Chapter 11

Colonel Hankin was mistaken. Mrs. Tailleur's room was not wanted the next day. The point had been fiercely disputed in those obscure quarters of the hotel inhabited by the management. The manager's wife was for turning Mrs. Tailleur out on the bare suspicion of her impropriety. The idea in the head of the manager's wife was that there should be no suspicion as to the reputation of the Cliff Hotel. The manager, on his side, contended that the Cliff Hotel must not acquire a reputation for suspicion; that any lady whom Miss Lucy had made visibly her friend was herself in the position so desirable for the Cliff Hotel; that, in any case, unless Mrs. Tailleur's conduct became such as to justify an extreme step, the scandal of the ejection would be more damaging to the Cliff Hotel than her present transparently innocent and peaceful occupation of the best room in it. He wished to know how a scandal was to be avoided when the place was swarming with old women. And, after all, what had they got against Mrs. Tailleur except that she was better looking by a long chalk, and better turned-out, than any of 'em? Of course, he couldn't undertake to say--offhand--whether she was or wasn't any better than she should be. But, in the absence of complaints, he didn't consider the question a profitable one for a manager to go into in the slack season.

All the manager's intelligence was concentrated in the small commercial eye which winked, absurdly, in the solitude of his solemn and enormous face. You must take people as you found them, said he, and for his part he had always found Mrs. Tailleur----

But how the manager had found Mrs. Tailleur was never known to his wife, for at this point she walked out of the private sitting-room and shut herself into her bureau. Her opinion, more private even than that sitting-room, consecrated to intimate dispute, was that where women were concerned the manager was a perfect fool.

The window of the bureau looked out on to the vestibule and the big staircase. And full in sight of the window Mrs. Tailleur was sitting on a seat set under the stair. She had her hat on and carried a sunshade in her hand, for the day was fine and warm. She was waiting for somebody. And as she waited she amused herself by smiling at the little four-year-old son of the management who played in the vestibule, it being the slack season. He was running up and down the flagged floor, dragging a little cart after him. And as he ran he never took his eyes off the pretty lady. They said, every time, with the charming vanity of childhood, "Look at me!" And Kitty looked at him, every time, and made, every time, the right sort of smile that says to a little boy, "I see you." Just then nobody was there to see Kitty but the manager's wife, who stood at the window of the bureau and saw it all. And as the little boy was not looking in the least where he was going, his feet were presently snared in the rug where the pretty lady sat, and he would have tumbled on his little nose if Kitty had not caught him.

He was going to cry, but Kitty stopped him just in time by lifting him on to her lap and giving him her watch to look at. A marvellous watch that was gold and blue and bordered with a ring of little sparkling stones.

At that moment Robert Lucy came down the stairs. He came very quietly and leaned over the banister behind Kitty's back and watched her, while he listened shamelessly to the conversation. The pretty lady looked prettier than ever.

"My daddy gave my mummy her watch on her birthday," said the little boy. "Who gave you your watch?"

"It wasn't your daddy, dear."

"Of course it wasn't my daddy."

"Of course not."

"What is your name?"

"My name is Mrs. Tailleur."

"Mrs. Ty-loor. My name is Stanley. That gentleman's name is Mr. Lucy. I like him."

Lucy came down and seated himself beside her. She made him a sign with her mouth, as much as to say she was under a charm and he wasn't to break it.

"Do you like him, Mrs. Tyloor?"

"Well--what do you think?"

"I think you like him very much."

Mrs. Tailleur laughed softly.

"What makes you laugh?"

"You. You're so funny."

"_You're_ funny. Your eyelashes curl up when you laugh, and your eyes curl, too. And your mouth!" he crowed with the joy of it. "Such a funny mouth."

The mouth hid itself in the child's soft neck among his hair. The woman in the bureau saw that, and her face became curiously contracted.

"I remember the day you came. My daddy said you was very pretty."

"And what did your mummy say?"

Kitty had caught sight of the fierce face in the window, and a little daring devil had entered into her.

"Mummy said she couldn't tell if she wasn't allowed to look."

"And why," said Lucy, "wasn't she allowed to look?"

"Daddy said she wasn't to."

"Of course he did," said Lucy. "It's very rude to look at people."

"Daddy looked. I saw him."

