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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/20458-8.txt b/20458-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dba3e0e --- /dev/null +++ b/20458-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10316 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Triflers, by Frederick Orin Bartlett + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Triflers + +Author: Frederick Orin Bartlett + +Release Date: January 27, 2007 [EBook #20458] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRIFLERS *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + + +[Frontispiece: A new tenderness swept over her] + + + + + + +THE TRIFLERS + + +BY + +FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT + + + +_With Illustrations by_ + +_George Ellis Wolfe_ + + + +TORONTO + +THOMAS ALLEN + +BOSTON AND NEW YORK + +HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY + +1917 + + + + +COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY EVERY WEEK CORPORATION + +COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT + +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + +_Published March 1917_ + + + + +TO + +ANN AND KENT + + + + +CONTENTS + + + I. THE TROUBLE WITH MONTE + II. THE TROUBLE WITH MARJORY + III. A SUMMONS + IV. A PROPOSAL + V. PISTOLS + VI. GENDARMES AND ETHER + VII. THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING SHOT + VIII. DRAWBACKS OF RECOVERY + IX. BLUE AND GOLD + X. THE AFFAIR AT MAXIM'S + XI. A CANCELED RESERVATION + XII. A WEDDING JOURNEY + XIII. A WEDDING JOURNEY (_continued_) + XIV. THE BRIDE RUNS AWAY + XV. IN THE DARK + XVI. A WALK ON THE QUAY + XVII. JUST MONTE + XVIII. PETER + XIX. AN EXPLANATION + XX. PAYING LIKE A MAN + XXI. BACK TO SCHEDULE + XXII. A CONFESSION + XXIII. LETTERS + XXIV. THE BLIND SEE + XXV. SO LONG + XXVI. FREEDOM + XXVII. WAR + XXVIII. THE CORNICE ROAD + XXIX. BENEATH THE STARS + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + +LOI +A NEW TENDERNESS SWEPT OVER HER . . . _Frontispiece_ + +"WE'RE TO BE MARRIED TO-MORROW?" + +MONSIEUR'S EYES WARMED AS HE SLIPPED THE WRAP OVER MADAME'S SHOULDERS + +"BECAUSE HE LOVES YOU," BREATHED BEATRICE + +"DID N'T BEATRICE TELL ME YOU REGISTERED HERE WITH YOUR WIFE?" + +"PETER!" SHE CRIED, FALLING BACK A STEP + +"BUT, O GOD, IF HE WOULD COME!" + + + +_From drawings by George E. Wolfe_ + + + + +THE TRIFLERS + + +CHAPTER I + +THE TROUBLE WITH MONTE + +For a man to keep himself consistently amused for ten years after his +graduation from college, even with an inheritance to furnish ample +financial assistance, suggests a certain quality of genius. This much +Monte Covington had accomplished--accomplished, furthermore, without +placing himself under obligations of any sort to the opposite sex. He +left no trail of broken hearts in his wake. If some of the younger +sisters of the big sisters took the liberty of falling in love with him +secretly and in the privacy of their chambers, that was no fault of +his, and did neither them nor him the slightest harm. + +Such minor complications could not very well be avoided, because, +discreet as Monte tried to be, it was not possible for him to deny +certain patent facts, to wit: that he was a Covington of Philadelphia; +that he was six feet tall and light-haired; that he had wonderfully +decent blue eyes; that he had a straight nose; that he had the firm +mouth and jaws of an Arctic explorer; that he had more money than he +knew what to do with; and that he was just old enough to be known as a +bachelor without in the slightest looking like one. + +At the point where the older sisters gave him up as hopeless, he came +as a sort of challenge to the younger. + +This might have proved dangerous for him had it not been for his +schedule, which did not leave him very long in any one place and which +kept him always pretty well occupied. By spending his winters at his +New York club until after the holidays; then journeying to Switzerland +for the winter sports; then to Nice for tennis; then to Paris for a +month of gay spring and the Grand Prix; and so over to England for a +few days in London and a month of golf along the coast--he was able to +come back refreshed to his camp in the Adirondacks, there to fish until +it was time to return to Cambridge for the football season, where he +found himself still useful as a coach in the art of drop-kicking. + +The fact that he could get into his old football togs without letting +out any strings or pulling any in, and could even come through an +occasional scrimmage without losing his breath, was proof that he kept +himself in good condition. + +It was not until his eleventh trip that Monte became aware of certain +symptoms which seemed to hint that even as pleasant a cycle as his +could not be pursued indefinitely. At Davos he first noted a change. +Though he took the curves in the long run with a daring that proved his +eye to be as quick and his nerves as steady as ever, he was restless. + +Later, when he came to Nice, it was with a listlessness foreign to him. +In the first place, he missed Edhart, the old maître d'hôtel who for a +decade had catered to his primitive American tastes in the matter of +foodstuffs with as much enthusiasm as if he had been a Parisian epicure. + +The passing of Edhart did more to call Monte's attention to the fact +that in his own life a decade had also passed than anything else could +possibly have done. Between birthdays there is only the lapse each +time of a year; but between the coming and going of the maître d'hôtel +there was a period of ten years, which with his disappearance seemed to +vanish. Monte was twenty-two when he first came to Nice, and now he +was thirty-two. He became thirty-two the moment he was forced to point +out to the new management his own particular table in the corner, and +to explain that, however barbarous the custom might appear, he always +had for breakfast either a mutton chop or a beefsteak. Edhart had made +him believe, even to last year, that in this matter and a hundred +others he was merely expressing the light preferences of a young man. +Now, because he was obliged to emphasize his wishes by explicit orders, +they became the definite likes and dislikes of a man of middle age. + +For relief Monte turned to the tennis courts, and played so much in the +next week that he went stale and in the club tournament put up the +worst game of his life. That evening, in disgust, he boarded the train +for Monte Carlo, and before eleven o'clock had lost five thousand +francs at roulette--which was more than even he could afford for an +evening's entertainment that did not entertain. Without waiting for +the croupier to rake in his last note, Monte hurried out and, to clear +his head, walked all the way back to Nice along the Cornice Road. +Above him, the mountains; below, the blue Mediterranean; while the road +hung suspended between them like a silver ribbon. Yet even here he did +not find content. + +Monte visited the rooms every evening for the next three days; but, as +he did not play again and found there nothing more interesting than the +faces, or their counterparts, which he had seen for the past ten years, +the programme grew stupid. + +So, really, he had no alternative but Paris, although it was several +weeks ahead of his schedule. As a matter of fact, it was several weeks +too early. The city was not quite ready for him. The trees in the +Champs Élysées were in much the condition of a lady half an hour before +an expected caller. The broad vista to the triumphal arches was merely +the setting for a few nurses and their charges. The little iron tables +were so deserted that they remained merely little iron tables. + +Of course the boulevards were as always; but after a night or two +before the Café de la Paix he had enough. Even with fifty thousand +people passing in review before him, he was not as amused as he should +have been. He sipped his black coffee as drowsily as an old man. + +In an effort to rouse himself, he resolved to visit the cafés upon +Montmartre, which he had outgrown many years ago. That night he +climbed the narrow stairs to l'Abbaye. It was exactly as it had +been--a square room bounded by long seats before tables. Some two +dozen young ladies of various nationalities wandered about the center +of the room, trying their best, but with manifest effort, to keep pace +to the frenzied music of an orchestra paid to keep frenzied. A +half-dozen of the ladies pounced upon Monte as he sat alone, and he +gladly turned over to them the wine he purchased as the price of +admission. Yvonne, she with the languid Egyptian eyes, tried to rouse +the big American. Was it that he was bored? Possibly it was that, +Monte admitted. Then another bottle of wine was the proper thing. So +he ordered another bottle, and to the toast Yvonne proposed, raised his +glass. But the wine did him no good, and the music did him no good, +and Yvonne did him no good. The place had gone flat. Whatever he +needed, it was nothing l'Abbaye had to offer. + +Covington went out into the night again, and, though the music from a +dozen other cafés called him to come in and forget, he continued down +the hill to the boulevard, deaf to the gay entreaties of the whole +city. It was clear that he was out of tune with Paris. + +As he came into the Place de l'Opera he ran into the crowd pouring from +the big gray opera house, an eager, voluble crowd that jostled him +about as if he were an intruder. They had been warmed by fine music +and stirred by the great passions of this mimic world, so that the +women clung more tightly to the arms of their escorts. + +Covington, who had fallen back a little to watch them pass, felt +strangely isolated. They hurried on without seeing him, as if he were +merely some spectral bystander. Yet the significant fact was not that +a thousand strangers should pass him without being aware of his +presence, but that he himself should notice their indifference. It was +not like him. + +Ordinarily it was exactly what he would desire. But to-night he was in +an unusual mood--a mood that was the culmination of a restlessness +covering an entire month. But what the deuce was the name and cause of +it? He could no longer attribute it to the fact that he had gone stale +physically, because he had now had a rest of several weeks. It was not +that he was bored; those who are bored never stop to ask themselves why +they are bored or they would not be bored. It was not that he was +homesick, because, strictly speaking, he had no home. A home seems to +involve the female element and some degree of permanence. This unrest +was something new--something, apparently, that had to do vaguely with +the fact that he was thirty-two. If Edhart-- + +Impatiently he started again for his hotel. This confoundedly +good-natured, self-satisfied crowd moving in couples irritated him. At +that moment a tall, slender girl turned, hesitated, then started toward +him. He did not recognize her at first, but the mere fact that she +came toward him--that any one came toward him--quickened his pulse. It +brought him back instantly from the shadowy realm of specters to the +good old solid earth. It was he, Covington, who was standing there. + +Then she raised her eyes--dark eyes deep as trout pools; steady, +confident, but rather sad eyes. They appeared to be puzzled by the +eagerness with which he stepped forward and grasped her hand. + +"Marjory!" he exclaimed. "I did n't know you were in Paris!" + +She smiled--a smile that extended no farther than the corners of her +perfect mouth. + +"That's to excuse yourself for not looking me up, Monte?" + +She had a full, clear voice. It was good to hear a voice that he could +recognize. + +"No," he answered frankly. "That's honest. I thought you were +somewhere in Brittany. But are you bound anywhere in particular?" + +"Only home." + +"Still living on the Boulevard Saint-Germain?" + +She nodded. + +"Number forty-three?" + +He was glad he was able to remember that number. + +"Number sixty-four," she corrected. + +They had been moving toward the Metro station, and here she paused. + +"There is no need for you to come with me," she said. "But I'd like to +have you drop in for tea some afternoon--if you have time." + +The strangers were still hurrying past him--to the north, the south, +the east, the west. Men and women were hurrying past, laughing, intent +upon themselves, each with some definite objective in mind. He himself +was able to smile with them now. Then she held out her gloved hand, +and he felt alone again. + +"I may accompany you home, may I not?" he asked eagerly. + +"If you wish." + +Once again she raised her eyes with that expression of puzzled +interest. This was not like Monte. Of course he would accompany her +home, but that he should seem really to take pleasure in the +prospect--that was novel. + +"Let me call a taxi," he said. "I'm never sure where these French +undergrounds are going to land me." + +"They are much quicker," she suggested. + +"There is no hurry," he answered. + +With twenty-four hours a day on his hands, he was never in a hurry. + +Instead of giving to the driver the number sixty-four Boulevard +Saint-Germain, he ordered him to forty-seven Rue Saint-Michel, which is +the Café d'Harcourt. + +It had suddenly occurred to Monte what the trouble was with him. He +was lonesome. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +THE TROUBLE WITH MARJORY + +She was surprised when the car stopped before the café, and mildly +interested. + +"Do you mind?" he asked. + +"No, Monte." + +She followed him through the smoke and chatter to one of the little +dining-rooms in the rear where the smoke and chatter were somewhat +subdued. There Henri removed their wraps with a look of frank +approval. It was rather an elaborate dinner that Monte ordered, +because he remembered for the first time that he had not yet dined this +evening. It was also a dinner of which he felt Edhart would thoroughly +approve, and that always was a satisfaction. + +"Now," he said to the girl, as soon as Henri had left, "tell me about +yourself." + +"You knew about Aunt Kitty?" she asked. + +"No," he replied hesitatingly, with an uneasy feeling that it was one +of those things that he should know about. + +"She was taken ill here in Paris in February, and died shortly after we +reached New York," she explained. + +What Covington would have honestly liked to do was to congratulate her. +Stripping the situation of all sentimentalism, the naked truth remained +that she had for ten years given up her life utterly to her aunt--had +almost sold herself into slavery. Ostensibly this Aunt Kitty had taken +the girl to educate, although she had never forgiven her sister for +having married Stockton; had never forgiven her for having had this +child, which had cost her life; had never forgiven Stockton for losing +in business her sister's share of the Dolliver fortune. + +Poor old Stockton--he had done his best, and the failure killed him. +It was Chic Warren who had told Covington the pitiful little tale. +Chic always spoke of the aunt as "the Vamp.," the abbreviation, as he +explained, being solely out of respect to her gray hairs. Marjory had +received her education, to be sure; but she had paid for it in the only +coin she had--the best of her young self from seventeen to +twenty-seven. The only concession the aunt had ever made was to allow +her niece to study art in Paris this last year. + +"I have n't heard from Chic since Christmas," he explained; "so I did +n't know. Then you are back here in Paris--alone?" + +Unconsciously he had emphasized that word "alone." + +"Why not?" she asked directly. + +She held her head a bit high, as if in challenge. + +"Nothing; only--" + +He did not finish. He could not very well tell her that she was too +confoundedly good-looking to be alone in Paris. Yet that was what he +thought, in spite of his belief that, of all the women he had ever met, +she was the best able to be alone anywhere. There were times when he +had sat beside her, not feeling sure that he was in the same room with +her: it was as if he were looking at her through plate-glass. +To-night, however, it was not like that. She looked like a younger +sister of herself. + +"Still painting?" he inquired. + +"As much as they will let me." + +"They?" + +She leaned forward with a frown, folding her arms upon the table. + +"What is the matter with men?" she demanded. "Why won't they believe a +woman when she tells the truth?" + +He was somewhat startled by the question, and by her earnestness. + +"Just what do you mean?" + +"Why can't they leave a woman alone?" + +It was clear that he was not expected to answer, and so, with her +permission, he lighted a cigarette and waited with considerable +interest for her to go on. + +For a moment she studied him, as if wondering if it were worth while to +continue her confidence. Her acquaintance with Monte dated back ten +years, when, as a girl of seventeen, she had met him on one of his rare +week-end visits to the Warrens. She was then fresh from finishing +school, and he was one of the very few men she had been allowed to meet +in any more intimate way than merely to shake hands with in passing. +She had been tremendously impressed. She could smile at it now. But, +really, she had been like one of the younger sisters, and for a year or +so after that he had been to her a sort of vague knight errant. + +It was three years ago that her aunt had begun to travel with her, and +after that she had seen Monte not oftener than once or twice a year, +and then for scarcely more than a greeting and good-bye. On the other +hand, Mrs. Warren had always talked and written to her a great deal +about him. Chic and he had been roommates in college, and ever since +had kept in close touch with each other by letter. The trivial gossip +of Monte's life had always been passed on to Marjory, so that she had +really for these last few years been following his movements and +adventures month by month, until she felt in almost as intimate contact +with him as with the Warrens. She had reason to think that, in turn, +her movements were retailed to Monte. The design was obvious--and +amusing. + +On the whole, Marjory concluded that it was not especially worth while +to burden him with her troubles; and yet, it was just because of that +she was inclined to continue--in, however, a less serious mood. Monte +had so few burdens of his own. That odd little smile--scarcely more +than the ghost of a smile--returned to the corners of her mouth. + +"To-night," she said, "I ran away from Teddy Hamilton, for all the +world like a heroine of melodrama. Do you know Teddy?" + +"Yes," he answered slowly, "I do." + +He refrained with difficulty from voicing his opinion of the man, which +he could have put into three words--"the little beast." But how did it +happen that she, of all women, had been thrown into contact with this +pale-faced Don Juan of the New York music-halls and Paris cafés? + +"I lent Marie, my maid, one of my new hats and a heavy veil," she went +on. "She came out and stepped into a taxi, with instructions to keep +driving in a circle of a mile. Teddy followed in another machine. +And"--she paused to look up and smile--"for all I know, he may still be +following her round and round. I came on to the opera." + +"Kind of tough on Marie," he commented, with his blue eyes reflecting a +hearty relish of the situation. + +"Marie will undoubtedly enjoy a nap," she said. "As for Teddy--well, +he is generally out of funds, so I hope he may get into difficulties +with the driver." + +"He won't," declared Monte. "He'll probably end by borrowing a +_pour-boire_ of the driver." + +She nodded. + +"That is possible. He is very clever." + +"The fact that he is still out of jail--" began Monte. + +Then he checked himself. He was not a man to talk about other +men--even about one so little of a man as Teddy Hamilton. + +"Tell me what you know of him," she requested. + +"I'd rather not," he answered. + +"Is he as bad as that?" she queried thoughtfully. "But what I don't +understand is why--why, then, he can sing like a white-robed choir-boy." + +Monte looked serious. + +"I've heard him," he admitted. "But it was generally after he had been +sipping absinthe rather heavily. His specialty is 'The Rosary.'" + +"And the barcarole from the 'Contes d'Hoffmann.'" + +"And little Spanish serenades," he added. + +"But if he's all bad inside?" + +She raised those deep, dark eyes as a child might. She had been for +ten years like one in a convent. + +Covington shook his head. + +"I can't explain it," he said. "Perhaps, in a way, it's because of +that--because of the contrast. But I 've heard him do it. I 've heard +him make a room full of those girls on Montmartre stop their dancing +and gulp hard. But where--" + +"Did I meet him?" she finished. "It was on the boat coming over this +last time. You see-- I 'm talking a great deal about myself." + +"Please go on." + + +He had forgotten that her face was so young. The true lines of her +features were scarcely more than sketched in, though that much had been +done with a sure hand. Whatever was to come, he thought, must be +added. There would be need of few erasures. Up to a certain point it +was the face of any of those young women of gentle breeding that he met +when at home--the inheritance of the best of many generations. + +As she was sitting now, her head slightly turned, the arch of one brow +blended in a perfect curve into her straight, thin nose. But the mouth +and chin--they were firmer than one might have expected. If, not +knowing her, he had seen her driving in the Bois or upon Rotten Row, he +would have been curious about her title. It had always seemed to him +that she should by rights have been Her Royal Highness Something or +Other. + +This was due partly to a certain air of serene security and a certain +aloofness that characterized her. He felt it to a lesser degree +to-night than ever before, but he made no mistake. He might be +permitted to admire those features as one admires a beautiful portrait, +but somewhere a barrier existed. There are faces that reflect the +soul; there are faces that hide the soul. + +"Please go on," he repeated, as she still hesitated. + +She was trying to explain why it was that she was tempted at all to +talk about herself to-night. Perhaps it was because she had been so +long silent--for many years silent. Perhaps it was because Monte was +so very impersonal that it was a good deal like talking out loud to +herself, with the advantage of being able to do this without wondering +if she were losing her wits. Then, too, after Teddy, Monte's +straight-seeing blue eyes freshened her thoughts like a clean north +wind. She always spoke of Monte as the most American man she knew; and +by that she meant something direct and honest--something four-square. + +"I met Teddy on the boat," she resumed. "I was traveling alone +because--well, just because I wanted to be alone. You know, Aunt Kitty +was very good to me, but I'd been with her every minute for more than +ten years, and so I wanted to be by myself a little while. Right after +she died, I went down to the farm--her farm in Connecticut--and thought +I could be alone there. But--she left me a great deal of money, Monte." + +Somehow, she could speak of such a thing to him. She was quite +matter-of-fact about it. + +"It was a great deal too much," she went on. "I did n't mind myself, +because I could forget about it; but other people--they made me feel +like a rabbit running before the hounds. Some one put the will in the +papers, and people I'd never heard of began to write to me--dozens of +them. Then men with all sorts of schemes--charities and gold mines and +copper mines and oil wells and I don't know what all, came down there +to see me: down there to the little farm, where I wanted to be alone. +Of course, I could be out to them; but even then I was conscious that +they were around. Some of them even waited until I ventured from the +house, and waylaid me on the road. + +"Then there were others--people I knew and could n't refuse to see +without being rude. I felt," she said, looking up at Monte, "as if the +world of people had suddenly all turned into men, and that they were +hunting me. I could n't get away from them without locking myself up, +and that was just the thing I did n't want to do. In a way, I 'd been +locked up all my life. So I just packed my things and took the steamer +without telling any one but my lawyer where I was going." + +"It's too bad they wouldn't let you alone," said Monte. + +"It was like an evil dream," she said. "I did n't know men were like +that." + +Monte frowned. + +Of course, that is just what would happen to a young woman as +good-looking as she, suddenly left alone with a fortune. Her name, +without a doubt, was on the mailing list of every promoter from New +York to San Francisco. It was also undoubtedly upon the list of every +man and woman who could presume an acquaintance with her. She had +become fair game. + +"Then on the boat I met Teddy," she went on. "It was difficult not to +meet him." + +He nodded. + +"I did n't mind so much at first; he was interesting." + +"Yes, he's that," admitted Monte. + +"And he was very pleasant until--he began to make love to me." + +If Monte knew Teddy Hamilton, this happened about the third day. + +"That was very annoying," she said reminiscently. "It was annoying, +not only because of Teddy, but in itself. In some ways he did it very +nicely--especially when he sang in the moonlight. I suppose it was my +fault that I gave him the opportunity. I could have kept myself in my +stateroom, or I could have played bridge with the elderly ladies in the +cabin. But, you see, that's what Aunty always made me do, and I did +want to get out. I did enjoy Teddy up to that point. But I did not +want to fall in love with him, or with any one else. I suppose I 'm +too selfish--too utterly and completely selfish." + +"To--er--to fall in love?" he questioned. + +"Yes. Oh, as long as I'm making you my father confessor, I may as well +be thorough." She smiled. + +Monte leaned forward with sudden interest. Here was a question that at +odd moments had disturbed his own peace of mind. It was Chic Warren +who had first told him that in remaining a bachelor he was leading an +utterly selfish life. + +"Does a distaste for falling in love necessarily go back to +selfishness?" he asked. "Is n't it sometimes merely a matter of +temperament?" + +"And temperament," she asked, "is what?" + +That was altogether too abstract a problem for Monte to discuss. Yet +he had his own ideas. + +"It's the way you're made," he suggested. + +"I doubt it, Monte," she answered. "I think it's rather the way you +make yourself; because I imagine that, to start with, we are all made a +good deal alike. It's just what you 'd rather do." + +"And you'd rather paint?" + +She considered a moment. It was as if she were trying at this time to +be very honest with herself. + +"I'd rather be free to paint or not," she declared. "While Aunty was +alive, to paint seemed to be the only way to be free. It gave me the +excuse for coming here, for getting away a few hours a day. Now--well, +just to be free seems enough. I don't suppose a man knows how a woman +hungers for that--for just sheer, elemental freedom." + +He did not. He supposed that freedom was what women enjoyed from +birth--like queens. He supposed they even had especial opportunities +in that direction, and that most men were in the nature of being their +humble servitors. + +"It is n't that I want to do anything especially proper or improper," +she hastened to assure him. "I have n't either the cravings or the +ambitions of the new woman. That, again, is where I 'm selfish. I'd +like to be"--she spoke hesitatingly--"I'd like to be just like you, +Monte." + +"Like me?" he exclaimed in surprise. + +"Free to do just what I want to do--nothing particularly good, nothing +particularly bad; free to go here or go there; free to live my own +life; free to be free." + +"Well," he asked, "what's to prevent?" + +"Teddy Hamilton--and the others," she answered. "In a way, they take +the place of Aunty. They won't let me alone. They won't believe me +when I tell them I don't want them around. They seem to assume that, +just because I'm not married-- Oh, they are stupid, Monte!" + +Henri, who had been stealing in with course after course, refilled the +glasses. He smiled discreetly as he saw her earnest face. + +"What you need," suggested Monte, "is a sort of chaperon or secretary." + +She shook her head. + +"Would you like one yourself?" she demanded. + +"It would be a good deal of a nuisance," he admitted; "but, after all--" + +"I won't have it!" she burst out. "It would spoil everything. It +would be like building one's own jail and employing one's own jailer. +I could n't stand that. I 'd rather be annoyed as I am than be annoyed +by a chaperon." + +She was silent a moment, and then she exclaimed: + +"Why, I'd almost rather marry Teddy! I'd feel freer--honestly, I think +I 'd feel freer with a husband than a chaperon." + +"Oh, see here!" protested Monte. "You must n't do that." + +"I don't propose to," she answered quietly. + +"Then," he said, "the only thing left is to go away where Teddy and the +others can't find you." + +"Where?" she asked with interest. + +"There are lots of little villages in Switzerland." + +She shook her head. + +"And along the Riviera." + +"I love the little villages," she replied. "I love them here and at +home. But it's no use." + +She smiled. There was something pathetic about that smile--something +that made Covington's arm muscles twitch. + +"I should n't even have the aid of the taxis in the little villages," +she said. + +Monte leaned back. + +"If they only had here in Paris a force of good, honest Irish cops +instead of these confounded gendarmes," he mused. + +She looked her astonishment at the irrelevant observation. + +"You see," he explained, "it might be possible then to lay for Teddy H. +some evening and--argue with him." + +"It's nice of you, Monte, to think of that," she murmured. + +Monte was nice in a good many ways. + +"The trouble is, they lack sentiment, these gendarmes," he concluded. +"They are altogether too law-abiding." + + + + +CHAPTER III + +A SUMMONS + +Monte himself had sometimes been accused of lacking sentiment; and yet, +the very first thing he did when starting for his walk the next morning +was to order a large bunch of violets to be sent to number sixty-four +Boulevard Saint-Germain. Then, at a somewhat faster pace than usual, +he followed the river to the Jardin des Tuileries, and crossed there to +the Avenue des Champs Élysées into the Bois. + +He walked as confidently as if overnight his schedule had again been +put in good running order; for, overnight, spring had come, and that +was what his schedule called for in Paris. The buds, which until now +had hesitated to unfold, trembled forth almost before his eyes under +the influence of a sun that this morning blazed in a turquoise sky. +Perhaps they had hurried a trifle to overtake Monte. + +With his shoulders well back, filling his lungs deep with the perfumed +morning air, he swung along with a hearty, self-confident stride that +caused many a little nursemaid to turn and look at him again. + +He had sent her violets; and yet, except for the fact that he had never +before sent her flowers, he could not rightly be accused of +sentimentalism. He had acted on the spur of the moment, remembering +only the sad, wistful smile with which she had bade him good-night when +she stood at the door of the _pension_. Or perhaps he had been +prompted by the fact that she was in Paris alone. + +Until now it had never been possible to dissociate her completely from +Aunt Kitty. Marjory had never had a separate existence of her own. To +a great many people she had never been known except as Miss Dolliver's +charming niece, although to Monte she had been known more particularly +as a young friend of the Warrens. But, even in this more intimate +capacity, he had always been relieved of any sense of responsibility +because of this aunt. Wherever he met her, there was never any +occasion for him to put himself out to be nice to her, because it was +always understood that she could never leave Aunt Kitty even for an +evening. This gave him a certain sense of security. With her he never +was forced to consider either the present or the future. + +Last night it had been almost like meeting her for the first time +alone. It was as if in all these years he had known her only through +her photograph, as one knows friends of one's friends about whom one +has for long heard a great deal, without ever meeting them face to +face. From the moment he first saw her in the Place de l'Opera she had +made him conscious of her as, in another way, he had always been +conscious of Edhart. The latter, until his death, had always remained +in Monte's outer consciousness like a fixed point. Because he was so +permanent, so unchanging, he dominated the rest of Monte's schedule as +the north star does the mariner's course. + +Each year began when Edhart bade him a smiling au revoir at the door of +the Hôtel des Roses; and that same year did not end, but began again, +when the matter of ten or eleven months later Monte found Edhart still +at the door to greet him. So it was always possible, the year round, +to think of Edhart as ever standing by the door smilingly awaiting him. +This was very pleasant, and prevented Monte from getting really +lonesome, and consequently from getting old. It was only in the last +few weeks that he fully realized all that Edhart had done for him. + +It was, in some ways, as if Edhart had come back to life again in +Marjory. He had felt it the moment she had smilingly confided in him; +he felt it still more when, after she bade him good-night, he had +turned back into the city, not feeling alone any more. Now it was as +if he were indebted to her for this morning walk, and for restoring to +him his springtime Paris. It was for these things that he had sent her +violets--because she had made him comfortable again. So, after all, +his act had been one, not of sentimentalism, but of just plain +gratitude. + +Monte's objection to sentiment was not based upon any of the modern +schools of philosophy, which deplore it as a weakness. He took his +stand upon much simpler grounds: that, as far as he had been able to +observe, it did not make for content. It had been his fate to be +thrown in contact with a good deal of it in its most acute stages, +because the route he followed was unhappily the route also followed by +those upon their honeymoon. If what he observed was sentiment at its +zenith, then he did not care for it. Bridegrooms made the poorest sort +of traveling companions; and that, after all, was the supreme test of +men. They appeared restless, dazed, and were continually looking at +their watches. Few of them were able to talk intelligently or to play +a decent game of bridge. + +Perhaps, too, he had been unfortunate in the result of his observations +of the same passion in its later stages; but it is certain that those +were not inspiring, either. Chic Warren was an exception. He seemed +fairly happy and normal, but Covington would never forget the night he +spent there when Chic, Junior had the whooping-cough. He walked by +Chic's side up and down the hall, up and down the hall, up and down the +hall, with Chic a ghastly white and the sweat standing in beads upon +his forehead. His own throat had tightened and he grew weak in the +knees every time the rubber-soled nurse stole into sight. Every now +and then he heard that gasping cough, and felt the spasmodic grip of +Chic's fingers upon his arm. It was terrible; for weeks afterward +Covington heard that cough. + + +At the end of an hour Covington turned back, wheeling like a soldier on +parade. There had never seemed to him any reason why, when a man was +entirely comfortable, as he was, he should take the risk of a change. +He had told Chic as much when sometimes the latter, over a pipe, had +introduced the subject. The last time, Chic had gone a little farther +than usual. + +"But, man alive!" Chic had exclaimed. "A day will come when you'll be +sorry." + +"I don't believe it," Monte answered. + +Yet it was only yesterday that he had wandered over half Paris in +search of something to bring his schedule back to normal. And he had +found it--in front of the Opera House at eleven o'clock at night. + +Monte strode into his hotel with a snap that made the little clerk +glance up in surprise. + +"Any mail for me?" he inquired. + +"A telephone message, monsieur." + +He handed Monte an envelope. It was not often that he received +telephone messages. It read as follows:-- + +Can't you come over? Teddy was very angry about the taxi, and I think +I shall leave Paris tonight. The flowers were beautiful. + + +Monte felt his breath coming fast. + +"How long has this been waiting for me?" he demanded. + +"A half-hour, monsieur." + +He hurried out the door and into a taxi. + +"Sixty-four Boulevard Saint-Germain--and hurry." + +Leaving Paris? She had no right to do that. Edhart never left. That +was the beauty of Edhart--that he remained stationary, so that he could +always be found. He was quite sure that Edhart was too considerate +even to die, could he have avoided it. Now Marjory was proposing to go +and leave him here alone. He could not allow that. It was too early +to quit Paris, anyway. It was only the first day of spring! + +She came down into the gloomy _pension_ reception-room looking as if +she had already begun to assist Marie with the packing. Her hair had +become loosened, and escaped in several places in black curls that gave +her a distinctly girlish appearance. There was more color, too, in her +cheeks; but it was the flush of excitement rather than the honest red +that colored his own cheeks. She looked tired and discouraged. She +sank into a chair. + +"It was good of you to come, Monte," she said. "But I don't know why I +should bother you with my affairs. Only--he was so disagreeable. He +frightened me, for a moment." + +"What did he do?" demanded Monte. + +"He came here early, and when Marie told him I was out he said he would +wait until I came back. So he sat down--right here. Then, every five +minutes, he called Madame Courcy and sent her up with a note. I was +afraid of a scene, because madame spoke of sending for the gendarmes." + +"Why didn't you let her?" + +"That would have made still more of a scene." + +She was speaking in a weary, emotionless voice, like one who is very +tired. + +"So I came down and saw him," she said. "He was very melodramatic." + +It seemed difficult for her to go on. + +"Absinthe?" he questioned. + +"I don't know. He wanted me to marry him at once. He drew a revolver +and threatened to shoot himself--threatened to shoot me." + +Monte clenched his fists. + +"Good Lord!" he said softly. "That is going a bit far." + +"Is it so men act--when they are in love?" she asked. + +Monte started. + +"I don't know. If it is, then they ought to be put in jail." + +"If it is, it is most unpleasant," she said; "and I can't stand it, +Monte. There is no reason why I should, is there?" + +"No: if you can avoid it." + +"That's the trouble," she frowned. "I've been quite frank with him. I +told him that I did not want to marry him. I've told him that I could +not conceive of any possible circumstances under which I would marry +him. I've told him that in French and I 've told him that in English, +and he won't believe me." + +"The cad!" exclaimed Monte. + +"It does n't seem fair," she mused. "The only thing I ask for is to be +allowed to lead my life undisturbed, and he won't let me. There are +others, too. I had five letters this morning. So all I can do is to +run away again." + +"To where?" asked Monte. + +"You spoke of the little villages along the Riviera." + +"Yes," he nodded. "There is the village of Étois--back in the +mountains." + +"Then I might go there. _C'est tout égal_." + +She shrugged her shoulders. (She had beautiful shoulders.) + +"But look here. Supposing the--this Hamilton should follow you there?" + +"Then I must move again." + +Monte paced the room. Obviously this was not right. There was no +reason why she should be continually hounded. Yet there seemed to be +no way to prevent it. + +He stopped in front of her. She glanced up--her eyes, even now, calm +and deep as trout pools. + +"I'll get hold of the beggar to-day," he said grimly. + +She shook her head. + +"Please not." + +"But he's the one who must go away. If I could have a few minutes with +him alone, I think perhaps I could make him see that." + +"Please not," she repeated. + +"What's the harm?" + +"I don't think it would be safe--for either of you." + +She raised her eyes as she said that, and for a moment Monte was held +by them. Then she rose. + +"After all, it's too bad for me to inflict my troubles on you," she +said. + +"I don't mind," he answered quickly. "Only--hang it all, there does +n't seem to be anything I can do!" + +"I guess there is n't anything any one can do," she replied helplessly. + +"So you're going away?" + +"To-night," she nodded. + +"To Étois?" + +"Perhaps. Perhaps to India. Perhaps to Japan." + +It was the indefiniteness that Monte did not relish. Even as she +spoke, it was as if she began to disappear; and for a second he felt +again the full weight of his thirty-two years. He was perfectly +certain that the moment she went he was going to feel alone--more alone +than he had ever felt in his life. + +It was in the nature of a hunch. Within twenty-four hours he would be +wandering over Paris as he had wandered yesterday. That would not do +at all. Of course, he could pack up and go on to England, but at the +moment he felt that it would be even worse there, where all the world +spoke English. + +"Suppose I order young Hamilton to leave Paris?" he asked. + +"But what right have you to order him to leave Paris?" + +"Well, I can tell him he is annoying you and that I won't stand for +it," he declared. + +For a second her eyes grew mellow; for a second a more natural red +flushed her cheeks. + +"If you were only my big brother, now," she breathed. + +Monte saw the point. His own cheeks turned a red to match hers. + +"You mean he'll ask--what business you are of mine?" + +"Yes." + +And Monte would have no answer. He realized that. As a friend he had, +of course, certain rights; but they were distinctly limited. It was, +for instance, no business of his whether she went to Étois or Japan or +India. By no stretch of the imagination could he make it his +business--though it affected his whole schedule, though it affected her +whole life. As a friend he would be justified, perhaps, in throwing +young Hamilton out of the door if he happened to be around when the man +was actually annoying her; but there was no way in which he could guard +her against such annoyances in the future. He had no authority that +extended beyond the moment; nor was it possible for Marjory herself to +give him that authority. Young Hamilton, if he chose, could harry her +around the world, and it would be none of Monte's business. + +There was something wrong with a situation of that sort. If he had +only been born her brother or father, or even a first cousin, then it +might be possible to do something, because, if necessary, he could +remain always at hand. He wondered vaguely if there were not some law +that would make him a first cousin. He was on the point of suggesting +it when a bell jangled solemnly in the hall. + +The girl clutched his arm. + +"I'm afraid he's come again," she gasped. + +Monte threw back his shoulders. + +"Fine," he smiled. "It could n't be better." + +"But I don't want to see him! I won't see him!" + +"There is n't the slightest need in the world of it," he nodded. "You +go upstairs, and I'll see him." + +But, clinging to his arm, she drew him into the hall and toward the +stairs. The bell rang again--impatiently. + +"Come," she insisted. + +He tried to calm her. + +"Steady! Steady! I promise you I won't make a scene." + +"But he will. Oh, you don't know him. I won't have it. Do you hear? +I won't have it." + +To Madame Courcy, who appeared, she whispered:-- + +"Tell him I refuse to see him again. Tell him you will call the +gendarmes." + +"It seems so foolish to call in those fellows when the whole thing +might be settled quietly right now," pleaded Monte. + +He turned eagerly toward the door. + +"If you don't come away, Monte," she said quietly, "I won't ever send +for you again." + +Reluctantly he followed her up the stairs as the bell jangled harshly, +wildly. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +A PROPOSAL + +Dejectedly, Monte seated himself upon a trunk in the midst of a scene +of fluffy chaos. Marie had swooped in from the next room, seized one +armful, and returned in consternation as her mistress stood poised at +the threshold. Then, with her face white, Marjory closed the door and +locked it. + +"He's down there," she informed Monte. + +Monte glanced at his watch. + +"It's quarter of twelve," he announced. "I'll give him until twelve to +leave." + +Marjory crossed to the window and stared out at the sun-lighted street. +It was very beautiful out there--very warm and gentle and peaceful. +And at her back all this turmoil. Once again the unspoken cry that +sprang to her lips was just this:-- + +"It is n't fair--it is n't fair!" + +For ten years she had surrendered herself to Aunt Kitty--surrendered +utterly the deep, budding years of her young womanhood. To the last +minute she had paid her obligations in full. Then, at the moment she +had been about to spread her long-folded wings and soar into the +sunshine, this other complication had come. When the lawyer informed +her of the fortune that was hers, she had caught her breath. It +spelled freedom. Yet she asked for so little--for neither luxuries nor +vanities; for just the privilege of leading for a space her own life, +undisturbed by any responsibility. + +Selfish? Yes. But she had a right to be selfish for a little. She +had answered that question when Peter Noyes--Monte reminded her in many +ways of Peter--had come down to her farm in Littlefield one Sunday. +She had seen more of Peter than of any other man, and knew him to be +honest. He had been very gentle with her, and very considerate; but +she knew what was in his heart, so she had put the question to herself +then and there. If she chose to follow the road to which he silently +beckoned--the road to all those wonderful hopes that had surged in upon +her at eighteen--she had only to nod. If she had let herself go, she +could have loved Peter. Then--she drew back at so surrendering +herself. It meant a new set of self-sacrifices. It meant, however +hallowed, a new prison. Because, if she loved, she would love hard. + +Monte glanced at his watch again. + +"Five minutes gone! Have you seen him leave?" + +"No, Monte," she answered. + +He folded his arms resignedly. + +"You don't really mean to act against my wishes, Monte?" + +"If that's the only way of getting rid of him," he answered coolly. + +"But don't you see--don't you understand that you will only make a +scandal of it?" she said. + +"What do you mean?" + +"If he makes a scene it will be in the papers, and then--oh, well, they +will ask by what right--" + +"I'd answer I was simply ridding you of a crazy man." + +"They would smile. Oh, I know them! Here in Paris they won't believe +that a woman who is n't married--" + +She stopped abruptly. + +Monte's brows came together. + +Here was the same situation that had confronted him a few minutes +before. Not only had he no right, but if he assumed a right his claim +might be misinterpreted. Undoubtedly Teddy himself would be the first +to misinterpret it. It would be impossible for a man of his sort to +think in any other direction. And then--well, such stories were easier +to start than to stop. + +Monte's lips came together. As far as he himself was concerned, he was +willing to take the risk; but the risk was not his to take. As long as +he found himself unable to devise any scheme by which he could, even +technically, make himself over into her father, her brother, or even a +first cousin, there appeared no possible way in which he could assume +the right that would not make it a risk. + +Except one way. + +Here Monte caught his breath. + +There was just one relationship open to him that would bestow upon him +automatically the undeniable right to say to Teddy Hamilton anything +that might occur to him--that would grant him fuller privileges, now +and for as long as the relationship was maintained, than even that of +blood. + +To be sure, the idea was rather staggering. It was distinctly novel, +for one thing, and not at all in his line, for another. This, however, +was a crisis calling for staggering novelties if it could not be +handled in the ordinary way. Ten minutes had already passed. + +Monte walked slowly to Marjory's side. She turned and met his eyes. +On the whole, he would have felt more comfortable had she continued +looking out the window. + +"Marjory," he said--"Marjory, will you marry me?" + +She shrank away. + +"Monte!" + +"I mean it," he said. "Will you marry me?" + +After the first shock she seemed more hurt than anything. + +"You are n't going to be like the others?" she pleaded. + +"No," he assured her. "That's why--well, that's why I thought we might +arrange it." + +"But I don't love you, Monte!" she exclaimed. + +"Of course not." + +"And you--you don't love me." + +"That's it," he nodded eagerly. + +"Yet you are asking me to marry you?" + +"Just because of that," he said. "Don't you understand?" + +She was trying hard to understand, because she had a great deal of +faith in Monte and because at this moment she needed him. + +"I don't see why being engaged to a man you don't care about need +bother you at all," he ran on. "It's the caring that seems to make the +trouble--whether you 're engaged or not. I suppose that's what ails +Teddy." + +She had been watching Monte's eyes; but she turned away for a second. + +"Of course," he continued, "you can care--without caring too much. +Can't people care in just a friendly sort of way?" + +"I should think so, Monte," she answered. + +"Then why can't people become engaged--in just a friendly sort of way?" + +"It would n't mean very much, would it?" + +"Just enough," he said. + +He held out his hand. + +"Is it a bargain?" + +She searched his eyes. They were clean and blue. + +"It's so absurd, Monte!" she gasped. + +"You can call me, to yourself, your secretary," he suggested. + +"No--not that." + +"Then," he said, "call me just a _camarade de voyage_." + +Her eyes warmed a trifle. + +"I'll keep on calling you just Monte," she whispered. + +And she gave him her hand. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +PISTOLS + +Evidently young Hamilton did not hear Monte come down the stairs, for +he was sitting in a chair near the window, with his head in his hands, +and did not move even when Monte entered the room. + +"Hello, Hamilton," said Covington. + +Hamilton sprang to his feet--a shaking, ghastly remnant of a man. He +had grown thinner and paler than when Covington last saw him. But his +eyes--they held Covington for a moment. They burned in their hollow +sockets like two candles in a dark room. + +"Covington!" gasped the man. + +Then his eyes narrowed. + +"What the devil you doing here?" he demanded. + +"Sit down," suggested Monte. "I want to have a little talk with you." + +It was physical weakness that forced Hamilton to obey. + +Monte drew up a chair opposite him. + +"Now," he said quietly, "tell me just what it is you want of Miss +Stockton." + +"What business is that of yours?" demanded Hamilton nervously. + +Monte was silent a moment. Here at the start was the question Marjory +had anticipated--the question that might have caused him some +embarrassment had it not been so adequately provided for in the last +few moments. As it was, he became conscious of a little glow of +satisfaction which moderated his feelings toward young Hamilton +considerably. He actually felt a certain amount of sympathy for him. +After all, the little beggar was in bad shape. + +But, even now, there was no reason, just yet, why he should make him +his confidant. Secure in his position, he felt it was none of +Hamilton's business. + +"Miss Stockton and I are old friends," he answered. + +"Then--she has told you?" + +"She gave me to believe you made a good deal of an ass of yourself this +morning," nodded Monte. + +Hamilton sank back limply in his chair. + +"I did," he groaned. "Oh, my God, I did!" + +"All that business of waving a pistol--I did n't think you were that +much of a cub, Hamilton." + +"She drove me mad. I did n't know what I was doing." + +"In just what way do you blame her?" inquired Monte. + +"She would n't believe me," exclaimed Hamilton. "I saw it in her eyes. +I could n't make her believe me." + +"Believe what?" + +Hamilton got to his feet and leaned against the wall. He was breathing +rapidly, like a man in a fever. + +Monte studied him with a curious interest. + +"That I love her," gasped Hamilton. "She thought I was lying. I could +n't make her believe it, I tell you! She just sat there and +smiled--not believing." + +"Good Lord!" said Monte. "You don't mean that you really do love her?" + +Hamilton sprang with what little strength there was in him. + +"Damn you, Covington--what do you think?" he choked. + +Monte caught the man by the arms and forced him again into his chair. + +"Steady," he warned. + +Exhausted by his exertion, Hamilton sat there panting for breath, his +eyes burning into Covington's. + +"What I meant," said Monte, "was, do you love her with--with an +honest-to-God love?" + +When Hamilton answered this time, Covington saw what Marjory meant when +she wondered how Hamilton could look like a white-robed choir-boy as he +sang to her. He had grown suddenly calm, and when he spoke the red +light in his eyes had turned to white. + +"It's with all there is in me, Covington," he said. + +The pity of it was, of course, that so little was left in him--that so +much had been wasted, so much soiled, in the last few years. The +wonder was that so much was left. + +As Monte looked down at the man, he felt his own heart beating faster. +He felt several other things that left him none too comfortable. Again +that curious interest that made him want to listen, that held him with +a weird fascination. + +"Tell me about it," said Covington. + +Hamilton sat up with a start. He faced Covington as if searching his +soul. + +"Do you believe me?" he demanded. + +"Yes," answered Monte; "I think I do." + +"Because--did you see a play in New York called 'Peter Grimm'?" + +"I remember it," nodded Monte. + +"It's been like that--like dying and coming back and trying to make +people hear, and not being able to. I made an ass of myself until I +met her. I know that. I'm not fit to be in the same room with her. I +know that you can say nothing too bad about me--up to the day I met +her. I would n't care what people said up to that day--if they'd only +believe the rest; if she'd only believe the rest. I think I could +stand it even if I knew she--she did not care for me--if only I could +make her understand how much she means to me." + +Monte looked puzzled. + +"Just what does she mean to you?" he asked. + +"All that's left in life," answered Hamilton. "All that's left to work +for, to live for, to hope for. It's been like that ever since I saw +her on the boat. I was coming over here to go the old rounds, and +then--everything was changed. There was no place to go, after that, +except where she went. I counted the hours at night to the time when +the sun came up and I could see her again. I did n't begin to live +until then; the rest of the time I was only waiting to live. Every +time she came in sight it--it was as if I were resurrected, Covington; +as if in the mean while I'd been dead. I thought at first I had a +chance, and I planned to come back home with her to do things. I +wanted to do big things for her. I thought I had a chance all the +while, until she came here--until this morning. Then, when she only +smiled--well, I lost my head." + +"What was the idea back of the gun?" asked Monte. + +Hamilton answered without bravado. + +"I meant to end it for both of us; but I lost my nerve." + +"Good Lord! You would have gone as far as that?" + +"Yes," answered Hamilton wearily. "But I'm glad I fell down." + +Monte passed his hand over his forehead. He could not fully grasp the +meaning of a passion that led a man to such lengths as this. Why, the +man had proposed murder--murder and suicide; and all because of this +strange love of a woman. He had been driven stark raving mad because +of it. He sat there now before him, an odd combination of craven +weakness and giant strength because of it. In the face of such a +revelation, Covington felt petty; he felt negative. + +Less than ten minutes ago he himself had looked into the same eyes that +had so stirred this man. He had seen nothing there particularly to +disturb any one. They were very beautiful eyes, and the woman back of +them was very beautiful. He had a feeling that, day in and day out for +a great many years, they would remain beautiful. They had helped him +last night to make the city his own; they had helped him this morning +to recover his balance; they helped him now to see straight again. + +But, after all, it was arrant nonsense for Hamilton to act like this. +Admitting the man believed in himself,--and Covington believed that +much,--he was, after all, Teddy Hamilton. The fact remained, even as +he himself admitted, that he was not fit to be in the same room with +her. It was not possible for a man in a month to cleanse himself of +the accumulated mire of ten years. + +Furthermore, that too was beside the point. The girl cared nothing +about him. She particularly desired not to care about him or any one +else. It was not consistent with her scheme of life. She had told him +as much. It was this that had made his own engagement to her possible. + +Monte rose from his chair and paced the room a moment. If possible, he +wished to settle this matter once for all. On the whole, it was more +difficult than he had anticipated. When he came down he had intended +to dispose of it in five minutes. Suddenly he wheeled and faced +Hamilton. + +"It seems to me," he said, "that if a man loved a woman,--really loved +her,--then one of the things he would be most anxious about would be to +make her happy. Are you with me on that?" + +Hamilton raised his head. + +"Yes," he answered. + +"Then," continued Monte, "it does n't seem to me that you are going +about it in just the right way. Waving pistols and throwing fits--" + +"I was mad, I tell you," Hamilton broke in. + +"Admitting that," resumed Monte, "I should think the best thing you +could do would be to go away and sober up." + +"Go away?" + +"I would. I'd go a long way--to Japan or India." + +The old mad light came back to Hamilton's eyes. + +"Did she ask you to tell me that?" + +"No," answered Monte; "it is my own idea. Because, you see, if you +don't go she'll have to." + +"What do you mean?" + +"Steady, now," warned Monte. "I mean just what I say. She can't stay +here and let you camp in her front hall. Even Madame Courcy won't +stand for that. So--why don't you get out, quietly and without any +confusion?" + +"That's your own suggestion?" said Hamilton, tottering to his feet. + +"Exactly." + +"Then," said Hamilton, "I'll see you in hell first. It's no business +of yours, I say." + +"But it is," said Monte. + +"Tell me how it is," growled Hamilton. + +"Why, you see," said Monte quietly, "Miss Stockton and I are engaged." + +"You lie!" choked Hamilton. "You--" + +Monte heard a deafening report, and felt a biting pain in his shoulder. +As he staggered back he saw a pistol smoking in Hamilton's hand. +Recovering, he threw himself forward on the man and bore him to the +floor. + +It was no very difficult matter for Monte to wrest the revolver from +Hamilton's weak fingers, even with one arm hanging limp; but it was +quite a different proposition to quiet Madame Courcy and Marie, who +were screaming hysterically in the hall. Marjory, to be sure, was +splendid; but even she could do little with madame, who insisted that +some one had been murdered, even when it was quite obvious, with both +men alive, that this was a mistake. To make matters worse, she had +called up the police on the telephone, and at least a dozen gendarmes +were now on their way. + +The pain in Monte's arm was acute, and it hung from his shoulder as +limply as an empty sleeve; but, fortunately, it was not bleeding a +great deal,--or at least it was not messing things up,--and he was +able, therefore, by always keeping his good arm toward the ladies, to +conceal from them this disagreeable consequence of Hamilton's rashness. + +Hamilton himself had staggered to his feet, and, leaning against the +wall, was staring blankly at the confusion about him. + +Monte turned to Marjory. + +"Hurry out and get a taxi," he said. "We can't allow the man to be +arrested." + +"He tried to shoot--himself?" she asked. + +"I don't believe he knows what he tried to do. Hurry, please." + +As she went out, he turned to Marie. + +"Help madame into her room," he ordered. + +Madame did not want to go; but Monte impatiently grasped one arm and +Marie the other, so madame went. + +Then he came back to Hamilton. + +"Madame has sent for the police. Do you understand?" + +"Yes," Hamilton answered dully. + +"And I have sent for a taxi. It depends on which gets here first +whether you go to jail or not," said Monte. + +Then he sat down in a chair, because his knees were beginning to feel +weak. + +Marjory was back in a minute, and when she came in Monte was on his +feet again. + +"It's at the door," she said. + +At the sound of her voice Hamilton seemed to revive; but Monte had him +instantly by the arm. + +"Come on," he ordered. + +He shoved the boy ahead a little as he passed Marjory, and turning, +drew the revolver from his pocket. He did not dare take it with him, +because he knew that in five minutes he would be unable to use it. +Hamilton, on the other hand, might not be. He shoved it into her hand. + +"Take it upstairs and hide it," he said. "Be careful with it." + +"You're coming back here?" she asked quickly. + +She thought his cheeks were very white. + +"I can't tell," he answered. "But--don't worry." + +He hurried Hamilton down the steps and pushed him into the car. + +"To the Hôtel Normandie," he ordered the driver, as he stumbled in +himself. + +The bumping of the car hurt Monte's arm a good deal. In fact, with +every bump he felt as if Hamilton were prodding his shoulder with a +stiletto. Besides being unpleasant, this told rapidly on his strength, +and that was dangerous. Above all things, he must remain conscious. +Hamilton was quiet because he thought Monte still had the gun and was +still able to use it; but let him sway, and matters would be reversed. +So Monte gripped his jaws and bent his full energy to keeping control +of himself until they crossed the Seine. It seemed like a full day's +journey before he saw that the muddy waters were behind them. Then he +ordered the driver to stop. + +Hamilton's shifty eyes looked up. + +"Hamilton," said Monte, "have you got it clear yet that--that Miss +Stockton and I are engaged?" + +Hamilton did not answer. His fingers were working nervously. + +Monte, summoning all his strength, shook the fellow. + +"Do you hear?" he called. + +"Yes," muttered Hamilton. + +"Then," said Monte, "I want you to get hold of the next point: that +from now on you're to let her alone. Get that?" + +Hamilton's lips began to twitch. + +"Because if you come around bothering her any more," explained Monte, +"I'll be there myself; and, believe me, you'll go out the door. And if +you try any more gun-play--the little fellows will nail you next time. +Sure as preaching, they'll nail you. That would be too bad for every +one--for you and for her." + +"How for her?" demanded Hamilton hoarsely. + +"The papers," answered Monte. "And for you because--" + +"I don't care what they do to me," growled Hamilton. + +"I believe that," nodded Monte. "Do you know that I 'm the one person +on earth who is inclined to believe what you say?" + +He saw Hamilton crouch as if to spring. Monte placed his left hand in +his empty pocket. + +"Steady," he warned. "There are still four shots left in that gun." + +Hamilton relaxed. + +"You don't care what the little fellows do to you," said Monte. "But +you don't want to queer yourself any further with her, do you? Now, +listen. She thinks you tried to shoot yourself. By that much I have a +hunch she thinks the better of you." + +Hamilton groaned, + +"And because I believe what you told me about her," he ran on, fighting +for breath--"just because--because I believe the shooting fits into +that, I 'm glad to--to have her think that little the better of you, +Hamilton." + +The interior of the cab was beginning to move slowly around in a +circle. He leaned back his head a second to steady himself--his white +lips pressed together. + +"So--so--clear out," he whispered. + +"You--you won't tell her?" + +"No. But--clear out, quick." + +Hamilton opened the cab door. + +"Got any money?" inquired Monte. + +"No." + +Monte drew out his bill-book and handed it to Hamilton. + +"Take what there is," he ordered. + +Hamilton obeyed, and returned the empty purse. + +"Remember," faltered Monte, his voice trailing off into an inaudible +murmur, "we're engaged--Marjory and I--" + +But Hamilton had disappeared. It was the driver who was peering in the +door. + +"Where next, monsieur?" he was saying. + +"Normandie," muttered Monte. + +The windows began to revolve in a circle before his eyes--faster and +faster, until suddenly he no longer was conscious of the pain in his +shoulder. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +GENDARMES AND ETHER + +When the gendarmes came hurrying to sixty-four Boulevard Saint-Germain, +Marjory was the only one in the house cool enough to meet them at the +door. She quieted them with a smile. + +"It is too bad, messieurs," she apologized, because it did seem too bad +to put them to so much trouble for nothing. "It was only a +disagreeable incident between friends, and it is closed. Madame Courcy +lost her head." + +"But we were told it was an assassination," the lieutenant informed +her. He was a very smart-looking lieutenant, and he noticed her eyes +at once. + +"To have an assassination it is necessary to have some one +assassinated, is it not?" inquired Marjory. + +"But yes, certainly." + +"Then truly it is a mistake, because the two gentlemen went off +together in a cab." + +The lieutenant took out a memorandum-book. + +"Is that necessary?" asked Marjory anxiously. + +"A report must be made." + +"It was nothing, I assure you," she insisted. "It was what in America +is called a false alarm." + +"You are American?" inquired the lieutenant, twisting his mustache. + +"It is a compliment to my French that you did not know," smiled Marjory. + +It was also a compliment to the lieutenant that she smiled. At least, +it was so that he interpreted it. + +"The report is only a matter of routine," he informed her. "If +mademoiselle will kindly give me her name." + +"But the newspapers!" she exclaimed. "They make so much of so little." + +"It will be a pleasure to see that the report is treated as +confidential," said the lieutenant, with a bow. + +So, as a matter of fact, after a perfunctory interview with madame and +Marie, who had so far recovered themselves as to be easily handled by +Marjory, the lieutenant and his men bowed themselves out and the +incident was closed. + +Marjory escorted them to the door, and then, a little breathless with +excitement, went into the reception room a moment to collect herself. + +The scene was set exactly as it had been when from upstairs she heard +that shot--the shot that for a second had checked her breathing as if +she herself had been hit. As clearly as if she had been in the room, +she had seen Monte stretched out on the floor, with Hamilton bending +over him. She had not thought of any other possibility. As she sprang +down the stairs she had been sure of what she was about to see. But +when she entered she had found Monte standing erect--erect and smiling, +with his light hair all awry like a schoolboy's. + +Then, sinking into the chair near the window,--this very chair beside +which she now stood,--he had asked her to go out and attend to madame. + +Come to think of it, it was odd that he had been smiling. It was not +quite natural for one to smile over as serious a matter as that. After +all, even if Teddy was melodramatic, even if his shot had missed its +mark, it was not a matter to take lightly. + +She seated herself in the chair he had occupied, and her hands dropped +wearily to her side. Her fingers touched something sticky--something +on the side of the chair next to the wall--something that the gendarmes +had not noticed. She did not dare to move them. She was paralyzed, as +if her fingers had met some cold, strange hand. For one second, two +seconds, three seconds, she sat there transfixed, fearing, if she moved +as much as a muscle, that something would spring at her from +below--some awful fact. + +Then finally she did move. She moved slowly, with her eyes closed. +Then, suddenly opening them wide, she saw her fingers stained carmine. +She knew then why Monte had smiled. It was like him to do that. +Running swiftly to her room, she called Marie as she ran. + +"Marie--my hat! Your hat! Hurry!" + +"Oh, mon Dieu!" exclaimed Marie. "Has anything happened?" + +"I have just learned what has already happened," she answered. "But do +not alarm madame." + +It was impossible not to alarm madame. + +The mere fact that they were going out alarmed madame. Marjory stopped +in the hall and quite coolly worked on her gloves. + +"We are going for a little walk in the sunshine," she said. "Will you +not come with us?" + +Decidedly madame would not. She was too weak and faint. She should +send for a friend to stay with her while she rested on her bed. + +"That is best for you," nodded Marjory. "Au revoir." + +With Marie by her side, she took her little walk in the sunshine, +without hurrying, as far as around the first corner. Then she signaled +for a cab, and showed the driver a louis d'or. + +"Hôtel Normandie. This is for you--if you make speed," she said. + +It was a wonder the driver was not arrested within a block; but it was +nothing less than a miracle that he reached the hotel without loss of +life. A louis d'or is a great deal of money, but these Americans are +all mad. When Marie followed her mistress from the cab, she made a +little prayer of thanks to the bon Dieu who had saved her life. + +Mademoiselle inquired of the clerk for Monsieur Covington. + +Yes, Monsieur Covington had reached the hotel some fifteen minutes +before. But he was ill. He had met with an accident. Already a +surgeon was with him. + +"He--he is not badly injured?" inquired Marjory. + +"I do not know," answered the clerk. "He was carried to his room in a +faint. He was very white." + +"I will wait in the writing-room. When the surgeon comes down I wish +to see him. At once--do you understand?" + +"Yes, mademoiselle." + +Marie suspected what had happened. Monsieur Covington, too, had +presented the driver with a louis d'or, and--miracles do not occur +twice in one day. + +Marjory seated herself by a desk, where she had a full view of the +office--of all who came in and all who went out. That she was here +doing this and that Monte Covington was upstairs wounded by a pistol +shot was confusing, considering the fact that as short a time ago as +yesterday evening she had not been conscious of the existence in Paris +of either this hotel or of Monsieur Covington. Of the man who, on the +other hand, had been disturbing her a great deal--this Teddy +Hamilton--she thought not at all. It was as if he had ceased to exist. +She did not even associate him, at this moment, with her presence here. +She was here solely because of Monte. + +He had stood by the window in Madame Courcy's dingy reception room, +smiling--his hair all awry. She recalled many other details now: how +his arm had hung limp; how he had been to a good deal of awkward +trouble to keep his left arm always toward her; how white he had been +when he passed her on his way out; how he had seemed to stumble when he +stepped into the cab. + +She must have been a fool not to understand that something was wrong +with him--the more so because only a few minutes before that he had +stood before her with his cheeks a deep red, his body firm, his eyes +clear and bright. + +That was when he had asked her to marry him. Monte Covington had asked +her to marry him, and she had consented. With her chin in her hand, +she thought that over. He had asked her in order that it might be his +privilege to go downstairs and rid her of Teddy. It had been suggested +in a moment, and she had consented in a moment. So, technically, she +was at this moment engaged. The man upstairs was her fiancé. That +gave her the right to be here. It was as if this had all been arranged +beforehand to this very end. + +It was this feature of her strange position that interested her. She +had been more startled, more excited, when Monte proposed, than she was +at this moment. It had taken away her breath at first; but now she was +able to look at it quite coolly. He did not love her, he said. Good +old Monte--honest and four-square. Of course he did not love her. Why +should he? He was leading his life, with all the wide world to wander +over, free to do this or to do that; utterly without care; utterly +without responsibility. + +It was this that had always appealed to her in him ever since she had +first known him. It was this that had made her envious of him. It was +exactly as she would have done in his circumstances. It was exactly as +she tried to do when her own circumstances changed so that it had +seemed possible. She had failed merely because she was a +woman--because men refused to leave her free. + +His proposal was merely that she share his freedom. Good old +Monte--honest and four-square! + +In return, there were little ways in which she might help him, even as +he might help her; but they had come faster than either had expected. + +Where was the surgeon? She rose and went to the clerk. + +"Are you sure the surgeon has not gone?" she asked. + +"Very sure," answered the clerk. "He has just sent out for a nurse to +remain with monsieur." + +"A nurse?" repeated Marjory. + +"The doctor says Monsieur Covington must not be left alone." + +"It's as bad--as that?" questioned Marjory. + +"I do not know." + +"I must see the doctor at once," she said. "But, first,--can you give +me apartments on the same floor,--for myself and maid? I am his +fiancée," she informed him. + +"I can give mademoiselle apartments adjoining," said the clerk eagerly. + +"Then do so." + +She signed her name in the register, and beckoned for Marie. + +"Marie," she said, "you may return and finish packing my trunks. +Please bring them here." + +"Here?" queried Marie. + +"Here," answered Marjory. + +She turned to the clerk. + +"Take me upstairs at once." + +There was a strong smell of ether in the hall outside the door of Monte +Covington's room. It made her gasp for a moment. It seemed to make +concrete what, after all, had until this moment been more or less +vague. It was like fiction suddenly made true. That pungent odor was +a grim reality. So was that black-bearded Dr. Marcellin, who, leaving +his patient in the hands of his assistant, came to the door wiping his +hands upon a towel. + +"I am Mr. Covington's fiancée--Miss Stockton," she said at once. "You +will tell me the truth?" + +After one glance at her eyes Dr. Marcellin was willing to tell the +truth. + +"It is an ugly bullet wound in his shoulder," he said. + +"It is not serious?" + +"Such things are always serious. Luckily, I was able to find the +bullet and remove it. It was a narrow escape for him." + +"Of course," she added, "I shall serve as his nurse." + +"Good," he nodded. + +But he added, having had some experience with fiancées as nurses:-- + +"Of course I shall have for a week my own nurse also; but I shall be +glad of your assistance. This--er--was an accident?" + +She nodded. + +"He was trying to save a foolish friend from killing himself." + +"I understand." + +"Nothing more need be said about it?" + +"Nothing more," Dr. Marcellin assured her. "If you will come in I will +give you your instructions. Mademoiselle Duval will soon be here." + +"Is she necessary?" inquired Marjory. "I have engaged the next +apartment for myself and maid." + +"That is very good, but--Mademoiselle Duval is necessary for the +present. Will you come in?" + +She followed the doctor into Monsieur Covington's room. There the odor +of ether hung still heavier. + +She heard him muttering a name. She listened to catch it. + +"Edhart," he called. "Oh, Edhart!" + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING SHOT + +Under proper conditions, being wounded in the shoulder may have its +pleasant features. They were not so obvious to Monte in the early part +of the evening, because he was pretty much befuddled with ether; but +sometime before dawn he woke up feeling fairly normal and clear-headed +and interested. This was where fifteen years of clean living counted +for something. When Marcellin and his assistant had first stripped +Monte to the waist the day before, they had paused for a moment to +admire what they called his torso. It was not often, in their city +practice, that they ran across a man of thirty with muscles as clearly +outlined as in an anatomical illustration. + +Monte was conscious of a burning pain in his shoulder, and he was not +quite certain as to where he was. So he hitched up on one elbow. This +caused a shadow to detach itself from the dark at the other end of the +room--a shadow that rustled and came toward him. It is small wonder +that he was startled. + +"Who the deuce are you?" he inquired in plain English. + +"Monsieur is not to sit up," the shadow answered in plain French. + +Monte repeated his question, this time in French. + +"I am the nurse sent here by Dr. Marcellin," she informed him. +"Monsieur is not to talk." + +She placed her hand below his neck and helped him to settle down again +upon his pillow. Then she rustled off again beyond the range of the +shaded electric light. + +"What happened?" Monte called into the dark. + +Then he thought he heard a door open, and further rustling, and a +whispered conversation. + +"Who's that?" he demanded. + +It sounded like a conspiracy of some sort, so he tried again to make +his elbow. Mademoiselle appeared promptly, and, again placing her hand +beneath his neck, lowered him once more to his pillow. + +"Turn up the light, will you?" requested Monte. + +"But certainly not," answered the nurse. "Monsieur is to lie very +quiet and sleep." + +"I can't sleep." + +"Perhaps it will help monsieur to be quiet if he knows his fiancée is +in the next room." + +Momentarily this announcement appeared to have directly the opposite +effect. + +"My what?" gasped Monte. + +"Monsieur's fiancée. With her maid, she is occupying the next +apartment in order to be near monsieur. If you are very quiet +to-night, it is possible that to-morrow the doctor will permit you to +see her." + +"Was that she who came in and whispered to you?" + +"Yes, monsieur." + +Monte remained quiet after that--but he was not sleeping. He was +thinking. + +In the first place, this was enough to make him recall all that had +happened. This led him to speculate on all that might be about to +happen--how much he could not at that moment even imagine. Neither +line of thought was conducive to sleep. + +Marjory was in the next room, awake, and at the sound of his voice had +come in. In the dark, even with this great night city of Paris asleep +around him, she had come near enough so that he heard the rustle of her +skirt and her whispering voice. That was unusual--most unusual--and +rather satisfactory. If worse came to worse and he reached a point +where it was necessary for him to talk to some one, he could get her in +here again in spite of this nurse woman. He had only to call her name. +Not that he really had any intention in the world of doing it. The +idea rather embarrassed him. He would not know what to say to a young +lady at this hour of the night--even Marjory. But there she was--some +one from home, some one he knew and who knew him. It was like having +Edhart within reach. + +In this last week he had sometimes awakened as he was now awake, and +the silence had oppressed him. Ordinarily there was nothing morbid +about Monte, but Edhart's death and the big empty space that was left +all about Nice, the silence where once he had been so sure of hearing +Edhart's voice, the ghostly reminders of Edhart in those who clicked +about in Edhart's bones without his flesh--all these things had given +Monte's thoughts an occasional novel trend. + +Once or twice he had gone as far as to picture himself as upon the +point of death here in this foreign city. It was a very sad, a +melancholy thing to speak about. He might call until he was hoarse, +and no one would answer except possibly the night clerk or a gendarme. +And they would look upon him only as something of a nuisance. It is +really pathetic--the depths of misery into which a healthy man may, in +such a mood, plunge himself. + +All around him the dark, silent city, asleep save for the night clerks, +the gendarmes, the evildoers, and the merrymakers. And these last +would only leer at him. If he did not join them, then it was his fault +if he lay dying alone. + +"Is she in there now?" Monte called to the nurse in the dark. + +"Certainly, monsieur. But I thought you were sleeping." + +No, he was not sleeping; but he did not mind now the pain in his +shoulder. She had announced herself as his fiancée. Well, +technically, she was. He had asked her to marry him, and she had +accepted. At the time he had not seen much farther ahead than the next +few minutes; and even then had not foreseen what was to happen in those +few minutes. The proposal had given him his right to talk to Hamilton, +and her acceptance--well, it had given Marjory her right to be here. + +Curious thing about that code of rights and wrongs! Society was a +stickler for form. If either he or Marjory had neglected the +preliminaries, then he might have lain here alone for a week, with +society shaking its Puritan head. This nurse woman might have come, +but she did not count; and, besides, he had to get shot before even she +would be allowed. + +Now it was all right. It was all right and proper for her, all right +and proper for him, all right and proper for society. Not only that, +but it was so utterly normal that society would have frowned if she had +not hurried to his side in such an emergency. It forced her here, +willy-nilly. Perhaps that was the only reason she was here. + +Still, he did not like to think that. She was too true blue to quit a +friend. It would be more like her to come anyway. He remembered how +she had stood by that old aunt to the end. She would be standing by +her to-day were she alive. Even Chic, who fulfilled his own +obligations to the last word, had sometimes urged her to lead her own +life, and she had only smiled. There was man stuff in her. + +It showed when she announced to these people her engagement. He did +not believe she did that either because it was necessary or proper. +She did it because it was the literal truth, and she was not ashamed of +the literal truth in anything. + +"Is Mademoiselle Stockton sitting up--there in the next room?" + +"I do not know," answered the nurse. + +"Do you mind finding out for me?" + +"If monsieur will promise to sleep after that." + +"How can a man promise to sleep?" + +Even under normal conditions, that was a foolish thing to promise. But +when a man was experiencing brand-new sensations--the sensations of +being engaged--it was quite impossible to make such a promise. + +"Monsieur can at least promise not to talk." + +"I will do that," agreed Monte. + +She came back and reported that mademoiselle was sitting up, and begged +to present her regards and express the hope that he was resting +comfortably. + +"Please to tell her I am, and that I hope she will now go to bed," he +answered. + +Nurse Duval did that, and returned. + +"What did she say?" inquired Monte. + +"But, monsieur--" + +She had no intention of spending the rest of the night as a messenger +between those two rooms. + +"Very well," submitted Monte. "But you might tell me what she said." + +"She said she was not sleepy," answered the nurse. + +"I'm glad she's awake," said Monte. + +Just because he was awake. In a sense, it gave them this city for +themselves. It was as if this immediately became their city. That was +not good arithmetic. Assuming that the city contained a population of +three millions,--he did not have his Baedeker at hand,--then clearly he +could consider only one three millionth part of the city as his. With +her awake in the next room, that made only two of them, so that taken +collectively they had a right to claim only two three-millionths parts +as belonging to them. Yet that was not the way it worked out. As far +as he was concerned, the other two millions nine hundred and +ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight did not exist. + +There was nothing sentimental about this conclusion. He did not think +of it as it affected her--merely as it affected him. It gave him +rather a comfortable, completed feeling, as if he now had within +himself the means for peacefully enjoying life, wherever he might be, +even at thirty-two. Under the influence of this soothing thought, he +fell asleep again. + + +After the doctors were through with Monte the next morning, they +decided, after a consultation, that there was no apparent reason why, +during the day, Miss Stockton, if she desired, should not serve as his +nurse while Miss Duval went home to sleep. + +"My assistant will come in at least twice," said Dr. Marcellin. +"Besides, you have the constitution of a prize-fighter. It might well +be possible to place a bullet through the heart of such a man without +greatly discommoding him." + +He spoke as if with some resentment. + +After they had gone out, Marjory came in. She hesitated at the door a +moment, perhaps to make sure that he was awake; perhaps to make sure +that she herself was awake. Monte, from the bed, could see her better +than she could see him. He thought she looked whiter than usual, but +she was very beautiful. + +There was something about her that distinguished her from other +women--from this nurse woman, for example, who was the only other woman +with whom it was possible to compare her in a like situation. With one +hand resting on the door, her chin well up, she looked more than ever +like Her Royal Highness Something or Other. She was dressed in +something white and light and fluffy, like the gowns he used to see on +Class Day. Around her white throat there was a narrow band of black +velvet. + +"Good-morning, Marjory," he called. + +She came at once to his side, walking graciously, as a princess might +walk. + +"I did n't know if you were awake," she said. + +It was one thing to have her here in the dark, and another to have her +here in broad daylight. The sun was streaming in at the windows now, +and outside the birds were chattering. + +"Did you rest well last night?" she inquired. + +"I heard you when you came in and whispered to the nurse woman. It was +mighty white of you to come." + +"What else could I do?" She seated herself in a chair by his bed. + +"Because we are engaged?" he asked. + +She smiled a little as he said that. + +"Then you have not forgotten?" + +"Forgotten!" he exclaimed. "I'm just beginning to realize it." + +"I was afraid it might come back to you as a shock, Monte," she said. +"But it is very convenient--at just this time." + +"I don't know what I should have done without it," he nodded. "It +certainly gives a man a comfortable feeling to know--well, just to know +there is some one around." + +"I'm glad if I've been able to do anything." + +"It's a whole lot just having you here," he assured her. + +It changed the whole character of this room, for one thing. It ceased +to be merely a hotel room--merely number fifty-four attached with a big +brass star to a key. It was more like a room in the Hôtel des Roses, +which was the nearest to home of any place Monte had found in a decade. +It was as if when she came in she completely refurnished it with little +things with which he was familiar. Edhart always used to place flowers +in his apartment; and it was like that. + +"The only bother with the arrangement," he said, looking serious, "is +that it takes your time. Ought n't you to be at Julien's this morning?" + +She had forgotten about Julien's. Yet for the last two years it had +been the very center of her own individual life. Now the crowded +studio, the smell of turpentine, the odd cosmopolitan gathering of +fellow students, the little pangs following the bitter criticisms of +the master, receded into the background until they became as a dream of +long ago. + +"I don't think I shall ever go to Julien's again," she answered. + +"But look here--that won't do," he objected. "If I'm to interfere with +all your plans--" + +"It isn't that, Monte," she assured him. "Ever since I came back this +last time, I knew I did n't belong there. When Aunt Kitty was alive it +was all the opportunity I had; but now--" She paused. + +"Well?" + +"I have my hands full with you until you get out again," she answered +lightly. + +"That's what I object to," he said; "If being engaged is going to pin +you down, then I don't think you ought to be engaged. You've had +enough of that in your life." + +The curious feature of her present position was that she had no sense +of being pinned down. She had thought of this in the night. She had +never felt freer in her life. Within a few hours of her engagement she +had been able to do exactly what she wished to do without a single +qualm of conscience. She had been able to come here and look after him +in this emergency. She would have done this anyway, but she knew how +Marcellin and his assistant and even Nurse Duval would have made her +pay for her act--an act based upon nothing but decent loyalty and +honest responsibility. Raised eyebrows--gossip in the air--covert +smiles--the whole detestable atmosphere of intrigue with which they +would have surrounded her, had vanished as by a spell before the magic +word fiancée. She was breathing air like that upon the mountain-tops. +It was sweet and clean and bracing. + +"Monte," she said, "I'm doing at this moment just exactly what I want +to do; and you can't understand what a treat that is, because you've +always done just exactly as you wanted. I 'm sure I 'm entirely +selfish about this, because--because I'm not making any sacrifice. You +can't understand that, either, Monte,--so please don't try. I think +we'd better not talk any more about it. Can't we just let it go on as +it is a little while?" + +"It suits me," smiled Monte. "So maybe I'm selfish, too." + +"Maybe," she nodded. "Now I'll see about your breakfast. The doctor +told me just what you must have." + +So she went out--moving away like a vision in dainty white across the +room and out the door. A few minutes later she was back again with a +vase of red roses, which she arranged upon the table where he could see +them. