CHAPTER XXXIV

A TRENCHANT QUESTION

When months of doubt have been crystallized into one simple question how easy the way seems!

Mrs. Whittaker laid her plans for leaving Ye Dene with the skill of a diplomat and the secrecy of a detective. She determined that she would take nobody into her confidence. If there was going to be a hideous scene with Alfred when she got to the end of her journey, she preferred to have it without witnesses, especially either of her own children. She went down to the bank and drew out sufficient money to cover all expenses and a little over, and then returned home in order to prepare for her journey. She chose her plainest frock, a rough brown tweed, tailor built, according to the advice and under the direction of Madame d'Estelle, who did not make tailor gowns herself, but introduced clients to a gentleman in that line, and generally supervised the taste of her customers. On her carefully arranged coiffure she wore a toque to match her dress--when I say "to match her dress" I mean it was a creation of brown velvet, with a strip of sable, some gold buckles and a twist of yellowish lace. Over her shoulders she put the dark sables which Alfred had given her, took the muff upon her arm, and then she went down to her own desk, where she wrote a letter to Julia:--

"DEAREST"--she wrote--"I am going to join your father in Paris. I leave you ten pounds; if you want more money than this before I return, which is not very likely, here are a couple of signed cheeks for you to use. I know that you won't mind being left alone for a few days. If you do, you might go and stay with Maudie. I am leaving by the Calais-Dover route and will let you know as soon as I arrive in Paris.--Your fond and loving

"MOTHER."

Then Mrs. Whittaker called the servants in one by one, paid their wages, told them to look after Miss Julia, and said that she was going to Paris to join the master for a few days.

"Which it's very funny," remarked the cook to Margaret, a few minutes after Mrs. Whittaker and her small portmanteau had gone off in a cab to the station, "which it's very funny. Missus have had no letter from master since the day after he went away, when she had a post-card which I took in myself and likewise read, saying, 'Arrived safe. Hope all well at home. Writing later.' Which he never have written later. There was no telegram for missus to-day?"

"No," said Margaret, "there's no telegram come to this house to-day."

"Then, you know, missus might have been rung up on the telephone from the office."

"She might, but I've not heard her on the telephone all day, and I've not heard the telephone go once. Anyway, missus she have gone to Paris to join master, and I'm sure, poor lady, I hope she won't find a pretty to-do when she gets there."

It was barely half an hour later when Maudie Marksby's motor brougham came spinning up to the door of the house opposite.

"There's Mrs. Marksby's carriage," said Margaret, craning her head over the muslin blinds that shrouded the doings of the kitchen from the passers-by. "I wonder if missus told her she was going to Paris. Oh, here she comes."

Maudie herself, with her gait of swimming importance, came mincing across the road. Margaret went down to the outer porch to meet her.

"Is my mother in, Margaret?"

"Lor'! Mrs. Marksby, missus have gone away!"

"Away! Where?"

"She's gone to Paris to join master."

"Did she have a telegram?"

"No, miss--I beg your pardon, I mean ma'am."

"Oh--oh--she's gone to Paris, has she? Well, it's no use my waiting then, is it?"

"What did she look like?" said the cook.

"She looked struck all of a heap," said Margaret. "It's my opinion that missus has taken French leave, and she's going to steal a march on them both."

Meanwhile, Regina, full of her stern resolve, was already on her way to Dover, not being minded to wait for the regular boat train, and perhaps risk a scene from one or other of her daughters, finding her on the platform and attempting to dissuade her from taking the fatal step.

"I must be firm, I must be resolute, I must know exactly what I'm going to do," she told herself as the luxurious train whizzed past the suburbs. "I will have a good dinner when I get to Dover; I wish to arrive in Paris as calm and unmoved as a rock."

Now, take it all round, this was extremely sensible advice to give herself. Regina had a cup of tea on board the train. She made a valiant effort to read one or two magazines which she had with her, and arrived at Dover, she went on board the steamer, chose her berth, and then went into the town to seek a suitable place for dinner. I feel that it is much to her credit that she chose the best hotel in the town. And yet it was a very haggard and sad-eyed Regina who reached the terminus at Paris. Still, she never turned from her resolve. She chartered her _fiacre_, and involuntarily, as they drove down the Rue Amsterdam, her eyes turned to the wonderful bazaar in which in former days she and Alfred had spent some money and a certain amount of time, experiencing at a very small cost the delirious joy of shopping in Paris. So on, through the bright Paris streets, already teeming with life, and down into the heart of the city where was situate the hotel from which Alfred had written. It was not one at which Regina had ever stayed herself--no, it was small and unpretentious, with a quaint little courtyard adorned by a few shrubs in square wooden boxes painted a brighter green than the leaves.

