by Guy McCrone
But Lucy did not want to let it go at this. “That’s not quite the answer,” she said. “You know very well why Robin is here, Mr. Hayburn. And it’s certainly not to be strung to breaking-point.”
“Strung by what?”
“Well—all this new excitement. This writing mania, and—”
“Excitement about the girl who is teaching him to write?”
“Please! I know nothing about it. Still, I blame myself now for introducing them.”
Stephen’s eyes strayed once again to the passers-by before he turned back to say: “My brother Henry hates Robin’s arty leanings, anyway. What kind of girl is this American?”
But Lucy was calling: “Denise! There she is! You’ll see for yourself, Mr. Hayburn. Denise! Hullo! Oh, hullo, Mr. Carrick! What are you doing down here?”
Denise, followed by Sam Carrick, was crossing the pavement to their table.
V
With a keen interest, Stephen fixed his eye-glass and settled back to talk to the Americans, who, responding to Lucy’s invitation, were sitting down for a moment’s talk. He took in Carrick’s large, good-natured person with approval, making the mental comment that they seemed to be able to breed outsizes over there, and was content to leave it at that. But this girl who was with him, this Miss St. Roch they had just been talking about? Quite a beauty in her way! And she had the courage to wear what suited her looks! It would be no surprise to him if that rascal Robin had lost his head a bit over her. Any young man would. But what about Miss St. Roch? Would someone so poised, so obviously fit for the world she lived in, bother with his callow, excitable nephew?
“Now where did we meet last, Mr. Carrick?” Lucy was asking Sam.
“I don’t know, Mrs. Hamont. Could it be somewhere in Paris?”
Since these two had given themselves to this question of grave importance, Denise turned to Stephen. “You’re one of the wicked uncles! Isn’t that right?”
He must adjust his glass for this! His smile was now compounded of amusement, distinction, and, he hoped, a pinch of naughtiness. “I am the wicked uncle, Miss St. Roch. There’s only one of me!” Handsome girl this. Some fellah ought to paint her. Perhaps some fellah had.
“But I thought there was two of you? Robin said—”
“Oh yes. There are two of us. But Robin’s Uncle David Moorhouse is not wicked at all. He’s nothing if not good!”
“I see.” She laughed. Lively old boy this. Even if, like most old boys, he was being silly.
“So, you see, Miss St. Roch, I have to be wicked for two.”
“I would be very, very interested to know just exactly how you manage to do that, Mr. Hayburn.”
Stephen, foolishly enjoying himself, was about to say he supposed wickedness was a gift like an ear for music, but Sam Carrick had turned at the sound of his name.
“Hayburn?” he asked. “I didn’t get your name first time, sir.” He looked at Denise. “Any relative of this youngster, Robin Hayburn?”
“Of course, Sam. He’s Robin’s uncle.”
“Well. I think you’d better read him the letter I was going to show you, Denny. I know what’s in it. It should have some family interest.” He took it out of his pocket. “See who it’s from?” he asked with a smile, as her fingers broke the seal.
Denise’s brows arched with surprise as she turned to the signature. “From him! Now, how did he see Robin’s story?”
“Happened to be in Paris. Heard I was going home, and came to ask me to do something for him. So I thought he had better look at your friend’s stuff.”
As she read the letter the others waited. Why should this writer of much distinction trouble with a boy’s scribbles?
Denise turned a page.
“And so, my dear young lady, these are my feelings; if things so little definable may be called feelings; my intuitions let me rather say. I am amazed to be told that your young friend has written so little; that this short ‘conte’ is indeed among his first. For, even if it be possible, here and there, still to discover a certain ‘gaucherie’ in the setting-down, he strikes a note that is both delicate and sure. I have seldom found those fleeting half-thoughts that go to make up the greater part of our daily consciousness so skilfully netted, so dexterously pinned down—their wings still vibrating—to a mere three or four sheets of paper.