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +DRAWBACKS OF RECOVERY + +Monte's recovery was rapid--in many ways more rapid than he desired. +In a few days Nurse Duval disappeared, and in a few days more Monte was +able to dress himself with the help of the hotel valet, and sit by the +window while Marjory read to him. Half the time he gave no heed to +what she was reading, but that did not detract from his pleasure in the +slightest. He liked the sound of her voice, and liked the idea of +sitting opposite her. + +Her eyes were always interesting when she read. For then she forgot +about them and let them have their own way--now to light with a smile, +now to darken with disapproval, and sometimes to grow very tender, as +the story she happened to be reading dictated. + +This was luxury such as Monte had never known, and for more than ten +years now he had ordered of the world its choicest in the way of luxury. + +At his New York club the experience of many, many years in catering to +man comfort was placed at his disposal. As far as possible, every +desire was anticipated, so that little more effort was required of him +than merely to furnish the desires. In a house where no limit whatever +had been set upon the expense, a hundred lackeys stood ready to jump if +a man as much as raised an eyebrow. And they understood, those +fellows, what a man needs--from the chef who searched the markets of +the world to satisfy tender tastes, to the doorman who acquainted +himself with the names of the members and their personal idiosyncrasies. + +That same service was furnished him, if to a more limited extent, on +the transatlantic liners, where Monte's name upon the passenger list +was immediately passed down the line with the word that he must have +the best. At Davos his needs were anticipated a week in advance; at +Nice there had been Edhart, who added his smiling self to everything +else. + +But no one at his club, on the boat, or at Davos--not even Edhart--had +given him this: this being the somewhat vague word he used to describe +what he was now enjoying as Marjory sat by the window reading to him. +It had nothing to do with being read aloud to. He could at any time +have summoned a valet to do that, and in five minutes would have felt +like throwing the book--any book--at the valet's head. It had nothing +to do with the mere fact that she was a woman. Nurse Duval could not +have taken her place. Kind as she had been, he was heartily bored with +her before she left. + +It would seem, then, that in some mysterious way he derived his +pleasure from Marjory herself. But, if so, then she had gone farther +than all those who made it their life-work to see that man was +comfortable; for they satisfied only existing wants, while she created +a new one. Whenever she left the room he was conscious of this want. + +Yet, when Monte faced the issue squarely and asked himself if this were +not a symptom of being in love, he answered it as fairly as he could +out of an experience that covered Chic Warren's pre-nuptial +brain-storms; a close observation of several dozen honeymoon couples on +shipboard, to say nothing of many incipient cases which started there; +and, finally, the case of Teddy Hamilton. + +The leading feature of all those distressing examples seemed to +indicate that, while theoretically the man was in an ideal state of +blissful ecstasy, he was, practically, in a condition bordering on +madness. At the very moment he was supposed to be happy, he was about +half the time most miserable. Even at its best, it did not make for +comfort. Poor Chic ran the gamut every week from hell to heaven. It +was with a sigh of relief that Monte was able to answer his own +question conscientiously in the negative. It was just because he was +able to retain the use of his faculties that he was able to enjoy the +situation. + +Monte liked to consider himself thoroughly normal in everything. As +far as he had any theory of life, it was based upon the wisdom of +keeping cool--of keeping normal. To get the utmost out of every day, +this was necessary. It was not the man who drank too much who enjoyed +his wine: it was the man who drank little. That was true of +everything. If Hamilton had only kept his head--well, after all, Monte +was indebted to Hamilton for not having kept his head. + +Monte was not in love: that was certain. Marjory was not in love: that +also was certain. This was why he was able to light his cigarette, +lean back his head on the pillow she arranged, and drift into a state +of dreamy content as she read to him. This happy arrangement might go +on forever except that, in the course of time, his shoulder was bound +to heal. And then--he knew well enough that old Dame Society was even +at the end of these first ten days beginning to fidget. He knew that +Marjory knew it, too. It began the day Dr. Marcellin advised him to +take a walk in the Champs Élysées. + +He was perfectly willing to do that. It was beautiful out there. They +sat down at one of the little iron tables--the little tables were so +warm and sociable now--and beneath the whispering trees sipped their +café au lait. But the fact that he was able to get out of his room +seemed to make a difference in their thoughts. It was as if his status +had changed. It was as if those who passed him, with a glance at his +arm in its sling, stopped to tell him so. + +It was none of their business, at that. It would have been sheer +presumption of them to have butted into any of the other affairs of his +life: whether he was losing money or making money; whether he was going +to England or to Spain, or going to remain where he was; whether he +preferred chops for breakfast, or bread and coffee. Theoretically, +then, it was sheer presumption for them to interest themselves in the +question of whether he was an invalid confined to his room, or a +convalescent able to get out, or a man wholly recovered. + +Yet he knew that, with every passing day that he came out into the +sunshine, these same people were managing to make Marjory's position +more and more delicate. It became increasingly less comfortable for +her and for him when they returned to the hotel. + +Therefore he was not greatly surprised when she remarked one morning:-- + +"Monte, I've been thinking over where I shall go, and I 've about +decided to go to Étois." + +"When?" he asked. + +"Very soon--before the end of the week, anyway." + +"But look here!" he protested. "What am I going to do?" + +"I don't know," she smiled. "But one thing is certain: you can't play +sick very much longer." + +"The doctor says it will be another two weeks before my arm is out of +the sling." + +"Even so, the rest of you is well. There is n't much excuse for my +bringing in your breakfasts, Monte." + +"Do you mind doing it?" + +"No." + +"Who is to tie on this silk handkerchief?" He wore a black silk +handkerchief over his bandages, which she always adjusted for him. + +She met his eyes a moment, and smiled again. + +"I'm going to Étois," she said. "I think I shall get a little villa +there and stay all summer." + +"Then," he declared, "I think I shall go to Étois myself." + +"I 'm afraid you must n't." + +"But the doctor says I must n't play golf for six months. What do you +think I'm going to do with myself until then?" + +"There's all the rest of the world," she suggested. + +Monte frowned. + +"Are you going to break our engagement, then?" + +"It has served its purpose, hasn't it?" she asked. + +"Up to now," he admitted. "But you say it can't go any farther." + +"No, Monte." + +The next suggestion that leaped into Monte's mind was obvious enough, +yet he paused a moment before voicing it. Perhaps even then he would +not have found the courage had he not been rather panic-stricken. He +had exactly the same feeling, when he thought of her in Étois, that he +had when he thought of Edhart in Paradise. It started as resentment, +but ended in a slate-gray loneliness. + +He could imagine himself as sitting here alone at one of these little +iron tables, and decidedly it was not pleasant. When he pictured +himself as returning to his room in the hotel and to the company of the +hotel valet, it put him in a mood that augured ill for the valet. + +It would have been bad enough had he been able to resume his normal +schedule and fill his time with golf; but, with even that relaxation +denied him, such a situation as she proposed was impossible. For the +present, at any rate, she was absolutely indispensable. She ought to +know that a valet could not adjust a silk handkerchief properly, and +that without this he could not even go upon the street. And who would +read to him from the American papers? + +There was no further excuse, she said, for her to bring in his +breakfasts, but if she did not sit opposite him at breakfast, what in +thunder was the use of eating breakfast? If she had not begun +breakfasting with him, then he would never have known the difference. +But she had begun it; she had first suggested it. And now she calmly +proposed turning him over to a valet. + +"Marjory," he said, "didn't I ask you to marry me?" + +She nodded. + +"That was necessary in order that we might be engaged," she reminded +him. + +"Exactly," he agreed. "Now there seems to be only one way that we may +keep right on being engaged." + +"I don't see that, Monte," she answered. "We may keep on being engaged +as long as we please, may n't we?" + +"It seems not. That is, there is n't much sense in it if it won't let +me go to Étois with you." + +"Of course you can't do that." + +"And yet," he said, "if we were married I could go, couldn't I?" + +"Why--er--yes," she faltered; "I suppose so." + +"Then," he said, "why don't we get married?" + +She did not turn away her head. She lifted her dark eyes to his. + +"Just what do you mean, Monte?" she demanded. + +"I mean," he said uneasily, "that we should get married just so that we +can go on--as we have been these last ten days. Really, we'll still +only be engaged, but no one need know that. Besides, no one will care, +if we're married." + +He gained confidence as he went on, though he was somewhat afraid of +the wonder in her eyes. + +"People don't care anything more about you after you're married," he +said. "They just let you drop as if you were done for. It's a queer +thing, but they do. Why, if we were married we could sit here all day +and no one would give us a second glance. We could have breakfast +together as often as we wished, and no one would care a hang. I've +seen it done. We could go to Étois together, and I could pay for half +the villa and you could pay for half. You can bring Marie, and we can +stay as long as we wish without having any one turn an eye." + +He was growing enthusiastic now. + +"There will be nothing to prevent you from doing just as you wish. You +can paint all day if you want. You can paint yards of things--olive +trees and sky and rocks. There are lots of them around Étois. And I--" + +"Yes," she interrupted; "what can you do, Monte?" + +"I can watch you paint," he answered. "Or I can walk. Or I can--oh, +there'll be plenty for me to do. If we tire of Étois we can move +somewhere else. If we tire of each other's company, why, we can each +go somewhere else. It's simple, is n't it? We can both do just as we +please, can't we? There won't be a living soul with the right to open +his head to us. Do you get that? Why, even if you want to go off by +yourself, with Mrs. in front of your name they'll let you alone." + +At first she had been surprised, then she had been amused, but now she +was thinking. + +"It's queer, is n't it, Monte, that it should be like that?" + +"It's the way it is. It makes everything simple and puts the whole +matter up to us." + +"Yes," she admitted thoughtfully. + +"Of course," he said, "I'm assuming you don't mind having me around +quite a lot." + +"No, I don't mind that," she assured him. "But I 'm wondering if +you'll mind--having me around?" + +"I did n't realize until this last week how--well, how comfortable it +was having you around," he confessed. + +She glanced up. + +"Yes," she said, "that's the word. I think we've made each other +comfortable. After all--that's something." + +"It's a whole lot." + +"And it need n't ever be anything else, need it?" + +"Certainly not," he declared. "That would spoil everything. That's +what we're trying to avoid." + +To his surprise, she suddenly rose as if to leave. + +"Look here!" he exclaimed. "Can't we settle this right now--so that we +won't have to worry about it?" + +He disliked having anything left to worry about. + +"I should think the least you'd expect of me would be to think it +over," she answered. + +"It would be so much simpler just to go ahead," he declared. + + +There seemed to be no apparent reason in the world why she should not +assent to Monte's proposal. In and of itself, the arrangement offered +her exactly what she craved--the widest possible freedom to lead her +own life without let or hindrance from any one, combined with the least +possible responsibility. As far as she could see, it would remove once +and for all the single fretting annoyance that, so far, had disarranged +all her plans. + +Monte's argument was sound. Once she was married, the world of men +would let her alone. So, too, would the world of women. She could +face them both with a challenge to dispute her privileges. All this +she would receive without any of the obligations with which most women +pay so heavily for their release from the bondage in which they are +held until married. For they pay even more when they love--pay the +more, in a way, the more they love. It cannot be helped. + +She was thinking of the Warrens--the same Warrens Monte had visited +when Chic, Junior had the whooping cough. She had been there when +Chic, Junior was born. Marion had wanted her near--in the next room. +She had learned then how they pay--these women who love. + +She had been there at other times--less dramatic times. It was just +the same. From the moment Marion awoke in the morning until she sank +wearily into her bed at night, her time, her thought, her heart, her +soul almost, was claimed by some one else. She gave, gave, until +nothing was left for herself. + +Marjory, in her lesser way, had done much the same--so she knew the +cost. It was rare when she had been able to leave her aunt for a whole +day and night. Year after year, she too had awakened in the morning to +her tasks for another--for this woman who had demanded them as her +right. She too had given her time, her thought, her soul, almost, to +another. If she had not given her heart, it was perhaps because it was +not asked; perhaps, again, it was because she had no heart to give. + +Sometimes, in that strange, emotionless existence she had lived so long +where duty took the place of love, she had wondered about that. If she +had a heart, it never beat any faster to let her know she had it. + +She paid her debt of duty in full--paid until her release came. In the +final two weeks of her aunt's life she had never left her side. +Patiently, steadfastly, she helped with all there was in her to fight +that last fight. When it was over, she did not break down, as the +doctors predicted. She went to bed and slept forty-eight hours, and +awoke ten years younger. + +She awoke as one out of bondage, and stared with keen, eager eyes at a +new world. For a few weeks she had twenty-four hours a day of her own. +Then Peter had come, and others had come, and finally Teddy had come. +They wanted to take from her that which she had just gained--each in +his own fashion. + +"Give us of yourself," they pleaded. "Begin again your sacrifices." + +Peter put it best, even though he did not say much. But she had only +to look in his eyes and read his proposal. + +"Come with me and stand by my side while I carve my career," was what +his eyes said. "I'll love you and make you love me as Marion loves. +You 'll begin the day with me, and you 'll guard my home while I 'm +gone until night, and you'll share my honors and my disappointments, +and perhaps a time will come when Marion will stand in the next room, +as once you stood in the next room. Then--" + +It was at this point she drew back. Then her soul would go out into +the new-born soul, and after that she would only live and breathe and +hope through that other. When Marion laughed and said that she was as +she was because she did not know, Marion was wrong. It was because she +did know--because she knew how madly and irrevocably she would give, if +ever she gave again. There would be nothing left for herself at all. +It would be as if she had died. + +She did not wish to give like that. She wished to live a little. She +wished to be herself a little--herself as she now was. She wished to +get back some of those years between seventeen and twenty-seven--taste +the world as it was then. + +What Teddy offered was different. Something was there that even Peter +did not have--something that made her catch her breath once or twice +when he sang to her like a white-robed choir-boy. It was as if he +asked her to take his hand and jump with him into a white-hot flame. +He carried her farther back in her passions than Peter did--back to +seventeen, back to the primitive, elemental part of her. He really +made her heart beat. But on guard within her stood the older woman, +and she could not move. + +Now came Monte--asking nothing. He asked nothing because he wished to +give nothing. She was under no illusion about that. There was not +anything idealistic about Monte. This was to be purely an arrangement +for their mutual comfort. They were to be companions on an indefinite +tour of the world--each paying his own bills. + +At thirty-two he needed a comrade of some sort, and in his turn he +offered himself as an escort. She found no apparent reason, then, even +when she had spent half the night getting as far as this, why she +should not immediately accept his proposal. Yet she still hesitated. + +It was not that she did not trust Monte. Not the slightest doubt in +the world existed in her mind about that. She would trust him farther +than she would even Peter--trust him farther than any man she had ever +met. He was four-square, and she knew it. Perhaps it was a curious +suggestion--it was just because of this that she hesitated. + +In a way, she was considering Monte. She did not like to help him give +up responsibilities that might be good for him. She was somewhat +disappointed that he was willing to give them up. He did not have the +excuse she had--years of self-sacrifice. He had been free all his life +to indulge himself, and he had done so. He had never known a care, +never known a heartache. Having money, he had used it decently, so +that he had avoided even the compensating curse that is supposed to +come with money. + +She knew there was a lot to Monte. She had sensed that from the first. +He had proved it in the last two weeks. It only needed some one to +bring it out, and he would average high. Love might do it--the same +white-hot love that had driven Teddy mad. + +But that was what he was avoiding, just as she was. Well, what of it? +If one did not reach the heights, then one did not sound the depths. +After all, it was not within her province to direct Monte's life. She +was selfish--she had warned him of that. He was selfish--and had +warned her. + +Yet, as she lay there in her bed, she felt that she was about to give +up something forever, and that Monte was about to give up something +forever. It is one thing not to want something, and another to make an +irrevocable decision never to have it. Also, it is one thing to fret +one's self into an unnecessary panic over a problem at night, and +another to handle it lightly in the balmy sunshine of a Parisian +springtime morning. + + +Monte had risen early and gone out and bought her violets again. When +she came in, he handed them to her, and she buried her face in their +dewy fragrance. It was good to have some one think of just such little +attentions. Then, too, his boyish enthusiasm swept her off her guard. +He was so eager and light-hearted this morning that she found herself +breaking into a laugh. She was still laughing when he brought back to +her last night's discussion. + +"Well, have you decided to marry me?" he demanded. + +She shook her head, her face still buried in the violets. + +"What's worrying you about it?" he asked. + +"You, Monte," she answered. + +"I? Well, that isn't much. I looked up the time-tables, and we could +take the six-ten to-night if you were ready." + +"I could n't possibly be ready," she replied decidedly. + +"To-morrow, then?" + +When he insisted upon being definite, the proposition sounded a great +deal more absurd than when he allowed it to be indefinite. She was +still hesitating when Marie appeared. + +"A telephone for mademoiselle," she announced. + +Monte heard her startled exclamation from the next room. He hurried to +the door. She saw him, and, placing her hand over the telephone, +turned excitedly. + +"It's Teddy again," she trembled. + +"Let me talk to him," he commanded. + +"He says he does n't believe in our--our engagement." + +"We're to be married to-morrow?" he asked quickly. + +[Illustration: "We're to be married to-morrow?"] + +"Oh!" + +"It's the only way to get rid of him." + +"Then--" + +"To-morrow?" + +Catching her breath, she nodded. + +He took the receiver. + +"This is Covington," he said. "Miss Stockton and I are to be married +to-morrow. Get that? . . . Well, keep hold of it, because the moment +I 'm her husband--" + +Following an oath at the other end, Monte heard the click of the +receiver as it was snapped up. + +"That settles it very nicely," he smiled. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +BLUE AND GOLD + +Marjory was to be married on June eighteenth, at eleven o'clock, in the +chapel of the English Congregational Church. At ten o'clock of that +day she was in her room before the mirror, trying to account for her +heightened color. Marie had just left her in despair and bewilderment, +after trying to make her look as bridelike as possible when she did not +wish to look bridelike. Marie had wished to do her hair in some absurd +new fashion for the occasion. + +"But, Marie," she had explained, "nothing is to be changed. Therefore +why should I change my appearance?" + +"Mademoiselle to be a bride--and nothing changed?" Marie had cried. + +"Nothing about me; nothing about Mr. Covington. We are merely to be +married, that is all--as a matter of convenience." + +"Mademoiselle will see," Marie had answered cryptically. + +"You will see yourself," Marjory had laughed. + +Eh bien! something was changed already, as she had only to look in the +mirror to observe. There was a deep flush upon her cheeks and her eyes +did not look quite natural. She saw, and seeing only made it worse. +Manifestly it was absurd of her to become excited now over a matter +that up to this point she had been able to handle so reasonably. It +was scarcely loyal to Monte. He had a right to expect her to be more +sensible. + +He had put it well last night when he had remarked that for her to go +to a chapel to be married was no more serious than to go to an embassy +for a passport. She was merely to share with him the freedom that was +his as a birthright of his sex. In no other respect whatever was she +to be under any obligations to him. With ample means of her own, he +was simply giving her an opportunity to enjoy them unmolested--a +privilege which the world denied her as long as she remained unmarried. +In no way was he to be responsible for her or to her. He understood +this fully, and it was exactly what he himself desired. + +She, in return for this privilege, was to make herself as entertaining +a traveling companion as possible. She was to be what she had been +these last few weeks. + +Neither was making any sacrifice. That was precisely what they were +avoiding. That was the beauty of the arrangement. Instead of +multiplying cares and responsibilities, as ordinary folk did,--thereby +defeating the very object for which they married, a fuller and wider +freedom,--each was to do away with the few they already had as +individuals. + +Therefore it seemed scarcely decent for Marie to speak of her as a +bride. Perhaps that accounted for the color. No sentiment was +involved here. This was what made the arrangement possible. Sentiment +involved caring; and, as Monte had once said, "It's the caring that +seems to make the trouble." That was the trouble with the Warrens. +How she cared--from morning till night, with her whole heart and soul +in a flutter--for Chic and the children. In a different way, Marjory +supposed, Teddy cared. This was the one thing that made him so +impossible. In another way, Peter Noyes cared. + +She gave a quick start as she thought of Peter Noyes. She turned away +from the mirror as if--as if ashamed. She sprang to her feet, with an +odd, tense expression about her mouth. It was as if she were looking +into his dark, earnest eyes. Peter had always been so intensely in +earnest about everything. In college he had worked himself thin to +lead his class. In the law school he had graduated among the first +five, though he came out almost half blind. His record, however, had +won for him a place with a leading law firm in New York, where in his +earnest way he was already making himself felt. It was just this +quality that had frightened her. He had made love to her with his lips +set as if love were some great responsibility. He had talked of duty +and the joy of sacrifice until she had run away from him. + +That had been her privilege. That had been her right. She had been +under no obligation to him then; she was under no obligation to him +now. Her life was hers, to do with as she saw fit. He had no business +to intrude himself, at this of all times, upon her. + +Not daring to look in the mirror again, she called Marie to adjust her +hat and veil. + +"It is half past ten, Marie," she announced nervously. "I--I think +Monsieur Covington must be waiting for us." + +"Yes, mademoiselle." + +Her ears caught at the word. + +"Marie." + +"Yes, mademoiselle." + +"I wish--even after this--to have you always address me as +mademoiselle." + +"But that--" + +"It is my wish." + + +It was a blue-and-gold morning, with the city looking as if it had +received a scrubbing during the night. So too did Monte, who was +waiting below for her. Clean-shaven and ruddy, in a dark-gray morning +coat and top hat, he looked very handsome, even with his crippled arm. +And quite like a bridegroom! For a moment he made her wish she had +taken Marie's advice about her hair. She was in a brown traveling suit +with a piquant hat that made her look quite Parisienne--though her low +tan shoes, tied with big silk bows at her trim ankles, were distinctly +American. + +Monte was smiling. + +"You are n't afraid?" he asked. + +"Of what, Monte?" + +"I don't know. We 're on our way." + +She took a long look at his steady blue eyes. They braced her like +wine. + +"You must never let me be afraid," she answered. + +"Then--en avant!" he called. + +In a way, it was a pity that they could not have been married out of +doors. They should have gone into a garden for the ceremony instead of +into the subdued light of the chapel. Then, too, it would have been +much better had the Reverend Alexander Gordon been younger. He was a +gentle, saintly-looking man of sixty, but serious--terribly serious. +He had lived long in Paris, but instead of learning to be gay he had +become like those sad-faced priests at Notre Dame. Perhaps if he had +understood better the present circumstances he would have entered into +the occasion instead of remaining so very solemn. + +As Marjory shook hands with him she lost her bright color. Then, too, +he had a voice that made her think again of Peter Noyes. In sudden +terror she clung to Monte's arm, and during the brief ceremony gave her +responses in a whisper. + +Peter Noyes himself could not have made of this journey to the embassy +a more trying ordeal. A ring was slipped upon the fourth finger of her +left hand. A short prayer followed, and an earnest "God bless you, my +children," which left her feeling suffocated. She thought Monte would +never finish talking with him--would never get out into the sunshine +again. When he did, she shrank away from the glare of the living day. + +Monte gave a sigh of relief. + +"That's over, anyhow," he said. + +Hearing a queer noise behind him, he turned. There stood Marie, +sniffling and wiping her eyes. + +"Good Heavens," he demanded, "what's this?" + +Marjory instantly moved to the girl's side. + +"There--there," she soothed her gently; "it's only the excitement, +n'est ce pas?" + +"Yes, madame; and you know I wish you all happiness." + +"And me also?" put in Monte. + +"It goes without saying that monsieur will be happy." + +He thrust some gold-pieces into her hand. + +"Then drink to our good health with your friends," he suggested. + +Calling a taxicab, he assisted her in; but before the door closed +Marjory leaned toward her and whispered in her ear:-- + +"You will come back to the hotel at six?" + +"Yes, madame." + +So Marie went off to her cousins, looking in some ways more like a +bride than her mistress. + +Marjory preferred to walk. She wanted to get back again to the mood of +half an hour ago. She must in some way get Peter Noyes out of her +mind. So quite aimlessly they moved down the Avenue Montaigne, and +Monte waved his hand at the passing people. + +"Now," he announced, "you are none of anybody's business." + +"Is that true, Monte?" Marjory asked eagerly. + +"True as preaching." + +"And no one has any right to scold me?" + +"Not the slightest. If any one tries it, turn him over to me." + +"That might not always be possible." + +"You don't mean to say any one has begun this soon?" + +He glared about as if to find the culprit. + +"Don't look so fierce, Monte," she protested, with a laugh. + +"Then don't you look so worried," he retorted. + +Already, by his side, she was beginning to recover. A Parisian dandy +coming toward them stared rather overlong at her. An hour ago it would +have made her uneasy; now she felt like making a face at him. + +She laughed a little. + +"The minister was terribly serious, was n't he, Monte?" + +"Too darned serious," he nodded. "But, you see, he did n't know. I +suppose the cross-your-throat, hope-to-die kind of marriage is serious. +That's the trouble with it." + +"Yes; that's the trouble with it." + +"I can see Chic coming down the aisle now, with his face chalk-white +and--" + +"Don't," she broke in. + +He looked down at her--surprised that she herself was taking this so +seriously. + +"My comrade," he said, "what you need is to play a little." + +"Yes," she agreed eagerly. + +"Then where shall we go? The world is before you." + +He was in exactly the mood to which she herself had looked forward--a +mood of springtime and irresponsibility. That was what he should be. +It was her right to feel like that also. + +"Oh," she exclaimed, "I'd like to go to all the places I could n't go +alone! Take me." + +"To the Café de Paris for lunch?" + +She nodded. + +"To the races afterward and to the Riche for dinner?" + +"Yes, yes." + +"So to the theater and to Maxim's?" + +Her face was flushed as she nodded again. + +"We're off!" he exclaimed, taking her arm. + + +It was an afternoon that left her no time to think. She was caught up +by the gay, care-free crowd and swept around in a dizzy circle. Yet +always Monte was by her side. She could take his arm if she became too +confused, and that always steadied her. + +Then she was whirled back to the hotel and to Marie, with no more time +than was necessary to dress for dinner. She was glad there was no more +time. For at least to-day there must be no unfilled intervals. She +felt refreshed after her bath, and, to Marie's delight, consented to +attire herself in one of her newest evening gowns, a costume of silk +and lace that revealed her neck and arms. Also she allowed Marie to do +her hair as she pleased. That was a good sign, but Marie thought +madame's cheeks did not look like a good sign. + +"I hope madame--" + +"Have you so soon forgotten what I asked of you?" Marjory interrupted. + +"I hope mademoiselle," Marie corrected herself, "has not caught a +fever." + +"I should hope not," exclaimed Marjory. "What put that into your head?" + +"Mademoiselle's cheeks are very hot." + +Marjory brought her hand to her face. It did not feel hot, because her +hands were equally hot. + +"It is nothing but the excitement that brings the color," she informed +Marie. "I have been living almost like a nun; and now--to get out all +at once takes away one's breath. + +"Also being a bride." + +"Marie!" + +"Eh bien, madame--mademoiselle was married only this morning." + +"You do not seem to understand," Marjory explained; "but it is +necessary that you should understand. Monsieur Covington is to me only +like--like a big brother. It is in order that he might be with me as a +big brother we went through the ceremony. People about here talk a +great deal, and I have taken his name to prevent that. That is all. +And you are to remain with me and everything is to go on exactly as +before, he in his apartments and we in ours. You understand now?" + +At least, Marie heard. + +"It is rather an amusing situation, is it not?" demanded Marjory. + +"I--I do not know," replied Marie. + +"Then in time you shall see. In the mean while, you might smile. Why +do you not smile?" + +"I--I do not know," Marie replied honestly. + +"You must learn how. It is necessary. It is necessary even to laugh. +Monsieur Covington laughed a great deal this afternoon." + +"He--he is a man," observed Marie, as if that were some explanation. + +"Eh bien--is it men alone who have the privilege of laughing?" + +"I do not know," answered Marie; "but I have noticed that men laugh a +great deal more about some things than women." + +"Then that is because women are fools," affirmed Marjory petulantly. + +Though Marie was by no means convinced, she was ready to drop the +matter in her admiration of the picture her mistress made when properly +gowned. Whether she wished or not, madame, when she was done with her +this evening, looked as a bride should look. And monsieur, waiting +below, was worthy of her. + +In his evening clothes he looked at least a foot taller than usual. +Marie saw his eyes warm as he slipped over madame's beautiful white +shoulders her evening wrap. + +[Illustration: Monsieur's eyes warmed as he slipped the wrap over +madame's shoulders] + +Before madame left she turned and whispered in Marie's ear. + +"I may be late," she said; "but you will be here when I return." + +"Yes, mademoiselle." + +"Without fail?" + +"Yes, mademoiselle." + +Marie watched monsieur take his bride's arm as they went out the door, +and the thing she whispered to herself had nothing to do with madame at +all. + +"Poor monsieur!" she said. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +THE AFFAIR AT MAXIM'S + +It was all new to Marjory. In the year and a half she had lived in +Paris with her aunt she had dined mostly in her room. Such cafés as +this she had seen only occasionally from a cab on her way to the opera. +As she stood at the entrance to the big room, which sparkled like a +diamond beneath a light, she was as dazed as a debutante entering her +first ballroom. The head waiter, after one glance at Monte, was bent +upon securing the best available table. Here was an American prince, +if ever he had seen one. + +Had monsieur any choice? + +Decidedly. He desired a quiet table in a corner, not too near the +music. + +Such a table was immediately secured, and as Covington crossed the room +with Marjory by his side he was conscious of being more observed than +ever he had been when entering the Riche alone. His bandaged arm lent +him a touch of distinction, to be sure; but this served only to turn +eyes back again to Marjory, as if seeking in her the cause for it. She +moved like a princess, with her head well up and her dark eyes +brilliant. + +"All eyes are upon you," he smiled, when he had given his order. + +"If they are it's very absurd," she returned. + +Also, if they were, it did not matter. That was the fact she most +appreciated. Ever since she had been old enough to observe that men +had eyes, it had been her duty to avoid those eyes. That had been +especially true in Paris, and still more especially true in the few +weeks she had been there alone. + +Now, with Monte opposite her, she was at liberty to meet men's eyes and +study them with interest. There was no danger. It was they who turned +away from her--after a glance at Monte. It amused her to watch them +turn away; it gave her a new sense of power. But of one thing she was +certain: there was not a man in the lot with whom she would have felt +comfortable to be here as she felt comfortable with Monte. + +Monte was having a very pleasant time of it. The thing that surprised +him was the way Marjory quickened his zest in old things that had +become stale. Here, for instance, she took him back to the days when +he had responded with a piquant tingle to the lights and the music and +the gay Parisian chatter, to the quick glance of smiling eyes where +adventure lurked. He had been content to observe without accepting the +challenges, principally because he lived mostly in the sunshine. +To-night, in a clean, decent way, he felt again the old tingle. But +this time it came from a different source. When Marjory raised her +eyes to his, the lights blazed as brilliantly as if a hundred new ones +had been lighted; the music mixed with his blood until his thoughts +danced. + +With the coffee he lighted a cigarette and leaned back contentedly +until it was time to go. + +As they went out of the room, he was aware that once again all eyes +were turned toward her, so that he threw back his shoulders a little +farther than usual and looked about with some scorn at those who had +with them only ordinary women. + +The comedy at the Gymnase was sufficiently amusing to hold her +attention, and that was the best she could ask for; but Monte watched +it indifferently, resenting the fact that it did hold her attention. +Besides, there were too many people all about her here. For two hours +and a half it was as if she had gone back into the crowd. He was glad +when the final curtain rang down and he was able to take her arm and +guide her out. + +"Maxim's next?" he inquired. + +"Do you want to go?" she asked. + +"It's for you to decide," he answered. + +She was dead tired by now, but she did not dare to stop. + +"All right," she said; "we'll go." + +It was a harlequin crowd at Maxim's--a noisier, tenser, more hectic +crowd than at the Riche. The room was gray with smoke, and everywhere +she looked were gold-tipped wine bottles. Though it was still early, +there was much hysterical laughter and much tossing about of long +streamers of colored paper and confetti. As they entered she +instinctively shrank away from it. Had the waiter delayed another +second before leading them to a table, she would have gone out. + +Monte ordered the wine he was expected to order, but Marjory scarcely +touched it to her lips, while he was content to watch it bubble in his +glass. He did not like to have her here, and yet it was almost worth +the visit to watch her eyes grow big, to watch her sensitive mouth +express the disgust she felt for the mad crowd, to have her +unconsciously hitch her chair nearer his. + +"The worst of it is," he explained to her, "it's the outsiders who are +doing all this--Americans, most of them." + +Suddenly, from behind them, a clear tenor voice made itself heard +through the din. The first notes were indistinct; but in a few seconds +the singer had the room to himself. Turning quickly, Marjory saw the +slender figure of Hamilton, swaying slightly, standing by a table, his +eyes leveled upon hers. He was singing "The Rosary"--singing it as +only he, when half mad, could sing it. + +She clutched Monte's hand as he half rose from his seat. + +"Please," she whispered, "it's best to sit still." + +Stronger and stronger the plaintive melody fell from his lips, until +finally the orchestra itself joined. Women strained forward, and +half-dazed men sat back and listened with bated breath. Even Monte +forgot for a moment the boldness that inspired Hamilton, and became +conscious only of Marjory's warm fingers within his. So, had the +singer been any one else, he would have been content to sit to the end. +But he knew the danger there. His only alternative, however, was to +rise and press through the enraptured crowd, which certainly would have +resented the interruption. It seemed better to wait, and go out during +the noisy applause that was sure to follow. + +At the second verse Hamilton, still singing, came nearer. A path +opened before him, as before an inspired prophet. It was only Monte +who moved his chair slightly and made ready. Still there was nothing +he could do until the man committed some overt act. When Hamilton +concluded his song, he was less than two feet away. By then Monte was +on his feet. As the applause swept from every corner of the room, +Hamilton seized from a near-by table a glass of wine, and, raising it, +shouted a toast:-- + +"To the bride." + +The crowd followed his eyes to the shrinking girl behind Monte. In +good humor they rose, to a man, and joined in, draining their glasses. +It was Monte's opportunity. Taking Marjory's arm, he started for the +door. + +But Hamilton was madder than he had ever been. He ran forward, +laughing hysterically. + +"Kiss the bride," he called. + +This he actually attempted. Monte had only his left arm, and it was +not his strongest; but back of it he felt a new power. He took +Hamilton beneath the chin, and with a lurch the man fell sprawling over +a table among the glasses. In the screaming confusion that followed, +Monte fought his way to the door, using his shoulders and a straight +arm to clear a path. In another second he had lifted Marjory into a +cab. + +Leaning forward, she clutched his arm as the cab jumped ahead. + +"I'm sorry I had to make a scene," he apologized. "I should n't have +hit him, but--I saw red for a second." + +She would never forget that picture of Monte standing by her side, his +head erect, his arm drawn back for the second blow which had proved +unnecessary. All the other faces surrounding her had faded into a +smoky background. She had been conscious of him alone, and of his +great strength. She had felt that moment as if his strength had +literally been hers also. She could have struck out, had it been +necessary. + +"You did n't hurt your shoulder, did you?" she asked anxiously. + +He did not know--it did not much matter. Had Hamilton actually +succeeded in reaching her lips, he would have torn his wounded arm from +the bandages and struck with that too. He had never realized until +then what sacred things her lips were. He had known them only as +beautiful. They were beautiful now as he looked down at them. +Slightly parted, they held his eyes with a strange, new fascination. +They were alive, those lips. They were warm and pulsating. He found +himself breathing faster because of them. He seemed, against his will, +to be bending toward them. Then, with a wrench, he tore himself free +from the spell, not daring to look at her again. + +Leaving her to Marie at the door of her room, Monte went into his own +apartment. He threw open a window, and stood there in the dark with +the cool night breeze blowing in upon him. After Maxim's, the more +clean air the better; after what had followed in the cab, the more cool +air the better. + +He was still confused by it; still frightened by it. For a moment he +had felt himself caught in the clutch of some power over which he had +no control. That was the startling truth that stood out most +prominently. He had been like one intoxicated--he who never before in +his life had lost a grip upon himself. That fact struck at the very +heart of his whole philosophy of life. Always normal--that had been +his boast; never losing his head over this thing or that. It was the +only way a man could keep from worrying. It was the only way a man +could keep sane. The moment you wanted anything like the devil, then +the devil was to pay. This evening he had proved that. + +He went back to the affair at Maxim's. He should have known better +than to take her there, anyway. She did not belong in such a place. +She did not belong anywhere he had taken her to-day. To-morrow--but +all this was beside the point. + +The question that he would most like to answer at this moment was +whether this last wild episode of Hamilton's was due to absinthe or to +that same weird passion which a few weeks before had led the man to +shoot. It had been beastly of Hamilton to try to reach her lips. +That, doubtless, was the absinthe. It robbed him of his senses. But +the look in the man's eyes when he sang, the awful hunger that burned +in them when he gave his mad toast--those things seemed to spring from +a different source. The man, in a room full of strangers, had seen +only her, had sung only to her. Monte doubted if the crazed fellow saw +even him. He saw no one but this one woman. That was madness--but it +did not come of absinthe. The absinthe may have caused the final utter +breakdown of Hamilton's self-control here and at Madame Courcy's--but +that the desire could be there without it Monte had twice proved to +himself that evening. + +Once was when he had struck Hamilton. He alone knew that when he hit +that time it was with the lust to kill--even as Hamilton had shot to +kill. The feeling lasted only the fraction of a second--merely while +his fist was plunging toward Hamilton's chin. But, however brief, it +had sprung from within him--a blood-red, frenzied desire to beat down +the other man. At the moment he was not so much conscious of trying to +protect her as to rid himself of Hamilton. + +The second mad moment had come in the cab, when he had looked down at +her lips. As the passion to kill left him, another equally strong +passion had taken its place. He had hungered for her lips--the very +lips Hamilton, a moment before, had attempted to violate. He who all +his life had looked as indifferently upon living lips as upon +sculptured lips had suddenly found himself in the clutch of a mighty +desire. For a second he had swayed under the temptation. He had been +ready to risk everything, because for a heart-beat or two nothing else +seemed to matter. In his madness, he had even dared think that +delicate, sensitive mouth trembled a like desire. + +Even here in the dark, alone, something of the same desire returned. +He began to pace the room. + +How she would have hated him had he yielded to that impulse! He +shuddered as he pictured the look of horror that would have leaped into +her dark eyes. Then she would have shrunk away frightened, and her +eyes would have grown cold--those eyes that had only so lately warmed +at all. Her face would have turned to marble--the face that only so +lately had relaxed. + +She trusted him--trusted him to the extent of being willing to marry +him to save herself from the very danger with which he had threatened +her. Except that at the last moment he had resisted, he was no better +than Hamilton. + +In her despair she had cried, "Why won't they let me alone?" And he +had urged her to come with him, so that she might be let alone. He was +to be merely her _camarade de voyage_--her big brother. Then, in less +than twelve hours, he had become like the others. He felt unfit to +remain in the next room to her--unfit to greet her in the morning. In +an agony of remorse, he clenched his fists. + +He drew himself up shortly. A new question leaped to his brain. Was +this, then, love? The thought brought both solace and fresh terror. +It gave him at least some justification for his moment of temptation; +but it also brought vividly before him countless new dangers. If this +were love, then he must face day after day of this sort of thing. Then +he would be at the mercy of a passion that must inevitably lead him +either to Hamilton's plight or to Chic Warren's equally unenviable +position. Each man, in his own way, paid the cost: Hamilton, mad at +Maxim's; Chic pacing the floor, with beaded brow, at night. With these +two examples before him, surely he should have learned his lesson. +Against them he could place his own normal life--ten years of it +without a single hour such as these hours through which he was now +living. + +That was because he had kept steady. Ambition, love, drunkenness, +gluttony--these were all excesses. His own father had desired mightily +to be governor of a State, and it had killed him; his grandfather had +died amassing the Covington fortune; he had friends who had died of +love, and others who had overdrunk and overeaten. The secret of +happiness was not to want anything you did not have. If you went +beyond that, you paid the cost in new sacrifices, leading again to +sacrifices growing out of those. + +Monte lighted a cigarette and inhaled a deep puff. The thing for him +to do was fairly clear: to pack his bag and leave while he still +retained the use of his reasoning faculties. He had been swept off his +feet for an instant, that was all. Let him go on with his schedule for +a month, and he would recover his balance. + +The suggestion was considerably simplified by the fact that it was not +necessary to consider Marjory in any way. He would be in no sense +deserting her, because she was in no way dependent upon him. She had +ample funds of her own, and Marie for company. He had not married her +because of any need she had for him along those lines. The protection +of his name she would still have. As Mrs. Covington she could travel +as safely without him as with him. Even Hamilton was eliminated. He +had received his lesson. Anyway, she would probably leave Paris at +once for Étois, and so be out of reach of Hamilton. + +Monte wondered if she would miss him. Perhaps, for a day or so; but, +after all, she would have without him the same wider freedom she +craved. She would have all the advantages of a widow without the +necessity of admitting that her husband was dead. He would always be +in the background--an invisible guard. It was odd that neither she nor +he had considered that as an attractive possibility. It was decidedly +more practical than the present arrangement. + +As for himself, he was ready to admit frankly that after to-day golf on +an English course would for a time be a bore. From the first sight of +her this morning until now, he had not had a dull moment. She had +taken him back to the days when his emotions had been quick to respond +to each day as a new adventure in life. + +It was last winter in Davos that he had first begun to note the keen +edge of pleasure becoming the least bit dulled. He had followed the +routine of his amusements almost mechanically. He had been conscious +of a younger element there who seemed to crowd in just ahead of him. +Some of them were young ladies he remembered having seen with +pig-tails. They smiled saucily at him--with a confidence that +suggested he was no longer to be greatly feared. He could remember +when they blushed shyly if he as much as glanced in their direction. +His schedule had become a little too much of a schedule. It suggested +the annual tour of the middle-aged gentlemen who follow the spas and +drink of the waters. + +He felt all those things now even more keenly than he had at the time. +Looking back at them, he gained a new perspective that emphasized each +disagreeable detail. But he had only to think of Marjory as there with +him and--presto, they vanished. Had she been with him at Davos--better +still, were she able to go to Davos with him next winter--he knew with +what joy she would sit in front of him on the bob-sled and take the +breathless dip of the Long Run. He knew how she would meet him in the +morning with her cheeks stung into a deep red by the clean cold of the +mountain air. She would climb the heights with him, laughing. She +would skate with him and ski with him, and there would be no one +younger than they. + +Monte again began to pace his room. She must go to Davos with him next +winter. He must take her around the whole schedule with him. She must +go to England and golf with him, and from there to his camp. She would +love it there. He could picture her in the woods, on the lake, and +before the camp-fire, beneath the stars. + +From there they would go on to Cambridge for the football season. She +would like that. As a girl she had been cheated of all the big games, +and he would make up for it. So they would go on to New York for the +holidays. He had had rather a stupid time of it last year. He had +gone down to Chic's for Christmas, but had been oppressed by an +uncomfortable feeling that he did not belong there. Mrs. Chic had been +busy with so many presents for others that he had felt like old +Scrooge. He had made his usual gifts to relatives, but only as a +matter of habit. With Marjory with him, he would be glad to go +shopping as Chic and Mrs. Chic did. He might even go on to +Philadelphia with her and look up some of the relatives he had lately +been avoiding. + +Where in thunder had his thoughts taken him again? He put his head in +his hands. He had carried her around his whole schedule with him just +as if this were some honest-to-God marriage. He had done this while +she lay in the next room peacefully sleeping in perfect trust. + +She must never know this danger, nor be further subjected to it. There +was only one safe way--to take the early train for Calais without even +seeing her again. + +Monte sat down at the writing-desk and seized a pen. + + +_Dear Marjory_ [he began]: Something has come up unexpectedly that +makes it necessary for me to take an early train for England. I can't +tell how long I shall be gone, but that of course is not important. I +hope you will go on to Étois, as we had planned; or, at any rate, leave +Paris. Somehow, I feel that you belong out under the blue sky and not +in town. + + +He paused a moment and read over that last sentence. Then he scratched +it out. Then he tore up the whole letter. + +What he had to say should be not written. He must meet her in the +morning and tell her like a man. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +A CANCELED RESERVATION + +Though it was late when he retired, Monte found himself wide awake at +half past seven. Springing from bed, he took his cold tub, shaved, and +after dressing proceeded to pack his bags. The process was simple; he +called the hotel valet, gave the order to have them ready as soon as +possible, and went below. From the office he telephoned upstairs to +Marie, and learned that madame would meet him in the breakfast-room at +nine. This left him a half-hour in which to pay his bill at the hotel, +order a reservation on the express to Calais, and buy a large bunch of +fresh violets, which he had placed on the breakfast table--a little +table in a sunshiny corner. + +Monte was calmer this morning than he had been the night before. He +was rested; the interval of eight hours that had passed since he last +saw her gave him, however slight, a certain perspective, while his +normal surroundings, seen in broad daylight, tended to steady him +further. The hotel clerk, busy about his uninspired duties; the +impassive waiters in black and white; the solid-looking Englishmen and +their wives who began to make their appearance, lent a sense of +unreality to the events of yesterday. + +Yet, even so, his thoughts clung tenaciously to the necessity of his +departure. In a way, the very normality of this morning world +emphasized that necessity. He recalled that it was to just such a day +as this he had awakened, yesterday. The hotel clerk had been standing +exactly where he was now, sorting the morning mail, stopping every now +and then with a troubled frown to make out an indistinct address. The +corpulent porter in his blue blouse stood exactly where he was now +standing, jealously guarding the door. Vehicles had been passing this +way and that on the street outside. He had heard the same undertone of +leisurely moving life--the scuffling of feet, the closing of doors, +distant voices, the rumble of traffic. Then, after this lazy prelude, +he had been swept on and on to the final dizzy climax. + +That must not happen again. At this moment he knew he had a firm grip +on himself--but at this moment yesterday he had felt even more secure. +There had been no past then. That seemed a big word to use for such +recent events covering so few hours; and yet it was none too big. It +covered nothing less than the revelation of a man to himself. If that +process sometimes takes years, it is none the less significant if it +takes place in a day. + +"Good-morning, Monte." + +He turned quickly--so quickly that she started in surprise. + +"Is anything the matter?" she asked. + +She was in blue this morning, and wore at an angle a broad-brimmed hat +trimmed with black and white. He thought her eyes looked a trifle +tired. He would have said she had not slept well. + +"I--I didn't know you were down," he faltered. + +The interval of six hours upon which he had been depending vanished +instantly. To-day was but the continuation of yesterday. As he moved +toward the breakfast-room at her side, the outside world disappeared as +by magic, leaving only her world--the world immediately about her, +which she dominated. This room which she entered by his side was no +longer merely the salle-à-manger of the Normandie. He was conscious of +no portion of it other than that which included their table. All the +sunshine in the world concentrated into the rays that fell about her. + +He felt this, and yet at the same time he was aware of the absurdity of +such exaggeration. It was the sort of thing that annoyed him when he +saw it in others. All those newly married couples he used to meet on +the German liners were afflicted in this same way. Each one of them +acted as if the ship were their ship, the ocean their ocean, even the +blue sky and the stars at night their sky and their stars. When he was +in a good humor, he used to laugh at this; when in a bad humor, it +disgusted him. + +"Monte," she said, as soon as they were seated, "I was depending upon +you this morning." + +She studied him a second, and then tried to smile, adding quickly:-- + +"I don't like you to disappoint me like this." + +"What do you mean?" he asked nervously. + +She frowned, but it was at herself, not at him. It did not do much +except make dimples between her brows. + +"I lay awake a good deal last night--thinking," she answered. + +"Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "You ought n't to have done that!" + +"It was n't wise," she admitted. "But I looked forward to the +daylight--and you--to bring me back to normal." + +"Well, here we are," he hastened to assure her. "I had the sun up +ready for you several hours ago." + +"You--you look so serious." + +She leaned forward. + +"Monte," she pleaded, "you must n't go back on me like that--now. I +suppose women can't help getting the fidgets once in a while and +thinking all sorts of things. I was tired. I 'm not used to being so +very gay. And I let myself go a little, because I thought in the +morning I 'd find you the same old Monte. I 've known you so long, and +you always _have_ been the same." + +"It was a pretty exciting day for both of us," he tried to explain. + +"How for you?" + +"Well, to start with, one does n't get married every morning." + +He saw her cheeks flush. Then she drew back. + +"I think we ought to forget that as much as possible," she told him. + +Here was his opportunity. The way to forget--the only way--was for him +to continue with his interrupted schedule to England, and for her to go +on alone to Étois. It was not too late for that--if he started at +once. Surely it ought to be the matter of only a few weeks to undo a +single day. Let him get the tang of the salt air, let him go to bed +every night dog-tired physically, let him get out of sight of her eyes +and lips, and that something--intangible as a perfume--that emanated +from her, and doubtless he would be laughing at himself as heartily as +he had laughed at others. + +But he could not frame the words. His lips refused to move. Not only +that, but, facing her here, it seemed a grossly brutal thing to do. +She looked so gentle and fragile this morning as, picking up the +violets, she half hid her face in them. + +"You mean we ought to go back to the day before yesterday?" he asked. + +"In our thoughts," she answered. + +"And forget that we are--" + +She nodded quickly, not allowing him to finish. + +"Because," she explained, "I think it must be that which is making you +serious. I don't know you that way. It is n't you. I 've seen you +all these years, wandering around wherever your fancy took +you--care-free and smiling. I've always envied you, and now--I thought +you were just going to keep right on, only taking me with you. Is n't +that what we planned?" + +"Yes," he nodded. "We started yesterday." + +"I shall never forget that part of yesterday," she said. + +"It was n't so bad, except for Hamilton." + +"It was n't so bad even with Hamilton," she corrected. "I don't think +I can ever be afraid of him again." + +"Then it was n't he that bothered you last night?" he asked quickly. + +"No," she answered. + +"It--it was n't I?" + +She laughed uneasily. + +"No, Monte; because you were just yourself yesterday." + +He wondered about that. He wondered, if he placed before her all the +facts, including the hours after he left her, if she would have said +that. Here was his second opportunity to tell her what he had planned. +If he did not intend to go on, he should speak now. To-morrow it would +be too late. By noon it would be too late. By the time they finished +their breakfast, it would be too late. + +He met her eyes. They were steady as planets. They were honest and +clear and clean and confident. They trusted him, and he knew it. He +took a deep breath and leaned forward. Impulsively she leaned across +the table and placed her hand upon his. + +"Dear old Monte," she breathed. + +It was too late--now! He saw her in a sort of mist of dancing golden +motes. He felt the steady throb of her pulse. + +She withdrew her hand as quickly as she had given it. It was as if she +did not dare allow it to remain there. It was that which made him +smile with a certain confidence of his own. + +"What we'd better do," he said, "is to get out of Paris. I'm afraid +the pace here is too hot for us." + +"To Étois?" she asked. + +"That's as good a place as any. Could you start this afternoon?" + +"If you wish." + +"The idea is to move on as soon as you begin to think," he explained, +with his old-time lightness. "Of course, the best way is to walk. If +you can't walk--why, the next best thing--" + +He paused a moment to consider a new idea. It was odd that it had +never occurred to him before. + +"I have it!" he continued. "We'll go to Étois by motor. It's a +beautiful drive down there. I made the trip alone three years ago in a +car I owned. We'll take our time, putting up at the little villages +along the way. We'll let the sun soak into us. We'll get away from +people. It's people who make you worry. I have a notion it will be +good for us both. This Hamilton episode has left us a bit morbid. +What we need is something to bring us back to normal." + +"I'd love it," she fell in eagerly. "We'll just play gypsy." + +"Right. Now, what you want to do is to throw into a dress-suitcase a +few things, and we'll ship the trunks by rail to Nice. All you need is +a toothbrush, a change of socks, and--" + +"There's Marie," she interrupted. + +"Can't we ship her by rail too?" + +"No, Monte," she answered, with a decided shake of her head. + +"But, hang it all, people don't go a-gypsying with French maids!" + +"Why not?" she demanded. + +She asked the question quite honestly. He had forgotten Marie utterly +until this moment, and she seemed to join the party like an intruder. +Always she would be upon the back seat. + +"Wouldn't you feel freer without her?" he asked. + +"I should n't feel at all proper," she declared. + +"Then we might just as well not have been married." + +"Only," she laughed, "if we had n't taken that precaution it would n't +have been proper for me to go, even with Marie." + +"I'm glad we've accomplished something, anyhow," he answered +good-naturedly. + +"We've accomplished a great deal," she assured him. "Yesterday morning +I could n't--at this time--have done even the proper things and felt +proper. Oh, you don't know how people look at you, and how that look +makes you feel, even when you know better. I could n't have sat here +at breakfast with you and felt comfortable. Now we can sit here and +plan a wonderful trip like this. It's all because you're just Monte." + +"And you just you!" + +"Only I don't count for anything. It makes me feel even more selfish +than I am." + +"Don't count?" he exclaimed. "Why--" + +He stifled the words that sprang to his lips. It was only because she +thought she did not count that she was able to feel comfortable. Once +let her know that she counted as at that moment she did count to him, +and even what little happiness he was able to bring her would vanish. +He would be to her then merely one of the others--even as he was to +himself. + +He rose abruptly. + +"I must see about getting a machine," he said. "I want to start this +afternoon if possible." + +"I'll be ready," she agreed. + +As they went out to the office, the clerk stepped up to him. + +"I have secured the reservation, monsieur," he announced. + +"Please cancel it," replied Monte. + +"Reservation?" inquired Marjory. + +"On the Calais express--for a friend of mine who has decided not to +go," he answered. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +A WEDDING JOURNEY + +Monte made an extravagant purchase: a new high-powered touring car +capacious enough for a whole family--his idea being, that the roomier +the car, the less Marie would show up in it. On the other hand, if he +cared to consider her in that way, Marie would be there as much for his +protection as Marjory's. The task that lay ahead of him this next week +was well defined; it was to get back to normal. He had diagnosed his +disease--now he must cure it. It would have been much easier to have +done this by himself, but this was impossible. He must learn to gaze +steadily into her eyes, while gazing into them; he must learn to look +indifferently upon her lips, with her within arm's reach of him. Here +was a man's job. + +He was not even to have the machine to occupy his attention; for there +was no time to secure a license, and so he must take with him a +chauffeur. He was fortunate in being able to secure one on the +spot--Louis Santerre, a good-looking lad with the best of +recommendations. He ordered him to be at the hotel at three. + +Thus, in less than an hour from the time he entered the salesroom, +Monte had bought and paid for his car, hired his man, given orders for +certain accessories, and left, with Monsieur Mansart bowing him out and +heartily wishing that all his customers were of this type. + +There were, however, several little things that Monte still wished to +purchase--an automobile coat and cap, for one thing; also some rugs. +These he found in a near-by store. It was as he was leaving that the +clerk--who, it seems, must have had an eye--noticed the shiny new gold +ring upon Monte's left hand. + +"Madame is well supplied?" he inquired. + +"Madame? Who the devil is madame?" demanded Monte. + +"Pardon, monsieur," replied the clerk in some confusion, fearing he had +made a grave mistake. "I did not know monsieur was traveling alone." + +Then it was Monte's turn to show signs of confusion. It was quite true +he was not traveling alone. It was the truest thing he knew just then. + +"What is necessary for a lady traveling by motor?" he inquired. + +The clerk would take great pleasure in showing him in a department +devoted to that very end. It was after one bewildering glance about +the counters that he became of the opinion that his question should +have been: "What is it that a lady does not wear when traveling by +motor?" He saw coats and bonnets and goggles and vanity boxes and +gloves, to mention only a few of those things he took in at first +glance. + +"We are leaving in some haste," explained Monte, "so I'm afraid she has +none of these things. Would n't the easiest way be for you to give me +one of each?" + +That indeed would be a pleasure. Did monsieur know the correct size? + +Only in a general way--madame was not quite his height and weighed in +the neighborhood of one hundred and fifty pounds. That was enough to +go upon for outside garments. Still there remained a wide choice of +style and color. In this Monte pleased himself, pointing his stick +with sure judgment at what took his fancy, as this and the other thing +was placed before him. It was a decidedly novel and a very pleasant +occupation. + +In this way he spent the best part of another hour, and made a payment +in American Express orders of a considerable sum. That, however, +involved nothing but tearing from the book he always carried as many +orders for twenty-five dollars as most nearly approximated the sum +total. The articles were to be delivered within one hour to "Madame M. +Covington, Hôtel Normandie." + +Monte left the store with a sense of satisfaction, tempered a trifle by +an uncomfortable doubt as to just how this presumption on his part +would be received. However, he was well within his rights. He held +sturdily to that. + +With still two hours before he could return,--for he must leave her +free until luncheon,--he went on to the Champs Élysées and so to the +Bois. He still dwelt with pleasure upon the opportunity that had been +offered him to buy those few things for her. It sent him along briskly +with a smile on his face. It did more; it suggested a new idea. The +reason he had been taking himself so seriously was that he had been +thinking too much about himself and not enough about her. The simple +way out of that difficulty was from now on not to consider himself at +all. After all, what happened to him did not much matter, as long as +it did not affect her. His job from now on was to make her happy. + +For the rest of his walk he kept tight hold of that idea, and came back +to the hotel with a firm grip on it. He called to her through the door +of her room:-- + +"How you making it?" + +"Pretty well," came her voice. "Only I went shopping and bought all my +things--including a coat for you. Then, when I return, I find a whole +boxful from you." + +"All my efforts wasted!" he exclaimed. + +"No, Monte," she replied quickly. "I could n't allow that, +because--well, because it was so thoughtful of you. So I kept the coat +and bonnet you selected--and a few other things. I've just sent Marie +out to return the rest." + +She had kept the coat and bonnet that he selected! What in thunder was +there about that to make a man feel so confoundedly well satisfied? + +They left the hotel at three, and rode that day as far as a country inn +which took their fancy just before coming into Joigny. It was, to +Marjory, a wonderful ride--a ride that made her feel that with each +succeeding mile she was leaving farther and farther behind her every +care she had ever had in the world. It was a ride straight into the +heart of a green country basking sleepily beneath blue skies; of +contented people going about their pleasant tasks; of snug, fat farms +and snug little houses, with glimpses of an occasional chateau in the +background. + +When Monte held out his hand to assist her down, she laughed +light-heartedly, refreshed in body and soul. For Monte had been +himself ever since they started--better than himself. He had humored +her every mood, allowing her to talk when she had felt like talking, or +to sit back with her eyes half closed when she wished to give herself +up to lazy content. Often, too, he had made her laugh with his absurd +remarks--laugh spontaneously, as a child laughs. She had never seen +him in such good humor, and could not remember when she herself had +been in such good humor. + +The rays of the sun were falling aslant as she stepped out, and the +western sky was aglow with crimson and purple and pink. It was a +drowsy world, with sounds grown distant and the perfume and color of +the flowers grown nearer. At the door of the inn, which, looked as if +it must have been standing right there in the days of dashing +cavaliers, the proprietor and his wife were obsequiously bowing a +welcome. It was not often that the big machines deigned to rest here. + +Monte stepped toward them. + +"Madame desires to rest here for the night, if accommodations may be +secured," he said. + +For the night? Mon Dieu! The proprietor had reckoned upon only a +temporary sojourn--for a bottle of wine, perhaps. He had never +entertained such a host as this. How many rooms would be required? + +"Four," answered Monte. + +"Let me see; monsieur and madame could be put in the front room." + +Monte shook his head. + +"Madame will occupy the front room alone," he informed him. + +"Eh? Oh, I understand; a sister. That was a curious mistake. Eh +bien, madame in the front room. Monsieur in the room to the right. +The maid in the room on the back. But there is the chauffeur." + +There was no room left for him, or for the machine either. + +"Then he can go on to Joigny," announced Monte. + +So Louis went on, and in less than five minutes the others were safely +sorted out and tucked away in their respective rooms. + +"We ought to get out and see the sun set," Monte called to Marjory as +she waved him an adieu at her door. + +"I'll be down in ten minutes," she nodded. + + +There is a princess latent in every woman. She makes her appearance +early, and too often vanishes early. Not many women have the good +fortune to see her--except perhaps for a few brief moments--after +seventeen. But, however, far in the background, she remains as at +least a romantic possibility as long as any trace of romance itself +remains. She is a languid, luxury-loving creature, this princess; an +Arabian Nights princess of silks and satins and perfumed surroundings. +Through half-closed eyes she looks out upon a world of sunshine and +flowers, untroubled as the fairy folk. Every one does her homage, and +she in her turn smiles graciously, and there is nought else for her to +do except to rest and be amused. + +For a moment, here in the twilight, this princess returned to Marjory. +As she sat before the mirror, doing over her hair, she held her chin a +little higher at the thought and smiled at herself contentedly. She +used to do just this--and feel ashamed of herself afterward--long, long +ago, after she first met Monte at the Warrens'. For it was he who then +had been her gallant knight, without which no one may be a fairy-book +princess. He had just finished his college course, and eager-eyed was +about to travel over the wide world. He was big and buoyant and +handsome, and even more irresponsible then than now. + +She recalled how one evening they sat alone upon the porch of the +Warren house until late, and he had told her of his proposed journey. +She had listened breathlessly, with her chin in her hands and her eyes +big. When she came in, Mrs. Warren had placed an arm about her and +looked significantly at her flushed cheeks and said gently:-- + +"Be careful, my dear. Don't you let that careless young prince take +away your heart with him. Remember, he has not yet seen the world." + +He had sailed away for a year and a day soon after this; and, perhaps +because he was safely out of her life, she had allowed herself more +liberty with him than otherwise she would have done. At any rate, that +year she was a princess and he her prince. + +Now, to-night, he came back for a little. It was the twilight, which +deals gently with harsh realities, and the perfume of the flowers +floating in at the open window, and the old room, doubtless. Only +yesterday he called her "Your Highness," and she had not responded. +There in the Café Riche none of her old dreams had returned. Perhaps +it was because all her surroundings there had been too grossly real. +That was no setting for a fairy prince, and a fairy prince was, of +course, all he had ever been or was now. He was only for the world +when the sun was low. + +Outside her window she heard a voice:-- + +"Oh, Marjory." + +She started. It was her prince calling. It was bewildering to have +dreams suddenly blended with life itself. It was bewildering also to +have the thoughts of seventeen suddenly blended with the realities of +twenty-seven. She remained silent, breathing gently, as if afraid of +being discovered. + +"Marjory," he called again. + +"Coming," she answered, with a quiet intake of breath. + +Hatless and with a silk shawl over her shoulders, she hurried to where +he was waiting. He too was hatless, even as he had been that night +long ago when he had sat beside her. Something, too, of the same light +of youth was in his eyes now as then. + +Side by side they strolled through the quaint village of stone houses +and to the top of a near-by hill, where they found themselves looking +down upon Joigny outlined against the hazy tints of the pink-and-gold +horizon. + +"Oh, it's beautiful!" she exclaimed enthusiastically. "It's a fairy +world." + +"Better; it's a real world," he answered. + +"I doubt it, Monte," she disagreed, with a touch of regret. "It's too +perfect." + +It would not last. It would begin to fade in a moment, even as her +fairy prince would fade and become just Monte. She knew from the past. +Besides, it was absolutely essential that this should not last. If it +did--why, that would be absurd. It would be worse. It made her +uncomfortable even to imagine this possibility for a moment, thus +bringing about the very condition most unfavorable for fairy princes. +For, if there is one advantage they have over ordinary princes, it is +the gift of keeping their princesses always happy and content. + +Somewhat shyly she glanced up at Monte. He was standing with his +uninjured hand thrust into the pocket of his Norfolk jacket, staring +fixedly at the western sky as if he had lost himself there. She +thought his face was a bit set; but, for all that, he looked this +moment more as she had known him at twenty-one than when he came back +at twenty-two. After his travels of a year he had seemed to her so +much wiser than she that he had instantly become her senior. She had +listened to him as to a man of the world, with something of awe. It +was more difficult then to have him for a prince, because princes, +though brave and adventurous, must not be too wise. + +She smiled as she realized that, as he stood there now, Monte did not +in the least inspire her with awe or fear or a sense of superior +wisdom. The mellow light softened his features and the light breeze +had tousled his hair, so that for all his years told he might have been +back in his football days. He had been like that all the afternoon. + +A new tenderness swept over her. She would have liked to reach up her +hand and smooth away the little puzzled frown between his brows. She +almost dared to do it. Then he turned. + +"You're right," he said, with a shrug of his shoulders. "It is n't +real. See, it's fading now." + +The pink clouds were turning a dull gray. + +"Perhaps it's better it should," she suggested. "If it stayed like +that all the time, we'd get so used to it we would n't see it." + +He took out his watch. + +"I ordered supper to be ready in a half hour," he said. "We'd better +get back." + +She fell in step by his side--by the side of her fairy prince. For, +oddly enough, he had not begun to fade as the sunset faded. The +twilight was deepening into the hushed night--a wonderful night that +was like beautiful music heard at a distance. It left her scarcely +conscious of moving. In the sky the stars were becoming clearer; in +the houses, candles were beginning to twinkle. It was difficult to +tell which were which--as if the sky and the earth were one. + +There was no abrupt change even when they came into the inn, where near +the open window a table had been set and two candles were burning. + +"Oh," she exclaimed again, "here is another bit of fairy world." + +He laughed abruptly. + +"I hope the supper is real, anyhow," he said. + +He spoke as if making a conscious effort to break the spell. It made +her glance up as he seated her; but all she thought of then was that +she would like to smooth back his hair. The spell was not broken. + +Chops and cauliflower and a salad were served to them, with patties of +fresh butter and crusted white bread. She was glad to see him eat +heartily. She prepared his salad with a dash of salt and pepper, a +little vinegar and oil. That much, at least, she was at liberty to do +for him. It gave her a new pleasure. + +"Monte," she asked, "do you suppose it's always as nice as this here?" + +"If it were, would you like to stay?" he asked. + +She thought a moment over that. Would it be possible just to drift on +day after day, with Monte always a fairy prince beside her? She +glanced up and met his eyes. + +"I--I guess it's best to follow our schedule," she decided, with a +little gasp. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +A WEDDING JOURNEY (_continued_) + +Through the golden sunshine and beneath the blue sky, they went on the +next day, until with a nod she chose her place to stop for lunch, until +with another nod, as the sun was getting low, she chose her place to +stop for the night. This time they did not ask to know even the name +of the village. It was his suggestion. + +"Because," he explained, "that makes it seem as if we were trying to +get somewhere. And we are n't, are we?" + +"Wherever we are, we are," she nodded gayly. + +"It is n't even important that we get to Étois," he insisted. + +"Not in the slightest," she agreed. "Only, if we keep on going we'll +get to the sea, won't we?" + +"Then we can either skirt the shore or take a boat and cross the sea. +It's all one." + +"All one! You make me feel as if I had wings." + +"Then you're happy?" + +"Very, very happy, Monte. And you?" + +"Yes," he answered abruptly. + +She had no reason to doubt it. That night, as she sat alone in her +room, she reviewed this day in order to satisfy herself on this point; +for she felt a certain obligation. He had given to her so generously +that the least she in her turn could do was to make sure that he was +comfortable and content. That, all his life, was the most he had asked +for. It was the most he asked for now. He must wake each morning free +of worries, come down to a good breakfast and find his coffee hot, have +a pleasant time of it during the day without being bored, and end with +a roast and salad and later a good bed. These were simple +desires--thoroughly wholesome, normal desires. With the means at his +command, with the freedom from restraint that had been his ever since +he left college, it was a great deal to his credit that he had been +able to retain such modest tastes. He had been at liberty to choose +what he wished, and he had chosen decently. + +This morning she had come down early and looked to his coffee herself. +It was a slight thing, but she had awakened with a desire to do +something positive and personal for him. She had been satisfied when +he exclaimed, without knowing the part she played in it:-- + +"This coffee is bully!" + +It had started the day right and given her a lightness of spirit that +was reflected in her talk and even in her smiles. She had smiled from +within. She was quite sure that the day had been a success, and that +so far, at any rate, Monte had not been either bored or worried. +Sitting there in the dark, she felt strangely elated over the fact. +She had been able to send her fairy prince to his sleep contented. It +gave her a motherly feeling of a task well done. After all, Monte was +scarcely more than a boy. + +Her thoughts went back to the phrase he had used at the end of the +day's journey. + +"We aren't getting anywhere, are we?" he had asked. + +At the moment she had not thought he meant anything more than he said. +He seldom did. It was restful to know that she need never look for +hidden meanings in his chance remarks. He meant only that there was no +haste; that it made no difference when they reached this town or that. + +They had no destination. + +That was true, and yet the thought disturbed her a trifle. It did not +seem quite right for Monte to have no destination. He was worth +something more than merely to revolve in a circle. He should have a +Holy Grail. Give him something to fight for, and he would fight hard. +Twice to-day she had caught a light in his eyes that had suggested this +to her--a clean, white light that had hinted of a Monte with a +destination. But would not that destroy the very poise that made him +just Monte? + +It was too puzzling a question for her own peace of mind. She turned +away from it and slowly began to take down her hair. + + +On and on they went the third day--straight on--with their destination +still hidden. That night, when again alone, she sat even longer by her +open window than she had yesterday, instead of going to bed and to +sleep, which would have been the sensible thing to do. In some ways +this had been rather a more exciting day than the others. Again she +had risen early and come down to order his coffee; but he too must have +risen early, for he had come upon her as she was giving her +instructions. It had been an embarrassing moment for her, and she had +tried to carry it off with a laugh. That she was not to do so +surprised her and added a still deeper flush to her cheeks. + +"So this is the secret of my good coffee?" he asked. + +"There is so very little I can do for you," she faltered. + +"That is a whole lot more than I deserve," he answered. + +However, he was pleased by this trivial attention, and she knew it. It +was an absurdly insignificant incident, and yet here she was recalling +it with something like a thrill. Not only that, but she recalled +another and equally preposterous detail of the day. She had dropped +her vanity-box in the car, and as they both stooped for it his cheek +had brushed hers. He laughed lightly and apologized--forgetting it the +next second. Eight hours later she dared remember it, like any +schoolgirl. Small wonder that she glanced about to make sure the room +was empty. It sent her to bed shamefaced. + +The fourth day came, with the golden road still unfolding before them +and her fairy prince still beside her. Then the fifth day, and that +night they stopped within sight of the ocean. It came as a surprise to +both of them. It was as if, after all, they had reached a destination, +when as a matter of fact they had done nothing of the sort. It meant, +to be sure, that the next day would find them in Nice, which would end +their ride, because they intended to remain there for a day or two +until they arranged for a villa in Étois, which, being in the +mountains, they must reach afoot. But if she did not like it she had +only to nod and they could move on to somewhere else. There was +nothing final even about Étois. + +That evening they walked by the shore of the sea, and Monte appeared +quieter than usual. + +"I have wired ahead for rooms at the Hôtel des Roses," he announced. + +"Yes, Monte," she said. + +"It's where I've stopped for ten years. The last time I was there I +found Edhart gone, and was very uncomfortable." + +"You were as dependent upon him as that?" she asked. + +"It was what lured me on to Paris--and you," he smiled. + +"Then I must be indebted to Edhart also." + +"I think it would be no more than decent to look up his grave and place +a wreath of roses there," he observed. + +"But, Monte," she protested, "I should hate to imagine he had to give +up his life--for just this." + +"At any rate, if he hadn't died I'm sure I should have kept to my +schedule," he said seriously. + +"And then?" + +"I should not have been here." + +"You speak regretfully?" she asked. + +He stopped abruptly and seized her arm. + +"You know better," he answered. + +For a moment she looked dizzily into his eyes. Then he broke the +tension by smiling. + +"I guess we'd better turn back," he said below his breath. + +It was evident that Monte was not quite himself at that moment. That +night she heard the roll of the ocean as she tried to sleep, and it +said many strange things to her. She did not sleep well. + +The next morning they were on their way again, reaching the Hôtel des +Roses at six in the afternoon. Henri was at the door to meet them. +Henri, he thought, had greatly improved since his last visit. Perhaps +Edhart, from his seat on high, had been instructing him. The man +seemed to understand better without being told what Monsieur Covington +desired. The apartments were ready, and it was merely a personal +matter between Monte and the garçon to have his trunk transferred from +the second floor to the third and Marie's trunk brought down from the +third to the second. Even Edhart might have been pardoned for making +this mistake in the distribution of the luggage, if not previously +informed. + +That evening Marjory begged to be excused from dinner, and Monte dined +alone. He dined alone in the small salle-à-manger where he had always +dined alone, and where the last time he was here he had grown in an +instant from twenty-two to thirty-two. Now, in another instant, it was +as if he had gone back to twenty-two. It was even almost as if Edhart +had returned to life. The mellow glow of the long twilight tinted the +room just as it used to do. Across the boulevard he saw the +Mediterranean, languid and blue. + +A thing that impressed Monte was how amazingly friendly every one +was--how amazingly friendly even the material objects were. His old +table in the corner had been reserved for him, but this time it had +been arranged for two. The empty chair opposite him was quite as +friendly as Marjory herself might have been. It kept him company and +humored his thoughts. It said, as plainly as it is possible for a +chair to speak:-- + +"Madame Covington is disappointed to think she could not join you this +evening, but you must remember that it is not to be expected of a woman +to stand these long journeys like a man. However, she will have +breakfast with you in the morning. That is something to look forward +to. In the meanwhile let me serve to remind you that she is +upstairs--upstairs in the room you used to occupy. Perhaps even at +this moment she is looking out the window at this same languid blue +sea. Being up there, she is within call. Should you need her--really +need her--you may be perfectly sure that she would come to you. + +"That time you were ill here two years ago, you had rather a bad time +of it because there was no one to visit you except a few chance +acquaintances about whom you did not care. Well, it would not be like +that now. She would sit by your bed all night long and all day long, +too, if you permitted. She is that kind. So, you see, you are really +not dining alone to-night. I, though only an empty chair, am here to +remind you of that." + +Felix, who was in charge of the salle-à-manger, hovered near Monte as +if he felt the latter to be his especial charge. He served as Monte's +right hand--the hand of the sling. He was very much disturbed because +madame refused her dinner, and every now and then thought of something +new that possibly might tempt her. + +Every one else about the hotel was equally friendly, racking his brains +to find a way of serving Monte by serving madame. It made him feel +quite like those lordly personages who used to come here with a title +and turn the place topsy-turvy for themselves and for their women-folk. +He recalled a certain count of something who arrived with his young +wife and who in a day had half of Nice in his service. Monte felt like +him, only more so. There was a certain obsequiousness that the count +demanded which vanished the moment his back was turned; but the +interest of Felix and his fellows now was based upon something finer +than fear. Monte felt it had to do with Marjory herself, and +also--well, in a sense she was carrying a title too. She was, to these +others, a bride. + +But it was a great relief to know that she was not the sort of bride of +which he had seen too many in the last ten years. It would be a +pleasure to show these fellows a bride who would give them no cause to +smile behind their hands. He would show them a bride who could still +conduct herself like a rational human being, instead of like a petulant +princess or a moon-struck school girl. + +Monte lighted a cigarette and went out upon the Quai Massena for a +stroll. It was late in the season for the crowds. They had long since +adjourned to the mountains or to Paris. But still there were plenty +remaining. He would not have cared greatly had there been no one left. +It was a relief to have the shore to himself. He had formerly been +rather sensitive about being anywhere out of season. In fact, this was +the first time he had ever been here later than May. But the +difference was not so great as he had imagined it must be. Neither the +night sky nor the great turquoise mirror beneath it appeared out of +season. + +Monte did not stray far. He walked contentedly back and forth for the +matter of an hour. He might have kept on until midnight, had it not +been for a messenger from the hotel who handed him a note. +Indifferently he opened it and read: + + +I've gone to the Hôtel d'Angleterre. Please don't try to see me +to-night. Hastily, + +MARJORY. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +THE BRIDE RUNS AWAY + +Henri, who was greatly disturbed, explained to Monte that madame came +downstairs shortly after monsieur left for his walk and asked for him. +Being told that monsieur had gone out, she too had gone out, wearing a +light shawl--to meet monsieur, as Henri supposed. In some fifteen +minutes madame had returned, appearing somewhat excited, if it were +permissible to say so. Thereupon she had given orders to have her +luggage and the luggage of her maid removed at once to the Hôtel +d'Angleterre. Henri had assured her that if her rooms were not +suitable he would turn the house upside down to please her. + +"No, no," she had answered; "it is not that. You are very kind, Henri." + +He had then made so bold as to suggest that a messenger be sent out to +find monsieur. + +"By all means," she had answered. "I will give you a note to take to +him." + +She had sat down and written the note and Henri had dispatched it +immediately. But, also immediately, madame and her maid had left. + +"I beg monsieur to believe that if there is anything--" + +Monte waved the man aside, went to the telephone, and rang up the Hôtel +d'Angleterre. + +"I wish to know if a Madame Covington has recently arrived." + +"Non, monsieur," was the response. + +"Look here," said Monte sharply. "Make sure of that. She must have +reached there within fifteen minutes." + +"We have had no arrivals here within that time except a Mademoiselle +Stockton and her maid." + +"Eh?" snapped Monte. "Repeat that again." + +"Mademoiselle Stockton," the clerk obeyed. + +"She signed the register with that name?" + +"But yes. If monsieur--" + +"All right; thanks." + +"You found her?" inquired Henri solicitously. + +"Yes," nodded Monte, and went out into the night again. + + +There was nothing he could do--absolutely nothing. She had given her +orders, and they must be obeyed. He returned to the Quai Massena, to +the shore of the sea; but he walked nervously now, in a world that, as +far as he was concerned, was starless and colorless. He had thought at +first, naturally enough, that Hamilton was in some way concerned; but +he dismissed that now as wholly unplausible. Instead of running away, +in that case, she would have sent for him. It was decidedly more +likely that this was some strange whimsy springing from within herself. + +In looking back at the last few days, he recalled now that upon several +occasions she had acted in a way not quite like herself. Last night, +for instance, she had been disturbed. Again, it was most unusual for +her not to dine with him. He had accepted her excuse that she was +tired; but now he blamed himself for not having seen through so +artificial an excuse, for not having detected that something else was +troubling her. + +She had run away as if in fear. She had not dared even to talk over +with him the cause for her uneasiness. And he--blind fool that he +was--had not detected anything unusual. He had gone off mooning, +leaving her to fight her own fight. He had been so confoundedly +self-satisfied and content because she was here with him, where +heretofore he had always been alone, that he had gone stony blind to +her comfort. That was the crude fact. + +However, accusing himself did not bring him any nearer an explanation +of her strange conduct. She would not have left him unless she had +felt herself in some danger. If Hamilton were eliminated, who then +remained by whom she could feel menaced? Clearly it must be himself. + +The conclusion was like a blow in the face. It stunned him for a +moment, and then left his cheeks burning. If she had scuttled away +from him like a frightened rabbit, it could be for only one reason; +because he had not been able to conceal the truth. And he had thought +that he had succeeded in keeping the danger to himself. + +He turned in the direction of the Hôtel d'Angleterre. He did not +intend to try to see her. He wished only to be a little nearer. +Surely there was no harm in that. The boulevard had become deserted, +and he was terribly lonesome out here alone. The old black dog that +had pounced upon him in Paris came back and hugged him closer. + +He squared his shoulders. He must shake himself free of that. The +thing to keep in mind was that he did not count in this affair. She +alone must be considered. If he had frightened her, he must find some +way of reassuring her. He must take a tighter grip than ever upon +himself, face her to-morrow, and laugh away her fears. He must do +that, because he must justify her faith in him. That was all he had of +her--her faith in him. If he killed that, then she would vanish +utterly. + +After this last week, to be here or anywhere else without her was +unthinkable. He must make her believe that he took even this new +development lightly. He must go to her in the morning as just Monte. +So, if he were very, very careful, he might coax her back a little way +into his life. That was not very much to hope for. + + +Monte was all wrong. From beginning to end, he was wrong. Marjory had +run away, not from him, but from some one else. When she left the +hotel she had been on her way to join monsieur, as Henri had correctly +surmised. From her window she had been watching him for the matter of +half an hour as he paced up and down the quay before the hotel. Every +time Monte disappeared from sight at the end of a lap, she held her +breath until he appeared again. Every time he appeared again, her +heart beat faster. He seemed such a lonely figure that her conscience +troubled her. He was so good, was Monte--so good and four-square. + +She had left him to dine alone, and without a protest he had submitted. +That was like him; and yet, if he had only as much as looked his +disappointment, she would have dressed and come down. She had been +ready to do so. It was only the initial excitement that prompted her +at first to shut herself up. Coming to this hotel, where for ten years +he had been coming alone, was almost like going back into his life for +that length of time. Then, Monte had signed the register "Monsieur and +Madame Covington." With bated breath she had watched him do it. + +After that the roses in her room and the attention of every one to her +as to a bride--all those things had frightened her at first. Yet she +knew they were bowing low, not to her, but to Madame Covington. This +was what made her ears burn. This was what made her seek the seclusion +of her room. She felt like an imposter, claiming honors that did not +belong to her. It made her so uncomfortable that she could not face +even Marie. She sent her off. + +Sitting by the open window, she watched Monte as he walked alone, with +a queer little ache in her heart. How faithfully he had lived up to +his bargain! He had given her every tittle of the freedom she had +craved. In all things he had sought her wishes, asking nothing for +himself. It was she who gave the order for starting every morning, for +stopping at night. She chose this inn or that, as pleased her fancy. +She talked when she wished to talk, and remained silent when she +preferred. If, instead of coming to Nice and Étois, she had expressed +a desire to turn in some other direction, she knew he would merely have +nodded. + +It was all one to him. East, west, north, or south--what was the odds? +Married or single--what was the odds? + +So she also should have felt. With this big man by her side to guard +her and do her will, she should have been able to abandon herself +utterly to the delights of each passing hour--to the magic of the fairy +kingdom he had made for her. It was all she had asked for, and that +much it was her right to accept, if he chose to give it. She was +cheating no one. Monte himself would have been the first to admit +that. Therefore she should have been quite at peace with herself. + +The fact remained, however, that each day since they had left Paris she +had found herself more and more at the mercy of strange moods; +sometimes an unusual and inexplicable exhilaration, such as that moment +last night when Monte had turned and seized her arm; sometimes an +unnatural depression, like that which now oppressed her. These had +been only intervals, to be sure. The hours between had been all she +had looked forward to--warm, basking hours of lazy content. + +To-night she had been longer than ever before in recovering her +balance. She had expected to undress, go to bed, and so to sleep. +Perhaps it was the sight of Monte pacing up and down there alone that +prolonged her mood. Yet, not to see him, all that was necessary was to +close her eyes or to turn the other way. It should have been easy to +do this. Only it was not. She followed him back and forth. In some +ways, a bride could not have acted more absurdly. + +At the thought she withdrew from the window in startled confusion. +Standing in the middle of the room, she stared about as if challenged +as to her right there by some unseen visitor. This would never do. +She was too much alone. She must go to Monte. He would set her right, +because he understood. She would take his arm, his strong, steady arm, +and walk a little way with him and laugh with him. That was what she +needed. + +She hurried into her clothes, struggling nervously with hooks and +buttons as if there were need of haste. Then, throwing a light shawl +over her shoulders, she went out past Henri, on her way to Monte. + +Monte had been all wrong in his guesses. She had actually been running +toward him instead of away from him when, just outside the hotel, she +almost collided with Peter Noyes and his sister. + +Peter Noyes did not see her at first. His eyes were covered with a +green shade, even out here in the night. But his sister Beatrice gave +an exclamation that brought him to attention and made him fumble at the +shade as if to tear it off. Yet she had spoken but one word:-- + +"Marjory!" + +She whose name had been called shrank back as if hoping the dark would +hide her. + +"Marjory!" cried Peter Noyes. + +Beatrice rushed forward, seizing both the girl's hands. + +"It is you," she exclaimed, as if Marjory sought to deny the fact. +"Peter--Peter, it's Marjory Stockton!" + +Peter stepped forward, his hand outstretched hesitatingly, as one who +cannot see. Marjory took the hand, staring with questioning eyes at +Beatrice. + +"He worked too hard," explained the latter. "This is the price he +paid." + +"Oh, I'm sorry, Peter!" she cried. + +He tried to smile. + +"It's at moments like this I mind it," he answered. "I--I thought you +were in Paris, Marjory." + +"I came here to-day." + +She spoke nervously. + +"Then," he asked, "you--you are to be here a little while?" + +Marjory passed her hand over her forehead. + +"I don't know," she faltered. + +Peter looked so thin! It was evident he had been long ill. She did +not like to see him so. The shade over his eyes horrified her. +Beatrice came nearer. + +"If you could encourage him a little," she whispered. "He has wanted +so much to see you." + +It was as if she in some way were being held responsible. + +"You're not stopping here?" gasped Marjory. + +"At the Hôtel des Roses," nodded Beatrice. "And you?" + +Peter with his haggard, earnest face, and Beatrice with her clear +honest eyes, filled her with sudden shame. It would be impossible to +make them understand. They were so American--so direct and +uncompromising about such affairs as these. + +Beatrice had the features of a Puritan maid, and dressed the part, from +her severe little toque, her prim white dress reaching to her ankles, +to her sturdy boots. Her blue eyes were already growing big at +Marjory's hesitancy at answering so simple a question. She had been +here once with Aunt Kitty--they had stopped at the Hôtel d'Angleterre. +Marjory mumbled that name now. + +"Then I may come over to-night to see you for a moment, may I not?" +said Beatrice. "It is time Peter went in now." + +"I--I may see you in the morning?" asked Peter. + +"In the morning," she nodded. "Good-night." + +She gave him her hand, and he held it as a child holds a hand in the +dark. + +"I'll be over in half an hour," Beatrice called back. + +It was only a few blocks to the Hôtel d'Angleterre, but Marjory ran the +distance. Happily the clerk remembered her, or she might have found +some difficulty in having her excited excuse accepted that she was not +quite suited at the Roses. Then back again to Henri and Marie she +hurried, with orders to have the luggage transferred at once. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +IN THE DARK + +In her new room at the Hôtel d'Angleterre, Marjory dismissed Marie and +buried her hot face in her hands. She felt like a cornered thing--a +shamed and cornered thing. She should not have given the name of the +hotel. She should have sought Monte and ordered him to take her away. +Only--she could not face Monte himself. She did not know how she was +going to see him to-morrow--how she was ever going to see him again. +"Monsieur and Madame Covington," he had signed the register. Beatrice +must have seen it, but Peter had not. He must never see it, because he +would force her to confess the truth--the truth she had been struggling +to deny to herself. + +She had trifled with a holy thing--that was the shameful truth. She +had posed here as a wife when she was no wife. The ceremony at the +English chapel helped her none. It only made her more dishonest. The +memory of Peter Noyes had warned her at the time, but she had not +listened. She had lacked then some vision which she had since +gained--gained through Monte. It was that which made her understand +Peter now, and the wonder of his love and the glory and sacredness of +all love. It was that which made her understand herself now. + +She got to her feet, staring into the dark toward the seashore. + +"Monte, forgive me--forgive me!" she choked. + +She had trifled with the biggest thing in his life and in her life. +She shouldered the full blame. Monte knew nothing either of himself or +of her. He was just Monte, honest and four-square, living up to his +bargain. But she had seen the light in his eyes--the eyes that should +have led him to the Holy Grail. He would have had to go such a little +way--only as far as her outstretched arms. + +She shrank back from the window, her head bowed. It had been her +privilege as a woman to be wiser than he. She should have known! +Now--the thought wrenched like a physical pain--there was nothing left +to her but renunciation. She must help him to be free. She must force +him free. She owed that to him and to herself. It was only so that +she might ever feel clean again. + +Moaning his name, she flung herself upon the bed. So she lay until +summoned back to life by Marie, who brought her the card of Miss +Beatrice Noyes. + +Marjory took the time to bathe her dry cheeks in hot water and to do +over her hair before admitting the girl; but, even with those +precautions, Beatrice paused at the entrance as if startled by her +appearance. + +"Perhaps you do not feel like seeing any one to-night," she suggested. + +"I do want to see you," answered Marjory. "I want to hear about Peter. +But my head--would you mind if we sat in the dark?" + +"I think that would be better--if we are to talk about Peter." + +The phrase puzzled Marjory, but she turned out the lights and placed +two chairs near the open windows. + +"Now tell me from the beginning," she requested. + +"The beginning came soon after you went away," replied Beatrice in a +low voice. + +Marjory leaned back wearily. If there were to be more complications +for which she must hold herself accountable, she felt that she could +not listen. Surely she had lived through enough for one day. + +"Peter cared a great deal for you," Beatrice faltered on. + +"Why?" + +It was a cry in the night. + +Impulsively the younger girl leaned forward and fumbled for her hands. + +"You did n't realize it?" she asked hopefully. + +"I realized nothing then. I realized nothing yesterday," cried +Marjory. "It is only to-day that I began to realize anything." + +"To-day?" + +"Only to-night." + +"It was the sight of Peter looking so unlike himself that opened your +heart," nodded Beatrice. + +"Not my heart--just my eyes," returned Marjory. + +"Your heart too," insisted Beatrice; "for it's only through your heart +that you can open Peter's eyes." + +"I--I don't understand." + +"Because he loves you," breathed Beatrice. + +[Illustration: "Because he loves you," breathed Beatrice.] + +"No. No--not that." + +"You don't know how much," went on the girl excitedly. "None of us +knew how much--until after you went. Oh, he'd never forgive me if he +knew I was talking like this! But I can't help it. It was because he +would not talk--because he kept it a secret all to himself that this +came upon him. They told me at the hospital that it was overwork and +worry, and that he had only one chance in a hundred. But I sat by his +side, Marjory, night and day, and coaxed him back. Little by little he +grew stronger--all except his poor eyes. It was then he told me the +truth: how he had tried to forget you in his work." + +"He--he blamed me?" + +Beatrice was still clinging to her hands. + +"No," she answered quickly. "He did not blame you. We never blame +those we love, do we?" + +"But we hurt those we love!" + +"Only when we don't understand. You did not know he loved you like +that, did you?" + +Marjory withdrew her hands. + +"He had no right!" she cried. + +Beatrice was silent a moment. There was a great deal here that she +herself did not understand. But, though she herself had never loved, +there was a great deal she did understand. She spoke as if thinking +aloud. + +"I have not found love--yet," she said. "But I never thought it was a +question of right when people loved. I thought it--it just happened." + +Marjory drew a quick breath. + +"Yes; it is like that," she admitted. + +Only, she was not thinking of Peter. She was thinking of herself. A +week ago she would have smiled at that phrase. Even yesterday she +would have smiled a little. Love was something a woman or man +undertook or not at will. It was a condition to choose as one chose +one's style of living. It was accepted or rejected, as suited one's +pleasure. If a woman preferred her freedom, then that was her right. + +Then, less than an hour ago, she had flung out her hands toward the +shadowy figure of a man walking alone by the sea, her heart aching with +a great need for the love that might have been hers had she not smiled. +That need, springing of her own love, had just happened. The +fulfillment of it was a matter to be decided by her own conscience; but +the love itself had involved no question of right. She felt a wave of +sympathy for Peter. She was able to feel for him now as never before. +Poor Peter, lying there alone in the hospital! How the ache, +unsatisfied, ate into one. + +"Peter would n't tell me at first," Beatrice was running on. "His lips +were as tight closed as his poor bandaged eyes." + +"The blindness," broke in Marjory. "That is not permanent?" + +"I will tell you what the doctor told me," Beatrice replied slowly. +"He said that, while his eyes were badly overstrained, the seat of the +trouble was mental. 'He is worrying,' he told me. 'Remove the cause +of that and he has a chance.'" + +"So you have come to me for that?" + +"It seems like fate," said Peter's sister, with something of awe in her +voice. "When, little by little, Peter told me of his love, I thought +of only one thing: of finding you. I wanted to cable you, because I--I +thought you would come if you knew. But Peter would not allow that. +He made me promise not to do that. Then, as he grew stronger, and the +doctor told us that perhaps an ocean voyage would help him, I wanted to +bring him to you. He would not allow that either. He thought you were +in Paris, and insisted that we take the Mediterranean route. Then--we +happen upon you outside the hotel we chose by chance! Does n't it seem +as if back of such a thing as that there must be something we don't +understand; something higher than just what we may think right or +wrong?" + +"No, no; that's impossible," exclaimed Marjory. + +"Why?" + +"Because then we'd have to believe everything that happened was right. +And it is n't." + +"Was our coming here not right?" + +Marjory did not answer. + +"If you could have seen the hope in Peter's face when I left him!" + +"He does n't know!" choked Marjory. + +"He knows you are here, and that is all he needs to know," answered +Beatrice. + +"If it were only as simple as that." + +The younger girl rose and, moving to the other's side, placed an arm +over the drooping shoulders. + +"Marjory dear," she said. "I feel to-night more like Peter than +myself. I have listened so many hours in the dark as he talked about +you. He--he has given me a new idea of love. I'd always thought of +love in a--a sort of fairy-book way. I did n't think of it as having +much to do with everyday life. I supposed that some time a knight +would come along on horseback--if ever he came--and take me off on a +long holiday." + +Marjory gave a start. The girl was smoothing her hair. + +"It would always be May-time," she went on, "and we'd have nothing to +do but gather posies in the sunshine. We'd laugh and sing, and there'd +be no care and no worries. Did you ever think of love that way?" + +"Yes." + +The girl spoke more slowly now, as if anxious to be quite accurate:-- + +"But Peter seemed to think of other things. When we talked of you it +was as if he wanted you to be a part of himself and help with the big +things he was planning to do. He had so many wonderful plans in which +you were to help. Instead of running away from cares and worries, it +was as though meeting these was what was going to make it May-time. +Instead of riding off to some fairy kingdom, he seemed to feel that it +was this that would make a fairy kingdom even of New York. +Because"--she lowered her voice--"it was of a home and of children he +talked, and of what a fine mother you would make. He talked of +that--and somehow, Marjory, it made me proud just to be a woman! Oh, +perhaps I should n't repeat such things!" + +Marjory sprang to her feet. + +"You should n't repeat them!" she exclaimed. "You mustn't repeat +anything more! And I must n't listen!" + +"It is only because you're the woman I came to know so well, sitting by +his bed in the dark, that I dared," she said gently. + +"You'll go now?" pleaded Marjory. "I must n't listen to any more." + +Silently, as if frightened by what she had already said, Beatrice moved +toward the door. + +Marjory hurried after her. + +"You're good," she cried, "and Peter's good! And I--" + +The girl finished for her:-- + +"No matter what happens, you'll always be to me Peter's Marjory," she +said. "You'll always keep me proud." + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +A WALK ON THE QUAY + +Monte, stepping out of his room early after a restless night, saw a +black-haired young man wearing a shade over his eyes fumbling about for +the elevator button. He had the thin, nervous mouth and the square jaw +of an American. + +Monte stepped up to him. + +"May I help you?" he asked. + +"Thank you," answered Noyes; "I thought I could make it alone, but +there is n't much light here." + +Monte took his arm and assisted him to the elevator. The man appeared +half blind. His heart went out to him at once. As they reached the +first floor the stranger again hesitated. He smiled nervously. + +"I wanted to get out in the air," he explained. "I thought I could +find a valet to accompany me." + +Monte hesitated. He did not want to intrude, but there was something +about this helpless American that appealed to him. Impulsively he +said: "Would you come with me? Covington is my name. I 'm just off +for a walk along the quay." + +"Noyes is my name," answered Peter. "I'd like to come, but I don't +want to trouble you to that extent." + +Monte took his arm. + +"Come on," he said. "It's a bully morning." + +"The air smells good," nodded Noyes. "I should have waited for my +sister, but I was a bit restless. Do you mind asking the clerk to let +her know where I am when she comes down?" + +Monte called Henri. + +"Inform Miss Noyes we'll be on the quay," he told him. + +They walked in silence until they reached the boulevard bordering the +ocean. + +"We have the place to ourselves," said Monte. "If I walk too fast for +you, let me know." + +"I 'm not very sure of my feet yet," apologized Noyes. "I suppose in +time I'll get used to this." + +"Good Lord, you don't expect it to last?" + +"No. They tell me I have a fighting chance." + +"How did it happen?" + +"Used them a bit too much, I guess," answered Noyes. + +"That's tough." + +"A man has so darned much to do and such a little while to do it in," +exclaimed Noyes. + +"You must live in New York." + +"Yes. And you?" + +"I generally drift back for the holidays. I've been traveling a good +deal for the last ten years." + +"I see. Some sort of research work?" + +The way Noyes used that word "work" made Monte uncomfortable. It was +as if he took it for granted that a man who was a man must have a +definite occupation. + +"I don't know that you would call it exactly that," answered Monte. "I +'ve just been knocking around. I have n't had anything in particular +to do. What are you in?" + +"Law. I wonder if you're Harvard?" + +"Sure thing. And you?" + +Noyes named his class--a class six years later than Monte's. + +"Well, we have something in common there, anyhow," said Covington +cordially. "My father was Harvard Law School. He practiced in +Philadelphia." + +"I've always lived in New York. I was born there, and I love it. I +like the way it makes you hustle--the challenge to get in and live--" + +He stopped abruptly, putting one hand to his eyes. + +"They hurt?" asked Monte anxiously. + +"You need your eyes in New York," he answered simply. + +"You went in too hard," suggested Monte. + +"Is there any other way?" cried Noyes. + +"I used to play football a little," said Monte. "I suppose it's +something like that--when a man gets the spirit of the thing. When you +hit the line you want to feel that you 're putting into it every ounce +in you." + +Noyes nodded. + +"Into your work--into your life." + +"Into your life?" queried Monte. + +"Into everything." + +Monte turned to look at the man. His thin lips had come together in a +straight line. His hollow cheeks were flushed. Every sense was as +alert as a fencer's. If he had lived long like that, no wonder his +eyes had gone bad. Yet last night Monte himself had lived like that, +pacing his room hour after hour. Only it was not work that had given a +cutting edge to each minute--not life, whatever Noyes meant by that. +His thoughts had all been of a woman. Was that life? Was it what +Noyes had meant when he said "everything"? + +"This bucking the line all the time raises the devil with you," he said. + +"How?" demanded Noyes. + +The answer Monte could have returned was obvious. The fact that amazed +him was that Noyes could have asked the question with the sun and the +blue sky shut away from him. It only proved again what Monte had +always maintained--that excesses of any kind, whether of rum or +ambition or--or love--drove men stark mad. Blind as a bat from +overwork, Noyes still asked the question. + +"Look here," said Monte, with a frown. "Before the big events the +coach used to take us one side and make us believe that the one thing +in life we wanted was that game. He used to make us as hungry for it +as a starved dog for a bone. He used to make us ache for it. So we +used to wade in and tear ourselves all to pieces to get it." + +"Well?" + +"If we won it was n't so much; if we lost--it left us aching worse than +before." + +"Yes." + +"There was the crowd that sat and watched us. They did n't care the +way we cared. We went back to the locker building in strings; they +went off to a comfortable dinner." + +"And the moral?" demanded Noyes. + +"Is not to care too darned much, is n't it?" growled Monte. + +"If you want a comfortable dinner," nodded Noyes. + +"Or a comfortable night's sleep. Or if you want to wake up in the +morning with the world looking right." + +Again Monte saw the impulsive movement of the man's hand to his eyes. + +He said quickly: "I did n't mean to refer to that." + +"I forget it for a while. Then--suddenly--I remember it." + +"You wanted something too hard," said Monte gently. + +"I wanted something with all there was in me. I still want it." + +"You're not sorry, then?" + +"If I were sorry for that, I'd be sorry I was alive." + +"But the cost!" + +"Of what value is a thing that doesn't cost?" returned Noyes. "All the +big things cost big. Half the joy in them is pitting yourself against +that and paying the price. The ache you speak of--that's credited to +the joy in the end. Those men in the grand-stand don't know that. If +you fight hard, you can't lose, no matter what the score is against +you." + +"You mean it's possible to get some of your fun out of the game itself?" + +"What else is there to life--if you pick the things worth fighting for?" + +"Then, if you lose--" + +"You've lived," concluded Noyes. + +"It's men like you who ought really to win," exclaimed Monte. "I hope +you get what you went after." + +"I mean to," answered Noyes, with grim determination. + +They had turned and were coming back in the direction of the hotel when +Monte saw a girlish figure hurrying toward them. + +"I think your sister is coming," said Monte. + +"Then you can be relieved of me," answered Noyes. + +"But I 've enjoyed this walk immensely. I hope we can take another. +Are you here for long?" + +"Indefinitely. And you?" + +"Also indefinitely." + +Miss Noyes was by their side now. + +"Sister--this is Mr. Covington," Peter introduced her. + +Miss Noyes smiled. + +"I've good news for you, Peter," she said. "I've just heard from +Marjory, and she'll see you at ten." + +Monte was startled by the name, but was even more startled by the look +of joy that illuminated the features of the man by his side. For a +second it was as if his blind eyes had suddenly come to life. + +Monte caught his breath. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +JUST MONTE + +Monte was at the Hôtel d'Angleterre at nine. In response to his card +he received a brief note. + + +_Dear Monte_ [he read]: Please don't ask to see me this morning. I'm +so mixed up I'm afraid I won't be at all good company. + +Yours, MARJORY. + + +Monte sent back this note in reply:-- + + +_Dear Marjory_: If you're mixed up, I'm just the one you ought to see. +You've been thinking again. + +MONTE. + + +She came into the office looking like a hunted thing; but he stepped +forward to meet her with a boyish good humor that reassured her in an +instant. The firm grip of his hand alone was enough to steady her. +Her tired eyes smiled gratitude. + +"I never expected to be married and deserted--all in one week," he said +lightly. "What's the trouble?" + +He felt like a comedian trying to be funny with the heart gone out of +him. But he knew she expected no less. He must remain just Monte or +he would only frighten her the more. No matter if his heart pounded +until he could not catch his breath, he must play the care-free chump +of a _compagnon de voyage_. That was all she had married--all she +wanted. She glanced at his arm in its black sling. + +"Who tied that this morning?" she asked. + +"The valet." + +"He did n't do it at all nicely. There's a little sun parlor on the +next floor. Come with me and I 'll do it over." + +He followed her upstairs and into a room filled with flowers and wicker +chairs. She stood before him and readjusted the handkerchief, so near +that he thought he felt her breath. It was a test for a man, and he +came through it nobly. + +"There--that's better," she said. "Now take the big chair in the sun." + +She drew it forward a little, though he protested at so much attention. +She dropped into another seat a little away from him. + +"Well?" he inquired. "Aren't you going to tell me about it?" + +He was making it as easy as possible--easier than she had anticipated. + +"Won't you please smoke?" + +He lighted a cigarette. + +"Now we're off," he encouraged her. + +He was leaning back with one leg crossed over the other--a big, +wholesome boy. His blue eyes this morning were the color of the sky, +and just as clean and just as untroubled. As she studied him the +thought uppermost in her mind was that she must not hurt him. She must +be very careful about that. She must give him nothing to worry over. + +"Monte," she began, "I guess women have a lot of queer notions men +don't know anything about. Can't we let it go at that?" + +"If you wish," he nodded. "Only--are you going to stay here?" + +"For a little while, anyway," she answered. + +"You mean--a day or two?" + +"Or a week or two." + +"You'd rather not tell me why?" + +"If you please--not," she answered quickly. + +He thought a moment, and then asked:-- + +"It was n't anything I did?" + +"No, no," she assured him. "You've been so good, Monte." + +He was so good with her now--so gentle and considerate. It made her +heart ache. With her chin in hand, elbow upon the arm of her chair, +she was apparently looking at him more or less indifferently, when what +she would have liked to do was to smooth away the perplexed frown +between his brows. + +"Then," he asked, "your coming here has n't anything to do with me?" + +She could not answer that directly. With her cheeks burning and her +lips dry, she tried to think just what to say. Above all things, she +must not worry him! + +"It has to do with you and myself and--Peter Noyes," she answered. + +"Peter Noyes!" + +He sat upright. + +"He is at the Hôtel des Roses--with his sister," Marjory ran on +hurriedly. "They are both old friends, and I met them quite by +accident last night. Suddenly, Monte,--they made my position there +impossible. They gave me a new point of view on myself--on you. I +guess it was an American point of view. What had seemed right before +did not seem right then." + +"Is that why you resumed your maiden name?" + +"That is why. But sooner or later Peter will know the truth, won't he?" + +"How will he know?" + +"The name you signed on the register." + +"That's so, too," Monte admitted. "But that says only 'Madame +Covington.' Madame Covington might be any one." + +He smiled, but his lips were tense. + +"She may have been called home unexpectedly." + +The girl hid her face in her hands. He rose and stepped to her side. + +"There, there," he said gently. "Don't worry about that. There is no +reason why they should ever associate you with her. If they make any +inquiries of me about madame, I'll just say she has gone away for a +little while--perhaps for a week or two. Is that right?" + +"I--I don't know." + +"Nothing unusual about that. Wives are always going away. Even Chic's +wife goes away every now and then. As for you, little woman, I think +you did the only thing possible. I met that Peter Noyes this morning." + +Startled, she raised her face from her hands. + +"You met--Peter Noyes?" she asked slowly. + +"Quite by chance. He was on his way to walk, and I took him with me. +He's a wonderful fellow, Marjory." + +"You talked with him?" + +He nodded. + +"He takes life mighty seriously." + +"Too seriously, Monte," she returned. + +"It's what made him blind; and yet--there 's something worth while +about a man who gets into the game that way. Hanged if he did n't +leave me feeling uncomfortable." + +She looked worried. + +"How, Monte?" + +"Oh, as though I ought to be doing something instead of just kicking +around the Continent. Do you know I had a notion of studying law at +one time?" + +"But there was no need of it, was there?" + +"Not in one way. Only, I suppose I could have made myself useful +somewhere, even if I did n't have to earn a living. Maybe there's a +use for every one--somewhere." + +He had left her side, and was staring out the window toward the ocean. +She watched him anxiously. She had never seen him like this, and yet, +in a way, this was the same Monte in whose eyes she had caught a +glimpse of the wonderful bright light. It was the man who had leaned +toward her as they walked on the shore the night before they reached +Nice--a gallant prince of the fairy-books, ready to step into real life +and be a gallant prince there. + +Monte had never had a chance. Had he been left as Peter Noyes had been +left, dependent upon himself, he would have done all that Peter had +done, without losing his smile. Marjory must not allow him to lose +that now. His mouth was drooping with such exaggerated melancholy that +she felt something must be done at once. She began to laugh. He +turned quickly. + +"You look as if you had lost your last friend," she chided him. "If +talking with Peter Noyes does that to you, I don't think you had better +talk with him any more." + +"He's worth more to-day, blind, than I with my two eyes." + +"The trouble with Peter is that he can't smile," she answered. "After +all, it would be a sad world if no one were left to smile." + +The words brought back to him the phrase she had used at the Normandie: +"I am depending on you to keep me normal." + +Here was something right at hand for him to do, and a man's job at +that. He had wanted a chance to play the game, and here it was. +Perhaps the game was not so big as some,--it concerned only her and +him,--but there was a certain added challenge in playing the little +game hard. Besides, the importance of the game was a good deal in the +point of view. If, for him, it was big, that was enough. + +As he stood before her now, the demand upon him for all his nerve was +enough to satisfy any man. To assume before her the pose of the +carefree chump that she needed to balance her own nervous fears--to do +this with every muscle in him straining toward her, with the beauty of +her making him dizzy, with hot words leaping for expression to his dry +lips, those facts, after all, made the game seem not so small. + +"Where are you going to lunch to-day?" he asked. + +"I don't know, Monte," she answered indifferently. "I told Peter he +could come over at ten." + +"I see. Want to lunch with him?" + +"I don't want to lunch with any one." + +"He'll probably expect you. I was going to look at some villas to-day; +but I suppose that's all off." + +Her cheeks turned scarlet. + +"Yes." + +"Then I guess I'll walk to Monte Carlo and lunch there. How about +dinner?" + +"If they see us together--" + +"Ask them to come along too. You can tell them I'm an old friend. I +am that, am I not?" + +"One of the oldest and best," she answered earnestly. + +"Then I'll call you up when I come back. Good luck." + +With a nod and a smile, he left her. + +From the window she watched him out of sight. He did not turn. There +was no reason in the world why she should have expected him to turn. +He had a pleasant day before him. He would amuse himself at the +Casino, enjoy a good luncheon, smoke a cigarette in the sunshine, and +call her up at his leisure when he returned. Except for the light +obligation of ascertaining her wishes concerning dinner, it was the +routine he had followed for ten years. It had kept him satisfied, kept +him content. Doubtless, if he were left undisturbed, it would keep him +satisfied and content for another decade. He would always be able to +walk away from her without turning back. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +PETER + +Beatrice brought Peter at ten, and, in spite of the mute appeal of +Marjory's eyes, stole off on tiptoe and left her alone with him. + +"Has Trix gone?" demanded Peter. + +"Yes." + +"She shouldn't have done that," he complained. + +Marjory made him comfortable in the chair Monte had lately occupied, +finding a cushion for his head. + +"Please don't do those things," he objected. "You make me feel as if I +were wearing a sign begging for pity." + +"How can any one help pitying you, when they see you like this, Peter?" +she asked gently. + +"What right have they to do it?" he demanded. + +"Right?" + +She frowned at that word. So many things in her life seemed to have +been decided without respect for right. + +"I'm the only one to say whether I shall be pitied or not," he +declared. "I've lost the use of my eyes temporarily by my own fault. +I don't like it; but I refuse to be pitied." + +Marjory was surprised to find him so aggressive. It was not what she +expected after listening to Beatrice. It changed her whole attitude +toward him instantly from one of guarded condolence to honest +admiration. There was no whine here. He was blaming no one--neither +himself nor her. It was with a wave of deep and sincere sympathy, +springing spontaneously from within herself, that she spoke. + +"Peter," she said, "I won't pity you any more. But if I 'm sorry for +you--awfully sorry--you won't mind that?" + +"I'd rather you would n't think of my eyes at all," he answered +unsteadily. "I can almost forget them myself--with you." + +"Then," she said, "we'll forget them. Are you going to stay here long, +Peter?" + +"Are you?" + +"My plans are uncertain. I don't think I shall ever make any more +plans." + +"You must n't let yourself feel that way," Peter returned. "The thing +to do, if one scheme fails, is to start another--right off." + +"But nothing ever comes out as you expect." + +"That gives you a chance to try again." + +"You can't keep that up forever?" + +"Forever and ever," he nodded. "It's what makes life worth living." + +"Peter," she said below her breath, "you're wonderful." + +He seemed to clear the muggy air around her like a summer shower. In +touch with his fine courage, her own returned. She felt herself +steadier and calmer than she had been for a week. + +"What if you make mistakes, Peter?" + +"It's the only way you learn," he answered. "There's a new note in +your voice, Marjory. Have--you been learning?" + +His meaning was clear. He leaned forward as if trying to pierce the +darkness between them. His thin white hands were tight upon the chair +arms. + +"At least, I've been making mistakes," she answered uneasily. + +She felt, for a second, as if she could pour out her troubles to +him--as if he would listen patiently and give her of his wisdom and +strength. It would be easier--she was ashamed of the thought, but it +held true--because he could not see. Almost--she could tell him of +herself and of Monte. + +"There's such a beautiful woman in you!" he explained passionately. + +With her heart beating fast, she dropped back in her chair. There was +the old ring in his voice--the old masterful decision that used to +frighten her. There used to be moments when she was afraid that he +might command her to come with him as with authority, and that she +would go. + +"I 've always known that you'd learn some day all the fine things that +are in you--all the fine things that lay ahead of you to do as a +woman," he ran on. "You've only been waiting; that's all." + +He could not see her cheeks--she was thankful for that. But the wonder +was that he did not hear the pounding of her heart. He spoke like +this, not knowing of this last week. + +"You remember all the things I said to you--before you left?" + +"Yes." + +"I can't say them to you now. I must wait until I get my eyes back. +Then I shall say them again, and perhaps--" + +"Do you think I 'd let you wait for your eyes?" she cried. + +"You mean that now--" + +"No, no, Peter," she interrupted, in a panic. "I did n't mean I could +listen now. Only I did n't want you to think I was so selfish that if +it were possible to share the light with you I--I would n't share the +dark too." + +"There would n't be any dark for me at all if you shared it," he +answered gently. + +Then she saw his lips tighten. + +"We must n't talk of that," he said. "We must n't think of it." + +Yet, of all the many things they discussed this morning, nothing left +Marjory more to think about. It seemed that, so far, her freedom had +done nothing but harm. She had intended no harm. She had desired only +to lead her own life day by day, quite by herself. So she had fled +from Peter--with this result; then she had fled from Teddy, who had +lost his head completely; finally she had fled, not from Monte but with +him, because that seemed quite the safest thing to do. It had proved +the most dangerous of all! If she had driven Peter blind, Monte--if he +only knew it--had brought him sweet revenge, because he had made her, +not blind, but something that was worse, a thousand times worse! + +There was some hope for Peter. It is so much easier to cure blindness +than vision. Always she must see the light that had leaped to Monte's +eyes, kindled from the fire in her own soul. Always she must see him +coming to her outstretched arms, knowing that she had lost the right to +lift her arms. Perhaps she must even see him going to other arms, that +flame born of her breathed into fuller life by other lips. If +not--then the ultimate curse of watching him remain just Monte, knowing +he might have been so much more. This because she had dared trifle +with that holy passion and so had made herself unworthy of it. + +Peter was telling her of his work; of what he had accomplished already +and of what he hoped to accomplish. She heard him as from a distance, +and answered mechanically his questions, while she pursued her own +thoughts. + +It seemed almost as if a woman was not allowed to remain negative; that +either she must accomplish positive good or positive harm. So far, she +had accomplished only harm; and now here was an opportunity that was +almost an obligation to offset that to some degree. She must free +Monte as soon as possible. That was necessary in any event. She owed +it to him. It was a sacred obligation that she must pay to save even +the frayed remnant of her pride. This had nothing to do with Peter. +She saw now it would have been necessary just the same, even if Peter +had not come to make it clearer. Until she gave up the name to which +she had no right, with which she had so shamelessly trifled, she must +feel only glad that Peter could not see into her eyes. + +So Monte would go on his way again, and she would be left--she and +Peter. If, then, what Beatrice said was true,--if it was within her +power, at no matter what sacrifice, to give Peter back the sight she +had taken,--then so she might undo some of the wrong she had done. The +bigger the sacrifice, the fiercer the fire might rage to burn her +clean. Because she had thought to sacrifice nothing, she had been +forced to sacrifice everything; if now she sacrificed everything, +perhaps she could get back a little peace in return. She would give +her life to Peter--give him everything that was left in her to give. +Humbly she would serve him and nurse the light back into his eyes. Was +it possible to do this? + +She saw Beatrice at the door, and rose to meet her. + +"You're to lunch with me," she said. "Then, for dinner, Mr. Covington +has asked us all to join him." + +"Covington?" exclaimed Peter. "Is n't he the man who was so decent to +me this morning?" + +"He said he met you," answered Marjory. + +"I liked him," declared Peter. "I'll be mighty glad to see more of +him." + +"And I too," nodded Beatrice. "He looked so very romantic with his +injured arm." + +"Monte romantic?" smiled Marjory. "That's the one thing in the world +he is n't." + +"Just who is he, anyway?" inquired Beatrice. + +"He's just Monte," answered Marjory. + +"And Madame Monte--where is she? I noticed by the register there is +such a person." + +"I--I think he said she had been called away--unexpectedly," Marjory +gasped. + +She turned aside with an uncomfortable feeling that Beatrice had +noticed her confusion. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +AN EXPLANATION + +The following week Monte devoted himself wholly to the entertainment of +Marjory and her friends. He placed his car at their disposal, and +planned for them daily trips with the thoroughness of a courier, though +he generally found some excuse for not going himself. His object was +simple: to keep Marjory's days so filled that she would have no time +left in which to worry. He wanted to help her, as far as possible, to +forget the preceding week, which had so disturbed her. To this end +nothing could be better for her than Peter and Beatrice Noyes, who were +so simply and honestly plain, everyday Americans. They were just the +wholesome, good-natured companions she needed to offset the morbid +frame of mind into which he had driven her. Especially Peter. He was +good for her and she was good for him. + +The more he talked with Peter Noyes the better he liked him. At the +end of the day--after seeing them started in the morning, Monte used to +go out and walk his legs off till dinner-time--he enjoyed dropping into +a chair by the side of Peter. It was wonderful how already Peter had +picked up. He had gained not only in weight and color, but a marked +mental change was noticeable. He always came back from his ride in +high spirits. So completely did he ignore his blindness that Monte, +talking with him in the dark, found himself forgetting it--awakening to +the fact each time with a shock when it was necessary to offer an +assisting arm. + +It was the man's enthusiasm Monte admired. He seemed to be always +alert--always keen. Yet, as near as he could find out, his life had +been anything but adventuresome or varied. After leaving the law +school he had settled down in a New York office and just plugged along. +He confessed that this was the first vacation he had taken since he +began practice. + +"You can hardly call this a vacation!" exclaimed Monte. + +"Man dear," answered Peter earnestly, "you don't know what these days +mean to me." + +"You sure are entitled to all the fun you can get out of them," +returned Monte. "But I hate to think how I'd feel under the same +circumstances." + +"I don't believe there is much difference between men," answered Peter. +"I imagine that about certain things we all feel a good deal alike." + +"I wonder," mused Monte. "I can't imagine myself, for instance, living +twelve months in the year in New York and being enthusiastic about it." + +"What do you do when you're there?" inquired Peter. + +"Not much of anything," admitted Monte. + +"Then you're no more in New York when you're there than in Jericho," +answered Peter. "You 've got to get into the game really to live in +New York. You 've got to work and be one of the million others before +you can get the feel of the city. Best of all, a man ought to marry +there. You're married, are n't you, Covington?" + +"Eh?" + +"Did n't Beatrice tell me you registered here with your wife?" + +[Illustration: "Did n't Beatrice tell me you registered here with your +wife?"] + +Monte moistened his lips. + +"Yes--she was here for a day. She--she was called away." + +"That's too bad. I hope we'll have an opportunity to meet her before +we leave." + +"Thanks." + +"She ought to help you understand New York." + +"Perhaps she would. We've never been there together." + +"Been married long?" + +"No." + +"So you have n't any children." + +"Hardly." + +"Then," said Peter, "you have your whole life ahead of you. You have +n't begun to live anywhere yet." + +"And you?" + +"It's the same with me," confessed Peter, with a quick breath. +"Only--well, I haven't been able to make even the beginning you 've +made." + +Monte leaned forward with quickened interest. + +"That's the thing you wanted so hard?" he asked. + +"Yes." + +"To marry and have children?" + +Monte was silent a moment, and then he added:-- + +"I know a man who did that." + +"A man who does n't is n't a man, is he?" + +"I--I don't know," confessed Monte. "I 've visited this friend once or +twice. Did you ever see a kiddy with the croup?" + +"No," admitted Peter. + +"You're darned lucky. It's just as though--as though some one had the +little devil by the throat, trying to strangle him." + +"There are things you can do." + +"Things you can try to do. But mostly you stand around with your hands +tied, waiting to see what's going to happen." + +"Well?" queried Peter, evidently puzzled. + +"That's only one of a thousand things that can happen to 'em. There +are worse things. They are happening every day." + +"Well?" + +"When I think of Chic and his children I think of him pacing the hall +with his forehead all sweaty with the ache inside of him. Nothing +pleasant about that, is there?" + +Peter did not answer for a moment, and then what he said seemed rather +pointless. + +"What of it?" he asked. + +"Only this," answered Monte uneasily. "When you speak of a wife and +children you have to remember those facts. You have to consider that +you 're going to be torn all to shoe-strings every so often. Maybe you +open the gates of heaven, but you throw open the gates of hell too. +There's no more jogging along in between on the good old earth." + +"Good Lord!" exclaimed Peter. "You consider such things?" + +"I've always tried to stay normal," answered Monte uneasily. + +"Yet you said you're married?" + +"Even so, is n't it possible for a man to keep his head?" demanded +Monte. + +"I don't understand," replied Peter. + +"Look here--I don't want to intrude in your affairs, but I don't +suppose you are talking merely abstractedly. You have some one +definite in mind?" + +"Yes." + +"Then you ought to understand; you've kept steady." + +"I wouldn't be like this if I had," answered Peter. + +"You mean your eyes." + +"I tried to forget her because she wasn't ready to listen. I turned to +my work, and put in twenty hours a day. It was a fool thing to do. +And yet--" + +Monte held his breath. + +"From the depths I saw the heights, I saw the wonderful beauty of the +peaks." + +"And still see them?" + +"Clearer than ever now." + +"Then you aren't sorry she came into your life?" + +"Sorry, man?" exclaimed Peter. "Even at this price--even if there were +no hope ahead, I'd still have my visions." + +"But there is hope?" + +"I have one chance in a thousand. It's more than anything I 've had up +to now." + +"One in a thousand is a fighting chance," Monte returned. + +"You speak as if that were more than you had." + +"It was." + +"Yet you won out." + +"How?" demanded Monte. + +"She married you." + +"Yes," answered Monte, "that's true. I say, old man--it's getting a +bit cool here. Perhaps we'd better go in." + + +Monte had planned for them a drive to Cannes the day Beatrice sent word +to Marjory that she would be unable to go. + +"But you two will go, won't you?" she concluded her note. "Peter will +be terribly disappointed if you don't." + +So they went, leaving at ten o'clock. At ten-fifteen Beatrice came +downstairs, and ran into Monte just as he was about to start his walk. + +"You're feeling better?" he asked politely. + +She shook her head. + +"I--I'm afraid I told a fib." + +"You mean you stayed because you did n't want to go." + +"Yes. But I did n't say I had a headache." + +"I know how you feel about that," he returned. "Leaving people to +guess wrong lets you out in one way, and in another it does n't." + +She appeared surprised at his directness. She had expected him to pass +the incident over lightly. + +"It was for Peter's sake, anyhow," she tried to justify her position. +"But don't let me delay you, please. I know you 're off for your +morning walk." + +That was true. But he was interested in that statement she had just +made that it was for Peter's sake she had remained behind. It revealed +an amazingly dense ignorance of both her brother's position and +Marjory's. On no other theory could he make it seem consistent for her +to encourage a tête-à-tête between a married woman and a man as deeply +in love with some one else as Peter was. + +"Won't you come along a little way?" he asked. "We can turn back at +any time." + +She hesitated a moment--but only a moment. + +"Thanks." + +She fell into step at his side as he sought the quay. + +"You've been very good to Peter," she said. "I've wanted a chance to +tell you so." + +"You did n't remain behind for that, I hope," he smiled. + +"No," she admitted; "but I do appreciate your kindness. Peter has had +such a terrible time of it." + +"And yet," mused Monte aloud, "he does n't seem to feel that way +himself." + +"He has confided in you?" + +"A little. He told me he regretted nothing." + +"He has such fine courage!" she exclaimed. + +"Not that alone. He has had some beautiful dreams." + +"That's because of his courage." + +"It takes courage, then, to dream?" Monte asked. + +"Don't you think it does--with your eyes gone?" + +"With or without eyes," he admitted. + +"You don't know what he's been through," she frowned. "Even he does +n't know. When I came to him, there was so little of him left. I 'll +never forget the first sight I had of him in the hospital. Thin and +white and blind, he lay there as though dead." + +He looked at the frail young woman by his side. She must have had fine +courage too. There was something of Peter in her. + +"And you nursed him back." + +She blushed at the praise. + +"Perhaps I helped a little; but, after all, it was the dreams he had +that counted most. All I did was to listen and try to make them real +to him. I tried to make him hope." + +"That was fine." + +"He loved so hard, with all there was in him, as he does everything," +she explained. + +"I suppose that was the trouble," he nodded. + +She turned quickly. It was as if he said that was the mistake. + +"After all, that's just love, is n't it? There can't be any halfway +about it, can there?" + +"I wonder." + +"You--you wonder, Mr. Covington?" + +He was stupid at first. He did not get the connection. Then, as she +turned her dark eyes full upon him, the blood leaped to his cheeks. He +was married--that was what she was trying to tell him. He had a wife, +and so presumably knew what love was. For her to assume anything else, +for him to admit anything else, was impossible. + +"Perhaps we'd better turn back," she said uneasily. + +He felt like a cad. He turned instantly. + +"I 'm afraid I did n't make myself very clear," he faltered. "We are +n't all of us like Peter." + +"There is no one in the world quite as good as Peter," the girl +declared. + +"Then you should n't blame me too much," he suggested. + +"It is not for me to criticize you at all," she returned somewhat +stiffly. + +"But you did." + +"How?" + +"When you suggested turning back. It was as if you had determined I +was not quite a proper person to walk with." + +"Mr. Covington!" she protested. + +"We may as well be frank. It seems to be a misfortune of mine lately +to get things mixed up. Peter is helping me to see straight. That's +why I like to talk with him." + +"He sees so straight himself." + +"That's it." + +"If only now he recovers his eyes." + +"He says there's hope." + +"It all depends upon her," she said. + +"Upon this woman?" + +"Upon this one woman." + +"If she realized it--" + +"She does," broke in Beatrice. "I made her realize it. I went to her +and told her." + +"You did that?" + +She raised her head in swift challenge. + +"Even though Peter commanded me not to--even though I knew he would +never forgive me if he learned." + +"You women are so wonderful," breathed Monte. + +"With Peter's future--with his life at stake--what else could I do?" + +"And she, knowing that, refused to come to him?" + +"Fate brought us to her." + +"Then," exclaimed Monte, "what are you doing here?" + +She stopped and faced him. It was evident that he was sincere. + +"You men--all men are so stupid at times!" she cried, with a little +laugh. + +He shook his head slowly. + +"I 'll have to admit it." + +"Why, he's with her now," she laughed. "That's why I stayed at home +to-day." + +Monte held his breath for a second, and then he said:-- + +"You mean, the woman Peter loves is--is Marjory Stockton?" + +"No other. I thought he must have told you. If not, I thought you +must have guessed it from her." + +"Why, no," he admitted; "I did n't." + +"Then you've had your eyes closed." + +"That's it," he nodded; "I've had my eyes closed. Why, that explains a +lot of things." + +Impulsively the girl placed her hand on Monte's arm. + +"As an old friend of hers, you'll use your influence to help Peter?" + +"I 'll do what I can." + +"Then I'm so glad I told you." + +"Yes," agreed Monte. "I suppose it is just as well for me to know." + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +PAYING LIKE A MAN + +Everything considered, Monte should have been glad at the revelation +Beatrice made to him. If Peter were in love with Marjory and she with +Peter--why, it solved his own problem, by the simple process of +elimination, neatly and with despatch. All that remained for him to do +was to remove himself from the awkward triangle as soon as possible. +He must leave Marjory free, and Peter would look after the rest. No +doubt a divorce on the grounds of desertion could be easily arranged; +and thus, by that one stroke, they two would be made happy, and +he--well, what the devil was to become of him? + +The answer was obvious. It did not matter a picayune to any one what +became of him. What had he ever done to make his life worth while to +any one? He had never done any particular harm, that was true; but +neither had he done any particular good. It is the positive things +that count, when a man stands before the judgment-seat; and that is +where Monte stood on the night Marjory came back from Cannes by the +side of Peter, with her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed as if she +had come straight from Eden. + +They all dined together, and Monte grubbed hungrily for every look she +vouchsafed him, for every word she tossed him. She had been more than +ordinarily vivacious, spurred on partly by Beatrice and partly by +Peter. Monte had felt himself merely an onlooker. That, in fact, was +all he was. That was all he had been his whole life. + +He dodged Peter this evening to escape their usual after-dinner talk, +and went to his room. He was there now, with his face white and tense. + +He had been densely stupid from the first, as Beatrice had informed +him. Any man of the world ought to have suspected something when, at +the first sight of Peter, she ran away. She had never run from him. +Women run only when there is danger of capture, and she had nothing to +fear from him in that way. She was safe with him. She dared even come +with him to escape those from whom there might be some possible danger. +Until now he had been rather proud of this--as if it were some honor. +She had trusted him as she would not trust other men. It had made him +throw back his shoulders--dense fool that he was! + +She had trusted him because she did not fear him; she did not fear him +because there was nothing in him to fear. It was not that he was more +decent than other men: it was merely because he was less of a man. +Why, she had run even from Peter--good, honest, conscientious Peter, +with the heart and the soul and the nerve of a man. Peter had sent her +scurrying before him because of the great love he dared to have for +her. Peter challenged her to take up life with him--to buck New York +with him. This was after he had waded in himself with naked fists, +man-fashion. That was what gave Peter his right. That right was what +she feared. + +Monte had a grandfather who in forty-nine crossed the plains. A +picture of him hung in the Covington house in Philadelphia. The +painting revealed steel-gray eyes and, even below the beard of +respectability, a mouth that in many ways was like Peter's. Montague +Sears Covington--that was his name; the name that had been handed down +to Monte. The man had shouldered a rifle, fought his way across +deserts and over mountain paths, had risked his life a dozen times a +day to reach the unknown El Dorado of the West. He had done this +partly for a woman--a slip of a girl in New York whom he left behind to +wait for him, though she begged to go. That was Monte's grandmother. + +Monte, in spite of his ancestry, had jogged along, dodging the +responsibilities--the responsibilities that Peter Noyes rushed forward +to meet. He had ducked even love, even fatherhood. Like any quitter +on the gridiron, instead of tackling low and hard, he had side-stepped. +He had seen Chic in agony, and because of that had taken the next boat +for Marseilles. He had turned tail and run. He had seen Teddy, and +had run to what he thought was safe cover. If he paid the cost after +that, whose the fault? The least he could do now was to pay the cost +like a man. + +Here was the salient necessity--to pay the cost like a man. There must +be no whining, no regretting, no side-stepping this time. He must make +her free by surrendering all his own rights, privileges, and title. He +must turn her over to Peter, who had played the game. He must do more. +He must see that she went to Peter. He must accomplish something +positive this time. + +Beatrice had asked him to use his influence. It was slight, pitifully +slight, but he must do what he could. He must plan for them, +deliberately, more such opportunities as this one he had planned for +them unconsciously to-day. He must give them more chances to be +together. He had looked forward to having breakfast with her in the +morning. He must give up that. He must keep himself in the background +while he was here, and then, at the right moment, get out altogether. + +Technically, he must desert her. He must make that supreme sacrifice. +At the moment when he stood ready to challenge the world for her--at +the moment when his heart within him burned to face for her all the +dangers from which he had run--at that point he must relinquish even +this privilege, and with smiling lips pose before the world and before +her as a quitter. He must not even use the deserter's prerogative of +running. He must leave her cheerfully and jauntily--as the care-free +ass known to her and to the world as just Monte. + +The scorn of those words stung him white with helpless passion. She +had wished him always to be just Monte, because she thought that was +the best there was in him. As such he was at least harmless--a +good-natured chump to be trusted to do no harm, if he did no good. The +grandson of the Covington who had faced thirst and hunger and sudden +death for his woman, who had won for her a fortune fighting against +other strong men, the grandson of a man who had tackled life like a +man, must sacrifice his one chance to allow this ancestor to know his +own as a man. He could have met him chin up with Madame Covington on +his arm. He had that chance once. + +How ever had he missed it? He sat there with his fists clenched +between his knees, asking himself the question over and over again. He +had known her for over a decade. As a school-girl he had seen her at +Chic's, and now ten years later he saw that even then she had within +her all that she now had. That clear, white forehead had been there +then; the black arched brows, the thin, straight nose, and the mobile +lips. He caught his breath as he thought of those lips. Her eyes, +too--but no, a change had taken place there. He had always thought of +her eyes as cold--as impenetrable. They were not that now. Once or +twice he thought he had seen into them a little way. Once or twice he +thought he had glimpsed gentle, fluttering figures in them. Once or +twice they had been like windows in a long-closed house, suddenly flung +open upon warm rooms filled with flowers. It made him dizzy now to +remember those moments. + +He paced his room. In another week or two, if he had kept on,--if +Peter had not come,--he might have been admitted farther into that +house. He squared his shoulders. If he fought for his own even +now--if, man against man, he challenged Peter for her--he might have a +fighting chance. Was not that his right? In New York, in the world +outside New York, that was the law: a hard fight--the best man to win. +In war, favors might be shown; but in life, with a man's own at stake, +it was every one for himself. Peter himself would agree to that. He +was not one to ask favors. A fair fight was all he demanded. Then let +it be a clean, fair fight with bare knuckles to a finish. Let him show +himself to Marjory as the grandson of the man who gave him his name; +let him press his claims. + +He was ready now to face the world with her. He was eager to do that. +Neither heights nor depths held any terrors for him. He envied +Chic--he envied even poor mad Hamilton. + +Suddenly he saw a great truth. There is no difference between the +heights and the depths to those who are playing the game. It is only +those who sit in the grand-stand who see the difference. He ought to +have known that. The hard throws, the stinging tackles that used to +bring the grandstand to its feet, he never felt. The players knew +something that those upon the seats did not know, and thrilled with a +keener joy than the onlookers dreamed of. + +If he could only be given another chance to do something for +Marjory--something that would bite into him, something that would twist +his body and maul him! If he could not face some serious physical +danger for her, then some great sacrifice-- + +Which was precisely the opportunity now offered. He had been +considering this sacrifice from his own personal point of view. He had +looked upon it as merely a personal punishment. But, after all, it was +for her. It was for her alone. Peter played no part in it whatever. +Neither did he himself. It was for her--for her! + +Monte set his jaws. If, through Peter, he could bring her happiness, +then that was all the reward he could ask. Here was a man who loved +her, who would be good to her and fight hard for her. He was just the +sort of man he could trust her to. If he could see them settled in New +York, as Chic and Mrs. Chic were settled, see them start the brave +adventure, then he would have accomplished more than he had ever been +able to accomplish so far. + +There was no need of thinking beyond that point. What became of his +life after that did not matter in the slightest. Wherever he was, he +would always know that she was where she belonged, and that was enough. +He must hold fast to that thought. + +A knock at his door made him turn on his heels. + +"Who's that?" he demanded. + +"It's I--Noyes," came the answer. "Have you gone to bed yet?" + +Monte swung open the door. + +"Come in," he said. + +"I thought I 'd like to talk with you, if it is n't too late," +explained Peter nervously. + +"On the contrary, you could n't have come more opportunely. I was just +thinking about you." + +He led Peter to a chair. + +"Sit down and make yourself comfortable." + +Monte lighted a cigarette, sank into a near-by chair, and waited. + +"Beatrice said she told you," began Peter. + +"She did," answered Monte; "I'd congratulate you if it would n't be so +manifestly superfluous." + +"I did n't realize she was an old friend of yours." + +"I've known her for ten years," said Monte. + +"It's wonderful to have known her as long as that. I envy you." + +"That's strange, because I almost envy you." + +Peter laughed. + +"I have a notion I 'd be worried if you were n't already married, +Covington." + +"Worried?" + +"I think Mrs. Covington must be a good deal like Marjory." + +"She is," admitted Monte. + +"So, if I had n't been lucky enough to find you already suited, you +might have given me a race." + +"You forget that the ladies themselves have some voice in such +matters," Monte replied slowly. + +"I have better reasons than you for not forgetting that," answered +Peter. + +Monte started. + +"I was n't thinking of you," he put in quickly. "Besides, you did n't +give Marjory a fair chance. Her aunt had just died, and she--well, she +has learned a lot since then." + +"She has changed!" exclaimed Peter. "I noticed it at once; but I was +almost afraid to believe it. She seems steadier--more serious." + +"Yes." + +"You've seen a good deal of her recently?" + +"For the last two or three weeks," answered Monte. + +"You don't mind my talking to you about her?" + +"Not at all." + +"As you're an old friend of hers, I feel as if I had the right." + +"Go ahead." + +"It seems to me as if she had suddenly grown from a girl to a woman. I +saw the woman in her all the time. It--it was to her I spoke before. +Maybe, as you said, the woman was n't quite ready." + +"I'm sure of it." + +"You speak with conviction." + +"As I told you, I've come to know her better these last few weeks than +ever before. I 've had a chance to study her. She's had a chance, +too, to study--other men. There's been one in particular--" + +Peter straightened a bit. + +"One in particular?" he demanded aggressively. + +"No one you need fear," replied Monte. "In a way, it's because of him +that your own chances have improved." + +"How?" + +"It has given her an opportunity to compare him with you." + +"Are you at liberty to tell me about him?" + +"Yes; I think I have that right," replied Monte; "I'll not be violating +any confidences, because what I know about him I know from the man +himself. Furthermore, it was I who introduced him to her." + +"Oh--a friend of yours." + +"Not a friend, exactly; an acquaintance of long standing would be more +accurate. I've been in touch with him all my life, but it's only +lately I've felt that I was really getting to know him." + +"Is he here in Nice now?" inquired Peter. + +"No," answered Monte slowly. "He went away a little while ago. He +went suddenly--God knows where. I don't think he will ever come back." + +"You can't help pitying the poor devil if he was fond of her," said +Peter. + +"But he was n't good enough for her. It was his own fault too, so he +is n't deserving even of pity." + +"Probably that makes it all the harder. What was the matter with him?" + +"He was one of the kind we spoke of the other night--the kind who +always sits in the grandstand instead of getting into the game." + +"Pardon me if I 'm wrong, but--I thought you spoke rather +sympathetically of that kind the other night." + +"I was probably reflecting his views," Monte parried. + +"That accounts for it," returned Peter. "Somehow, it did n't sound +consistent in you. I wish I could see your face, Covington." + +"We're sitting in the dark here," answered Monte. + +"Go on." + +"Marjory liked this fellow well enough because--well, because he looked +more or less like a man. He was big physically, and all that. +Besides, his ancestors were all men, and I suppose they handed down +something." + +"What was his name?" + +"I think I 'd rather not tell you that. It's of no importance. This +is all strictly in confidence." + +"I understand." + +"So she let herself see a good deal of him. He was able to amuse her. +That kind of fellow generally can entertain a woman. In fact, that is +about all they are good for. When it comes down to the big things, +there is n't much there. They are well enough for the holidays, and I +guess that was all she was thinking about. She had had a hard time, +and wanted amusement. Maybe she fancied that was all she ever wanted; +but--well, there was more in her than she knew herself." + +"A thousand times more!" exclaimed Peter. + +"She found it out. Perhaps, after all, this fellow served his purpose +in helping her to realize that." + +"Perhaps." + +"So, after that, he left." + +"And he cared for her?" + +"Yes." + +"Poor devil!" + +"I don't know," mused Monte. "He seemed, on the whole, rather glad +that he had been able to do that much for her." + +"I 'd like to meet that man some day. I have a notion there is more in +him than you give him credit for, Covington." + +"I doubt it." + +"A man who would give up her--" + +"She's the sort of woman a man would want to do his level best for," +broke in Monte. "If that meant giving her up,--if the fellow felt he +was n't big enough for her,--then he could n't do anything else, could +he?" + +"The kind big enough to consider that would be big enough for her," +declared Peter. + +Monte drew a quick breath. + +"Do you mind repeating that?" + +"I say the man really loving her who would make such a sacrifice comes +pretty close to measuring up to her standard." + +"I think he would like to hear that. You see, it's the first real +sacrifice he ever undertook." + +"It may be the making of him." + +"Perhaps." + +"He'll always have her before him as an ideal. When you come in touch +with such a woman as she--you can't lose, Covington, no matter how +things turn out." + +"I 'll tell him that too." + +"It's what I tell myself over and over again. To-day--well, I had an +idea there must be some one in the background of her life I did n't +know about." + +"You 'd better get that out of your head. This man is n't even in the +background, Noyes." + +"I 'm not so sure. I thought she seemed worried. I tried to make her +tell me, but she only laughed. She'd face death with a smile, that +woman. I got to thinking about it in my room, and that's why I came +down here to you. You've seen more of her these last few months than I +have." + +"Not months; only weeks." + +"And this other--I don't want to pry into her affairs, but we're all +just looking to her happiness, are n't we?" + +"Consider this other man as dead and gone," cut in Monte. "He was +lucky to be able to play the small part in her life that he did play." + +"But something is disturbing her. I know her voice; I know her laugh. +If I did n't have those to go by, there'd be something else. I can +_feel_ when she's herself and when she is n't." + +Monte grasped his chair arms. He had studied her closely the last few +days, and had not been able to detect the fact that she was worried. +He had thought her gayer, more light-hearted, than usual. It was so +that she had held herself before him. If Peter was right,--and Monte +did not doubt the man's superior intuition,--then obviously she was +worrying over the technicality that still held her a prisoner. Until +she was actually free she would live up to the letter of her contract. +This would naturally tend to strain her intercourse with Peter. She +was not one to take such things lightly. + +Monte rose, crossed the room, and placed his hand on Peter's shoulder. + +"I think I can assure you," he said slowly, "that if there is anything +bothering her now, it is nothing that will last. All you've got to do +is to be patient and hold on." + +"You seem to be mighty confident." + +"If you knew what I know, you'd be confident too." + +Peter frowned. + +"I don't like discussing these things, but--they mean so much." + +"So much to all of us," nodded Monte. "Now, the thing to do is to turn +in and get a good night's sleep. After all, there _is_ something in +keeping normal." + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +BACK TO SCHEDULE + +Monte rose the next morning to find the skies leaden and a light, +drizzling rain falling that promised to continue all day. It was the +sort of weather that ordinarily left him quite helpless, because, not +caring for either bridge or billiards, nothing remained but to pace the +hotel piazza--an amusement that under the most favorable conditions has +its limitations. But to-day--even though the rain had further +interfered with his arrangements by making it necessary to cancel the +trip he had planned for Marjory and Peter to Cannes--the weather was an +inconsequential incident. It did not matter greatly to him whether it +rained or not. + +Not that he was depressed to indifference. Rather he was conscious of +a certain nervous excitement akin to exhilaration that he had not felt +since the days of the big games, when he used to get up with his blood +tingling in heady anticipation of the task before him. He took his +plunge with hearty relish, and rubbed his body until it glowed with the +Turkish towel. + +His arm was free of the sling now, and, though it was still a bit +stiff, it was beginning to limber up nicely. In another week it would +be as good as new, with only a slight scar left to serve as a reminder +of the episode that had led to so much. In time that too would +disappear; and then-- But he was not concerned with the future. That, +any more than the weather, was no affair of his. + +This morning Marjory would perforce remain indoors, and so if he went +to see her it was doubtful whether he would be interfering with any +plans she might have made for Peter. An hour was all he +needed--perhaps less. This would leave the two the remainder of the +day free--and, after that, all the days to come. There would be +hundreds of them--all the days of the summer, all the days of the fall, +all the days of the winter, and all the days of the spring; then +another summer, and so a new cycle full of days twenty-four hours long. + +Out of these he was going to take one niggardly hour. Nor was he +asking that little for his own sake. Eager as he was--as he had been +for two weeks--for the privilege of just being alone with her, he would +have foregone that now, had it been possible to write her what he had +to say. In a letter it is easy to leave unsaid so many things. But he +must face her leaving the same things unsaid, because she was a woman +who demanded that a man speak what he had to say man-fashion. He must +do that, even though there would be little truth in his words. He must +make her believe the lie. He cringed at the word. But, after all, it +was the truth to her. That was what he must keep always in mind. He +had only to help her keep her own conception. He was coming to her, +not in his proper person, but as just Monte. As such he would be +telling the truth. + +He shaved and dressed with some care. The rain beat against the +window, and he did not hear it. He went down to breakfast and faced +the vacant chair which he had ordered to be left at his table. She had +never sat there, though at every meal it stood ready for her. Peter +suggested once that he join them at their table until madame returned; +but Monte had shaken his head. + +Monte did not telephone her until ten, and then he asked simply if he +might come over for an hour. + +"Certainly," she answered: "I shall be glad to see you. It's a +miserable day, Monte." + +"It's raining a bit, but I don't mind." + +"That's because you're so good-natured." + +He frowned. It was a privilege he had over the telephone. + +"Anyhow, what you can't help you may as well grin and bear." + +"I suppose so, Monte," she answered. "But if I 'm to grin, I must +depend upon you to make me." + +"I'll be over in five minutes," he replied. + +She needed him to make her grin! That was all he was good for. Thank +Heaven, he had it in his power to do this much; as soon as he told her +she was to be free again, the smile would return to her lips. + +He went at once to the hotel, and she came down to meet him, looking +very serious--and very beautiful. Her deep eyes seemed deeper than +ever, perhaps because of a trace of dark below them. She had color, +but it was bright crimson against a dead white. Her lips were more +mobile than usual, as if she were having difficulty in controlling +them--as if many unspoken things were struggling there for expression. + +When he took her warm hand, she raised her head a little, half closing +her eyes. It was clear that she was worrying more than even he had +suspected. Poor little woman, her conscience was probably harrying the +life out of her. This must not be. + +They went upstairs to the damp, desolate sun parlor, and he undertook +at once the business in hand. + +"It has n't worked very well, has it, Marjory?" he began, with a forced +smile. + +Turning aside her head, she answered in a voice scarcely above a +whisper:-- + +"No, Monte." + +"But," he went on, "there's no sense in getting stirred up about that." + +"It was such a--a hideous mistake," she said. + +"That's where you're wrong," he declared. "We've tried a little +experiment, and it failed. Is n't that all there is to it?" + +"All?" + +"Absolutely all," he replied. "What we did n't reckon with was running +across old friends who would take the adventure so seriously. If we'd +only gone to Central Africa or Asia Minor--" + +"It would have been just the same if we'd gone to the North Pole," she +broke in. + +"You think so?" + +"I know it. Women can't trifle with--with such things without getting +hurt." + +"I 'm sorry. I suppose I should have known." + +"You were just trying to be kind, Monte," she answered. "Don't take +any of the blame. It's all mine." + +"I urged you." + +"What of that?" she demanded. "It was for me to come or not to come. +That is one part of her life over which a woman has absolute control. +I came because I was so utterly selfish I did not realize what I was +doing." + +"And I?" he asked quickly. + +"You?" + +She turned and tried to meet his honest eyes. + +"I'm afraid I've spoiled your holiday," she murmured. + +He clinched his jaws against the words that surged to his lips. + +"If we could leave those last few weeks just as they were--" he said. +"Can't we call that evening I met you in Paris the beginning, and the +day we reached Nice the end?" + +"Only there is no end," she cried. + +"Let the day we reached the Hôtel des Roses be the end. I should like +to go away feeling that the whole incident up to then was something +detached from the rest of our lives." + +"You're going--where?" she gasped. + +He tried to smile. + +"I 'll have to pick up my schedule again." + +"You're going--when?" + +"In a day or two now," he replied. "You see--it's necessary for me to +desert you." + +"Monte!" + +"The law demands the matter of six months' absence--perhaps a little +longer. I 'll have this looked up and will notify you. Desertion is +an ugly word; but, after all, it sounds better than cruel and abusive +treatment." + +"It's I who deserted," she said. + +He waved the argument aside. + +"Anyway, it's only a technicality. The point is that I must show the +world that--that we did not mean what we said. So I 'll go on to +England." + +"And play golf," she added for him. + +He nodded. + +"I 'll probably put up a punk game. Never was much good at golf. But +it will help get me back into the rut. Then I 'll sail about the first +of August for New York and put a few weeks into camp." + +"Then you'll go on to Cambridge." + +"And hang around until after the Yale game." + +"Then--" + +"How many months have I been gone already?" + +"Four." + +"Oh, yes; then I'll go back to New York." + +"What will you do there, Monte?" + +"I--I don't know. Maybe I'll call on Chic some day." + +"If they should ever learn!" cried Marjory. + +"Eh?" + +Monte passed his hand over his forehead. + +"There is n't any danger of that, is there?" + +"I don't think I'll ever dare meet _her_ again." + +Monte squared his shoulders. + +"See here, little woman; you must n't feel this way. It won't do at +all. That's why I thought if you could only separate these last few +weeks from everything else--just put them one side and go from +there--it would be so much better. You see, we've got to go on +and--holy smoke! this has got to be as if it never happened. You have +your life ahead of you and I have mine. We can't let this spoil all +the years ahead. You--why, you--" + +She looked up. It was a wonder he did not take her in his arms in that +moment. He held himself as he had once held himself when eleven men +were trying to push him and his fellows over the last three yards +separating them from a goal. + +"It's necessary to go on, is n't it?" he repeated helplessly. + +"Yes, yes," she answered quickly. "You must go back to your schedule +just as soon as ever you can. As soon as we're over the ugly part--" + +"The divorce?" + +"As soon as we're over that, everything will be all right again," she +nodded. + +"Surely," he agreed. + +"But we must n't remember anything. That's quite impossible. The +thing to do is to forget." + +She appeared so earnest that he hastened to reassure her. + +"Then we'll forget." + +He said it so cheerfully, she was ready to believe him. + +"That ought to be easy for you," he added. + +"For me?" + +"I 'm going to leave you with Peter." + +She caught her breath. She did not dare answer. + +"I've seen a good deal of him lately," he continued. "We've come to +know each other rather intimately, as sometimes men do in a short while +when they have interests in common." + +"You and Peter have interests in common!" she exclaimed. + +He appeared uneasy. + +"We're both Harvard, you know." + +"I see." + +"Of course, I 've had to do more or less hedging on account--of Madame +Covington." + +"I'm sorry, Monte." + +"You need n't be, because it was she who introduced me to him. And, I +tell you, he's fine and big and worth while all through. But you know +that." + +"Yes." + +"That's why I 'm going to feel quite safe about leaving you with him." + +She started. That word "safe" was like a stab with a penknife. She +would have rather had him strike her a full blow in the face than use +it. Yet, in its miserable fashion, it expressed all that he had sought +through her--all that she had allowed him to seek. From the first they +had each sought safety, because they did not dare face the big things. + +Now, at the moment she was ready, the same weakness that she had +encouraged in him was helping take him away from her. And the pitiful +tragedy of it was that Peter was helping too, and then challenging her +to accept still graver dangers through him. It was a pitiful tangle, +and yet one that she must allow to continue. + +"You mean he'll help you not to worry about me?" + +"That's it," he nodded. "Because I've seen the man side of him, and +it's even finer than the side you see." + +Her lips came together. + +"There's no reason why you should feel responsibility for me even +without Peter," she protested. + +She was seated in one of the wicker chairs, chin in hand. He stepped +toward her. + +"You don't think I'd be cad enough to desert my wife actually?" he +demanded. + +He seemed so much in earnest that for a second the color flushed the +chalk-white portions of her cheeks. + +"Sit down, Monte," she pleaded. "I--I did n't expect you to take it +like that. I 'm afraid Peter is making you too serious. After all, +you know, I 'm of age. I 'm not a child." + +He sat down, bending toward her. + +"We've both acted more or less like children," he said gently. "Now I +guess the time has come for us to grow up. Peter will help you do +that." + +"And you?" + +"He has helped me already. And when he gets his eyes back--" + +"You think there is a chance for that?" + +"Just one chance," he answered. + +"Oh!" she cried. + +"It's a big opportunity," he said. + +She rose and went to the window, where she looked out upon the gray +ocean and the slanting rain and a world grown dull and sodden. He +followed her there, but with his shoulders erect now. + +"I 'm going now," he said. "I think I shall take the night train for +Paris. I want to leave the machine--the machine we came down here +in--for you." + +"Don't--please don't." + +"It's for you and Peter. The thing for you both to do is to get out in +it every day." + +"I--I don't want to." + +"You mean--" + +He placed his hand upon her arm, and she ventured one more look into +his eyes. He was frowning. She must not allow that. She must send +him away in good spirits. That was the least she could do. So she +forced a smile. + +"All right," she promised; "if it will make you more comfortable." + +"It would worry me a lot if I thought you were n't going to be happy." + +"I'll go out every fair day." + +"That's fine." + +He took a card from his pocket and scribbled his banker's address upon +it. + +"If anything should come up where--where I can be of any use, you can +always reach me through this address." + +She took the card. Even to the end he was good--good and four-square. +He was so good that her throat ached. She could not endure this very +much longer. He extended his hand. + +"S'long and good luck," he said. + +"I--I hope your golf will be better than you think." + +Then he said a peculiar thing. He seldom swore, and seldom lost his +head as completely as he did that second. But, looking her full in the +eyes, he ejaculated below his breath:-- + +"Damn golf!" + +The observation was utterly irrelevant. Turning, he clicked his heels +together like a soldier and went out. The door closed behind him. For +a second her face was illumined as with a great joy. In a sort of +ecstasy, she repeated his words. + +"He said," she whispered--"he said, 'Damn golf.'" Then she threw +herself into a wicker chair and began to sob. + +"Oh!" she choked. "If--if--" + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +A CONFESSION + +Monte left Nice on the twentieth of July, to join--as Peter +supposed--Madame Covington in Paris. Monte himself had been extremely +ambiguous about his destination, being sure of only one fact: that he +should not return inside of a year, if he did then. Peter had asked +for his address, and Monte had given him the same address that he gave +Marjory. + +"I want to keep in touch with you," Peter said. + +Peter missed the man. On the ride with Marjory that he enjoyed the +next day after Monte's departure, he talked a great deal of him. + +"I 'd like to have seen into his eyes," he told her. "I kept feeling I +'d find something there more than I got hold of in his voice and the +grip of his hand." + +"He has blue eyes," she told him, "and they are clean as a child's." + +"They are a bit sad?" + +"Monte's eyes sad?" she exclaimed. "What made you think so?" + +"Perhaps because, from what he let drop the other night, I gathered he +was n't altogether happy with Mrs. Covington." + +"He told you that?" + +"No; not directly," he assured her. "He's too loyal. I may be utterly +mistaken; only he was rather vague as to why she was not here with him." + +"She was not with him," Marjory answered slowly. "She was not with him +because she was n't big enough to deserve him." + +"Then it's a fact there's a tragedy in his life?" + +"Not in his--in hers," she answered passionately. + +"How can that be?" + +"Because she's the one who realizes the truth." + +"But she's the one who went away." + +"Because of that. It's a miserable story, Peter." + +"You knew her intimately?" + +"A great many years." + +"I think Covington said he had known you a long time." + +"Yes." + +"Then, knowing her and knowing him, was n't there anything you could +do?" + +"I did what I could," she answered wearily. + +"Perhaps that explains why he hurried back to her." + +"He has n't gone to her. He'll never go back to her. She deserted +him, and now--he's going to make it permanent." + +"A divorce?" + +"Yes, Peter," she answered, with a little shiver. + +"You're taking it hard." + +"I know all that he means to her," she choked. + +"She loves him?" + +"With all her heart and soul." + +"And he does n't know it?" + +"Why, he would n't believe it--if she told him. She can never let him +know it. She'd deny it if he asked her. She loves him enough for +that." + +"Good Lord!" exclaimed Peter. "There's a mistake there somewhere." + +"The mistake came first," she ran on. "Oh, I don't know why I'm +telling you these things, except that it is a relief to tell them to +some one." + +"Tell me all about it," he encouraged her. "I knew there was something +on your mind." + +"Peter," she said earnestly, "can you imagine a woman so selfish that +she wanted to marry just to escape the responsibilities of marriage?" + +"It is n't possible," he declared. + +Her cheeks were a vivid scarlet. Had he been able to see them, she +could not have gone on. + +"A woman so selfish," she faltered ahead, "that she preferred a +make-believe husband to a real husband, because--because so she thought +she would be left free." + +"Free for what?" he demanded. + +"To live." + +"When love and marriage and children are all there is to life?" he +asked. + +She caught her breath. + +"You see, she did not know that then. She thought all those things +called for the sacrifice of her freedom." + +"What freedom?" he demanded again. "It's when we're alone that we're +slaves--slaves to ourselves. A woman alone, a man alone, living to +himself alone--what is there for him? He can only go around and around +in a pitifully small circle--a circle that grows smaller and smaller +with every year. Between twenty and thirty a man can exhaust all there +is in life for himself alone. He has eaten and slept and traveled and +played until his senses have become dull. Perhaps a woman lasts a +little longer, but not much longer. Then they are locked away in +themselves until they die." + +"Peter!" she cried in terror. + +"It's only as we live in others that we live forever," he ran on. "It +is only by toiling and sacrificing and suffering and loving that we +become immortal. It is so we acquire real freedom." + +"Yes, Peter," she agreed, with a gasp. + +"Could n't you make her understand that?" + +"She does understand. That's the pity of it." + +"And Covington?" + +"It's in him to understand; only--she lost the right to make him +understand. She--she debased herself. So she must sacrifice herself +to get clean again. She must make even greater sacrifices than any she +cowed away from. She must do this without any of the compensations +that come to those who have been honest and unafraid." + +"What of him?" + +"He must never know. He'll go round and round his little circle, and +she must watch him." + +"It's terrible," he murmured. "It will be terrible for her to watch +him do that. If you had told him how she felt--" + +"God forbid!" + +"Or if you had only told me, so that I could have told him--" + +She seized Peter's arm. + +"You would n't have dared!" + +"I'd dare anything to save two people from such torment." + +"You--you don't think he will worry?" + +"I think he is worrying a great deal." + +"Only for the moment," she broke in. "But soon--in a week or two--he +will be quite himself again. He has a great many things to do. He has +tennis and--and golf." + +She checked herself abruptly. ("Damn golf!" Monte had said.) + +"There's too much of a man in him now to be satisfied with such +things," said Peter. "It's a pity--it's a pity there are not two of +you, Marjory." + +"Of me?" + +"He thinks a great deal of you. If he had met you before he met this +other--" + +"What are you saying, Peter?" + +"That you're the sort of woman who could have called out in him an +honest love." + +There, beside Peter who could not see, Marjory bent low and buried her +face in her hands. + +"You 're the sort of woman," he went on, "who could have roused the man +in him that has been waiting all this time for some one like you." + +How Peter was hurting her! How he was pinching her with red-hot irons! +It hurt so much that she was glad. Here, at last, she was beginning +her sacrifice for Monte. So she made neither moan nor groan, nor +covered her ears, but took her punishment like a man. + +"Some one else must do all that," she said. + +"Yes," he answered. "Or his life will be wasted. He needs to suffer. +He needs to give up. This thing we call a tragedy may be the making of +him." + +"For some one else," she repeated. + +Peter was fumbling about for her hand. Suddenly she straightened +herself. + +"It must be for some one else," he said hoarsely--"because I want you +for myself. In time--you must be mine. With the experience of those +two before us, we must n't make the same mistake ourselves. I--I was +n't going to tell you this until I had my eyes back. But, heart o' +mine, I 've held in so long. Here in the dark one gets so much alone. +And being alone is what kills." + +She was hiding her hand from him. + +"I can't find your hand," he whispered, like a child lost in the dark. + +Summoning all her strength, she placed her hand within his. "It is +cold!" he cried. + +Yet the day was warm. They were speeding through a sunlighted country +of olive trees and flowers in bloom--a warm world and tender. + +He drew her fingers to his lips and kissed them passionately. She +suffered it, closing her eyes against the pain. + +"I've wanted you so all these months!" he cried. "I should n't have +let you go in the first place. I should n't have let you go." + +"No, Peter," she answered. + +"And now that I've found you again, you'll stay?" + +He was lifting his face to hers--straining to see her. To have +answered any way but as he pleaded would have been to strike that +upturned face. + +"I--I 'll try to stay," she faltered. + +"I 'll make you!" he breathed. "I 'll hold you tight, soul of mine. +Would you--would you kiss my eyes?" + +Holding her breath, Marjory lightly brushed each of his eyes with her +lips. + +"It's like balm," he whispered. "I've dreamed at night of this." + +"Every day I'll do it," she said. "Only--for a little while--you 'll +not ask for anything more, Peter?" + +"Not until some day they open--in answer to that call," he replied. + +"I did n't mean that, Peter," she said hurriedly. "Only I'm so mixed +up myself." + +"It's so new to you," he nodded. "To me it's like a day foreseen a +dozen years. Long before I saw you I knew I was getting ready for you. +Now--what do a few weeks matter?" + +"It may be months, Peter, before I'm quite steady." + +"Even if it's years," he exclaimed, "I've felt your lips." + +"Only on your eyes," she cried in terror. + +"I--I would n't dare to feel them except on my eyes--for a little +while. Even there they take away my breath." