The End of Her Honeymoon Part 7

Some little trouble, so she admitted to herself, they had expected to have, but they had not thought it would take this very strange and tiresome shape.

But the hotel-keeper was destined to be bitterly disappointed in her hope that Daisy and Gerald Burton would try and dissuade their father from having anything more to do with Mrs. Dampier.

"Well, father?" the two fresh voices rang out, and the Senator smiled back well pleased. He was one of those fortunate fathers who are on terms of full confidence and friendship as well as affection with their children.

Indeed Senator Burton was specially blessed; Daisy was devoted to her father, and Gerald had never given him a moment of real unease: the young man had done well at college, and now seemed likely to become one of the most distinguished and successful exponents of that branch of art--architecture--modern America has made specially her own.

"Well?" said the Senator, "well, Daisy, I suppose you have told your brother about this odd affair?"

As his daughter nodded, he went on:--"As for me, I have unfortunately nothing to tell. We found the studio, and everything was exactly as this poor young lady said it would be--with the one paramount exception that her husband was not there! And though his housekeeper seems to be expecting Mr.

Dampier every moment, she has had no news of him since he wrote, some days ago, saying he would arrive this morning. It certainly is a very inexplicable business--" he looked helplessly from one good-looking, intelligent young face to the other.

"But where is Mrs. Dampier now?" asked Daisy eagerly. "I do think you might have told me before you took her away, father. I would have loved to have said good-bye to her. I do like her so much!"

"You won't have far to go to see her. Mrs. Dampier's at the door, sitting in a carriage," said her father drily. "I had to bring her back here: I didn't know what else to do."

"Why, of course, father, you did quite right!"

And Gerald Burton chimed in, "Yes, of course you were right to do that, father."

Senator Burton smiled a little ruefully at his children's unquestioning approval. He himself was by no means sure that he had done "quite right."

They walked, the three of them, across to the porte-cochere.

Nancy Dampier was now sitting crouched up in a corner of the fiacre; a handkerchief was pressed to her face, and she was trying, not very successfully, to stifle her sobs of nervous fear and distress.

With an eager, impulsive gesture the American girl leapt up the step of the little open carriage. "Don't cry," she whispered soothingly. "It will all come right soon! Why, I expect your husband just went out to see a friend and got kept somehow. If it wasn't for those stupid Poulains' mistake about last night you wouldn't feel really worried, now would you?"

Nancy dabbed her eyes. She felt ashamed of being caught crying by these kind people. "I know I'm being silly!" she gasped. "You must forgive me!

It's quite true I shouldn't feel as worried as I feel now if it wasn't for the Poulains--their saying, I mean, that they've never seen my husband.

That's what upset me. It all seems so strange and--and horrid. My sense tells me it's quite probable Jack has gone in to see some friend, and was kept somehow."

"And now," said Daisy Burton persuasively, "you must come upstairs with us, and we'll get Madame Poulain to send us up a nice dejeuner to our sitting-room."

And so the Senator found part of his new problem solved for him. Daisy, so much was dear, had determined to befriend--and that to the uttermost--this unfortunate young Englishwoman.

But now there arose another most disagreeable complication.

Madame Poulain had strolled out, her arms akimbo, to see what was going on.

And, as if she had guessed the purport of Miss Burton's words, she walked forward, and speaking this time respectfully, even suavely, to "Monsieur le Senateur," observed, "My husband and I regret very greatly that we cannot ask this lady to stay on in our hotel. We have no vacant room--no room at all!"

And then it was that Gerald Burton, who had stood apart from the discussion, saying nothing, simply looking intently, sympathetically at his sister and Mrs. Dampier--took a hand in the now complicated little human game.

"Father!" he exclaimed, speaking in low, sharp tones. "Of course Mrs.

Dampier must stay on here with us till her husband comes back! If by some extraordinary chance he isn't back by to-night she can have my room--I shall easily find some place outside." And as his father looked at him a little doubtfully he went on:--"Will you explain to Madame Poulain what we've settled? I can't trust myself to speak to the woman! She's behaving in the most unkind, brutal way to this poor little lady."

He went on between his teeth, "The Poulains have got some game on in connection with this thing. I wish I could guess what it is."

And the Senator, much disliking his task, did speak to Madame Poulain. "I am arranging for Mrs. Dampier to stay with us, as our guest, till her husband's--hem--arrival. My son will find a room outside, so you need not disturb yourself about the matter. Kindly send for Jules, and have her trunk carried up to our apartments."

And Madame Poulain, after an uncomfortably long pause, turned and silently obeyed the Senator's behest.

CHAPTER IV

The afternoon wore itself away, and to two out of the four people who spent it together in the pleasant salon of the Burtons' suite of rooms the hours, nay the very minutes, dragged as they had never dragged before.

Looking back to that first day of distress and bewilderment, Nancy later sometimes asked herself what would have happened, what she would have done, had she lacked the protection, the kindness--and what with Daisy Burton almost at once became the warm affection--of this American family?

Daisy and Gerald Burton not only made her feel that they understood, and, in a measure, shared in her distress, but they also helped her to bear her anguish and suspense.

Although she was not aware of it very different was the mental att.i.tude of their father.

Senator Burton was one of those public men of whom modern America has a right to be proud. He was a hard worker--chairman of one Senate committee and a member of four others; he had never been a brilliant debater, but his more brilliant colleagues respected his sense of logic and force of character. He had always been unyielding in his convictions, absolutely independent in his views, a man to whom many of his fellow-countrymen would have turned in any kind of trouble or perplexity sure of clear and honest counsel.

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 s.e.x, 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, embarra.s.sed 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.