the
best of the Commissaire's belief no Englishman had met with an accident
that day. There had been three street accidents yesterday in which
foreigners had been concerned, but none, most positively none, to-day. He
admitted, however, that all his reports were not yet in.

Paris, from the human point of view, swells to monstrous proportions when
it becomes the background of a great International World's Fair. And the
police, unlike the great majority of those in the vast hive where they keep
order, have nothing to gain in exchange for the manifold discomforts an
Exhibition brings in its train.

At last, worn out by the mingled agitations and emotions of the day, Nancy
went to bed.

The Senator, Gerald and Daisy Burton waited up some time longer. It was a
comfort to the father to be able to feel that at last he was alone for a
while with his children. To them at least he could unburden his perplexed
and now burdened mind.

"I suppose it didn't occur to you, Gerald, to go to this Mr. Dampier's
studio?"

He looked enquiringly at his son.

Gerald Burton was sitting at the table from which Mrs. Dampier had just
risen. He looked, if a trifle weary, yet full of eager energy and life--a
fine specimen of strong, confident young manhood--a son of whom any father
might well be fond and proud.

The Senator had great confidence in Gerald's sense and judgment.

"Yes indeed, father, I went there first. Not only did I go to the studio,
but from the Commissaire's office I visited many of the infirmaries and
hospitals of the Quarter. You see, I didn't trust the Commissaire; I don't
think he really knew whether there had been any street accidents or not. In
fact at the end of our talk he admitted as much himself."

"And at Mr. Dampier's studio?" queried the Senator. "What did you find
there? Didn't the old housekeeper seem surprised at her master's
prolonged absence?"

"Yes, father, she did indeed. I could see that she was beginning to feel
very much annoyed and put out about it."

"Did she tell you," asked the Senator hesitatingly, "what sort of man this
Mr. Dampier is?"

"She spoke very well of him," said young Burton, with a touch of reluctance
in his voice, "but she admitted that he was a casual sort of fellow."

Gerald's sister looked up. She broke in, rather eagerly, "What sort of a
man do you suppose Mr. Dampier to be, Gerald?"

He shrugged his shoulders, rather ill-temperedly. He, too, was tired, after
the long day of waiting and suspense. "How can I possibly tell, Daisy? I
must say it's rather like a woman to ask such a question! From something
Mrs. Dampier said, I gather he is a plain-looking chap."

And then Daisy laughed heartily, for the first time that day. "Why, she
adores him!" she cried, "she can't have told you that."

"Indeed she did! But you weren't there when I made her describe him
carefully to me. I had to ask her, for it was important that I should have
some sort of notion what the fellow is like."

He took out his note-book. "I'll tell you what I wrote down, practically
from her dictation. 'A tall man--taller than the average Englishman. A
loosely-hung fellow; (he doesn't care for any kind of sport, I gather).
Thirty five years of age; (seems a bit old to have married a girl--she
won't be twenty till next month). He has big, strongly-marked features, and
a good deal of fair hair. Always wears an old fashioned repeater watch and
bunch of seals. Was probably wearing this morning a light grey tweed suit
and a straw hat.'" Gerald looked up and turned to his sister, "If you call
that the description of a good-looking man, well, all I can say is that I
don't agree with you, Daisy!"

"He's a very good artist," said the Senator mildly. "Did you go into his
studio, Gerald?"

"Yes, I did. And I can't say that I agree with you, father: I didn't care
for any of the pictures I saw there."

Gerald Burton spoke rather crossly. Both his father and sister felt
surprised at his tone. He was generally very equable and good-tempered. But
where any sort of art was concerned he naturally claimed to speak with
authority.

"Have you any theory, Gerald"--the Senator hesitated, "to account for the
extraordinary discrepancy between the Poulains' story and what Mrs. Dampier
asserts to be the case?"

"Yes, father, I have a quite definite theory. I believe the Poulains are
lying."

The young man leant forward across the round table. He spoke very
earnestly, but even as he spoke he lowered his voice, as if fearing to be
overheard.