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +LETTERS + +Letter from Peter Noyes to Monte Covington, received by the latter at +the Hôtel Normandie, Paris, France:-- + + +NICE, FRANCE, July 22. + +_Dear Covington_:-- + +I don't know whether you can make out this scrawl, because I have to +feel my way across the paper; but I'm sitting alone in my room, aching +to talk with you as we used to talk. If you were here I know you would +be glad to listen, because--suddenly all I told you about has come true. + +Riding to Cannes the very next day after you left, I spoke to her +and--she listened. It was all rather vague and she made no promises, +but she listened. In a few weeks or months or years, now, she'll be +mine for all time. She does n't want me to tell Beatrice, and there is +no one else to tell except you--so forgive me, old man, if I let myself +loose. + +Besides, in a way, you're responsible. We were talking of you, because +we missed you. You have a mighty good friend in her, Covington. She +knows you--the real you that I thought only I had glimpsed. She sees +the man in the game--not the man in the grand-stand. Her Covington is +the man they used to give nine long Harvards for. I never heard that +in front of my name. I was a grind--a "greasy grind," they used to +call me. It did n't hurt, for I smiled in rather a superior sort of +way at the men I thought were wasting their energy on the gridiron. +But, after all, you fellows got something out of it that the rest of us +did n't get. A 'Varsity man remains a 'Varsity man all his life. +To-day you stand before her as a 'Varsity man. I think she always +thinks of you as in a red sweater with a black "H." Any time that you +feel you're up against anything hard, that ought to help you. + +We talked a great deal of you, as I said, and I find myself now +thinking more of you than of myself in connection with her. I don't +understand it. Perhaps it's because she seems so alone in the world, +and you are the most intimate friend she has. Perhaps it's because +you've seen so much more of her than I in these last few months. +Anyway, I have a feeling that somehow you are an integral part of her. +I've tried to puzzle out the relationship, and I can't. "Brother" does +not define it; neither does "comrade." If you were not already +married, I'd almost suspect her of being in love with you. + +I know that sounds absurd. I know it is absurd. She is n't the kind +to allow her emotions to get away from her like that. But I'll say +this much, Covington: that if we three were to start fresh, I'd stand a +mighty poor chance with her. + +This is strange talk from a man who less than six hours ago became +officially engaged. I told her that I had let her go once, and that +now I had found her again I wanted her to stay. And she said, "I'll +try." That was n't very much, Covington, was it? But I seized the +implied promise as a drowning man does a straw. It was so much more +than anything I have hoped for. + +I should have kept her that time I found her on the little farm in +Connecticut. If I had been a little more insistent then, I think she +would have come with me. But I was afraid of her money. It was +rumored that her aunt left her a vast fortune, and--you know the +mongrels that hound a girl in that position, Covington? I was afraid +she might think I was one of the pack. She was frightened--bewildered. +I should have snatched her away from them all and gone off with her. I +was earning enough to support her decently, and I should have thought +of nothing else. Instead of that I held back a little, and so lost +her, as I thought. She sailed away, and I returned to my work like a +madman--and I nearly died. + +Now I feel alive clear to my finger-tips. I 'm going to get my eyes +back. I have n't the slightest doubt in the world about that. Already +I feel the magic of the new balm that has been applied. They don't +ache any more. Sitting here to-night without my shade, I can hold them +open and catch the feeble light that filters in from the street lamps +at a distance. It is only a question of a few months, perhaps weeks, +perhaps days. The next time we meet I shall be able to see you. + +You won't object to hearing a man rave a little, Covington? If you do, +you can tear up this right here. But I know I can't say anything good +about Marjory that you won't agree with. Maybe, however, you'd call my +present condition abnormal. Perhaps it is; but I wonder if it is n't +part of every normal man's life to be abnormal to this extent at least +once--to see, for once, this staid old world through the eyes of a +prince of the ancient city of Bagdad; to thrill with the magic and +gorgeous beauty of it? It shows what might always be, if one were poet +enough to sustain the mood. + +Here am I, a plugging lawyer of the Borough of Manhattan, City of New +York, State of New York--which is just about as far away from the city +of Bagdad as you can get. I'm concerned mainly with certain details of +corporation law--the structure of soulless business institutions which +were never heard of in Bagdad. My daily path takes me from certain +uptown bachelor quarters through the subway to a certain niche in a +downtown cave dwelling. Then--presto, she comes. I pass over all that +intervened, because it is no longer important, but--presto again, I +find myself here a prince in some royal castle of Bagdad, counting the +moments until another day breaks and I can feel the touch of my +princess's hand. Even my dull eyes count for me, because so I can +fancy myself, if I choose, in some royal apartment, surrounded by +hanging curtains of silk, priceless marbles, and ornaments of gold and +silver, with many silent eunuchs awaiting my commands. From my windows +I'm at liberty to imagine towers and minarets and domes of copper. + +Always she, my princess, is somewhere in the background, when she is +not actually by my side. When I saw her before, Covington, I marveled +at her eyes--those deep, wonderful eyes that told you so little and +made you dream so much. I saw her hair too, and her straight nose, and +her beautiful lips. Those things I see now as I saw them then. I must +wait a little while really to see them again. In their place, however, +I have now her voice and the sound of her footsteps. To hear her +coming, just to hear the light fall of her feet upon the ground, is +like music. + +But when she speaks, Covington, then all other sounds cease, and she +speaks alone to me in a world grown silent to listen. There is some +quality in that voice that gets into me--that reaches and vibrates +certain hidden strings I did not know were there. So sweet is the +music that I can hardly give enough attention to make out the meaning +of her words. What she says does not so much matter as that she should +be speaking to me--to my ears alone. + +And these things are merely the superficialities of her. There still +remains the princess herself below these wonderful externals. There +still remains the woman herself. Woman, any woman, is marvelous +enough, Covington. When you think of all they stand for, the fineness +of them compared with our man grossness, that wonderful power of +creation in them, their exquisite delicacy, combined with the +big-souled capacity for sacrifice and suffering that dwarfs any of our +petty burdens into insignificance--God knows, a man should bow his knee +before the least of them. But when to all those general attributes of +the sex you add that something more born in a woman like Marjory--what +in the world can a man do big enough to deserve the charge of such a +soul? In the midst of all my princely emotions, that thought makes me +humble, Covington. + +I fear I have rambled a good deal, old man. I can't read over what I +have been scribbling here, so I must let it go as it is. But I wanted +to tell you some of these things that are rushing through my head all +the time, because I knew you would be glad for me and glad for her. Or +does my own joy result in such supreme selfishness that I am tempted to +intrude it upon others? I don't believe so, because there is no one +else in the world to whom I would venture to write as I 've written to +you. + +I'm not asking you to answer, because what I should want to hear from +you I would n't allow any one else to read. So tear this up and forget +it if you want. Some day I shall meet you again and see you. Then I +can talk to you face to face. + +Yours, + +PETER J. NOYES. + + +Sitting alone in his room at the Normandie, Monte read this through. +Then his hands dropped to his side and the letter fell from them to the +floor. + +"Oh, my God!" he said. "Oh, my God!" + + +Letter from Madame Covington to her husband, Monte Covington, which the +latter never received at all because it was never sent. It was never +meant to be sent. It was written merely to save herself from doing +something rash, something for which she could never forgive +herself--like taking the next train to Paris and claiming this man as +if he were her own:-- + + +_Dearest Prince of my Heart_:-- + +You've been gone from me twelve hours. For twelve hours you've left me +here all alone. I don't know how I've lived. I don't know how I'm +going to get through the night and to-morrow. Only there won't be any +to-morrow. There'll never be anything more than periods of twelve +hours, until you come back: just from dawn to dark, and then from dark +to dawn, over and over again. Each period must be fought through as it +comes, with no thought about the others. I 'm beginning on the third. +The morning will bring the fourth. + +Each one is like a lifetime--a birth and a death. And oh, my Prince, I +shall soon be very, very old. I don't dare look in the mirror +to-night, for fear of seeing how old I've grown since morning. I +remember a word they used on shipboard when the waves threw the big +propeller out of the water and the full power of the engines was wasted +on air. They called it "racing." It was bad for the ship to have this +energy go for nothing. It racked her and made her tremble and groan. +I've been racing ever since you went, churning the air to no purpose, +with a power that was meant to drive me ahead. I 'm right where I +started after it all. + +Dearest heart of mine, I love you. Though I tremble away from those +words, I must put them down for once in black and white. Though I tear +them up into little pieces so small that no one can read them, I must +write them once. It is such a relief, here by myself, to be honest. +If you were here and I were honest, I 'd stand very straight and look +you fair in the eyes and tell you that over and over again. "I love +you, Monte," I would say. "I love you with all my heart and soul, +Monte," I would say. "Right or wrong, coward that I am or not, whether +it is good for you or not, I love you, Monte," I would say. And, if +you wished, I would let you kiss me. And, if you would let me, I would +kiss you on your dear tousled hair, on your forehead, on your eyes-- + +That is where I kissed Peter to-day. I will tell you here, as I would +tell you standing before you. I kissed Peter on his eyes, and I have +promised to kiss him again upon his eyes to-morrow--if to-morrow comes. +I did it because he said it would help him to see again. And if he +sees again--why, Monte, if he sees again, then he will see how absurd +it is that he should ask me to love him. + +Blind as he is, he almost saw that to-day, when he made me promise to +try to stay by his side. With his eyes full open, then he will be able +to read my eyes. So I shall kiss him there as often as he wishes. +Then, when he understands, I shall not fear for him. He is a man. +Only, if I told him with my lips, he would not understand. He must +find out for himself. Then he will throw back his shoulders and take +the blow--as we all of us have had to take our blows. It will be no +worse for him than for you, dear, or for me. + +It is not as I kissed him that I should kiss you. How silly it is of +men to ask for kisses when, if they come at all, they come unasked. +What shall I do with all of mine that are for you alone? I throw them +out across the dark to you--here and here and here. + +I wonder what you are doing at this moment? I have wondered so about +every moment since you went. Because I cannot know, I feel as if I +were being robbed. At times I fancy I can see as clearly as if I were +with you. You went to the station and bought your ticket and got into +your compartment. I could see you sitting there smoking, your eyes +turned out the window. I could see what you saw, but I could not tell +of what you were thinking. And that is what counts. That is the only +thing that counts. There are those about me who watch me going my +usual way, but how little they know of what a change has come over me! +How little even Peter knows, who imagines he knows me so well. + +I see you reaching Paris and driving to your hotel. I wonder if you +are at the Normandie. I don't even know that. I'd like to know that. +I wonder if you would dare sleep in your old room. Oh, I'd like to +know that. It would be so restful to think of you there. But what, if +there, are you thinking about? About me, at all? I don't want you to +think about me, but I 'd die if I knew you did _not_ think about me. + +I don't want you to be worried, dear you. I won't have you unhappy. +You said once, "Is n't it possible to care a little without caring too +much?" Now I 'm going to ask you: "Is n't it possible for you to think +of me a little without thinking too much?" If you could remember some +of those evenings on the ride to Nice,--even if with a smile,--that +would be better than nothing. If you could remember that last night +before we got to Nice, when--when I looked up at you and something +almost leaped from my eyes to yours. If you could remember that with +just a little knowledge of what it meant--not enough to make you +unhappy, but enough to make you want to see me again. Could you do +that without getting uncomfortable--without mixing up your schedule? + +I cried a little right here, Monte. It was a silly thing to do. But +you're alone in Paris, where we were together, and I'm alone here. It +is still raining. I think it is going to rain forever. I can't +imagine ever seeing the blue sky again. If I did, it would only make +me think of those glorious days between Paris and Nice. How wonderful +it was that it never rained at all. The sky was always pink in the +east when I woke up, and we saw it grow pink again at night, side by +side. Then the purple of the night, with the myriad silver stars, each +one beautiful in itself. + +At night you always seemed to me to grow bigger than ever--inches +taller and broader, until some evenings when I bade you good-night I +was almost afraid of you. Because as you grew bigger I grew smaller. +I used to think that, if you took a notion to do so, you'd just pick me +up and carry me off. If you only had! + +If you had only said, "We'll quit this child's play. You'll come with +me and we'll make a home and settle down, like Chic." + +I'd have been a good wife to you, Monte. Honest, I would--if you'd +done like that any time before I met Peter and became ashamed. Up to +that point I'd have gone with you if you had loved me enough to take +me. Only, you did n't love me. That was the trouble, Monte. I'd made +you think I did not want to be loved. Then I made you think I was n't +worth loving. Then, when Peter came and made me see and hang my +head,--why, then it was too late, even though you had wanted to take me. + +But you don't know, and never will know, what a good wife I'd have +been. But I would have tried to lead you a little, too. I would have +watched over you and been at your command, but I would have tried to +guide you into doing something worth while. + +Perhaps we could have done something together worth while. You have a +great deal of money, Monte, and I have a great deal. We have more than +is good for us. I think if we had worked together we could have done +something for other people with it. I never thought of that until +lately; but the other evening, after you had been talking about your +days in college, I lay awake in bed, thinking how nice it would be if +we could do something for some of the young fellows there now who do +not have money enough. I imagined myself going back to Cambridge with +you some day and calling on the president or the dean, and hearing you +say to him: "Madame Covington and I have decided that we want to help +every year one or more young men needing help. If you will send to us +those you approve of, we will lend them enough to finish their course." + +I thought it would be nicer to lend the money than give it to them, +because they would feel better about it. And they could be as long as +they wished in paying it back, or if they fell into hard luck need +never pay it back. + +So every year we would start as many as we could, each of us paying +half. They would come to us, and we would get to know them, and we +would watch them through, and after that watch them fight the good +fight. Why, in no time, Monte, we would have quite a family to watch +over; and they would come to you for advice, and perhaps sometimes to +me. Think what an interest that would add to your life! It would be +so good for you, Monte. And good for me, too. Even if we had--oh, +Monte, we might in time have had boys of our own in Harvard too! Then +they would have selected other boys for us, and that would have been +good for them too. + +Here by myself I can tell you these things, because--because, God keep +me, you cannot hear. You did not think I could dream such dreams as +those, did you? You thought I was always thinking of myself and my own +happiness, and of nothing else. You thought I asked everything and +wished to give nothing. But that was before I knew what love is. That +was before you touched me with the magic wand. That was before I +learned that our individual lives are as brief as the sparks that fly +upward, except as we live them through others; and that then--they are +eternal. It was within our grasp, Monte, dear, and we trifled with it +and let it go. + +No, not you. It was I who refused the gift. Some day it will come to +you again, through some other. That is what I tell myself over and +over again. I don't think men are like women. They do not give so +much of themselves, and so they may choose from two or three. So in +time, as you wander about, you will find some one who will hold out her +arms, and you will come. She will give you everything she has,--all +honest women do that,--but it will not be all I would have given. You +may think so, and so be happy; but it will not be true. I shall always +know the difference. And you will give her what you have, but it will +not be what you would have given me--what I would have drawn out of +you. I shall always know that. Because, as I love you, heart of me, I +would have found in you treasures that were meant for me alone. + +I'm getting wild. I must stop. My head is spinning. Soon it will be +dawn, and I am to ride again with Peter to-morrow. I told you I would +ride every fair day with him, and I am hoping it will rain. But it +will not rain, though to me the sky may be murky. I can see the clouds +scudding before a west wind. It will be clear, and I shall ride with +him as I promised, and I shall kiss him upon his eyes. But if you were +with me-- + +Here and here and here I throw them out into the dark. + +Good-night, soul of my soul. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +THE BLIND SEE + +Day by day Peter's eyes grew stronger, because day by day he was thinking +less about himself and more about Marjory. + +"He needs to get away from himself," the doctors had told Beatrice. "If +you can find something that will occupy his thoughts, so that he will +quit thinking about his eyes, you 'll double his chances." Beatrice had +done that when she found Marjory, and now she was more than satisfied +with the result and with herself. Every morning she saw Peter safely +entrusted to Marjory's care, and this left her free the rest of the day +to walk a little, read her favorite books, and nibble chocolates. She +was getting a much-needed rest, secure in the belief that everything was +working out in quite an ideal way. + +The only thing that seemed to her at all strange was a sudden reluctance +on Peter's part to talk to her of Marjory. At the end of the day the +three had dinner together at the Hôtel d'Angleterre,--Marjory could never +be persuaded to dine at the Roses,--and when by eight Peter and his +sister returned to their own hotel, he gave her only the barest details +of his excursion, and retired early to his room. But he seemed cheerful +enough, so that, after all, this might be only another favorable symptom +of his progress. Peter always had been more or less secretive, and until +his illness neither she nor his parents knew more than an outline of his +life in New York. Periodically they came on to visit him for a few days, +and periodically he went home for a few days. He was making a name for +himself, and they were very proud of him, and the details did not matter. +Knowing Peter as they did, it was easy enough to fill them in. + +Even with Marjory, Peter talked less and less about himself. From his +own ambitions, hopes, and dreams he turned more and more to hers. Now +that he had succeeded in making her a prisoner, however slender the +thread by which he held her, he seemed intent upon filling in all the +past as fully as possible. Up to a certain point that was easy enough. +She was willing to talk of her girlhood; of her father, whom she adored; +and even of Aunt Kitty, who had claimed her young womanhood. She was +even eager. It afforded her a safe topic in which she found relief. It +gave her an opportunity also to justify, in a fashion, or at least to +explain, both to herself and Peter, the frame of mind that led her up to +later events. + +"I ran away from you, Peter," she admitted. + +"I know," he answered. + +"Only it was not so much from you as from what you stood for," she +hurried on. "I was thinking of myself alone, and of the present alone. +I had been a prisoner so long, I wanted to be free a little." + +"Free?" he broke in quickly, with a frown. "I don't like to hear you use +that word. That's the way Covington's wife talked, is n't it?" + +"Yes," she murmured. + +"It's the way so many women are talking to-day--and so many men, too. +Freedom is such a big word that a lot of people seem to think it will +cloak anything they care to do. They lose sight of the fact that the +freer a man or a woman is, the more responsibility he assumes. The free +are put upon their honor to fulfill the obligations that are exacted by +force from the irresponsible. So those who abuse this privilege are +doubly treacherous--treacherous to themselves, and treacherous to +society, which trusted them." + +Marjory turned aside her head, so that he might not even look upon her +with his blind eyes. + +"I--I didn't mean any harm, Peter," she said. + +"Of course you did n't. I don't suppose Mrs. Covington did, either; did +she?" + +"No, Peter, I'm sure she didn't. She--she was selfish." + +"Besides, if you only come through safe, and learn--" + +"At least, I've learned," she answered. + +"Since you went away from me?" + +"Yes." + +"You have n't told me very much about that." + +She caught her breath. + +"Is--is it dishonest to keep to one's self how one learns?" she asked. + +"No, little woman; only, I feel as though I'd like to know you as I know +myself. I'd like to feel that there was n't a nook or cranny in your +mind that was n't open to me." + +"Peter!" + +"Is that asking too much?" + +"Some day you must know, but not now." + +"If Mrs. Covington--" + +"Must we talk any more about her?" she exclaimed. + +"I did n't know it hurt you." + +"It does--more than you realize." + +"I'm sorry," he said quickly. + +He fumbled about for her hand. She allowed him to take it. + +"Have you heard from Covington since he left?" + +He felt her fingers twitch. + +"Does it hurt, too, to talk about him?" he asked. + +"It's impossible to talk about Monte without talking about +his--his--about Mrs. Covington," Marjory explained feebly. + +"They ought to be one," he admitted. "But you said they are about to +separate." + +"Yes, Peter; only I keep thinking of what ought to be." + +She withdrew her hand and leaned back on the seat a little away from him. +Sensitive to every movement of hers, he glanced up at this. + +"Somehow,"--he said, with a strained expression,--"somehow I feel the +need of seeing your eyes to-day. There's something I 'm missing. +There's something here I don't understand." + +"Don't try to understand, Peter," she cried. "It's better that you +should n't." + +"It's best always to know the truth," he said. + +"Not always." + +"Always," he insisted. + +"Sometimes it does n't do any good to know the truth. It only hurts." + +"Even then, it's best. When I get my eyes--" + +She shrank farther away from him, for she saw him struggling even then to +open them. + + +It was this possibility which from that point on added a new terror to +these daily drives. Marjory had told Monte that Peter's recovery was +something to which she looked forward; but when she said that she had +been sitting alone and pouring out her heart to Monte. She had not then +been facing this fact by the side of Peter. It was one thing to dream +boldly, with all her thoughts of Monte, and quite another to confront the +same facts actually and alone. If this crisis came now, it was going to +hurt her and hurt Peter, and do no good to any one; while, if it could be +postponed six months, perhaps it would not hurt so much. It was better +for Peter to endure his blindness a little longer than to see too soon. +So the next day she decided she would not kiss his eyes. He came to her +in the morning, and stood before her, waiting. She placed her hand upon +his shoulder. + +"Peter," she said as gently as she could, "I do not think I shall kiss +you again for a little while." + +She saw his lips tighten; but, to her surprise, he made no protest. + +"No, dear heart," he answered. + +"It is n't because I wish to be unkind," she said. "Only, until you know +the whole truth, I don't feel honest with you." + +"Come over by the window and sit down in the light," he requested. + +With a start she glanced nervously at his eyes. They were closed. She +took a chair in the sun, and he sat down opposite her. + +For a moment they sat so, in silence. With her chin in her hand, she +stared out across the blue waters of the Mediterranean, across the quay +where Monte used to walk. It looked so desolate out there without him! +How many hours since he left she had watched people pass back and forth +along the broad path, as if hoping against hope that by some chance he +might suddenly appear among them. But he never did, and she knew that +she might sit here watching year after year and he would not come. + +By this time he was probably in England--probably, on such a day as this, +out upon the links. She smiled a little. "Damn golf!" he had said. + +She thought for a moment that she heard his voice repeating it. It was +only Peter's voice. + +"You have grown even more beautiful than I thought," Peter was saying. + +She sprang to her feet. He was looking at he--shading his opened eyes +with one hand. + +"Peter!" she cried, falling back a step. + +[Illustration: "Peter!" she cried, falling back a step.] + +"More beautiful," he repeated. "But your eyes are sadder." + +"Peter," she said again, "your eyes are open!" + +"Yes," he said. "It became necessary for me to see--so they opened." + +Before them, she felt ashamed--almost like one naked. She began to +tremble. Then, with her cheeks scarlet, she covered her face with her +hands. + +Peter rose and helped her back to a chair as if she, in her turn, had +suddenly become blind. + +"If I frighten you like this I--I must not look at you," he faltered. + +Still she trembled; still she covered her face. + +"See!" he cried. "I have closed them again." + +She looked up in amazement. He was standing with his eyes tight shut. +He who had been in darkness all these long months had dared, to save her +from her own shame, to return again to the pit. For a second it stopped +her heart from beating. Then, springing to his side, she seized his +hands. + +"Peter," she commanded, "open your eyes!" + +He was pale--ghastly pale. + +"Not if it hurts you." + +Swiftly leaning toward him, she kissed the closed lids. + +"Will you open them--now?" + +She was in terror lest he should find it impossible again--as if that had +been some temporary miracle which, having been scorned, would not be +repeated. + +Then once again she saw his eyes flutter open. This time she faced them +with her fists clenched by her side. What a difference those eyes made +in him. Closed, he was like a helpless child; open, he was a man. He +grew taller, bigger, older, while she who had been leading him about +shrank into insignificance. She felt pettier, plainer, less worthy than +ever she had in her life. By sheer force of will power she held up her +head and faced him as if she were facing the sun. + +For a moment he feasted upon her hungrily. To see her hair, when for +months he had been forced to content himself with memories of it; to see +her white forehead, her big, deep eyes and straight nose; to see the lips +which he had only felt--all that held him silent. But he saw something +else there, too. In physical detail this face was the same that he had +seen before he was stricken. But something had been added. Before she +had the features of a girl; now she had the features of a woman. +Something had since been added to the eyes and mouth--something he knew +nothing about. + +"Marjory," he said slowly, "I think there is a great deal you have left +untold." + +She tightened her lips. There was no further use of evasion. If he +pressed her with his eyes open, he must know the truth. + +"Yes, Peter," she answered. + +"I can't decide," he went on slowly, "whether it has to do with a great +grief or a great joy." + +"The two so often come together," she trembled. + +"Yes," he nodded; "I think that is true. Perhaps they belong together." + +"I have only just learned that," she said. + +"And you've been left with the grief?" + +"I can't tell, Peter. Sometimes I think so, and then again I see the +justice of it, and it seems beautiful. All I 'm sure of is that I 'm +left alone." + +"Even with me?" + +"Even with you, Peter." + +He passed his hand over his eyes. + +"This other--do I know him?" he asked finally. + +"Yes." + +"It--it is Covington?" + +"Yes." + +She spoke almost mechanically. + +"I--I should have guessed it before. Had I been able to see, I should +have known." + +"That is why I did n't wish you to see me--so soon," Marjory said. + +"Covington!" he repeated. "But what of the other woman?" + +She took a long breath. + +"I--I'm the other woman," she answered. + +"Marjory!" he cried. "Not she you told me of?" + +"Yes." + +"His wife!" + +"No--not that. Merely Mrs. Covington." + +"I don't understand. You don't mean you're not his wife!" He checked +himself abruptly. + +"We were married in Paris," she hastened to explain. "But--but we agreed +the marriage was to be only a form. He was to come down here with me as +a _compagnon de voyage_. He wished only to give me the protection of his +name, and that--that was all I wished. It was not until I met you, +Peter, that I realized what I had done." + +"It was not until then you realized that you really loved him?" + +"Not until then," she moaned. + +"But, knowing that, you allowed me to talk as I did; to hope--" + +"Peter--dear Peter!" she broke in. "It was not then. It was only after +I knew he had gone out of my life forever that I allowed that. You see, +he has gone. He has gone to England, and from there he is going home. +You know what he is going for. He is never coming back. So it is as if +he died, isn't it? I allowed you to talk because I knew you were telling +the truth. And I did not promise much. When you asked me never to go +from you, all I said was that I 'd try. You remember that? And I have +tried, and I was going to keep on trying--ever so hard. I had ruined my +own life and his life, and--and I did n't want to hurt you any more. I +wanted to do what I could to undo some of the harm I'd already done. I +thought that perhaps if we went on like this long enough, I might forget +a little of the past and look forward only to the future. Some day I +meant to tell you. You know that, Peter. You know I would n't be +dishonest with you." She was talking hysterically, anxious only to +relieve the tenseness of his lips. She was not sure that he heard her at +all. He was looking at her, but with curious detachment, as if he were +at a play. + +"Peter--say something!" she begged. + +"It's extraordinary that I should ever have dared hope you were for me," +he said. + +"You mean you--you don't want me, Peter?" + +"Want you?" he cried hoarsely. "I'd go through hell to get you. I'd +stay mole-blind the rest of my life to get you! Want you?" + +He stepped toward her with his hands outstretched as if to seize her. In +spite of herself, she shrank away. + +"You see," he ran on. "What difference does it make if I want you? You +belong to another. You belong to Covington. You have n't anything to do +with yourself any more. You have n't yourself to give. You're his." + +With her hand above her eyes as if to ward off his blows, she gasped:-- + +"You must n't say such things, Peter." + +"I'm only telling the truth, and there's no harm in that. I 'm telling +you what you have n't dared tell yourself." + +"Things I mustn't tell myself!" she cried. "Things I must n't hear." + +"What I don't understand," he said, "is why Covington did n't tell you +all this himself. He must have known." + +"He knew nothing," she broke in. "I was a mere incident in his life. We +met in Paris quite by accident when he happened to have an idle week. He +was alone and I was alone, and he saved me from a disagreeable situation. +Then, because he still had nothing in particular to do and I had nothing +in particular to do, he suggested this further arrangement. We were each +considering nothing but our own comfort. We wanted nothing more. It was +to escape just such complications as this--to escape responsibility, as I +told you--that we--we married. He was only a boy, Peter, and knew no +better. But I was a woman, and should have known. And I came to know! +That was my punishment." + +"He came to know, too," said Peter. + +"He might have come to know," she corrected breathlessly. "There were +moments when I dared think so. If I had kept myself true--oh, Peter, +these are terrible things to say!" + +She buried her face in her hands again--a picture of total and abject +misery. Her frame shook with sobs that she was fighting hard to suppress. + +Peter placed his hand gently upon her shoulder. + +"There, little woman," he tried to comfort. "Cry a minute. It will do +you good." + +"I have n't even the right to cry," she sobbed. + +"You _must_ cry," he said. "You have n't let yourself go enough. That's +been the whole trouble." + +He was silent a moment, patting her back, with his eyes leveled out of +the window as if trying to look beyond the horizon, beyond that to the +secret places of eternity. + +"You have n't let yourself go enough," he repeated, almost like a seer. +"You have tried to force your destiny from its appointed course. You +have, and Covington has, and I have. We have tried to force things that +were not meant to be and to balk things that were meant to be. That's +because we've been selfish--all three of us. We've each thought of +ourself alone--of our own petty little happiness of the moment. That's +deadly. It warps the vision. It--it makes people stone-blind. + +"I understand now. When you went away from me, it was myself alone I +considered. I was hurt and worried, and made a martyr of myself. If I +had thought more of you, all would have been well. This time I think +I--I have thought a little more of you. It was to get at you and not +myself that I wanted to see again. So I saw again. I let go of myself +and reached out for you. So now--why, everything is quite clear." + +She raised her head. + +"Clear, Peter?" + +"Quite clear. I'm to go back to my work, and to use my eyes less and my +head and heart more. I 'm to deal less with statutes and more with +people. Instead of quoting precedents, perhaps I 'm going to try to +establish precedents. There's work enough to be done, God knows, of a +sort that is born of just such a year as this I 've lived through. I +must let go of myself and let myself go. I must think less of my own +ambitions and more of the ambitions of others. So I shall live in +others. Perhaps I may even be able to live a little through you two." + +"Peter!" she cried. + +"For Covington must come back to you as fast as ever he can." + +"No! No! No!" + +"You don't understand how much he loves his wife." + +"Please!" + +"And, he, poor devil, does n't understand how much his wife loves him." + +"You--you"--she trembled aghast--"you would n't dare repeat what I've +told you!" + +"You don't want to stagger on in the dark any longer. You'll let me tell +him." + +She rose to her feet, her face white. + +"Peter," she said slowly, "if ever you told him that, I'd never forgive +you. If ever you told him, I 'd deny it. You 'd only force me into more +lies. You'd only crush me lower." + +"Steady, Marjory," he said. + +"You're wonderful, Peter!" she exclaimed. "You 've--you 've been seeing +visions. But when you speak of telling him what I've told you, you don't +understand how terrible that would be. Peter--you'll promise me you +won't do that?" + +She was pleading, with panic in her eyes. + +"Yet, if he knew, he'd come racing to you." + +"He'd do that because he's a gentleman and four-square. He'd come to me +and pretend. He'd feel himself at fault, and pity me. Do you know how +it hurts a woman to be pitied? I'd rather he'd hate me. I'd rather he'd +forget me altogether.", + +"But what of the talks I had with him in the dark?" he questioned. "When +he talked to me of you then, it was not in pity." + +"Because,"--she choked,--"because he does n't know himself as I know him. +He--he does n't like changes--dear Monte. It disturbed him to go because +it would have been so much easier to have stayed. So, for the moment, he +may have been--a bit sentimental." + +"You don't think as little of him as that!" he cried. + +"He--he is the man who married me," she answered unsteadily. "It +was--just Monte who married me--honest, easy-going, care-free Monte, who +is willing to do a woman a favor even to the extent of marrying her. He +is very honest and very gallant and very normal. He likes one day to be +as another. He does n't wish to be stirred up. He asked me this, Peter: +'Is n't it possible to care without caring too much?' And I said, 'Yes.' +That was why he married me. He had seen others who cared a great deal, +and they frightened him. They cared so much that they made themselves +uncomfortable, and he feared that." + +"Good Lord, you call that man Covington?" exclaimed Peter. + +"No--just Monte," Marjory answered quickly. "It's just the outside of +him. The man you call Covington--the man inside--is another man." + +"It's the real man," declared Peter. + +"Yes," she nodded, with a catch in her voice. "That's the real man. +But--don't you understand?--it was n't that man who married me. It was +Monte who married me to escape Covington. He trusted me not to disturb +the real man, just as I trusted him not to disturb the real me." + +Peter leaned forward with a new hope in his eyes. + +"Then," he said, "perhaps, after all, he did n't get to the real you." + +Quite simply she replied:-- + +"He did, Peter. He does not know it, but he did." + +"You are sure?" + +She knew the pain she was causing him, but she answered:-- + +"Yes. I could n't admit that to any one else in the world but you--and +it hurts you, Peter." + +"It hurts like the devil," he said. + +She placed her hand upon his. + +"Poor Peter," she said gently. + +"It hurts like the devil, but it's nothing for you to pity me for," he +put in quickly. "I'd rather have the hurt from you than nothing." + +"You feel like that?" she asked earnestly. + +"Yes." + +"Then," she said, "you must understand how, even with me, the joy and the +grief are one?" + +"Yes, I understand that. Only if he knew--" + +"He'd come back to me, you're going to say again. And I tell you again, +I won't have him come back, kind and gentle and smiling. If he came back +now,--if it were possible for him really to come to me,--I 'd want him to +ache with love. I 'd want him to be hurt with love." + +She was talking fiercely, with a wild, unrestrained passion such as Peter +had never seen in any woman. + +"I 'd want," she hurried on, out of all control of herself--"I'd want +everything I don't want him to give--everything I 've no right to ask. I +'d want him to live on tiptoe from one morning through to the next. I'd +begrudge him every minute he was just comfortable. I'd want him always +eager, always worried, because I 'd be always looking for him to do great +things. I 'd have him always ready for great sacrifices--not for me +alone, but for himself. I 'd be so proud of him I think I--I could with +a smile see him sacrifice even his life for another. For I should know +that, after a little waiting, I should meet him again, a finer and nobler +man. And all those things I asked of him I should want to do for him. I +'d like to lay down my life for him." + +She stopped as abruptly as she had begun, staring about like some one +suddenly awakened to find herself in a strange country. It was Peter's +voice that brought her back again to the empty room. + +"How you do love him!" he said solemnly. + +"Peter," she cried, "you shouldn't have listened!" + +She shrank back toward the door. + +"And I--I thought just kisses on the eyes stood for love," he added. + +"You must forget all I said," she moaned. "I was mad--for a moment!" + +"You were wonderful," he told her. + +She was still backing toward the door. + +"I'm going off to hide," she said piteously. + +"Not that," he called after her. + +But the door closed in front of her. The door closed in front of him. +With his lips clenched, Peter Noyes walked back to the Hôtel des Roses. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +SO LONG + +When Peter stepped into his sister's room he had forgotten that his +eyes were open. + +"Beatrice," he said, "we must start back for New York as soon as +possible." + +She sprang from her chair. Pale and without his shade, he was like an +apparition. + +"Peter!" she cried. + +"What's the trouble?" + +"Your eyes!" + +"They came back this morning." + +"Then I was right! Marjory--Marjory worked the miracle!" + +He smiled a little. + +"Yes." + +"It's wonderful. But, Peter--" + +"Well?" + +"You look so strange--so pale!" + +"It's been--well, rather an exciting experience." + +She put her arms about his neck and kissed him. + +"You should have brought the miracle-worker with you," she smiled. + +"And instead of that I'm leaving her." + +"Leaving Marjory--after this?" + +"Sit down, little sister," he begged. "A great deal has happened this +morning--a great deal that I'm afraid it's going to be hard for you to +understand. It was hard for me to understand at first; and yet, after +all, it's merely a question of fact. It is n't anything that leaves +any chance for speculation. It just is, that's all. You see, +you--both of us--made an extraordinary mistake. We--we assumed that +Marjory was free." + +"Free? Of course she's free!" exclaimed Beatrice. + +"Only she's not," Peter informed her. "As a matter of fact, she's +married." + +"Marjory--married!" + +"To Covington. She's Covington's wife. They were married a few weeks +ago in Paris. You understand? She's Covington's wife." His voice +rose a trifle. + +"Peter--you 're sure of that?" + +"She told me so herself--less than an hour ago." + +"That's impossible. Why, she listened to me when--" + +"When what?" he cut in. + +Frightened, she clasped her hands beneath her chin. + +His eyes demanded a reply. + +"I--I told her what the doctors told me. Don't look at me so, Peter!" + +"You tried to win her sympathy for me?" + +"They told me if you stopped worrying, your sight would come back. I +told her that, Peter." + +"You told her more?" + +"That if she could love you--oh, I could n't help it!" + +"So that is why she listened to you; why she listened to me. You +begged for her pity, and--she gave it. I thought at least I could +leave her with my head up." + +Beatrice began to sob. + +"I--I did the best I knew how," she pleaded. + +His head was bowed. He looked crushed. Throwing herself upon her +knees in front of him, Beatrice reached for his clasped hands. + +"I did the best I knew!" she moaned. + +"Yes," he answered dully; "you did that. Every one has done that. +Only--nothing should have been done at all. Nothing can ever be done." + +"You--you forgive me, Peter?" + +"Yes." + +But his voice was dead. It had no meaning. + +"It may all be for the best," she ran on, anxious to revive him. +"We'll go back to New York, Peter--you and I. Perhaps you'll let me +stay with you there. We'll get a little apartment together, so that I +can care for you. I 'll do that all the days of my life, if you 'll +let me." + +"I want a better fate than that for you, little sister," he answered. + +Rising, he helped her to her feet. He smoothed back her hair from her +forehead and kissed her there. + +"It won't do to look ahead very far, or backwards either just now," he +said. "But if I can believe there is something still left in life for +me, I must believe there is a great deal more left for you. Only we +must get away from here as soon as possible." + +"You have your eyes, Peter," she exclaimed exultingly. "She can't take +those away from you again!" + +"Hush," he warned. "You must never blame her for anything." + +"You mean you still--" + +"Still and forever, little sister," he answered. "But we must not talk +of that." + +"Poor Peter," she trembled. + +"Rich Peter!" he corrected, with a wan smile. "There are so many who +have n't as much as that." + + +He went back to his room. The next thing to do was to write some sort +of explanation to Covington. His ears burned as he thought of the +other letter he had sent. How it must have bored into the man! How it +must have hurt! He had been forced to read the confession of love of +another man for his wife. The wonder was that he had not taken the +next train back and knocked down the writer. It must be that he +understood the hopelessness of such a passion. Perhaps he had smiled! +Only that was not like Covington. Rather, he had gripped his jaws and +stood it. + +But if it had hurt and he hankered for revenge, he was to have it now. +He, Noyes, had bared his soul to the husband and confessed a love that +now he must stand up and recant. That was punishment enough for any +man. He must do that, too, without violating any of Marjory's +confidences--without helping in any way to disentangle the pitiful +snarl that it was within his power to disentangle. She whose happiness +might partly have recompensed him for what he had to do, he must still +leave unhappy. As far as he himself was concerned, however, he was +entitled to tell the truth. He could not recant his love. That would +be false. But he had no right to it--that was what he must make +Covington understand. + + +_Dear Covington_ [he began]: I am writing this with my eyes open. The +miracle I spoke of came to pass. Also a great many other things have +come to pass. You'll realize how hard it is to write about them after +that other letter, when I tell you I have learned the truth: that +Marjory is Mrs. Covington. She told me herself, when our relations +reached a crisis where she had to tell. + +I feel, naturally, as if I owed you some sort of apology; and yet, when +I come to frame it, I find myself baffled. Of course I'm leaving for +home as soon as possible--probably to-morrow. Of course if I had known +the truth I should have left long ago, and that letter would never have +had any occasion for being written. I'm assuming, Covington, that you +will believe that without any question. You knew what I did not know +and did not tell me even after you knew how I felt. I suppose you felt +so confident of her that you trusted her absolutely to handle an affair +of this sort herself. + +I want to say right here, you were justified. Whatever in that other +letter I may have said to lead you to believe she had come to care for +me in the slightest was a result solely of my own self-delusion and her +innate gentleness. I have discovered that my sister, meaning no harm, +went to her and told her that the restoration of my sight depended upon +her interest in me. It was manifestly unfair of my sister to put it +that way, but the little woman was thinking only of me. I'm sorry it +was done. Evidently it was the basis upon which she made the feeble +promise I spoke of, and which I exaggerated into something more. + +She cared for me no more than for a friend temporarily afflicted. +That's all, Covington. Neither in word nor thought nor deed has she +ever gone any further. Looking back upon the last few days now, it is +clear enough. Rather than hurt me, she allowed me to talk--allowed me +to believe. Rather, she suffered it. It was not pleasant for her. +She endured it because of what my sister had said. It seems hard luck +that I should have been led in this fashion to add to whatever other +burdens she may have had. + +I ask you to believe--it would be an impertinence, except for what I +told you before--that on her side there has been nothing between us of +which you could not approve. + +Now for myself. In the light of what I know to-day, I could not have +written you of her as I did. Yet, had I remained silent, all I said +would have remained just as much God's truth as then. Though I must +admit the utter hopelessness of my love, I see no reason why I should +think of attempting to deny that love. It would n't be decent to +myself, to you, or to her. It began before you came into her life at +all. It has grown bigger and cleaner since then. It persists to-day. +I'm talking to you as man to man, Covington. I know you won't confuse +that statement with any desire on my part--with any hope, however +remote--to see that love fulfilled further than it is fulfilled to-day. +That delusion has vanished forever. I shall never entertain it again, +no matter what course your destiny or her destiny may take. I cannot +make that emphatic enough, Covington. It is based upon a certain +knowledge of facts which, unfortunately, I am not at liberty to reveal +to you. + +So, as far as my own emotions are concerned then, I retract nothing of +what I told you. In fact, to-day I could say more. To me she is and +ever will be the most wonderful woman who ever lived. Thinking of you +before, I said there ought to be two of her, so that one might be left +for you. Now, thinking of myself, I would to God there were two of +her, so that one might be left for me. Yet that is inconceivable. It +might be possible to find another who looked like her; who thought like +her; who was willing for the big things of life like her. But this +other would not be Marjory. Besides everything else she has in common +with other women, she has something all her own that makes her herself. +It's that something that has got hold of me, Covington. + +I don't suppose it's in particularly good taste for me to talk to you +of your wife in this fashion; but it's my dying speech, old man, as far +as this subject is concerned, and I 'm talking to you and to no one +else. + +There's just one thing more I want to say. I don't want either you or +Marjory to think I'm going out of your lives a martyr--that I'm going +off to pine and die. The first time she left me I made an ass of +myself, and that was because I had not then got hold of the essential +fact of love. As I see it now, love--real love--does not lie in the +personal gratification of selfish desires. The wanting is only the +first stage. Perhaps it is a ruse of Nature to entice men to the +second stage, which is giving. + +Until recently my whole thought was centered on getting. I was +thinking of myself alone. It was baffled desire and injured vanity +that led me to do what I did before, and I was justly punished. It was +when I began to think less about myself and more about her that I was +reprieved. I'm leaving her now with but one desire: to do for her +whatever I may, at any time and in any place, to make her happy; and, +because of her, to do the same for any others with whom for the rest of +my life I may be thrown in contact. Thus I may be of some use and find +peace. + +I'm going away, Covington. That will leave her here alone. Wherever +you are, there must be trains back to Nice--starting perhaps within the +hour. + +So long. + +PETER J. NOYES. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +FREEDOM + +With the departure of Peter and his sister--Peter had made his +leave-taking easy by securing an earlier train than she had expected +and sending her a brief note of farewell--Marjory found herself near +that ideal state of perfect freedom she had craved. There was now no +outside influence to check her movements. If she remained where she +was, there was no one to interrupt her in the solitary pursuit of her +own pleasure. Safe from any possibility of intrusion, she was at +liberty to remain in the seclusion of her room; but, if she preferred, +she could walk the quay without the slightest prospect in the world of +being forced to recognize the friendly greeting of any one. + +Peter was gone; Beatrice was gone; and Monte was gone. There was no +one else--unless by some chance poor Teddy Hamilton should turn up, +which was so unlikely that she did not even consider it. Yet there +were moments when, if she had met Teddy, she would have smiled a +welcome. She would not have feared him. There was only one person in +the world now of whom she stood in fear, and he was somewhere along the +English coast, playing a poor game of golf. + +She was free beyond her most extravagant dreams--absolutely free. She +was so free that it seemed aimless to rise in the morning, because +there was nothing awaiting her attention. She was so free that there +was no object in breakfasting, because there was no obligation +demanding her strength. She was so free that whether she should go out +or remain indoors depended merely upon the whim of the moment. There +was for her nothing either without or within. + +For the first twenty-four hours she sat in a sort of stupor. + +Marie became anxious. + +"Madame is not well?" she asked solicitously. + +"Perfectly well," answered Marjory dully. + +"Madame's cheeks are very white," Marie ventured further. + +Madame shrugged her shoulders. + +"Is there any harm in that?" she demanded. + +"It is such a beautiful day to walk," suggested Marie. + +Marjory turned slowly. + +"What do you mean by beautiful?" + +"Ma foi, the sky is blue, the sun is shining, the birds singing," +explained Marie. + +"Do those things make a beautiful day?" + +"What else, madame?" inquired the maid, in astonishment. + +"I do not know," sighed madame. "All I know is that for me those +things do not count at all." + +"Then," declared Marie, "it is time to call a doctor." + +"For what?" + +"To make madame see the blue sky again and hear the birds." + +"But I do not care whether I see them or not," concluded madame, +turning away from the subject. + +Here was the whole thing in a nutshell. There were some who might +consider this to be an ideal state. Not to care about anything at all +was not to have anything at all to worry about. Certain philosophies +were based upon this state of mind. In part, Monte's own philosophy +was so based. If not to care too much were well, then not to care at +all should be better. It should leave one utterly and sublimely free. +But should it also leave one utterly miserable? + +There was something inconsistent in that--something unfair. To be +free, and yet to feel like a prisoner bound and gagged; not to care, +and yet to feel one's vitals eaten with caring; to obtain one's +objective, and then to be marooned there like a forsaken sailor on a +desert island--this was unjust. + +Ah, but she did care! It was as if some portion of her refused +absolutely to obey her will in this matter. In silence she might +declare her determination not to care, or through tense lips she might +mutter the same thing in spoken words; but this made no difference. +She was a free agent, to be sure. She had the right to dictate terms +to herself. She had the sole right to be arbiter of her destiny. It +was to that end she had craved freedom. It was for her alone to decide +about what she should care and should not care. She was no longer a +schoolgirl to be controlled by others. She was both judge and jury for +herself, and she had passed sentence to the effect that, since she had +chosen not to care when to care had been her privilege, it was no +longer her privilege to care when she chose to care. Nothing since +then had developed to give her the right to alter that verdict. If +anything, it held truer after Peter's departure than ever. She must +add to her indictment the harm she had done him. + +Still, she cared. Staring out of her window upon the quay, she caught +her breath at sight of every new passer-by, in fearful hope that it +might prove to be Monte. She did this when she knew that Monte was +hundreds of miles away. She did this in face of the fact that, if his +coming depended upon her consent, she would have withheld that consent. +If in truth he had suddenly appeared, she would have fled in terror. +He must not come; he should not come--but, O God, if he would come! + +[Illustration: "But, O God, if he would come!"] + +Sometimes this thought held her for a moment before she realized it. +Then for a space the sun appeared in the blue sky and the birds set up +such a singing as Marie had never heard in all her life. Perhaps for a +step or two she saw him striding toward her with his face aglow, his +clear, blue eyes smiling, his tender man mouth open to greet her. So +her heart leaped to her throat and her arms trembled. Then--the fall +into the abyss as she caught herself. Then her head drooping upon her +arm and the racking, dry sobs. + +How she did care! It was as if everything she had ever hungered for in +the past--all her beautiful, timid girlhood dreams; all that good part +of her later hunger for freedom; all of to-day and all that was worth +while of the days to come, had been gathered together, like jewels in a +single jewel casket, and handed over to him. He had them all. None +had been left her. She had none left. + +She had always known that if ever she loved it was so that she must +love. It was this that she had feared. She had known that if she gave +at all she must give utterly--all that she ever had or hoped to have. +Suddenly she recalled Mrs. Chic. It was with a new emotion. The +latter had always been to her the symbol of complete self-sacrifice. +It centered around the night Chic, Junior was born. That night she had +been paler than Mrs. Chic herself; she had whimpered more than Mrs. +Chic. Outside, waiting, she had feared more than the wife within who +was wrestling with death for a new life. She had sat alone, with her +hands over her ears in an agony of fear and horror. She had marveled +that any woman would consent to face such a crisis. It had seemed +wrong that love--an affair of orange blossoms and music and +laughter--should lead to that. Wide-eyed, she had sobbed in terror +until it was over. It was with awe and wonder that a few days later +she had seen Mrs. Chic lying in her big white bed so crooningly happy +and jubilant. + +Now she understood. The fear and horror had vanished. Had she been in +the next room to-day, her heart would have leaped with joy in tune with +her who was fighting her grim fight. Because the aches and the pains +are but an incident of preparation. Not only that, but one can so love +that pain, physical pain, may in the end be the only means for an +adequate expression of that love. The two may be one, so blended as to +lead, in the end, to perfect joy. Even mental pains, such as she +herself now suffered, can do that. For all she was undergoing she +would not have given up one second to be back again where she was a +month before. + +Something comes with love. It is that more than love itself which is +the greatest thing in the world. Sitting by her window, watching the +shadows pass, Marjory was sensing this. The knowledge was coming +slowly, imperceptibly; but it was bringing her strength. It was +steadying her nerves. It was preparing her for the supreme test. + +Because that very day, toward sunset-time, as she still sat by her +window, she saw a shadow that looked like Monte. She smiled a little, +because she knew it would soon dissolve. Rapidly the shadow strode +along the quay until opposite the hotel. Then, instead of vanishing, +it came on--straight toward her. She sprang to her feet, leaning back +against the wall, not daring to look again. So she stood, counting her +heart-beats; for she was still certain that when a hundred or so of +them had passed, the illusion also would fade. + +Marjory did not have time to count a full hundred heart-beats before +she heard a light rap at the door. For the fraction of a second she +swayed in the fear that, taking the stairs three at a time, Monte might +have ventured to her very room. But it would be with no such gentle +tap that he would announce himself. + +"Yes?" she called. + +"A card for madame," came the voice of the garçon. + +Her knees still weak, she crossed the room and took the card. There +was no longer any hope left to her. Apparitions do not materialize to +the point where they present their cards. + +"Madame is in?" queried the boy. + +"What else can I say?" she asked, as if, in her desperate need, seeking +counsel of him. + +The boy shrugged his shoulders. + +"If madame desires, I can report madame is away," he offered. + +It was all one to him. It was all one to every one else in the world +but herself. No one was interested. She was alone. Then why had not +Monte himself let her alone? That was the point, but to determine that +it was necessary to see him. + +It was possible he had come merely by chance. It was possible he had +come to see Peter, not knowing that Peter had gone. It was possible he +had returned this way in order to take the Mediterranean route home. +On the face of it, anything was more probable than that he had come +deliberately to see her. + +"You will ask monsieur to wait, and I will be down in a few moments," +she replied to the boy. + +She called to Marie. + +"I have a caller," she announced nervously. "You must make me look as +young as possible." + +Even if she had grown old inside, there was no reason why she should +reveal her secret. + +"I am glad," nodded Marie. "Madame should put on a white gown and wear +a ribbon in her hair." + +"A ribbon!" exclaimed madame. "That would look absurd." + +"You shall see." + +She was too weak to protest. She was glad enough to sit down and give +herself up utterly to Marie. + +"Only we must not keep him waiting too long," she said. "Monsieur +Covington does not like to be kept waiting." + +"It is he?" exclaimed Marie. + +"It--it is quite a surprise." She blushed. "I--I do not understand +why he is here." + +"It should not be difficult to understand," ventured Marie. + +To that madame made no reply. It was clear enough what Marie meant. +It was a natural enough mistake. To her, Monsieur Covington was still +the husband of madame. She had stood in the little chapel in Paris +when madame was married. When one was married, one was married; and +that was all there was to it for all time. So, doubtless, Marie +reasoned. It was the simple peasant way--the old, honest, woman way. + +Madame folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes while Marie did +her hair and adjusted the ribbon. Then Marie slipped a white gown over +her head. + +"There," concluded the maid, with satisfaction, as she fastened the +last hook. "Madame looks as young as when she was married." + +But the color that made her look young vanished the moment Marjory +started down the stairs alone to meet him. Several times she paused to +catch her breath; several times she was upon the point of turning back. +Then she saw him coming up to meet her. She felt her hand in his. + +"Jove!" he was saying, "but it's good to see you again." + +"But I don't understand why you are here," she managed to gasp. + +To him it was evidently as simple as to Marie. + +"To see you," he answered promptly. + +"If that is all, then you should not have come," she declared. + +They were still on the stairs. She led the way down and into the lower +reception-room. She did not care to go again into the sun parlor. She +thought it would be easier to talk to him in surroundings not +associated with anything in the past. They had the room to themselves. +She sat down and motioned him to another chair at some little distance. +He paid no attention to her implied request. With his feet planted +firmly, his arms folded, he stood before her while she tried to find +some way of avoiding his gaze. + +"Peter Noyes has gone," he began. + +"Yes," she nodded. "You heard about his eyes?" + +"He wrote me." + +She looked up swiftly. + +"Peter wrote you?" she trembled. + +"He told me he had recovered his sight. He told me he was going." + +What else had he told? Dizzily she waited. For the first time in her +life, she felt as if she might faint. That would be such a silly thing +to do! + +"He said he was going home--out of your life." + +Peter had told Monte that! What else had he told? + +He paused a moment, as if expecting her to make some reply. There, was +nothing she could say. + +"It was n't what I expected," he went on. + +What else had Peter told him? + +"Was n't there any other way?" he asked. + +"I did n't send him home. He--he chose to go," she said. + +"Because it was n't any use for him to remain?" + +"I told him the truth," she nodded. + +"And he took it like a man!" exclaimed Monte enthusiastically. "I 'd +like to show you his letter, only I don't know that it would be quite +fair to him." + +"I don't want to see it," she cut in. "I--I know I should n't." + +What else besides his going had Peter told Monte? + +"It was his letter that brought me back," he said. + +She held her breath. She had warned Peter that if he as much as hinted +at anything that she had confessed to him, she would lie to Monte. So +she should--but God forbid that this added humiliation be brought upon +her. + +"You see, when I went I expected that he would be left to care for you. +With him and his sister here, I knew you would n't be alone. I thought +they'd stay, or if they went--you'd go with them." + +"But why should n't I be alone?" she gathered strength to ask. + +"Because," he answered quickly, "it is n't good for you. It is n't +good for any one. Besides, it is n't right. When we were married I +made certain promises, and those hold good until we're unmarried." + +"Monte!" she cried. + +"As long as Peter was around, that was one thing; now that he's gone--" + +"It throws me back on your hands," she interrupted, in an attempt to +assert herself. "Please to sit down. You're making your old mistake +of trying to be serious. There's not the slightest reason in the world +why you should bother about me like this." + +She ventured to look at him again. His brows were drawn together in a +puzzled frown. Dear Monte--it was cruel of her to confuse him like +this, when he was trying to see straight. He looked so very woe-begone +when he looked troubled at all. + +"It--it is n't any bother," he stammered. + +"I should think it was a good deal," she answered, feeling for a moment +that she had the upper hand. "Where did you come from to here?" + +"Paris." + +"You did n't go on to England at all?" + +"No." + +"Then you did n't get back to your schedule. If you had done that, you +would n't have had any time left to--to think about other things." + +"I did n't get beyond the Normandie," he answered. "My schedule +stopped short right there." + +He was still standing before her. Apparently he intended to remain. +So she rose and crossed to another chair. He followed. + +"You should have gone on," she insisted. + +"I had my old room--next to yours," he said. + +She must trouble him still more. There was no other way. + +"That was rather sentimental of you, Monte, was n't it?" she asked +lightly. + +"I went there as a man goes home," he answered softly. + +Her lips became suddenly dumb. + +"Then I had a long letter from Peter; the first one." + +"He has written you before?" + +"He wrote me that he loved you and was going to marry you. That was +before he learned the truth." + +"About you?" + +"And about you. When he wrote again, he said you had told him +everything." + +So she had; more, far more than she should. What of that had he told +Monte? The question left her faint again. + +"How did it happen?" he asked. + +"I--I don't know," she faltered. "He guessed a little, and then I had +to tell him the rest." + +Monte's mouth hardened. + +"That should n't have been left for you to do. I should have told him +myself." + +"Now that it's all over--can't we forget it, Monte, with all the rest?" + +He bent a little toward her. + +"Have you forgotten all the rest?" he demanded. + +"At least, I 'm trying," she gasped. + +"I wonder if you have found it as hard as I even to try?" + +Steady--she must hold herself steady. His words were afire. With her +eyes on the ground, she felt his eyes searching her face. + +"Whether it is hard or not makes no difference," she answered. + +"It's just that which makes all the difference in the world," he +contradicted. "I wanted to be honest with myself and with you. So I +went away, willing to forget if that were the honest way. But, from +the moment I took the train here at Nice, I've done nothing but +remember. I've remembered every single minute of the time since I met +you in Paris. The present has been made up of nothing but the past. +Passing hours were nothing but echoes of past hours. + +"I've remembered everything--even things away back that I thought I had +forgotten. I dug up even those glimpses I had had of you at Chic's +house when you were only a school-girl. And I did n't do it on +purpose, Marjory. I 'd have been glad not to do it, because at the +time it hurt to remember them. I thought I'd given you over to Peter. +I thought he was going to take you away from me. So I 'd have been +glad enough to forget, if it had been possible." + +She sprang to her feet. + +"What are you saying, Monte?" she trembled. + +With his head erect and his eyes shining, he was telling her what her +heart hungered to hear. That was what he was doing. Only she must not +listen. + +"I'm telling you that to forget was not possible," he repeated hotly; +"I'm telling you that I shall never try again. I've come back to get +you and keep you this time." + +He held out his arms to her. She shrank back. + +"You're making it so hard," she quavered. + +"Come to me," he said gently. "That's the easy way. I love you, +Marjory. Don't you understand? I love you with all my heart and soul, +and I want you to begin life with me now in earnest. Come, little +woman." + +He reached her hands and tried to draw her toward him. She resisted +with all her strength. + +"You must n't," she gasped. "You must n't!" + +"It's you who're making it hard now, wife o' mine," he whispered. + +Yes, she was making it hard. But she must make it still harder. He +had come back to her because she was alone, moved temporarily by a +feeling of sentimental responsibility. That was all. He was sincere +enough for the moment, but she must not confuse this with any deeper +passion. He had made a mistake in returning to the Normandie. +Doubtless he had felt lonesome there. It was only natural that he +should exaggerate that, for the time being, into something more. + +Then Peter's two letters had come. If Peter had not told him anything +that he should n't, he had probably told him a great deal more than he +should. Monte, big-hearted and good, had, as a consequence of all +these things, imagined himself in love. This delusion might last a +week or two; and then, when he came to himself again, the rude +awakening would follow. He would see her then merely as a trifler. +Worse than that, he might see himself as merely a trifler. That would +be deadly. + +"It's you who are making it hard now," he repeated. + +She had succeeded in freeing herself, leaving him before her as amazed +and hurt as a spurned child. + +"You're forcing me to run away from you--to run away as I did from the +others," she said. + +He staggered before the blow. + +"Not that!" he cried hoarsely. + +"I'm going home," she ran on. "I'm going back to my little farm, where +I started." + +"You're running away--from me?" + +"I must go right off." + +She looked around as if for Marie. It was as if she were about to +start that second. + +"Where is Marie?" she asked dully. + +She made for the door. + +"Marjory," he called after her. "Don't do that!" + +"I must go--right off," she said again. + +"Wife o' mine," he cried, "there is no need of that." + +"Marie!" she called as she reached the door. "Marie!" + +Frantically she ran up the stairs. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +WAR + +War! + +A summer sky, warm and fragrant, suddenly became dour and overcast. +Within a day thunder rolled and lightning flashed. Men glanced up in +startled surprise, then clenched their jaws. Women who were laughing +gayly turned suddenly white. Orders were speeded over the wires and +through the clouds to the remotest hamlets of France. In a few hours +men began to gather in uniform, bearing rifles. They posted themselves +about the gates of stations. They increased in numbers until they were +everywhere. Trumpets sounded, drums rolled. Excited groups gathered +in the hotels and rushed off to the consulates. The very air was tense +and vibrant. + +War! + +People massed in groups. The individual no longer counted. +Storekeepers, bankers, dandies, chauffeurs, postmen, gardeners, hotel +proprietors became merely Frenchmen. They dropped the clothes that +distinguished their caste, and became merely men in uniform. + +Foreign visitors no longer counted as individuals. They ran about in +panic-stricken groups like vagrant dogs. Those in uniform looked on +indifferently, or gave sharp orders turning strangers back from this +road or that, this gate or that. A chauffeur in uniform might turn +back his millionaire foreign master. + +Credit money no longer counted. Banks refused to give out gold, and +the shopkeepers and hotel proprietors refused to accept anything but +gold. No one knew what might happen, and refused to risk. A man might +brandish a letter of credit for ten thousand francs and be refused a +glass of wine. A man with a thousand francs in gold was in a better +position than a millionaire with only paper. + +Monte discovered this when he hurried to his own bankers. With half a +million dollars and more to his credit at home, he was not allowed a +single louis d'or. Somewhat bewildered, he stood on the steps and +counted the gold he happened to have in his pockets. It amounted to +some fifty dollars. To all intents and purposes, that embraced his +entire capital. In the present emergency his stocks and bonds were of +no avail whatever to him. He thought of the cables, but gold could not +be cabled--only more credit, which in this grim crisis went for +nothing. It was as if he had suddenly been forced into bankruptcy. +His fortune temporarily had been swept away. + +If that was true of his own, it must be equally true of Marjory's. She +was no wealthier now than the sum total of the gold she happened to +have in her possession. The thought came to him at first as a shock. +What was she going to do? She was upon the point of leaving, and her +plans must have been suddenly checked. She was, in effect, a prisoner +here. She was stranded as completely as if she were any penniless +young woman. + +Then some emotion--some feeling indistinctly connected with the +grandfather who had crossed the plains in forty-nine--swept over him. +It was a primitive exultation. It made him conscious of the muscles in +his back and legs. It made him throw back his head and square his +shoulders. A moment before, with railroads and steamships at her +command, with a hundred men standing ready to do her bidding in +response to the magic of her check-book, she had been as much mistress +of her little world as any ancient queen. + +Sweaty men were rushing fruits from the tropics, silks from India, +diamonds from Africa, caviar from the north; others were making ready +fine quarters in every corner of the globe; others were weaving cloths +and making shoes; others were rehearsing plays and music--all for her +and others like her, who had only to call upon their banks to pay for +all this toil. Instead of one man to supply her needs, she had a +thousand, ten thousand. With the machinery of civilization working +smoothly, she had only to nod--and sign a check. + +Now, overnight, this had been changed. The machinery was to be put to +other uses. Ships that had been carrying silks were needed for men +with rifles. Railroads were for troops. The sweat of men was to be in +battle. Servants were to be used for the slaughter of other servants. +With nations at one another's throats, the very basis of credit, mutual +trust and esteem, was gone. She and others like her did not count. +Men with the lust for blood in their hearts could not bother with them. +They might sit in their rooms and sob, or they might starve. It did +not much matter. A check was only a bit of paper. Under such +conditions it might be good or not. Gold was what counted--gold and +men. Broad backs counted, and stout legs. + +Monte took a deep breath. Now--it might be possible that he would +count. It was so that his grandfather had counted. He had fought his +way across a continent and back for just such another woman as Marjory. +Life had been primitive then. It was primitive now. Men and women +were forced to stand together and take the long road side by side. + +The blood rushed to Monte's head. He must get to her at once. She +would need him now--if only for a little while. He must carry her +home. She could not go without him. + +He started down the steps of the bank, two at a time, and almost ran +against her. She was on her way to the bank as he had been, in search +of gold. Her eyes greeted him with the welcome her lips would not. + +"You see!" he exclaimed, with a quick laugh. + +"When you need me I come." + +She was dressed in the very traveling costume she had worn when they +left Paris together. She was wearing, too, the same hat. It might +have been yesterday. + +"They refused my check at the hotel," she explained nervously. "They +say they must have gold." + +"Have you any?" he asked. + +"One louis d'or." + +"And I have ten," he informed her. + +She did not understand why he should be so exultant over this fact. + +"I have come here to get enough to pay my bill and buy my ticket. I am +leaving this morning." + +"They won't give you any," he explained. "Besides, they won't carry +you on the train unless you put on a uniform." + +"Monte!" + +"It's a fact." + +"Then--what am I to do?" + +She looked quite helpless--deliciously helpless. + +He laughed joyously. + +"You are bankrupt," he said. "So am I. We have only fifty-five +dollars between us. But that is something. Also there is the machine. +That will take us over the Italian frontier and to Genoa. I ought to +be able to sell it there for something. Come on." + +"Where?" she asked. + +"We must get the car as soon as possible. I have a notion that with +every passing hour it is going to be more difficult to get out." + +"But I'm not going with you, Monte. It's--it's impossible!" + +"It's the only way, little woman." + +He gave her no time to argue about it, but took her arm and hurried her +to the garage. It was necessary to walk. Taxis were as if they had +never been. They passed groups of soldiers who turned to look at +Marjory. The eyes of many were hot with wine, and she was very glad +that she was not alone. + +At the door of the garage stood a soldier in uniform. As Monte +attempted to pass, he was brought to a halt. + +"It is not permitted to pass," explained the guard. + +"But I want to get my car." + +"I 'm afraid monsieur has no car." + +"Eh?" + +"They have all been taken for la patrie." + +"You mean my machine has been confiscated?" + +"Borrowed, perhaps. After the victory--" The guard shrugged his +shoulders. + +Monte shrugged his own shoulders. Then he laughed. + +"After all," he said, "that is little enough to do for France. Inform +the authorities they are welcome." + +He saluted the guard, who returned the salute. Again he took Marjory's +arm, and turned toward the hotel. + +"There is nothing to do but to walk," he declared. + +"Where?" + +She could not understand his mood. It was as if this were a holiday +instead of a very serious plight. + +"Over the border. It is only some twenty-five miles. We can do it +easily in two days; but even if it takes three--" + +Even if it took a hundred, what did it matter, with her by his side? +And by his side she must remain until her credit was restored. With +only one louis d'or in her pocket, she was merely a woman, with all the +limitations of her sex. She could not take to the open road alone. +She did not have the physical strength that dictated the law for +vagabonds. She must have a man near to fight for her, or it would go +hard. Even Marie would be no protection in time of war. + +Dumbly she followed his pace until they reached the hotel. The place +was in confusion and the proprietor at his wits' end. In the midst of +it, Monte was the only one apparently unmoved. + +"Pack one small hand-bag," he ordered. "You must leave your trunks +here." + +"Yes, Monte," she submitted. + +"I'll run back to the Roses, and meet you here in a half-hour. Will +you be ready?" + +"Yes. Marie will come with us, of course." + +He shook his head. + +"She must wait here until she can get to Paris. Find out if she has +any cash." + +"I want her to come with me," she pleaded. + +"I doubt if she will want to come. Anyway, our fifty-five dollars +won't stretch to her. We--we can't afford a maid." + +She flushed at his use of "we." Nevertheless, what he said was true +enough. That sum was a mere pittance. Fate had her in a tight grip. + +"Be sure to bring your passport," he reminded her. "It is ten-thirty. +I 'll be here at eleven." + +Hurrying back to his room, he took what he could crowd into his +pockets: his safety razor and toothbrush, a few handkerchiefs and a +change of socks. One did not need much on the open road. He carried +his sweater--the old crimson sweater with the black "H"--more for her +than for himself. The rest of his things he threw into his trunk and +left in the care of the hotel. + +She was waiting for him when he returned to the Hôtel d'Angleterre. + +"You were right about Marie," she acknowledged. "She has two brothers +in the army. She has money enough for her fare to Paris, and is going +as soon as possible." + +"In the meanwhile she is safe enough here. So, en avant!" + +He took her bag, and they stepped out into the sunshine. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +THE CORNICE ROAD + +It was the Cornice Road that he followed--the broad white road that +skirts the sea at the foot of the Alpes Maritimes. As far as Monte +Carlo, he had walked it alone many the time. But he had never walked +it with her, so it was a new road. It was a new world too, and as far +as he was concerned there was no war. The blue sky overhead gave no +hint of war; neither did the Mediterranean; neither did the trees full +of singing birds; neither did the grasses and flowers: and these +things, with the woman at his side, comprised, for the moment, his +whole world. It was the world as originally created for man and woman. +All that he was leaving behind--banks and hotels and taxis and servants +and railroads--had nothing to do with the primal idea of creation. +They were all extraneous. The heavens, the earth, the waters beneath +the earth, man and woman created He them. That was all. That was +enough. + +Once or twice, alone in his camp in the Adirondacks, Monte had sensed +this fact. With a bit of food to eat, a bit of tobacco to smoke in his +old brier, a bit of ground to lie down upon at night, he had marveled +that men found so many other things necessary to their comfort. But, +after a week or two of that, he had always grown restless, and hurried +back to New York and his club and his men servants. In turn he grew +restless there, and hurried on to the still finer luxuries of the +German liners and the Continent. + +That was because he was lonesome--because she had not been with him. +It was because--how clearly he saw it now!--he had never been complete +by himself alone. He had been satisfying only half of himself. The +other half he had tried to quiet with man-made things, with the +artificial products of civilization. He had thought to allay that +deep, undefined hunger in him with travel and sports and the attentions +of hirelings. It had been easy at first; but, keen as nimble wits had +been to keep pace with his desires with an ever-increasing variety of +luxuries, he had exhausted them all within a decade and been left +unsatisfied. + +To-day it was as if with each intake of breath the sweet air reached +for the first time the most remote corners of his lungs. He had never +before had air enough. The sunshine reached to the marrow of his +bones. Muscles that had lagged became vibrant. He could hardly keep +his feet upon the ground. He would have liked to run; to keep on +running mile after mile. He wondered when he would tire. He had a +feeling that he could never tire. His back and arm muscles ached for +action. He would have enjoyed a rough-and-tumble fight with some +impudent fellow vagabond of the road. + +Marjory walked by his side in silence. That was all he asked--simply +that she should be there on the left, dependent upon him. Here was the +nub of the matter. Always before she had been able to leave him if she +wished. She had married him upon that condition. There had never been +a moment, until now, when he had not been conscious of the fact that he +was in no way necessary to her. The protection against Teddy and the +others was merely a convenience. He had been able to save her from +annoyance, that was all. At any time on that ride from Paris she could +have left him and gone on her way quite safely. At Nice, that was just +what she had done. It was to save her from the annoyance of himself +that he had finally gone away. Had he been really needed, that would +have been impossible. But he knew that she could get along without him +as she did. Then when Peter had gone it was more because he needed her +than because she needed him that he had returned. Down deep in his +heart he knew that, whatever he may have pretended. She was safe +enough from everything except possible annoyance. With plenty of gold +at her command, there was nothing that he could buy for her that she +could not buy for herself. + +Now she had no gold--except one louis d'or. He was almost jealous of +that single piece. He would have been glad if she lost it. If he had +seen it drop from her bag, he would have let it lie where it fell. + +She was merely a woman now. The muscles in her arms and legs were not +strong. Because of that she could not leave his side, nor order him to +leave. She must look to him to fight for her if fighting were +necessary. She must look to him to put his strong arm about her and +help her if she grew weary. She must look to him to provide her with +food and shelter for the night. Physically she was like a child out +here on the open road. But he was a man. + +He was a man because he had something to protect. He was a man because +he was responsible for some one besides himself. It was this that the +other half of him had been craving all these years. It was this that +completed him. + +Yet his attitude toward her, in this respect, was strangely impersonal. +He was looking for no reward. He did not consider that he was placing +her in any way under an obligation to him. His joy in doing for her +was not based upon any idea of furthering his own interests. He was +utterly unselfish. He did not look ahead an hour. It was enough to +have her here in a position where he could be of some service. + +His love for her was another matter entirely. Whether she were with +him or not, that would have remained the same. He loved her with all +there was in him, and that was more or less distinct from any attitude +that she might assume. It was a separate, definite, concrete fact, no +longer open to argument--no longer to be affected by any of the petty +accidents of circumstance. Not even she had now any control over it. +It was within her power to satisfy it or not; but that was all. She +could not destroy it. If she left it unfulfilled, then he must endure +that, as Peter had. Peter was not sorry that he loved her, and +Peter--why, Peter did not have the opportunity to sense more than the +first faint beginnings of the word love. Peter had not had those weeks +in Paris in which to get to know her; he had not had that wonderful +ride through sunny France with Marjory by his side; and Peter had had +nothing approaching such a day as this. + +Monte turned to look at her. They had passed through Villefranche, and +were now taking the up grade. The exercise had flushed her cheeks, +giving her back the color she had lacked in the last few weeks. Her +eyes were upon the ground, as if she did not dare raise them. Her face +always seemed younger when one did not see the eyes. Asleep, she could +not have looked over twenty. He marveled at how delicately feminine +her forehead and nose were. And the lips--he could not look very long +at her lips. Warm and full of curves, they tugged at his heart. They +roused desire. Yet, had it been his blessed privilege to touch them +with his own, he would have been very gentle about it. A man must +needs always be gentle with her, he thought. + +That was why he must not utter the phrases that burned within. It +would only frighten her, and he must see that she was never frightened +again. To himself he might say as much as he pleased, because she +could not hear. He could repeat to himself over and over again, as he +did now, "I love you--I love you--I love you." + +Out loud, however, he said only:-- + +"Are you tired?" + +She started even at that. + +"No, Monte," she answered. + +"We can rest any time you wish. We have all the time in the world +ahead of us." + +"Have we?" + +"Days and weeks and months," he replied. + +It was the old Monte she heard--the easy, care-free Monte. It made her +feel easier. + +"We should cross the border by to-morrow night, should n't we?" she +asked. + +"We could, if it were necessary," he admitted. + +She quickened her pace unconsciously. + +"I think we should get there as soon as possible." + +"That," he said, "would be like hurrying through Eden." + +She ventured to glance up at him. With his lean, strong face to the +sun, his lithe body swinging rhythmically to his stride, he looked like +an Indian chieftain. So he would have stalked through virgin forests. +So, under different conditions, she might have been following his lead. +But conditions were as they were. That is what she must keep in mind. +He was here merely to escort her safely to Italy and to the steamer in +which she was soon to sail for home. He was being decent to her, as +under the same conditions he would be to any woman. He could scarcely +do less than he was doing. She was forced upon him. + +That he apparently took pleasure in the episode was natural enough. It +was just the sort of experience he enjoyed. It was another pleasant +excursion like the motor trip from Paris, with a touch of adventure +added to give it spice. Possibly in his present mood there was also a +trace of romance. Monte had his romantic side, based upon his quick +sympathies. A maiden in distress was enough to rouse this. That was +what happened yesterday when he told her of his love. He had been +sincere enough for the moment, and no doubt believed everything he +said. He had not given himself quite time enough to get back to his +schedule. With that in good running order he would laugh at his +present folly. + +For she must remember that Monte had not as yet touched either the +heights or the depths of love. It was in him to do that, but she must +see to it that he did not. That was her task. Love as he saw it now +was merely a pleasant garden, in May. It was a gypsy jaunt along the +open road where it was pleasant enough to have her with him as he +whistled along. A day or a week or a month or two of that was well +enough, as he had said. Only she--she could not last that long. +To-day and to-morrow at the utmost was as much as she could endure, +with every minute a struggle to whip back her emotions. Were it safe, +she would try to keep it up for his sake. If without danger she could +keep him happy this way, not allowing him to go any further, she would +try. But there is a limit to what of herself a woman may sacrifice, +even if she is willing. + +So, with her lips set, she stumbled along the Cornice Road by his side. + + +At five that evening they had made half their journey and stopped at a +wayside inn--the inn of L'Agneau dansant. On a squeaking sign before +the ancient stone structure, which looked as if it must have been there +in the days of post-chaises, a frolicsome lamb danced upon his hind +legs, smiling to all who paused there an invitation to join him in this +innocent pastime and not take the world too seriously. The good humor +of the crude painting appealed to Monte. He grinned back at L'Agneau +dansant. + +"I'm with you," he nodded. + +Marjory, dusty and footsore, followed his gaze. + +Then she too smiled. + +"That fellow has the proper spirit," he declared. "Shall we place +ourselves in his care?" + +"I'm afraid I can't go any farther," she answered wearily. + +Monsieur Soucin came out, looking to be in anything but the mood of the +gay lamb before his door. + +"Two rooms, a little supper, and some breakfast," explained Monte. +"But we must strike a bargain. We are not American tourists--merely +two travelers of the road without much gold and a long way to go." + +"I have but a single louis d'or," put in madame. + +"Monsieur! Madame!" interrupted Soucin. "I am sorry, but I cannot +accommodate you at any price. In the next village a regiment of +soldiers have arrived. I have had word that I must receive here ten +officers. They come at seven to-night." + +"But look here--madame is very tired," frowned Monte. + +"I am sorry," answered Soucin helplessly. + +Monte stepped nearer and jingled the gold in his pocket. + +"Doubtless the next village in that case is without accommodations +also," said Monte. "We will strike no bargain. Name your price up to +ten louis d'or; for madame must rest." + +Soucin shook his head. + +"I am giving up my own room. I must sleep in the kitchen--if I sleep +at all; which, mon Dieu, is doubtful." + +"Supposing we had arrived yesterday, would you have turned us out +to-night?" + +"The inquiry was made how many rooms I had, and I answered truthfully." + +Madame had sunk down on a bench by the door. Monte stared up the road +and down the road. There was no other house in sight. + +"You could not find a bed for madame even for ten louis d'or?" + +"Not for a thousand, monsieur. If there are no beds, there are no +beds." + +Yet there was room enough thereabouts. Behind the inn an olive orchard +extended up a gentle incline to a stone wall. Over this the sun was +descending in a blaze of glory. A warm breeze stirred the dark leaves +of the trees. A man could sleep out of doors on such a night as this. +Monte turned again to the man. + +"The orchard behind the house is yours?" he asked. + +"Yes, monsieur." + +"Then," said Monte, "if you will spare us a few blankets, madame and I +will sleep there." + +"Upon the ground?" + +"Upon the blankets," smiled Monte. + +"Ah, monsieur is from America!" exclaimed Soucin, as if that explained +everything. + +"Truly." + +"And it is so the Indians sleep, I have read." + +"You have read well. But we must have supper before the officers +arrive. You can spare some bread and cheese?" + +"I will do that." + +"Then make it ready at once. And some coffee?" + +"Yes, monsieur." + +Monte returned to madame. + +"I have engaged two rooms in the olive orchard," he announced. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +BENEATH THE STARS + +The situation was absurd, but what could be done about it? France was +at war, and there would be many who would sleep upon the ground who had +never slept there before. Many, too, in the ground. Still, the +situation was absurd--that Marjory, with all her thousands of dollars, +should be forced to sleep out of doors. It gave her a startling sense +of helplessness. She had been before in crowded places, but the +securing of accommodations was merely a matter of increasing the size +of her check. But here, even if one had a thousand louis d'or, that +would have made no difference. Officers of the Army of France were not +to be disturbed by the tinkle of gold. With a single gold-piece, +moreover, one could not even make a tinkle. + +She went into the inn to tidy herself before supper; but she hurried +back to Monte as quickly as possible. Out of sight of him she felt as +lost as a child in a forest. She had nothing to lean upon now but him. +Without him here she would scarcely have had even identity. Her name, +except as signed to a check, meant nothing. To have announced herself +as Miss Marjory Stockton, or even as Madame Covington, would have left +the soldiers of France merely smiling. To her sex they might have paid +some deference, but to her sex alone. She was not anything except as +she was attached to Monte--as a woman under the protection of her man. + +This did not humble her. Her first clean, unguarded emotion was one of +pride. Had it been her privilege to let herself go, she would have +taken her place near him with her eyes afire--with her head held as +proudly as any queen. Gladly would she have rested by his side in an +olive orchard or a fisherman's hut or a forest or on the plains or +anywhere fortune might take him. By his side--that would have been +enough. If she were his woman and he her man, that would have been +enough. + +If she could only let herself go! As she came into the smoky old +tavern room and he stepped forward to meet her, she swayed a little. +He looked so big and wholesome and eager with his arms outstretched! +They were alone here. It would have been so easy just to close her +eyes and let her head rest against his shoulder--so easy and restful. +He would have kissed her hair, and the ache would all have gone from +her body and heart. He would draw her close and hold her tight--yes, +for a day or two or a month or two. Then he would remember that week +in which she had trifled with him, and he would hate her. + +She pulled herself together. + +"Is supper ready?" + +It was such an inane remark! He turned aside like a boy who has been +snubbed. + +Monsieur Soucin had provided bread and cheese, a salad, and coffee. It +was enough. She had no appetite. She took much more satisfaction in +watching Monte and in pouring his coffee. His honest hunger was not +disturbed by any vain speculations. He ate like a man, as he did +everything like a man. It restored her confidence again. + +"Soucin lent a mattress, which I have arranged just the other side of +the wall. That is your room. With plenty of blankets you should be +comfortable enough there," he said. + +"And you?" she inquired. + +"I am on this side of the wall," he replied gravely. + +"What are you going to sleep upon?" + +"A blanket." + +If it had been possible to do so, she would have given him the mattress +and slept upon the ground herself. That is what she would have liked +to do. + +"It's no more than I have done in the woods when I could n't make camp +in time," he explained. "I had hoped to take you some day to my cabin +near the lake." + +She could think of nothing better than another inane remark:-- + +"It must be beautiful there." + +He looked up. + +"It always has been, but now--without you--" + +"You must n't let me make any difference," she put in quickly. + +"Why not?" + +"Because you must n't. You must go on just as if you had never met me." + +"Why?" He was as direct as a boy. + +"Because that's best. Oh, I know, Monte. You must trust me to know +what is good for you," she cried. + +"I don't believe you know even what is good for yourself," he answered. + +"I--I know what is right," she faltered. + +He saw that he was disturbing her, and he did not want to do that. + +"Perhaps in time we'll see," he said. "I have a notion that some day +you and I will get straightened out." + +"It does n't make so much difference about me; but you--you must get +back to your schedule again as soon as ever you can." + +"Perhaps to a new one; but that must include you." + +She could not help the color in her cheeks. It was beyond her control. + +"I must make my own little schedule," she insisted. + +"You are going back to the farm?" + +She nodded. + +"To-morrow we shall be in Italy. Then a train to Genoa and the next +boat," she said. + +"After that?" + +"In a week or so I shall be back where I started." + +"Then?" + +She laughed nervously. + +"I can't think much ahead of that. Perhaps I shall raise chickens." + +"Year after year?" + +"Maybe." + +"If you lived to be seventy you'd have a lot of chickens by then, would +n't you?" + +"I--I don't know." + +It did sound ridiculous, the way he put it. + +"Then--would you will them to some one?" he asked. + +He was laughing at her. She was glad to have him do that rather than +remain serious. + +"Please don't make me look ahead to seventy," she shuddered. + +Monsieur Soucin was hovering about nervously. He wished to have +everything cleared away before the officers arrived, and they would be +here now in half an hour. He was solicitous about madame. + +"It is a great pity that madame should sleep out of doors," he said. +"It makes my heart ache. But, with monsieur to guard her, at least +madame will be safe." + +Yes, safe from every one but herself. However, Monsieur Soucin could +not be expected to read a lady's innermost thoughts. Indeed, it would +scarcely have been gallant so to do. + +"And now you wish to be rid of us," said Monte as he rose. + +"Monsieur should not be unkind," sighed Soucin. "It is a necessity and +not a wish." + +"You have done as well as you could," Monte reassured him. "We shall +probably rise early and be on our way before the soldiers, so--" + +Monte slipped into his hand a gold-piece. It was too much from one +point of view, and yet from another it was little enough. Soucin had +unwittingly made an arrangement for which Monte could not pay in money. + +"And my share?" inquired Marjory. + +"One louis d'or," answered Monte unblushingly. + +She fumbled in her bag and brought it out--the last she had. And +Monte, in his reckless joy, handed that over also to Soucin. The man +was too bewildered to do more than bow as he might before a prince and +princess. + +Monte led her up the incline through the heavy-leaved olive trees to +her couch against the wall. It had been made up as neatly as in any +hotel, with plenty of blankets and a pillow for her head. + +"If you wish to retire at once," he said, "I'll go back to my side of +the wall." + +She hesitated. The wall was man-high and so thick that once he was +behind it she would feel terribly alone. + +"Or better still," he suggested, "you lie down and let me sit and smoke +here. I 'll be quiet." + +It was a temptation she would have resisted had she not been so tired +physically. As it was, half numbed with fatigue, she removed her hat +and lay down between the blankets. + +Monte slipped on his sweater with the black "H" and took a place +against the wall at Marjory's feet. + +"All comfy?" he asked. + +"It's impossible to feel altogether comfortable when you're selfish," +Marjory declared. + +He took a thoughtful puff of his cigarette. + +"I think you're right about that," he answered. "Only in this case +there's no reason in the world for you to feel like that, because I'm +comfortable too." + +"Honestly?" + +"Cross my heart. I'd rather be here than in the finest bed in Paris." + +"You're so good," she murmured. + +With all her muscles relaxed, and with him there, she felt as if she +were floating in the clouds. + +"It's strange you've always had that notion, because I 'm not +especially good," he replied. "Do you want to go to sleep, or may I +talk a while longer?" + +"Please to talk." + +"Of course," he ran on meditatively, "something depends upon what you +mean by being good. I used to think it was merely being decent. I've +been that. It happened to be easy. But being good, as I see it now, +is being good when it isn't easy--and then something more." + +She was listening with bated breath, because he was voicing her own +thoughts. + +"It's being good to others besides yourself," he continued. +"Forgetting yourself for them--when that is n't easy." + +"Yes, it's that," she said. + +"I don't want to boast," he said; "but, in a way, I come nearer being +good at this moment, than ever before in my life." + +"You mean because it's tiresome for you to sit there?" + +"Because it's hard for me to sit here when I'd like to be kneeling by +your side, kissing your hand, your forehead, your lips," he answered +passionately. + +She started to her elbow. + +"I shan't move," he assured her. "But it is n't easy to sit here like +a bump on a log with everything you're starving for within arm's reach." + +"Monte!" she gasped. "Perhaps you'd better not talk." + +"If it were only as easy to stop thinking!" + +"Why don't one's thoughts mind?" she cried. "When they are told what's +right, why don't they come right?" + +"God knows," he answered. "I sit here and tell myself that if you +don't love me I should let it go at that, and think the way I did +before the solemn little pastor in Paris got so serious over what +wasn't meant to be serious. I've tried, little woman. I tried hard +when I left you with Peter. I could n't do it then, and I can't do it +now. I hear over and over again the words the little minister spoke, +and they grow more wonderful and fine every day. I think he must have +known then that I loved you or he would not have uttered them." + +The leaves in the olive trees rustled beneath the stars. + +"Dear wife," he cried, "when are you coming to me?" + +He did not move. She saw his broad shoulders against the wall. She +saw his arms folded over his chest as if to keep them tight. She saw +his clenched lips. + +"God help me to keep silent," she prayed. + +"When are you coming?" he repeated wearily. "Will it be one year or +two years or three years?" + +She moistened her lips. He seemed to speak as though it were only a +matter of time--as though it were he who was being punished and it was +only a question of how long. She sank back with her eyes upon the +stars darting shafts of white light through the purple. + +"And what am I going to do while I'm waiting?" he went on, as though to +himself. + +Grimly she forced out the words:-- + +"You--you must n't wait. There 's nothing to wait for." + +She saw his arms tighten; saw his lips grow hard. + +"Nothing?" he exclaimed. "Don't make me believe that, because--then +there would n't be anything." + +She grew suddenly afraid. + +"There would be everything else in the world for you--everything except +me," she trembled. "And I count for so little. That's what I want you +to learn. That's what, in a little while, you will learn. That's what +you must learn. If you'll only hold on until to-morrow--until the next +day and I'm gone--" + +"Gone?" + +He sprang to his feet. + +"Monte!" she warned. + +In terror she struggled to her own feet. The white light of the stars +bathed their faces. In the distance he heard the notes of a trumpet +sounding taps. It roused him further. It was as though the night were +closing in upon him--as though life were closing in on him. + +He turned and seized her. + +"Marjory!" he cried. "Look me in the eyes." + +She obeyed. + +"They are sounding taps over there," he panted. "Before they are +through--do you love me, Marjory?" + +Never before in all his life had he asked her that directly. Always +she had been able to avoid the direct answer. Now-- + +She tried to struggle free. + +"Don't--don't ask me that!" she pleaded. + +"Before they are through--do you love me?" + +Piercing the still night air the final notes came to her. There was no +escape. Either she must lie or tell the truth and to lie--that meant +death. + +"Quick!" he cried. + +"I do!" she whispered. + +"Then--" + +He tried to draw her to him. + +"You made me tell you, Monte," she sobbed. "Oh, you made me tell the +truth." + +"The truth," he nodded with a smile; "that was all that was necessary. +It's all that is ever necessary." + +He had released her. She was crowding against the wall. She looked up +at him. + +"Now," he said, "if it's one year or two years or three years--what's +the difference?" + +Her eyes suddenly grew as brilliant as the stars. She straightened +herself. + +"Then," she trembled, "if it's like that--" + +"It might as well be now," he pleaded. + +Unsteadily, like one walking in a dream, she tottered toward him. He +caught her in his arms and kissed her lips--there in the starlight, +there in the olive orchard, there in the Garden of Eden. + + + + +THE END + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Triflers, by Frederick Orin Bartlett + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRIFLERS *** + +***** This file should be named 20458-8.txt or 20458-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/0/4/5/20458/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Triflers + +Author: Frederick Orin Bartlett + +Release Date: January 27, 2007 [EBook #20458] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRIFLERS *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +</pre> + + +<A NAME="img-front"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-front.jpg" ALT="A new tenderness swept over her" BORDER="2" WIDTH="417" HEIGHT="577"> +<H3 CLASS="h3center" STYLE="width: 417px"> +A new tenderness swept over her +</H3> +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +THE TRIFLERS +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BY +</H3> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT +</H2> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +<I>With Illustrations by</I> +<BR> +<I>George Ellis Wolfe</I> +</H3> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +TORONTO +<BR> +THOMAS ALLEN +<BR> +BOSTON AND NEW YORK +<BR> +HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY +<BR> +1917 +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H5 ALIGN="center"> +COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY EVERY WEEK CORPORATION +<BR> +COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT +<BR> +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED +<BR><BR> +<I>Published March 1917</I> +</H5> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +TO +<BR> +ANN AND KENT +</H3> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CONTENTS +</H2> + +<BR> + +<CENTER> + +<TABLE WIDTH="80%"> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">I. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap01">THE TROUBLE WITH MONTE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">II. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap02">THE TROUBLE WITH MARJORY</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">III. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap03">A SUMMONS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap04">A PROPOSAL</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">V. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap05">PISTOLS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap06">GENDARMES AND ETHER</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap07">THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING SHOT</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap08">DRAWBACKS OF RECOVERY</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap09">BLUE AND GOLD</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">X. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap10">THE AFFAIR AT MAXIM'S</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap11">A CANCELED RESERVATION</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap12">A WEDDING JOURNEY</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap13">A WEDDING JOURNEY (<I>continued</I>)</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap14">THE BRIDE RUNS AWAY</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap15">IN THE DARK</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XVI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap16">A WALK ON THE QUAY</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XVII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap17">JUST MONTE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XVIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap18">PETER</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap19">AN EXPLANATION</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap20">PAYING LIKE A MAN</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap21">BACK TO SCHEDULE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap22">A CONFESSION</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap23">LETTERS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXIV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap24">THE BLIND SEE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap25">SO LONG</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXVI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap26">FREEDOM</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXVII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap27">WAR</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXVIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap28">THE CORNICE ROAD</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXIX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap29">BENEATH THE STARS</A></TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +ILLUSTRATIONS +</H2> + +<BR> + +<H3> +<A HREF="#img-front"> +A NEW TENDERNESS SWEPT OVER HER . . . <I>Frontispiece</I> +</A> +</H3> + +<H3> +<A HREF="#img-090"> +"WE'RE TO BE MARRIED TO-MORROW?" +</A> +</H3> + +<H3> +<A HREF="#img-100"> +MONSIEUR'S EYES WARMED AS HE SLIPPED THE WRAP OVER MADAME'S SHOULDERS +</A> +</H3> + +<H3> +<A HREF="#img-160"> +"BECAUSE HE LOVES YOU," BREATHED BEATRICE +</A> +</H3> + +<H3> +<A HREF="#img-190"> +"DID N'T BEATRICE TELL ME YOU REGISTERED HERE WITH YOUR WIFE?" +</A> +</H3> + +<H3> +<A HREF="#img-252"> +"PETER!" SHE CRIED, FALLING BACK A STEP +</A> +</H3> + +<H3> +<A HREF="#img-276"> +"BUT, O GOD, IF HE WOULD COME!" +</A> +</H3> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +<I>From drawings by George E. Wolfe</I> +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap01"></A> +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +THE TRIFLERS +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER I +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE TROUBLE WITH MONTE +</H3> + +<P> +For a man to keep himself consistently amused for ten years after his +graduation from college, even with an inheritance to furnish ample +financial assistance, suggests a certain quality of genius. This much +Monte Covington had accomplished—accomplished, furthermore, without +placing himself under obligations of any sort to the opposite sex. He +left no trail of broken hearts in his wake. If some of the younger +sisters of the big sisters took the liberty of falling in love with him +secretly and in the privacy of their chambers, that was no fault of +his, and did neither them nor him the slightest harm. +</P> + +<P> +Such minor complications could not very well be avoided, because, +discreet as Monte tried to be, it was not possible for him to deny +certain patent facts, to wit: that he was a Covington of Philadelphia; +that he was six feet tall and light-haired; that he had wonderfully +decent blue eyes; that he had a straight nose; that he had the firm +mouth and jaws of an Arctic explorer; that he had more money than he +knew what to do with; and that he was just old enough to be known as a +bachelor without in the slightest looking like one. +</P> + +<P> +At the point where the older sisters gave him up as hopeless, he came +as a sort of challenge to the younger. +</P> + +<P> +This might have proved dangerous for him had it not been for his +schedule, which did not leave him very long in any one place and which +kept him always pretty well occupied. By spending his winters at his +New York club until after the holidays; then journeying to Switzerland +for the winter sports; then to Nice for tennis; then to Paris for a +month of gay spring and the Grand Prix; and so over to England for a +few days in London and a month of golf along the coast—he was able to +come back refreshed to his camp in the Adirondacks, there to fish until +it was time to return to Cambridge for the football season, where he +found himself still useful as a coach in the art of drop-kicking. +</P> + +<P> +The fact that he could get into his old football togs without letting +out any strings or pulling any in, and could even come through an +occasional scrimmage without losing his breath, was proof that he kept +himself in good condition. +</P> + +<P> +It was not until his eleventh trip that Monte became aware of certain +symptoms which seemed to hint that even as pleasant a cycle as his +could not be pursued indefinitely. At Davos he first noted a change. +Though he took the curves in the long run with a daring that proved his +eye to be as quick and his nerves as steady as ever, he was restless. +</P> + +<P> +Later, when he came to Nice, it was with a listlessness foreign to him. +In the first place, he missed Edhart, the old maître d'hôtel who for a +decade had catered to his primitive American tastes in the matter of +foodstuffs with as much enthusiasm as if he had been a Parisian epicure. +</P> + +<P> +The passing of Edhart did more to call Monte's attention to the fact +that in his own life a decade had also passed than anything else could +possibly have done. Between birthdays there is only the lapse each +time of a year; but between the coming and going of the maître d'hôtel +there was a period of ten years, which with his disappearance seemed to +vanish. Monte was twenty-two when he first came to Nice, and now he +was thirty-two. He became thirty-two the moment he was forced to point +out to the new management his own particular table in the corner, and +to explain that, however barbarous the custom might appear, he always +had for breakfast either a mutton chop or a beefsteak. Edhart had made +him believe, even to last year, that in this matter and a hundred +others he was merely expressing the light preferences of a young man. +Now, because he was obliged to emphasize his wishes by explicit orders, +they became the definite likes and dislikes of a man of middle age. +</P> + +<P> +For relief Monte turned to the tennis courts, and played so much in the +next week that he went stale and in the club tournament put up the +worst game of his life. That evening, in disgust, he boarded the train +for Monte Carlo, and before eleven o'clock had lost five thousand +francs at roulette—which was more than even he could afford for an +evening's entertainment that did not entertain. Without waiting for +the croupier to rake in his last note, Monte hurried out and, to clear +his head, walked all the way back to Nice along the Cornice Road. +Above him, the mountains; below, the blue Mediterranean; while the road +hung suspended between them like a silver ribbon. Yet even here he did +not find content. +</P> + +<P> +Monte visited the rooms every evening for the next three days; but, as +he did not play again and found there nothing more interesting than the +faces, or their counterparts, which he had seen for the past ten years, +the programme grew stupid. +</P> + +<P> +So, really, he had no alternative but Paris, although it was several +weeks ahead of his schedule. As a matter of fact, it was several weeks +too early. The city was not quite ready for him. The trees in the +Champs Élysées were in much the condition of a lady half an hour before +an expected caller. The broad vista to the triumphal arches was merely +the setting for a few nurses and their charges. The little iron tables +were so deserted that they remained merely little iron tables. +</P> + +<P> +Of course the boulevards were as always; but after a night or two +before the Café de la Paix he had enough. Even with fifty thousand +people passing in review before him, he was not as amused as he should +have been. He sipped his black coffee as drowsily as an old man. +</P> + +<P> +In an effort to rouse himself, he resolved to visit the cafés upon +Montmartre, which he had outgrown many years ago. That night he +climbed the narrow stairs to l'Abbaye. It was exactly as it had +been—a square room bounded by long seats before tables. Some two +dozen young ladies of various nationalities wandered about the center +of the room, trying their best, but with manifest effort, to keep pace +to the frenzied music of an orchestra paid to keep frenzied. A +half-dozen of the ladies pounced upon Monte as he sat alone, and he +gladly turned over to them the wine he purchased as the price of +admission. Yvonne, she with the languid Egyptian eyes, tried to rouse +the big American. Was it that he was bored? Possibly it was that, +Monte admitted. Then another bottle of wine was the proper thing. So +he ordered another bottle, and to the toast Yvonne proposed, raised his +glass. But the wine did him no good, and the music did him no good, +and Yvonne did him no good. The place had gone flat. Whatever he +needed, it was nothing l'Abbaye had to offer. +</P> + +<P> +Covington went out into the night again, and, though the music from a +dozen other cafés called him to come in and forget, he continued down +the hill to the boulevard, deaf to the gay entreaties of the whole +city. It was clear that he was out of tune with Paris. +</P> + +<P> +As he came into the Place de l'Opera he ran into the crowd pouring from +the big gray opera house, an eager, voluble crowd that jostled him +about as if he were an intruder. They had been warmed by fine music +and stirred by the great passions of this mimic world, so that the +women clung more tightly to the arms of their escorts. +</P> + +<P> +Covington, who had fallen back a little to watch them pass, felt +strangely isolated. They hurried on without seeing him, as if he were +merely some spectral bystander. Yet the significant fact was not that +a thousand strangers should pass him without being aware of his +presence, but that he himself should notice their indifference. It was +not like him. +</P> + +<P> +Ordinarily it was exactly what he would desire. But to-night he was in +an unusual mood—a mood that was the culmination of a restlessness +covering an entire month. But what the deuce was the name and cause of +it? He could no longer attribute it to the fact that he had gone stale +physically, because he had now had a rest of several weeks. It was not +that he was bored; those who are bored never stop to ask themselves why +they are bored or they would not be bored. It was not that he was +homesick, because, strictly speaking, he had no home. A home seems to +involve the female element and some degree of permanence. This unrest +was something new—something, apparently, that had to do vaguely with +the fact that he was thirty-two. If Edhart— +</P> + +<P> +Impatiently he started again for his hotel. This confoundedly +good-natured, self-satisfied crowd moving in couples irritated him. At +that moment a tall, slender girl turned, hesitated, then started toward +him. He did not recognize her at first, but the mere fact that she +came toward him—that any one came toward him—quickened his pulse. It +brought him back instantly from the shadowy realm of specters to the +good old solid earth. It was he, Covington, who was standing there. +</P> + +<P> +Then she raised her eyes—dark eyes deep as trout pools; steady, +confident, but rather sad eyes. They appeared to be puzzled by the +eagerness with which he stepped forward and grasped her hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Marjory!" he exclaimed. "I did n't know you were in Paris!" +</P> + +<P> +She smiled—a smile that extended no farther than the corners of her +perfect mouth. +</P> + +<P> +"That's to excuse yourself for not looking me up, Monte?" +</P> + +<P> +She had a full, clear voice. It was good to hear a voice that he could +recognize. +</P> + +<P> +"No," he answered frankly. "That's honest. I thought you were +somewhere in Brittany. But are you bound anywhere in particular?" +</P> + +<P> +"Only home." +</P> + +<P> +"Still living on the Boulevard Saint-Germain?" +</P> + +<P> +She nodded. +</P> + +<P> +"Number forty-three?" +</P> + +<P> +He was glad he was able to remember that number. +</P> + +<P> +"Number sixty-four," she corrected. +</P> + +<P> +They had been moving toward the Metro station, and here she paused. +</P> + +<P> +"There is no need for you to come with me," she said. "But I'd like to +have you drop in for tea some afternoon—if you have time." +</P> + +<P> +The strangers were still hurrying past him—to the north, the south, +the east, the west. Men and women were hurrying past, laughing, intent +upon themselves, each with some definite objective in mind. He himself +was able to smile with them now. Then she held out her gloved hand, +and he felt alone again. +</P> + +<P> +"I may accompany you home, may I not?" he asked eagerly. +</P> + +<P> +"If you wish." +</P> + +<P> +Once again she raised her eyes with that expression of puzzled +interest. This was not like Monte. Of course he would accompany her +home, but that he should seem really to take pleasure in the +prospect—that was novel. +</P> + +<P> +"Let me call a taxi," he said. "I'm never sure where these French +undergrounds are going to land me." +</P> + +<P> +"They are much quicker," she suggested. +</P> + +<P> +"There is no hurry," he answered. +</P> + +<P> +With twenty-four hours a day on his hands, he was never in a hurry. +</P> + +<P> +Instead of giving to the driver the number sixty-four Boulevard +Saint-Germain, he ordered him to forty-seven Rue Saint-Michel, which is +the Café d'Harcourt. +</P> + +<P> +It had suddenly occurred to Monte what the trouble was with him. He +was lonesome. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap02"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER II +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE TROUBLE WITH MARJORY +</H3> + + +<P> +She was surprised when the car stopped before the café, and mildly +interested. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you mind?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"No, Monte." +</P> + +<P> +She followed him through the smoke and chatter to one of the little +dining-rooms in the rear where the smoke and chatter were somewhat +subdued. There Henri removed their wraps with a look of frank +approval. It was rather an elaborate dinner that Monte ordered, +because he remembered for the first time that he had not yet dined this +evening. It was also a dinner of which he felt Edhart would thoroughly +approve, and that always was a satisfaction. +</P> + +<P> +"Now," he said to the girl, as soon as Henri had left, "tell me about +yourself." +</P> + +<P> +"You knew about Aunt Kitty?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"No," he replied hesitatingly, with an uneasy feeling that it was one +of those things that he should know about. +</P> + +<P> +"She was taken ill here in Paris in February, and died shortly after we +reached New York," she explained. +</P> + +<P> +What Covington would have honestly liked to do was to congratulate her. +Stripping the situation of all sentimentalism, the naked truth remained +that she had for ten years given up her life utterly to her aunt—had +almost sold herself into slavery. Ostensibly this Aunt Kitty had taken +the girl to educate, although she had never forgiven her sister for +having married Stockton; had never forgiven her for having had this +child, which had cost her life; had never forgiven Stockton for losing +in business her sister's share of the Dolliver fortune. +</P> + +<P> +Poor old Stockton—he had done his best, and the failure killed him. +It was Chic Warren who had told Covington the pitiful little tale. +Chic always spoke of the aunt as "the Vamp.," the abbreviation, as he +explained, being solely out of respect to her gray hairs. Marjory had +received her education, to be sure; but she had paid for it in the only +coin she had—the best of her young self from seventeen to +twenty-seven. The only concession the aunt had ever made was to allow +her niece to study art in Paris this last year. +</P> + +<P> +"I have n't heard from Chic since Christmas," he explained; "so I did +n't know. Then you are back here in Paris—alone?" +</P> + +<P> +Unconsciously he had emphasized that word "alone." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" she asked directly. +</P> + +<P> +She held her head a bit high, as if in challenge. +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing; only—" +</P> + +<P> +He did not finish. He could not very well tell her that she was too +confoundedly good-looking to be alone in Paris. Yet that was what he +thought, in spite of his belief that, of all the women he had ever met, +she was the best able to be alone anywhere. There were times when he +had sat beside her, not feeling sure that he was in the same room with +her: it was as if he were looking at her through plate-glass. +To-night, however, it was not like that. She looked like a younger +sister of herself. +</P> + +<P> +"Still painting?" he inquired. +</P> + +<P> +"As much as they will let me." +</P> + +<P> +"They?" +</P> + +<P> +She leaned forward with a frown, folding her arms upon the table. +</P> + +<P> +"What is the matter with men?" she demanded. "Why won't they believe a +woman when she tells the truth?" +</P> + +<P> +He was somewhat startled by the question, and by her earnestness. +</P> + +<P> +"Just what do you mean?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why can't they leave a woman alone?" +</P> + +<P> +It was clear that he was not expected to answer, and so, with her +permission, he lighted a cigarette and waited with considerable +interest for her to go on. +</P> + +<P> +For a moment she studied him, as if wondering if it were worth while to +continue her confidence. Her acquaintance with Monte dated back ten +years, when, as a girl of seventeen, she had met him on one of his rare +week-end visits to the Warrens. She was then fresh from finishing +school, and he was one of the very few men she had been allowed to meet +in any more intimate way than merely to shake hands with in passing. +She had been tremendously impressed. She could smile at it now. But, +really, she had been like one of the younger sisters, and for a year or +so after that he had been to her a sort of vague knight errant. +</P> + +<P> +It was three years ago that her aunt had begun to travel with her, and +after that she had seen Monte not oftener than once or twice a year, +and then for scarcely more than a greeting and good-bye. On the other +hand, Mrs. Warren had always talked and written to her a great deal +about him. Chic and he had been roommates in college, and ever since +had kept in close touch with each other by letter. The trivial gossip +of Monte's life had always been passed on to Marjory, so that she had +really for these last few years been following his movements and +adventures month by month, until she felt in almost as intimate contact +with him as with the Warrens. She had reason to think that, in turn, +her movements were retailed to Monte. The design was obvious—and +amusing. +</P> + +<P> +On the whole, Marjory concluded that it was not especially worth while +to burden him with her troubles; and yet, it was just because of that +she was inclined to continue—in, however, a less serious mood. Monte +had so few burdens of his own. That odd little smile—scarcely more +than the ghost of a smile—returned to the corners of her mouth. +</P> + +<P> +"To-night," she said, "I ran away from Teddy Hamilton, for all the +world like a heroine of melodrama. Do you know Teddy?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he answered slowly, "I do." +</P> + +<P> +He refrained with difficulty from voicing his opinion of the man, which +he could have put into three words—"the little beast." But how did it +happen that she, of all women, had been thrown into contact with this +pale-faced Don Juan of the New York music-halls and Paris cafés? +</P> + +<P> +"I lent Marie, my maid, one of my new hats and a heavy veil," she went +on. "She came out and stepped into a taxi, with instructions to keep +driving in a circle of a mile. Teddy followed in another machine. +And"—she paused to look up and smile—"for all I know, he may still be +following her round and round. I came on to the opera." +</P> + +<P> +"Kind of tough on Marie," he commented, with his blue eyes reflecting a +hearty relish of the situation. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie will undoubtedly enjoy a nap," she said. "As for Teddy—well, +he is generally out of funds, so I hope he may get into difficulties +with the driver." +</P> + +<P> +"He won't," declared Monte. "He'll probably end by borrowing a +<I>pour-boire</I> of the driver." +</P> + +<P> +She nodded. +</P> + +<P> +"That is possible. He is very clever." +</P> + +<P> +"The fact that he is still out of jail—" began Monte. +</P> + +<P> +Then he checked himself. He was not a man to talk about other +men—even about one so little of a man as Teddy Hamilton. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell me what you know of him," she requested. +</P> + +<P> +"I'd rather not," he answered. +</P> + +<P> +"Is he as bad as that?" she queried thoughtfully. "But what I don't +understand is why—why, then, he can sing like a white-robed choir-boy." +</P> + +<P> +Monte looked serious. +</P> + +<P> +"I've heard him," he admitted. "But it was generally after he had been +sipping absinthe rather heavily. His specialty is 'The Rosary.'" +</P> + +<P> +"And the barcarole from the 'Contes d'Hoffmann.'" +</P> + +<P> +"And little Spanish serenades," he added. +</P> + +<P> +"But if he's all bad inside?" +</P> + +<P> +She raised those deep, dark eyes as a child might. She had been for +ten years like one in a convent. +</P> + +<P> +Covington shook his head. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't explain it," he said. "Perhaps, in a way, it's because of +that—because of the contrast. But I 've heard him do it. I 've heard +him make a room full of those girls on Montmartre stop their dancing +and gulp hard. But where—" +</P> + +<P> +"Did I meet him?" she finished. "It was on the boat coming over this +last time. You see— I 'm talking a great deal about myself." +</P> + +<P> +"Please go on." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +He had forgotten that her face was so young. The true lines of her +features were scarcely more than sketched in, though that much had been +done with a sure hand. Whatever was to come, he thought, must be +added. There would be need of few erasures. Up to a certain point it +was the face of any of those young women of gentle breeding that he met +when at home—the inheritance of the best of many generations. +</P> + +<P> +As she was sitting now, her head slightly turned, the arch of one brow +blended in a perfect curve into her straight, thin nose. But the mouth +and chin—they were firmer than one might have expected. If, not +knowing her, he had seen her driving in the Bois or upon Rotten Row, he +would have been curious about her title. It had always seemed to him +that she should by rights have been Her Royal Highness Something or +Other. +</P> + +<P> +This was due partly to a certain air of serene security and a certain +aloofness that characterized her. He felt it to a lesser degree +to-night than ever before, but he made no mistake. He might be +permitted to admire those features as one admires a beautiful portrait, +but somewhere a barrier existed. There are faces that reflect the +soul; there are faces that hide the soul. +</P> + +<P> +"Please go on," he repeated, as she still hesitated. +</P> + +<P> +She was trying to explain why it was that she was tempted at all to +talk about herself to-night. Perhaps it was because she had been so +long silent—for many years silent. Perhaps it was because Monte was +so very impersonal that it was a good deal like talking out loud to +herself, with the advantage of being able to do this without wondering +if she were losing her wits. Then, too, after Teddy, Monte's +straight-seeing blue eyes freshened her thoughts like a clean north +wind. She always spoke of Monte as the most American man she knew; and +by that she meant something direct and honest—something four-square. +</P> + +<P> +"I met Teddy on the boat," she resumed. "I was traveling alone +because—well, just because I wanted to be alone. You know, Aunt Kitty +was very good to me, but I'd been with her every minute for more than +ten years, and so I wanted to be by myself a little while. Right after +she died, I went down to the farm—her farm in Connecticut—and thought +I could be alone there. But—she left me a great deal of money, Monte." +</P> + +<P> +Somehow, she could speak of such a thing to him. She was quite +matter-of-fact about it. +</P> + +<P> +"It was a great deal too much," she went on. "I did n't mind myself, +because I could forget about it; but other people—they made me feel +like a rabbit running before the hounds. Some one put the will in the +papers, and people I'd never heard of began to write to me—dozens of +them. Then men with all sorts of schemes—charities and gold mines and +copper mines and oil wells and I don't know what all, came down there +to see me: down there to the little farm, where I wanted to be alone. +Of course, I could be out to them; but even then I was conscious that +they were around. Some of them even waited until I ventured from the +house, and waylaid me on the road. +</P> + +<P> +"Then there were others—people I knew and could n't refuse to see +without being rude. I felt," she said, looking up at Monte, "as if the +world of people had suddenly all turned into men, and that they were +hunting me. I could n't get away from them without locking myself up, +and that was just the thing I did n't want to do. In a way, I 'd been +locked up all my life. So I just packed my things and took the steamer +without telling any one but my lawyer where I was going." +</P> + +<P> +"It's too bad they wouldn't let you alone," said Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"It was like an evil dream," she said. "I did n't know men were like +that." +</P> + +<P> +Monte frowned. +</P> + +<P> +Of course, that is just what would happen to a young woman as +good-looking as she, suddenly left alone with a fortune. Her name, +without a doubt, was on the mailing list of every promoter from New +York to San Francisco. It was also undoubtedly upon the list of every +man and woman who could presume an acquaintance with her. She had +become fair game. +</P> + +<P> +"Then on the boat I met Teddy," she went on. "It was difficult not to +meet him." +</P> + +<P> +He nodded. +</P> + +<P> +"I did n't mind so much at first; he was interesting." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, he's that," admitted Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"And he was very pleasant until—he began to make love to me." +</P> + +<P> +If Monte knew Teddy Hamilton, this happened about the third day. +</P> + +<P> +"That was very annoying," she said reminiscently. "It was annoying, +not only because of Teddy, but in itself. In some ways he did it very +nicely—especially when he sang in the moonlight. I suppose it was my +fault that I gave him the opportunity. I could have kept myself in my +stateroom, or I could have played bridge with the elderly ladies in the +cabin. But, you see, that's what Aunty always made me do, and I did +want to get out. I did enjoy Teddy up to that point. But I did not +want to fall in love with him, or with any one else. I suppose I 'm +too selfish—too utterly and completely selfish." +</P> + +<P> +"To—er—to fall in love?" he questioned. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Oh, as long as I'm making you my father confessor, I may as well +be thorough." She smiled. +</P> + +<P> +Monte leaned forward with sudden interest. Here was a question that at +odd moments had disturbed his own peace of mind. It was Chic Warren +who had first told him that in remaining a bachelor he was leading an +utterly selfish life. +</P> + +<P> +"Does a distaste for falling in love necessarily go back to +selfishness?" he asked. "Is n't it sometimes merely a matter of +temperament?" +</P> + +<P> +"And temperament," she asked, "is what?" +</P> + +<P> +That was altogether too abstract a problem for Monte to discuss. Yet +he had his own ideas. +</P> + +<P> +"It's the way you're made," he suggested. +</P> + +<P> +"I doubt it, Monte," she answered. "I think it's rather the way you +make yourself; because I imagine that, to start with, we are all made a +good deal alike. It's just what you 'd rather do." +</P> + +<P> +"And you'd rather paint?" +</P> + +<P> +She considered a moment. It was as if she were trying at this time to +be very honest with herself. +</P> + +<P> +"I'd rather be free to paint or not," she declared. "While Aunty was +alive, to paint seemed to be the only way to be free. It gave me the +excuse for coming here, for getting away a few hours a day. Now—well, +just to be free seems enough. I don't suppose a man knows how a woman +hungers for that—for just sheer, elemental freedom." +</P> + +<P> +He did not. He supposed that freedom was what women enjoyed from +birth—like queens. He supposed they even had especial opportunities +in that direction, and that most men were in the nature of being their +humble servitors. +</P> + +<P> +"It is n't that I want to do anything especially proper or improper," +she hastened to assure him. "I have n't either the cravings or the +ambitions of the new woman. That, again, is where I 'm selfish. I'd +like to be"—she spoke hesitatingly—"I'd like to be just like you, +Monte." +</P> + +<P> +"Like me?" he exclaimed in surprise. +</P> + +<P> +"Free to do just what I want to do—nothing particularly good, nothing +particularly bad; free to go here or go there; free to live my own +life; free to be free." +</P> + +<P> +"Well," he asked, "what's to prevent?" +</P> + +<P> +"Teddy Hamilton—and the others," she answered. "In a way, they take +the place of Aunty. They won't let me alone. They won't believe me +when I tell them I don't want them around. They seem to assume that, +just because I'm not married— Oh, they are stupid, Monte!" +</P> + +<P> +Henri, who had been stealing in with course after course, refilled the +glasses. He smiled discreetly as he saw her earnest face. +</P> + +<P> +"What you need," suggested Monte, "is a sort of chaperon or secretary." +</P> + +<P> +She shook her head. +</P> + +<P> +"Would you like one yourself?" she demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"It would be a good deal of a nuisance," he admitted; "but, after all—" +</P> + +<P> +"I won't have it!" she burst out. "It would spoil everything. It +would be like building one's own jail and employing one's own jailer. +I could n't stand that. I 'd rather be annoyed as I am than be annoyed +by a chaperon." +</P> + +<P> +She was silent a moment, and then she exclaimed: +</P> + +<P> +"Why, I'd almost rather marry Teddy! I'd feel freer—honestly, I think +I 'd feel freer with a husband than a chaperon." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, see here!" protested Monte. "You must n't do that." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't propose to," she answered quietly. +</P> + +<P> +"Then," he said, "the only thing left is to go away where Teddy and the +others can't find you." +</P> + +<P> +"Where?" she asked with interest. +</P> + +<P> +"There are lots of little villages in Switzerland." +</P> + +<P> +She shook her head. +</P> + +<P> +"And along the Riviera." +</P> + +<P> +"I love the little villages," she replied. "I love them here and at +home. But it's no use." +</P> + +<P> +She smiled. There was something pathetic about that smile—something +that made Covington's arm muscles twitch. +</P> + +<P> +"I should n't even have the aid of the taxis in the little villages," +she said. +</P> + +<P> +Monte leaned back. +</P> + +<P> +"If they only had here in Paris a force of good, honest Irish cops +instead of these confounded gendarmes," he mused. +</P> + +<P> +She looked her astonishment at the irrelevant observation. +</P> + +<P> +"You see," he explained, "it might be possible then to lay for Teddy H. +some evening and—argue with him." +</P> + +<P> +"It's nice of you, Monte, to think of that," she murmured. +</P> + +<P> +Monte was nice in a good many ways. +</P> + +<P> +"The trouble is, they lack sentiment, these gendarmes," he concluded. +"They are altogether too law-abiding." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap03"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER III +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A SUMMONS +</H3> + + +<P> +Monte himself had sometimes been accused of lacking sentiment; and yet, +the very first thing he did when starting for his walk the next morning +was to order a large bunch of violets to be sent to number sixty-four +Boulevard Saint-Germain. Then, at a somewhat faster pace than usual, +he followed the river to the Jardin des Tuileries, and crossed there to +the Avenue des Champs Élysées into the Bois. +</P> + +<P> +He walked as confidently as if overnight his schedule had again been +put in good running order; for, overnight, spring had come, and that +was what his schedule called for in Paris. The buds, which until now +had hesitated to unfold, trembled forth almost before his eyes under +the influence of a sun that this morning blazed in a turquoise sky. +Perhaps they had hurried a trifle to overtake Monte. +</P> + +<P> +With his shoulders well back, filling his lungs deep with the perfumed +morning air, he swung along with a hearty, self-confident stride that +caused many a little nursemaid to turn and look at him again. +</P> + +<P> +He had sent her violets; and yet, except for the fact that he had never +before sent her flowers, he could not rightly be accused of +sentimentalism. He had acted on the spur of the moment, remembering +only the sad, wistful smile with which she had bade him good-night when +she stood at the door of the <I>pension</I>. Or perhaps he had been +prompted by the fact that she was in Paris alone. +</P> + +<P> +Until now it had never been possible to dissociate her completely from +Aunt Kitty. Marjory had never had a separate existence of her own. To +a great many people she had never been known except as Miss Dolliver's +charming niece, although to Monte she had been known more particularly +as a young friend of the Warrens. But, even in this more intimate +capacity, he had always been relieved of any sense of responsibility +because of this aunt. Wherever he met her, there was never any +occasion for him to put himself out to be nice to her, because it was +always understood that she could never leave Aunt Kitty even for an +evening. This gave him a certain sense of security. With her he never +was forced to consider either the present or the future. +</P> + +<P> +Last night it had been almost like meeting her for the first time +alone. It was as if in all these years he had known her only through +her photograph, as one knows friends of one's friends about whom one +has for long heard a great deal, without ever meeting them face to +face. From the moment he first saw her in the Place de l'Opera she had +made him conscious of her as, in another way, he had always been +conscious of Edhart. The latter, until his death, had always remained +in Monte's outer consciousness like a fixed point. Because he was so +permanent, so unchanging, he dominated the rest of Monte's schedule as +the north star does the mariner's course. +</P> + +<P> +Each year began when Edhart bade him a smiling au revoir at the door of +the Hôtel des Roses; and that same year did not end, but began again, +when the matter of ten or eleven months later Monte found Edhart still +at the door to greet him. So it was always possible, the year round, +to think of Edhart as ever standing by the door smilingly awaiting him. +This was very pleasant, and prevented Monte from getting really +lonesome, and consequently from getting old. It was only in the last +few weeks that he fully realized all that Edhart had done for him. +</P> + +<P> +It was, in some ways, as if Edhart had come back to life again in +Marjory. He had felt it the moment she had smilingly confided in him; +he felt it still more when, after she bade him good-night, he had +turned back into the city, not feeling alone any more. Now it was as +if he were indebted to her for this morning walk, and for restoring to +him his springtime Paris. It was for these things that he had sent her +violets—because she had made him comfortable again. So, after all, +his act had been one, not of sentimentalism, but of just plain +gratitude. +</P> + +<P> +Monte's objection to sentiment was not based upon any of the modern +schools of philosophy, which deplore it as a weakness. He took his +stand upon much simpler grounds: that, as far as he had been able to +observe, it did not make for content. It had been his fate to be +thrown in contact with a good deal of it in its most acute stages, +because the route he followed was unhappily the route also followed by +those upon their honeymoon. If what he observed was sentiment at its +zenith, then he did not care for it. Bridegrooms made the poorest sort +of traveling companions; and that, after all, was the supreme test of +men. They appeared restless, dazed, and were continually looking at +their watches. Few of them were able to talk intelligently or to play +a decent game of bridge. +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps, too, he had been unfortunate in the result of his observations +of the same passion in its later stages; but it is certain that those +were not inspiring, either. Chic Warren was an exception. He seemed +fairly happy and normal, but Covington would never forget the night he +spent there when Chic, Junior had the whooping-cough. He walked by +Chic's side up and down the hall, up and down the hall, up and down the +hall, with Chic a ghastly white and the sweat standing in beads upon +his forehead. His own throat had tightened and he grew weak in the +knees every time the rubber-soled nurse stole into sight. Every now +and then he heard that gasping cough, and felt the spasmodic grip of +Chic's fingers upon his arm. It was terrible; for weeks afterward +Covington heard that cough. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +At the end of an hour Covington turned back, wheeling like a soldier on +parade. There had never seemed to him any reason why, when a man was +entirely comfortable, as he was, he should take the risk of a change. +He had told Chic as much when sometimes the latter, over a pipe, had +introduced the subject. The last time, Chic had gone a little farther +than usual. +</P> + +<P> +"But, man alive!" Chic had exclaimed. "A day will come when you'll be +sorry." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't believe it," Monte answered. +</P> + +<P> +Yet it was only yesterday that he had wandered over half Paris in +search of something to bring his schedule back to normal. And he had +found it—in front of the Opera House at eleven o'clock at night. +</P> + +<P> +Monte strode into his hotel with a snap that made the little clerk +glance up in surprise. +</P> + +<P> +"Any mail for me?" he inquired. +</P> + +<P> +"A telephone message, monsieur." +</P> + +<P> +He handed Monte an envelope. It was not often that he received +telephone messages. It read as follows:— +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +Can't you come over? Teddy was very angry about the taxi, and I think +I shall leave Paris tonight. The flowers were beautiful. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Monte felt his breath coming fast. +</P> + +<P> +"How long has this been waiting for me?" he demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"A half-hour, monsieur." +</P> + +<P> +He hurried out the door and into a taxi. +</P> + +<P> +"Sixty-four Boulevard Saint-Germain—and hurry." +</P> + +<P> +Leaving Paris? She had no right to do that. Edhart never left. That +was the beauty of Edhart—that he remained stationary, so that he could +always be found. He was quite sure that Edhart was too considerate +even to die, could he have avoided it. Now Marjory was proposing to go +and leave him here alone. He could not allow that. It was too early +to quit Paris, anyway. It was only the first day of spring! +</P> + +<P> +She came down into the gloomy <I>pension</I> reception-room looking as if +she had already begun to assist Marie with the packing. Her hair had +become loosened, and escaped in several places in black curls that gave +her a distinctly girlish appearance. There was more color, too, in her +cheeks; but it was the flush of excitement rather than the honest red +that colored his own cheeks. She looked tired and discouraged. She +sank into a chair. +</P> + +<P> +"It was good of you to come, Monte," she said. "But I don't know why I +should bother you with my affairs. Only—he was so disagreeable. He +frightened me, for a moment." +</P> + +<P> +"What did he do?" demanded Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"He came here early, and when Marie told him I was out he said he would +wait until I came back. So he sat down—right here. Then, every five +minutes, he called Madame Courcy and sent her up with a note. I was +afraid of a scene, because madame spoke of sending for the gendarmes." +</P> + +<P> +"Why didn't you let her?" +</P> + +<P> +"That would have made still more of a scene." +</P> + +<P> +She was speaking in a weary, emotionless voice, like one who is very +tired. +</P> + +<P> +"So I came down and saw him," she said. "He was very melodramatic." +</P> + +<P> +It seemed difficult for her to go on. +</P> + +<P> +"Absinthe?" he questioned. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know. He wanted me to marry him at once. He drew a revolver +and threatened to shoot himself—threatened to shoot me." +</P> + +<P> +Monte clenched his fists. +</P> + +<P> +"Good Lord!" he said softly. "That is going a bit far." +</P> + +<P> +"Is it so men act—when they are in love?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +Monte started. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know. If it is, then they ought to be put in jail." +</P> + +<P> +"If it is, it is most unpleasant," she said; "and I can't stand it, +Monte. There is no reason why I should, is there?" +</P> + +<P> +"No: if you can avoid it." +</P> + +<P> +"That's the trouble," she frowned. "I've been quite frank with him. I +told him that I did not want to marry him. I've told him that I could +not conceive of any possible circumstances under which I would marry +him. I've told him that in French and I 've told him that in English, +and he won't believe me." +</P> + +<P> +"The cad!" exclaimed Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"It does n't seem fair," she mused. "The only thing I ask for is to be +allowed to lead my life undisturbed, and he won't let me. There are +others, too. I had five letters this morning. So all I can do is to +run away again." +</P> + +<P> +"To where?" asked Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"You spoke of the little villages along the Riviera." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he nodded. "There is the village of Étois—back in the +mountains." +</P> + +<P> +"Then I might go there. <I>C'est tout égal</I>." +</P> + +<P> +She shrugged her shoulders. (She had beautiful shoulders.) +</P> + +<P> +"But look here. Supposing the—this Hamilton should follow you there?" +</P> + +<P> +"Then I must move again." +</P> + +<P> +Monte paced the room. Obviously this was not right. There was no +reason why she should be continually hounded. Yet there seemed to be +no way to prevent it. +</P> + +<P> +He stopped in front of her. She glanced up—her eyes, even now, calm +and deep as trout pools. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll get hold of the beggar to-day," he said grimly. +</P> + +<P> +She shook her head. +</P> + +<P> +"Please not." +</P> + +<P> +"But he's the one who must go away. If I could have a few minutes with +him alone, I think perhaps I could make him see that." +</P> + +<P> +"Please not," she repeated. +</P> + +<P> +"What's the harm?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think it would be safe—for either of you." +</P> + +<P> +She raised her eyes as she said that, and for a moment Monte was held +by them. Then she rose. +</P> + +<P> +"After all, it's too bad for me to inflict my troubles on you," she +said. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't mind," he answered quickly. "Only—hang it all, there does +n't seem to be anything I can do!" +</P> + +<P> +"I guess there is n't anything any one can do," she replied helplessly. +</P> + +<P> +"So you're going away?" +</P> + +<P> +"To-night," she nodded. +</P> + +<P> +"To Étois?" +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps. Perhaps to India. Perhaps to Japan." +</P> + +<P> +It was the indefiniteness that Monte did not relish. Even as she +spoke, it was as if she began to disappear; and for a second he felt +again the full weight of his thirty-two years. He was perfectly +certain that the moment she went he was going to feel alone—more alone +than he had ever felt in his life. +</P> + +<P> +It was in the nature of a hunch. Within twenty-four hours he would be +wandering over Paris as he had wandered yesterday. That would not do +at all. Of course, he could pack up and go on to England, but at the +moment he felt that it would be even worse there, where all the world +spoke English. +</P> + +<P> +"Suppose I order young Hamilton to leave Paris?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"But what right have you to order him to leave Paris?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I can tell him he is annoying you and that I won't stand for +it," he declared. +</P> + +<P> +For a second her eyes grew mellow; for a second a more natural red +flushed her cheeks. +</P> + +<P> +"If you were only my big brother, now," she breathed. +</P> + +<P> +Monte saw the point. His own cheeks turned a red to match hers. +</P> + +<P> +"You mean he'll ask—what business you are of mine?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +And Monte would have no answer. He realized that. As a friend he had, +of course, certain rights; but they were distinctly limited. It was, +for instance, no business of his whether she went to Étois or Japan or +India. By no stretch of the imagination could he make it his +business—though it affected his whole schedule, though it affected her +whole life. As a friend he would be justified, perhaps, in throwing +young Hamilton out of the door if he happened to be around when the man +was actually annoying her; but there was no way in which he could guard +her against such annoyances in the future. He had no authority that +extended beyond the moment; nor was it possible for Marjory herself to +give him that authority. Young Hamilton, if he chose, could harry her +around the world, and it would be none of Monte's business. +</P> + +<P> +There was something wrong with a situation of that sort. If he had +only been born her brother or father, or even a first cousin, then it +might be possible to do something, because, if necessary, he could +remain always at hand. He wondered vaguely if there were not some law +that would make him a first cousin. He was on the point of suggesting +it when a bell jangled solemnly in the hall. +</P> + +<P> +The girl clutched his arm. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm afraid he's come again," she gasped. +</P> + +<P> +Monte threw back his shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"Fine," he smiled. "It could n't be better." +</P> + +<P> +"But I don't want to see him! I won't see him!" +</P> + +<P> +"There is n't the slightest need in the world of it," he nodded. "You +go upstairs, and I'll see him." +</P> + +<P> +But, clinging to his arm, she drew him into the hall and toward the +stairs. The bell rang again—impatiently. +</P> + +<P> +"Come," she insisted. +</P> + +<P> +He tried to calm her. +</P> + +<P> +"Steady! Steady! I promise you I won't make a scene." +</P> + +<P> +"But he will. Oh, you don't know him. I won't have it. Do you hear? +I won't have it." +</P> + +<P> +To Madame Courcy, who appeared, she whispered:— +</P> + +<P> +"Tell him I refuse to see him again. Tell him you will call the +gendarmes." +</P> + +<P> +"It seems so foolish to call in those fellows when the whole thing +might be settled quietly right now," pleaded Monte. +</P> + +<P> +He turned eagerly toward the door. +</P> + +<P> +"If you don't come away, Monte," she said quietly, "I won't ever send +for you again." +</P> + +<P> +Reluctantly he followed her up the stairs as the bell jangled harshly, +wildly. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap04"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER IV +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A PROPOSAL +</H3> + + +<P> +Dejectedly, Monte seated himself upon a trunk in the midst of a scene +of fluffy chaos. Marie had swooped in from the next room, seized one +armful, and returned in consternation as her mistress stood poised at +the threshold. Then, with her face white, Marjory closed the door and +locked it. +</P> + +<P> +"He's down there," she informed Monte. +</P> + +<P> +Monte glanced at his watch. +</P> + +<P> +"It's quarter of twelve," he announced. "I'll give him until twelve to +leave." +</P> + +<P> +Marjory crossed to the window and stared out at the sun-lighted street. +It was very beautiful out there—very warm and gentle and peaceful. +And at her back all this turmoil. Once again the unspoken cry that +sprang to her lips was just this:— +</P> + +<P> +"It is n't fair—it is n't fair!" +</P> + +<P> +For ten years she had surrendered herself to Aunt Kitty—surrendered +utterly the deep, budding years of her young womanhood. To the last +minute she had paid her obligations in full. Then, at the moment she +had been about to spread her long-folded wings and soar into the +sunshine, this other complication had come. When the lawyer informed +her of the fortune that was hers, she had caught her breath. It +spelled freedom. Yet she asked for so little—for neither luxuries nor +vanities; for just the privilege of leading for a space her own life, +undisturbed by any responsibility. +</P> + +<P> +Selfish? Yes. But she had a right to be selfish for a little. She +had answered that question when Peter Noyes—Monte reminded her in many +ways of Peter—had come down to her farm in Littlefield one Sunday. +She had seen more of Peter than of any other man, and knew him to be +honest. He had been very gentle with her, and very considerate; but +she knew what was in his heart, so she had put the question to herself +then and there. If she chose to follow the road to which he silently +beckoned—the road to all those wonderful hopes that had surged in upon +her at eighteen—she had only to nod. If she had let herself go, she +could have loved Peter. Then—she drew back at so surrendering +herself. It meant a new set of self-sacrifices. It meant, however +hallowed, a new prison. Because, if she loved, she would love hard. +</P> + +<P> +Monte glanced at his watch again. +</P> + +<P> +"Five minutes gone! Have you seen him leave?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, Monte," she answered. +</P> + +<P> +He folded his arms resignedly. +</P> + +<P> +"You don't really mean to act against my wishes, Monte?" +</P> + +<P> +"If that's the only way of getting rid of him," he answered coolly. +</P> + +<P> +"But don't you see—don't you understand that you will only make a +scandal of it?" she said. +</P> + +<P> +"What do you mean?" +</P> + +<P> +"If he makes a scene it will be in the papers, and then—oh, well, they +will ask by what right—" +</P> + +<P> +"I'd answer I was simply ridding you of a crazy man." +</P> + +<P> +"They would smile. Oh, I know them! Here in Paris they won't believe +that a woman who is n't married—" +</P> + +<P> +She stopped abruptly. +</P> + +<P> +Monte's brows came together. +</P> + +<P> +Here was the same situation that had confronted him a few minutes +before. Not only had he no right, but if he assumed a right his claim +might be misinterpreted. Undoubtedly Teddy himself would be the first +to misinterpret it. It would be impossible for a man of his sort to +think in any other direction. And then—well, such stories were easier +to start than to stop. +</P> + +<P> +Monte's lips came together. As far as he himself was concerned, he was +willing to take the risk; but the risk was not his to take. As long as +he found himself unable to devise any scheme by which he could, even +technically, make himself over into her father, her brother, or even a +first cousin, there appeared no possible way in which he could assume +the right that would not make it a risk. +</P> + +<P> +Except one way. +</P> + +<P> +Here Monte caught his breath. +</P> + +<P> +There was just one relationship open to him that would bestow upon him +automatically the undeniable right to say to Teddy Hamilton anything +that might occur to him—that would grant him fuller privileges, now +and for as long as the relationship was maintained, than even that of +blood. +</P> + +<P> +To be sure, the idea was rather staggering. It was distinctly novel, +for one thing, and not at all in his line, for another. This, however, +was a crisis calling for staggering novelties if it could not be +handled in the ordinary way. Ten minutes had already passed. +</P> + +<P> +Monte walked slowly to Marjory's side. She turned and met his eyes. +On the whole, he would have felt more comfortable had she continued +looking out the window. +</P> + +<P> +"Marjory," he said—"Marjory, will you marry me?" +</P> + +<P> +She shrank away. +</P> + +<P> +"Monte!" +</P> + +<P> +"I mean it," he said. "Will you marry me?" +</P> + +<P> +After the first shock she seemed more hurt than anything. +</P> + +<P> +"You are n't going to be like the others?" she pleaded. +</P> + +<P> +"No," he assured her. "That's why—well, that's why I thought we might +arrange it." +</P> + +<P> +"But I don't love you, Monte!" she exclaimed. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course not." +</P> + +<P> +"And you—you don't love me." +</P> + +<P> +"That's it," he nodded eagerly. +</P> + +<P> +"Yet you are asking me to marry you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Just because of that," he said. "Don't you understand?" +</P> + +<P> +She was trying hard to understand, because she had a great deal of +faith in Monte and because at this moment she needed him. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't see why being engaged to a man you don't care about need +bother you at all," he ran on. "It's the caring that seems to make the +trouble—whether you 're engaged or not. I suppose that's what ails +Teddy." +</P> + +<P> +She had been watching Monte's eyes; but she turned away for a second. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," he continued, "you can care—without caring too much. +Can't people care in just a friendly sort of way?" +</P> + +<P> +"I should think so, Monte," she answered. +</P> + +<P> +"Then why can't people become engaged—in just a friendly sort of way?" +</P> + +<P> +"It would n't mean very much, would it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Just enough," he said. +</P> + +<P> +He held out his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Is it a bargain?" +</P> + +<P> +She searched his eyes. They were clean and blue. +</P> + +<P> +"It's so absurd, Monte!" she gasped. +</P> + +<P> +"You can call me, to yourself, your secretary," he suggested. +</P> + +<P> +"No—not that." +</P> + +<P> +"Then," he said, "call me just a <I>camarade de voyage</I>." +</P> + +<P> +Her eyes warmed a trifle. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll keep on calling you just Monte," she whispered. +</P> + +<P> +And she gave him her hand. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap05"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER V +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +PISTOLS +</H3> + + +<P> +Evidently young Hamilton did not hear Monte come down the stairs, for +he was sitting in a chair near the window, with his head in his hands, +and did not move even when Monte entered the room. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello, Hamilton," said Covington. +</P> + +<P> +Hamilton sprang to his feet—a shaking, ghastly remnant of a man. He +had grown thinner and paler than when Covington last saw him. But his +eyes—they held Covington for a moment. They burned in their hollow +sockets like two candles in a dark room. +</P> + +<P> +"Covington!" gasped the man. +</P> + +<P> +Then his eyes narrowed. +</P> + +<P> +"What the devil you doing here?" he demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"Sit down," suggested Monte. "I want to have a little talk with you." +</P> + +<P> +It was physical weakness that forced Hamilton to obey. +</P> + +<P> +Monte drew up a chair opposite him. +</P> + +<P> +"Now," he said quietly, "tell me just what it is you want of Miss +Stockton." +</P> + +<P> +"What business is that of yours?" demanded Hamilton nervously. +</P> + +<P> +Monte was silent a moment. Here at the start was the question Marjory +had anticipated—the question that might have caused him some +embarrassment had it not been so adequately provided for in the last +few moments. As it was, he became conscious of a little glow of +satisfaction which moderated his feelings toward young Hamilton +considerably. He actually felt a certain amount of sympathy for him. +After all, the little beggar was in bad shape. +</P> + +<P> +But, even now, there was no reason, just yet, why he should make him +his confidant. Secure in his position, he felt it was none of +Hamilton's business. +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Stockton and I are old friends," he answered. +</P> + +<P> +"Then—she has told you?" +</P> + +<P> +"She gave me to believe you made a good deal of an ass of yourself this +morning," nodded Monte. +</P> + +<P> +Hamilton sank back limply in his chair. +</P> + +<P> +"I did," he groaned. "Oh, my God, I did!" +</P> + +<P> +"All that business of waving a pistol—I did n't think you were that +much of a cub, Hamilton." +</P> + +<P> +"She drove me mad. I did n't know what I was doing." +</P> + +<P> +"In just what way do you blame her?" inquired Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"She would n't believe me," exclaimed Hamilton. "I saw it in her eyes. +I could n't make her believe me." +</P> + +<P> +"Believe what?" +</P> + +<P> +Hamilton got to his feet and leaned against the wall. He was breathing +rapidly, like a man in a fever. +</P> + +<P> +Monte studied him with a curious interest. +</P> + +<P> +"That I love her," gasped Hamilton. "She thought I was lying. I could +n't make her believe it, I tell you! She just sat there and +smiled—not believing." +</P> + +<P> +"Good Lord!" said Monte. "You don't mean that you really do love her?" +</P> + +<P> +Hamilton sprang with what little strength there was in him. +</P> + +<P> +"Damn you, Covington—what do you think?" he choked. +</P> + +<P> +Monte caught the man by the arms and forced him again into his chair. +</P> + +<P> +"Steady," he warned. +</P> + +<P> +Exhausted by his exertion, Hamilton sat there panting for breath, his +eyes burning into Covington's. +</P> + +<P> +"What I meant," said Monte, "was, do you love her with—with an +honest-to-God love?" +</P> + +<P> +When Hamilton answered this time, Covington saw what Marjory meant when +she wondered how Hamilton could look like a white-robed choir-boy as he +sang to her. He had grown suddenly calm, and when he spoke the red +light in his eyes had turned to white. +</P> + +<P> +"It's with all there is in me, Covington," he said. +</P> + +<P> +The pity of it was, of course, that so little was left in him—that so +much had been wasted, so much soiled, in the last few years. The +wonder was that so much was left. +</P> + +<P> +As Monte looked down at the man, he felt his own heart beating faster. +He felt several other things that left him none too comfortable. Again +that curious interest that made him want to listen, that held him with +a weird fascination. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell me about it," said Covington. +</P> + +<P> +Hamilton sat up with a start. He faced Covington as if searching his +soul. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you believe me?" he demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," answered Monte; "I think I do." +</P> + +<P> +"Because—did you see a play in New York called 'Peter Grimm'?" +</P> + +<P> +"I remember it," nodded Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"It's been like that—like dying and coming back and trying to make +people hear, and not being able to. I made an ass of myself until I +met her. I know that. I'm not fit to be in the same room with her. I +know that you can say nothing too bad about me—up to the day I met +her. I would n't care what people said up to that day—if they'd only +believe the rest; if she'd only believe the rest. I think I could +stand it even if I knew she—she did not care for me—if only I could +make her understand how much she means to me." +</P> + +<P> +Monte looked puzzled. +</P> + +<P> +"Just what does she mean to you?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"All that's left in life," answered Hamilton. "All that's left to work +for, to live for, to hope for. It's been like that ever since I saw +her on the boat. I was coming over here to go the old rounds, and +then—everything was changed. There was no place to go, after that, +except where she went. I counted the hours at night to the time when +the sun came up and I could see her again. I did n't begin to live +until then; the rest of the time I was only waiting to live. Every +time she came in sight it—it was as if I were resurrected, Covington; +as if in the mean while I'd been dead. I thought at first I had a +chance, and I planned to come back home with her to do things. I +wanted to do big things for her. I thought I had a chance all the +while, until she came here—until this morning. Then, when she only +smiled—well, I lost my head." +</P> + +<P> +"What was the idea back of the gun?" asked Monte. +</P> + +<P> +Hamilton answered without bravado. +</P> + +<P> +"I meant to end it for both of us; but I lost my nerve." +</P> + +<P> +"Good Lord! You would have gone as far as that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," answered Hamilton wearily. "But I'm glad I fell down." +</P> + +<P> +Monte passed his hand over his forehead. He could not fully grasp the +meaning of a passion that led a man to such lengths as this. Why, the +man had proposed murder—murder and suicide; and all because of this +strange love of a woman. He had been driven stark raving mad because +of it. He sat there now before him, an odd combination of craven +weakness and giant strength because of it. In the face of such a +revelation, Covington felt petty; he felt negative. +</P> + +<P> +Less than ten minutes ago he himself had looked into the same eyes that +had so stirred this man. He had seen nothing there particularly to +disturb any one. They were very beautiful eyes, and the woman back of +them was very beautiful. He had a feeling that, day in and day out for +a great many years, they would remain beautiful. They had helped him +last night to make the city his own; they had helped him this morning +to recover his balance; they helped him now to see straight again. +</P> + +<P> +But, after all, it was arrant nonsense for Hamilton to act like this. +Admitting the man believed in himself,—and Covington believed that +much,—he was, after all, Teddy Hamilton. The fact remained, even as +he himself admitted, that he was not fit to be in the same room with +her. It was not possible for a man in a month to cleanse himself of +the accumulated mire of ten years. +</P> + +<P> +Furthermore, that too was beside the point. The girl cared nothing +about him. She particularly desired not to care about him or any one +else. It was not consistent with her scheme of life. She had told him +as much. It was this that had made his own engagement to her possible. +</P> + +<P> +Monte rose from his chair and paced the room a moment. If possible, he +wished to settle this matter once for all. On the whole, it was more +difficult than he had anticipated. When he came down he had intended +to dispose of it in five minutes. Suddenly he wheeled and faced +Hamilton. +</P> + +<P> +"It seems to me," he said, "that if a man loved a woman,—really loved +her,—then one of the things he would be most anxious about would be to +make her happy. Are you with me on that?" +</P> + +<P> +Hamilton raised his head. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he answered. +</P> + +<P> +"Then," continued Monte, "it does n't seem to me that you are going +about it in just the right way. Waving pistols and throwing fits—" +</P> + +<P> +"I was mad, I tell you," Hamilton broke in. +</P> + +<P> +"Admitting that," resumed Monte, "I should think the best thing you +could do would be to go away and sober up." +</P> + +<P> +"Go away?" +</P> + +<P> +"I would. I'd go a long way—to Japan or India." +</P> + +<P> +The old mad light came back to Hamilton's eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Did she ask you to tell me that?" +</P> + +<P> +"No," answered Monte; "it is my own idea. Because, you see, if you +don't go she'll have to." +</P> + +<P> +"What do you mean?" +</P> + +<P> +"Steady, now," warned Monte. "I mean just what I say. She can't stay +here and let you camp in her front hall. Even Madame Courcy won't +stand for that. So—why don't you get out, quietly and without any +confusion?" +</P> + +<P> +"That's your own suggestion?" said Hamilton, tottering to his feet. +</P> + +<P> +"Exactly." +</P> + +<P> +"Then," said Hamilton, "I'll see you in hell first. It's no business +of yours, I say." +</P> + +<P> +"But it is," said Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell me how it is," growled Hamilton. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, you see," said Monte quietly, "Miss Stockton and I are engaged." +</P> + +<P> +"You lie!" choked Hamilton. "You—" +</P> + +<P> +Monte heard a deafening report, and felt a biting pain in his shoulder. +As he staggered back he saw a pistol smoking in Hamilton's hand. +Recovering, he threw himself forward on the man and bore him to the +floor. +</P> + +<P> +It was no very difficult matter for Monte to wrest the revolver from +Hamilton's weak fingers, even with one arm hanging limp; but it was +quite a different proposition to quiet Madame Courcy and Marie, who +were screaming hysterically in the hall. Marjory, to be sure, was +splendid; but even she could do little with madame, who insisted that +some one had been murdered, even when it was quite obvious, with both +men alive, that this was a mistake. To make matters worse, she had +called up the police on the telephone, and at least a dozen gendarmes +were now on their way. +</P> + +<P> +The pain in Monte's arm was acute, and it hung from his shoulder as +limply as an empty sleeve; but, fortunately, it was not bleeding a +great deal,—or at least it was not messing things up,—and he was +able, therefore, by always keeping his good arm toward the ladies, to +conceal from them this disagreeable consequence of Hamilton's rashness. +</P> + +<P> +Hamilton himself had staggered to his feet, and, leaning against the +wall, was staring blankly at the confusion about him. +</P> + +<P> +Monte turned to Marjory. +</P> + +<P> +"Hurry out and get a taxi," he said. "We can't allow the man to be +arrested." +</P> + +<P> +"He tried to shoot—himself?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't believe he knows what he tried to do. Hurry, please." +</P> + +<P> +As she went out, he turned to Marie. +</P> + +<P> +"Help madame into her room," he ordered. +</P> + +<P> +Madame did not want to go; but Monte impatiently grasped one arm and +Marie the other, so madame went. +</P> + +<P> +Then he came back to Hamilton. +</P> + +<P> +"Madame has sent for the police. Do you understand?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," Hamilton answered dully. +</P> + +<P> +"And I have sent for a taxi. It depends on which gets here first +whether you go to jail or not," said Monte. +</P> + +<P> +Then he sat down in a chair, because his knees were beginning to feel +weak. +</P> + +<P> +Marjory was back in a minute, and when she came in Monte was on his +feet again. +</P> + +<P> +"It's at the door," she said. +</P> + +<P> +At the sound of her voice Hamilton seemed to revive; but Monte had him +instantly by the arm. +</P> + +<P> +"Come on," he ordered. +</P> + +<P> +He shoved the boy ahead a little as he passed Marjory, and turning, +drew the revolver from his pocket. He did not dare take it with him, +because he knew that in five minutes he would be unable to use it. +Hamilton, on the other hand, might not be. He shoved it into her hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Take it upstairs and hide it," he said. "Be careful with it." +</P> + +<P> +"You're coming back here?" she asked quickly. +</P> + +<P> +She thought his cheeks were very white. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't tell," he answered. "But—don't worry." +</P> + +<P> +He hurried Hamilton down the steps and pushed him into the car. +</P> + +<P> +"To the Hôtel Normandie," he ordered the driver, as he stumbled in +himself. +</P> + +<P> +The bumping of the car hurt Monte's arm a good deal. In fact, with +every bump he felt as if Hamilton were prodding his shoulder with a +stiletto. Besides being unpleasant, this told rapidly on his strength, +and that was dangerous. Above all things, he must remain conscious. +Hamilton was quiet because he thought Monte still had the gun and was +still able to use it; but let him sway, and matters would be reversed. +So Monte gripped his jaws and bent his full energy to keeping control +of himself until they crossed the Seine. It seemed like a full day's +journey before he saw that the muddy waters were behind them. Then he +ordered the driver to stop. +</P> + +<P> +Hamilton's shifty eyes looked up. +</P> + +<P> +"Hamilton," said Monte, "have you got it clear yet that—that Miss +Stockton and I are engaged?" +</P> + +<P> +Hamilton did not answer. His fingers were working nervously. +</P> + +<P> +Monte, summoning all his strength, shook the fellow. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you hear?" he called. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," muttered Hamilton. +</P> + +<P> +"Then," said Monte, "I want you to get hold of the next point: that +from now on you're to let her alone. Get that?" +</P> + +<P> +Hamilton's lips began to twitch. +</P> + +<P> +"Because if you come around bothering her any more," explained Monte, +"I'll be there myself; and, believe me, you'll go out the door. And if +you try any more gun-play—the little fellows will nail you next time. +Sure as preaching, they'll nail you. That would be too bad for every +one—for you and for her." +</P> + +<P> +"How for her?" demanded Hamilton hoarsely. +</P> + +<P> +"The papers," answered Monte. "And for you because—" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't care what they do to me," growled Hamilton. +</P> + +<P> +"I believe that," nodded Monte. "Do you know that I 'm the one person +on earth who is inclined to believe what you say?" +</P> + +<P> +He saw Hamilton crouch as if to spring. Monte placed his left hand in +his empty pocket. +</P> + +<P> +"Steady," he warned. "There are still four shots left in that gun." +</P> + +<P> +Hamilton relaxed. +</P> + +<P> +"You don't care what the little fellows do to you," said Monte. "But +you don't want to queer yourself any further with her, do you? Now, +listen. She thinks you tried to shoot yourself. By that much I have a +hunch she thinks the better of you." +</P> + +<P> +Hamilton groaned, +</P> + +<P> +"And because I believe what you told me about her," he ran on, fighting +for breath—"just because—because I believe the shooting fits into +that, I 'm glad to—to have her think that little the better of you, +Hamilton." +</P> + +<P> +The interior of the cab was beginning to move slowly around in a +circle. He leaned back his head a second to steady himself—his white +lips pressed together. +</P> + +<P> +"So—so—clear out," he whispered. +</P> + +<P> +"You—you won't tell her?" +</P> + +<P> +"No. But—clear out, quick." +</P> + +<P> +Hamilton opened the cab door. +</P> + +<P> +"Got any money?" inquired Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +Monte drew out his bill-book and handed it to Hamilton. +</P> + +<P> +"Take what there is," he ordered. +</P> + +<P> +Hamilton obeyed, and returned the empty purse. +</P> + +<P> +"Remember," faltered Monte, his voice trailing off into an inaudible +murmur, "we're engaged—Marjory and I—" +</P> + +<P> +But Hamilton had disappeared. It was the driver who was peering in the +door. +</P> + +<P> +"Where next, monsieur?" he was saying. +</P> + +<P> +"Normandie," muttered Monte. +</P> + +<P> +The windows began to revolve in a circle before his eyes—faster and +faster, until suddenly he no longer was conscious of the pain in his +shoulder. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap06"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VI +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +GENDARMES AND ETHER +</H3> + + +<P> +When the gendarmes came hurrying to sixty-four Boulevard Saint-Germain, +Marjory was the only one in the house cool enough to meet them at the +door. She quieted them with a smile. +</P> + +<P> +"It is too bad, messieurs," she apologized, because it did seem too bad +to put them to so much trouble for nothing. "It was only a +disagreeable incident between friends, and it is closed. Madame Courcy +lost her head." +</P> + +<P> +"But we were told it was an assassination," the lieutenant informed +her. He was a very smart-looking lieutenant, and he noticed her eyes +at once. +</P> + +<P> +"To have an assassination it is necessary to have some one +assassinated, is it not?" inquired Marjory. +</P> + +<P> +"But yes, certainly." +</P> + +<P> +"Then truly it is a mistake, because the two gentlemen went off +together in a cab." +</P> + +<P> +The lieutenant took out a memorandum-book. +</P> + +<P> +"Is that necessary?" asked Marjory anxiously. +</P> + +<P> +"A report must be made." +</P> + +<P> +"It was nothing, I assure you," she insisted. "It was what in America +is called a false alarm." +</P> + +<P> +"You are American?" inquired the lieutenant, twisting his mustache. +</P> + +<P> +"It is a compliment to my French that you did not know," smiled Marjory. +</P> + +<P> +It was also a compliment to the lieutenant that she smiled. At least, +it was so that he interpreted it. +</P> + +<P> +"The report is only a matter of routine," he informed her. "If +mademoiselle will kindly give me her name." +</P> + +<P> +"But the newspapers!" she exclaimed. "They make so much of so little." +</P> + +<P> +"It will be a pleasure to see that the report is treated as +confidential," said the lieutenant, with a bow. +</P> + +<P> +So, as a matter of fact, after a perfunctory interview with madame and +Marie, who had so far recovered themselves as to be easily handled by +Marjory, the lieutenant and his men bowed themselves out and the +incident was closed. +</P> + +<P> +Marjory escorted them to the door, and then, a little breathless with +excitement, went into the reception room a moment to collect herself. +</P> + +<P> +The scene was set exactly as it had been when from upstairs she heard +that shot—the shot that for a second had checked her breathing as if +she herself had been hit. As clearly as if she had been in the room, +she had seen Monte stretched out on the floor, with Hamilton bending +over him. She had not thought of any other possibility. As she sprang +down the stairs she had been sure of what she was about to see. But +when she entered she had found Monte standing erect—erect and smiling, +with his light hair all awry like a schoolboy's. +</P> + +<P> +Then, sinking into the chair near the window,—this very chair beside +which she now stood,—he had asked her to go out and attend to madame. +</P> + +<P> +Come to think of it, it was odd that he had been smiling. It was not +quite natural for one to smile over as serious a matter as that. After +all, even if Teddy was melodramatic, even if his shot had missed its +mark, it was not a matter to take lightly. +</P> + +<P> +She seated herself in the chair he had occupied, and her hands dropped +wearily to her side. Her fingers touched something sticky—something +on the side of the chair next to the wall—something that the gendarmes +had not noticed. She did not dare to move them. She was paralyzed, as +if her fingers had met some cold, strange hand. For one second, two +seconds, three seconds, she sat there transfixed, fearing, if she moved +as much as a muscle, that something would spring at her from +below—some awful fact. +</P> + +<P> +Then finally she did move. She moved slowly, with her eyes closed. +Then, suddenly opening them wide, she saw her fingers stained carmine. +She knew then why Monte had smiled. It was like him to do that. +Running swiftly to her room, she called Marie as she ran. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie—my hat! Your hat! Hurry!" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, mon Dieu!" exclaimed Marie. "Has anything happened?