Cynthia With an Introduction by Maurice Hewlett — Inside the Classic

Dieppe had dined, and the Grande Rue was astir. He watched the passers-by with interest. In the elation of his success he was equal to tackling another novel on the morrow, and he saw material in everything: in the chattering party of American girls running across the road to eat more ices at the pastrycook's; in the coquettish dealer in rosaries and Lives of the Saints, who had put up her shutters for the night and was bound for the Opera; in the little boy-soldiers from the barracks, swaggering everywhere in uniforms several sizes too big for them. Sentences from the reviews that he was still receiving bubbled through his consciousness deliciously, and he wished, swelling with gratitude, that the men who wrote them were beside him, that he might be introduced, and grip their hands, and try to express the inexpressible in words.

"I should like to live here, Turk," he remarked: "the atmosphere is right. It's suggestive, stimulating. When I see a peasant leaning out of a window in France, I want to write verses about her; when I see the same thing at home, I only notice she's dirty."

"Ah!" said Turquand, "that's another reason why you had better go back with me to-morrow. The tendency to write verses leads to the casual ward. Let us go and watch the Insolent Opulence losing its francs."

The Casino was beginning to refill, and the path and lawn were gay with the flutter of toilettes when they reached the gates. Two of the figures approaching the rooms were familiar to the novelist, and he discovered their presence with a distinct shock, though his gaze had been scanning the crowd in search of them.

"There are the Walfords," he said.

The other grunted--he also had recognised a girl in mauve; and Kent watched her silently as long as she remained in view. He knew that he had nerves when he saw Miss Walford. The sight of her aroused a feeling of restlessness in him latterly which demanded her society for its relief; and he had not denied to himself that when a stranger, sitting behind him yesterday in the salon de lecture, had withdrawn a handkerchief redolent of the corylopsis which Miss Walford affected, it had provided him with a sensation profoundly absurd.

If he had nerves, however, there was no occasion to parade the fact, and he repressed impatience laudably. It was half an hour before the ladies were met. Objecting to be foolish, he felt, nevertheless, that Cynthia Walford was an excuse for folly as she turned to him on the terrace with her faint smile of greeting; felt, with unreasoning gratification, that Turquand must acknowledge it.

She was a fair, slight girl, with dreamy blue eyes bewitchingly lashed, and lips so delicately modelled that the faint smile always appeared a great tribute upon them. She was no less beautiful for her manifest knowledge that she was a beauty, and though she could not have been more than twenty-two, she had the air of carrying her loveliness as indifferently as her frocks--which tempted a literary man to destruction. She accepted admiration like an entremets at a table d'hôte--something included in the menu and arriving as a matter of course; but her acceptance was so graceful that it was delightful to bend to her and offer it.

Kent asked if they were going in to the concert, and Mrs. Walford said they were not. It was far too warm to sit indoors to listen to that kind of music! She found Dieppe insufferably hot, and ridiculously over-rated. Now, Trouville was really lively; didn't he think so?

He said he did not know Trouville.

"Don't you? Oh, it is ever so much better; very jolly--really most jolly. We were there last year, and enjoyed it immensely. We--we had such a time!" She giggled loudly. "How long are you gentlemen remaining?"

"Mr. Turquand is 'deserting' to-morrow," he said. "I? Oh, I shall have to leave in about a week, I'm afraid."

"You said that a week ago," murmured Miss Walford.

"I like the place," he confessed; "I find it very pleasant, myself."

Mrs. Walford threw up her hands with a scream of expostulation. Her face was elderly, despite her attentions to it, but in her manner she was often a great deal more youthful than her daughter; indeed, while the girl had already acquired something of the serenity of a woman, the woman was superficially reverting to the artlessness of a girl.

"What is there to like? Dieppe is the Casino, and the Casino is Dieppe!"

"But the Casino is very agreeable," he said, his glance wandering from her.

"And the charges are perfectly monstrous. Though, of course, you extravagant young men don't mind that!"

"A friend might call me young," said Turquand gloomily; "my worst enemy couldn't call me extravagant."

"Oh, I mind some of the charges," returned Kent. "I hate being 'done.'"

She was pleased to hear him say so. Her chief requirement of a young man was that he should be well provided for, but if he had the good feeling to exercise a nice economy till he became engaged, it was an additional recommendation. Her giggle was as violent as before, though.