Senator Burton glanced at the door. "You can speak quite openly," he said
rather sharply. "You forget that there is the door of our appartement as
well as a passage between this room and the staircase."

"No, father, I don't forget that. But it would be quite easy for anyone to
creep in. The Poulains have pass keys everywhere."

"My dear boy, they don't understand English!"

"Jules does, father. He knows far more English than he admits. At any rate
he understands everything one says to him."

Daisy broke in with a touch of impatience. "But with what object could the
Poulains tell such a stupid and cruel untruth, one, too, which is sure to
be found out very soon? If this Mr. Dampier did arrive here last night,
well then, he did--if he didn't, he didn't!"

"Yes, that's true," Gerald turned to his sister. "And though I've given a
good deal of thought to it during the last few hours--I can't form any
theory yet as to why the Poulains are lying. I only feel quite sure that
they are."

"It's a curious thing," observed the Senator musingly, "that neither of you
saw this Mr. Dampier last night--curious, I mean, that he should have just
stepped up into a cupboard, as Mrs. Dampier says he did, at the exact
moment when you were outside the door."

Neither of his children made any reply. That coincidence still troubled
Daisy Burton.

At last,--"I don't see that it's at all curious," exclaimed her brother
hastily. "It's very unfortunate, of course, for if we had happened to see
him the Poulains couldn't have told the tale they told you this morning."

The Senator sighed. He was tired--tired of the long afternoon spent in
doing nothing, and, to tell the truth, tired of the curious, inexplicable
problem with which he had been battling since the morning.

"Well, I say it with sincere regret, but I am inclined to believe the
Poulains."

"Father!" His son was looking at him with surprise and yes, indignation.

"Yes, Gerald. I am, for the present, inclined not only to believe the
Poulains' clear and consistent story, but to share Madame Poulain's view of
the case--"

"And what is her view?" asked Daisy eagerly.

"Well, my dear, her view--the view, let me remind you, of a sensible woman
who, I fancy, has seen a good deal of life--is that Mr. Dampier did
accompany his wife here, as far as the hotel, that is. That then, as the
result of what our good landlady calls a 'querelle d'amoureux,' he left
her--knowing she would be quite safe of course in so respectable a place as
the Hotel Saint Ange."

Daisy Burton only said one word--but that word was "Brute!" and her father
saw that there was the light of battle in her eyes.

"My dear," he said gently, "you forget that it was an Englishman who wrote
'The Taming of the Shrew.'"

"And yet American girls--of a sort--are quite eager to marry Englishmen!"

The Senator quickly pursued his advantage. "Now is it likely that Madame
Poulain would make such a suggestion if she were not telling the truth? Of
course her view is that this Mr. Dampier will turn up, safe and sound, when
he thinks he has sufficiently punished his poor little wife for her share
in their 'lovers' quarrel.'"

But at this Gerald Burton shook his head. "We know nothing of this man
Dampier," he said, "but I would stake my life on Mrs. Dampier's
truthfulness."

The Senator rose from his chair. Gerald's attitude was generous; he would
not have had him otherwise but still he felt irritated by his son's
suspicion of the Poulains.

"Well, it's getting late, and I suppose we ought all to go to bed now,
especially as they begin moving about so early in this place. As for you,
my boy, I hope you've secured a good room outside, eh?"

Gerald Burton also got up. He smiled and shook his head.

"No, father, I haven't found a place at all yet! The truth is I've been so
tremendously taken up with this affair that I forgot all about having to
find a room to-night."

"Oh dear!" cried Daisy in dismay. "Won't you find it very difficult? They
say Paris is absolutely full just now. Why, a lot of people who have never
let before are letting out rooms just now--so Madame Poulain says."

"Don't worry about me. I shall be all right," said Gerald quickly. "I
suppose my things have been moved into your room, father?"

Daisy nodded. "Yes, I saw to all that. In fact I did more--" she smiled;
the brother and sister were very fond of one another. "I packed your bag
for you, Ger."

"Thanks," he said. And then going quickly round the table, he bent down and
kissed her. "I'll be in early to-morrow morning," he said, nodding to
his father.

Then he went out.

