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CHAPTER VII

THE SIGHTS OF AVIGNON

“It’s a curious thing,” observed Roger Deane, “but this fellow Baedeker always travels the opposite way to what I do. When I’m coming back, he’s always going out, and vice versa. It makes him precious difficult to understand, I can tell you, Miss Dora. However I think I’ve got him now. Listen to this! ‘Marseilles to Arles (Amphitheatre starred) one day. Arles to Avignon (Palace of the Popes starred) two days–slow going that–Avignon to—-‘”

“Do you want to squat in this wretched country, Sir Roger?” demanded Dora angrily.

A faint smile played round Sir Roger’s lips.

“You’re the only one who’s in a hurry.” he remarked.

“No, I’m not. Mr. Ellerton is in just as much of a hurry.”

“Then he bears disappointment better.”

“What in the world did papa and–well, and Lady Deane, you know–want to stop here for?”

“You don’t seem to understand how interesting Marseilles is. Let me read you a passage. ‘Marseilles was a colony founded about 600 B.C.’–What? Oh, all right! We’ll skip a bit. ‘In 1792 hordes of galley-slaves were sent hence to Paris, where they committed frightful excesses.’ That’s what Maud and your father are going to do. ‘It was for them that Rouget–‘ I say, what’s the matter, Miss Dora?”

“I don’t know why you should enjoy teasing me, but you have nearly made me cry, so perhaps you’ll be happy now.”

“You tried to take me in. I pretended to be taken in. That’s all.”

“Well, it was very unkind of you.”

“So, after all, it’s not a matter of indifference to you at what rate we travel, as you said in the train to-day?”

“Oh, I had to. I–I couldn’t let papa see.”

“And why are you in a hurry?”

“I can’t tell you; but I must–oh, I must!–be in England in four days.”

“You’ll hardly get your father to give up a day at Avignon.”

“Well, one day there; then we should just do it, if we only slept in Paris.”

“Yes, but my wife—-“

“Oh, you can stay. Don’t say anything about Paris yet. Help me to get there. I’ll make papa go on. Please do, Sir Roger. I shall be so awfully obliged to you; so will Mr. Ellerton.”

“Charlie Ellerton? Not he! He’s in no hurry.”

“What do you mean? Didn’t you hear him to-day urging papa to travel straight through?”

“Oh, yes, I heard that.”

“Well?”

“You were there then.”

“What of that?”

“He’s not so pressing when you’re away.”

“I don’t understand. Why should he pretend to be in a hurry when he isn’t?”

“Ah, I don’t know. Don’t you?”

“Not in the least, Sir Roger. But never mind Mr. Ellerton. Will you help me?”

“As far as Paris. You must look out for yourself there.”

These terms Dora accepted. Surely at Paris she would hear some news of or from John Ashforth. She thought he must have written one line in response to her last letter, and that his answer must have been so far delayed as to arrive at Cannes after her departure; it would be waiting for her at Paris and would tell her whether she was in time or whether there was no more use in hurrying. The dread that oppressed her was lest, arriving too late in Paris, she should find that she had missed happiness by reason of this wretched dawdling in Southern France.

Seeing her meditative, Deane slipped away to his cigar, and she sat in the hotel hall, musing. Deane’s revelation of Charlie’s treachery hardly surprised her; she meant to upbraid him severely, but she was conscious that, if little surprised, she was hardly more than a little angry. His conduct was indeed contemptible; it revealed an utter instability and fickleness of mind which made her gravely uneasy as to Mary Travers’s chances of permanent happiness. Yes, scornful one might b; but who could be seriously angry with the poor boy? And perhaps, after all, she did him injustice. Some natures were more prone than others to sudden passions; it really did not follow that a feeling must be either shallow or short-lived because it was sudden; whether it survived or passed away would depend chiefly on the person who excited it. It was clear that Mary Travers was incapable of maintaining a permanent hold over Charlie’s affections, but another girl might–might have. If so, it would perhaps be a pity if Charlie and Mary Travers were to come together again. She doubted very much if they were suited to one another. She pictured Mary as a severe, rather stern young woman; and she hardly knew whether to laugh or groan at the thought of Charlie adapting himself to such a mate. Meanwhile her own position was certainly very difficult, and she acknowledged its thorniness with a little sigh. To begin with, the suspense was terrible; at times she would have been almost relieved to hear that John was married beyond recall. Then Charlie was a great and a growing difficulty. He had not actually repeated the passionate indiscretion, of which he had been guilty at Cannes, but more and more watchfulness and severity were needed to keep him within the bounds proper to their relative positions, and it was odious to be disagreeable to a fellow-traveller, especially when he was such a good and devoted friend as Charlie.