Wanderfoot Part 30

"Spring is dead, And summer is dead.

Oh! my heart, And, oh! my head!"

It had always been understood that after the summer Haidee was to go back to Paris to finish her education at the Versailles Lycee, while Val and Bran put in another healthy, if desolate winter at Mascaret. Now the latter part of the plan was impossible. The place was haunted, for Val, by poor Sacha's ghost. She knew not where to go except it were back to Paris. Bran was older now and his health established. Perhaps if she could find a governess for him he would get along all right while she worked! The need for work was imperative. Funds were down to zero.

She knew not where to turn for money, except where nothing but the prospect of starvation for Bran would let her turn--to the Credit Lyonnais where lay the acc.u.mulating quarterly sums from Westenra.

So when the time came for Haidee to make her entrance at the Lycee, Bran and Val returned to Paris as well: the latter having written and re-engaged her old studio which was to let furnished.

Haidee was a changed girl. She seemed to have grown years older and hard as a stone. She had withdrawn herself from all intimacy with Val, and was even cold and harsh in her manner to Bran, who could not understand and was always saying wistfully:

"Don't you love me any more, Haidee?"

"Of course I do," she would answer impatiently.

"Then why do you look at me as if you 'd like to spank me on my tailie?"

"Oh, don't worry me, Bran. You make me tired!"

Mascaret seemed suddenly to have grown old and grey. A great coldness had settled upon the little village. Bitter winds swept every leaf from the trees and the sun was hidden in wet mists. The Villa Shai-poo, its flagstaff bare, its windows shuttered and barred, looked like a bereaved brooding mother folding arms on her grief. The occupants of Villa Duval were the last of the visitors to leave the village. Even Sacha had gone. His people had taken him back to Paris to lie in the family vault at Pere La Chaise.

From Mascaret to Paris is an eight hours' journey on the worst line in France, and when they reached St. Lazare Station late in the afternoon they were all tired out, with hearts as heavy as lead. Val left Bran on Haidee's lap in the waiting-room while she went to unlock the trunks in the Customs' shed. There were crowds of travellers and loads of baggage to be gone through, for the boat-train from Cherbourg was just in also.

Val, very weary, sat on the low table waiting, and staring about her with sad eyes full of trouble. Suddenly, standing quite near, she saw a face she knew. She could not immediately place the man in her memory but she was so sure of knowing him that she smiled and gave a little nod. Immediately he took off his hat and approached.

"I think you _almost_ remember, Mrs. Valdana, but not quite," he said.

The moment she heard his voice she placed him. It was the French Jew who had sat next her on board the _Bavaric_.

"How do you do, Mr. Bernstein!" she said cordially, extending her hand.

It was as though she had met an old friend. A look of keen pleasure came into his shrewd face.

"Such a memory must be a treasure to you as a journalist!"

"A journalist!" The words sounded strange in her ears. How many years ago since she was a journalist! Since she first met this man! A far absorbed look came into her eyes.

"I knew you in a minute," he said. "You have not changed at all, only grown a little"--("sadder," he was going to say, but subst.i.tuted)--"younger."

"Ah! you have not changed either," she said dryly.

"You have even the same beautiful chain on you! I hope you have not forgotten your promise to give me first refusal if ever you want to sell it?"

A startled look flashed across her face.

"Ah, yes! My chain! You did say that, did n't you?" She stared at him meditatively. "What do you really think it is worth?"

"It would be hard to say right here." He had grown extremely American in accent and speech. "But if you would call and see me with it. Are you staying in Paris?"

"Yes."

He got out a card.

"Well, here is my office address--_Rue de Bach_. Call any time you like, but soon, as I am off to England again in three days."

"I will come to-morrow," she said. "In the meantime, would n't it be a good thing for you to take the necklace with you and examine it?"

She detached it from her neck with some little difficulty, for the clasp was a firm one, and held it out. The Jew looked at her with eyes in which for a moment there hovered a shade of something like pity that quickly turned to pleasure. A faint flush came into his face, and as he took the necklace he pressed her hand warmly. In America where he had been for the past five years such a trusting spirit as Val's was not met with every day in the week, and the _rencontre_ refreshed his jaded Hebraic heart like wine.

"You _just_ come," he said cordially, "and I bet I 'll have something good to tell you."

Immediately afterwards she was called to open her luggage, and bade him good-bye, telling him that she had some one waiting for her.

All the way of the long drive across Paris, she sat cogitating the question of the necklace. Even if it turned out to be of value, ought she to part with it? Would ill luck come to her for parting with her mother's mascot? Could any worse luck than she already had, come to her, she began to ask herself in irony? Then she stopped and flung her arms round Bran. Yes; yes. Ill luck can always come to mothers.

Mothers are never safe--nor fathers! She thought of Sacha lying still on the beach, and of that stern look on his father's face!

