The Wheel of Love/Chapter 7

“ a curious thing,” observed Roger Deane, “but this fellow Baedeker always travels the opposite way to what I do. When I’m coming back, he’s always going out, and vice versa. It makes him precious difficult to understand, I can tell you, Miss Dora. However I think I’ve got him now. Listen to this! ‘Marseilles to Arles (Amphitheatre starred) one day. Arles to Avignon (Palace of the Popes starred) two days—slow going that—Avignon to’”

“Do you want to squat in this wretched country, Sir Roger?” demanded Dora angrily.

A faint smile played round Sir Roger’s lips.

“You’re the only one who’s in a hurry.” he remarked.

“No, I’m not. Mr. Ellerton is in just as much of a hurry.”

“Then he bears disappointment better.”

“What in the world did papa and—well, and Lady Deane, you know—want to stop here for?”

“You don’t seem to understand how interesting Marseilles is. Let me read you a passage. ‘Marseilles was a colony founded about 600 B.C.’— What? Oh, all right! We’ll skip a bit. ‘In 1792 hordes of galley-slaves were sent hence to Paris, where they committed frightful excesses.’ That’s what Maud and your father are going to do. ‘It was for them that Rouget—’ I say, what’s the matter, Miss Dora?”

“I don’t know why you should enjoy teasing me, but you have nearly made me cry, so perhaps you’ll be happy now.”

“You tried to take me in. I pretended to be taken in. That’s all.”

“Well, it was very unkind of you.”

“So, after all, it’s not a matter of indifference to you at what rate we travel, as you said in the train to-day?”

“Oh, I had to. I—I couldn’t let papa see.”

“And why are you in a hurry?”

“I can’t tell you; but I must—oh, I must!—be in England in four days.”

“You’ll hardly get your father to give up a day at Avignon.”

“Well, one day there; then we should just do it, if we only slept in Paris.”

“Yes, but my wife”

“Oh, you can stay. Don’t say anything about Paris yet. Help me to get there. I’ll make papa go on. Please do, Sir Roger. I shall be so awfully obliged to you; so will Mr. Ellerton.”

“Charlie Ellerton? Not he! He’s in no hurry.”

“What do you mean? Didn’t you hear him to-day urging papa to travel straight through?”

“Oh, yes, I heard that.”

“Well?”

“You were there then.”

“What of that?”

“He’s not so pressing when you’re away.”

“I don’t understand. Why should he pretend to be in a hurry when he isn’t?”

“Ah, I don’t know. Don’t you?”

“Not in the least, Sir Roger. But never mind Mr. Ellerton. Will you help me?”

“As far as Paris. You must look out for yourself there.”

These terms Dora accepted. Surely at Paris she would hear some news of or from John Ashforth. She thought he must have written one line in response to her last letter, and that his answer must have been so far delayed as to arrive at Cannes after her departure; it would be waiting for her at Paris and would tell her whether she was in time or whether there was no more use in hurrying. The dread that oppressed her was lest, arriving too late in Paris, she should find that she had missed happiness by reason of this wretched dawdling in Southern France.

Seeing her meditative, Deane slipped away to his cigar, and she sat in the hotel hall, musing. Deane’s revelation of Charlie’s treachery hardly surprised her; she meant to upbraid him severely, but she was conscious that, if little surprised, she was hardly more than a little angry. His conduct was indeed contemptible; it revealed an utter instability and fickleness of mind which made her gravely uneasy as to Mary Travers’s chances of permanent happiness. Yes, scornful one might b; but who could be seriously angry with the poor boy? And perhaps, after all, she did him injustice. Some natures were more prone than others to sudden passions; it really did not follow that a feeling must be either shallow or short-lived because it was sudden; whether it survived or passed away would depend chiefly on the person who excited it. It was clear that Mary Travers was incapable of maintaining a permanent hold over Charlie’s affections, but another girl might—might have. If so, it would perhaps be a pity if Charlie and Mary Travers were to come together again. She doubted very much if they were suited to one another. She pictured Mary as a severe, rather stern young woman; and she hardly knew whether to laugh or groan at the thought of Charlie adapting himself to such a mate. Meanwhile her own position was certainly very difficult, and she acknowledged its thorniness with a little sigh. To begin with, the suspense was terrible; at times she would have been almost relieved to hear that John was married beyond recall. Then Charlie was a great and a growing difficulty. He had not actually repeated the passionate indiscretion, of which he had been guilty at Cannes, but more and more watchfulness and severity were needed to keep him within the bounds proper to their relative positions, and it was odious to be disagreeable to a fellow-traveller, especially when he was such a good and devoted friend as Charlie.

Sir Roger loyally carried out his bargain. Lady Deane was hurried on, leaving Marseilles, with its varied types of humanity and its profound social significance, practically unexplored; Arles and Amphitheatre, in spite of the beckoning “star,” were dropped out of the programme, and the next day found the party at Avignon. And now they were once more for a moment in harmony. Dora could spare twenty-four hours; Lady Deane and the General were mollified by conscious unselfishness; the prospect of a fresh struggle at Paris lay well in the background and was discreetly ignored; Charlie Ellerton, who had reached the most desperate stage of love, looked neither back nor forward. It was enough for him to have wrung four-and-twenty hours of Dora’s company from fate’s reluctant grasp. He meant to make the most of it.

She and he sat, on the afternoon of their arrival, in the gardens, hard by the Cathedral, where Lady Deane and the General wore doing their duty. Sir Roger had chartered a cab and gone for a drive on the boulevards.

“And we shall really be in Paris to-morrow night?” said Dora. “And in England, I hope, six-and-thirty hours afterwards. I want papa to cross the next evening. Mr. Ellerton, I believe we shall be in time.”