"Yes, M. Vittequere, he is staying in the hotel," so the handsome and voluble landlady informed her.

"With a lady?" Regina asked.

"Well," she admitted, there was a lady, but she was not staying in the hotel; she was not Mr. Whittaker's wife; on the contrary, she was a client, and madame had found her an excellent lodging in an adjacent house--one, in fact, belonging to the mother of madame herself. "And she is a Frenchwoman; she knows her Paris well."

"A Frenchwoman?" Regina echoed. "And monsieur, he is risen?"

"If monsieur has risen he is but just descended from his bedchamber."

She called to a passing waiter, and demanded to know whether M. Whittaker, _numero treize_, was yet descended.

"Monsieur is at breakfast with madame," was the man's reply.

The Frenchwoman, who had taken in the situation at a glance, and knew from Regina's general appearance, and perhaps especially from her sables, that this was the legitimate Madame Whittaker, frowned at the man, who, as Regina plainly saw, cast about mentally for a way of retrieving his mistake.

"Show me the way," said Regina. "No, it is not necessary to warn monsieur; I know him extremely well. Ah, in the _salle_? I will go by myself."

"_Polisson--bete_," hissed the Frenchwoman in the waiter's ear. But abuse was worse than useless, for Regina was already sailing, head up, in the direction of the dining-room. She made her entrance without being perceived. Alfred was, indeed, turned three-parts away from the door by which she had entered, and he was leaning over the table studying some papers. Knowing him so well, she perceived by his attitude that he was thoroughly engrossed by business. His companion, who wore a hat, and who was much smarter and more Parisian in appearance than when Regina saw her at the Trocadero, was steadily eating her breakfast. At last, Alfred Whittaker put the sheet he was reading down on several others like it, and patted his hand upon it as much as to say, "That is settled and done with," upon which Regina went forward. She gently laid her hand upon her husband's shoulder.

"Alfred," she said in a very quiet tone. I am bound to confess that Alfred nearly jumped out of his skin.

"My God! Queenie, is that you? Oh, my dear, what a turn you gave me. I'd no idea you were within a hundred miles of me. What's the matter?" He sprang out of his chair and held her by both her elbows. "If anything's the matter tell me at once; don't break it to me."

"Nothing's the matter; I will explain it to you afterwards--I wanted to come to Paris, and I thought I might as well join you. Who is this lady?"

The noble Alfred drew a long breath of relief, gripped his wife's elbows very hard indeed, and then bent forward and touched her lightly on either cheek.

"This lady is a client of the firm," he said. "Let me make her known to you--Madame Raumonier."

The Frenchwoman sprang to her feet, looking the very image of guilty surprise. "This is madame your wife?" she said, speaking excellent English.

"This is Mrs. Whittaker, my wife. Sit down, Queenie. _Garcon, garcon_, breakfast for madame. They make an excellent _omelette aux fines herbes_ here, Queenie. Fresh coffee for madame. Sit down, Madame Raumonier, sit down."

"You would like to be alone with madame your wife?"

"Not at all; I shall be alone with her presently, when you have finished breakfast." He turned back to Regina. "Queenie," he said, "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you. This just concludes the business which brought me over to Paris. I've had the greatest difficulty and trouble to get things settled. It's such a disadvantage to a man in my position not to speak French well, and I am in the position of not speaking French at all, so I have had to do everything by means of madame's translations, and she does not see the legal aspect as I should if I could read French as well as she can. I was going to telegraph to you this very day to beg you to come over. Some wave thought must have warned you that I was thinking of it."

"No," said Regina, deliberately sitting down by the table, and beginning carefully to peel the gloves off her hands. "No, Alfred, I do not think it was a wave thought. I wanted to come to Paris, and I came."

"They are all well at home? You brought Julia with you?"

"No, I did not bring Julia; she can come across in a few days by herself."

"Ah, yes, we can talk of that later."

Then Madame Raumonier made another effort to escape.

"I am sure you would like to be alone with madame, your wife. I have quite finished breakfast. If you wish to see me will you intimate through madame the landlady? May I wish you good morning, madame?"

Regina rose and ceremoniously shook hands with the Frenchwoman; Alfred bowed, followed her across the room, stayed a moment talking, bowed again, rubbed his hands, and came back with that curious air of a conqueror with which a man meets a woman who is much to him on all occasions after a parting.

"Queenie, my darling, thank God that woman's gone. I must apologize to you," and here he put his hand over hers and held it very close, "I must apologize to you for having, of necessity, made her known to you. She is not a person for you to know; she's--she's a woman with a history."

"Then, Alfred," said Regina, not moving her hand, but looking at him with eyes which were like the eyes of the angel with the naming sword. "Then, Alfred, if she is not fit for me to know, what does she do here with you?"