"Oh G.o.d! What are necklaces? ... what is money? ... what is anything against that pain?" she cried in her heart, and held Bran so tightly that he gave a yelp. Haidee, as always now, sat wrapt in a sullen reserve. Neither by look nor word did she exhibit the faintest sympathy for any troubles but her own. The only thing that seemed to interest her was the prospect of getting away from Val and Bran to her new life at school. It chilled Val's heart to have one who had been so close turn away from her thus. Even worse it was to see Bran's dear little efforts to be kind and friendly, snubbed. Every rebuff to him was like a blow in the face to Val. But she would not blame Haidee: the child was dear to Westenra. Besides she _was_ only a child, and had suffered through Sacha's death. The shock of it coming on top of her wounded pride and little lost love-dream was enough to embitter her, thought Val, and blamed herself for ever having interfered.

"Such things are safe in G.o.d's hands! He takes care of children and drunkards. Who am I to have arrogated His rights?"

But Haidee's att.i.tude acutely added to the misery and uncertainty of life at this time, and in the dusky shadows of the cab as it rumbled over to the Latin Quarter, Val held her boy's head against her breast and slow tears stole down her face and were drawn in between her lips, drying her throat with their salty flavour. Life too tasted salt and acrid. It seemed to her that in everything she had put her hand to she had failed and fallen short.

At _rue Campaigne premiere_ the concierge almost embraced them, so delighted was she to see them again.

"Many people have been looking for Madame and wis.h.i.+ng her back," she announced. "Not only artists but persons very _chic_ also have been to call."

"Locusts!" said Val to herself. "Locusts and devourers all!" She knew those _chic_ ones well. People who would not work themselves and could not bear to see others achieving. All artists have this cla.s.s to contend with.

"I told every one you would be back this week. I know you owe no one money, and are not afraid, like some artists, of visitors," said the concierge cheerfully, and Val gave a groan. She resolved to be up early the next day and take Haidee off to school before there was a chance of meeting any early-fliers.

Before she went to bed, however, she unpacked her papers and found a little old parchment letter which dealt with the gift to her mother of the comfort necklace. It was written in Russian and neither she nor her mother had ever had the curiosity to have it translated, but Iolita had always been careful to preserve it, and it had marvellously survived all Val's many packings and wanderings. She now sealed it up and forwarded it to Bernstein on the vague chance of its being of use in the valuation of the necklace.

At seven in the morning she received a _pet.i.t bleu_ from him, evidently sent off the night before, but posted after tea, asking her to call without fail at three o'clock that afternoon. Immediately she sent out her _femme de menage_ to see if Bran's old governess, the young American girl, could take charge of him for the day, giving him lunch and tea at her mother's home. That matter satisfactorily settled, she started for the Gare Montparna.s.se with Haidee, en route for Versailles. It took the whole morning to settle Haidee in, pay her bills, and talk over with the Directrice her future course of study. Asked to lunch with the girls at the Lycee she would not stay. It was no pleasure to be with Haidee while she preserved that sullen, resentful manner. Life was grim enough! So Val took lunch in a little _cremerie_ in the avenue de Paris, and returned to Paris by tram to the _Pont Royal_, where she dismounted and took a bus to Bernstein's number in the _Rue de Bach_.

He received her with a manner full of some suppressed excitement which quickly communicated itself to her.

"You have something to tell me?" she said, trembling with she knew not what fear. She had almost forgotten the necklace. With her curious sense of prevision it was revealed to her in some way that for the moment the Jew was arbiter of her destiny.

"Sit down," he said, pus.h.i.+ng a comfortable chair towards her. "I want you to tell me the history of the necklace."

"Oh, as to that, Mr. Bernstein, I know very little. My mother gave it to me when she died. She had always worn it, ever since I can remember.

She loved the beautiful little pictures, and she had an idea that it was not only a mascot against extreme poverty but also that it possessed some healing power in sickness. Many times when we were very poor indeed she was asked by people who liked curious things to sell it, but she never would. She always remembered that the old Russian man who gave it to her told her that in the day of trouble it would bring comfort to her and hers. He was a strange old man who lived in exile in Spain. He had committed some political crime and had fled from Russia; was very wealthy but lived with great simplicity in quite a poor part of Seville, and it was there that he made great friends with my mother and her father, who was blind but had been a great adventurer and soldier of fortune. The old Russian grew to love my mother--every one who knew my mother loved her. And one day he gave her the necklace. She took it because it was so pretty and yet did not seem very valuable. She never took jewels from people, though of course many were offered her, as to all dancers. But this man was very old and gentle and his gift seemed simple too. Only, he strangely insisted on giving her, with it, that paper which I sent you last night. That was to show that it was a deed of gift, and no one could take it from her. But no one ever tried. He was a.s.sa.s.sinated a year or two later and all his papers and jewels mysteriously stolen, but my mother had left Spain then and was in London and no one ever claimed the necklace. She loved it and I love it. It hardly seems to me, Mr. Bernstein, after talking about it that I can part with it after all." She took it up and fingered the glowing, luminous beads tenderly.

"Not even for seventy-five thousand pounds!" he said quietly.

"What!" She stared at him. She thought he had gone mad.

"That is what I offer you," he said in a business-like tone.

"But...?"