The End of Her Honeymoon, Marie Belloc Lowndes [desktop ebook reader .TXT] 📗

simply coining money! They’re determined that their daughter shall have a splendid dowry!” She waited a moment, and then repeated, “Oh, yes, the Poulains are very good sort of people. They’re very kindly and good-natured.”

To this remark Nancy made no answer. She thought the Poulains both rude and disagreeable, but she had no wish to speak ill of them to this nice girl. How lucky it was that these kind Americans had come to her rescue! Though still feeling indignant and uncomfortable with regard to the way in which she had been treated by the hotel-keeper and his wife, she felt quite happy again now.

Senator Burton was away for what seemed, not only to Mrs. Dampier, but also to his daughter, a considerable time. But at last they saw him coming slowly towards them. His eyes were bent on the ground; he seemed to be thinking, deeply.

Nancy Dampier took a step forward. “Well?” she said eagerly, and then a little shyly she uttered his name, “Well, Mr. Burton? What do they say? Did my husband leave any message?”

“No, he doesn’t seem to have done that.” And then the Senator looked down searchingly into the young Englishwoman’s face. It was a very lovely face, and just now the look of appeal, of surprise, in the blue eyes added a touch of pathetic charm. He thought of the old expression, “Beauty in distress.”

His daughter broke in: “Why, Mrs. Dampier, do come upstairs and wait in our sitting-room,” she said cordially. “I’ll come with you, for we were only going out for a little stroll, weren’t we, father?”

Nancy Dampier hesitated. She did not notice that the American Senator omitted to endorse his daughter’s invitation; she hesitated for a very different reason: “You’re very kind; but if I do that I shall have to tell Madame Poulain, for it would give my husband a dreadful fright if he came in and found I had left my room and disappeared”—she blushed and smiled very prettily.

And again Senator Burton looked searchingly down into the lovely, flushed little face; but the deep-blue, guileless-looking eyes met his questioning gaze very frankly. He said slowly, “Very well, I will go and tell Madame Poulain that you will be waiting up in our sitting-room, Mrs.—ah—Dampier.”

He went out across the courtyard again, and once more he seemed, at any rate to his daughter, to stay away longer than was needed for the delivery of so simple a message.

Growing impatient, Miss Burton took Nancy Dampier across the sunlit courtyard to the wide old oak staircase, the escalier d’honneur, as it was still called in the hotel, down which the Marquis de Saint Ange had clattered when starting for Fontenoy.

When they were half-way up the Senator joined them, and a few moments later when they had reached the second landing, he put a key in the lock of a finely carved door, then he stood back, courteously, to allow his daughter’s guest to walk through into the small lobby which led to the delightful suite of rooms which the Burtons always occupied during their frequent visits to Paris.

Nancy uttered an exclamation of delight as she passed through into the high-pitched, stately salon, whose windows overlooked one of those leafy gardens which are still the pride of old Paris. “This is delightful!” she exclaimed. “Who would ever have thought that they had such rooms as this in the Hôtel Saint Ange!”

“There are several of these suites,” said Daisy Burton pleasantly. “In fact, a good many French provincial people come up here, year after year, for the winter.”

While Mrs. Dampier and his daughter were exchanging these few words the Senator remained silent. Then—“Is your brother gone out?” he said abruptly.

“Yes, father. He went out about half an hour ago. But he said he’d be back in ample time to take us out to luncheon. He thought we might like to go to Foyot’s to-day.”

“So we will. Daisy, my dear—?” He stopped short, and his daughter looked at him, surprised.

“Yes, father?”

“I’m afraid I must ask you to leave me with this young lady for a few moments. I have something to say to her which I think it would be as well that I should say alone.”

Nancy got up from the chair on which she had already seated herself, and fear flashed into her face. “What is it?” she cried apprehensively. “You’re not going to tell me that anything’s happened to Jack!”

“No, no,” said the Senator quickly, but even as he uttered the two short, reassuring little words he averted his eyes from Mrs. Dampier’s questioning anxious eyes.

His daughter left the room.

“What is it?” said Nancy again, trying to smile. “What is it, Mr. Burton?”

And then the Senator, motioning her to a chair, sat down too.

“The Poulains,” he said gravely—he was telling himself that he had never come across so accomplished an actress as this young Englishwoman was proving herself to be—“the Poulains,” he repeated very distinctly, “declare that you arrived here last night alone. They say that they did not know, as a matter of fact, that you were married. You do not seem to have even given them your name.”

Nancy stared at him for a moment. Then, “There must be some extraordinary mistake,” she said quietly. “The Poulains must have thought you meant someone else. My husband and I arrived, of course together, late last night. At first Madame Poulain said she couldn’t take us in as the hotel was full. But at last she said that they could give us two small rooms. They knew our name was Dampier, for Jack wrote to them from Marseilles. He and I were only married three weeks ago: this is the end of our honeymoon. My husband, who is an artist, is now at his studio. We’re going to move there in a day or two.”

