Chapter X—TWO IDYLLS
JIMMIE was trudging along the undulating highroad that leads from Dieppe to the little village of Berneval, very hot, very dusty, very thirsty, and very contented. He carried a stick and a little black bag. His content proceeded from a variety of causes. In the first place it was a glorious August day, drenched with sunshine and with deep blue ether; and the smiling plain of Normandy rolled before him, a land of ripening orchards and lazy pastures. He had been longing for the simple beauty of sun and sky and green trees, and for the homely sights and sounds of country things, and now he had his fill. Secondly, Aline was having a much needed holiday. She had been growing a little pale and languid, he thought, in London, after a year's confined administering to his selfish wants. She was enjoying herself, too, and the few days she had already spent in the sea air had brought the blood to her cheeks again. Thirdly, he was free for the moment from everyday cares. A dealer had fallen from heaven into his studio and paid money down for the copyright of two of his worst pictures. Fourthly, he had definitely received the commission for the portrait of the Princess of Herren-Rothbeck. Her Serene Highness and her tutelary duchess had paid their visit, expressed themselves delighted with his work (the duchess especially commending the portrait of the hapless Mrs. Marmaduke Hewson), and had driven away in a most satisfactory condition of serenity and graciousness.
Jimmie was happy. What could man want more? In addition to all these blessings, Norma had written to him from Lord Monzie's place in Scotland a letter à propos of nothing, merely expressive of good-will and friendliness; and he had received it that morning. He had never seen her handwriting before. Bold, incisive, distinguished, it seemed to complement his conception of the radiant lady, and in a foolish way he tried to harmonise the ink-marks with the curves of her proud lips, the setting of her eyes, and the poise of her queenly head. The dreariness of a rainy afternoon with all the men and half the women away on the grouse-moor had been, she said, her excuse for writing. She sketched various members of the house-party with light, satiric touches; notably one Theodore Weever, an American, whose sister had married an impecunious and embarrassing cousin of the Duchess of Wiltshire. He was building himself a palace in Fifth Avenue, wrote Norma, and had been buying pictures in Europe to decorate it with; now he was anxious to purchase a really decorative wife. Morland was expected in a few days, and she would be glad when he appeared upon the scene. She did not say why; but Jimmie naturally understood that her heart was yearning for the presence of the man she loved. “I have very little to say that can interest you,” she concluded, “but you can say many things to interest me: this letter is purely selfish, a mere minnow, after all, that I use as bait.” So Jimmie walked along the dusty road thinking out an answer that could bring comfort to the Hero pining for her Leander; thinking also of Aline, and revelling in the sunshine.
He delighted, like a child, in all he saw. He stopped before the red, gold, and green paradise of an orchard and feasted upon its colour. He lingered in talk with a tiny girl driving a great brown cow; asked her its age, how many calves it had had, its name, and whether she were not afraid it would mistake her for a blade of grass and bite her. The little girl scoffed at the possibility. She could drive three cows, and, if it came to that, a bull. “Ça me connaît, les bêtes,” she said. Whereupon he put a couple of sous in her hand and went on his way. Presently he sat down on the rough wooden bench in front of a wayside café and drank cider from an earthenware bowl, and played with a mongrel puppy belonging to the establishment. When the latter had darted off to bark amid the cloud of dust and petroleum fumes left by a passing motor-car, Jimmie, sipping his second bowl of sour cider in great content, re-read the precious letter, filled his pipe, and reflected peacefully on the great harmony of things. The hopelessness of his own love for Norma struck no discord. The Stephen so closely connected with the life of Saint Catherine of Siena did not love with less hope or more devotion.
He paid the few coppers for his reckoning, took up his stick and little black bag, and trudged on refreshed, and as he neared Berneval the expectation of Aline's welcome gladdened him. He had rented for the month a cottage with a straggling piece of ground behind, from an artist friend whose possession it was. The friend had fixed the figure absurdly low; the modest living under Aline's experienced management was cheap, and the bonne à tout faire cooked divinely for a few halfpence a day. By a curious coincidence Mr. Anthony Merewether had also pitched upon Berneval as a summer resting-place. He had come on business, he gave out, and every morning saw him issue from the hotel by the beach, armed with easel and camp-stool, and the rest of the landscape-painter's paraphernalia, and every evening saw him smoking cigarettes on Jimmie's veranda. Whether the hours of sunshine saw him consistently hard at work, Jimmie was inclined to doubt. He certainly bathed a great deal and ran about with Aline a great deal, and Jimmie read the pair moral lessons on the evil effects of idleness. But Tony was a fresh-minded boy; his ingenuous conversation provided Jimmie with much entertainment, and his presence on their holiday gave him the satisfaction of feeling that Aline had some one of her own age to play with.
The ramshackle vehicle, half diligence, half omnibus, that plies between Berneval and Dieppe, passed him with great cracking of whip and straining of rusty harness and loud hue's from the driver, just as he entered the village. It was late afternoon, and the trim white and green of the place was bathed in mellow sunshine. The short cut home lay up a lane and through the churchyard, a cluster of grey slabs around a little grey church; and many of the slabs bore the story of the pitiless sea—how Jean-Marie Dulac, many years ago, was drowned at the age of nineteen, and how Jacques Lemerre perished in a storm; for it has been from time immemorial a tiny village of fisher-folk and every family has given of its own to the waves. The pathos of the simple legends on the stones always touched him as he walked by; and now he paused to decipher some moss-grown letters of fifty years ago. He stooped, made out the same sad tale, moralised a little thereon, and rose with a sigh of relief to greet the sunshine and the fair earth. But the sight that suddenly met his eyes banished dead fishermen and hungry sea and sunny tree-tops from his mind. It was a boy and a girl very close together, his arm about her waist, her head upon his shoulder, walking by the little church. Their backs were towards him. He stared open-mouthed.
“God bless my soul!” said he, in amazement.
Then he dropped his stick, which clattered upon a gravestone.
The foolish pair started at the sound, assumed a correct attitude with remarkable swiftness, and turning, recognised Jimmie. Tony Merewether, who was a fair youth, grew very red and looked sheepish; Aline awaited events demurely, with downcast eyes. Jimmie pushed his old Homburg hat to the back of his head, and in two or three strides confronted them. He tried to look fiercely at Tony. The young man drew himself up.
“I have asked Aline to marry me, sir,” he said frankly. “I was going to speak to you about it.”