Daisy Burton felt surprised. Gerald was the best of brothers, but he didn't
often kiss her good-night. There had been a strange touch of excitement, of
emotion, in his manner to-night. It was natural that she herself should be
moved by Nancy Dampier's distress. But Gerald? Gerald, who was generally
speaking rather nonchalant, and very, very critical of women?

"Gerald's tremendously excited about this thing," said Daisy thoughtfully.
She was two years younger in years than her brother, but older, as young
women are apt to be older, in all that counts in civilised life. "I've
never seen him quite so--so keen about anything before."

"I hope he will have got a comfortable room," said the Senator a little
crossly. Then fondly he turned and took his daughter's hand. "Sleep well,
my darling," he said. "You two have been very kind to that poor little
soul. And I love you both for it. Whatever happens, kindness is
never lost."

"Why, what d'you mean, father?" she looked down at him troubled, rather
disturbed by his words.

"Well, Daisy, the truth is,"--he hesitated--"I can't make out whether this
Mrs. Dampier is all she seems to be. And I want to prepare you for a
possible disappointment, my dear. When I was a young man I once took a
great fancy to someone who--well, who disappointed me cruelly--" he was
speaking very gravely. "It just spoilt my ideal for a time--I mean my ideal
of human nature. Now I don't want anything of that kind to happen to you or
to our boy in connection with this--this young lady."

"But, father? You know French people aren't as particular about telling the
truth as are English people. I can't understand why you believe the
Poulains' story--"

"My dear, I don't know what to believe," he said thoughtfully.

She was twenty-four years old, this grey-eyed, honest, straightforward girl
of his; and yet Senator Burton, much as he loved her, knew very little as
to her knowledge of life. Did Daisy know anything of the ugly side of human
nature? Did she know, for instance, that there are men and women,
especially women, who spend their lives preying on the honest, the
chivalrous, and the kind?

"The mystery is sure to be cleared up very soon," he said aloud. "If what
our new friend says is true there must be as many people in England who
know her to be what she says she is, as there are people in Paris who
evidently know all about the artist, John Dampier."

"Yes, that's true. But father?"

"Yes, my dear."

"I am quite sure Mrs. Dampier is telling the truth."

Somehow the fact that Daisy was anxious to say that she disagreed with him
stung the Senator.

"Then what do you think of the Poulains?" he asked quietly--"the Poulains,
whom you have known, my dear, ever since you were fifteen--on whose honesty
and probity I personally would stake a good deal. What do you think
about them?"

Daisy began to look very troubled. "I don't know what to think," she
faltered. "The truth is, father, I haven't thought very much of the
Poulains in the matter. You see, Madame Poulain has not spoken to me about
it at all. But you see that Gerald believes them to be lying."

"Gerald," said the Senator rather sharply, "is still only a boy in many
things, Daisy. And boys are apt, as you and I know, to take sides, to feel
very positive about things. But you and I, my darling--well, we must try to
be judicial--we must try to keep our heads, eh?"

"Yes, father, yes--we must, indeed"; but even as she said the words she did
not quite know what her father meant by "judicial."

And Gerald Burton? For a while, perhaps for an hour, holding his heavy bag
in his hand, he wandered about from hostelry to hostelry, only to be told
everywhere that there was no room.

Then, taking a sudden resolution, he went into a respectable little cafe
which was still open, and where he and his father, in days gone by, had
sometimes strolled in together when Daisy was going about with friends in
Paris. There he asked permission to leave his bag. Even had he found a
room, he could not have slept--so he assured himself. He was too excited,
his brain was working too quickly.

Talking busily, anxiously, argumentatively to himself as he went, he made
his way to the river--to the broad, tree-lined quays which to your true
lover of Paris contain the most enchanting and characteristic vistas of
the city.

Once there, his footsteps became slower. He thrust his hands into his
pockets and walked along, with eyes bent on the ground.

What manner of man could John Dampier be to leave his young wife--such a
beautiful, trusting, confiding creature as was evidently this poor girl--in
this cruel uncertainty? Was it conceivable that the man lived who could
behave to this Mrs. Dampier with the unkindness Gerald's father had
suggested--and that as the outcome of a trifling quarrel? No! Gerald
Burton's generous nature revolted from such a notion.