She spoke quite simply and straightforwardly, and the Senator felt oddly relieved by her words.

He tried to remember exactly what had happened, what exactly the Poulains had said, when he had gone into the big roomy kitchen which lay to the left of the courtyard.

He had certainly been quite clear. That is, he had explained, in his very good French, to Madame Poulain, that he came to inquire, on behalf of a young English lady, whether her husband, a gentleman named Dampier, had left any message for her. And Madame Poulain, coming across to him in a rather mysterious manner, had said in a low voice that she feared the young lady was toquée—i. e., not quite all right in her head—as, saving Monsieur le Sénateur’s presence, English ladies so often were! At great length she had gone on to explain that the young lady in question had arrived very late the night before, and that seeing that she was so young and pretty, and also that she knew so very little French, they had allowed her, rather than turn her out, to occupy their own daughter’s room, a room they had never, never, under any circumstances, allowed a client to sleep in before.

Then Madame Poulain had gone out and called Monsieur Poulain; and the worthy man had confirmed, in every particular, what his wife had just said—that is, he had explained how they had been knocked up late last night by a loud ringing at the porte cochère; how they had gone out to the door, and there, seized with pity for this pretty young English lady, who apparently knew so very, very little French, they had allowed her to occupy their daughter’s room….

Finally, the good Poulains, separately and in unison, had begged the Senator to try and find out something about their curious guest, as she apparently knew too little French to make herself intelligible.

Now that he heard Nancy’s quiet assertion, the Senator felt sure there had been a mistake. The Poulains had evidently confused pretty Mrs. Dampier with some wandering British spinster.

“Let me go down with you now,” she said eagerly. “The truth is—I know you’ll think me foolish—but I’m afraid of the Poulains! They’ve behaved so oddly and so rudely to me this morning. I liked them very much last night.”

“Yes,” he said cordially. “We’ll go right down now; and my girl, Daisy, can come too.”

When his daughter came into the room, “There’s been some mistake,” said Senator Burton briefly. “It’s my fault, I expect. I can’t have made it clear to Madame Poulain whom I meant. She has confused Mrs. Dampier with some English lady who turned up here alone late last night.”

“But we turned up late last night,” said Nancy quickly. “Very, very late; long after midnight.”

“Still, my brother and I came in after you,” said Daisy Burton suddenly. And then she smiled and reddened. Mrs. Dampier must certainly have overheard Gerald’s remark.

“It was an awful job getting a cab after that play, father, and it must have been nearly one o’clock when we got in. As we felt sure this side of the house was shut up we went up that queer little back staircase, and so past the open door of Mrs. Dampier’s room,” she explained.

To the Senator’s surprise, Mrs. Dampier also grew red; indeed, she blushed crimson from forehead to chin.

“My brother thought you were French,” went on Daisy, a little awkwardly. “In fact, we both thought you must be Madame Poulain’s daughter. We knew that was Virginie’s room, and we’ve always been hearing of that girl ever since we first came to stay in Paris. She used to be at a convent school, and she’s with her grandmother in the country just now, to be out of the Exhibition rush. The Poulains simply worship her.”

The Senator looked very thoughtful as he walked downstairs behind the two girls. The mystery was thickening in a very disagreeable way. Both hotel-keepers had stated positively that the “demoiselle anglaise,” as they called her, had slept in their daughter’s room….

But what was this the lady who called herself Mrs. Dampier saying?

“My husband and I realised you thought I was Mademoiselle Poulain,” said Nancy, and she also spoke with a touch of awkwardness.

Senator Burton put out his right hand and laid it, rather heavily, on his daughter’s shoulder.

She stopped and turned round. “Yes, father?”

“Then I suppose you also saw Mr. Dampier, Daisy?”

Eagerly he hoped for confirmation of the charming stranger’s story. But—

“No,” she said reluctantly. “We only saw Mrs. Dampier and the Poulains, father—they were all in the room together. You see, we were outside on the dark staircase, and just stopped for a minute on the landing to say good-night to the Poulains, and to tell them that we had come in.”

“I suppose, Mrs. Dampier, that by then your husband had already gone to his room?” But in spite of his efforts to make his voice cordial the Senator failed to do so.

“No, he hadn’t gone upstairs then.” Nancy waited a moment, puzzled, then she exclaimed, “I remember now! Jack had just stepped up into a big cupboard which forms one side of the little room. He came out again just as Miss Burton and—and your son had gone on upstairs.” Again she reddened uncomfortably, wondering if this nice, kind girl had heard Jack’s unflattering epithets concerning “the young American cub.” But no, Jack’s voice, if angry, had been low.

When they were at the bottom of the staircase the Senator turned to his daughter.

“Daisy,” he said quietly, “I think it will be best for this lady to see Madame Poulain with me alone.” And as his daughter showed no sign of having understood, he said again, with a touch of severity in his voice: “Daisy, I desire you to go upstairs.”

“You’ll bring Mrs. Dampier up again, father?”

He hesitated—and then he said, “Yes, should she