The door of the bureau opened and the manager's wife came out. She had a slight flush on her face and her mouth was tighter than ever.

Mrs. Tailleur saw her coming and slipped the child from her lap. The manager's wife put out her hand to take him, but he turned from her and clung to the pretty lady.

The woman seized him by the arm and tore him from her, and dragged him toward the apartments of the management. The child screamed as he went.

"Women like that," said Lucy, "shouldn't be allowed to have children."

Mrs. Tailleur turned to him though she had not heard him.

"What have I done? What harm could I do the little thing?"

"What have you done?" It was hard for him to follow the workings of her mind. "You don't mean to say you minded that?"

"Yes, I minded. I minded awfully."

"That dreadful woman?"

"Do you think she really was dreadful?"

"Quite terrible."

"I don't know. I suppose," she said, "they're all like that. Yet they can't all be dreadful."

Lucy laughed. He couldn't see her point. "I don't understand who 'they' are."

"The women who are--the women who've got children."

She stooped down and picked up something from the floor. It was the little man out of the cart that the child had been playing with, that lay there, smashed, at her feet. The manager's wife had stepped on it. Kitty set the little man upon the seat and smiled at him sadly. And Lucy smiled at her out of a great and sudden tenderness.

He thought he saw it now.

"I think," said he, "you must allow for a little maternal jealousy."

"Jealousy? I can understand jealousy."

"So can I," said Lucy.

"And you think that was jealousy?"

"Well, you know, that little boy was making barefaced love to you."

She laughed. "I suppose," she said, "you _would_ feel like that about it."

She got up and they went out, past the hotel front and down the lawn, in sight of the veranda, where at this hour everybody was there to see them. Lucy meant everybody to see. He had chosen that place, and that hour, also, which wore, appropriately, the innocence of morning. He knew her pitiful belief that he was defying public opinion in being seen with her; but from her ultimate consent, from her continuous trust in him, and from the heartrending way she clung to him, he gathered that she knew him, she knew that defiance, from him, would be a vindication of her.

He did not yet know how dear she had become to him. Only, as he looked at her moving close beside him, so beautiful and so defenceless, he thanked God that he had kept his manhood clean, so that nothing that he did for her could hurt her.

And so, holding himself very upright, and with his head in the air, he went slowly past the veranda and the Hankins, and, turning to Mrs. Tailleur, gave them the full spectacle of his gladness and his pride in her.

"How good you are to me," she said. "I know why you did that."

"Do you?"

He smiled, guarding his secret, holding it back a little while longer.

"Where are we going to?"

"Anywhere you choose to take me."

He took her through the gate that led them to the freedom of the Cliff.

"Do you see that?" He pointed to the path which was now baked hard and white by the sun.

"What is it?"

"Your little footprints, and my great hoofmarks beside them. I believe nobody comes this way but you and me."

"You see, it leads nowhere," said she.

"Doesn't it?" said he.

The little room in the Cliff-side was whiter than ever, burning white, it was, where the sun faced it. But the east side of it was in shadow, and they sat there, under the great forehead of the Cliff.

They were both silent. Lucy was thinking of how he had found her there, and of the fear and trouble of last night. He vowed that if he could help it there should be no more fear and no more trouble for her. In their silence, voices thin and sweet with distance, came to them from below, where children played on the beach among the rocks that, washed by water-springs from the Cliff's forehead to its foot, lay heaped where they had fallen. She listened and laughed.

She was happy now. He watched her as she stretched her adorable feet to the sun. A little wind came from the sea and played with her, taking from her a slight scent of violets for its salt. Every nerve in his body was aware of her nearness.

Only last night he had seen her crouching just there, in the darkness, convulsed, her face wet with rain and tears. It was good that the place they had chosen should be changed and cleansed for them by sunlight and wind from the sea and the sweet voices of children.

She did not break the silence. She only looked at him once with eyes whose pupils, black and dilated, narrowed the blue ring of the iris.

Then he spoke. "I was going to say something to you last night, but I didn't. There was something I wanted to know first, something I wasn't quite sure about."

She turned her face from him. The light struck it, and it quivered and grew white.

"Well, do you know now?"

"Yes," he said, "I know now."

But her lips scarcely moved as she answered him. "Of course you know."