"Oh, I daresay!" she exclaimed facetiously; "I'm always being taken in; I don't believe those stories any longer. Do you remember Willy Holmes, Cynthia, and the tales he used to tell me? I used to think that young man was so steady, I was always quoting him! And it turned out he was a regular scapegrace and everybody knew it all the time, and had been laughing at me. I've given up believing in any one, Mr. Kent--in anyone, do you hear?" She shook the splendours of her hat at him, and gasped and gurgled archly. "I've no doubt you're every bit as bad as the rest!"

He answered with some inanity. Miss Walford asked him a question, and he took a seat beside her in replying. Turquand sat down too. Twilight was falling, and a refreshing breeze began to make itself felt. A fashionable sea purled on the sand below with elegant decorum. In the building the concert commenced, and snatches of orchestration reached them through the chatter of American and English and French from the occupants of the chairs behind. Presently Mrs. Walford wanted to go and play petits chevaux. The sub-editor, involuntarily attached to the party, accompanied her, and Kent and the girl followed. The crowd round the tables was fairly large, but Turquand prevailed on the dame to see that there was space for four persons in a group. She complimented him on his dexterity, but immediately afterwards became "fatigued," and begged him to take her to the "settee in the corner." The party was now divided into couples.

He had appreciated the manoeuvres sufficiently to feel no surprise when she found the room "stifling" ten minutes later and said that she must return to the terrace. She had shown such small desire for his companionship hitherto, however, that he was momentarily uncertain which tête-à-tête was the one that she was anxious to prolong.

"Pouf!" she exclaimed, as they emerged into the air. "It was unbearable. Where are the others? Didn't they come out too?"

"They have no idea we've gone," said Turquand dryly.

She was greatly astonished; she had to turn before she could credit it.

"I thought they were behind us," she repeated several times. "I'm sure they saw us move. Oh, well, they'll find it out in a minute, I expect! Never mind!"

They strolled up and down.

"Sorry you're going, Mr. Turquand? Your friend will miss you very much."

"I don't think so," he answered. "He knew I was only running over for a few days."

"He tells me it is the first holiday he has taken for years," she said. "His profession seems to engross him. I suppose it is an engrossing one. But he oughtn't to exhaust his strength. I needn't ask you if you've read his novel. What do you think of it?"

"I think it extremely clever work," said Turquand.

"And it's been a great success, too, eh? 'One of the books of the year,' _The Times_ called it."

"It has certainly given him a literary position."

"How splendid!" she said. "Yes, that's what _I_ thought it: 'extremely clever,' brilliant--most brilliant! His parents must be very proud of him?"

"They're dead," said Turquand.

Mrs. Walford was surprised again. She had "somehow taken it for granted that they were living," and as she understood that he had no brothers or sisters, it must be very lonely for him?

"He sees a good deal of _me_" said her escort, "and I'm quite a festive sort of person when you know me."

Her giggle announced that she found this entertaining, but the approval did not loosen his tongue. She fanned herself strenuously, and decided that, besides being untidy, he was dense.

"Of course, in one way," she pursued, "his condition is an advantage to him. Literary people have to work so hard if they depend on their writing, don't they?"

"I do," he assented, "I'm sorry to say."

His constant obtrusion of himself into the matter annoyed her very much. She had neither inquired nor cared if he worked hard, and she felt disposed to say so. Turquand, who realised now why honours had been thrust upon him this evening, regretted that loyalty to Kent prevented his doing him what he felt would be the greatest service that could be rendered and removing the temptation of the mauve girl permanently from his path.

"With talent and private means our author is fortunate?"

"I often tell him so," he said.

"If it doesn't tempt him to rest on his oars," she added delightedly. "Wealth _has_ its dangers. Young men _will_ be young men!"

"'Wealth' is a big word," said he. "Kent certainly can't be called 'wealthy.'"

"But he doesn't depend on his pen?" she cried with painful carelessness.

"He has some private means, I believe; in fact, I know it."

"I am so glad--so glad for him. Now I have no misgivings about his future at all.... Have _you_?"

"I'm not sure that I follow you."

She played with her fan airily.

"He is certain to succeed, I mean; he needn't fear anything, as he has a competence. Oh, I know what these professions are," she went on, laughing. "My son is in the artistic world, we are quite behind the scenes. I know how hard-up some of the biggest professionals are when they have nothing but their profession to depend on. A profession is so precarious--shocking--even when one has aptitude for it."