“And thus, if I judge rightly, it is in the direction of his quick delicacy that your interesting friend’s talent must be led. As I see it, my dear colleague, it would be a great pity to allow him to become a glib and ‘plotty’ story-teller, to cultivate a hasty, thin veneer. There is a new and unusual sensibility in these few pages that calls for tender care in its development.
“Forgive me if I dare to intrude upon your time. But we writers must, don’t you think, hold out a pointing hand when young and undoubted talent knocks at our door to ask the way?
“In Paris I was told of your commendable and tireless industry, and I am pleased to think of the material reward it must so happily and gratifyingly bring to you.”
“Well, Denny? Does he tell you all he told me?”
Denise gave Sam the letter. The others were surprised that she looked almost displeased.
“Have you met him?” Lucy asked, referring to the author whose august handwriting Denise had just been reading.
“Oh, yes,” she said drily. “Once in Paris.”
Carrick looked up. “Can the others see it, Denny?”
“Of course.”
“And don’t you think it’s wonderful?” He was puzzled. Women were queer. What was wrong with Denny now?
“It depends what you mean by wonderful.” She looked about her grimly.
Lucy and Stephen were reading it together. Sam waited.
Presently Denise spoke. “Well, I guess that’s me put in my place,” she said.
“Place, Denny? What place?”
“Oh, can’t you see what that old Europeanised word-spinner means? Listen.” She stood up to look over Lucy’s shoulder. “‘In Paris I was told of your commendable and tireless industry, and I am pleased to think of the material reward it must so happily and gratifyingly bring to you.’ In other words: ‘You’re nothing but a money-making pen-pusher, so don’t think you can start helping a young man who can write. You just leave him alone!’”
“Oh, no! No, Denny!”
“It’s true. That’s why he bothered to write to me at all.” Moodily, she sat down again and turned once more to look about her.
But Sam Carrick was not a fool. And neither, he knew, was Denise. Although his kindliness refused to admit to her that she was right, he saw very well that she might be.
It did not much surprise Lucy Hamont that Denise should presently stand up, hold out her hand, and say abruptly: “Come on, Sam; we’ve got things to talk about.” Nor yet was Lucy much surprised at Sam’s bewildered look, and his exclaiming: “What things, Denny?”
They shook hands—Carrick with a smile that was mild and apologetic, as though he was asking their indulgence for his companion.
“Well? And what do you think of all that?” Lucy said, withdrawing her eyes from the couple as they lost themselves in the distance.
“What? The letter?”
“Yes.”
Stephen tilted himself back on his bright painted chair, and looked up at the striped awning above him, dangling his eye-glass on its ribbon the while with an air of deep thought. Then, coming back at last to a four-square position, he looked at his companion. “I’ve just been wondering,” he said momentously.
“Robin will be pleased!”
“Yes. But what good will it do him? It won’t stop that keying-up you’ve been talking about. It won’t help him with my brother. It won’t make him anxious to go home.”
Lucy sat watching a market-woman go by. She was balancing a monster basket of tulips, narcissi and mimosa on her head. “No, I suppose not. And yet if a great singer had shown as much interest in my voice when I was a student, I would have been in He
aven for weeks!”
Stephen made no immediate reply to this. But at length she heard him murmur: “Poor Robkin!” as though to himself, and saw him stand up. “Time is going on,” he said. “Are you walking back too? We can talk as we go.” He gave the waiter a coin, offered her his arm, and led her across the gardens.
Some minutes later, walking thus together, Lucy caught their reflection in the plate-glass window of a shop. What a gay and agreeable couple Mr. Hayburn and she looked, there in the sunshine! Her parasol and feathers. His carefully chosen grey. How well they went together! How cheerfully elegant! How alarmingly suitable!
Her mind was not altogether on the problem of Robin as they continued onwards towards lunch.
Chapter Fourteen
STEPHEN found Robin in his room. The young man was lounging in his chair by the window. His aspect was gloomy.
“Hullo, Robin! You’re there, are you? Why did you run away from me this morning?”
