The Uttermost Farthing | Page 2

who had proposed to the man that they should
spend a quiet hour walking through one of those quarters of old Paris
unknown to the travelling foreigner.
Eagerly Vanderlyn had assented, and so they had driven quickly down
the Rue de Rivoli, right into the heart of that commercial quarter which
was the Paris of Madame de Sévigné, of the bitter witty dwarf, Scarron,
of Ninon de l'Enclos, and, more lately, of Victor Hugo. There,
dismissing their cab, they had turned into that still, stately square, once
the old Place Royale, now the Place des Vosges, of which each arcaded
house garners memories of passionate romance.
Walking slowly up and down the solitary garden there, the two had
discussed the coming August, and Margaret Pargeter had admitted,
with a rather weary sigh, that she was as yet quite ignorant whether her
husband intended to yacht, to shoot, or to travel,--whether he meant to
take her with him, or to leave her at some seaside place with the boy.
As she spoke, in the low melodious voice which still had the power to
thrill the man by her side as it had had in the earlier days of their
acquaintance, Mrs. Pargeter said no word that all the world might not
have heard, yet, underlying all she said, his questions and her answers,
was the mute interrogation--which of the alternatives discussed held
out the best chance, to Vanderlyn and herself, of being together?
At last, quite suddenly, Mrs. Pargeter, turning and looking up into her
companion's face, had said something which Laurence Vanderlyn had
felt to be strangely disconcerting; for a brief moment she lifted the veil
which she had herself so deliberately and for so long thrown over their
ambiguous relation--"Ah! Laurence," she exclaimed with a sigh, "the
way of the transgressor is hard!"
Then, speaking so quietly that for a moment he did not fully understand
the amazing nature of the proposal she was making to him, she had
deliberately offered to go away with him--for a week. The way in
which this had come about had been strangely simple; looking back,

Vanderlyn could scarcely believe that his memory was playing him
true....
From the uncertain future they had come back to the immediate present,
and Mrs. Pargeter said something of having promised her only intimate
friend, a Frenchwoman much older than herself, a certain Madame de
Léra, to go and spend a few days in a villa near Paris--"If you do that,"
he said, "then I think I may as well go down to Orange and see the
house I've just bought there."
She had turned on him with a certain excitement in her manner.
"You've bought it? That strange, beautiful place near Orange where you
used to stay when you were studying in Paris? Oh, Laurence, I'd no
idea that you really meant to buy it!"
A little surprised at the keenness of her interest, he had answered
quietly, "Yes, when the owner was going through Paris last week, I
found he wanted the money, so--so the house is mine, though none of
the legal formalities have yet been complied with. I'm told that the old
woman who was caretaker there can make me comfortable enough for
the few days I can be away." He added in a different, a lower tone, "Ah!
Peggy, if only it were possible for us to go there together--how you
would delight in the place!"
"Would you like me to come with you? I will if you like, Laurence."
She had asked the question very simply--but Vanderlyn, looking at her
quickly, had seen that her hand was trembling, her eyes brimming with
tears. Then she had spoken gently, deliberately--seeming to plead with
herself, rather than with him, for a few days of such dual loneliness for
which all lovers long and which during their long years of intimacy
they had never once, even innocently, enjoyed. And he had grasped
with exultant gratitude--what man would have done otherwise?--at
what she herself came and offered him.
Walking up and down the solitary platform, Vanderlyn lived over again
each instant of that strange momentous conversation uttered four days
ago in the stately sunlit square which forms the heart of old Paris. How
the merry ghost of Marion Delorme, peeping out of one of the long

narrow casements of the corner house which was once hers, must have
smiled to hear this virtuous Englishwoman cast virtue to the light
Parisian winds!
Vanderlyn also recalled, with almost the same surprise and discomfort
as he had experienced at the time itself, the way in which Margaret
Pargeter, so refined and so delicately bred, had discussed all the
material details connected with their coming adventure--details from
which the American diplomatist himself had shrunk, and which he
would have done almost