"Kent has more than 'aptitude,'" he said. "He has power. Perhaps he'll always work too much for himself and the reviewers to attract the widest public. Perhaps he's a trifle inclined to over-do the analytical element in his stuff; but that's the worst that can be said. And, then, it's a question of taste. For myself, I'm a believer, in the introspective school, and I think his method's It."

"Schools" and "methods" were meaningless to the lady in such a connection. Novels were novels, and they were either "good" or they were "rubbish," if she understood anything about them--and she had read them all her life. She looked perplexed, and reiterated the phrase that she had already used.

"Oh, extremely clever, brilliant--most brilliant, really! I quite agree with you."

"Your son writes, did you say, Mrs. Walford?"

"Oh no, not writes--no! No, my son sings. He sings. He is studying for the operatic stage." Her tone couldn't have been more impressive if she had said he was de Reszke. "His voice is quite magnificent."

"Really!" he replied with interest. "That's a great gift--a voice."

"He is 'coming out' soon," she said. "He--er--could get an engagement at any moment, but--he is so conscientious. He feels he must do himself justice when he makes his debut. Justice. In professional circles he is thought an immense amount of--immense!"

"Has he sung at any concerts?"

"In private," she explained--"socially. He visits among musicians a great deal. And of course it makes it very lively for us. He is quite --er--in the swim!"

"You're to be congratulated on your family," said Turquand. "With such a son, and a daughter like Miss Walford----"

"Yes, she is very much admired," she admitted--"very much! But a strange girl, Mr. Turquand. You wouldn't believe how strange!"

He did not press her to put him to the test, but she supplied the particulars as if glad of the opportunity. He remarked that, in narrating matters of which she was proud, she adopted a breathless, staccato delivery, which provoked the suspicion that she was inventing the facts as she went on.

"She is _most_ peculiar," she insisted. "The matches she has refused! Appalling!"

"A Viscount!" she gasped. "She refused a Viscount in Monte Carlo last year. A splendid fellow! Enormously wealthy. Perfectly wild about her. She wouldn't look at him."

"You astonish me," he murmured.

Mrs. Walford shook her head speechlessly, with closed eyes.

"And there were others," she said in a reviving spasm--"dazzling positions! Treated them like dirt. She said, if she didn't care for a man, nothing would induce her. What can one do with such a romantic goose? Be grateful that you aren't a mother, Mr. Turquand."

"Some day," he opined, without returning thanks, "the young lady will be induced."

"Oh, and before long, if it comes to that!" She nodded confidentially. "To tell you the truth, I expect somebody here next week. A young man rolling in riches, and with expectations that--oh, tremendous! He raves about her. She has refused him--er--seven times--seven times. He wanted to commit suicide after her last rejection. But she _respects_ him immensely. A noble fellow he is--oh, a most noble fellow! And when he asks her again, I rather fancy that pity'll make her accept him, after all."

"She must have felt it a grave responsibility," observed the journalist politely, "that a young man said he wanted to commit suicide on her account."

"That's just it, she feels it a terrible responsibility. Oh, she's not fond of him! Sorry for him, you understand--sorry. And, between ourselves, I'm sure I really don't know what to think would be for the best--I don't indeed! But I wouldn't mind wagering a pair of gloves, that, if she doesn't meet Mr. Right soon, she'll end by giving in and Mr. Somebody-else will have stolen the prize before he comes--hee, hee, hee!"

Turquand groaned in his soul. In his mental vision his friend already flopped helplessly in the web, and he derived small encouragement from the reflection that she was mistaken in the succulence of her fly.

"You're not smoking," she said. "Do! I don't mind it a bit."

He scowled at her darkly, and was prepared to see betrothal in the eyes of the absent pair when they rejoined them.

As yet, however, they were still wedged in the crowd around the tables. On their right, a fat Frenchwoman cried "Assez! assez!" imploringly as her horse, leading by a foot, threatened at last to glide past the winning-post and leave victory in the rear; to their left, an English girl, evidently on her honeymoon, was making radiant demands on the bridegroom's gold. Kent had lost sixteen francs, and Miss Walford had lost five before they perceived that the others had retired.

"We had better go and look for them," she declared.

The well-bred sea shimmered in the moonlight now, and the terrace was so thronged that investigation could be made only in a saunter.