Robin did not move. He merely looked up at Stephen and said: “Hullo.” He had tramped about all morning, unhappy and restless. And now he was sorry for himself; ready to dramatise a little.
“Are you all right, Robkin?”
“Oh yes, I’m all right.”
Stephen felt annoyed. “Then why did you run away?”
“Because I had to be by myself to think.”
“Think? What about?”
Robin sat up and put back the rebel strand of hair. “Must we talk about that now, Uncle Stephen?”
“Not necessarily. I only wanted to help.”
“I’m an emotional fool, I suppose.”
“Oh, are you?” Impatience with this play-acting sharpened Stephen’s voice. “Well, it’s lunch-time, anyway. Coming down?”
Robin sighed, dragged himself from his chair, took up his hair-brushes, and stood before his mirror.
Now his uncle felt a little malicious. “If you were looking for your friend Miss St. Roch this morning”—and from the sudden rush of colour to Robin’s face, Stephen saw at once that he had been—“you wouldn’t find her. She’s spending the day with a friend.”
Forgetting the languors of self-pity, Robin turned quickly. “Friend? Who?”
“A Mr. Carrick. An American journalist from Paris. She must have told you about him.”
“No. She hasn’t.” Robin turned back to the mirror.
“Well, Mr. Carrick asked if I belonged to you.”
“Who is this man Carrick? How does he know anything about me?”
“Didn’t you send him some of your writing?”
“No. But Denise may have done without telling me.” Robin turned to look at Stephen once again.
“Well, Mr. Carrick has brought Miss St. Roch a letter about your work, Robkin. He showed it to us.”
“My work? From whom?”
Stephen told him the letter-writer’s name. “Mr. Carrick thought the great man ought to see it.”
“Uncle Stephen! No!” Again the colour was in Robin’s face. There was little of pose about him now. “What did the letter say? Good or bad?”
“Good. Now that’s all I’m going to tell you. We’re late. Your Uncle David will be waiting.”
“But, Uncle Stephen! I must find Denise!”
“Don’t be silly, Robkin. Come and have your lunch. Besides, you probably won’t find her. I’ve told you she’s spending the day with Mr. Carrick.”
But the meal was a penance for Robin. His impatience would not let him eat. Now the discontent caused by his father’s letter was swallowed up in this news his uncle had given him. He must see that letter from Paris. He must climb up to Denise’s door, even if the chance of finding her was only faint.
But when, at last, he was able to escape from the lunch-table, come out in front of the hotel, and look towards her studio high up there in the old town, he was left in no doubt of her whereabouts. For there she was, out on her balcony, as he had so often seen her. At this distance he could not tell if anyone was with her. But whether or not he would go up now.
II
A little time later, Sam Carrick turned to Denise. “Is that somebody knocking at your door, Denny?”
He had taken her to lunch in town, and now she had brought him up here to get the view from her balcony, to see her strange quarters, and to spend some time in talk, before he must go back.
Although he did not know it, Sam’s own presence, male and benign, together with the large, bass tones of his familiar voice, had soothed the ruffled spirit of his fellow country-woman. He saw that Denny was less jumpy, less unpredictable, than she had been this morning. Now she seemed more like the Denny he had expected to find; the Denny the newspaper boys up there in Paris were always glad to see around. Bright, sensible, as women went, and a real pleasure to the eye. Why she had been gloomy over that letter about the Hayburn boy, Sam just couldn’t figure out. But, then, the girls were like that. Moods one minute. Smiles the next. But you left them to their moods and made the most of their smiles. He had learnt all about that from Barbara long ago.
“Knocking at the door? I don’t think so.”
“Yes. There it is again.” She seemed reluctant to go. He heaved his large, relaxed body out of the wicker chair she had placed for him. “I’ll go and see.”
“No! Let me!”
But he had gone, and was opening the door to a tall, thin young man who stood there, hot and much out of breath. His hair was damp on his brow and there was a surprised look in his dark eyes. Sam Carrick smiled. “Come in, son,” he said. “I’m a friend of Denny’s. You’re not the Hayburn boy, are you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Come right in, then! Denny’s got something to show you.”