Charlie said nothing. He seemed to be engrossed by the magnificent view before him.

“Well? Have you nothing to say?” she asked.

“It’s a sin to rush through a place like this,” he observed. “We ought to stay a week. There’s no end to see. It’s an education!”

By way, probably, of making the most of his brief opportunity, he went on gazing, across the river which flowed below, now towards the heights of Mont Ventoux, now at the ramparts of Villeneuve. Dora, on the other hand, fixed pensive eyes on his curly hatless head, which leant forward as he rested his elbows on his knees. He had referred to the attractions of Avignon in tones of almost overpowering emotion.

Presently he turned his head towards her with a quick jerk.

“I don’t want to be in time,” he said, and, with equal rapidity, he returned to his survey of Villeneuve.

Dora made no answer, unless a perplexed wrinkle on her brow might serve for one. A long silence followed. It was broken at last by Charlie. He left the landscape with a sigh of satisfaction, as though he could not reproach himself with having neglected it, and directed his gaze into his companion’s eyes. Dora blushed and pulled the brim of her hat a little lower down over her brow.

“What’s more,” said Charlie, in deliberate tones, and as if no pause had occurred between this remark and his last, “I don’t believe you do.”

Dora started and straightened herself in her seat; it looked as if the rash remark were to be met with a burst of indignation, but, a second later, she leant back again and smiled scornfully.

“How can you be so silly, Mr. Ellerton?” she asked.

“We both of us,” pursued Charlie, “see now that we made up our minds to be very foolish; we both of us mistook our real feelings; we’re beginning—at least I began some time ago, and you’re beginning now—to understand the true state of affairs.”

“Oh, I know what you mean, and I ought to be very angry, I suppose; but it’s too absurd.”

“Not in the least. The absurd thing is your fancying that you care about this follow Ashforth.”

“No, you must really stop, you must indeed. I don’t”

“I know the sort of fellow he is—a dull dry chap, who makes love as if he was dancing a minuet.”

“You’re quite wrong.”

“And kisses you as if it was part of the church service.”

This last description, applied to John Ashforth’s manner of wooing, had enough of aptness to stir Dora into genuine resentment.

“A girl doesn’t like a man less because he respects her; nor more because he ridicules better men than himself.”

“Don’t be angry. I’m only saying what’s true. Why should I want to run him down?”

“I suppose—well, I suppose because”

“Well?”

“You’re a little bit—but I don’t think I ought to talk about it.”

“Jealous, you were going to say.”

“Was I?”

“And that shows you know what I mean.”

“Well, by now I suppose I do. I can’t help your doing it or I would.”

Charlie moved closer, and leaning forward till his face was only a yard from hers, while his hand, sliding along the back of the seat, almost touched her, said in a low voice,

“Are you sure you would?”

Dora’s answer was a laugh—a laugh with a hint of nervousness in it. Perhaps she knew what was in it, for she looked away towards the river.

“Dolly,” he whispered, “shall I go back to Cannes? Shall I?”

Perhaps the audacity of this per saltum advance from the distance of Miss ‘Bellairs’ to the ineffable assumption involved in ‘Dolly’ made the subject of it dumb.

“I will, if you ask me,” he said, us she, was silent for a space.

Then with profile towards him and eyes away, she murmured,

“What would Miss Travers say if you turned back now?”

The mention of Mary did not on this occasion evoke any unseemly words. On the contrary, Charlie smiled. He glanced at his companion. He glanced behind him and round him. Then, drilling his deep design into the semblance of an uncontrollable impulse, he seized Dora’s hand in his and, before she could stir, kissed her cheek.

She leapt to her feet.

“How dare you?” she cried.

“How could I help it?”

“I’ll never speak to you again. No gentleman would have—oh, I do hope you’re ashamed of yourself!”

Her words evidently struck home. With an air of contrition he sank on the seat.

“I’m a beast,” he said ruefully. “You’re quite right, Miss Bellairs. Don’t have anything more to say to me. I wish I was—I wish I had some—some self-control—and self-respect, you know. If I were a fellow like Ashforth now, I should never have done that! Of course you can’t forgive me,” and, in his extremity of remorse, he buried his face in his hands.

Dora stood beside him. She made one step as if to leave him; a glance at him brought her back, and she looked down at him for a minute. Presently a troubled doubtful little smile appeared on her face; when she realized it was there, she promptly banished it. Alas! It was too late. The rascal had been peeping through his fingers, and, with a ringing laugh, he sprang to his feet, caught both her hands, and cried,

“Shocking, wasn’t it? Awful?”

“Let me go, Mr. Ellerton.”

“Must I?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Why? Why, when you?”

“Sir Roger’s coming. Look behind you.”

“Oh, the deuce!”

An instant later they were sitting demurely at opposite ends of the seat, inspecting Villeneuve with interest.

In another moment Deane stood before them, puffing a cigarette, and wearing an expression of amiability tempered by boredom.

“Wonderful old place, isn’t it, Deane?” asked Charlie.

“Such a view, Sir Roger!” cried Dora, in almost breathless enthusiasm.

“You certainly,” assented Deane, “do see some wonderful sights on this Promenade. I’m glad I came up. The air’s given you quite a color, Miss Dora.”

“It’s tea-time,” declared Dora suddenly. “Take me down with you, Sir Roger. Mr. Ellerton, go and tell the others we’re going home to tea.”

Charlie started off, and Sir Roger strolled along by Miss Bellairs’s side. Presently he said:

“Still anxious to get to Paris?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” she asked quickly.

“I thought perhaps the charms of Avignon would have decided you to linger. Haven’t you been tempted?”

Dora glanced at him, but his face betrayed no secondary meaning.

“Tempted? Oh, perhaps,” she answered, with the same nervous little laugh, “but not quite led astray. I’m going on.”