She faced him with her sad white courage.

"Everybody knows. I'd rather you knew. I--I meant you to."

"Oh please"--he protested. "I wonder if I may say what it is?"

"It's something about me?"

"Yes. It's something about you. If I may say it."

"You may say anything you please. You know that."

"Well, I wanted very much to know whether--whether you were fond of children."

"Oh----" She drew a long breath, as if released from torture. Then she laughed the indescribable half-sobbing laugh of a child tormented and suddenly set free.

"Whether I were fond of children. Do you honestly mean it? Was that what you weren't sure of?"

"Well, of course, in a way I knew--but I couldn't tell, you know, till I'd seen you with one."

"Well, and so you can tell now?"

"Yes. I can tell now."

"And if I am fond of children, what difference does that make?"

"It makes all the difference. You see, I've got two little girls----"

"Two little girls." She repeated it after him smiling, as if she played with the vision of them.

"You see--they've no mother. My wife----"

"I know," she said softly.

"How did you know?"

"I can't tell you."

"My wife died five years ago when my youngest little girl was born."

"And I thought," she said, "you were so young."

"I'm thirty-five."

"Still I was right. You're young. Very young."

"Oh, well, don't you know, they say a woman's as young as she looks, and a man's as young as he feels. I _feel_ all right."

"You dear." Her mouth and eyes said it without a sound.

"Are you quite sure that's all you want to know?"

"I had to know it."

"It was so important?"

"Yes. Because of _them_."

"And now you know all about me?"

"Yes. Now I know all about you."

"Don't you want to know something about--about Mr. Tailleur?"

Lucy's face hardened. "No, I don't think I want to know anything about him."

He had made up his mind that Mr. Tailleur had been a brute to her.

"He _is_ dead."

"Well, yes. I supposed he would be."

"He died four years ago. I was married very young."

"I supposed that too."

"You don't feel that he's important?"

"Not in the very least."

She laughed.

"When I said that I knew all about you, I only meant that I knew--I'd the sense to see--what you were. You mustn't think that I take anything for granted."

"Ah, Mr. Lucy, dear, I'm afraid you're taking everything for granted."

"On my soul I'm not. I'm not that sort. There's one thing about you I don't know yet, and I'm afraid to ask, and it's the only thing I really want to know. It's the only thing that matters."

"Then ask me, ask me straight, whatever it is, and let's get it over. Can't you trust me to tell you the truth?"

"I trust you--to tell me the truth. I want to know where I am--where we are."

"Is it for me to say?"

"It's for you to say whether you think you can ever care for me."

"Can't you see that I care for you?"

"No, I'd give anything to see."

"Ah, it's so like you not to. And I thought I'd shown you--everything."

"You haven't shown me yet whether you care enough to--to----"

He checked himself, while his love for her drew its first breath, as if it had been born but that instant, in an agony of desire and fear.

"To do what?" she said. "Why won't you tell me?"

"I'm afraid," he said simply.

"Afraid of _me_! Why should you be?"

"Because, if you really cared for me, I think you'd know what I want."

"It's because I care so much that I don't know. Unless you tell me."

She put her small fingers lightly on the sleeve of his coat; they slid till they found his hands that hung clenched before him.

At her touch he trembled.

"Don't you know," she said, "that there's nothing I wouldn't do for you? Tell me what you want me to do."

He spoke so low that she strained to hear him.

"To marry me--to be my wife."

Her hand still lay on his, but she herself seemed to draw back and pause.

"Your wife?" she said at last. "My dear, you've only known me ten days."

"It makes no difference."

He took her hand in his and kissed it, bowing his head.

She twisted herself away from him, and drew back her face from his. They rose.

"Ah," she said, "you're cold. You don't know how. Let me look at you. It's not me you want. You want a mother for your children."

"Not I. I want you--you--for myself."

She moved toward him with a low cry, and he took her in his arms and stood still by her without a word. And to his joy, she whom he held (gently, lest he should hurt her) laid her face to his face, and held him with a grip tighter than his own, as if she feared that he would loose himself and leave her. Her eyes closed as he kissed her forehead, and opened as her mouth found his.

Then she drew herself slowly from him.

"You love me then?" she said.

"Yes, Kitty, I love you."