"I wonder where they have got to," she murmured.

Her companion was too contented to be curious.

"We're sure to come upon them in a minute," he said. "Do you abuse Dieppe, too, Miss Walford?"

"Not at all--no. It is mamma who is bored."

"I should like to show you Arques," he said. "I'm sure your mother would be interested by that. Do you think we might drive over one afternoon?"

"I don't know," she replied. "Is it nice?"

"Well, 'nice' isn't what you will call it when you are there. It's a ruined castle, you know; and you can almost 'hear' the hush of the place--it's so solemn, and still, and old. If you're very imaginative, you can hear men clanking about in armour. You _would_ hear the men in armour, I think."

"Am I imaginative?" she smiled.

"Aren't you?" he asked.

"Perhaps I am; I don't know. What makes you think so?"

He was puzzled to adduce any reason excepting that she was so pretty. He did not pursue the subject.

"There are several things worth seeing here," he said. "Of course Dieppe 'is only the Casino,' if one never goes anywhere else. I suppose you haven't even heard of the cave-dwellers?"

"The 'cave-dwellers'?" she repeated.

"Their homes are the caves in the cliffs. Have you never noticed there are holes? They are caves when you get inside--vast ones--one room leading out of another. The people are beggars, very dirty, and occasionally picturesque. They exist by what they can cadge, and, of course, they pay no rent; it's only when they come out that they see daylight."

"How horrid!" she shivered. "And you went to look at them?"

"Rather! They are very pleased to 'receive.' One of the inhabitants has lived there for twenty years. I don't think he has been outside it for ten--he sends his family. Many of the colony were born there. Don't you think they were worth a visit?"

"I don't know," she said; "one might be robbed and murdered in such a place."

"Oh, rather!" he agreed. "Some of the inner rooms are so black that you literally can't see your hand before you. It would be a beautiful place for a murder! The next-of-kin lures the juvenile heiress there, and bribes the beggars to make away with her. Unknown to him, they spare her life because--because----Why do they spare her life? But they keep her prisoner and bring her up as one of themselves. Twenty years later----I believe I could write a sensational novel, after all!"

"What nonsense!" laughed Miss Walford daintily.

"Do you like that kind of story?"

"I like plots about real life best," she said. "Don't you?"

He found this an exposition of the keenest literary sympathies, and regarded her adoringly. She preferred analysis to adventure, and realism to romance! What work he might accomplish inspired by the companionship of such a girl!

"Wherever have you been, Cynthia? We thought you were lost," he heard Mrs. Walford say discordantly, and the next moment they were all together.

"It's where have _you_ been, mamma, isn't it?"

"Well, I like that! We didn't stop a minute; I made certain you saw us get up. We've been hunting for you everywhere. Mr. Turquand and I have been out here ever so long, haven't we, Mr. Turquand? Looking at the moon, too, if you want to know, and--hee, hee, hee!--talking sentiment."

Turquand, who was staring at Kent, allowed an eyelid to droop for an instant at the conclusion, and the latter stroked his moustache and smiled.

"Such a time we've been having, all by ourselves" she persisted uproariously. "Mr. Kent, are you shocked? Oh, I've shocked Mr. Kent! He'll always remember it--I can see it in his face."

"I shall always remember _you_, Mrs. Walford," he said, trying to make the fatuity sound graceful.

"We were left by ourselves, and we had to get on as we could!" she cried. "Hadn't we, Mr. Turquand? I say we had to amuse ourselves as we could. Now Cynthia's glowering at me! Oh--hee, hee, hee!--you two young people are too respectable for _us_. We don't ask any questions, but--but I daresay Mr. Turquand and I aren't the only _ones_--hee, hee, hee!--who have been 'looking at the moon.'"

"Shall we find chairs again?" said Kent quickly, noting the frown that darkened the girl's brow. "It's rather an awkward spot to stand still, isn't it?"

She agreed that it was, and a waiter brought them ices, and Mrs. Walford was giddy over a liqueur. They remained at the table until she said that it was time to return to their hotel. Parting from them at its gates, the two men turned away together. Both felt in their pockets, filled their pipes, and, smoking silently, drifted through the rugged little streets to the café where they had had their conversation after dinner.

"'Thank you for a very pleasant evening,'" said Turquand, breaking a long pause.

It was the only criticism that he permitted himself, and Kent did not care to inquire if it was to be regarded as ironical.