“Yes. So I heard. My uncle told me.”
“Yes, that’s right; we saw him this morning.” Interesting youngster this. Well, of course he must be interesting, if the old man had bothered to write a letter like that about four pages of his work. But that wasn’t quite all. There was a fine-drawn quality about young Hayburn; a flickering change of expression that seemed to render his thoughts transparent. But Sam was surprised to see him go unbidden to the satchel that served Denise as a handbag, search for the letter, and take it out.
“I knew it would be here,” Robin said.
“Go right ahead. Don’t mind me.” Denise did not appear to be pleased, Sam thought. But yet she had allowed young Hayburn to do this.
Now Robin was sitting on the edge of Denise’s sofa-bed, crouched over the letter, lost to everything else. Denise was walking back and forth in the room. Sam, hands in pockets, stood leaning one shoulder against a wall. His eyes moved between the falling mop of hair bent over the paper and the face of the handsome, restless girl.
At last Robin looked up.
“Well, son? How do you feel about that?”
With a quick, low “I don’t know what to say!” Robin crushed the letter between clasped hands, pressed these between his knees, and turned his face away from them.
“Denny and I are very proud of you. Aren’t we, Denny?”
“Yes, aren’t we?”
What was wrong with the girl? Why must her voice be so cool? “Of course we are.” Sam sought to cover up her strangeness.
Denise took another step or two, then she went to Robin. She laid a hand on his shoulder. “Robin, of course I’m glad. It was just—I don’t know—well, the old man tells me to keep my hands off your work. He doesn’t seem to think I’m fit to help you. But never mind. I’m glad, all right.”
Robin looked up. What was she talking about? “But, Denise—?”
“It’s all right, Robin. Forget about that. I’m delighted. And come back and see me soon. Sam and I haven’t seen each other for quite a while. We’ve got a lot to talk about together.”
Robin stood up. Was he being dismissed? Treated like a schoolboy? His self-importance did not like this. He looked once more at Denise. She was standing, waiting for him to go.
“You’ve been very good to me
.” His tone was young and uncertain, almost pleading.
“Oh no, my dear boy, I’ve done nothing! But we’ll talk about everything next time I see you.”
“Why did you send him away like that, Denny?” Sam Carrick asked when, a moment later, the outside door had closed behind Robin.
“I don’t know, Sam. I just can’t tell you.” She spoke the truth.
“You might have let the youngster stay and talk to me. I liked him.”
“You should have told me, Sam.”
He made a movement. “I could go and shout to him.”
“Oh, no! Don’t do that!”
Sam sat down in the chair again. No. Women were queer. That was all you could say about them. They didn’t know what they wanted.
III
Slowly Robin descended the old, worn stairway, emerging presently into the cheerful afternoon rabble of the Rue Longue. A woman with a little cart of rough pottery, to which a large, patient dog was harnessed, passed him by. A group of swarthy, staring children. Two priests deep in conversation. A local dandy in trousers of black velvet, a white shirt, and a red cummerbund.
But Robin noticed nothing. Why had she sent him away like this? Why was she so eager to be rid of him? Was it inconvenient in some way? Inconvenient not to be alone with that friend of hers?
He thrust his hands into his pockets, and shrugged angrily. He was hurt. And he felt he had every right to be. Oh, he would have gone, of course, if she had given him time! He wasn’t the kind of person to stay where he was not wanted. She needn’t have been so definite about it. Ordering him away in front of that large American, as if he were a child!
He found his fingers crushing a piece of paper in his pocket. He drew it out. He had taken Denise’s letter without noticing. Now he stood still in the street to re-read it. Again it gave him a stab of pleasure. It was almost too much, this praise and confirmation of a talent which, until a few weeks ago, even he himself had not taken quite seriously. He had had urges, of course, undefined hopes. But this!