And yet--and yet his father thought it quite possible! To Gerald his
father's views and his father's attitude to life meant a great deal more
than he was wont to allow, either to that same kind indulgent father or to
himself; and now he had to admit that the Senator did believe that what
seemed so revolting to him, Gerald, was the most probable explanation of
the mystery.

The young man had stayed quite a while at the studio, listening to Mere
Bideau's garrulous confidences. Now and again he had asked her a question,
forced thereto by some obscure but none the less intense desire to know
what Nancy Dampier's husband was like. And the old woman had acknowledged,
in answer to a word from him, that her master was not a good-tempered man.

"Monsieur" could be very cross, very disagreeable sometimes. But bah! were
not all gentlemen like that?--so Mere Bideau had added with an easy laugh.

On the whole, however--so much must be admitted--she had given Dampier a
very good character. If quick-tempered, he was generous, considerate, and,
above all, hard-working. But--but Mere Bideau had been very much surprised
to hear "Monsieur" was going to be married--and to an Englishwoman, too!
She, Mere Bideau, had always supposed he preferred Frenchwomen; in fact, he
had told her so time and again. But bah! again; what won't a pretty face do
with a man? So Mere Bideau had exclaimed 'twixt smile and sigh.

Gerald Burton began walking more quickly, this time towards the west, along
the quay which leads to the Chamber of Deputies.

The wide thoroughfare was deserted save for an occasional straggler making
his weary way home after a day spent in ministering to the wants and the
pleasures of the strangers who now crowded the city....

How wise he, Gerald Burton, was now showing himself to be in thus spending
the short summer night out-of-doors, a la belle etoile, as the French so
charmingly put it, instead of in some stuffy, perhaps not overclean,
little room!

But soon his mind swung back to the strange events of the past day!

Already Nancy Dampier's personality held a strange, beckoning fascination
for the young American. He hadn't met many English girls, for his father
far preferred France to England, and it was to France they sped whenever
they had time to do so. And Gerald Burton hadn't cared very much for the
few English girls he had met. But Nancy was very, very different from the
only two kinds of her fellow countrywomen with whom he had ever been
acquainted--the kind, that is, who is closely chaperoned by vigilant mother
or friend, and the kind who spends her life wandering about the world
by herself.

How brave, how gentle, how--how self-controlled Mrs. Dampier had been!
While it was clear that she was terribly distressed, and all the more
distressed by the Poulains' monstrous assertion that she had come alone to
the Hotel Saint Ange, yet how well she had behaved all that long day of
waiting and suspense! How anxious she had been to spare the
Burtons trouble.

Not for a single moment had he, Gerald Burton, felt with her as he so often
felt with women--awkward and self-conscious. Deep in his inmost heart he
was aware that there were women and girls who thought him very
good-looking; and far from pleasing him, the knowledge made him feel
sometimes shy, sometimes even angry. He already ardently wished to protect,
to help, to shelter Mrs. Dampier.

Daisy had been out of the room for a moment, probably packing his bag, when
he had come back tired and weary from his fruitless quest, and Mrs.
Dampier, if keenly disappointed that he had no news, had yet thanked him
very touchingly for the trifling trouble, or so it now seemed, that he had
taken for her.

"I don't know what I should have done if it hadn't been for your kind
father, for your sister, and--and for you, Mr. Burton."

He walked across the bridge leading to the Champs Elysees, paced round the
Arc de Triomphe, and then strolled back to the deserted quays. He had no
wish to go on to the Boulevards. It was Paris asleep, not Paris awake, with
which Gerald Burton felt in close communion during that short summer night.

And how short is a Paris summer night! Soon after he had seen the sun rise
over an eastern bend of the river, the long, low buildings which line the
Seine below the quays stirred into life, and he was able to enjoy a
delicious, a refreshing plunge in the great swimming-bath which is among
the luxuries Paris provides for those of her sons who are
early-morning toilers.

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