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have just learned what has already happened," she answered. "But do +not alarm madame." +</P> + +<P> +It was impossible not to alarm madame. +</P> + +<P> +The mere fact that they were going out alarmed madame. Marjory stopped +in the hall and quite coolly worked on her gloves. +</P> + +<P> +"We are going for a little walk in the sunshine," she said. "Will you +not come with us?" +</P> + +<P> +Decidedly madame would not. She was too weak and faint. She should +send for a friend to stay with her while she rested on her bed. +</P> + +<P> +"That is best for you," nodded Marjory. "Au revoir." +</P> + +<P> +With Marie by her side, she took her little walk in the sunshine, +without hurrying, as far as around the first corner. Then she signaled +for a cab, and showed the driver a louis d'or. +</P> + +<P> +"Hôtel Normandie. This is for you—if you make speed," she said. +</P> + +<P> +It was a wonder the driver was not arrested within a block; but it was +nothing less than a miracle that he reached the hotel without loss of +life. A louis d'or is a great deal of money, but these Americans are +all mad. When Marie followed her mistress from the cab, she made a +little prayer of thanks to the bon Dieu who had saved her life. +</P> + +<P> +Mademoiselle inquired of the clerk for Monsieur Covington. +</P> + +<P> +Yes, Monsieur Covington had reached the hotel some fifteen minutes +before. But he was ill. He had met with an accident. Already a +surgeon was with him. +</P> + +<P> +"He—he is not badly injured?" inquired Marjory. +</P> + +<P> +"I do not know," answered the clerk. "He was carried to his room in a +faint. He was very white." +</P> + +<P> +"I will wait in the writing-room. When the surgeon comes down I wish +to see him. At once—do you understand?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, mademoiselle." +</P> + +<P> +Marie suspected what had happened. Monsieur Covington, too, had +presented the driver with a louis d'or, and—miracles do not occur +twice in one day. +</P> + +<P> +Marjory seated herself by a desk, where she had a full view of the +office—of all who came in and all who went out. That she was here +doing this and that Monte Covington was upstairs wounded by a pistol +shot was confusing, considering the fact that as short a time ago as +yesterday evening she had not been conscious of the existence in Paris +of either this hotel or of Monsieur Covington. Of the man who, on the +other hand, had been disturbing her a great deal—this Teddy +Hamilton—she thought not at all. It was as if he had ceased to exist. +She did not even associate him, at this moment, with her presence here. +She was here solely because of Monte. +</P> + +<P> +He had stood by the window in Madame Courcy's dingy reception room, +smiling—his hair all awry. She recalled many other details now: how +his arm had hung limp; how he had been to a good deal of awkward +trouble to keep his left arm always toward her; how white he had been +when he passed her on his way out; how he had seemed to stumble when he +stepped into the cab. +</P> + +<P> +She must have been a fool not to understand that something was wrong +with him—the more so because only a few minutes before that he had +stood before her with his cheeks a deep red, his body firm, his eyes +clear and bright. +</P> + +<P> +That was when he had asked her to marry him. Monte Covington had asked +her to marry him, and she had consented. With her chin in her hand, +she thought that over. He had asked her in order that it might be his +privilege to go downstairs and rid her of Teddy. It had been suggested +in a moment, and she had consented in a moment. So, technically, she +was at this moment engaged. The man upstairs was her fiancé. That +gave her the right to be here. It was as if this had all been arranged +beforehand to this very end. +</P> + +<P> +It was this feature of her strange position that interested her. She +had been more startled, more excited, when Monte proposed, than she was +at this moment. It had taken away her breath at first; but now she was +able to look at it quite coolly. He did not love her, he said. Good +old Monte—honest and four-square. Of course he did not love her. Why +should he? He was leading his life, with all the wide world to wander +over, free to do this or to do that; utterly without care; utterly +without responsibility. +</P> + +<P> +It was this that had always appealed to her in him ever since she had +first known him. It was this that had made her envious of him. It was +exactly as she would have done in his circumstances. It was exactly as +she tried to do when her own circumstances changed so that it had +seemed possible. She had failed merely because she was a +woman—because men refused to leave her free. +</P> + +<P> +His proposal was merely that she share his freedom. Good old +Monte—honest and four-square! +</P> + +<P> +In return, there were little ways in which she might help him, even as +he might help her; but they had come faster than either had expected. +</P> + +<P> +Where was the surgeon? She rose and went to the clerk. +</P> + +<P> +"Are you sure the surgeon has not gone?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Very sure," answered the clerk. "He has just sent out for a nurse to +remain with monsieur." +</P> + +<P> +"A nurse?" repeated Marjory. +</P> + +<P> +"The doctor says Monsieur Covington must not be left alone." +</P> + +<P> +"It's as bad—as that?" questioned Marjory. +</P> + +<P> +"I do not know." +</P> + +<P> +"I must see the doctor at once," she said. "But, first,—can you give +me apartments on the same floor,—for myself and maid? I am his +fiancée," she informed him. +</P> + +<P> +"I can give mademoiselle apartments adjoining," said the clerk eagerly. +</P> + +<P> +"Then do so." +</P> + +<P> +She signed her name in the register, and beckoned for Marie. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie," she said, "you may return and finish packing my trunks. +Please bring them here." +</P> + +<P> +"Here?" queried Marie. +</P> + +<P> +"Here," answered Marjory. +</P> + +<P> +She turned to the clerk. +</P> + +<P> +"Take me upstairs at once." +</P> + +<P> +There was a strong smell of ether in the hall outside the door of Monte +Covington's room. It made her gasp for a moment. It seemed to make +concrete what, after all, had until this moment been more or less +vague. It was like fiction suddenly made true. That pungent odor was +a grim reality. So was that black-bearded Dr. Marcellin, who, leaving +his patient in the hands of his assistant, came to the door wiping his +hands upon a towel. +</P> + +<P> +"I am Mr. Covington's fiancée—Miss Stockton," she said at once. "You +will tell me the truth?" +</P> + +<P> +After one glance at her eyes Dr. Marcellin was willing to tell the +truth. +</P> + +<P> +"It is an ugly bullet wound in his shoulder," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"It is not serious?" +</P> + +<P> +"Such things are always serious. Luckily, I was able to find the +bullet and remove it. It was a narrow escape for him." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," she added, "I shall serve as his nurse." +</P> + +<P> +"Good," he nodded. +</P> + +<P> +But he added, having had some experience with fiancées as nurses:— +</P> + +<P> +"Of course I shall have for a week my own nurse also; but I shall be +glad of your assistance. This—er—was an accident?" +</P> + +<P> +She nodded. +</P> + +<P> +"He was trying to save a foolish friend from killing himself." +</P> + +<P> +"I understand." +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing more need be said about it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing more," Dr. Marcellin assured her. "If you will come in I will +give you your instructions. Mademoiselle Duval will soon be here." +</P> + +<P> +"Is she necessary?" inquired Marjory. "I have engaged the next +apartment for myself and maid." +</P> + +<P> +"That is very good, but—Mademoiselle Duval is necessary for the +present. Will you come in?" +</P> + +<P> +She followed the doctor into Monsieur Covington's room. There the odor +of ether hung still heavier. +</P> + +<P> +She heard him muttering a name. She listened to catch it. +</P> + +<P> +"Edhart," he called. "Oh, Edhart!" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap07"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING SHOT +</H3> + + +<P> +Under proper conditions, being wounded in the shoulder may have its +pleasant features. They were not so obvious to Monte in the early part +of the evening, because he was pretty much befuddled with ether; but +sometime before dawn he woke up feeling fairly normal and clear-headed +and interested. This was where fifteen years of clean living counted +for something. When Marcellin and his assistant had first stripped +Monte to the waist the day before, they had paused for a moment to +admire what they called his torso. It was not often, in their city +practice, that they ran across a man of thirty with muscles as clearly +outlined as in an anatomical illustration. +</P> + +<P> +Monte was conscious of a burning pain in his shoulder, and he was not +quite certain as to where he was. So he hitched up on one elbow. This +caused a shadow to detach itself from the dark at the other end of the +room—a shadow that rustled and came toward him. It is small wonder +that he was startled. +</P> + +<P> +"Who the deuce are you?" he inquired in plain English. +</P> + +<P> +"Monsieur is not to sit up," the shadow answered in plain French. +</P> + +<P> +Monte repeated his question, this time in French. +</P> + +<P> +"I am the nurse sent here by Dr. Marcellin," she informed him. +"Monsieur is not to talk." +</P> + +<P> +She placed her hand below his neck and helped him to settle down again +upon his pillow. Then she rustled off again beyond the range of the +shaded electric light. +</P> + +<P> +"What happened?" Monte called into the dark. +</P> + +<P> +Then he thought he heard a door open, and further rustling, and a +whispered conversation. +</P> + +<P> +"Who's that?" he demanded. +</P> + +<P> +It sounded like a conspiracy of some sort, so he tried again to make +his elbow. Mademoiselle appeared promptly, and, again placing her hand +beneath his neck, lowered him once more to his pillow. +</P> + +<P> +"Turn up the light, will you?" requested Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"But certainly not," answered the nurse. "Monsieur is to lie very +quiet and sleep." +</P> + +<P> +"I can't sleep." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps it will help monsieur to be quiet if he knows his fiancée is +in the next room." +</P> + +<P> +Momentarily this announcement appeared to have directly the opposite +effect. +</P> + +<P> +"My what?" gasped Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"Monsieur's fiancée. With her maid, she is occupying the next +apartment in order to be near monsieur. If you are very quiet +to-night, it is possible that to-morrow the doctor will permit you to +see her." +</P> + +<P> +"Was that she who came in and whispered to you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, monsieur." +</P> + +<P> +Monte remained quiet after that—but he was not sleeping. He was +thinking. +</P> + +<P> +In the first place, this was enough to make him recall all that had +happened. This led him to speculate on all that might be about to +happen—how much he could not at that moment even imagine. Neither +line of thought was conducive to sleep. +</P> + +<P> +Marjory was in the next room, awake, and at the sound of his voice had +come in. In the dark, even with this great night city of Paris asleep +around him, she had come near enough so that he heard the rustle of her +skirt and her whispering voice. That was unusual—most unusual—and +rather satisfactory. If worse came to worse and he reached a point +where it was necessary for him to talk to some one, he could get her in +here again in spite of this nurse woman. He had only to call her name. +Not that he really had any intention in the world of doing it. The +idea rather embarrassed him. He would not know what to say to a young +lady at this hour of the night—even Marjory. But there she was—some +one from home, some one he knew and who knew him. It was like having +Edhart within reach. +</P> + +<P> +In this last week he had sometimes awakened as he was now awake, and +the silence had oppressed him. Ordinarily there was nothing morbid +about Monte, but Edhart's death and the big empty space that was left +all about Nice, the silence where once he had been so sure of hearing +Edhart's voice, the ghostly reminders of Edhart in those who clicked +about in Edhart's bones without his flesh—all these things had given +Monte's thoughts an occasional novel trend. +</P> + +<P> +Once or twice he had gone as far as to picture himself as upon the +point of death here in this foreign city. It was a very sad, a +melancholy thing to speak about. He might call until he was hoarse, +and no one would answer except possibly the night clerk or a gendarme. +And they would look upon him only as something of a nuisance. It is +really pathetic—the depths of misery into which a healthy man may, in +such a mood, plunge himself. +</P> + +<P> +All around him the dark, silent city, asleep save for the night clerks, +the gendarmes, the evildoers, and the merrymakers. And these last +would only leer at him. If he did not join them, then it was his fault +if he lay dying alone. +</P> + +<P> +"Is she in there now?" Monte called to the nurse in the dark. +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly, monsieur. But I thought you were sleeping." +</P> + +<P> +No, he was not sleeping; but he did not mind now the pain in his +shoulder. She had announced herself as his fiancée. Well, +technically, she was. He had asked her to marry him, and she had +accepted. At the time he had not seen much farther ahead than the next +few minutes; and even then had not foreseen what was to happen in those +few minutes. The proposal had given him his right to talk to Hamilton, +and her acceptance—well, it had given Marjory her right to be here. +</P> + +<P> +Curious thing about that code of rights and wrongs! Society was a +stickler for form. If either he or Marjory had neglected the +preliminaries, then he might have lain here alone for a week, with +society shaking its Puritan head. This nurse woman might have come, +but she did not count; and, besides, he had to get shot before even she +would be allowed. +</P> + +<P> +Now it was all right. It was all right and proper for her, all right +and proper for him, all right and proper for society. Not only that, +but it was so utterly normal that society would have frowned if she had +not hurried to his side in such an emergency. It forced her here, +willy-nilly. Perhaps that was the only reason she was here. +</P> + +<P> +Still, he did not like to think that. She was too true blue to quit a +friend. It would be more like her to come anyway. He remembered how +she had stood by that old aunt to the end. She would be standing by +her to-day were she alive. Even Chic, who fulfilled his own +obligations to the last word, had sometimes urged her to lead her own +life, and she had only smiled. There was man stuff in her. +</P> + +<P> +It showed when she announced to these people her engagement. He did +not believe she did that either because it was necessary or proper. +She did it because it was the literal truth, and she was not ashamed of +the literal truth in anything. +</P> + +<P> +"Is Mademoiselle Stockton sitting up—there in the next room?" +</P> + +<P> +"I do not know," answered the nurse. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you mind finding out for me?" +</P> + +<P> +"If monsieur will promise to sleep after that." +</P> + +<P> +"How can a man promise to sleep?" +</P> + +<P> +Even under normal conditions, that was a foolish thing to promise. But +when a man was experiencing brand-new sensations—the sensations of +being engaged—it was quite impossible to make such a promise. +</P> + +<P> +"Monsieur can at least promise not to talk." +</P> + +<P> +"I will do that," agreed Monte. +</P> + +<P> +She came back and reported that mademoiselle was sitting up, and begged +to present her regards and express the hope that he was resting +comfortably. +</P> + +<P> +"Please to tell her I am, and that I hope she will now go to bed," he +answered. +</P> + +<P> +Nurse Duval did that, and returned. +</P> + +<P> +"What did she say?" inquired Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"But, monsieur—" +</P> + +<P> +She had no intention of spending the rest of the night as a messenger +between those two rooms. +</P> + +<P> +"Very well," submitted Monte. "But you might tell me what she said." +</P> + +<P> +"She said she was not sleepy," answered the nurse. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm glad she's awake," said Monte. +</P> + +<P> +Just because he was awake. In a sense, it gave them this city for +themselves. It was as if this immediately became their city. That was +not good arithmetic. Assuming that the city contained a population of +three millions,—he did not have his Baedeker at hand,—then clearly he +could consider only one three millionth part of the city as his. With +her awake in the next room, that made only two of them, so that taken +collectively they had a right to claim only two three-millionths parts +as belonging to them. Yet that was not the way it worked out. As far +as he was concerned, the other two millions nine hundred and +ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight did not exist. +</P> + +<P> +There was nothing sentimental about this conclusion. He did not think +of it as it affected her—merely as it affected him. It gave him +rather a comfortable, completed feeling, as if he now had within +himself the means for peacefully enjoying life, wherever he might be, +even at thirty-two. Under the influence of this soothing thought, he +fell asleep again. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +After the doctors were through with Monte the next morning, they +decided, after a consultation, that there was no apparent reason why, +during the day, Miss Stockton, if she desired, should not serve as his +nurse while Miss Duval went home to sleep. +</P> + +<P> +"My assistant will come in at least twice," said Dr. Marcellin. +"Besides, you have the constitution of a prize-fighter. It might well +be possible to place a bullet through the heart of such a man without +greatly discommoding him." +</P> + +<P> +He spoke as if with some resentment. +</P> + +<P> +After they had gone out, Marjory came in. She hesitated at the door a +moment, perhaps to make sure that he was awake; perhaps to make sure +that she herself was awake. Monte, from the bed, could see her better +than she could see him. He thought she looked whiter than usual, but +she was very beautiful. +</P> + +<P> +There was something about her that distinguished her from other +women—from this nurse woman, for example, who was the only other woman +with whom it was possible to compare her in a like situation. With one +hand resting on the door, her chin well up, she looked more than ever +like Her Royal Highness Something or Other. She was dressed in +something white and light and fluffy, like the gowns he used to see on +Class Day. Around her white throat there was a narrow band of black +velvet. +</P> + +<P> +"Good-morning, Marjory," he called. +</P> + +<P> +She came at once to his side, walking graciously, as a princess might +walk. +</P> + +<P> +"I did n't know if you were awake," she said. +</P> + +<P> +It was one thing to have her here in the dark, and another to have her +here in broad daylight. The sun was streaming in at the windows now, +and outside the birds were chattering. +</P> + +<P> +"Did you rest well last night?" she inquired. +</P> + +<P> +"I heard you when you came in and whispered to the nurse woman. It was +mighty white of you to come." +</P> + +<P> +"What else could I do?" She seated herself in a chair by his bed. +</P> + +<P> +"Because we are engaged?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +She smiled a little as he said that. +</P> + +<P> +"Then you have not forgotten?" +</P> + +<P> +"Forgotten!" he exclaimed. "I'm just beginning to realize it." +</P> + +<P> +"I was afraid it might come back to you as a shock, Monte," she said. +"But it is very convenient—at just this time." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know what I should have done without it," he nodded. "It +certainly gives a man a comfortable feeling to know—well, just to know +there is some one around." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm glad if I've been able to do anything." +</P> + +<P> +"It's a whole lot just having you here," he assured her. +</P> + +<P> +It changed the whole character of this room, for one thing. It ceased +to be merely a hotel room—merely number fifty-four attached with a big +brass star to a key. It was more like a room in the Hôtel des Roses, +which was the nearest to home of any place Monte had found in a decade. +It was as if when she came in she completely refurnished it with little +things with which he was familiar. Edhart always used to place flowers +in his apartment; and it was like that. +</P> + +<P> +"The only bother with the arrangement," he said, looking serious, "is +that it takes your time. Ought n't you to be at Julien's this morning?" +</P> + +<P> +She had forgotten about Julien's. Yet for the last two years it had +been the very center of her own individual life. Now the crowded +studio, the smell of turpentine, the odd cosmopolitan gathering of +fellow students, the little pangs following the bitter criticisms of +the master, receded into the background until they became as a dream of +long ago. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think I shall ever go to Julien's again," she answered. +</P> + +<P> +"But look here—that won't do," he objected. "If I'm to interfere with +all your plans—" +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't that, Monte," she assured him. "Ever since I came back this +last time, I knew I did n't belong there. When Aunt Kitty was alive it +was all the opportunity I had; but now—" She paused. +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have my hands full with you until you get out again," she answered +lightly. +</P> + +<P> +"That's what I object to," he said; "If being engaged is going to pin +you down, then I don't think you ought to be engaged. You've had +enough of that in your life." +</P> + +<P> +The curious feature of her present position was that she had no sense +of being pinned down. She had thought of this in the night. She had +never felt freer in her life. Within a few hours of her engagement she +had been able to do exactly what she wished to do without a single +qualm of conscience. She had been able to come here and look after him +in this emergency. She would have done this anyway, but she knew how +Marcellin and his assistant and even Nurse Duval would have made her +pay for her act—an act based upon nothing but decent loyalty and +honest responsibility. Raised eyebrows—gossip in the air—covert +smiles—the whole detestable atmosphere of intrigue with which they +would have surrounded her, had vanished as by a spell before the magic +word fiancée. She was breathing air like that upon the mountain-tops. +It was sweet and clean and bracing. +</P> + +<P> +"Monte," she said, "I'm doing at this moment just exactly what I want +to do; and you can't understand what a treat that is, because you've +always done just exactly as you wanted. I 'm sure I 'm entirely +selfish about this, because—because I'm not making any sacrifice. You +can't understand that, either, Monte,—so please don't try. I think +we'd better not talk any more about it. Can't we just let it go on as +it is a little while?" +</P> + +<P> +"It suits me," smiled Monte. "So maybe I'm selfish, too." +</P> + +<P> +"Maybe," she nodded. "Now I'll see about your breakfast. The doctor +told me just what you must have." +</P> + +<P> +So she went out—moving away like a vision in dainty white across the +room and out the door. A few minutes later she was back again with a +vase of red roses, which she arranged upon the table where he could see +them. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap08"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VIII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +DRAWBACKS OF RECOVERY +</H3> + + +<P> +Monte's recovery was rapid—in many ways more rapid than he desired. +In a few days Nurse Duval disappeared, and in a few days more Monte was +able to dress himself with the help of the hotel valet, and sit by the +window while Marjory read to him. Half the time he gave no heed to +what she was reading, but that did not detract from his pleasure in the +slightest. He liked the sound of her voice, and liked the idea of +sitting opposite her. +</P> + +<P> +Her eyes were always interesting when she read. For then she forgot +about them and let them have their own way—now to light with a smile, +now to darken with disapproval, and sometimes to grow very tender, as +the story she happened to be reading dictated. +</P> + +<P> +This was luxury such as Monte had never known, and for more than ten +years now he had ordered of the world its choicest in the way of luxury. +</P> + +<P> +At his New York club the experience of many, many years in catering to +man comfort was placed at his disposal. As far as possible, every +desire was anticipated, so that little more effort was required of him +than merely to furnish the desires. In a house where no limit whatever +had been set upon the expense, a hundred lackeys stood ready to jump if +a man as much as raised an eyebrow. And they understood, those +fellows, what a man needs—from the chef who searched the markets of +the world to satisfy tender tastes, to the doorman who acquainted +himself with the names of the members and their personal idiosyncrasies. +</P> + +<P> +That same service was furnished him, if to a more limited extent, on +the transatlantic liners, where Monte's name upon the passenger list +was immediately passed down the line with the word that he must have +the best. At Davos his needs were anticipated a week in advance; at +Nice there had been Edhart, who added his smiling self to everything +else. +</P> + +<P> +But no one at his club, on the boat, or at Davos—not even Edhart—had +given him this: this being the somewhat vague word he used to describe +what he was now enjoying as Marjory sat by the window reading to him. +It had nothing to do with being read aloud to. He could at any time +have summoned a valet to do that, and in five minutes would have felt +like throwing the book—any book—at the valet's head. It had nothing +to do with the mere fact that she was a woman. Nurse Duval could not +have taken her place. Kind as she had been, he was heartily bored with +her before she left. +</P> + +<P> +It would seem, then, that in some mysterious way he derived his +pleasure from Marjory herself. But, if so, then she had gone farther +than all those who made it their life-work to see that man was +comfortable; for they satisfied only existing wants, while she created +a new one. Whenever she left the room he was conscious of this want. +</P> + +<P> +Yet, when Monte faced the issue squarely and asked himself if this were +not a symptom of being in love, he answered it as fairly as he could +out of an experience that covered Chic Warren's pre-nuptial +brain-storms; a close observation of several dozen honeymoon couples on +shipboard, to say nothing of many incipient cases which started there; +and, finally, the case of Teddy Hamilton. +</P> + +<P> +The leading feature of all those distressing examples seemed to +indicate that, while theoretically the man was in an ideal state of +blissful ecstasy, he was, practically, in a condition bordering on +madness. At the very moment he was supposed to be happy, he was about +half the time most miserable. Even at its best, it did not make for +comfort. Poor Chic ran the gamut every week from hell to heaven. It +was with a sigh of relief that Monte was able to answer his own +question conscientiously in the negative. It was just because he was +able to retain the use of his faculties that he was able to enjoy the +situation. +</P> + +<P> +Monte liked to consider himself thoroughly normal in everything. As +far as he had any theory of life, it was based upon the wisdom of +keeping cool—of keeping normal. To get the utmost out of every day, +this was necessary. It was not the man who drank too much who enjoyed +his wine: it was the man who drank little. That was true of +everything. If Hamilton had only kept his head—well, after all, Monte +was indebted to Hamilton for not having kept his head. +</P> + +<P> +Monte was not in love: that was certain. Marjory was not in love: that +also was certain. This was why he was able to light his cigarette, +lean back his head on the pillow she arranged, and drift into a state +of dreamy content as she read to him. This happy arrangement might go +on forever except that, in the course of time, his shoulder was bound +to heal. And then—he knew well enough that old Dame Society was even +at the end of these first ten days beginning to fidget. He knew that +Marjory knew it, too. It began the day Dr. Marcellin advised him to +take a walk in the Champs Élysées. +</P> + +<P> +He was perfectly willing to do that. It was beautiful out there. They +sat down at one of the little iron tables—the little tables were so +warm and sociable now—and beneath the whispering trees sipped their +café au lait. But the fact that he was able to get out of his room +seemed to make a difference in their thoughts. It was as if his status +had changed. It was as if those who passed him, with a glance at his +arm in its sling, stopped to tell him so. +</P> + +<P> +It was none of their business, at that. It would have been sheer +presumption of them to have butted into any of the other affairs of his +life: whether he was losing money or making money; whether he was going +to England or to Spain, or going to remain where he was; whether he +preferred chops for breakfast, or bread and coffee. Theoretically, +then, it was sheer presumption for them to interest themselves in the +question of whether he was an invalid confined to his room, or a +convalescent able to get out, or a man wholly recovered. +</P> + +<P> +Yet he knew that, with every passing day that he came out into the +sunshine, these same people were managing to make Marjory's position +more and more delicate. It became increasingly less comfortable for +her and for him when they returned to the hotel. +</P> + +<P> +Therefore he was not greatly surprised when she remarked one morning:— +</P> + +<P> +"Monte, I've been thinking over where I shall go, and I 've about +decided to go to Étois." +</P> + +<P> +"When?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Very soon—before the end of the week, anyway." +</P> + +<P> +"But look here!" he protested. "What am I going to do?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know," she smiled. "But one thing is certain: you can't play +sick very much longer." +</P> + +<P> +"The doctor says it will be another two weeks before my arm is out of +the sling." +</P> + +<P> +"Even so, the rest of you is well. There is n't much excuse for my +bringing in your breakfasts, Monte." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you mind doing it?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +"Who is to tie on this silk handkerchief?" He wore a black silk +handkerchief over his bandages, which she always adjusted for him. +</P> + +<P> +She met his eyes a moment, and smiled again. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm going to Étois," she said. "I think I shall get a little villa +there and stay all summer." +</P> + +<P> +"Then," he declared, "I think I shall go to Étois myself." +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm afraid you must n't." +</P> + +<P> +"But the doctor says I must n't play golf for six months. What do you +think I'm going to do with myself until then?" +</P> + +<P> +"There's all the rest of the world," she suggested. +</P> + +<P> +Monte frowned. +</P> + +<P> +"Are you going to break our engagement, then?" +</P> + +<P> +"It has served its purpose, hasn't it?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Up to now," he admitted. "But you say it can't go any farther." +</P> + +<P> +"No, Monte." +</P> + +<P> +The next suggestion that leaped into Monte's mind was obvious enough, +yet he paused a moment before voicing it. Perhaps even then he would +not have found the courage had he not been rather panic-stricken. He +had exactly the same feeling, when he thought of her in Étois, that he +had when he thought of Edhart in Paradise. It started as resentment, +but ended in a slate-gray loneliness. +</P> + +<P> +He could imagine himself as sitting here alone at one of these little +iron tables, and decidedly it was not pleasant. When he pictured +himself as returning to his room in the hotel and to the company of the +hotel valet, it put him in a mood that augured ill for the valet. +</P> + +<P> +It would have been bad enough had he been able to resume his normal +schedule and fill his time with golf; but, with even that relaxation +denied him, such a situation as she proposed was impossible. For the +present, at any rate, she was absolutely indispensable. She ought to +know that a valet could not adjust a silk handkerchief properly, and +that without this he could not even go upon the street. And who would +read to him from the American papers? +</P> + +<P> +There was no further excuse, she said, for her to bring in his +breakfasts, but if she did not sit opposite him at breakfast, what in +thunder was the use of eating breakfast? If she had not begun +breakfasting with him, then he would never have known the difference. +But she had begun it; she had first suggested it. And now she calmly +proposed turning him over to a valet. +</P> + +<P> +"Marjory," he said, "didn't I ask you to marry me?" +</P> + +<P> +She nodded. +</P> + +<P> +"That was necessary in order that we might be engaged," she reminded +him. +</P> + +<P> +"Exactly," he agreed. "Now there seems to be only one way that we may +keep right on being engaged." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't see that, Monte," she answered. "We may keep on being engaged +as long as we please, may n't we?" +</P> + +<P> +"It seems not. That is, there is n't much sense in it if it won't let +me go to Étois with you." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course you can't do that." +</P> + +<P> +"And yet," he said, "if we were married I could go, couldn't I?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why—er—yes," she faltered; "I suppose so." +</P> + +<P> +"Then," he said, "why don't we get married?" +</P> + +<P> +She did not turn away her head. She lifted her dark eyes to his. +</P> + +<P> +"Just what do you mean, Monte?" she demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"I mean," he said uneasily, "that we should get married just so that we +can go on—as we have been these last ten days. Really, we'll still +only be engaged, but no one need know that. Besides, no one will care, +if we're married." +</P> + +<P> +He gained confidence as he went on, though he was somewhat afraid of +the wonder in her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"People don't care anything more about you after you're married," he +said. "They just let you drop as if you were done for. It's a queer +thing, but they do. Why, if we were married we could sit here all day +and no one would give us a second glance. We could have breakfast +together as often as we wished, and no one would care a hang. I've +seen it done. We could go to Étois together, and I could pay for half +the villa and you could pay for half. You can bring Marie, and we can +stay as long as we wish without having any one turn an eye." +</P> + +<P> +He was growing enthusiastic now. +</P> + +<P> +"There will be nothing to prevent you from doing just as you wish. You +can paint all day if you want. You can paint yards of things—olive +trees and sky and rocks. There are lots of them around Étois. And I—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," she interrupted; "what can you do, Monte?" +</P> + +<P> +"I can watch you paint," he answered. "Or I can walk. Or I can—oh, +there'll be plenty for me to do. If we tire of Étois we can move +somewhere else. If we tire of each other's company, why, we can each +go somewhere else. It's simple, is n't it? We can both do just as we +please, can't we? There won't be a living soul with the right to open +his head to us. Do you get that? Why, even if you want to go off by +yourself, with Mrs. in front of your name they'll let you alone." +</P> + +<P> +At first she had been surprised, then she had been amused, but now she +was thinking. +</P> + +<P> +"It's queer, is n't it, Monte, that it should be like that?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's the way it is. It makes everything simple and puts the whole +matter up to us." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," she admitted thoughtfully. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," he said, "I'm assuming you don't mind having me around +quite a lot." +</P> + +<P> +"No, I don't mind that," she assured him. "But I 'm wondering if +you'll mind—having me around?" +</P> + +<P> +"I did n't realize until this last week how—well, how comfortable it +was having you around," he confessed. +</P> + +<P> +She glanced up. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," she said, "that's the word. I think we've made each other +comfortable. After all—that's something." +</P> + +<P> +"It's a whole lot." +</P> + +<P> +"And it need n't ever be anything else, need it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly not," he declared. "That would spoil everything. That's +what we're trying to avoid." +</P> + +<P> +To his surprise, she suddenly rose as if to leave. +</P> + +<P> +"Look here!" he exclaimed. "Can't we settle this right now—so that we +won't have to worry about it?" +</P> + +<P> +He disliked having anything left to worry about. +</P> + +<P> +"I should think the least you'd expect of me would be to think it +over," she answered. +</P> + +<P> +"It would be so much simpler just to go ahead," he declared. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +There seemed to be no apparent reason in the world why she should not +assent to Monte's proposal. In and of itself, the arrangement offered +her exactly what she craved—the widest possible freedom to lead her +own life without let or hindrance from any one, combined with the least +possible responsibility. As far as she could see, it would remove once +and for all the single fretting annoyance that, so far, had disarranged +all her plans. +</P> + +<P> +Monte's argument was sound. Once she was married, the world of men +would let her alone. So, too, would the world of women. She could +face them both with a challenge to dispute her privileges. All this +she would receive without any of the obligations with which most women +pay so heavily for their release from the bondage in which they are +held until married. For they pay even more when they love—pay the +more, in a way, the more they love. It cannot be helped. +</P> + +<P> +She was thinking of the Warrens—the same Warrens Monte had visited +when Chic, Junior had the whooping cough. She had been there when +Chic, Junior was born. Marion had wanted her near—in the next room. +She had learned then how they pay—these women who love. +</P> + +<P> +She had been there at other times—less dramatic times. It was just +the same. From the moment Marion awoke in the morning until she sank +wearily into her bed at night, her time, her thought, her heart, her +soul almost, was claimed by some one else. She gave, gave, until +nothing was left for herself. +</P> + +<P> +Marjory, in her lesser way, had done much the same—so she knew the +cost. It was rare when she had been able to leave her aunt for a whole +day and night. Year after year, she too had awakened in the morning to +her tasks for another—for this woman who had demanded them as her +right. She too had given her time, her thought, her soul, almost, to +another. If she had not given her heart, it was perhaps because it was +not asked; perhaps, again, it was because she had no heart to give. +</P> + +<P> +Sometimes, in that strange, emotionless existence she had lived so long +where duty took the place of love, she had wondered about that. If she +had a heart, it never beat any faster to let her know she had it. +</P> + +<P> +She paid her debt of duty in full—paid until her release came. In the +final two weeks of her aunt's life she had never left her side. +Patiently, steadfastly, she helped with all there was in her to fight +that last fight. When it was over, she did not break down, as the +doctors predicted. She went to bed and slept forty-eight hours, and +awoke ten years younger. +</P> + +<P> +She awoke as one out of bondage, and stared with keen, eager eyes at a +new world. For a few weeks she had twenty-four hours a day of her own. +Then Peter had come, and others had come, and finally Teddy had come. +They wanted to take from her that which she had just gained—each in +his own fashion. +</P> + +<P> +"Give us of yourself," they pleaded. "Begin again your sacrifices." +</P> + +<P> +Peter put it best, even though he did not say much. But she had only +to look in his eyes and read his proposal. +</P> + +<P> +"Come with me and stand by my side while I carve my career," was what +his eyes said. "I'll love you and make you love me as Marion loves. +You 'll begin the day with me, and you 'll guard my home while I 'm +gone until night, and you'll share my honors and my disappointments, +and perhaps a time will come when Marion will stand in the next room, +as once you stood in the next room. Then—" +</P> + +<P> +It was at this point she drew back. Then her soul would go out into +the new-born soul, and after that she would only live and breathe and +hope through that other. When Marion laughed and said that she was as +she was because she did not know, Marion was wrong. It was because she +did know—because she knew how madly and irrevocably she would give, if +ever she gave again. There would be nothing left for herself at all. +It would be as if she had died. +</P> + +<P> +She did not wish to give like that. She wished to live a little. She +wished to be herself a little—herself as she now was. She wished to +get back some of those years between seventeen and twenty-seven—taste +the world as it was then. +</P> + +<P> +What Teddy offered was different. Something was there that even Peter +did not have—something that made her catch her breath once or twice +when he sang to her like a white-robed choir-boy. It was as if he +asked her to take his hand and jump with him into a white-hot flame. +He carried her farther back in her passions than Peter did—back to +seventeen, back to the primitive, elemental part of her. He really +made her heart beat. But on guard within her stood the older woman, +and she could not move. +</P> + +<P> +Now came Monte—asking nothing. He asked nothing because he wished to +give nothing. She was under no illusion about that. There was not +anything idealistic about Monte. This was to be purely an arrangement +for their mutual comfort. They were to be companions on an indefinite +tour of the world—each paying his own bills. +</P> + +<P> +At thirty-two he needed a comrade of some sort, and in his turn he +offered himself as an escort. She found no apparent reason, then, even +when she had spent half the night getting as far as this, why she +should not immediately accept his proposal. Yet she still hesitated. +</P> + +<P> +It was not that she did not trust Monte. Not the slightest doubt in +the world existed in her mind about that. She would trust him farther +than she would even Peter—trust him farther than any man she had ever +met. He was four-square, and she knew it. Perhaps it was a curious +suggestion—it was just because of this that she hesitated. +</P> + +<P> +In a way, she was considering Monte. She did not like to help him give +up responsibilities that might be good for him. She was somewhat +disappointed that he was willing to give them up. He did not have the +excuse she had—years of self-sacrifice. He had been free all his life +to indulge himself, and he had done so. He had never known a care, +never known a heartache. Having money, he had used it decently, so +that he had avoided even the compensating curse that is supposed to +come with money. +</P> + +<P> +She knew there was a lot to Monte. She had sensed that from the first. +He had proved it in the last two weeks. It only needed some one to +bring it out, and he would average high. Love might do it—the same +white-hot love that had driven Teddy mad. +</P> + +<P> +But that was what he was avoiding, just as she was. Well, what of it? +If one did not reach the heights, then one did not sound the depths. +After all, it was not within her province to direct Monte's life. She +was selfish—she had warned him of that. He was selfish—and had +warned her. +</P> + +<P> +Yet, as she lay there in her bed, she felt that she was about to give +up something forever, and that Monte was about to give up something +forever. It is one thing not to want something, and another to make an +irrevocable decision never to have it. Also, it is one thing to fret +one's self into an unnecessary panic over a problem at night, and +another to handle it lightly in the balmy sunshine of a Parisian +springtime morning. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Monte had risen early and gone out and bought her violets again. When +she came in, he handed them to her, and she buried her face in their +dewy fragrance. It was good to have some one think of just such little +attentions. Then, too, his boyish enthusiasm swept her off her guard. +He was so eager and light-hearted this morning that she found herself +breaking into a laugh. She was still laughing when he brought back to +her last night's discussion. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, have you decided to marry me?" he demanded. +</P> + +<P> +She shook her head, her face still buried in the violets. +</P> + +<P> +"What's worrying you about it?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"You, Monte," she answered. +</P> + +<P> +"I? Well, that isn't much. I looked up the time-tables, and we could +take the six-ten to-night if you were ready." +</P> + +<P> +"I could n't possibly be ready," she replied decidedly. +</P> + +<P> +"To-morrow, then?" +</P> + +<P> +When he insisted upon being definite, the proposition sounded a great +deal more absurd than when he allowed it to be indefinite. She was +still hesitating when Marie appeared. +</P> + +<P> +"A telephone for mademoiselle," she announced. +</P> + +<P> +Monte heard her startled exclamation from the next room. He hurried to +the door. She saw him, and, placing her hand over the telephone, +turned excitedly. +</P> + +<P> +"It's Teddy again," she trembled. +</P> + +<P> +"Let me talk to him," he commanded. +</P> + +<P> +"He says he does n't believe in our—our engagement." +</P> + +<P> +"We're to be married to-morrow?" he asked quickly. +</P> + +<A NAME="img-090"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-090.jpg" ALT=""We're to be married to-morrow?"" BORDER="2" WIDTH="535" HEIGHT="410"> +<H3 CLASS="h3center" STYLE="width: 535px"> +"We're to be married to-morrow?" +</H3> +</CENTER> + +<P> +"Oh!" +</P> + +<P> +"It's the only way to get rid of him." +</P> + +<P> +"Then—" +</P> + +<P> +"To-morrow?" +</P> + +<P> +Catching her breath, she nodded. +</P> + +<P> +He took the receiver. +</P> + +<P> +"This is Covington," he said. "Miss Stockton and I are to be married +to-morrow. Get that?… Well, keep hold of it, because the moment +I 'm her husband—" +</P> + +<P> +Following an oath at the other end, Monte heard the click of the +receiver as it was snapped up. +</P> + +<P> +"That settles it very nicely," he smiled. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap09"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER IX +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BLUE AND GOLD +</H3> + + +<P> +Marjory was to be married on June eighteenth, at eleven o'clock, in the +chapel of the English Congregational Church. At ten o'clock of that +day she was in her room before the mirror, trying to account for her +heightened color. Marie had just left her in despair and bewilderment, +after trying to make her look as bridelike as possible when she did not +wish to look bridelike. Marie had wished to do her hair in some absurd +new fashion for the occasion. +</P> + +<P> +"But, Marie," she had explained, "nothing is to be changed. Therefore +why should I change my appearance?" +</P> + +<P> +"Mademoiselle to be a bride—and nothing changed?" Marie had cried. +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing about me; nothing about Mr. Covington. We are merely to be +married, that is all—as a matter of convenience." +</P> + +<P> +"Mademoiselle will see," Marie had answered cryptically. +</P> + +<P> +"You will see yourself," Marjory had laughed. +</P> + +<P> +Eh bien! something was changed already, as she had only to look in the +mirror to observe. There was a deep flush upon her cheeks and her eyes +did not look quite natural. She saw, and seeing only made it worse. +Manifestly it was absurd of her to become excited now over a matter +that up to this point she had been able to handle so reasonably. It +was scarcely loyal to Monte. He had a right to expect her to be more +sensible. +</P> + +<P> +He had put it well last night when he had remarked that for her to go +to a chapel to be married was no more serious than to go to an embassy +for a passport. She was merely to share with him the freedom that was +his as a birthright of his sex. In no other respect whatever was she +to be under any obligations to him. With ample means of her own, he +was simply giving her an opportunity to enjoy them unmolested—a +privilege which the world denied her as long as she remained unmarried. +In no way was he to be responsible for her or to her. He understood +this fully, and it was exactly what he himself desired. +</P> + +<P> +She, in return for this privilege, was to make herself as entertaining +a traveling companion as possible. She was to be what she had been +these last few weeks. +</P> + +<P> +Neither was making any sacrifice. That was precisely what they were +avoiding. That was the beauty of the arrangement. Instead of +multiplying cares and responsibilities, as ordinary folk did,—thereby +defeating the very object for which they married, a fuller and wider +freedom,—each was to do away with the few they already had as +individuals. +</P> + +<P> +Therefore it seemed scarcely decent for Marie to speak of her as a +bride. Perhaps that accounted for the color. No sentiment was +involved here. This was what made the arrangement possible. Sentiment +involved caring; and, as Monte had once said, "It's the caring that +seems to make the trouble." That was the trouble with the Warrens. +How she cared—from morning till night, with her whole heart and soul +in a flutter—for Chic and the children. In a different way, Marjory +supposed, Teddy cared. This was the one thing that made him so +impossible. In another way, Peter Noyes cared. +</P> + +<P> +She gave a quick start as she thought of Peter Noyes. She turned away +from the mirror as if—as if ashamed. She sprang to her feet, with an +odd, tense expression about her mouth. It was as if she were looking +into his dark, earnest eyes. Peter had always been so intensely in +earnest about everything. In college he had worked himself thin to +lead his class. In the law school he had graduated among the first +five, though he came out almost half blind. His record, however, had +won for him a place with a leading law firm in New York, where in his +earnest way he was already making himself felt. It was just this +quality that had frightened her. He had made love to her with his lips +set as if love were some great responsibility. He had talked of duty +and the joy of sacrifice until she had run away from him. +</P> + +<P> +That had been her privilege. That had been her right. She had been +under no obligation to him then; she was under no obligation to him +now. Her life was hers, to do with as she saw fit. He had no business +to intrude himself, at this of all times, upon her. +</P> + +<P> +Not daring to look in the mirror again, she called Marie to adjust her +hat and veil. +</P> + +<P> +"It is half past ten, Marie," she announced nervously. "I—I think +Monsieur Covington must be waiting for us." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, mademoiselle." +</P> + +<P> +Her ears caught at the word. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, mademoiselle." +</P> + +<P> +"I wish—even after this—to have you always address me as +mademoiselle." +</P> + +<P> +"But that—" +</P> + +<P> +"It is my wish." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +It was a blue-and-gold morning, with the city looking as if it had +received a scrubbing during the night. So too did Monte, who was +waiting below for her. Clean-shaven and ruddy, in a dark-gray morning +coat and top hat, he looked very handsome, even with his crippled arm. +And quite like a bridegroom! For a moment he made her wish she had +taken Marie's advice about her hair. She was in a brown traveling suit +with a piquant hat that made her look quite Parisienne—though her low +tan shoes, tied with big silk bows at her trim ankles, were distinctly +American. +</P> + +<P> +Monte was smiling. +</P> + +<P> +"You are n't afraid?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Of what, Monte?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know. We 're on our way." +</P> + +<P> +She took a long look at his steady blue eyes. They braced her like +wine. +</P> + +<P> +"You must never let me be afraid," she answered. +</P> + +<P> +"Then—en avant!" he called. +</P> + +<P> +In a way, it was a pity that they could not have been married out of +doors. They should have gone into a garden for the ceremony instead of +into the subdued light of the chapel. Then, too, it would have been +much better had the Reverend Alexander Gordon been younger. He was a +gentle, saintly-looking man of sixty, but serious—terribly serious. +He had lived long in Paris, but instead of learning to be gay he had +become like those sad-faced priests at Notre Dame. Perhaps if he had +understood better the present circumstances he would have entered into +the occasion instead of remaining so very solemn. +</P> + +<P> +As Marjory shook hands with him she lost her bright color. Then, too, +he had a voice that made her think again of Peter Noyes. In sudden +terror she clung to Monte's arm, and during the brief ceremony gave her +responses in a whisper. +</P> + +<P> +Peter Noyes himself could not have made of this journey to the embassy +a more trying ordeal. A ring was slipped upon the fourth finger of her +left hand. A short prayer followed, and an earnest "God bless you, my +children," which left her feeling suffocated. She thought Monte would +never finish talking with him—would never get out into the sunshine +again. When he did, she shrank away from the glare of the living day. +</P> + +<P> +Monte gave a sigh of relief. +</P> + +<P> +"That's over, anyhow," he said. +</P> + +<P> +Hearing a queer noise behind him, he turned. There stood Marie, +sniffling and wiping her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Good Heavens," he demanded, "what's this?" +</P> + +<P> +Marjory instantly moved to the girl's side. +</P> + +<P> +"There—there," she soothed her gently; "it's only the excitement, +n'est ce pas?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, madame; and you know I wish you all happiness." +</P> + +<P> +"And me also?" put in Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"It goes without saying that monsieur will be happy." +</P> + +<P> +He thrust some gold-pieces into her hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Then drink to our good health with your friends," he suggested. +</P> + +<P> +Calling a taxicab, he assisted her in; but before the door closed +Marjory leaned toward her and whispered in her ear:— +</P> + +<P> +"You will come back to the hotel at six?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, madame." +</P> + +<P> +So Marie went off to her cousins, looking in some ways more like a +bride than her mistress. +</P> + +<P> +Marjory preferred to walk. She wanted to get back again to the mood of +half an hour ago. She must in some way get Peter Noyes out of her +mind. So quite aimlessly they moved down the Avenue Montaigne, and +Monte waved his hand at the passing people. +</P> + +<P> +"Now," he announced, "you are none of anybody's business." +</P> + +<P> +"Is that true, Monte?" Marjory asked eagerly. +</P> + +<P> +"True as preaching." +</P> + +<P> +"And no one has any right to scold me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not the slightest. If any one tries it, turn him over to me." +</P> + +<P> +"That might not always be possible." +</P> + +<P> +"You don't mean to say any one has begun this soon?" +</P> + +<P> +He glared about as if to find the culprit. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't look so fierce, Monte," she protested, with a laugh. +</P> + +<P> +"Then don't you look so worried," he retorted. +</P> + +<P> +Already, by his side, she was beginning to recover. A Parisian dandy +coming toward them stared rather overlong at her. An hour ago it would +have made her uneasy; now she felt like making a face at him. +</P> + +<P> +She laughed a little. +</P> + +<P> +"The minister was terribly serious, was n't he, Monte?" +</P> + +<P> +"Too darned serious," he nodded. "But, you see, he did n't know. I +suppose the cross-your-throat, hope-to-die kind of marriage is serious. +That's the trouble with it." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; that's the trouble with it." +</P> + +<P> +"I can see Chic coming down the aisle now, with his face chalk-white +and—" +</P> + +<P> +"Don't," she broke in. +</P> + +<P> +He looked down at her—surprised that she herself was taking this so +seriously. +</P> + +<P> +"My comrade," he said, "what you need is to play a little." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," she agreed eagerly. +</P> + +<P> +"Then where shall we go? The world is before you." +</P> + +<P> +He was in exactly the mood to which she herself had looked forward—a +mood of springtime and irresponsibility. That was what he should be. +It was her right to feel like that also. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh," she exclaimed, "I'd like to go to all the places I could n't go +alone! Take me." +</P> + +<P> +"To the Café de Paris for lunch?" +</P> + +<P> +She nodded. +</P> + +<P> +"To the races afterward and to the Riche for dinner?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, yes." +</P> + +<P> +"So to the theater and to Maxim's?" +</P> + +<P> +Her face was flushed as she nodded again. +</P> + +<P> +"We're off!" he exclaimed, taking her arm. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +It was an afternoon that left her no time to think. She was caught up +by the gay, care-free crowd and swept around in a dizzy circle. Yet +always Monte was by her side. She could take his arm if she became too +confused, and that always steadied her. +</P> + +<P> +Then she was whirled back to the hotel and to Marie, with no more time +than was necessary to dress for dinner. She was glad there was no more +time. For at least to-day there must be no unfilled intervals. She +felt refreshed after her bath, and, to Marie's delight, consented to +attire herself in one of her newest evening gowns, a costume of silk +and lace that revealed her neck and arms. Also she allowed Marie to do +her hair as she pleased. That was a good sign, but Marie thought +madame's cheeks did not look like a good sign. +</P> + +<P> +"I hope madame—" +</P> + +<P> +"Have you so soon forgotten what I asked of you?" Marjory interrupted. +</P> + +<P> +"I hope mademoiselle," Marie corrected herself, "has not caught a +fever." +</P> + +<P> +"I should hope not," exclaimed Marjory. "What put that into your head?" +</P> + +<P> +"Mademoiselle's cheeks are very hot." +</P> + +<P> +Marjory brought her hand to her face. It did not feel hot, because her +hands were equally hot. +</P> + +<P> +"It is nothing but the excitement that brings the color," she informed +Marie. "I have been living almost like a nun; and now—to get out all +at once takes away one's breath. +</P> + +<P> +"Also being a bride." +</P> + +<P> +"Marie!" +</P> + +<P> +"Eh bien, madame—mademoiselle was married only this morning." +</P> + +<P> +"You do not seem to understand," Marjory explained; "but it is +necessary that you should understand. Monsieur Covington is to me only +like—like a big brother. It is in order that he might be with me as a +big brother we went through the ceremony. People about here talk a +great deal, and I have taken his name to prevent that. That is all. +And you are to remain with me and everything is to go on exactly as +before, he in his apartments and we in ours. You understand now?" +</P> + +<P> +At least, Marie heard. +</P> + +<P> +"It is rather an amusing situation, is it not?" demanded Marjory. +</P> + +<P> +"I—I do not know," replied Marie. +</P> + +<P> +"Then in time you shall see. In the mean while, you might smile. Why +do you not smile?" +</P> + +<P> +"I—I do not know," Marie replied honestly. +</P> + +<P> +"You must learn how. It is necessary. It is necessary even to laugh. +Monsieur Covington laughed a great deal this afternoon." +</P> + +<P> +"He—he is a man," observed Marie, as if that were some explanation. +</P> + +<P> +"Eh bien—is it men alone who have the privilege of laughing?" +</P> + +<P> +"I do not know," answered Marie; "but I have noticed that men laugh a +great deal more about some things than women." +</P> + +<P> +"Then that is because women are fools," affirmed Marjory petulantly. +</P> + +<P> +Though Marie was by no means convinced, she was ready to drop the +matter in her admiration of the picture her mistress made when properly +gowned. Whether she wished or not, madame, when she was done with her +this evening, looked as a bride should look. And monsieur, waiting +below, was worthy of her. +</P> + +<P> +In his evening clothes he looked at least a foot taller than usual. +Marie saw his eyes warm as he slipped over madame's beautiful white +shoulders her evening wrap. +</P> + +<A NAME="img-100"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-100.jpg" ALT="Monsieur's eyes warmed as he slipped the wrap over madame's shoulders" BORDER="2" WIDTH="415" HEIGHT="595"> +<H3 CLASS="h3center" STYLE="width: 415px"> +Monsieur's eyes warmed as he slipped the wrap over madame's shoulders +</H3> +</CENTER> + +<P> +Before madame left she turned and whispered in Marie's ear. +</P> + +<P> +"I may be late," she said; "but you will be here when I return." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, mademoiselle." +</P> + +<P> +"Without fail?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, mademoiselle." +</P> + +<P> +Marie watched monsieur take his bride's arm as they went out the door, +and the thing she whispered to herself had nothing to do with madame at +all. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor monsieur!" she said. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap10"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER X +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE AFFAIR AT MAXIM'S +</H3> + + +<P> +It was all new to Marjory. In the year and a half she had lived in +Paris with her aunt she had dined mostly in her room. Such cafés as +this she had seen only occasionally from a cab on her way to the opera. +As she stood at the entrance to the big room, which sparkled like a +diamond beneath a light, she was as dazed as a debutante entering her +first ballroom. The head waiter, after one glance at Monte, was bent +upon securing the best available table. Here was an American prince, +if ever he had seen one. +</P> + +<P> +Had monsieur any choice? +</P> + +<P> +Decidedly. He desired a quiet table in a corner, not too near the +music. +</P> + +<P> +Such a table was immediately secured, and as Covington crossed the room +with Marjory by his side he was conscious of being more observed than +ever he had been when entering the Riche alone. His bandaged arm lent +him a touch of distinction, to be sure; but this served only to turn +eyes back again to Marjory, as if seeking in her the cause for it. She +moved like a princess, with her head well up and her dark eyes +brilliant. +</P> + +<P> +"All eyes are upon you," he smiled, when he had given his order. +</P> + +<P> +"If they are it's very absurd," she returned. +</P> + +<P> +Also, if they were, it did not matter. That was the fact she most +appreciated. Ever since she had been old enough to observe that men +had eyes, it had been her duty to avoid those eyes. That had been +especially true in Paris, and still more especially true in the few +weeks she had been there alone. +</P> + +<P> +Now, with Monte opposite her, she was at liberty to meet men's eyes and +study them with interest. There was no danger. It was they who turned +away from her—after a glance at Monte. It amused her to watch them +turn away; it gave her a new sense of power. But of one thing she was +certain: there was not a man in the lot with whom she would have felt +comfortable to be here as she felt comfortable with Monte. +</P> + +<P> +Monte was having a very pleasant time of it. The thing that surprised +him was the way Marjory quickened his zest in old things that had +become stale. Here, for instance, she took him back to the days when +he had responded with a piquant tingle to the lights and the music and +the gay Parisian chatter, to the quick glance of smiling eyes where +adventure lurked. He had been content to observe without accepting the +challenges, principally because he lived mostly in the sunshine. +To-night, in a clean, decent way, he felt again the old tingle. But +this time it came from a different source. When Marjory raised her +eyes to his, the lights blazed as brilliantly as if a hundred new ones +had been lighted; the music mixed with his blood until his thoughts +danced. +</P> + +<P> +With the coffee he lighted a cigarette and leaned back contentedly +until it was time to go. +</P> + +<P> +As they went out of the room, he was aware that once again all eyes +were turned toward her, so that he threw back his shoulders a little +farther than usual and looked about with some scorn at those who had +with them only ordinary women. +</P> + +<P> +The comedy at the Gymnase was sufficiently amusing to hold her +attention, and that was the best she could ask for; but Monte watched +it indifferently, resenting the fact that it did hold her attention. +Besides, there were too many people all about her here. For two hours +and a half it was as if she had gone back into the crowd. He was glad +when the final curtain rang down and he was able to take her arm and +guide her out. +</P> + +<P> +"Maxim's next?" he inquired. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you want to go?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"It's for you to decide," he answered. +</P> + +<P> +She was dead tired by now, but she did not dare to stop. +</P> + +<P> +"All right," she said; "we'll go." +</P> + +<P> +It was a harlequin crowd at Maxim's—a noisier, tenser, more hectic +crowd than at the Riche. The room was gray with smoke, and everywhere +she looked were gold-tipped wine bottles. Though it was still early, +there was much hysterical laughter and much tossing about of long +streamers of colored paper and confetti. As they entered she +instinctively shrank away from it. Had the waiter delayed another +second before leading them to a table, she would have gone out. +</P> + +<P> +Monte ordered the wine he was expected to order, but Marjory scarcely +touched it to her lips, while he was content to watch it bubble in his +glass. He did not like to have her here, and yet it was almost worth +the visit to watch her eyes grow big, to watch her sensitive mouth +express the disgust she felt for the mad crowd, to have her +unconsciously hitch her chair nearer his. +</P> + +<P> +"The worst of it is," he explained to her, "it's the outsiders who are +doing all this—Americans, most of them." +</P> + +<P> +Suddenly, from behind them, a clear tenor voice made itself heard +through the din. The first notes were indistinct; but in a few seconds +the singer had the room to himself. Turning quickly, Marjory saw the +slender figure of Hamilton, swaying slightly, standing by a table, his +eyes leveled upon hers. He was singing "The Rosary"—singing it as +only he, when half mad, could sing it. +</P> + +<P> +She clutched Monte's hand as he half rose from his seat. +</P> + +<P> +"Please," she whispered, "it's best to sit still." +</P> + +<P> +Stronger and stronger the plaintive melody fell from his lips, until +finally the orchestra itself joined. Women strained forward, and +half-dazed men sat back and listened with bated breath. Even Monte +forgot for a moment the boldness that inspired Hamilton, and became +conscious only of Marjory's warm fingers within his. So, had the +singer been any one else, he would have been content to sit to the end. +But he knew the danger there. His only alternative, however, was to +rise and press through the enraptured crowd, which certainly would have +resented the interruption. It seemed better to wait, and go out during +the noisy applause that was sure to follow. +</P> + +<P> +At the second verse Hamilton, still singing, came nearer. A path +opened before him, as before an inspired prophet. It was only Monte +who moved his chair slightly and made ready. Still there was nothing +he could do until the man committed some overt act. When Hamilton +concluded his song, he was less than two feet away. By then Monte was +on his feet. As the applause swept from every corner of the room, +Hamilton seized from a near-by table a glass of wine, and, raising it, +shouted a toast:— +</P> + +<P> +"To the bride." +</P> + +<P> +The crowd followed his eyes to the shrinking girl behind Monte. In +good humor they rose, to a man, and joined in, draining their glasses. +It was Monte's opportunity. Taking Marjory's arm, he started for the +door. +</P> + +<P> +But Hamilton was madder than he had ever been. He ran forward, +laughing hysterically. +</P> + +<P> +"Kiss the bride," he called. +</P> + +<P> +This he actually attempted. Monte had only his left arm, and it was +not his strongest; but back of it he felt a new power. He took +Hamilton beneath the chin, and with a lurch the man fell sprawling over +a table among the glasses. In the screaming confusion that followed, +Monte fought his way to the door, using his shoulders and a straight +arm to clear a path. In another second he had lifted Marjory into a +cab. +</P> + +<P> +Leaning forward, she clutched his arm as the cab jumped ahead. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sorry I had to make a scene," he apologized. "I should n't have +hit him, but—I saw red for a second." +</P> + +<P> +She would never forget that picture of Monte standing by her side, his +head erect, his arm drawn back for the second blow which had proved +unnecessary. All the other faces surrounding her had faded into a +smoky background. She had been conscious of him alone, and of his +great strength. She had felt that moment as if his strength had +literally been hers also. She could have struck out, had it been +necessary. +</P> + +<P> +"You did n't hurt your shoulder, did you?" she asked anxiously. +</P> + +<P> +He did not know—it did not much matter. Had Hamilton actually +succeeded in reaching her lips, he would have torn his wounded arm from +the bandages and struck with that too. He had never realized until +then what sacred things her lips were. He had known them only as +beautiful. They were beautiful now as he looked down at them. +Slightly parted, they held his eyes with a strange, new fascination. +They were alive, those lips. They were warm and pulsating. He found +himself breathing faster because of them. He seemed, against his will, +to be bending toward them. Then, with a wrench, he tore himself free +from the spell, not daring to look at her again. +</P> + +<P> +Leaving her to Marie at the door of her room, Monte went into his own +apartment. He threw open a window, and stood there in the dark with +the cool night breeze blowing in upon him. After Maxim's, the more +clean air the better; after what had followed in the cab, the more cool +air the better. +</P> + +<P> +He was still confused by it; still frightened by it. For a moment he +had felt himself caught in the clutch of some power over which he had +no control. That was the startling truth that stood out most +prominently. He had been like one intoxicated—he who never before in +his life had lost a grip upon himself. That fact struck at the very +heart of his whole philosophy of life. Always normal—that had been +his boast; never losing his head over this thing or that. It was the +only way a man could keep from worrying. It was the only way a man +could keep sane. The moment you wanted anything like the devil, then +the devil was to pay. This evening he had proved that. +</P> + +<P> +He went back to the affair at Maxim's. He should have known better +than to take her there, anyway. She did not belong in such a place. +She did not belong anywhere he had taken her to-day. To-morrow—but +all this was beside the point. +</P> + +<P> +The question that he would most like to answer at this moment was +whether this last wild episode of Hamilton's was due to absinthe or to +that same weird passion which a few weeks before had led the man to +shoot. It had been beastly of Hamilton to try to reach her lips. +That, doubtless, was the absinthe. It robbed him of his senses. But +the look in the man's eyes when he sang, the awful hunger that burned +in them when he gave his mad toast—those things seemed to spring from +a different source. The man, in a room full of strangers, had seen +only her, had sung only to her. Monte doubted if the crazed fellow saw +even him. He saw no one but this one woman. That was madness—but it +did not come of absinthe. The absinthe may have caused the final utter +breakdown of Hamilton's self-control here and at Madame Courcy's—but +that the desire could be there without it Monte had twice proved to +himself that evening. +</P> + +<P> +Once was when he had struck Hamilton. He alone knew that when he hit +that time it was with the lust to kill—even as Hamilton had shot to +kill. The feeling lasted only the fraction of a second—merely while +his fist was plunging toward Hamilton's chin. But, however brief, it +had sprung from within him—a blood-red, frenzied desire to beat down +the other man. At the moment he was not so much conscious of trying to +protect her as to rid himself of Hamilton. +</P> + +<P> +The second mad moment had come in the cab, when he had looked down at +her lips. As the passion to kill left him, another equally strong +passion had taken its place. He had hungered for her lips—the very +lips Hamilton, a moment before, had attempted to violate. He who all +his life had looked as indifferently upon living lips as upon +sculptured lips had suddenly found himself in the clutch of a mighty +desire. For a second he had swayed under the temptation. He had been +ready to risk everything, because for a heart-beat or two nothing else +seemed to matter. In his madness, he had even dared think that +delicate, sensitive mouth trembled a like desire. +</P> + +<P> +Even here in the dark, alone, something of the same desire returned. +He began to pace the room. +</P> + +<P> +How she would have hated him had he yielded to that impulse! He +shuddered as he pictured the look of horror that would have leaped into +her dark eyes. Then she would have shrunk away frightened, and her +eyes would have grown cold—those eyes that had only so lately warmed +at all. Her face would have turned to marble—the face that only so +lately had relaxed. +</P> + +<P> +She trusted him—trusted him to the extent of being willing to marry +him to save herself from the very danger with which he had threatened +her. Except that at the last moment he had resisted, he was no better +than Hamilton. +</P> + +<P> +In her despair she had cried, "Why won't they let me alone?" And he +had urged her to come with him, so that she might be let alone. He was +to be merely her <I>camarade de voyage</I>—her big brother. Then, in less +than twelve hours, he had become like the others. He felt unfit to +remain in the next room to her—unfit to greet her in the morning. In +an agony of remorse, he clenched his fists. +</P> + +<P> +He drew himself up shortly. A new question leaped to his brain. Was +this, then, love? The thought brought both solace and fresh terror. +It gave him at least some justification for his moment of temptation; +but it also brought vividly before him countless new dangers. If this +were love, then he must face day after day of this sort of thing. Then +he would be at the mercy of a passion that must inevitably lead him +either to Hamilton's plight or to Chic Warren's equally unenviable +position. Each man, in his own way, paid the cost: Hamilton, mad at +Maxim's; Chic pacing the floor, with beaded brow, at night. With these +two examples before him, surely he should have learned his lesson. +Against them he could place his own normal life—ten years of it +without a single hour such as these hours through which he was now +living. +</P> + +<P> +That was because he had kept steady. Ambition, love, drunkenness, +gluttony—these were all excesses. His own father had desired mightily +to be governor of a State, and it had killed him; his grandfather had +died amassing the Covington fortune; he had friends who had died of +love, and others who had overdrunk and overeaten. The secret of +happiness was not to want anything you did not have. If you went +beyond that, you paid the cost in new sacrifices, leading again to +sacrifices growing out of those. +</P> + +<P> +Monte lighted a cigarette and inhaled a deep puff. The thing for him +to do was fairly clear: to pack his bag and leave while he still +retained the use of his reasoning faculties. He had been swept off his +feet for an instant, that was all. Let him go on with his schedule for +a month, and he would recover his balance. +</P> + +<P> +The suggestion was considerably simplified by the fact that it was not +necessary to consider Marjory in any way. He would be in no sense +deserting her, because she was in no way dependent upon him. She had +ample funds of her own, and Marie for company. He had not married her +because of any need she had for him along those lines. The protection +of his name she would still have. As Mrs. Covington she could travel +as safely without him as with him. Even Hamilton was eliminated. He +had received his lesson. Anyway, she would probably leave Paris at +once for Étois, and so be out of reach of Hamilton. +</P> + +<P> +Monte wondered if she would miss him. Perhaps, for a day or so; but, +after all, she would have without him the same wider freedom she +craved. She would have all the advantages of a widow without the +necessity of admitting that her husband was dead. He would always be +in the background—an invisible guard. It was odd that neither she nor +he had considered that as an attractive possibility. It was decidedly +more practical than the present arrangement. +</P> + +<P> +As for himself, he was ready to admit frankly that after to-day golf on +an English course would for a time be a bore. From the first sight of +her this morning until now, he had not had a dull moment. She had +taken him back to the days when his emotions had been quick to respond +to each day as a new adventure in life. +</P> + +<P> +It was last winter in Davos that he had first begun to note the keen +edge of pleasure becoming the least bit dulled. He had followed the +routine of his amusements almost mechanically. He had been conscious +of a younger element there who seemed to crowd in just ahead of him. +Some of them were young ladies he remembered having seen with +pig-tails. They smiled saucily at him—with a confidence that +suggested he was no longer to be greatly feared. He could remember +when they blushed shyly if he as much as glanced in their direction. +His schedule had become a little too much of a schedule. It suggested +the annual tour of the middle-aged gentlemen who follow the spas and +drink of the waters. +</P> + +<P> +He felt all those things now even more keenly than he had at the time. +Looking back at them, he gained a new perspective that emphasized each +disagreeable detail. But he had only to think of Marjory as there with +him and—presto, they vanished. Had she been with him at Davos—better +still, were she able to go to Davos with him next winter—he knew with +what joy she would sit in front of him on the bob-sled and take the +breathless dip of the Long Run. He knew how she would meet him in the +morning with her cheeks stung into a deep red by the clean cold of the +mountain air. She would climb the heights with him, laughing. She +would skate with him and ski with him, and there would be no one +younger than they. +</P> + +<P> +Monte again began to pace his room. She must go to Davos with him next +winter. He must take her around the whole schedule with him. She must +go to England and golf with him, and from there to his camp. She would +love it there. He could picture her in the woods, on the lake, and +before the camp-fire, beneath the stars. +</P> + +<P> +From there they would go on to Cambridge for the football season. She +would like that. As a girl she had been cheated of all the big games, +and he would make up for it. So they would go on to New York for the +holidays. He had had rather a stupid time of it last year. He had +gone down to Chic's for Christmas, but had been oppressed by an +uncomfortable feeling that he did not belong there. Mrs. Chic had been +busy with so many presents for others that he had felt like old +Scrooge. He had made his usual gifts to relatives, but only as a +matter of habit. With Marjory with him, he would be glad to go +shopping as Chic and Mrs. Chic did. He might even go on to +Philadelphia with her and look up some of the relatives he had lately +been avoiding. +</P> + +<P> +Where in thunder had his thoughts taken him again? He put his head in +his hands. He had carried her around his whole schedule with him just +as if this were some honest-to-God marriage. He had done this while +she lay in the next room peacefully sleeping in perfect trust. +</P> + +<P> +She must never know this danger, nor be further subjected to it. There +was only one safe way—to take the early train for Calais without even +seeing her again. +</P> + +<P> +Monte sat down at the writing-desk and seized a pen. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +<I>Dear Marjory</I> [he began]: Something has come up unexpectedly that +makes it necessary for me to take an early train for England. I can't +tell how long I shall be gone, but that of course is not important. I +hope you will go on to Étois, as we had planned; or, at any rate, leave +Paris. Somehow, I feel that you belong out under the blue sky and not +in town. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +He paused a moment and read over that last sentence. Then he scratched +it out. Then he tore up the whole letter. +</P> + +<P> +What he had to say should be not written. He must meet her in the +morning and tell her like a man. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap11"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XI +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A CANCELED RESERVATION +</H3> + + +<P> +Though it was late when he retired, Monte found himself wide awake at +half past seven. Springing from bed, he took his cold tub, shaved, and +after dressing proceeded to pack his bags. The process was simple; he +called the hotel valet, gave the order to have them ready as soon as +possible, and went below. From the office he telephoned upstairs to +Marie, and learned that madame would meet him in the breakfast-room at +nine. This left him a half-hour in which to pay his bill at the hotel, +order a reservation on the express to Calais, and buy a large bunch of +fresh violets, which he had placed on the breakfast table—a little +table in a sunshiny corner. +</P> + +<P> +Monte was calmer this morning than he had been the night before. He +was rested; the interval of eight hours that had passed since he last +saw her gave him, however slight, a certain perspective, while his +normal surroundings, seen in broad daylight, tended to steady him +further. The hotel clerk, busy about his uninspired duties; the +impassive waiters in black and white; the solid-looking Englishmen and +their wives who began to make their appearance, lent a sense of +unreality to the events of yesterday. +</P> + +<P> +Yet, even so, his thoughts clung tenaciously to the necessity of his +departure. In a way, the very normality of this morning world +emphasized that necessity. He recalled that it was to just such a day +as this he had awakened, yesterday. The hotel clerk had been standing +exactly where he was now, sorting the morning mail, stopping every now +and then with a troubled frown to make out an indistinct address. The +corpulent porter in his blue blouse stood exactly where he was now +standing, jealously guarding the door. Vehicles had been passing this +way and that on the street outside. He had heard the same undertone of +leisurely moving life—the scuffling of feet, the closing of doors, +distant voices, the rumble of traffic. Then, after this lazy prelude, +he had been swept on and on to the final dizzy climax. +</P> + +<P> +That must not happen again. At this moment he knew he had a firm grip +on himself—but at this moment yesterday he had felt even more secure. +There had been no past then. That seemed a big word to use for such +recent events covering so few hours; and yet it was none too big. It +covered nothing less than the revelation of a man to himself. If that +process sometimes takes years, it is none the less significant if it +takes place in a day. +</P> + +<P> +"Good-morning, Monte." +</P> + +<P> +He turned quickly—so quickly that she started in surprise. +</P> + +<P> +"Is anything the matter?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +She was in blue this morning, and wore at an angle a broad-brimmed hat +trimmed with black and white. He thought her eyes looked a trifle +tired. He would have said she had not slept well. +</P> + +<P> +"I—I didn't know you were down," he faltered. +</P> + +<P> +The interval of six hours upon which he had been depending vanished +instantly. To-day was but the continuation of yesterday. As he moved +toward the breakfast-room at her side, the outside world disappeared as +by magic, leaving only her world—the world immediately about her, +which she dominated. This room which she entered by his side was no +longer merely the salle-à-manger of the Normandie. He was conscious of +no portion of it other than that which included their table. All the +sunshine in the world concentrated into the rays that fell about her. +</P> + +<P> +He felt this, and yet at the same time he was aware of the absurdity of +such exaggeration. It was the sort of thing that annoyed him when he +saw it in others. All those newly married couples he used to meet on +the German liners were afflicted in this same way. Each one of them +acted as if the ship were their ship, the ocean their ocean, even the +blue sky and the stars at night their sky and their stars. When he was +in a good humor, he used to laugh at this; when in a bad humor, it +disgusted him. +</P> + +<P> +"Monte," she said, as soon as they were seated, "I was depending upon +you this morning." +</P> + +<P> +She studied him a second, and then tried to smile, adding quickly:— +</P> + +<P> +"I don't like you to disappoint me like this." +</P> + +<P> +"What do you mean?" he asked nervously. +</P> + +<P> +She frowned, but it was at herself, not at him. It did not do much +except make dimples between her brows. +</P> + +<P> +"I lay awake a good deal last night—thinking," she answered. +</P> + +<P> +"Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "You ought n't to have done that!" +</P> + +<P> +"It was n't wise," she admitted. "But I looked forward to the +daylight—and you—to bring me back to normal." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, here we are," he hastened to assure her. "I had the sun up +ready for you several hours ago." +</P> + +<P> +"You—you look so serious." +</P> + +<P> +She leaned forward. +</P> + +<P> +"Monte," she pleaded, "you must n't go back on me like that—now. I +suppose women can't help getting the fidgets once in a while and +thinking all sorts of things. I was tired. I 'm not used to being so +very gay. And I let myself go a little, because I thought in the +morning I 'd find you the same old Monte. I 've known you so long, and +you always <I>have</I> been the same." +</P> + +<P> +"It was a pretty exciting day for both of us," he tried to explain. +</P> + +<P> +"How for you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, to start with, one does n't get married every morning." +</P> + +<P> +He saw her cheeks flush. Then she drew back. +</P> + +<P> +"I think we ought to forget that as much as possible," she told him. +</P> + +<P> +Here was his opportunity. The way to forget—the only way—was for him +to continue with his interrupted schedule to England, and for her to go +on alone to Étois. It was not too late for that—if he started at +once. Surely it ought to be the matter of only a few weeks to undo a +single day. Let him get the tang of the salt air, let him go to bed +every night dog-tired physically, let him get out of sight of her eyes +and lips, and that something—intangible as a perfume—that emanated +from her, and doubtless he would be laughing at himself as heartily as +he had laughed at others. +</P> + +<P> +But he could not frame the words. His lips refused to move. Not only +that, but, facing her here, it seemed a grossly brutal thing to do. +She looked so gentle and fragile this morning as, picking up the +violets, she half hid her face in them. +</P> + +<P> +"You mean we ought to go back to the day before yesterday?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"In our thoughts," she answered. +</P> + +<P> +"And forget that we are—" +</P> + +<P> +She nodded quickly, not allowing him to finish. +</P> + +<P> +"Because," she explained, "I think it must be that which is making you +serious. I don't know you that way. It is n't you. I 've seen you +all these years, wandering around wherever your fancy took +you—care-free and smiling. I've always envied you, and now—I thought +you were just going to keep right on, only taking me with you. Is n't +that what we planned?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he nodded. "We started yesterday." +</P> + +<P> +"I shall never forget that part of yesterday," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"It was n't so bad, except for Hamilton." +</P> + +<P> +"It was n't so bad even with Hamilton," she corrected. "I don't think +I can ever be afraid of him again." +</P> + +<P> +"Then it was n't he that bothered you last night?" he asked quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"No," she answered. +</P> + +<P> +"It—it was n't I?" +</P> + +<P> +She laughed uneasily. +</P> + +<P> +"No, Monte; because you were just yourself yesterday." +</P> + +<P> +He wondered about that. He wondered, if he placed before her all the +facts, including the hours after he left her, if she would have said +that. Here was his second opportunity to tell her what he had planned. +If he did not intend to go on, he should speak now. To-morrow it would +be too late. By noon it would be too late. By the time they finished +their breakfast, it would be too late. +</P> + +<P> +He met her eyes. They were steady as planets. They were honest and +clear and clean and confident. They trusted him, and he knew it. He +took a deep breath and leaned forward. Impulsively she leaned across +the table and placed her hand upon his. +</P> + +<P> +"Dear old Monte," she breathed. +</P> + +<P> +It was too late—now! He saw her in a sort of mist of dancing golden +motes. He felt the steady throb of her pulse. +</P> + +<P> +She withdrew her hand as quickly as she had given it. It was as if she +did not dare allow it to remain there. It was that which made him +smile with a certain confidence of his own. +</P> + +<P> +"What we'd better do," he said, "is to get out of Paris. I'm afraid +the pace here is too hot for us." +</P> + +<P> +"To Étois?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"That's as good a place as any. Could you start this afternoon?" +</P> + +<P> +"If you wish." +</P> + +<P> +"The idea is to move on as soon as you begin to think," he explained, +with his old-time lightness. "Of course, the best way is to walk. If +you can't walk—why, the next best thing—" +</P> + +<P> +He paused a moment to consider a new idea. It was odd that it had +never occurred to him before. +</P> + +<P> +"I have it!" he continued. "We'll go to Étois by motor. It's a +beautiful drive down there. I made the trip alone three years ago in a +car I owned. We'll take our time, putting up at the little villages +along the way. We'll let the sun soak into us. We'll get away from +people. It's people who make you worry. I have a notion it will be +good for us both. This Hamilton episode has left us a bit morbid. +What we need is something to bring us back to normal." +</P> + +<P> +"I'd love it," she fell in eagerly. "We'll just play gypsy." +</P> + +<P> +"Right. Now, what you want to do is to throw into a dress-suitcase a +few things, and we'll ship the trunks by rail to Nice. All you need is +a toothbrush, a change of socks, and—" +</P> + +<P> +"There's Marie," she interrupted. +</P> + +<P> +"Can't we ship her by rail too?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, Monte," she answered, with a decided shake of her head. +</P> + +<P> +"But, hang it all, people don't go a-gypsying with French maids!" +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" she demanded. +</P> + +<P> +She asked the question quite honestly. He had forgotten Marie utterly +until this moment, and she seemed to join the party like an intruder. +Always she would be upon the back seat. +</P> + +<P> +"Wouldn't you feel freer without her?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"I should n't feel at all proper," she declared. +</P> + +<P> +"Then we might just as well not have been married." +</P> + +<P> +"Only," she laughed, "if we had n't taken that precaution it would n't +have been proper for me to go, even with Marie." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm glad we've accomplished something, anyhow," he answered +good-naturedly. +</P> + +<P> +"We've accomplished a great deal," she assured him. "Yesterday morning +I could n't—at this time—have done even the proper things and felt +proper. Oh, you don't know how people look at you, and how that look +makes you feel, even when you know better. I could n't have sat here +at breakfast with you and felt comfortable. Now we can sit here and +plan a wonderful trip like this. It's all because you're just Monte." +</P> + +<P> +"And you just you!" +</P> + +<P> +"Only I don't count for anything. It makes me feel even more selfish +than I am." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't count?" he exclaimed. "Why—" +</P> + +<P> +He stifled the words that sprang to his lips. It was only because she +thought she did not count that she was able to feel comfortable. Once +let her know that she counted as at that moment she did count to him, +and even what little happiness he was able to bring her would vanish. +He would be to her then merely one of the others—even as he was to +himself. +</P> + +<P> +He rose abruptly. +</P> + +<P> +"I must see about getting a machine," he said. "I want to start this +afternoon if possible." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll be ready," she agreed. +</P> + +<P> +As they went out to the office, the clerk stepped up to him. +</P> + +<P> +"I have secured the reservation, monsieur," he announced. +</P> + +<P> +"Please cancel it," replied Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"Reservation?" inquired Marjory. +</P> + +<P> +"On the Calais express—for a friend of mine who has decided not to +go," he answered. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap12"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A WEDDING JOURNEY +</H3> + + +<P> +Monte made an extravagant purchase: a new high-powered touring car +capacious enough for a whole family—his idea being, that the roomier +the car, the less Marie would show up in it. On the other hand, if he +cared to consider her in that way, Marie would be there as much for his +protection as Marjory's. The task that lay ahead of him this next week +was well defined; it was to get back to normal. He had diagnosed his +disease—now he must cure it. It would have been much easier to have +done this by himself, but this was impossible. He must learn to gaze +steadily into her eyes, while gazing into them; he must learn to look +indifferently upon her lips, with her within arm's reach of him. Here +was a man's job. +</P> + +<P> +He was not even to have the machine to occupy his attention; for there +was no time to secure a license, and so he must take with him a +chauffeur. He was fortunate in being able to secure one on the +spot—Louis Santerre, a good-looking lad with the best of +recommendations. He ordered him to be at the hotel at three. +</P> + +<P> +Thus, in less than an hour from the time he entered the salesroom, +Monte had bought and paid for his car, hired his man, given orders for +certain accessories, and left, with Monsieur Mansart bowing him out and +heartily wishing that all his customers were of this type. +</P> + +<P> +There were, however, several little things that Monte still wished to +purchase—an automobile coat and cap, for one thing; also some rugs. +These he found in a near-by store. It was as he was leaving that the +clerk—who, it seems, must have had an eye—noticed the shiny new gold +ring upon Monte's left hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Madame is well supplied?" he inquired. +</P> + +<P> +"Madame? Who the devil is madame?" demanded Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"Pardon, monsieur," replied the clerk in some confusion, fearing he had +made a grave mistake. "I did not know monsieur was traveling alone." +</P> + +<P> +Then it was Monte's turn to show signs of confusion. It was quite true +he was not traveling alone. It was the truest thing he knew just then. +</P> + +<P> +"What is necessary for a lady traveling by motor?" he inquired. +</P> + +<P> +The clerk would take great pleasure in showing him in a department +devoted to that very end. It was after one bewildering glance about +the counters that he became of the opinion that his question should +have been: "What is it that a lady does not wear when traveling by +motor?" He saw coats and bonnets and goggles and vanity boxes and +gloves, to mention only a few of those things he took in at first +glance. +</P> + +<P> +"We are leaving in some haste," explained Monte, "so I'm afraid she has +none of these things. Would n't the easiest way be for you to give me +one of each?" +</P> + +<P> +That indeed would be a pleasure. Did monsieur know the correct size? +</P> + +<P> +Only in a general way—madame was not quite his height and weighed in +the neighborhood of one hundred and fifty pounds. That was enough to +go upon for outside garments. Still there remained a wide choice of +style and color. In this Monte pleased himself, pointing his stick +with sure judgment at what took his fancy, as this and the other thing +was placed before him. It was a decidedly novel and a very pleasant +occupation. +</P> + +<P> +In this way he spent the best part of another hour, and made a payment +in American Express orders of a considerable sum. That, however, +involved nothing but tearing from the book he always carried as many +orders for twenty-five dollars as most nearly approximated the sum +total. The articles were to be delivered within one hour to "Madame M. +Covington, Hôtel Normandie." +</P> + +<P> +Monte left the store with a sense of satisfaction, tempered a trifle by +an uncomfortable doubt as to just how this presumption on his part +would be received. However, he was well within his rights. He held +sturdily to that. +</P> + +<P> +With still two hours before he could return,—for he must leave her +free until luncheon,—he went on to the Champs Élysées and so to the +Bois. He still dwelt with pleasure upon the opportunity that had been +offered him to buy those few things for her. It sent him along briskly +with a smile on his face. It did more; it suggested a new idea. The +reason he had been taking himself so seriously was that he had been +thinking too much about himself and not enough about her. The simple +way out of that difficulty was from now on not to consider himself at +all. After all, what happened to him did not much matter, as long as +it did not affect her. His job from now on was to make her happy. +</P> + +<P> +For the rest of his walk he kept tight hold of that idea, and came back +to the hotel with a firm grip on it. He called to her through the door +of her room:— +</P> + +<P> +"How you making it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Pretty well," came her voice. "Only I went shopping and bought all my +things—including a coat for you. Then, when I return, I find a whole +boxful from you." +</P> + +<P> +"All my efforts wasted!" he exclaimed. +</P> + +<P> +"No, Monte," she replied quickly. "I could n't allow that, +because—well, because it was so thoughtful of you. So I kept the coat +and bonnet you selected—and a few other things. I've just sent Marie +out to return the rest." +</P> + +<P> +She had kept the coat and bonnet that he selected! What in thunder was +there about that to make a man feel so confoundedly well satisfied? +</P> + +<P> +They left the hotel at three, and rode that day as far as a country inn +which took their fancy just before coming into Joigny. It was, to +Marjory, a wonderful ride—a ride that made her feel that with each +succeeding mile she was leaving farther and farther behind her every +care she had ever had in the world. It was a ride straight into the +heart of a green country basking sleepily beneath blue skies; of +contented people going about their pleasant tasks; of snug, fat farms +and snug little houses, with glimpses of an occasional chateau in the +background. +</P> + +<P> +When Monte held out his hand to assist her down, she laughed +light-heartedly, refreshed in body and soul. For Monte had been +himself ever since they started—better than himself. He had humored +her every mood, allowing her to talk when she had felt like talking, or +to sit back with her eyes half closed when she wished to give herself +up to lazy content. Often, too, he had made her laugh with his absurd +remarks—laugh spontaneously, as a child laughs. She had never seen +him in such good humor, and could not remember when she herself had +been in such good humor. +</P> + +<P> +The rays of the sun were falling aslant as she stepped out, and the +western sky was aglow with crimson and purple and pink. It was a +drowsy world, with sounds grown distant and the perfume and color of +the flowers grown nearer. At the door of the inn, which, looked as if +it must have been standing right there in the days of dashing +cavaliers, the proprietor and his wife were obsequiously bowing a +welcome. It was not often that the big machines deigned to rest here. +</P> + +<P> +Monte stepped toward them. +</P> + +<P> +"Madame desires to rest here for the night, if accommodations may be +secured," he said. +</P> + +<P> +For the night? Mon Dieu! The proprietor had reckoned upon only a +temporary sojourn—for a bottle of wine, perhaps. He had never +entertained such a host as this. How many rooms would be required? +</P> + +<P> +"Four," answered Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"Let me see; monsieur and madame could be put in the front room." +</P> + +<P> +Monte shook his head. +</P> + +<P> +"Madame will occupy the front room alone," he informed him. +</P> + +<P> +"Eh? Oh, I understand; a sister. That was a curious mistake. Eh +bien, madame in the front room. Monsieur in the room to the right. +The maid in the room on the back. But there is the chauffeur." +</P> + +<P> +There was no room left for him, or for the machine either. +</P> + +<P> +"Then he can go on to Joigny," announced Monte. +</P> + +<P> +So Louis went on, and in less than five minutes the others were safely +sorted out and tucked away in their respective rooms. +</P> + +<P> +"We ought to get out and see the sun set," Monte called to Marjory as +she waved him an adieu at her door. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll be down in ten minutes," she nodded. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +There is a princess latent in every woman. She makes her appearance +early, and too often vanishes early. Not many women have the good +fortune to see her—except perhaps for a few brief moments—after +seventeen. But, however, far in the background, she remains as at +least a romantic possibility as long as any trace of romance itself +remains. She is a languid, luxury-loving creature, this princess; an +Arabian Nights princess of silks and satins and perfumed surroundings. +Through half-closed eyes she looks out upon a world of sunshine and +flowers, untroubled as the fairy folk. Every one does her homage, and +she in her turn smiles graciously, and there is nought else for her to +do except to rest and be amused. +</P> + +<P> +For a moment, here in the twilight, this princess returned to Marjory. +As she sat before the mirror, doing over her hair, she held her chin a +little higher at the thought and smiled at herself contentedly. She +used to do just this—and feel ashamed of herself afterward—long, long +ago, after she first met Monte at the Warrens'. For it was he who then +had been her gallant knight, without which no one may be a fairy-book +princess. He had just finished his college course, and eager-eyed was +about to travel over the wide world. He was big and buoyant and +handsome, and even more irresponsible then than now. +</P> + +<P> +She recalled how one evening they sat alone upon the porch of the +Warren house until late, and he had told her of his proposed journey. +She had listened breathlessly, with her chin in her hands and her eyes +big. When she came in, Mrs. Warren had placed an arm about her and +looked significantly at her flushed cheeks and said gently:— +</P> + +<P> +"Be careful, my dear. Don't you let that careless young prince take +away your heart with him. Remember, he has not yet seen the world." +</P> + +<P> +He had sailed away for a year and a day soon after this; and, perhaps +because he was safely out of her life, she had allowed herself more +liberty with him than otherwise she would have done. At any rate, that +year she was a princess and he her prince. +</P> + +<P> +Now, to-night, he came back for a little. It was the twilight, which +deals gently with harsh realities, and the perfume of the flowers +floating in at the open window, and the old room, doubtless. Only +yesterday he called her "Your Highness," and she had not responded. +There in the Café Riche none of her old dreams had returned. Perhaps +it was because all her surroundings there had been too grossly real. +That was no setting for a fairy prince, and a fairy prince was, of +course, all he had ever been or was now. He was only for the world +when the sun was low. +</P> + +<P> +Outside her window she heard a voice:— +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Marjory." +</P> + +<P> +She started. It was her prince calling. It was bewildering to have +dreams suddenly blended with life itself. It was bewildering also to +have the thoughts of seventeen suddenly blended with the realities of +twenty-seven. She remained silent, breathing gently, as if afraid of +being discovered. +</P> + +<P> +"Marjory," he called again. +</P> + +<P> +"Coming," she answered, with a quiet intake of breath. +</P> + +<P> +Hatless and with a silk shawl over her shoulders, she hurried to where +he was waiting. He too was hatless, even as he had been that night +long ago when he had sat beside her. Something, too, of the same light +of youth was in his eyes now as then. +</P> + +<P> +Side by side they strolled through the quaint village of stone houses +and to the top of a near-by hill, where they found themselves looking +down upon Joigny outlined against the hazy tints of the pink-and-gold +horizon. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, it's beautiful!" she exclaimed enthusiastically. "It's a fairy +world." +</P> + +<P> +"Better; it's a real world," he answered. +</P> + +<P> +"I doubt it, Monte," she disagreed, with a touch of regret. "It's too +perfect." +</P> + +<P> +It would not last. It would begin to fade in a moment, even as her +fairy prince would fade and become just Monte. She knew from the past. +Besides, it was absolutely essential that this should not last. If it +did—why, that would be absurd. It would be worse. It made her +uncomfortable even to imagine this possibility for a moment, thus +bringing about the very condition most unfavorable for fairy princes. +For, if there is one advantage they have over ordinary princes, it is +the gift of keeping their princesses always happy and content. +</P> + +<P> +Somewhat shyly she glanced up at Monte. He was standing with his +uninjured hand thrust into the pocket of his Norfolk jacket, staring +fixedly at the western sky as if he had lost himself there. She +thought his face was a bit set; but, for all that, he looked this +moment more as she had known him at twenty-one than when he came back +at twenty-two. After his travels of a year he had seemed to her so +much wiser than she that he had instantly become her senior. She had +listened to him as to a man of the world, with something of awe. It +was more difficult then to have him for a prince, because princes, +though brave and adventurous, must not be too wise. +</P> + +<P> +She smiled as she realized that, as he stood there now, Monte did not +in the least inspire her with awe or fear or a sense of superior +wisdom. The mellow light softened his features and the light breeze +had tousled his hair, so that for all his years told he might have been +back in his football days. He had been like that all the afternoon. +</P> + +<P> +A new tenderness swept over her. She would have liked to reach up her +hand and smooth away the little puzzled frown between his brows. She +almost dared to do it. Then he turned. +</P> + +<P> +"You're right," he said, with a shrug of his shoulders. "It is n't +real. See, it's fading now." +</P> + +<P> +The pink clouds were turning a dull gray. +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps it's better it should," she suggested. "If it stayed like +that all the time, we'd get so used to it we would n't see it." +</P> + +<P> +He took out his watch. +</P> + +<P> +"I ordered supper to be ready in a half hour," he said. "We'd better +get back." +</P> + +<P> +She fell in step by his side—by the side of her fairy prince. For, +oddly enough, he had not begun to fade as the sunset faded. The +twilight was deepening into the hushed night—a wonderful night that +was like beautiful music heard at a distance. It left her scarcely +conscious of moving. In the sky the stars were becoming clearer; in +the houses, candles were beginning to twinkle. It was difficult to +tell which were which—as if the sky and the earth were one. +</P> + +<P> +There was no abrupt change even when they came into the inn, where near +the open window a table had been set and two candles were burning. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh," she exclaimed again, "here is another bit of fairy world." +</P> + +<P> +He laughed abruptly. +</P> + +<P> +"I hope the supper is real, anyhow," he said. +</P> + +<P> +He spoke as if making a conscious effort to break the spell. It made +her glance up as he seated her; but all she thought of then was that +she would like to smooth back his hair. The spell was not broken. +</P> + +<P> +Chops and cauliflower and a salad were served to them, with patties of +fresh butter and crusted white bread. She was glad to see him eat +heartily. She prepared his salad with a dash of salt and pepper, a +little vinegar and oil. That much, at least, she was at liberty to do +for him. It gave her a new pleasure. +</P> + +<P> +"Monte," she asked, "do you suppose it's always as nice as this here?" +</P> + +<P> +"If it were, would you like to stay?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +She thought a moment over that. Would it be possible just to drift on +day after day, with Monte always a fairy prince beside her? She +glanced up and met his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"I—I guess it's best to follow our schedule," she decided, with a +little gasp. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap13"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XIII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A WEDDING JOURNEY (<I>continued</I>) +</H3> + + +<P> +Through the golden sunshine and beneath the blue sky, they went on the +next day, until with a nod she chose her place to stop for lunch, until +with another nod, as the sun was getting low, she chose her place to +stop for the night. This time they did not ask to know even the name +of the village. It was his suggestion. +</P> + +<P> +"Because," he explained, "that makes it seem as if we were trying to +get somewhere. And we are n't, are we?" +</P> + +<P> +"Wherever we are, we are," she nodded gayly. +</P> + +<P> +"It is n't even important that we get to Étois," he insisted. +</P> + +<P> +"Not in the slightest," she agreed. "Only, if we keep on going we'll +get to the sea, won't we?" +</P> + +<P> +"Then we can either skirt the shore or take a boat and cross the sea. +It's all one." +</P> + +<P> +"All one! You make me feel as if I had wings." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you're happy?" +</P> + +<P> +"Very, very happy, Monte. And you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he answered abruptly. +</P> + +<P> +She had no reason to doubt it. That night, as she sat alone in her +room, she reviewed this day in order to satisfy herself on this point; +for she felt a certain obligation. He had given to her so generously +that the least she in her turn could do was to make sure that he was +comfortable and content. That, all his life, was the most he had asked +for. It was the most he asked for now. He must wake each morning free +of worries, come down to a good breakfast and find his coffee hot, have +a pleasant time of it during the day without being bored, and end with +a roast and salad and later a good bed. These were simple +desires—thoroughly wholesome, normal desires. With the means at his +command, with the freedom from restraint that had been his ever since +he left college, it was a great deal to his credit that he had been +able to retain such modest tastes. He had been at liberty to choose +what he wished, and he had chosen decently. +</P> + +<P> +This morning she had come down early and looked to his coffee herself. +It was a slight thing, but she had awakened with a desire to do +something positive and personal for him. She had been satisfied when +he exclaimed, without knowing the part she played in it:— +</P> + +<P> +"This coffee is bully!" +</P> + +<P> +It had started the day right and given her a lightness of spirit that +was reflected in her talk and even in her smiles. She had smiled from +within. She was quite sure that the day had been a success, and that +so far, at any rate, Monte had not been either bored or worried. +Sitting there in the dark, she felt strangely elated over the fact. +She had been able to send her fairy prince to his sleep contented. It +gave her a motherly feeling of a task well done. After all, Monte was +scarcely more than a boy. +</P> + +<P> +Her thoughts went back to the phrase he had used at the end of the +day's journey. +</P> + +<P> +"We aren't getting anywhere, are we?" he had asked. +</P> + +<P> +At the moment she had not thought he meant anything more than he said. +He seldom did. It was restful to know that she need never look for +hidden meanings in his chance remarks. He meant only that there was no +haste; that it made no difference when they reached this town or that. +</P> + +<P> +They had no destination. +</P> + +<P> +That was true, and yet the thought disturbed her a trifle. It did not +seem quite right for Monte to have no destination. He was worth +something more than merely to revolve in a circle. He should have a +Holy Grail. Give him something to fight for, and he would fight hard. +Twice to-day she had caught a light in his eyes that had suggested this +to her—a clean, white light that had hinted of a Monte with a +destination. But would not that destroy the very poise that made him +just Monte? +</P> + +<P> +It was too puzzling a question for her own peace of mind. She turned +away from it and slowly began to take down her hair. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +On and on they went the third day—straight on—with their destination +still hidden. That night, when again alone, she sat even longer by her +open window than she had yesterday, instead of going to bed and to +sleep, which would have been the sensible thing to do. In some ways +this had been rather a more exciting day than the others. Again she +had risen early and come down to order his coffee; but he too must have +risen early, for he had come upon her as she was giving her +instructions. It had been an embarrassing moment for her, and she had +tried to carry it off with a laugh. That she was not to do so +surprised her and added a still deeper flush to her cheeks. +</P> + +<P> +"So this is the secret of my good coffee?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"There is so very little I can do for you," she faltered. +</P> + +<P> +"That is a whole lot more than I deserve," he answered. +</P> + +<P> +However, he was pleased by this trivial attention, and she knew it. It +was an absurdly insignificant incident, and yet here she was recalling +it with something like a thrill. Not only that, but she recalled +another and equally preposterous detail of the day. She had dropped +her vanity-box in the car, and as they both stooped for it his cheek +had brushed hers. He laughed lightly and apologized—forgetting it the +next second. Eight hours later she dared remember it, like any +schoolgirl. Small wonder that she glanced about to make sure the room +was empty. It sent her to bed shamefaced. +</P> + +<P> +The fourth day came, with the golden road still unfolding before them +and her fairy prince still beside her. Then the fifth day, and that +night they stopped within sight of the ocean. It came as a surprise to +both of them. It was as if, after all, they had reached a destination, +when as a matter of fact they had done nothing of the sort. It meant, +to be sure, that the next day would find them in Nice, which would end +their ride, because they intended to remain there for a day or two +until they arranged for a villa in Étois, which, being in the +mountains, they must reach afoot. But if she did not like it she had +only to nod and they could move on to somewhere else. There was +nothing final even about Étois. +</P> + +<P> +That evening they walked by the shore of the sea, and Monte appeared +quieter than usual. +</P> + +<P> +"I have wired ahead for rooms at the Hôtel des Roses," he announced. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Monte," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"It's where I've stopped for ten years. The last time I was there I +found Edhart gone, and was very uncomfortable." +</P> + +<P> +"You were as dependent upon him as that?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"It was what lured me on to Paris—and you," he smiled. +</P> + +<P> +"Then I must be indebted to Edhart also." +</P> + +<P> +"I think it would be no more than decent to look up his grave and place +a wreath of roses there," he observed. +</P> + +<P> +"But, Monte," she protested, "I should hate to imagine he had to give +up his life—for just this." +</P> + +<P> +"At any rate, if he hadn't died I'm sure I should have kept to my +schedule," he said seriously. +</P> + +<P> +"And then?" +</P> + +<P> +"I should not have been here." +</P> + +<P> +"You speak regretfully?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +He stopped abruptly and seized her arm. +</P> + +<P> +"You know better," he answered. +</P> + +<P> +For a moment she looked dizzily into his eyes. Then he broke the +tension by smiling. +</P> + +<P> +"I guess we'd better turn back," he said below his breath. +</P> + +<P> +It was evident that Monte was not quite himself at that moment. That +night she heard the roll of the ocean as she tried to sleep, and it +said many strange things to her. She did not sleep well. +</P> + +<P> +The next morning they were on their way again, reaching the Hôtel des +Roses at six in the afternoon. Henri was at the door to meet them. +Henri, he thought, had greatly improved since his last visit. Perhaps +Edhart, from his seat on high, had been instructing him. The man +seemed to understand better without being told what Monsieur Covington +desired. The apartments were ready, and it was merely a personal +matter between Monte and the garçon to have his trunk transferred from +the second floor to the third and Marie's trunk brought down from the +third to the second. Even Edhart might have been pardoned for making +this mistake in the distribution of the luggage, if not previously +informed. +</P> + +<P> +That evening Marjory begged to be excused from dinner, and Monte dined +alone. He dined alone in the small salle-à-manger where he had always +dined alone, and where the last time he was here he had grown in an +instant from twenty-two to thirty-two. Now, in another instant, it was +as if he had gone back to twenty-two. It was even almost as if Edhart +had returned to life. The mellow glow of the long twilight tinted the +room just as it used to do. Across the boulevard he saw the +Mediterranean, languid and blue. +</P> + +<P> +A thing that impressed Monte was how amazingly friendly every one +was—how amazingly friendly even the material objects were. His old +table in the corner had been reserved for him, but this time it had +been arranged for two. The empty chair opposite him was quite as +friendly as Marjory herself might have been. It kept him company and +humored his thoughts. It said, as plainly as it is possible for a +chair to speak:— +</P> + +<P> +"Madame Covington is disappointed to think she could not join you this +evening, but you must remember that it is not to be expected of a woman +to stand these long journeys like a man. However, she will have +breakfast with you in the morning. That is something to look forward +to. In the meanwhile let me serve to remind you that she is +upstairs—upstairs in the room you used to occupy. Perhaps even at +this moment she is looking out the window at this same languid blue +sea. Being up there, she is within call. Should you need her—really +need her—you may be perfectly sure that she would come to you. +</P> + +<P> +"That time you were ill here two years ago, you had rather a bad time +of it because there was no one to visit you except a few chance +acquaintances about whom you did not care. Well, it would not be like +that now. She would sit by your bed all night long and all day long, +too, if you permitted. She is that kind. So, you see, you are really +not dining alone to-night. I, though only an empty chair, am here to +remind you of that." +</P> + +<P> +Felix, who was in charge of the salle-à-manger, hovered near Monte as +if he felt the latter to be his especial charge. He served as Monte's +right hand—the hand of the sling. He was very much disturbed because +madame refused her dinner, and every now and then thought of something +new that possibly might tempt her. +</P> + +<P> +Every one else about the hotel was equally friendly, racking his brains +to find a way of serving Monte by serving madame. It made him feel +quite like those lordly personages who used to come here with a title +and turn the place topsy-turvy for themselves and for their women-folk. +He recalled a certain count of something who arrived with his young +wife and who in a day had half of Nice in his service. Monte felt like +him, only more so. There was a certain obsequiousness that the count +demanded which vanished the moment his back was turned; but the +interest of Felix and his fellows now was based upon something finer +than fear. Monte felt it had to do with Marjory herself, and +also—well, in a sense she was carrying a title too. She was, to these +others, a bride. +</P> + +<P> +But it was a great relief to know that she was not the sort of bride of +which he had seen too many in the last ten years. It would be a +pleasure to show these fellows a bride who would give them no cause to +smile behind their hands. He would show them a bride who could still +conduct herself like a rational human being, instead of like a petulant +princess or a moon-struck school girl. +</P> + +<P> +Monte lighted a cigarette and went out upon the Quai Massena for a +stroll. It was late in the season for the crowds. They had long since +adjourned to the mountains or to Paris. But still there were plenty +remaining. He would not have cared greatly had there been no one left. +It was a relief to have the shore to himself. He had formerly been +rather sensitive about being anywhere out of season. In fact, this was +the first time he had ever been here later than May. But the +difference was not so great as he had imagined it must be. Neither the +night sky nor the great turquoise mirror beneath it appeared out of +season. +</P> + +<P> +Monte did not stray far. He walked contentedly back and forth for the +matter of an hour. He might have kept on until midnight, had it not +been for a messenger from the hotel who handed him a note. +Indifferently he opened it and read: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I've gone to the Hôtel d'Angleterre. Please don't try to see me +to-night. Hastily, +<BR><BR> +MARJORY. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap14"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XIV +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE BRIDE RUNS AWAY +</H3> + + +<P> +Henri, who was greatly disturbed, explained to Monte that madame came +downstairs shortly after monsieur left for his walk and asked for him. +Being told that monsieur had gone out, she too had gone out, wearing a +light shawl—to meet monsieur, as Henri supposed. In some fifteen +minutes madame had returned, appearing somewhat excited, if it were +permissible to say so. Thereupon she had given orders to have her +luggage and the luggage of her maid removed at once to the Hôtel +d'Angleterre. Henri had assured her that if her rooms were not +suitable he would turn the house upside down to please her. +</P> + +<P> +"No, no," she had answered; "it is not that. You are very kind, Henri." +</P> + +<P> +He had then made so bold as to suggest that a messenger be sent out to +find monsieur. +</P> + +<P> +"By all means," she had answered. "I will give you a note to take to +him." +</P> + +<P> +She had sat down and written the note and Henri had dispatched it +immediately. But, also immediately, madame and her maid had left. +</P> + +<P> +"I beg monsieur to believe that if there is anything—" +</P> + +<P> +Monte waved the man aside, went to the telephone, and rang up the Hôtel +d'Angleterre. +</P> + +<P> +"I wish to know if a Madame Covington has recently arrived." +</P> + +<P> +"Non, monsieur," was the response. +</P> + +<P> +"Look here," said Monte sharply. "Make sure of that. She must have +reached there within fifteen minutes." +</P> + +<P> +"We have had no arrivals here within that time except a Mademoiselle +Stockton and her maid." +</P> + +<P> +"Eh?" snapped Monte. "Repeat that again." +</P> + +<P> +"Mademoiselle Stockton," the clerk obeyed. +</P> + +<P> +"She signed the register with that name?" +</P> + +<P> +"But yes. If monsieur—" +</P> + +<P> +"All right; thanks." +</P> + +<P> +"You found her?" inquired Henri solicitously. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," nodded Monte, and went out into the night again. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +There was nothing he could do—absolutely nothing. She had given her +orders, and they must be obeyed. He returned to the Quai Massena, to +the shore of the sea; but he walked nervously now, in a world that, as +far as he was concerned, was starless and colorless. He had thought at +first, naturally enough, that Hamilton was in some way concerned; but +he dismissed that now as wholly unplausible. Instead of running away, +in that case, she would have sent for him. It was decidedly more +likely that this was some strange whimsy springing from within herself. +</P> + +<P> +In looking back at the last few days, he recalled now that upon several +occasions she had acted in a way not quite like herself. Last night, +for instance, she had been disturbed. Again, it was most unusual for +her not to dine with him. He had accepted her excuse that she was +tired; but now he blamed himself for not having seen through so +artificial an excuse, for not having detected that something else was +troubling her. +</P> + +<P> +She had run away as if in fear. She had not dared even to talk over +with him the cause for her uneasiness. And he—blind fool that he +was—had not detected anything unusual. He had gone off mooning, +leaving her to fight her own fight. He had been so confoundedly +self-satisfied and content because she was here with him, where +heretofore he had always been alone, that he had gone stony blind to +her comfort. That was the crude fact. +</P> + +<P> +However, accusing himself did not bring him any nearer an explanation +of her strange conduct. She would not have left him unless she had +felt herself in some danger. If Hamilton were eliminated, who then +remained by whom she could feel menaced? Clearly it must be himself. +</P> + +<P> +The conclusion was like a blow in the face. It stunned him for a +moment, and then left his cheeks burning. If she had scuttled away +from him like a frightened rabbit, it could be for only one reason; +because he had not been able to conceal the truth. And he had thought +that he had succeeded in keeping the danger to himself. +</P> + +<P> +He turned in the direction of the Hôtel d'Angleterre. He did not +intend to try to see her. He wished only to be a little nearer. +Surely there was no harm in that. The boulevard had become deserted, +and he was terribly lonesome out here alone. The old black dog that +had pounced upon him in Paris came back and hugged him closer. +</P> + +<P> +He squared his shoulders. He must shake himself free of that. The +thing to keep in mind was that he did not count in this affair. She +alone must be considered. If he had frightened her, he must find some +way of reassuring her. He must take a tighter grip than ever upon +himself, face her to-morrow, and laugh away her fears. He must do +that, because he must justify her faith in him. That was all he had of +her—her faith in him. If he killed that, then she would vanish +utterly. +</P> + +<P> +After this last week, to be here or anywhere else without her was +unthinkable. He must make her believe that he took even this new +development lightly. He must go to her in the morning as just Monte. +So, if he were very, very careful, he might coax her back a little way +into his life. That was not very much to hope for. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Monte was all wrong. From beginning to end, he was wrong. Marjory had +run away, not from him, but from some one else. When she left the +hotel she had been on her way to join monsieur, as Henri had correctly +surmised. From her window she had been watching him for the matter of +half an hour as he paced up and down the quay before the hotel. Every +time Monte disappeared from sight at the end of a lap, she held her +breath until he appeared again. Every time he appeared again, her +heart beat faster. He seemed such a lonely figure that her conscience +troubled her. He was so good, was Monte—so good and four-square. +</P> + +<P> +She had left him to dine alone, and without a protest he had submitted. +That was like him; and yet, if he had only as much as looked his +disappointment, she would have dressed and come down. She had been +ready to do so. It was only the initial excitement that prompted her +at first to shut herself up. Coming to this hotel, where for ten years +he had been coming alone, was almost like going back into his life for +that length of time. Then, Monte had signed the register "Monsieur and +Madame Covington." With bated breath she had watched him do it. +</P> + +<P> +After that the roses in her room and the attention of every one to her +as to a bride—all those things had frightened her at first. Yet she +knew they were bowing low, not to her, but to Madame Covington. This +was what made her ears burn. This was what made her seek the seclusion +of her room. She felt like an imposter, claiming honors that did not +belong to her. It made her so uncomfortable that she could not face +even Marie. She sent her off. +</P> + +<P> +Sitting by the open window, she watched Monte as he walked alone, with +a queer little ache in her heart. How faithfully he had lived up to +his bargain! He had given her every tittle of the freedom she had +craved. In all things he had sought her wishes, asking nothing for +himself. It was she who gave the order for starting every morning, for +stopping at night. She chose this inn or that, as pleased her fancy. +She talked when she wished to talk, and remained silent when she +preferred. If, instead of coming to Nice and Étois, she had expressed +a desire to turn in some other direction, she knew he would merely have +nodded. +</P> + +<P> +It was all one to him. East, west, north, or south—what was the odds? +Married or single—what was the odds? +</P> + +<P> +So she also should have felt. With this big man by her side to guard +her and do her will, she should have been able to abandon herself +utterly to the delights of each passing hour—to the magic of the fairy +kingdom he had made for her. It was all she had asked for, and that +much it was her right to accept, if he chose to give it. She was +cheating no one. Monte himself would have been the first to admit +that. Therefore she should have been quite at peace with herself. +</P> + +<P> +The fact remained, however, that each day since they had left Paris she +had found herself more and more at the mercy of strange moods; +sometimes an unusual and inexplicable exhilaration, such as that moment +last night when Monte had turned and seized her arm; sometimes an +unnatural depression, like that which now oppressed her. These had +been only intervals, to be sure. The hours between had been all she +had looked forward to—warm, basking hours of lazy content. +</P> + +<P> +To-night she had been longer than ever before in recovering her +balance. She had expected to undress, go to bed, and so to sleep. +Perhaps it was the sight of Monte pacing up and down there alone that +prolonged her mood. Yet, not to see him, all that was necessary was to +close her eyes or to turn the other way. It should have been easy to +do this. Only it was not. She followed him back and forth. In some +ways, a bride could not have acted more absurdly. +</P> + +<P> +At the thought she withdrew from the window in startled confusion. +Standing in the middle of the room, she stared about as if challenged +as to her right there by some unseen visitor. This would never do. +She was too much alone. She must go to Monte. He would set her right, +because he understood. She would take his arm, his strong, steady arm, +and walk a little way with him and laugh with him. That was what she +needed. +</P> + +<P> +She hurried into her clothes, struggling nervously with hooks and +buttons as if there were need of haste. Then, throwing a light shawl +over her shoulders, she went out past Henri, on her way to Monte. +</P> + +<P> +Monte had been all wrong in his guesses. She had actually been running +toward him instead of away from him when, just outside the hotel, she +almost collided with Peter Noyes and his sister. +</P> + +<P> +Peter Noyes did not see her at first. His eyes were covered with a +green shade, even out here in the night. But his sister Beatrice gave +an exclamation that brought him to attention and made him fumble at the +shade as if to tear it off. Yet she had spoken but one word:— +</P> + +<P> +"Marjory!" +</P> + +<P> +She whose name had been called shrank back as if hoping the dark would +hide her. +</P> + +<P> +"Marjory!" cried Peter Noyes. +</P> + +<P> +Beatrice rushed forward, seizing both the girl's hands. +</P> + +<P> +"It is you," she exclaimed, as if Marjory sought to deny the fact. +"Peter—Peter, it's Marjory Stockton!" +</P> + +<P> +Peter stepped forward, his hand outstretched hesitatingly, as one who +cannot see. Marjory took the hand, staring with questioning eyes at +Beatrice. +</P> + +<P> +"He worked too hard," explained the latter. "This is the price he +paid." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I'm sorry, Peter!" she cried. +</P> + +<P> +He tried to smile. +</P> + +<P> +"It's at moments like this I mind it," he answered. "I—I thought you +were in Paris, Marjory." +</P> + +<P> +"I came here to-day." +</P> + +<P> +She spoke nervously. +</P> + +<P> +"Then," he asked, "you—you are to be here a little while?" +</P> + +<P> +Marjory passed her hand over her forehead. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know," she faltered. +</P> + +<P> +Peter looked so thin! It was evident he had been long ill. She did +not like to see him so. The shade over his eyes horrified her. +Beatrice came nearer. +</P> + +<P> +"If you could encourage him a little," she whispered. "He has wanted +so much to see you." +</P> + +<P> +It was as if she in some way were being held responsible. +</P> + +<P> +"You're not stopping here?" gasped Marjory. +</P> + +<P> +"At the Hôtel des Roses," nodded Beatrice. "And you?" +</P> + +<P> +Peter with his haggard, earnest face, and Beatrice with her clear +honest eyes, filled her with sudden shame. It would be impossible to +make them understand. They were so American—so direct and +uncompromising about such affairs as these. +</P> + +<P> +Beatrice had the features of a Puritan maid, and dressed the part, from +her severe little toque, her prim white dress reaching to her ankles, +to her sturdy boots. Her blue eyes were already growing big at +Marjory's hesitancy at answering so simple a question. She had been +here once with Aunt Kitty—they had stopped at the Hôtel d'Angleterre. +Marjory mumbled that name now. +</P> + +<P> +"Then I may come over to-night to see you for a moment, may I not?" +said Beatrice. "It is time Peter went in now." +</P> + +<P> +"I—I may see you in the morning?" asked Peter. +</P> + +<P> +"In the morning," she nodded. "Good-night." +</P> + +<P> +She gave him her hand, and he held it as a child holds a hand in the +dark. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll be over in half an hour," Beatrice called back. +</P> + +<P> +It was only a few blocks to the Hôtel d'Angleterre, but Marjory ran the +distance. Happily the clerk remembered her, or she might have found +some difficulty in having her excited excuse accepted that she was not +quite suited at the Roses. Then back again to Henri and Marie she +hurried, with orders to have the luggage transferred at once. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap15"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XV +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +IN THE DARK +</H3> + + +<P> +In her new room at the Hôtel d'Angleterre, Marjory dismissed Marie and +buried her hot face in her hands. She felt like a cornered thing—a +shamed and cornered thing. She should not have given the name of the +hotel. She should have sought Monte and ordered him to take her away. +Only—she could not face Monte himself. She did not know how she was +going to see him to-morrow—how she was ever going to see him again. +"Monsieur and Madame Covington," he had signed the register. Beatrice +must have seen it, but Peter had not. He must never see it, because he +would force her to confess the truth—the truth she had been struggling +to deny to herself. +</P> + +<P> +She had trifled with a holy thing—that was the shameful truth. She +had posed here as a wife when she was no wife. The ceremony at the +English chapel helped her none. It only made her more dishonest. The +memory of Peter Noyes had warned her at the time, but she had not +listened. She had lacked then some vision which she had since +gained—gained through Monte. It was that which made her understand +Peter now, and the wonder of his love and the glory and sacredness of +all love. It was that which made her understand herself now. +</P> + +<P> +She got to her feet, staring into the dark toward the seashore. +</P> + +<P> +"Monte, forgive me—forgive me!" she choked. +</P> + +<P> +She had trifled with the biggest thing in his life and in her life. +She shouldered the full blame. Monte knew nothing either of himself or +of her. He was just Monte, honest and four-square, living up to his +bargain. But she had seen the light in his eyes—the eyes that should +have led him to the Holy Grail. He would have had to go such a little +way—only as far as her outstretched arms. +</P> + +<P> +She shrank back from the window, her head bowed. It had been her +privilege as a woman to be wiser than he. She should have known! +Now—the thought wrenched like a physical pain—there was nothing left +to her but renunciation. She must help him to be free. She must force +him free. She owed that to him and to herself. It was only so that +she might ever feel clean again. +</P> + +<P> +Moaning his name, she flung herself upon the bed. So she lay until +summoned back to life by Marie, who brought her the card of Miss +Beatrice Noyes. +</P> + +<P> +Marjory took the time to bathe her dry cheeks in hot water and to do +over her hair before admitting the girl; but, even with those +precautions, Beatrice paused at the entrance as if startled by her +appearance. +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps you do not feel like seeing any one to-night," she suggested. +</P> + +<P> +"I do want to see you," answered Marjory. "I want to hear about Peter. +But my head—would you mind if we sat in the dark?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think that would be better—if we are to talk about Peter." +</P> + +<P> +The phrase puzzled Marjory, but she turned out the lights and placed +two chairs near the open windows. +</P> + +<P> +"Now tell me from the beginning," she requested. +</P> + +<P> +"The beginning came soon after you went away," replied Beatrice in a +low voice. +</P> + +<P> +Marjory leaned back wearily. If there were to be more complications +for which she must hold herself accountable, she felt that she could +not listen. Surely she had lived through enough for one day. +</P> + +<P> +"Peter cared a great deal for you," Beatrice faltered on. +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" +</P> + +<P> +It was a cry in the night. +</P> + +<P> +Impulsively the younger girl leaned forward and fumbled for her hands. +</P> + +<P> +"You did n't realize it?" she asked hopefully. +</P> + +<P> +"I realized nothing then. I realized nothing yesterday," cried +Marjory. "It is only to-day that I began to realize anything." +</P> + +<P> +"To-day?" +</P> + +<P> +"Only to-night." +</P> + +<P> +"It was the sight of Peter looking so unlike himself that opened your +heart," nodded Beatrice. +</P> + +<P> +"Not my heart—just my eyes," returned Marjory. +</P> + +<P> +"Your heart too," insisted Beatrice; "for it's only through your heart +that you can open Peter's eyes." +</P> + +<P> +"I—I don't understand." +</P> + +<P> +"Because he loves you," breathed Beatrice. +</P> + +<A NAME="img-160"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-160.jpg" ALT=""Because he loves you," breathed Beatrice." BORDER="2" WIDTH="520" HEIGHT="412"> +<H3 CLASS="h3center" STYLE="width: 520px"> +"Because he loves you," breathed Beatrice. +</H3> +</CENTER> + +<P> +"No. No—not that." +</P> + +<P> +"You don't know how much," went on the girl excitedly. "None of us +knew how much—until after you went. Oh, he'd never forgive me if he +knew I was talking like this! But I can't help it. It was because he +would not talk—because he kept it a secret all to himself that this +came upon him. They told me at the hospital that it was overwork and +worry, and that he had only one chance in a hundred. But I sat by his +side, Marjory, night and day, and coaxed him back. Little by little he +grew stronger—all except his poor eyes. It was then he told me the +truth: how he had tried to forget you in his work." +</P> + +<P> +"He—he blamed me?" +</P> + +<P> +Beatrice was still clinging to her hands. +</P> + +<P> +"No," she answered quickly. "He did not blame you. We never blame +those we love, do we?" +</P> + +<P> +"But we hurt those we love!" +</P> + +<P> +"Only when we don't understand. You did not know he loved you like +that, did you?" +</P> + +<P> +Marjory withdrew her hands. +</P> + +<P> +"He had no right!" she cried. +</P> + +<P> +Beatrice was silent a moment. There was a great deal here that she +herself did not understand. But, though she herself had never loved, +there was a great deal she did understand. She spoke as if thinking +aloud. +</P> + +<P> +"I have not found love—yet," she said. "But I never thought it was a +question of right when people loved. I thought it—it just happened." +</P> + +<P> +Marjory drew a quick breath. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; it is like that," she admitted. +</P> + +<P> +Only, she was not thinking of Peter. She was thinking of herself. A +week ago she would have smiled at that phrase. Even yesterday she +would have smiled a little. Love was something a woman or man +undertook or not at will. It was a condition to choose as one chose +one's style of living. It was accepted or rejected, as suited one's +pleasure. If a woman preferred her freedom, then that was her right. +</P> + +<P> +Then, less than an hour ago, she had flung out her hands toward the +shadowy figure of a man walking alone by the sea, her heart aching with +a great need for the love that might have been hers had she not smiled. +That need, springing of her own love, had just happened. The +fulfillment of it was a matter to be decided by her own conscience; but +the love itself had involved no question of right. She felt a wave of +sympathy for Peter. She was able to feel for him now as never before. +Poor Peter, lying there alone in the hospital! How the ache, +unsatisfied, ate into one. +</P> + +<P> +"Peter would n't tell me at first," Beatrice was running on. "His lips +were as tight closed as his poor bandaged eyes." +</P> + +<P> +"The blindness," broke in Marjory. "That is not permanent?" +</P> + +<P> +"I will tell you what the doctor told me," Beatrice replied slowly. +"He said that, while his eyes were badly overstrained, the seat of the +trouble was mental. 'He is worrying,' he told me. 'Remove the cause +of that and he has a chance.'" +</P> + +<P> +"So you have come to me for that?" +</P> + +<P> +"It seems like fate," said Peter's sister, with something of awe in her +voice. "When, little by little, Peter told me of his love, I thought +of only one thing: of finding you. I wanted to cable you, because I—I +thought you would come if you knew. But Peter would not allow that. +He made me promise not to do that. Then, as he grew stronger, and the +doctor told us that perhaps an ocean voyage would help him, I wanted to +bring him to you. He would not allow that either. He thought you were +in Paris, and insisted that we take the Mediterranean route. Then—we +happen upon you outside the hotel we chose by chance! Does n't it seem +as if back of such a thing as that there must be something we don't +understand; something higher than just what we may think right or +wrong?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, no; that's impossible," exclaimed Marjory. +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because then we'd have to believe everything that happened was right. +And it is n't." +</P> + +<P> +"Was our coming here not right?" +</P> + +<P> +Marjory did not answer. +</P> + +<P> +"If you could have seen the hope in Peter's face when I left him!" +</P> + +<P> +"He does n't know!" choked Marjory. +</P> + +<P> +"He knows you are here, and that is all he needs to know," answered +Beatrice. +</P> + +<P> +"If it were only as simple as that." +</P> + +<P> +The younger girl rose and, moving to the other's side, placed an arm +over the drooping shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"Marjory dear," she said. "I feel to-night more like Peter than +myself. I have listened so many hours in the dark as he talked about +you. He—he has given me a new idea of love. I'd always thought of +love in a—a sort of fairy-book way. I did n't think of it as having +much to do with everyday life. I supposed that some time a knight +would come along on horseback—if ever he came—and take me off on a +long holiday." +</P> + +<P> +Marjory gave a start. The girl was smoothing her hair. +</P> + +<P> +"It would always be May-time," she went on, "and we'd have nothing to +do but gather posies in the sunshine. We'd laugh and sing, and there'd +be no care and no worries. Did you ever think of love that way?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +The girl spoke more slowly now, as if anxious to be quite accurate:— +</P> + +<P> +"But Peter seemed to think of other things. When we talked of you it +was as if he wanted you to be a part of himself and help with the big +things he was planning to do. He had so many wonderful plans in which +you were to help. Instead of running away from cares and worries, it +was as though meeting these was what was going to make it May-time. +Instead of riding off to some fairy kingdom, he seemed to feel that it +was this that would make a fairy kingdom even of New York. +Because"—she lowered her voice—"it was of a home and of children he +talked, and of what a fine mother you would make. He talked of +that—and somehow, Marjory, it made me proud just to be a woman! Oh, +perhaps I should n't repeat such things!" +</P> + +<P> +Marjory sprang to her feet. +</P> + +<P> +"You should n't repeat them!" she exclaimed. "You mustn't repeat +anything more! And I must n't listen!" +</P> + +<P> +"It is only because you're the woman I came to know so well, sitting by +his bed in the dark, that I dared," she said gently. +</P> + +<P> +"You'll go now?" pleaded Marjory. "I must n't listen to any more." +</P> + +<P> +Silently, as if frightened by what she had already said, Beatrice moved +toward the door. +</P> + +<P> +Marjory hurried after her. +</P> + +<P> +"You're good," she cried, "and Peter's good! And I—" +</P> + +<P> +The girl finished for her:— +</P> + +<P> +"No matter what happens, you'll always be to me Peter's Marjory," she +said. "You'll always keep me proud." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap16"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XVI +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A WALK ON THE QUAY +</H3> + + +<P> +Monte, stepping out of his room early after a restless night, saw a +black-haired young man wearing a shade over his eyes fumbling about for +the elevator button. He had the thin, nervous mouth and the square jaw +of an American. +</P> + +<P> +Monte stepped up to him. +</P> + +<P> +"May I help you?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you," answered Noyes; "I thought I could make it alone, but +there is n't much light here." +</P> + +<P> +Monte took his arm and assisted him to the elevator. The man appeared +half blind. His heart went out to him at once. As they reached the +first floor the stranger again hesitated. He smiled nervously. +</P> + +<P> +"I wanted to get out in the air," he explained. "I thought I could +find a valet to accompany me." +</P> + +<P> +Monte hesitated. He did not want to intrude, but there was something +about this helpless American that appealed to him. Impulsively he +said: "Would you come with me? Covington is my name. I 'm just off +for a walk along the quay." +</P> + +<P> +"Noyes is my name," answered Peter. "I'd like to come, but I don't +want to trouble you to that extent." +</P> + +<P> +Monte took his arm. +</P> + +<P> +"Come on," he said. "It's a bully morning." +</P> + +<P> +"The air smells good," nodded Noyes. "I should have waited for my +sister, but I was a bit restless. Do you mind asking the clerk to let +her know where I am when she comes down?" +</P> + +<P> +Monte called Henri. +</P> + +<P> +"Inform Miss Noyes we'll be on the quay," he told him. +</P> + +<P> +They walked in silence until they reached the boulevard bordering the +ocean. +</P> + +<P> +"We have the place to ourselves," said Monte. "If I walk too fast for +you, let me know." +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm not very sure of my feet yet," apologized Noyes. "I suppose in +time I'll get used to this." +</P> + +<P> +"Good Lord, you don't expect it to last?" +</P> + +<P> +"No. They tell me I have a fighting chance." +</P> + +<P> +"How did it happen?" +</P> + +<P> +"Used them a bit too much, I guess," answered Noyes. +</P> + +<P> +"That's tough." +</P> + +<P> +"A man has so darned much to do and such a little while to do it in," +exclaimed Noyes. +</P> + +<P> +"You must live in New York." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. And you?" +</P> + +<P> +"I generally drift back for the holidays. I've been traveling a good +deal for the last ten years." +</P> + +<P> +"I see. Some sort of research work?" +</P> + +<P> +The way Noyes used that word "work" made Monte uncomfortable. It was +as if he took it for granted that a man who was a man must have a +definite occupation. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know that you would call it exactly that," answered Monte. "I +'ve just been knocking around. I have n't had anything in particular +to do. What are you in?" +</P> + +<P> +"Law. I wonder if you're Harvard?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sure thing. And you?" +</P> + +<P> +Noyes named his class—a class six years later than Monte's. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, we have something in common there, anyhow," said Covington +cordially. "My father was Harvard Law School. He practiced in +Philadelphia." +</P> + +<P> +"I've always lived in New York. I was born there, and I love it. I +like the way it makes you hustle—the challenge to get in and live—" +</P> + +<P> +He stopped abruptly, putting one hand to his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"They hurt?" asked Monte anxiously. +</P> + +<P> +"You need your eyes in New York," he answered simply. +</P> + +<P> +"You went in too hard," suggested Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"Is there any other way?" cried Noyes. +</P> + +<P> +"I used to play football a little," said Monte. "I suppose it's +something like that—when a man gets the spirit of the thing. When you +hit the line you want to feel that you 're putting into it every ounce +in you." +</P> + +<P> +Noyes nodded. +</P> + +<P> +"Into your work—into your life." +</P> + +<P> +"Into your life?" queried Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"Into everything." +</P> + +<P> +Monte turned to look at the man. His thin lips had come together in a +straight line. His hollow cheeks were flushed. Every sense was as +alert as a fencer's. If he had lived long like that, no wonder his +eyes had gone bad. Yet last night Monte himself had lived like that, +pacing his room hour after hour. Only it was not work that had given a +cutting edge to each minute—not life, whatever Noyes meant by that. +His thoughts had all been of a woman. Was that life? Was it what +Noyes had meant when he said "everything"? +</P> + +<P> +"This bucking the line all the time raises the devil with you," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"How?" demanded Noyes. +</P> + +<P> +The answer Monte could have returned was obvious. The fact that amazed +him was that Noyes could have asked the question with the sun and the +blue sky shut away from him. It only proved again what Monte had +always maintained—that excesses of any kind, whether of rum or +ambition or—or love—drove men stark mad. Blind as a bat from +overwork, Noyes still asked the question. +</P> + +<P> +"Look here," said Monte, with a frown. "Before the big events the +coach used to take us one side and make us believe that the one thing +in life we wanted was that game. He used to make us as hungry for it +as a starved dog for a bone. He used to make us ache for it. So we +used to wade in and tear ourselves all to pieces to get it." +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" +</P> + +<P> +"If we won it was n't so much; if we lost—it left us aching worse than +before." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"There was the crowd that sat and watched us. They did n't care the +way we cared. We went back to the locker building in strings; they +went off to a comfortable dinner." +</P> + +<P> +"And the moral?" demanded Noyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Is not to care too darned much, is n't it?" growled Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"If you want a comfortable dinner," nodded Noyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Or a comfortable night's sleep. Or if you want to wake up in the +morning with the world looking right." +</P> + +<P> +Again Monte saw the impulsive movement of the man's hand to his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +He said quickly: "I did n't mean to refer to that." +</P> + +<P> +"I forget it for a while. Then—suddenly—I remember it." +</P> + +<P> +"You wanted something too hard," said Monte gently. +</P> + +<P> +"I wanted something with all there was in me. I still want it." +</P> + +<P> +"You're not sorry, then?" +</P> + +<P> +"If I were sorry for that, I'd be sorry I was alive." +</P> + +<P> +"But the cost!" +</P> + +<P> +"Of what value is a thing that doesn't cost?" returned Noyes. "All the +big things cost big. Half the joy in them is pitting yourself against +that and paying the price. The ache you speak of—that's credited to +the joy in the end. Those men in the grand-stand don't know that. If +you fight hard, you can't lose, no matter what the score is against +you." +</P> + +<P> +"You mean it's possible to get some of your fun out of the game itself?" +</P> + +<P> +"What else is there to life—if you pick the things worth fighting for?" +</P> + +<P> +"Then, if you lose—" +</P> + +<P> +"You've lived," concluded Noyes. +</P> + +<P> +"It's men like you who ought really to win," exclaimed Monte. "I hope +you get what you went after." +</P> + +<P> +"I mean to," answered Noyes, with grim determination. +</P> + +<P> +They had turned and were coming back in the direction of the hotel when +Monte saw a girlish figure hurrying toward them. +</P> + +<P> +"I think your sister is coming," said Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"Then you can be relieved of me," answered Noyes. +</P> + +<P> +"But I 've enjoyed this walk immensely. I hope we can take another. +Are you here for long?" +</P> + +<P> +"Indefinitely. And you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Also indefinitely." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Noyes was by their side now. +</P> + +<P> +"Sister—this is Mr. Covington," Peter introduced her. +</P> + +<P> +Miss Noyes smiled. +</P> + +<P> +"I've good news for you, Peter," she said. "I've just heard from +Marjory, and she'll see you at ten." +</P> + +<P> +Monte was startled by the name, but was even more startled by the look +of joy that illuminated the features of the man by his side. For a +second it was as if his blind eyes had suddenly come to life. +</P> + +<P> +Monte caught his breath. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap17"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XVII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +JUST MONTE +</H3> + + +<P> +Monte was at the Hôtel d'Angleterre at nine. In response to his card +he received a brief note. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +<I>Dear Monte</I> [he read]: Please don't ask to see me this morning. I'm +so mixed up I'm afraid I won't be at all good company. +<BR><BR> +Yours, MARJORY. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Monte sent back this note in reply:— +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +<I>Dear Marjory</I>: If you're mixed up, I'm just the one you ought to see. +You've been thinking again. +<BR><BR> +MONTE. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +She came into the office looking like a hunted thing; but he stepped +forward to meet her with a boyish good humor that reassured her in an +instant. The firm grip of his hand alone was enough to steady her. +Her tired eyes smiled gratitude. +</P> + +<P> +"I never expected to be married and deserted—all in one week," he said +lightly. "What's the trouble?" +</P> + +<P> +He felt like a comedian trying to be funny with the heart gone out of +him. But he knew she expected no less. He must remain just Monte or +he would only frighten her the more. No matter if his heart pounded +until he could not catch his breath, he must play the care-free chump +of a <I>compagnon de voyage</I>. That was all she had married—all she +wanted. She glanced at his arm in its black sling. +</P> + +<P> +"Who tied that this morning?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"The valet." +</P> + +<P> +"He did n't do it at all nicely. There's a little sun parlor on the +next floor. Come with me and I 'll do it over." +</P> + +<P> +He followed her upstairs and into a room filled with flowers and wicker +chairs. She stood before him and readjusted the handkerchief, so near +that he thought he felt her breath. It was a test for a man, and he +came through it nobly. +</P> + +<P> +"There—that's better," she said. "Now take the big chair in the sun." +</P> + +<P> +She drew it forward a little, though he protested at so much attention. +She dropped into another seat a little away from him. +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" he inquired. "Aren't you going to tell me about it?" +</P> + +<P> +He was making it as easy as possible—easier than she had anticipated. +</P> + +<P> +"Won't you please smoke?" +</P> + +<P> +He lighted a cigarette. +</P> + +<P> +"Now we're off," he encouraged her. +</P> + +<P> +He was leaning back with one leg crossed over the other—a big, +wholesome boy. His blue eyes this morning were the color of the sky, +and just as clean and just as untroubled. As she studied him the +thought uppermost in her mind was that she must not hurt him. She must +be very careful about that. She must give him nothing to worry over. +</P> + +<P> +"Monte," she began, "I guess women have a lot of queer notions men +don't know anything about. Can't we let it go at that?" +</P> + +<P> +"If you wish," he nodded. "Only—are you going to stay here?" +</P> + +<P> +"For a little while, anyway," she answered. +</P> + +<P> +"You mean—a day or two?" +</P> + +<P> +"Or a week or two." +</P> + +<P> +"You'd rather not tell me why?" +</P> + +<P> +"If you please—not," she answered quickly. +</P> + +<P> +He thought a moment, and then asked:— +</P> + +<P> +"It was n't anything I did?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, no," she assured him. "You've been so good, Monte." +</P> + +<P> +He was so good with her now—so gentle and considerate. It made her +heart ache. With her chin in hand, elbow upon the arm of her chair, +she was apparently looking at him more or less indifferently, when what +she would have liked to do was to smooth away the perplexed frown +between his brows. +</P> + +<P> +"Then," he asked, "your coming here has n't anything to do with me?" +</P> + +<P> +She could not answer that directly. With her cheeks burning and her +lips dry, she tried to think just what to say. Above all things, she +must not worry him! +</P> + +<P> +"It has to do with you and myself and—Peter Noyes," she answered. +</P> + +<P> +"Peter Noyes!" +</P> + +<P> +He sat upright. +</P> + +<P> +"He is at the Hôtel des Roses—with his sister," Marjory ran on +hurriedly. "They are both old friends, and I met them quite by +accident last night. Suddenly, Monte,—they made my position there +impossible. They gave me a new point of view on myself—on you. I +guess it was an American point of view. What had seemed right before +did not seem right then." +</P> + +<P> +"Is that why you resumed your maiden name?" +</P> + +<P> +"That is why. But sooner or later Peter will know the truth, won't he?" +</P> + +<P> +"How will he know?" +</P> + +<P> +"The name you signed on the register." +</P> + +<P> +"That's so, too," Monte admitted. "But that says only 'Madame +Covington.' Madame Covington might be any one." +</P> + +<P> +He smiled, but his lips were tense. +</P> + +<P> +"She may have been called home unexpectedly." +</P> + +<P> +The girl hid her face in her hands. He rose and stepped to her side. +</P> + +<P> +"There, there," he said gently. "Don't worry about that. There is no +reason why they should ever associate you with her. If they make any +inquiries of me about madame, I'll just say she has gone away for a +little while—perhaps for a week or two. Is that right?" +</P> + +<P> +"I—I don't know." +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing unusual about that. Wives are always going away. Even Chic's +wife goes away every now and then. As for you, little woman, I think +you did the only thing possible. I met that Peter Noyes this morning." +</P> + +<P> +Startled, she raised her face from her hands. +</P> + +<P> +"You met—Peter Noyes?" she asked slowly. +</P> + +<P> +"Quite by chance. He was on his way to walk, and I took him with me. +He's a wonderful fellow, Marjory." +</P> + +<P> +"You talked with him?" +</P> + +<P> +He nodded. +</P> + +<P> +"He takes life mighty seriously." +</P> + +<P> +"Too seriously, Monte," she returned. +</P> + +<P> +"It's what made him blind; and yet—there 's something worth while +about a man who gets into the game that way. Hanged if he did n't +leave me feeling uncomfortable." +</P> + +<P> +She looked worried. +</P> + +<P> +"How, Monte?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, as though I ought to be doing something instead of just kicking +around the Continent. Do you know I had a notion of studying law at +one time?" +</P> + +<P> +"But there was no need of it, was there?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not in one way. Only, I suppose I could have made myself useful +somewhere, even if I did n't have to earn a living. Maybe there's a +use for every one—somewhere." +</P> + +<P> +He had left her side, and was staring out the window toward the ocean. +She watched him anxiously. She had never seen him like this, and yet, +in a way, this was the same Monte in whose eyes she had caught a +glimpse of the wonderful bright light. It was the man who had leaned +toward her as they walked on the shore the night before they reached +Nice—a gallant prince of the fairy-books, ready to step into real life +and be a gallant prince there. +</P> + +<P> +Monte had never had a chance. Had he been left as Peter Noyes had been +left, dependent upon himself, he would have done all that Peter had +done, without losing his smile. Marjory must not allow him to lose +that now. His mouth was drooping with such exaggerated melancholy that +she felt something must be done at once. She began to laugh. He +turned quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"You look as if you had lost your last friend," she chided him. "If +talking with Peter Noyes does that to you, I don't think you had better +talk with him any more." +</P> + +<P> +"He's worth more to-day, blind, than I with my two eyes." +</P> + +<P> +"The trouble with Peter is that he can't smile," she answered. "After +all, it would be a sad world if no one were left to smile." +</P> + +<P> +The words brought back to him the phrase she had used at the Normandie: +"I am depending on you to keep me normal." +</P> + +<P> +Here was something right at hand for him to do, and a man's job at +that. He had wanted a chance to play the game, and here it was. +Perhaps the game was not so big as some,—it concerned only her and +him,—but there was a certain added challenge in playing the little +game hard. Besides, the importance of the game was a good deal in the +point of view. If, for him, it was big, that was enough. +</P> + +<P> +As he stood before her now, the demand upon him for all his nerve was +enough to satisfy any man. To assume before her the pose of the +carefree chump that she needed to balance her own nervous fears—to do +this with every muscle in him straining toward her, with the beauty of +her making him dizzy, with hot words leaping for expression to his dry +lips, those facts, after all, made the game seem not so small. +</P> + +<P> +"Where are you going to lunch to-day?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know, Monte," she answered indifferently. "I told Peter he +could come over at ten." +</P> + +<P> +"I see. Want to lunch with him?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't want to lunch with any one." +</P> + +<P> +"He'll probably expect you. I was going to look at some villas to-day; +but I suppose that's all off." +</P> + +<P> +Her cheeks turned scarlet. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Then I guess I'll walk to Monte Carlo and lunch there. How about +dinner?" +</P> + +<P> +"If they see us together—" +</P> + +<P> +"Ask them to come along too. You can tell them I'm an old friend. I +am that, am I not?" +</P> + +<P> +"One of the oldest and best," she answered earnestly. +</P> + +<P> +"Then I'll call you up when I come back. Good luck." +</P> + +<P> +With a nod and a smile, he left her. +</P> + +<P> +From the window she watched him out of sight. He did not turn. There +was no reason in the world why she should have expected him to turn. +He had a pleasant day before him. He would amuse himself at the +Casino, enjoy a good luncheon, smoke a cigarette in the sunshine, and +call her up at his leisure when he returned. Except for the light +obligation of ascertaining her wishes concerning dinner, it was the +routine he had followed for ten years. It had kept him satisfied, kept +him content. Doubtless, if he were left undisturbed, it would keep him +satisfied and content for another decade. He would always be able to +walk away from her without turning back. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap18"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XVIII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +PETER +</H3> + + +<P> +Beatrice brought Peter at ten, and, in spite of the mute appeal of +Marjory's eyes, stole off on tiptoe and left her alone with him. +</P> + +<P> +"Has Trix gone?" demanded Peter. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"She shouldn't have done that," he complained. +</P> + +<P> +Marjory made him comfortable in the chair Monte had lately occupied, +finding a cushion for his head. +</P> + +<P> +"Please don't do those things," he objected. "You make me feel as if I +were wearing a sign begging for pity." +</P> + +<P> +"How can any one help pitying you, when they see you like this, Peter?" +she asked gently. +</P> + +<P> +"What right have they to do it?" he demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"Right?" +</P> + +<P> +She frowned at that word. So many things in her life seemed to have +been decided without respect for right. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm the only one to say whether I shall be pitied or not," he +declared. "I've lost the use of my eyes temporarily by my own fault. +I don't like it; but I refuse to be pitied." +</P> + +<P> +Marjory was surprised to find him so aggressive. It was not what she +expected after listening to Beatrice. It changed her whole attitude +toward him instantly from one of guarded condolence to honest +admiration. There was no whine here. He was blaming no one—neither +himself nor her. It was with a wave of deep and sincere sympathy, +springing spontaneously from within herself, that she spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"Peter," she said, "I won't pity you any more. But if I 'm sorry for +you—awfully sorry—you won't mind that?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'd rather you would n't think of my eyes at all," he answered +unsteadily. "I can almost forget them myself—with you." +</P> + +<P> +"Then," she said, "we'll forget them. Are you going to stay here long, +Peter?" +</P> + +<P> +"Are you?" +</P> + +<P> +"My plans are uncertain. I don't think I shall ever make any more +plans." +</P> + +<P> +"You must n't let yourself feel that way," Peter returned. "The thing +to do, if one scheme fails, is to start another—right off." +</P> + +<P> +"But nothing ever comes out as you expect." +</P> + +<P> +"That gives you a chance to try again." +</P> + +<P> +"You can't keep that up forever?" +</P> + +<P> +"Forever and ever," he nodded. "It's what makes life worth living." +</P> + +<P> +"Peter," she said below her breath, "you're wonderful." +</P> + +<P> +He seemed to clear the muggy air around her like a summer shower. In +touch with his fine courage, her own returned. She felt herself +steadier and calmer than she had been for a week. +</P> + +<P> +"What if you make mistakes, Peter?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's the only way you learn," he answered. "There's a new note in +your voice, Marjory. Have—you been learning?" +</P> + +<P> +His meaning was clear. He leaned forward as if trying to pierce the +darkness between them. His thin white hands were tight upon the chair +arms. +</P> + +<P> +"At least, I've been making mistakes," she answered uneasily. +</P> + +<P> +She felt, for a second, as if she could pour out her troubles to +him—as if he would listen patiently and give her of his wisdom and +strength. It would be easier—she was ashamed of the thought, but it +held true—because he could not see. Almost—she could tell him of +herself and of Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"There's such a beautiful woman in you!" he explained passionately. +</P> + +<P> +With her heart beating fast, she dropped back in her chair. There was +the old ring in his voice—the old masterful decision that used to +frighten her. There used to be moments when she was afraid that he +might command her to come with him as with authority, and that she +would go. +</P> + +<P> +"I 've always known that you'd learn some day all the fine things that +are in you—all the fine things that lay ahead of you to do as a +woman," he ran on. "You've only been waiting; that's all." +</P> + +<P> +He could not see her cheeks—she was thankful for that. But the wonder +was that he did not hear the pounding of her heart. He spoke like +this, not knowing of this last week. +</P> + +<P> +"You remember all the things I said to you—before you left?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"I can't say them to you now. I must wait until I get my eyes back. +Then I shall say them again, and perhaps—" +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think I 'd let you wait for your eyes?" she cried. +</P> + +<P> +"You mean that now—" +</P> + +<P> +"No, no, Peter," she interrupted, in a panic. "I did n't mean I could +listen now. Only I did n't want you to think I was so selfish that if +it were possible to share the light with you I—I would n't share the +dark too." +</P> + +<P> +"There would n't be any dark for me at all if you shared it," he +answered gently. +</P> + +<P> +Then she saw his lips tighten. +</P> + +<P> +"We must n't talk of that," he said. "We must n't think of it." +</P> + +<P> +Yet, of all the many things they discussed this morning, nothing left +Marjory more to think about. It seemed that, so far, her freedom had +done nothing but harm. She had intended no harm. She had desired only +to lead her own life day by day, quite by herself. So she had fled +from Peter—with this result; then she had fled from Teddy, who had +lost his head completely; finally she had fled, not from Monte but with +him, because that seemed quite the safest thing to do. It had proved +the most dangerous of all! If she had driven Peter blind, Monte—if he +only knew it—had brought him sweet revenge, because he had made her, +not blind, but something that was worse, a thousand times worse! +</P> + +<P> +There was some hope for Peter. It is so much easier to cure blindness +than vision. Always she must see the light that had leaped to Monte's +eyes, kindled from the fire in her own soul. Always she must see him +coming to her outstretched arms, knowing that she had lost the right to +lift her arms. Perhaps she must even see him going to other arms, that +flame born of her breathed into fuller life by other lips. If +not—then the ultimate curse of watching him remain just Monte, knowing +he might have been so much more. This because she had dared trifle +with that holy passion and so had made herself unworthy of it. +</P> + +<P> +Peter was telling her of his work; of what he had accomplished already +and of what he hoped to accomplish. She heard him as from a distance, +and answered mechanically his questions, while she pursued her own +thoughts. +</P> + +<P> +It seemed almost as if a woman was not allowed to remain negative; that +either she must accomplish positive good or positive harm. So far, she +had accomplished only harm; and now here was an opportunity that was +almost an obligation to offset that to some degree. She must free +Monte as soon as possible. That was necessary in any event. She owed +it to him. It was a sacred obligation that she must pay to save even +the frayed remnant of her pride. This had nothing to do with Peter. +She saw now it would have been necessary just the same, even if Peter +had not come to make it clearer. Until she gave up the name to which +she had no right, with which she had so shamelessly trifled, she must +feel only glad that Peter could not see into her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +So Monte would go on his way again, and she would be left—she and +Peter. If, then, what Beatrice said was true,—if it was within her +power, at no matter what sacrifice, to give Peter back the sight she +had taken,—then so she might undo some of the wrong she had done. The +bigger the sacrifice, the fiercer the fire might rage to burn her +clean. Because she had thought to sacrifice nothing, she had been +forced to sacrifice everything; if now she sacrificed everything, +perhaps she could get back a little peace in return. She would give +her life to Peter—give him everything that was left in her to give. +Humbly she would serve him and nurse the light back into his eyes. Was +it possible to do this? +</P> + +<P> +She saw Beatrice at the door, and rose to meet her. +</P> + +<P> +"You're to lunch with me," she said. "Then, for dinner, Mr. Covington +has asked us all to join him." +</P> + +<P> +"Covington?" exclaimed Peter. "Is n't he the man who was so decent to +me this morning?" +</P> + +<P> +"He said he met you," answered Marjory. +</P> + +<P> +"I liked him," declared Peter. "I'll be mighty glad to see more of +him." +</P> + +<P> +"And I too," nodded Beatrice. "He looked so very romantic with his +injured arm." +</P> + +<P> +"Monte romantic?" smiled Marjory. "That's the one thing in the world +he is n't." +</P> + +<P> +"Just who is he, anyway?" inquired Beatrice. +</P> + +<P> +"He's just Monte," answered Marjory. +</P> + +<P> +"And Madame Monte—where is she? I noticed by the register there is +such a person." +</P> + +<P> +"I—I think he said she had been called away—unexpectedly," Marjory +gasped. +</P> + +<P> +She turned aside with an uncomfortable feeling that Beatrice had +noticed her confusion. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap19"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XIX +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +AN EXPLANATION +</H3> + + +<P> +The following week Monte devoted himself wholly to the entertainment of +Marjory and her friends. He placed his car at their disposal, and +planned for them daily trips with the thoroughness of a courier, though +he generally found some excuse for not going himself. His object was +simple: to keep Marjory's days so filled that she would have no time +left in which to worry. He wanted to help her, as far as possible, to +forget the preceding week, which had so disturbed her. To this end +nothing could be better for her than Peter and Beatrice Noyes, who were +so simply and honestly plain, everyday Americans. They were just the +wholesome, good-natured companions she needed to offset the morbid +frame of mind into which he had driven her. Especially Peter. He was +good for her and she was good for him. +</P> + +<P> +The more he talked with Peter Noyes the better he liked him. At the +end of the day—after seeing them started in the morning, Monte used to +go out and walk his legs off till dinner-time—he enjoyed dropping into +a chair by the side of Peter. It was wonderful how already Peter had +picked up. He had gained not only in weight and color, but a marked +mental change was noticeable. He always came back from his ride in +high spirits. So completely did he ignore his blindness that Monte, +talking with him in the dark, found himself forgetting it—awakening to +the fact each time with a shock when it was necessary to offer an +assisting arm. +</P> + +<P> +It was the man's enthusiasm Monte admired. He seemed to be always +alert—always keen. Yet, as near as he could find out, his life had +been anything but adventuresome or varied. After leaving the law +school he had settled down in a New York office and just plugged along. +He confessed that this was the first vacation he had taken since he +began practice. +</P> + +<P> +"You can hardly call this a vacation!" exclaimed Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"Man dear," answered Peter earnestly, "you don't know what these days +mean to me." +</P> + +<P> +"You sure are entitled to all the fun you can get out of them," +returned Monte. "But I hate to think how I'd feel under the same +circumstances." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't believe there is much difference between men," answered Peter. +"I imagine that about certain things we all feel a good deal alike." +</P> + +<P> +"I wonder," mused Monte. "I can't imagine myself, for instance, living +twelve months in the year in New York and being enthusiastic about it." +</P> + +<P> +"What do you do when you're there?" inquired Peter. +</P> + +<P> +"Not much of anything," admitted Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"Then you're no more in New York when you're there than in Jericho," +answered Peter. "You 've got to get into the game really to live in +New York. You 've got to work and be one of the million others before +you can get the feel of the city. Best of all, a man ought to marry +there. You're married, are n't you, Covington?" +</P> + +<P> +"Eh?" +</P> + +<P> +"Did n't Beatrice tell me you registered here with your wife?" +</P> + +<A NAME="img-190"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-190.jpg" ALT=""Did n't Beatrice tell me you registered here with your wife?"" BORDER="2" WIDTH="521" HEIGHT="420"> +<H3 CLASS="h3center" STYLE="width: 521px"> +"Did n't Beatrice tell me you registered here with your wife?" +</H3> +</CENTER> + +<P> +Monte moistened his lips. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes—she was here for a day. She—she was called away." +</P> + +<P> +"That's too bad. I hope we'll have an opportunity to meet her before +we leave." +</P> + +<P> +"Thanks." +</P> + +<P> +"She ought to help you understand New York." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps she would. We've never been there together." +</P> + +<P> +"Been married long?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +"So you have n't any children." +</P> + +<P> +"Hardly." +</P> + +<P> +"Then," said Peter, "you have your whole life ahead of you. You have +n't begun to live anywhere yet." +</P> + +<P> +"And you?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's the same with me," confessed Peter, with a quick breath. +"Only—well, I haven't been able to make even the beginning you 've +made." +</P> + +<P> +Monte leaned forward with quickened interest. +</P> + +<P> +"That's the thing you wanted so hard?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"To marry and have children?" +</P> + +<P> +Monte was silent a moment, and then he added:— +</P> + +<P> +"I know a man who did that." +</P> + +<P> +"A man who does n't is n't a man, is he?" +</P> + +<P> +"I—I don't know," confessed Monte. "I 've visited this friend once or +twice. Did you ever see a kiddy with the croup?" +</P> + +<P> +"No," admitted Peter. +</P> + +<P> +"You're darned lucky. It's just as though—as though some one had the +little devil by the throat, trying to strangle him." +</P> + +<P> +"There are things you can do." +</P> + +<P> +"Things you can try to do. But mostly you stand around with your hands +tied, waiting to see what's going to happen." +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" queried Peter, evidently puzzled. +</P> + +<P> +"That's only one of a thousand things that can happen to 'em. There +are worse things. They are happening every day." +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" +</P> + +<P> +"When I think of Chic and his children I think of him pacing the hall +with his forehead all sweaty with the ache inside of him. Nothing +pleasant about that, is there?" +</P> + +<P> +Peter did not answer for a moment, and then what he said seemed rather +pointless. +</P> + +<P> +"What of it?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Only this," answered Monte uneasily. "When you speak of a wife and +children you have to remember those facts. You have to consider that +you 're going to be torn all to shoe-strings every so often. Maybe you +open the gates of heaven, but you throw open the gates of hell too. +There's no more jogging along in between on the good old earth." +</P> + +<P> +"Good Lord!" exclaimed Peter. "You consider such things?" +</P> + +<P> +"I've always tried to stay normal," answered Monte uneasily. +</P> + +<P> +"Yet you said you're married?" +</P> + +<P> +"Even so, is n't it possible for a man to keep his head?" demanded +Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't understand," replied Peter. +</P> + +<P> +"Look here—I don't want to intrude in your affairs, but I don't +suppose you are talking merely abstractedly. You have some one +definite in mind?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you ought to understand; you've kept steady." +</P> + +<P> +"I wouldn't be like this if I had," answered Peter. +</P> + +<P> +"You mean your eyes." +</P> + +<P> +"I tried to forget her because she wasn't ready to listen. I turned to +my work, and put in twenty hours a day. It was a fool thing to do. +And yet—" +</P> + +<P> +Monte held his breath. +</P> + +<P> +"From the depths I saw the heights, I saw the wonderful beauty of the +peaks." +</P> + +<P> +"And still see them?" +</P> + +<P> +"Clearer than ever now." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you aren't sorry she came into your life?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sorry, man?" exclaimed Peter. "Even at this price—even if there were +no hope ahead, I'd still have my visions." +</P> + +<P> +"But there is hope?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have one chance in a thousand. It's more than anything I 've had up +to now." +</P> + +<P> +"One in a thousand is a fighting chance," Monte returned. +</P> + +<P> +"You speak as if that were more than you had." +</P> + +<P> +"It was." +</P> + +<P> +"Yet you won out." +</P> + +<P> +"How?" demanded Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"She married you." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," answered Monte, "that's true. I say, old man—it's getting a +bit cool here. Perhaps we'd better go in." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Monte had planned for them a drive to Cannes the day Beatrice sent word +to Marjory that she would be unable to go. +</P> + +<P> +"But you two will go, won't you?" she concluded her note. "Peter will +be terribly disappointed if you don't." +</P> + +<P> +So they went, leaving at ten o'clock. At ten-fifteen Beatrice came +downstairs, and ran into Monte just as he was about to start his walk. +</P> + +<P> +"You're feeling better?" he asked politely. +</P> + +<P> +She shook her head. +</P> + +<P> +"I—I'm afraid I told a fib." +</P> + +<P> +"You mean you stayed because you did n't want to go." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. But I did n't say I had a headache." +</P> + +<P> +"I know how you feel about that," he returned. "Leaving people to +guess wrong lets you out in one way, and in another it does n't." +</P> + +<P> +She appeared surprised at his directness. She had expected him to pass +the incident over lightly. +</P> + +<P> +"It was for Peter's sake, anyhow," she tried to justify her position. +"But don't let me delay you, please. I know you 're off for your +morning walk." +</P> + +<P> +That was true. But he was interested in that statement she had just +made that it was for Peter's sake she had remained behind. It revealed +an amazingly dense ignorance of both her brother's position and +Marjory's. On no other theory could he make it seem consistent for her +to encourage a tête-à-tête between a married woman and a man as deeply +in love with some one else as Peter was. +</P> + +<P> +"Won't you come along a little way?" he asked. "We can turn back at +any time." +</P> + +<P> +She hesitated a moment—but only a moment. +</P> + +<P> +"Thanks." +</P> + +<P> +She fell into step at his side as he sought the quay. +</P> + +<P> +"You've been very good to Peter," she said. "I've wanted a chance to +tell you so." +</P> + +<P> +"You did n't remain behind for that, I hope," he smiled. +</P> + +<P> +"No," she admitted; "but I do appreciate your kindness. Peter has had +such a terrible time of it." +</P> + +<P> +"And yet," mused Monte aloud, "he does n't seem to feel that way +himself." +</P> + +<P> +"He has confided in you?" +</P> + +<P> +"A little. He told me he regretted nothing." +</P> + +<P> +"He has such fine courage!" she exclaimed. +</P> + +<P> +"Not that alone. He has had some beautiful dreams." +</P> + +<P> +"That's because of his courage." +</P> + +<P> +"It takes courage, then, to dream?" Monte asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you think it does—with your eyes gone?" +</P> + +<P> +"With or without eyes," he admitted. +</P> + +<P> +"You don't know what he's been through," she frowned. "Even he does +n't know. When I came to him, there was so little of him left. I 'll +never forget the first sight I had of him in the hospital. Thin and +white and blind, he lay there as though dead." +</P> + +<P> +He looked at the frail young woman by his side. She must have had fine +courage too. There was something of Peter in her. +</P> + +<P> +"And you nursed him back." +</P> + +<P> +She blushed at the praise. +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps I helped a little; but, after all, it was the dreams he had +that counted most. All I did was to listen and try to make them real +to him. I tried to make him hope." +</P> + +<P> +"That was fine." +</P> + +<P> +"He loved so hard, with all there was in him, as he does everything," +she explained. +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose that was the trouble," he nodded. +</P> + +<P> +She turned quickly. It was as if he said that was the mistake. +</P> + +<P> +"After all, that's just love, is n't it? There can't be any halfway +about it, can there?" +</P> + +<P> +"I wonder." +</P> + +<P> +"You—you wonder, Mr. Covington?" +</P> + +<P> +He was stupid at first. He did not get the connection. Then, as she +turned her dark eyes full upon him, the blood leaped to his cheeks. He +was married—that was what she was trying to tell him. He had a wife, +and so presumably knew what love was. For her to assume anything else, +for him to admit anything else, was impossible. +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps we'd better turn back," she said uneasily. +</P> + +<P> +He felt like a cad. He turned instantly. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm afraid I did n't make myself very clear," he faltered. "We are +n't all of us like Peter." +</P> + +<P> +"There is no one in the world quite as good as Peter," the girl +declared. +</P> + +<P> +"Then you should n't blame me too much," he suggested. +</P> + +<P> +"It is not for me to criticize you at all," she returned somewhat +stiffly. +</P> + +<P> +"But you did." +</P> + +<P> +"How?" +</P> + +<P> +"When you suggested turning back. It was as if you had determined I +was not quite a proper person to walk with." +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Covington!" she protested. +</P> + +<P> +"We may as well be frank. It seems to be a misfortune of mine lately +to get things mixed up. Peter is helping me to see straight. That's +why I like to talk with him." +</P> + +<P> +"He sees so straight himself." +</P> + +<P> +"That's it." +</P> + +<P> +"If only now he recovers his eyes." +</P> + +<P> +"He says there's hope." +</P> + +<P> +"It all depends upon her," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Upon this woman?" +</P> + +<P> +"Upon this one woman." +</P> + +<P> +"If she realized it—" +</P> + +<P> +"She does," broke in Beatrice. "I made her realize it. I went to her +and told her." +</P> + +<P> +"You did that?" +</P> + +<P> +She raised her head in swift challenge. +</P> + +<P> +"Even though Peter commanded me not to—even though I knew he would +never forgive me if he learned." +</P> + +<P> +"You women are so wonderful," breathed Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"With Peter's future—with his life at stake—what else could I do?" +</P> + +<P> +"And she, knowing that, refused to come to him?" +</P> + +<P> +"Fate brought us to her." +</P> + +<P> +"Then," exclaimed Monte, "what are you doing here?" +</P> + +<P> +She stopped and faced him. It was evident that he was sincere. +</P> + +<P> +"You men—all men are so stupid at times!" she cried, with a little +laugh. +</P> + +<P> +He shook his head slowly. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'll have to admit it." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, he's with her now," she laughed. "That's why I stayed at home +to-day." +</P> + +<P> +Monte held his breath for a second, and then he said:— +</P> + +<P> +"You mean, the woman Peter loves is—is Marjory Stockton?" +</P> + +<P> +"No other. I thought he must have told you. If not, I thought you +must have guessed it from her." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, no," he admitted; "I did n't." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you've had your eyes closed." +</P> + +<P> +"That's it," he nodded; "I've had my eyes closed. Why, that explains a +lot of things." +</P> + +<P> +Impulsively the girl placed her hand on Monte's arm. +</P> + +<P> +"As an old friend of hers, you'll use your influence to help Peter?" +</P> + +<P> +"I 'll do what I can." +</P> + +<P> +"Then I'm so glad I told you." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," agreed Monte. "I suppose it is just as well for me to know." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap20"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XX +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +PAYING LIKE A MAN +</H3> + + +<P> +Everything considered, Monte should have been glad at the revelation +Beatrice made to him. If Peter were in love with Marjory and she with +Peter—why, it solved his own problem, by the simple process of +elimination, neatly and with despatch. All that remained for him to do +was to remove himself from the awkward triangle as soon as possible. +He must leave Marjory free, and Peter would look after the rest. No +doubt a divorce on the grounds of desertion could be easily arranged; +and thus, by that one stroke, they two would be made happy, and +he—well, what the devil was to become of him? +</P> + +<P> +The answer was obvious. It did not matter a picayune to any one what +became of him. What had he ever done to make his life worth while to +any one? He had never done any particular harm, that was true; but +neither had he done any particular good. It is the positive things +that count, when a man stands before the judgment-seat; and that is +where Monte stood on the night Marjory came back from Cannes by the +side of Peter, with her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed as if she +had come straight from Eden. +</P> + +<P> +They all dined together, and Monte grubbed hungrily for every look she +vouchsafed him, for every word she tossed him. She had been more than +ordinarily vivacious, spurred on partly by Beatrice and partly by +Peter. Monte had felt himself merely an onlooker. That, in fact, was +all he was. That was all he had been his whole life. +</P> + +<P> +He dodged Peter this evening to escape their usual after-dinner talk, +and went to his room. He was there now, with his face white and tense. +</P> + +<P> +He had been densely stupid from the first, as Beatrice had informed +him. Any man of the world ought to have suspected something when, at +the first sight of Peter, she ran away. She had never run from him. +Women run only when there is danger of capture, and she had nothing to +fear from him in that way. She was safe with him. She dared even come +with him to escape those from whom there might be some possible danger. +Until now he had been rather proud of this—as if it were some honor. +She had trusted him as she would not trust other men. It had made him +throw back his shoulders—dense fool that he was! +</P> + +<P> +She had trusted him because she did not fear him; she did not fear him +because there was nothing in him to fear. It was not that he was more +decent than other men: it was merely because he was less of a man. +Why, she had run even from Peter—good, honest, conscientious Peter, +with the heart and the soul and the nerve of a man. Peter had sent her +scurrying before him because of the great love he dared to have for +her. Peter challenged her to take up life with him—to buck New York +with him. This was after he had waded in himself with naked fists, +man-fashion. That was what gave Peter his right. That right was what +she feared. +</P> + +<P> +Monte had a grandfather who in forty-nine crossed the plains. A +picture of him hung in the Covington house in Philadelphia. The +painting revealed steel-gray eyes and, even below the beard of +respectability, a mouth that in many ways was like Peter's. Montague +Sears Covington—that was his name; the name that had been handed down +to Monte. The man had shouldered a rifle, fought his way across +deserts and over mountain paths, had risked his life a dozen times a +day to reach the unknown El Dorado of the West. He had done this +partly for a woman—a slip of a girl in New York whom he left behind to +wait for him, though she begged to go. That was Monte's grandmother. +</P> + +<P> +Monte, in spite of his ancestry, had jogged along, dodging the +responsibilities—the responsibilities that Peter Noyes rushed forward +to meet. He had ducked even love, even fatherhood. Like any quitter +on the gridiron, instead of tackling low and hard, he had side-stepped. +He had seen Chic in agony, and because of that had taken the next boat +for Marseilles. He had turned tail and run. He had seen Teddy, and +had run to what he thought was safe cover. If he paid the cost after +that, whose the fault? The least he could do now was to pay the cost +like a man. +</P> + +<P> +Here was the salient necessity—to pay the cost like a man. There must +be no whining, no regretting, no side-stepping this time. He must make +her free by surrendering all his own rights, privileges, and title. He +must turn her over to Peter, who had played the game. He must do more. +He must see that she went to Peter. He must accomplish something +positive this time. +</P> + +<P> +Beatrice had asked him to use his influence. It was slight, pitifully +slight, but he must do what he could. He must plan for them, +deliberately, more such opportunities as this one he had planned for +them unconsciously to-day. He must give them more chances to be +together. He had looked forward to having breakfast with her in the +morning. He must give up that. He must keep himself in the background +while he was here, and then, at the right moment, get out altogether. +</P> + +<P> +Technically, he must desert her. He must make that supreme sacrifice. +At the moment when he stood ready to challenge the world for her—at +the moment when his heart within him burned to face for her all the +dangers from which he had run—at that point he must relinquish even +this privilege, and with smiling lips pose before the world and before +her as a quitter. He must not even use the deserter's prerogative of +running. He must leave her cheerfully and jauntily—as the care-free +ass known to her and to the world as just Monte. +</P> + +<P> +The scorn of those words stung him white with helpless passion. She +had wished him always to be just Monte, because she thought that was +the best there was in him. As such he was at least harmless—a +good-natured chump to be trusted to do no harm, if he did no good. The +grandson of the Covington who had faced thirst and hunger and sudden +death for his woman, who had won for her a fortune fighting against +other strong men, the grandson of a man who had tackled life like a +man, must sacrifice his one chance to allow this ancestor to know his +own as a man. He could have met him chin up with Madame Covington on +his arm. He had that chance once. +</P> + +<P> +How ever had he missed it? He sat there with his fists clenched +between his knees, asking himself the question over and over again. He +had known her for over a decade. As a school-girl he had seen her at +Chic's, and now ten years later he saw that even then she had within +her all that she now had. That clear, white forehead had been there +then; the black arched brows, the thin, straight nose, and the mobile +lips. He caught his breath as he thought of those lips. Her eyes, +too—but no, a change had taken place there. He had always thought of +her eyes as cold—as impenetrable. They were not that now. Once or +twice he thought he had seen into them a little way. Once or twice he +thought he had glimpsed gentle, fluttering figures in them. Once or +twice they had been like windows in a long-closed house, suddenly flung +open upon warm rooms filled with flowers. It made him dizzy now to +remember those moments. +</P> + +<P> +He paced his room. In another week or two, if he had kept on,—if +Peter had not come,—he might have been admitted farther into that +house. He squared his shoulders. If he fought for his own even +now—if, man against man, he challenged Peter for her—he might have a +fighting chance. Was not that his right? In New York, in the world +outside New York, that was the law: a hard fight—the best man to win. +In war, favors might be shown; but in life, with a man's own at stake, +it was every one for himself. Peter himself would agree to that. He +was not one to ask favors. A fair fight was all he demanded. Then let +it be a clean, fair fight with bare knuckles to a finish. Let him show +himself to Marjory as the grandson of the man who gave him his name; +let him press his claims. +</P> + +<P> +He was ready now to face the world with her. He was eager to do that. +Neither heights nor depths held any terrors for him. He envied +Chic—he envied even poor mad Hamilton. +</P> + +<P> +Suddenly he saw a great truth. There is no difference between the +heights and the depths to those who are playing the game. It is only +those who sit in the grand-stand who see the difference. He ought to +have known that. The hard throws, the stinging tackles that used to +bring the grandstand to its feet, he never felt. The players knew +something that those upon the seats did not know, and thrilled with a +keener joy than the onlookers dreamed of. +</P> + +<P> +If he could only be given another chance to do something for +Marjory—something that would bite into him, something that would twist +his body and maul him! If he could not face some serious physical +danger for her, then some great sacrifice— +</P> + +<P> +Which was precisely the opportunity now offered. He had been +considering this sacrifice from his own personal point of view. He had +looked upon it as merely a personal punishment. But, after all, it was +for her. It was for her alone. Peter played no part in it whatever. +Neither did he himself. It was for her—for her! +</P> + +<P> +Monte set his jaws. If, through Peter, he could bring her happiness, +then that was all the reward he could ask. Here was a man who loved +her, who would be good to her and fight hard for her. He was just the +sort of man he could trust her to. If he could see them settled in New +York, as Chic and Mrs. Chic were settled, see them start the brave +adventure, then he would have accomplished more than he had ever been +able to accomplish so far. +</P> + +<P> +There was no need of thinking beyond that point. What became of his +life after that did not matter in the slightest. Wherever he was, he +would always know that she was where she belonged, and that was enough. +He must hold fast to that thought. +</P> + +<P> +A knock at his door made him turn on his heels. +</P> + +<P> +"Who's that?" he demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"It's I—Noyes," came the answer. "Have you gone to bed yet?" +</P> + +<P> +Monte swung open the door. +</P> + +<P> +"Come in," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"I thought I 'd like to talk with you, if it is n't too late," +explained Peter nervously. +</P> + +<P> +"On the contrary, you could n't have come more opportunely. I was just +thinking about you." +</P> + +<P> +He led Peter to a chair. +</P> + +<P> +"Sit down and make yourself comfortable." +</P> + +<P> +Monte lighted a cigarette, sank into a near-by chair, and waited. +</P> + +<P> +"Beatrice said she told you," began Peter. +</P> + +<P> +"She did," answered Monte; "I'd congratulate you if it would n't be so +manifestly superfluous." +</P> + +<P> +"I did n't realize she was an old friend of yours." +</P> + +<P> +"I've known her for ten years," said Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"It's wonderful to have known her as long as that. I envy you." +</P> + +<P> +"That's strange, because I almost envy you." +</P> + +<P> +Peter laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"I have a notion I 'd be worried if you were n't already married, +Covington." +</P> + +<P> +"Worried?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think Mrs. Covington must be a good deal like Marjory." +</P> + +<P> +"She is," admitted Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"So, if I had n't been lucky enough to find you already suited, you +might have given me a race." +</P> + +<P> +"You forget that the ladies themselves have some voice in such +matters," Monte replied slowly. +</P> + +<P> +"I have better reasons than you for not forgetting that," answered +Peter. +</P> + +<P> +Monte started. +</P> + +<P> +"I was n't thinking of you," he put in quickly. "Besides, you did n't +give Marjory a fair chance. Her aunt had just died, and she—well, she +has learned a lot since then." +</P> + +<P> +"She has changed!" exclaimed Peter. "I noticed it at once; but I was +almost afraid to believe it. She seems steadier—more serious." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"You've seen a good deal of her recently?" +</P> + +<P> +"For the last two or three weeks," answered Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"You don't mind my talking to you about her?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not at all." +</P> + +<P> +"As you're an old friend of hers, I feel as if I had the right." +</P> + +<P> +"Go ahead." +</P> + +<P> +"It seems to me as if she had suddenly grown from a girl to a woman. I +saw the woman in her all the time. It—it was to her I spoke before. +Maybe, as you said, the woman was n't quite ready." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sure of it." +</P> + +<P> +"You speak with conviction." +</P> + +<P> +"As I told you, I've come to know her better these last few weeks than +ever before. I 've had a chance to study her. She's had a chance, +too, to study—other men. There's been one in particular—" +</P> + +<P> +Peter straightened a bit. +</P> + +<P> +"One in particular?" he demanded aggressively. +</P> + +<P> +"No one you need fear," replied Monte. "In a way, it's because of him +that your own chances have improved." +</P> + +<P> +"How?" +</P> + +<P> +"It has given her an opportunity to compare him with you." +</P> + +<P> +"Are you at liberty to tell me about him?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; I think I have that right," replied Monte; "I'll not be violating +any confidences, because what I know about him I know from the man +himself. Furthermore, it was I who introduced him to her." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh—a friend of yours." +</P> + +<P> +"Not a friend, exactly; an acquaintance of long standing would be more +accurate. I've been in touch with him all my life, but it's only +lately I've felt that I was really getting to know him." +</P> + +<P> +"Is he here in Nice now?" inquired Peter. +</P> + +<P> +"No," answered Monte slowly. "He went away a little while ago. He +went suddenly—God knows where. I don't think he will ever come back." +</P> + +<P> +"You can't help pitying the poor devil if he was fond of her," said +Peter. +</P> + +<P> +"But he was n't good enough for her. It was his own fault too, so he +is n't deserving even of pity." +</P> + +<P> +"Probably that makes it all the harder. What was the matter with him?" +</P> + +<P> +"He was one of the kind we spoke of the other night—the kind who +always sits in the grandstand instead of getting into the game." +</P> + +<P> +"Pardon me if I 'm wrong, but—I thought you spoke rather +sympathetically of that kind the other night." +</P> + +<P> +"I was probably reflecting his views," Monte parried. +</P> + +<P> +"That accounts for it," returned Peter. "Somehow, it did n't sound +consistent in you. I wish I could see your face, Covington." +</P> + +<P> +"We're sitting in the dark here," answered Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"Go on." +</P> + +<P> +"Marjory liked this fellow well enough because—well, because he looked +more or less like a man. He was big physically, and all that. +Besides, his ancestors were all men, and I suppose they handed down +something." +</P> + +<P> +"What was his name?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think I 'd rather not tell you that. It's of no importance. This +is all strictly in confidence." +</P> + +<P> +"I understand." +</P> + +<P> +"So she let herself see a good deal of him. He was able to amuse her. +That kind of fellow generally can entertain a woman. In fact, that is +about all they are good for. When it comes down to the big things, +there is n't much there. They are well enough for the holidays, and I +guess that was all she was thinking about. She had had a hard time, +and wanted amusement. Maybe she fancied that was all she ever wanted; +but—well, there was more in her than she knew herself." +</P> + +<P> +"A thousand times more!" exclaimed Peter. +</P> + +<P> +"She found it out. Perhaps, after all, this fellow served his purpose +in helping her to realize that." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps." +</P> + +<P> +"So, after that, he left." +</P> + +<P> +"And he cared for her?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Poor devil!" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know," mused Monte. "He seemed, on the whole, rather glad +that he had been able to do that much for her." +</P> + +<P> +"I 'd like to meet that man some day. I have a notion there is more in +him than you give him credit for, Covington." +</P> + +<P> +"I doubt it." +</P> + +<P> +"A man who would give up her—" +</P> + +<P> +"She's the sort of woman a man would want to do his level best for," +broke in Monte. "If that meant giving her up,—if the fellow felt he +was n't big enough for her,—then he could n't do anything else, could +he?" +</P> + +<P> +"The kind big enough to consider that would be big enough for her," +declared Peter. +</P> + +<P> +Monte drew a quick breath. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you mind repeating that?" +</P> + +<P> +"I say the man really loving her who would make such a sacrifice comes +pretty close to measuring up to her standard." +</P> + +<P> +"I think he would like to hear that. You see, it's the first real +sacrifice he ever undertook." +</P> + +<P> +"It may be the making of him." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps." +</P> + +<P> +"He'll always have her before him as an ideal. When you come in touch +with such a woman as she—you can't lose, Covington, no matter how +things turn out." +</P> + +<P> +"I 'll tell him that too." +</P> + +<P> +"It's what I tell myself over and over again. To-day—well, I had an +idea there must be some one in the background of her life I did n't +know about." +</P> + +<P> +"You 'd better get that out of your head. This man is n't even in the +background, Noyes." +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm not so sure. I thought she seemed worried. I tried to make her +tell me, but she only laughed. She'd face death with a smile, that +woman. I got to thinking about it in my room, and that's why I came +down here to you. You've seen more of her these last few months than I +have." +</P> + +<P> +"Not months; only weeks." +</P> + +<P> +"And this other—I don't want to pry into her affairs, but we're all +just looking to her happiness, are n't we?" +</P> + +<P> +"Consider this other man as dead and gone," cut in Monte. "He was +lucky to be able to play the small part in her life that he did play." +</P> + +<P> +"But something is disturbing her. I know her voice; I know her laugh. +If I did n't have those to go by, there'd be something else. I can +<I>feel</I> when she's herself and when she is n't." +</P> + +<P> +Monte grasped his chair arms. He had studied her closely the last few +days, and had not been able to detect the fact that she was worried. +He had thought her gayer, more light-hearted, than usual. It was so +that she had held herself before him. If Peter was right,—and Monte +did not doubt the man's superior intuition,—then obviously she was +worrying over the technicality that still held her a prisoner. Until +she was actually free she would live up to the letter of her contract. +This would naturally tend to strain her intercourse with Peter. She +was not one to take such things lightly. +</P> + +<P> +Monte rose, crossed the room, and placed his hand on Peter's shoulder. +</P> + +<P> +"I think I can assure you," he said slowly, "that if there is anything +bothering her now, it is nothing that will last. All you've got to do +is to be patient and hold on." +</P> + +<P> +"You seem to be mighty confident." +</P> + +<P> +"If you knew what I know, you'd be confident too." +</P> + +<P> +Peter frowned. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't like discussing these things, but—they mean so much." +</P> + +<P> +"So much to all of us," nodded Monte. "Now, the thing to do is to turn +in and get a good night's sleep. After all, there <I>is</I> something in +keeping normal." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap21"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXI +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BACK TO SCHEDULE +</H3> + + +<P> +Monte rose the next morning to find the skies leaden and a light, +drizzling rain falling that promised to continue all day. It was the +sort of weather that ordinarily left him quite helpless, because, not +caring for either bridge or billiards, nothing remained but to pace the +hotel piazza—an amusement that under the most favorable conditions has +its limitations. But to-day—even though the rain had further +interfered with his arrangements by making it necessary to cancel the +trip he had planned for Marjory and Peter to Cannes—the weather was an +inconsequential incident. It did not matter greatly to him whether it +rained or not. +</P> + +<P> +Not that he was depressed to indifference. Rather he was conscious of +a certain nervous excitement akin to exhilaration that he had not felt +since the days of the big games, when he used to get up with his blood +tingling in heady anticipation of the task before him. He took his +plunge with hearty relish, and rubbed his body until it glowed with the +Turkish towel. +</P> + +<P> +His arm was free of the sling now, and, though it was still a bit +stiff, it was beginning to limber up nicely. In another week it would +be as good as new, with only a slight scar left to serve as a reminder +of the episode that had led to so much. In time that too would +disappear; and then— But he was not concerned with the future. That, +any more than the weather, was no affair of his. +</P> + +<P> +This morning Marjory would perforce remain indoors, and so if he went +to see her it was doubtful whether he would be interfering with any +plans she might have made for Peter. An hour was all he +needed—perhaps less. This would leave the two the remainder of the +day free—and, after that, all the days to come. There would be +hundreds of them—all the days of the summer, all the days of the fall, +all the days of the winter, and all the days of the spring; then +another summer, and so a new cycle full of days twenty-four hours long. +</P> + +<P> +Out of these he was going to take one niggardly hour. Nor was he +asking that little for his own sake. Eager as he was—as he had been +for two weeks—for the privilege of just being alone with her, he would +have foregone that now, had it been possible to write her what he had +to say. In a letter it is easy to leave unsaid so many things. But he +must face her leaving the same things unsaid, because she was a woman +who demanded that a man speak what he had to say man-fashion. He must +do that, even though there would be little truth in his words. He must +make her believe the lie. He cringed at the word. But, after all, it +was the truth to her. That was what he must keep always in mind. He +had only to help her keep her own conception. He was coming to her, +not in his proper person, but as just Monte. As such he would be +telling the truth. +</P> + +<P> +He shaved and dressed with some care. The rain beat against the +window, and he did not hear it. He went down to breakfast and faced +the vacant chair which he had ordered to be left at his table. She had +never sat there, though at every meal it stood ready for her. Peter +suggested once that he join them at their table until madame returned; +but Monte had shaken his head. +</P> + +<P> +Monte did not telephone her until ten, and then he asked simply if he +might come over for an hour. +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly," she answered: "I shall be glad to see you. It's a +miserable day, Monte." +</P> + +<P> +"It's raining a bit, but I don't mind." +</P> + +<P> +"That's because you're so good-natured." +</P> + +<P> +He frowned. It was a privilege he had over the telephone. +</P> + +<P> +"Anyhow, what you can't help you may as well grin and bear." +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose so, Monte," she answered. "But if I 'm to grin, I must +depend upon you to make me." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll be over in five minutes," he replied. +</P> + +<P> +She needed him to make her grin! That was all he was good for. Thank +Heaven, he had it in his power to do this much; as soon as he told her +she was to be free again, the smile would return to her lips. +</P> + +<P> +He went at once to the hotel, and she came down to meet him, looking +very serious—and very beautiful. Her deep eyes seemed deeper than +ever, perhaps because of a trace of dark below them. She had color, +but it was bright crimson against a dead white. Her lips were more +mobile than usual, as if she were having difficulty in controlling +them—as if many unspoken things were struggling there for expression. +</P> + +<P> +When he took her warm hand, she raised her head a little, half closing +her eyes. It was clear that she was worrying more than even he had +suspected. Poor little woman, her conscience was probably harrying the +life out of her. This must not be. +</P> + +<P> +They went upstairs to the damp, desolate sun parlor, and he undertook +at once the business in hand. +</P> + +<P> +"It has n't worked very well, has it, Marjory?" he began, with a forced +smile. +</P> + +<P> +Turning aside her head, she answered in a voice scarcely above a +whisper:— +</P> + +<P> +"No, Monte." +</P> + +<P> +"But," he went on, "there's no sense in getting stirred up about that." +</P> + +<P> +"It was such a—a hideous mistake," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"That's where you're wrong," he declared. "We've tried a little +experiment, and it failed. Is n't that all there is to it?" +</P> + +<P> +"All?" +</P> + +<P> +"Absolutely all," he replied. "What we did n't reckon with was running +across old friends who would take the adventure so seriously. If we'd +only gone to Central Africa or Asia Minor—" +</P> + +<P> +"It would have been just the same if we'd gone to the North Pole," she +broke in. +</P> + +<P> +"You think so?" +</P> + +<P> +"I know it. Women can't trifle with—with such things without getting +hurt." +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm sorry. I suppose I should have known." +</P> + +<P> +"You were just trying to be kind, Monte," she answered. "Don't take +any of the blame. It's all mine." +</P> + +<P> +"I urged you." +</P> + +<P> +"What of that?" she demanded. "It was for me to come or not to come. +That is one part of her life over which a woman has absolute control. +I came because I was so utterly selfish I did not realize what I was +doing." +</P> + +<P> +"And I?" he asked quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"You?" +</P> + +<P> +She turned and tried to meet his honest eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm afraid I've spoiled your holiday," she murmured. +</P> + +<P> +He clinched his jaws against the words that surged to his lips. +</P> + +<P> +"If we could leave those last few weeks just as they were—" he said. +"Can't we call that evening I met you in Paris the beginning, and the +day we reached Nice the end?" +</P> + +<P> +"Only there is no end," she cried. +</P> + +<P> +"Let the day we reached the Hôtel des Roses be the end. I should like +to go away feeling that the whole incident up to then was something +detached from the rest of our lives." +</P> + +<P> +"You're going—where?" she gasped. +</P> + +<P> +He tried to smile. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'll have to pick up my schedule again." +</P> + +<P> +"You're going—when?" +</P> + +<P> +"In a day or two now," he replied. "You see—it's necessary for me to +desert you." +</P> + +<P> +"Monte!" +</P> + +<P> +"The law demands the matter of six months' absence—perhaps a little +longer. I 'll have this looked up and will notify you. Desertion is +an ugly word; but, after all, it sounds better than cruel and abusive +treatment." +</P> + +<P> +"It's I who deserted," she said. +</P> + +<P> +He waved the argument aside. +</P> + +<P> +"Anyway, it's only a technicality. The point is that I must show the +world that—that we did not mean what we said. So I 'll go on to +England." +</P> + +<P> +"And play golf," she added for him. +</P> + +<P> +He nodded. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'll probably put up a punk game. Never was much good at golf. But +it will help get me back into the rut. Then I 'll sail about the first +of August for New York and put a few weeks into camp." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you'll go on to Cambridge." +</P> + +<P> +"And hang around until after the Yale game." +</P> + +<P> +"Then—" +</P> + +<P> +"How many months have I been gone already?" +</P> + +<P> +"Four." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes; then I'll go back to New York." +</P> + +<P> +"What will you do there, Monte?" +</P> + +<P> +"I—I don't know. Maybe I'll call on Chic some day." +</P> + +<P> +"If they should ever learn!" cried Marjory. +</P> + +<P> +"Eh?" +</P> + +<P> +Monte passed his hand over his forehead. +</P> + +<P> +"There is n't any danger of that, is there?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think I'll ever dare meet <I>her</I> again." +</P> + +<P> +Monte squared his shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"See here, little woman; you must n't feel this way. It won't do at +all. That's why I thought if you could only separate these last few +weeks from everything else—just put them one side and go from +there—it would be so much better. You see, we've got to go on +and—holy smoke! this has got to be as if it never happened. You have +your life ahead of you and I have mine. We can't let this spoil all +the years ahead. You—why, you—" +</P> + +<P> +She looked up. It was a wonder he did not take her in his arms in that +moment. He held himself as he had once held himself when eleven men +were trying to push him and his fellows over the last three yards +separating them from a goal. +</P> + +<P> +"It's necessary to go on, is n't it?" he repeated helplessly. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, yes," she answered quickly. "You must go back to your schedule +just as soon as ever you can. As soon as we're over the ugly part—" +</P> + +<P> +"The divorce?" +</P> + +<P> +"As soon as we're over that, everything will be all right again," she +nodded. +</P> + +<P> +"Surely," he agreed. +</P> + +<P> +"But we must n't remember anything. That's quite impossible. The +thing to do is to forget." +</P> + +<P> +She appeared so earnest that he hastened to reassure her. +</P> + +<P> +"Then we'll forget." +</P> + +<P> +He said it so cheerfully, she was ready to believe him. +</P> + +<P> +"That ought to be easy for you," he added. +</P> + +<P> +"For me?" +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm going to leave you with Peter." +</P> + +<P> +She caught her breath. She did not dare answer. +</P> + +<P> +"I've seen a good deal of him lately," he continued. "We've come to +know each other rather intimately, as sometimes men do in a short while +when they have interests in common." +</P> + +<P> +"You and Peter have interests in common!" she exclaimed. +</P> + +<P> +He appeared uneasy. +</P> + +<P> +"We're both Harvard, you know." +</P> + +<P> +"I see." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course, I 've had to do more or less hedging on account—of Madame +Covington." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sorry, Monte." +</P> + +<P> +"You need n't be, because it was she who introduced me to him. And, I +tell you, he's fine and big and worth while all through. But you know +that." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"That's why I 'm going to feel quite safe about leaving you with him." +</P> + +<P> +She started. That word "safe" was like a stab with a penknife. She +would have rather had him strike her a full blow in the face than use +it. Yet, in its miserable fashion, it expressed all that he had sought +through her—all that she had allowed him to seek. From the first they +had each sought safety, because they did not dare face the big things. +</P> + +<P> +Now, at the moment she was ready, the same weakness that she had +encouraged in him was helping take him away from her. And the pitiful +tragedy of it was that Peter was helping too, and then challenging her +to accept still graver dangers through him. It was a pitiful tangle, +and yet one that she must allow to continue. +</P> + +<P> +"You mean he'll help you not to worry about me?" +</P> + +<P> +"That's it," he nodded. "Because I've seen the man side of him, and +it's even finer than the side you see." +</P> + +<P> +Her lips came together. +</P> + +<P> +"There's no reason why you should feel responsibility for me even +without Peter," she protested. +</P> + +<P> +She was seated in one of the wicker chairs, chin in hand. He stepped +toward her. +</P> + +<P> +"You don't think I'd be cad enough to desert my wife actually?" he +demanded. +</P> + +<P> +He seemed so much in earnest that for a second the color flushed the +chalk-white portions of her cheeks. +</P> + +<P> +"Sit down, Monte," she pleaded. "I—I did n't expect you to take it +like that. I 'm afraid Peter is making you too serious. After all, +you know, I 'm of age. I 'm not a child." +</P> + +<P> +He sat down, bending toward her. +</P> + +<P> +"We've both acted more or less like children," he said gently. "Now I +guess the time has come for us to grow up. Peter will help you do +that." +</P> + +<P> +"And you?" +</P> + +<P> +"He has helped me already. And when he gets his eyes back—" +</P> + +<P> +"You think there is a chance for that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Just one chance," he answered. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" she cried. +</P> + +<P> +"It's a big opportunity," he said. +</P> + +<P> +She rose and went to the window, where she looked out upon the gray +ocean and the slanting rain and a world grown dull and sodden. He +followed her there, but with his shoulders erect now. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm going now," he said. "I think I shall take the night train for +Paris. I want to leave the machine—the machine we came down here +in—for you." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't—please don't." +</P> + +<P> +"It's for you and Peter. The thing for you both to do is to get out in +it every day." +</P> + +<P> +"I—I don't want to." +</P> + +<P> +"You mean—" +</P> + +<P> +He placed his hand upon her arm, and she ventured one more look into +his eyes. He was frowning. She must not allow that. She must send +him away in good spirits. That was the least she could do. So she +forced a smile. +</P> + +<P> +"All right," she promised; "if it will make you more comfortable." +</P> + +<P> +"It would worry me a lot if I thought you were n't going to be happy." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll go out every fair day." +</P> + +<P> +"That's fine." +</P> + +<P> +He took a card from his pocket and scribbled his banker's address upon +it. +</P> + +<P> +"If anything should come up where—where I can be of any use, you can +always reach me through this address." +</P> + +<P> +She took the card. Even to the end he was good—good and four-square. +He was so good that her throat ached. She could not endure this very +much longer. He extended his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"S'long and good luck," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"I—I hope your golf will be better than you think." +</P> + +<P> +Then he said a peculiar thing. He seldom swore, and seldom lost his +head as completely as he did that second. But, looking her full in the +eyes, he ejaculated below his breath:— +</P> + +<P> +"Damn golf!" +</P> + +<P> +The observation was utterly irrelevant. Turning, he clicked his heels +together like a soldier and went out. The door closed behind him. For +a second her face was illumined as with a great joy. In a sort of +ecstasy, she repeated his words. +</P> + +<P> +"He said," she whispered—"he said, 'Damn golf.'" Then she threw +herself into a wicker chair and began to sob. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" she choked. "If—if—" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap22"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A CONFESSION +</H3> + + +<P> +Monte left Nice on the twentieth of July, to join—as Peter +supposed—Madame Covington in Paris. Monte himself had been extremely +ambiguous about his destination, being sure of only one fact: that he +should not return inside of a year, if he did then. Peter had asked +for his address, and Monte had given him the same address that he gave +Marjory. +</P> + +<P> +"I want to keep in touch with you," Peter said. +</P> + +<P> +Peter missed the man. On the ride with Marjory that he enjoyed the +next day after Monte's departure, he talked a great deal of him. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'd like to have seen into his eyes," he told her. "I kept feeling I +'d find something there more than I got hold of in his voice and the +grip of his hand." +</P> + +<P> +"He has blue eyes," she told him, "and they are clean as a child's." +</P> + +<P> +"They are a bit sad?" +</P> + +<P> +"Monte's eyes sad?" she exclaimed. "What made you think so?" +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps because, from what he let drop the other night, I gathered he +was n't altogether happy with Mrs. Covington." +</P> + +<P> +"He told you that?" +</P> + +<P> +"No; not directly," he assured her. "He's too loyal. I may be utterly +mistaken; only he was rather vague as to why she was not here with him." +</P> + +<P> +"She was not with him," Marjory answered slowly. "She was not with him +because she was n't big enough to deserve him." +</P> + +<P> +"Then it's a fact there's a tragedy in his life?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not in his—in hers," she answered passionately. +</P> + +<P> +"How can that be?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because she's the one who realizes the truth." +</P> + +<P> +"But she's the one who went away." +</P> + +<P> +"Because of that. It's a miserable story, Peter." +</P> + +<P> +"You knew her intimately?" +</P> + +<P> +"A great many years." +</P> + +<P> +"I think Covington said he had known you a long time." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Then, knowing her and knowing him, was n't there anything you could +do?" +</P> + +<P> +"I did what I could," she answered wearily. +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps that explains why he hurried back to her." +</P> + +<P> +"He has n't gone to her. He'll never go back to her. She deserted +him, and now—he's going to make it permanent." +</P> + +<P> +"A divorce?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Peter," she answered, with a little shiver. +</P> + +<P> +"You're taking it hard." +</P> + +<P> +"I know all that he means to her," she choked. +</P> + +<P> +"She loves him?" +</P> + +<P> +"With all her heart and soul." +</P> + +<P> +"And he does n't know it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, he would n't believe it—if she told him. She can never let him +know it. She'd deny it if he asked her. She loves him enough for +that." +</P> + +<P> +"Good Lord!" exclaimed Peter. "There's a mistake there somewhere." +</P> + +<P> +"The mistake came first," she ran on. "Oh, I don't know why I'm +telling you these things, except that it is a relief to tell them to +some one." +</P> + +<P> +"Tell me all about it," he encouraged her. "I knew there was something +on your mind." +</P> + +<P> +"Peter," she said earnestly, "can you imagine a woman so selfish that +she wanted to marry just to escape the responsibilities of marriage?" +</P> + +<P> +"It is n't possible," he declared. +</P> + +<P> +Her cheeks were a vivid scarlet. Had he been able to see them, she +could not have gone on. +</P> + +<P> +"A woman so selfish," she faltered ahead, "that she preferred a +make-believe husband to a real husband, because—because so she thought +she would be left free." +</P> + +<P> +"Free for what?" he demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"To live." +</P> + +<P> +"When love and marriage and children are all there is to life?" he +asked. +</P> + +<P> +She caught her breath. +</P> + +<P> +"You see, she did not know that then. She thought all those things +called for the sacrifice of her freedom." +</P> + +<P> +"What freedom?" he demanded again. "It's when we're alone that we're +slaves—slaves to ourselves. A woman alone, a man alone, living to +himself alone—what is there for him? He can only go around and around +in a pitifully small circle—a circle that grows smaller and smaller +with every year. Between twenty and thirty a man can exhaust all there +is in life for himself alone. He has eaten and slept and traveled and +played until his senses have become dull. Perhaps a woman lasts a +little longer, but not much longer. Then they are locked away in +themselves until they die." +</P> + +<P> +"Peter!" she cried in terror. +</P> + +<P> +"It's only as we live in others that we live forever," he ran on. "It +is only by toiling and sacrificing and suffering and loving that we +become immortal. It is so we acquire real freedom." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Peter," she agreed, with a gasp. +</P> + +<P> +"Could n't you make her understand that?" +</P> + +<P> +"She does understand. That's the pity of it." +</P> + +<P> +"And Covington?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's in him to understand; only—she lost the right to make him +understand. She—she debased herself. So she must sacrifice herself +to get clean again. She must make even greater sacrifices than any she +cowed away from. She must do this without any of the compensations +that come to those who have been honest and unafraid." +</P> + +<P> +"What of him?" +</P> + +<P> +"He must never know. He'll go round and round his little circle, and +she must watch him." +</P> + +<P> +"It's terrible," he murmured. "It will be terrible for her to watch +him do that. If you had told him how she felt—" +</P> + +<P> +"God forbid!" +</P> + +<P> +"Or if you had only told me, so that I could have told him—" +</P> + +<P> +She seized Peter's arm. +</P> + +<P> +"You would n't have dared!" +</P> + +<P> +"I'd dare anything to save two people from such torment." +</P> + +<P> +"You—you don't think he will worry?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think he is worrying a great deal." +</P> + +<P> +"Only for the moment," she broke in. "But soon—in a week or two—he +will be quite himself again. He has a great many things to do. He has +tennis and—and golf." +</P> + +<P> +She checked herself abruptly. ("Damn golf!" Monte had said.) +</P> + +<P> +"There's too much of a man in him now to be satisfied with such +things," said Peter. "It's a pity—it's a pity there are not two of +you, Marjory." +</P> + +<P> +"Of me?" +</P> + +<P> +"He thinks a great deal of you. If he had met you before he met this +other—" +</P> + +<P> +"What are you saying, Peter?" +</P> + +<P> +"That you're the sort of woman who could have called out in him an +honest love." +</P> + +<P> +There, beside Peter who could not see, Marjory bent low and buried her +face in her hands. +</P> + +<P> +"You 're the sort of woman," he went on, "who could have roused the man +in him that has been waiting all this time for some one like you." +</P> + +<P> +How Peter was hurting her! How he was pinching her with red-hot irons! +It hurt so much that she was glad. Here, at last, she was beginning +her sacrifice for Monte. So she made neither moan nor groan, nor +covered her ears, but took her punishment like a man. +</P> + +<P> +"Some one else must do all that," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he answered. "Or his life will be wasted. He needs to suffer. +He needs to give up. This thing we call a tragedy may be the making of +him." +</P> + +<P> +"For some one else," she repeated. +</P> + +<P> +Peter was fumbling about for her hand. Suddenly she straightened +herself. +</P> + +<P> +"It must be for some one else," he said hoarsely—"because I want you +for myself. In time—you must be mine. With the experience of those +two before us, we must n't make the same mistake ourselves. I—I was +n't going to tell you this until I had my eyes back. But, heart o' +mine, I 've held in so long. Here in the dark one gets so much alone. +And being alone is what kills." +</P> + +<P> +She was hiding her hand from him. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't find your hand," he whispered, like a child lost in the dark. +</P> + +<P> +Summoning all her strength, she placed her hand within his. "It is +cold!" he cried. +</P> + +<P> +Yet the day was warm. They were speeding through a sunlighted country +of olive trees and flowers in bloom—a warm world and tender. +</P> + +<P> +He drew her fingers to his lips and kissed them passionately. She +suffered it, closing her eyes against the pain. +</P> + +<P> +"I've wanted you so all these months!" he cried. "I should n't have +let you go in the first place. I should n't have let you go." +</P> + +<P> +"No, Peter," she answered. +</P> + +<P> +"And now that I've found you again, you'll stay?" +</P> + +<P> +He was lifting his face to hers—straining to see her. To have +answered any way but as he pleaded would have been to strike that +upturned face. +</P> + +<P> +"I—I 'll try to stay," she faltered. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'll make you!" he breathed. "I 'll hold you tight, soul of mine. +Would you—would you kiss my eyes?" +</P> + +<P> +Holding her breath, Marjory lightly brushed each of his eyes with her +lips. +</P> + +<P> +"It's like balm," he whispered. "I've dreamed at night of this." +</P> + +<P> +"Every day I'll do it," she said. "Only—for a little while—you 'll +not ask for anything more, Peter?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not until some day they open—in answer to that call," he replied. +</P> + +<P> +"I did n't mean that, Peter," she said hurriedly. "Only I'm so mixed +up myself." +</P> + +<P> +"It's so new to you," he nodded. "To me it's like a day foreseen a +dozen years. Long before I saw you I knew I was getting ready for you. +Now—what do a few weeks matter?" +</P> + +<P> +"It may be months, Peter, before I'm quite steady." +</P> + +<P> +"Even if it's years," he exclaimed, "I've felt your lips." +</P> + +<P> +"Only on your eyes," she cried in terror. +</P> + +<P> +"I—I would n't dare to feel them except on my eyes—for a little +while. Even there they take away my breath." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap23"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXIII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +LETTERS +</H3> + + +<P> +Letter from Peter Noyes to Monte Covington, received by the latter at +the Hôtel Normandie, Paris, France:— +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="salutation"> +NICE, FRANCE, July 22. +<BR><BR> +<I>Dear Covington</I>:— +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I don't know whether you can make out this scrawl, because I have to +feel my way across the paper; but I'm sitting alone in my room, aching +to talk with you as we used to talk. If you were here I know you would +be glad to listen, because—suddenly all I told you about has come true. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +Riding to Cannes the very next day after you left, I spoke to her +and—she listened. It was all rather vague and she made no promises, +but she listened. In a few weeks or months or years, now, she'll be +mine for all time. She does n't want me to tell Beatrice, and there is +no one else to tell except you—so forgive me, old man, if I let myself +loose. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +Besides, in a way, you're responsible. We were talking of you, because +we missed you. You have a mighty good friend in her, Covington. She +knows you—the real you that I thought only I had glimpsed. She sees +the man in the game—not the man in the grand-stand. Her Covington is +the man they used to give nine long Harvards for. I never heard that +in front of my name. I was a grind—a "greasy grind," they used to +call me. It did n't hurt, for I smiled in rather a superior sort of +way at the men I thought were wasting their energy on the gridiron. +But, after all, you fellows got something out of it that the rest of us +did n't get. A 'Varsity man remains a 'Varsity man all his life. +To-day you stand before her as a 'Varsity man. I think she always +thinks of you as in a red sweater with a black "H." Any time that you +feel you're up against anything hard, that ought to help you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +We talked a great deal of you, as I said, and I find myself now +thinking more of you than of myself in connection with her. I don't +understand it. Perhaps it's because she seems so alone in the world, +and you are the most intimate friend she has. Perhaps it's because +you've seen so much more of her than I in these last few months. +Anyway, I have a feeling that somehow you are an integral part of her. +I've tried to puzzle out the relationship, and I can't. "Brother" does +not define it; neither does "comrade." If you were not already +married, I'd almost suspect her of being in love with you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I know that sounds absurd. I know it is absurd. She is n't the kind +to allow her emotions to get away from her like that. But I'll say +this much, Covington: that if we three were to start fresh, I'd stand a +mighty poor chance with her. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +This is strange talk from a man who less than six hours ago became +officially engaged. I told her that I had let her go once, and that +now I had found her again I wanted her to stay. And she said, "I'll +try." That was n't very much, Covington, was it? But I seized the +implied promise as a drowning man does a straw. It was so much more +than anything I have hoped for. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I should have kept her that time I found her on the little farm in +Connecticut. If I had been a little more insistent then, I think she +would have come with me. But I was afraid of her money. It was +rumored that her aunt left her a vast fortune, and—you know the +mongrels that hound a girl in that position, Covington? I was afraid +she might think I was one of the pack. She was frightened—bewildered. +I should have snatched her away from them all and gone off with her. I +was earning enough to support her decently, and I should have thought +of nothing else. Instead of that I held back a little, and so lost +her, as I thought. She sailed away, and I returned to my work like a +madman—and I nearly died. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +Now I feel alive clear to my finger-tips. I 'm going to get my eyes +back. I have n't the slightest doubt in the world about that. Already +I feel the magic of the new balm that has been applied. They don't +ache any more. Sitting here to-night without my shade, I can hold them +open and catch the feeble light that filters in from the street lamps +at a distance. It is only a question of a few months, perhaps weeks, +perhaps days. The next time we meet I shall be able to see you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +You won't object to hearing a man rave a little, Covington? If you do, +you can tear up this right here. But I know I can't say anything good +about Marjory that you won't agree with. Maybe, however, you'd call my +present condition abnormal. Perhaps it is; but I wonder if it is n't +part of every normal man's life to be abnormal to this extent at least +once—to see, for once, this staid old world through the eyes of a +prince of the ancient city of Bagdad; to thrill with the magic and +gorgeous beauty of it? It shows what might always be, if one were poet +enough to sustain the mood. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +Here am I, a plugging lawyer of the Borough of Manhattan, City of New +York, State of New York—which is just about as far away from the city +of Bagdad as you can get. I'm concerned mainly with certain details of +corporation law—the structure of soulless business institutions which +were never heard of in Bagdad. My daily path takes me from certain +uptown bachelor quarters through the subway to a certain niche in a +downtown cave dwelling. Then—presto, she comes. I pass over all that +intervened, because it is no longer important, but—presto again, I +find myself here a prince in some royal castle of Bagdad, counting the +moments until another day breaks and I can feel the touch of my +princess's hand. Even my dull eyes count for me, because so I can +fancy myself, if I choose, in some royal apartment, surrounded by +hanging curtains of silk, priceless marbles, and ornaments of gold and +silver, with many silent eunuchs awaiting my commands. From my windows +I'm at liberty to imagine towers and minarets and domes of copper. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +Always she, my princess, is somewhere in the background, when she is +not actually by my side. When I saw her before, Covington, I marveled +at her eyes—those deep, wonderful eyes that told you so little and +made you dream so much. I saw her hair too, and her straight nose, and +her beautiful lips. Those things I see now as I saw them then. I must +wait a little while really to see them again. In their place, however, +I have now her voice and the sound of her footsteps. To hear her +coming, just to hear the light fall of her feet upon the ground, is +like music. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +But when she speaks, Covington, then all other sounds cease, and she +speaks alone to me in a world grown silent to listen. There is some +quality in that voice that gets into me—that reaches and vibrates +certain hidden strings I did not know were there. So sweet is the +music that I can hardly give enough attention to make out the meaning +of her words. What she says does not so much matter as that she should +be speaking to me—to my ears alone. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +And these things are merely the superficialities of her. There still +remains the princess herself below these wonderful externals. There +still remains the woman herself. Woman, any woman, is marvelous +enough, Covington. When you think of all they stand for, the fineness +of them compared with our man grossness, that wonderful power of +creation in them, their exquisite delicacy, combined with the +big-souled capacity for sacrifice and suffering that dwarfs any of our +petty burdens into insignificance—God knows, a man should bow his knee +before the least of them. But when to all those general attributes of +the sex you add that something more born in a woman like Marjory—what +in the world can a man do big enough to deserve the charge of such a +soul? In the midst of all my princely emotions, that thought makes me +humble, Covington. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I fear I have rambled a good deal, old man. I can't read over what I +have been scribbling here, so I must let it go as it is. But I wanted +to tell you some of these things that are rushing through my head all +the time, because I knew you would be glad for me and glad for her. Or +does my own joy result in such supreme selfishness that I am tempted to +intrude it upon others? I don't believe so, because there is no one +else in the world to whom I would venture to write as I 've written to +you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I'm not asking you to answer, because what I should want to hear from +you I would n't allow any one else to read. So tear this up and forget +it if you want. Some day I shall meet you again and see you. Then I +can talk to you face to face. +</P> + +<P CLASS="closing"> +Yours, +<BR> +PETER J. NOYES. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Sitting alone in his room at the Normandie, Monte read this through. +Then his hands dropped to his side and the letter fell from them to the +floor. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, my God!" he said. "Oh, my God!" +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Letter from Madame Covington to her husband, Monte Covington, which the +latter never received at all because it was never sent. It was never +meant to be sent. It was written merely to save herself from doing +something rash, something for which she could never forgive +herself—like taking the next train to Paris and claiming this man as +if he were her own:— +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="salutation"> +<I>Dearest Prince of my Heart</I>:— +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +You've been gone from me twelve hours. For twelve hours you've left me +here all alone. I don't know how I've lived. I don't know how I'm +going to get through the night and to-morrow. Only there won't be any +to-morrow. There'll never be anything more than periods of twelve +hours, until you come back: just from dawn to dark, and then from dark +to dawn, over and over again. Each period must be fought through as it +comes, with no thought about the others. I 'm beginning on the third. +The morning will bring the fourth. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +Each one is like a lifetime—a birth and a death. And oh, my Prince, I +shall soon be very, very old. I don't dare look in the mirror +to-night, for fear of seeing how old I've grown since morning. I +remember a word they used on shipboard when the waves threw the big +propeller out of the water and the full power of the engines was wasted +on air. They called it "racing." It was bad for the ship to have this +energy go for nothing. It racked her and made her tremble and groan. +I've been racing ever since you went, churning the air to no purpose, +with a power that was meant to drive me ahead. I 'm right where I +started after it all. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +Dearest heart of mine, I love you. Though I tremble away from those +words, I must put them down for once in black and white. Though I tear +them up into little pieces so small that no one can read them, I must +write them once. It is such a relief, here by myself, to be honest. +If you were here and I were honest, I 'd stand very straight and look +you fair in the eyes and tell you that over and over again. "I love +you, Monte," I would say. "I love you with all my heart and soul, +Monte," I would say. "Right or wrong, coward that I am or not, whether +it is good for you or not, I love you, Monte," I would say. And, if +you wished, I would let you kiss me. And, if you would let me, I would +kiss you on your dear tousled hair, on your forehead, on your eyes— +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +That is where I kissed Peter to-day. I will tell you here, as I would +tell you standing before you. I kissed Peter on his eyes, and I have +promised to kiss him again upon his eyes to-morrow—if to-morrow comes. +I did it because he said it would help him to see again. And if he +sees again—why, Monte, if he sees again, then he will see how absurd +it is that he should ask me to love him. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +Blind as he is, he almost saw that to-day, when he made me promise to +try to stay by his side. With his eyes full open, then he will be able +to read my eyes. So I shall kiss him there as often as he wishes. +Then, when he understands, I shall not fear for him. He is a man. +Only, if I told him with my lips, he would not understand. He must +find out for himself. Then he will throw back his shoulders and take +the blow—as we all of us have had to take our blows. It will be no +worse for him than for you, dear, or for me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +It is not as I kissed him that I should kiss you. How silly it is of +men to ask for kisses when, if they come at all, they come unasked. +What shall I do with all of mine that are for you alone? I throw them +out across the dark to you—here and here and here. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I wonder what you are doing at this moment? I have wondered so about +every moment since you went. Because I cannot know, I feel as if I +were being robbed. At times I fancy I can see as clearly as if I were +with you. You went to the station and bought your ticket and got into +your compartment. I could see you sitting there smoking, your eyes +turned out the window. I could see what you saw, but I could not tell +of what you were thinking. And that is what counts. That is the only +thing that counts. There are those about me who watch me going my +usual way, but how little they know of what a change has come over me! +How little even Peter knows, who imagines he knows me so well. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I see you reaching Paris and driving to your hotel. I wonder if you +are at the Normandie. I don't even know that. I'd like to know that. +I wonder if you would dare sleep in your old room. Oh, I'd like to +know that. It would be so restful to think of you there. But what, if +there, are you thinking about? About me, at all? I don't want you to +think about me, but I 'd die if I knew you did <I>not</I> think about me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I don't want you to be worried, dear you. I won't have you unhappy. +You said once, "Is n't it possible to care a little without caring too +much?" Now I 'm going to ask you: "Is n't it possible for you to think +of me a little without thinking too much?" If you could remember some +of those evenings on the ride to Nice,—even if with a smile,—that +would be better than nothing. If you could remember that last night +before we got to Nice, when—when I looked up at you and something +almost leaped from my eyes to yours. If you could remember that with +just a little knowledge of what it meant—not enough to make you +unhappy, but enough to make you want to see me again. Could you do +that without getting uncomfortable—without mixing up your schedule? +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I cried a little right here, Monte. It was a silly thing to do. But +you're alone in Paris, where we were together, and I'm alone here. It +is still raining. I think it is going to rain forever. I can't +imagine ever seeing the blue sky again. If I did, it would only make +me think of those glorious days between Paris and Nice. How wonderful +it was that it never rained at all. The sky was always pink in the +east when I woke up, and we saw it grow pink again at night, side by +side. Then the purple of the night, with the myriad silver stars, each +one beautiful in itself. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +At night you always seemed to me to grow bigger than ever—inches +taller and broader, until some evenings when I bade you good-night I +was almost afraid of you. Because as you grew bigger I grew smaller. +I used to think that, if you took a notion to do so, you'd just pick me +up and carry me off. If you only had! +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +If you had only said, "We'll quit this child's play. You'll come with +me and we'll make a home and settle down, like Chic." +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I'd have been a good wife to you, Monte. Honest, I would—if you'd +done like that any time before I met Peter and became ashamed. Up to +that point I'd have gone with you if you had loved me enough to take +me. Only, you did n't love me. That was the trouble, Monte. I'd made +you think I did not want to be loved. Then I made you think I was n't +worth loving. Then, when Peter came and made me see and hang my +head,—why, then it was too late, even though you had wanted to take me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +But you don't know, and never will know, what a good wife I'd have +been. But I would have tried to lead you a little, too. I would have +watched over you and been at your command, but I would have tried to +guide you into doing something worth while. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +Perhaps we could have done something together worth while. You have a +great deal of money, Monte, and I have a great deal. We have more than +is good for us. I think if we had worked together we could have done +something for other people with it. I never thought of that until +lately; but the other evening, after you had been talking about your +days in college, I lay awake in bed, thinking how nice it would be if +we could do something for some of the young fellows there now who do +not have money enough. I imagined myself going back to Cambridge with +you some day and calling on the president or the dean, and hearing you +say to him: "Madame Covington and I have decided that we want to help +every year one or more young men needing help. If you will send to us +those you approve of, we will lend them enough to finish their course." +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I thought it would be nicer to lend the money than give it to them, +because they would feel better about it. And they could be as long as +they wished in paying it back, or if they fell into hard luck need +never pay it back. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +So every year we would start as many as we could, each of us paying +half. They would come to us, and we would get to know them, and we +would watch them through, and after that watch them fight the good +fight. Why, in no time, Monte, we would have quite a family to watch +over; and they would come to you for advice, and perhaps sometimes to +me. Think what an interest that would add to your life! It would be +so good for you, Monte. And good for me, too. Even if we had—oh, +Monte, we might in time have had boys of our own in Harvard too! Then +they would have selected other boys for us, and that would have been +good for them too. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +Here by myself I can tell you these things, because—because, God keep +me, you cannot hear. You did not think I could dream such dreams as +those, did you? You thought I was always thinking of myself and my own +happiness, and of nothing else. You thought I asked everything and +wished to give nothing. But that was before I knew what love is. That +was before you touched me with the magic wand. That was before I +learned that our individual lives are as brief as the sparks that fly +upward, except as we live them through others; and that then—they are +eternal. It was within our grasp, Monte, dear, and we trifled with it +and let it go. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +No, not you. It was I who refused the gift. Some day it will come to +you again, through some other. That is what I tell myself over and +over again. I don't think men are like women. They do not give so +much of themselves, and so they may choose from two or three. So in +time, as you wander about, you will find some one who will hold out her +arms, and you will come. She will give you everything she has,—all +honest women do that,—but it will not be all I would have given. You +may think so, and so be happy; but it will not be true. I shall always +know the difference. And you will give her what you have, but it will +not be what you would have given me—what I would have drawn out of +you. I shall always know that. Because, as I love you, heart of me, I +would have found in you treasures that were meant for me alone. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I'm getting wild. I must stop. My head is spinning. Soon it will be +dawn, and I am to ride again with Peter to-morrow. I told you I would +ride every fair day with him, and I am hoping it will rain. But it +will not rain, though to me the sky may be murky. I can see the clouds +scudding before a west wind. It will be clear, and I shall ride with +him as I promised, and I shall kiss him upon his eyes. But if you were +with me— +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +Here and here and here I throw them out into the dark. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +Good-night, soul of my soul. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap24"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXIV +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE BLIND SEE +</H3> + + +<P> +Day by day Peter's eyes grew stronger, because day by day he was thinking +less about himself and more about Marjory. +</P> + +<P> +"He needs to get away from himself," the doctors had told Beatrice. "If +you can find something that will occupy his thoughts, so that he will +quit thinking about his eyes, you 'll double his chances." Beatrice had +done that when she found Marjory, and now she was more than satisfied +with the result and with herself. Every morning she saw Peter safely +entrusted to Marjory's care, and this left her free the rest of the day +to walk a little, read her favorite books, and nibble chocolates. She +was getting a much-needed rest, secure in the belief that everything was +working out in quite an ideal way. +</P> + +<P> +The only thing that seemed to her at all strange was a sudden reluctance +on Peter's part to talk to her of Marjory. At the end of the day the +three had dinner together at the Hôtel d'Angleterre,—Marjory could never +be persuaded to dine at the Roses,—and when by eight Peter and his +sister returned to their own hotel, he gave her only the barest details +of his excursion, and retired early to his room. But he seemed cheerful +enough, so that, after all, this might be only another favorable symptom +of his progress. Peter always had been more or less secretive, and until +his illness neither she nor his parents knew more than an outline of his +life in New York. Periodically they came on to visit him for a few days, +and periodically he went home for a few days. He was making a name for +himself, and they were very proud of him, and the details did not matter. +Knowing Peter as they did, it was easy enough to fill them in. +</P> + +<P> +Even with Marjory, Peter talked less and less about himself. From his +own ambitions, hopes, and dreams he turned more and more to hers. Now +that he had succeeded in making her a prisoner, however slender the +thread by which he held her, he seemed intent upon filling in all the +past as fully as possible. Up to a certain point that was easy enough. +She was willing to talk of her girlhood; of her father, whom she adored; +and even of Aunt Kitty, who had claimed her young womanhood. She was +even eager. It afforded her a safe topic in which she found relief. It +gave her an opportunity also to justify, in a fashion, or at least to +explain, both to herself and Peter, the frame of mind that led her up to +later events. +</P> + +<P> +"I ran away from you, Peter," she admitted. +</P> + +<P> +"I know," he answered. +</P> + +<P> +"Only it was not so much from you as from what you stood for," she +hurried on. "I was thinking of myself alone, and of the present alone. +I had been a prisoner so long, I wanted to be free a little." +</P> + +<P> +"Free?" he broke in quickly, with a frown. "I don't like to hear you use +that word. That's the way Covington's wife talked, is n't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," she murmured. +</P> + +<P> +"It's the way so many women are talking to-day—and so many men, too. +Freedom is such a big word that a lot of people seem to think it will +cloak anything they care to do. They lose sight of the fact that the +freer a man or a woman is, the more responsibility he assumes. The free +are put upon their honor to fulfill the obligations that are exacted by +force from the irresponsible. So those who abuse this privilege are +doubly treacherous—treacherous to themselves, and treacherous to +society, which trusted them." +</P> + +<P> +Marjory turned aside her head, so that he might not even look upon her +with his blind eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"I—I didn't mean any harm, Peter," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course you did n't. I don't suppose Mrs. Covington did, either; did +she?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, Peter, I'm sure she didn't. She—she was selfish." +</P> + +<P> +"Besides, if you only come through safe, and learn—" +</P> + +<P> +"At least, I've learned," she answered. +</P> + +<P> +"Since you went away from me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"You have n't told me very much about that." +</P> + +<P> +She caught her breath. +</P> + +<P> +"Is—is it dishonest to keep to one's self how one learns?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"No, little woman; only, I feel as though I'd like to know you as I know +myself. I'd like to feel that there was n't a nook or cranny in your +mind that was n't open to me." +</P> + +<P> +"Peter!" +</P> + +<P> +"Is that asking too much?" +</P> + +<P> +"Some day you must know, but not now." +</P> + +<P> +"If Mrs. Covington—" +</P> + +<P> +"Must we talk any more about her?" she exclaimed. +</P> + +<P> +"I did n't know it hurt you." +</P> + +<P> +"It does—more than you realize." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sorry," he said quickly. +</P> + +<P> +He fumbled about for her hand. She allowed him to take it. +</P> + +<P> +"Have you heard from Covington since he left?" +</P> + +<P> +He felt her fingers twitch. +</P> + +<P> +"Does it hurt, too, to talk about him?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"It's impossible to talk about Monte without talking about +his—his—about Mrs. Covington," Marjory explained feebly. +</P> + +<P> +"They ought to be one," he admitted. "But you said they are about to +separate." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Peter; only I keep thinking of what ought to be." +</P> + +<P> +She withdrew her hand and leaned back on the seat a little away from him. +Sensitive to every movement of hers, he glanced up at this. +</P> + +<P> +"Somehow,"—he said, with a strained expression,—"somehow I feel the +need of seeing your eyes to-day. There's something I 'm missing. +There's something here I don't understand." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't try to understand, Peter," she cried. "It's better that you +should n't." +</P> + +<P> +"It's best always to know the truth," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Not always." +</P> + +<P> +"Always," he insisted. +</P> + +<P> +"Sometimes it does n't do any good to know the truth. It only hurts." +</P> + +<P> +"Even then, it's best. When I get my eyes—" +</P> + +<P> +She shrank farther away from him, for she saw him struggling even then to +open them. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +It was this possibility which from that point on added a new terror to +these daily drives. Marjory had told Monte that Peter's recovery was +something to which she looked forward; but when she said that she had +been sitting alone and pouring out her heart to Monte. She had not then +been facing this fact by the side of Peter. It was one thing to dream +boldly, with all her thoughts of Monte, and quite another to confront the +same facts actually and alone. If this crisis came now, it was going to +hurt her and hurt Peter, and do no good to any one; while, if it could be +postponed six months, perhaps it would not hurt so much. It was better +for Peter to endure his blindness a little longer than to see too soon. +So the next day she decided she would not kiss his eyes. He came to her +in the morning, and stood before her, waiting. She placed her hand upon +his shoulder. +</P> + +<P> +"Peter," she said as gently as she could, "I do not think I shall kiss +you again for a little while." +</P> + +<P> +She saw his lips tighten; but, to her surprise, he made no protest. +</P> + +<P> +"No, dear heart," he answered. +</P> + +<P> +"It is n't because I wish to be unkind," she said. "Only, until you know +the whole truth, I don't feel honest with you." +</P> + +<P> +"Come over by the window and sit down in the light," he requested. +</P> + +<P> +With a start she glanced nervously at his eyes. They were closed. She +took a chair in the sun, and he sat down opposite her. +</P> + +<P> +For a moment they sat so, in silence. With her chin in her hand, she +stared out across the blue waters of the Mediterranean, across the quay +where Monte used to walk. It looked so desolate out there without him! +How many hours since he left she had watched people pass back and forth +along the broad path, as if hoping against hope that by some chance he +might suddenly appear among them. But he never did, and she knew that +she might sit here watching year after year and he would not come. +</P> + +<P> +By this time he was probably in England—probably, on such a day as this, +out upon the links. She smiled a little. "Damn golf!" he had said. +</P> + +<P> +She thought for a moment that she heard his voice repeating it. It was +only Peter's voice. +</P> + +<P> +"You have grown even more beautiful than I thought," Peter was saying. +</P> + +<P> +She sprang to her feet. He was looking at he—shading his opened eyes +with one hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Peter!" she cried, falling back a step. +</P> + +<A NAME="img-252"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-252.jpg" ALT=""Peter!" she cried, falling back a step." BORDER="2" WIDTH="423" HEIGHT="570"> +<H3 CLASS="h3center" STYLE="width: 423px"> +"Peter!" she cried, falling back a step. +</H3> +</CENTER> + +<P> +"More beautiful," he repeated. "But your eyes are sadder." +</P> + +<P> +"Peter," she said again, "your eyes are open!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he said. "It became necessary for me to see—so they opened." +</P> + +<P> +Before them, she felt ashamed—almost like one naked. She began to +tremble. Then, with her cheeks scarlet, she covered her face with her +hands. +</P> + +<P> +Peter rose and helped her back to a chair as if she, in her turn, had +suddenly become blind. +</P> + +<P> +"If I frighten you like this I—I must not look at you," he faltered. +</P> + +<P> +Still she trembled; still she covered her face. +</P> + +<P> +"See!" he cried. "I have closed them again." +</P> + +<P> +She looked up in amazement. He was standing with his eyes tight shut. +He who had been in darkness all these long months had dared, to save her +from her own shame, to return again to the pit. For a second it stopped +her heart from beating. Then, springing to his side, she seized his +hands. +</P> + +<P> +"Peter," she commanded, "open your eyes!" +</P> + +<P> +He was pale—ghastly pale. +</P> + +<P> +"Not if it hurts you." +</P> + +<P> +Swiftly leaning toward him, she kissed the closed lids. +</P> + +<P> +"Will you open them—now?" +</P> + +<P> +She was in terror lest he should find it impossible again—as if that had +been some temporary miracle which, having been scorned, would not be +repeated. +</P> + +<P> +Then once again she saw his eyes flutter open. This time she faced them +with her fists clenched by her side. What a difference those eyes made +in him. Closed, he was like a helpless child; open, he was a man. He +grew taller, bigger, older, while she who had been leading him about +shrank into insignificance. She felt pettier, plainer, less worthy than +ever she had in her life. By sheer force of will power she held up her +head and faced him as if she were facing the sun. +</P> + +<P> +For a moment he feasted upon her hungrily. To see her hair, when for +months he had been forced to content himself with memories of it; to see +her white forehead, her big, deep eyes and straight nose; to see the lips +which he had only felt—all that held him silent. But he saw something +else there, too. In physical detail this face was the same that he had +seen before he was stricken. But something had been added. Before she +had the features of a girl; now she had the features of a woman. +Something had since been added to the eyes and mouth—something he knew +nothing about. +</P> + +<P> +"Marjory," he said slowly, "I think there is a great deal you have left +untold." +</P> + +<P> +She tightened her lips. There was no further use of evasion. If he +pressed her with his eyes open, he must know the truth. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Peter," she answered. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't decide," he went on slowly, "whether it has to do with a great +grief or a great joy." +</P> + +<P> +"The two so often come together," she trembled. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he nodded; "I think that is true. Perhaps they belong together." +</P> + +<P> +"I have only just learned that," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"And you've been left with the grief?" +</P> + +<P> +"I can't tell, Peter. Sometimes I think so, and then again I see the +justice of it, and it seems beautiful. All I 'm sure of is that I 'm +left alone." +</P> + +<P> +"Even with me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Even with you, Peter." +</P> + +<P> +He passed his hand over his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"This other—do I know him?" he asked finally. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"It—it is Covington?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +She spoke almost mechanically. +</P> + +<P> +"I—I should have guessed it before. Had I been able to see, I should +have known." +</P> + +<P> +"That is why I did n't wish you to see me—so soon," Marjory said. +</P> + +<P> +"Covington!" he repeated. "But what of the other woman?" +</P> + +<P> +She took a long breath. +</P> + +<P> +"I—I'm the other woman," she answered. +</P> + +<P> +"Marjory!" he cried. "Not she you told me of?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"His wife!" +</P> + +<P> +"No—not that. Merely Mrs. Covington." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't understand. You don't mean you're not his wife!" He checked +himself abruptly. +</P> + +<P> +"We were married in Paris," she hastened to explain. "But—but we agreed +the marriage was to be only a form. He was to come down here with me as +a <I>compagnon de voyage</I>. He wished only to give me the protection of his +name, and that—that was all I wished. It was not until I met you, +Peter, that I realized what I had done." +</P> + +<P> +"It was not until then you realized that you really loved him?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not until then," she moaned. +</P> + +<P> +"But, knowing that, you allowed me to talk as I did; to hope—" +</P> + +<P> +"Peter—dear Peter!" she broke in. "It was not then. It was only after +I knew he had gone out of my life forever that I allowed that. You see, +he has gone. He has gone to England, and from there he is going home. +You know what he is going for. He is never coming back. So it is as if +he died, isn't it? I allowed you to talk because I knew you were telling +the truth. And I did not promise much. When you asked me never to go +from you, all I said was that I 'd try. You remember that? And I have +tried, and I was going to keep on trying—ever so hard. I had ruined my +own life and his life, and—and I did n't want to hurt you any more. I +wanted to do what I could to undo some of the harm I'd already done. I +thought that perhaps if we went on like this long enough, I might forget +a little of the past and look forward only to the future. Some day I +meant to tell you. You know that, Peter. You know I would n't be +dishonest with you." She was talking hysterically, anxious only to +relieve the tenseness of his lips. She was not sure that he heard her at +all. He was looking at her, but with curious detachment, as if he were +at a play. +</P> + +<P> +"Peter—say something!" she begged. +</P> + +<P> +"It's extraordinary that I should ever have dared hope you were for me," +he said. +</P> + +<P> +"You mean you—you don't want me, Peter?" +</P> + +<P> +"Want you?" he cried hoarsely. "I'd go through hell to get you. I'd +stay mole-blind the rest of my life to get you! Want you?" +</P> + +<P> +He stepped toward her with his hands outstretched as if to seize her. In +spite of herself, she shrank away. +</P> + +<P> +"You see," he ran on. "What difference does it make if I want you? You +belong to another. You belong to Covington. You have n't anything to do +with yourself any more. You have n't yourself to give. You're his." +</P> + +<P> +With her hand above her eyes as if to ward off his blows, she gasped:— +</P> + +<P> +"You must n't say such things, Peter." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm only telling the truth, and there's no harm in that. I 'm telling +you what you have n't dared tell yourself." +</P> + +<P> +"Things I mustn't tell myself!" she cried. "Things I must n't hear." +</P> + +<P> +"What I don't understand," he said, "is why Covington did n't tell you +all this himself. He must have known." +</P> + +<P> +"He knew nothing," she broke in. "I was a mere incident in his life. We +met in Paris quite by accident when he happened to have an idle week. He +was alone and I was alone, and he saved me from a disagreeable situation. +Then, because he still had nothing in particular to do and I had nothing +in particular to do, he suggested this further arrangement. We were each +considering nothing but our own comfort. We wanted nothing more. It was +to escape just such complications as this—to escape responsibility, as I +told you—that we—we married. He was only a boy, Peter, and knew no +better. But I was a woman, and should have known. And I came to know! +That was my punishment." +</P> + +<P> +"He came to know, too," said Peter. +</P> + +<P> +"He might have come to know," she corrected breathlessly. "There were +moments when I dared think so. If I had kept myself true—oh, Peter, +these are terrible things to say!" +</P> + +<P> +She buried her face in her hands again—a picture of total and abject +misery. Her frame shook with sobs that she was fighting hard to suppress. +</P> + +<P> +Peter placed his hand gently upon her shoulder. +</P> + +<P> +"There, little woman," he tried to comfort. "Cry a minute. It will do +you good." +</P> + +<P> +"I have n't even the right to cry," she sobbed. +</P> + +<P> +"You <I>must</I> cry," he said. "You have n't let yourself go enough. That's +been the whole trouble." +</P> + +<P> +He was silent a moment, patting her back, with his eyes leveled out of +the window as if trying to look beyond the horizon, beyond that to the +secret places of eternity. +</P> + +<P> +"You have n't let yourself go enough," he repeated, almost like a seer. +"You have tried to force your destiny from its appointed course. You +have, and Covington has, and I have. We have tried to force things that +were not meant to be and to balk things that were meant to be. That's +because we've been selfish—all three of us. We've each thought of +ourself alone—of our own petty little happiness of the moment. That's +deadly. It warps the vision. It—it makes people stone-blind. +</P> + +<P> +"I understand now. When you went away from me, it was myself alone I +considered. I was hurt and worried, and made a martyr of myself. If I +had thought more of you, all would have been well. This time I think +I—I have thought a little more of you. It was to get at you and not +myself that I wanted to see again. So I saw again. I let go of myself +and reached out for you. So now—why, everything is quite clear." +</P> + +<P> +She raised her head. +</P> + +<P> +"Clear, Peter?" +</P> + +<P> +"Quite clear. I'm to go back to my work, and to use my eyes less and my +head and heart more. I 'm to deal less with statutes and more with +people. Instead of quoting precedents, perhaps I 'm going to try to +establish precedents. There's work enough to be done, God knows, of a +sort that is born of just such a year as this I 've lived through. I +must let go of myself and let myself go. I must think less of my own +ambitions and more of the ambitions of others. So I shall live in +others. Perhaps I may even be able to live a little through you two." +</P> + +<P> +"Peter!" she cried. +</P> + +<P> +"For Covington must come back to you as fast as ever he can." +</P> + +<P> +"No! No! No!" +</P> + +<P> +"You don't understand how much he loves his wife." +</P> + +<P> +"Please!" +</P> + +<P> +"And, he, poor devil, does n't understand how much his wife loves him." +</P> + +<P> +"You—you"—she trembled aghast—"you would n't dare repeat what I've +told you!" +</P> + +<P> +"You don't want to stagger on in the dark any longer. You'll let me tell +him." +</P> + +<P> +She rose to her feet, her face white. +</P> + +<P> +"Peter," she said slowly, "if ever you told him that, I'd never forgive +you. If ever you told him, I 'd deny it. You 'd only force me into more +lies. You'd only crush me lower." +</P> + +<P> +"Steady, Marjory," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"You're wonderful, Peter!" she exclaimed. "You 've—you 've been seeing +visions. But when you speak of telling him what I've told you, you don't +understand how terrible that would be. Peter—you'll promise me you +won't do that?" +</P> + +<P> +She was pleading, with panic in her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Yet, if he knew, he'd come racing to you." +</P> + +<P> +"He'd do that because he's a gentleman and four-square. He'd come to me +and pretend. He'd feel himself at fault, and pity me. Do you know how +it hurts a woman to be pitied? I'd rather he'd hate me. I'd rather he'd +forget me altogether.", +</P> + +<P> +"But what of the talks I had with him in the dark?" he questioned. "When +he talked to me of you then, it was not in pity." +</P> + +<P> +"Because,"—she choked,—"because he does n't know himself as I know him. +He—he does n't like changes—dear Monte. It disturbed him to go because +it would have been so much easier to have stayed. So, for the moment, he +may have been—a bit sentimental." +</P> + +<P> +"You don't think as little of him as that!" he cried. +</P> + +<P> +"He—he is the man who married me," she answered unsteadily. "It +was—just Monte who married me—honest, easy-going, care-free Monte, who +is willing to do a woman a favor even to the extent of marrying her. He +is very honest and very gallant and very normal. He likes one day to be +as another. He does n't wish to be stirred up. He asked me this, Peter: +'Is n't it possible to care without caring too much?' And I said, 'Yes.' +That was why he married me. He had seen others who cared a great deal, +and they frightened him. They cared so much that they made themselves +uncomfortable, and he feared that." +</P> + +<P> +"Good Lord, you call that man Covington?" exclaimed Peter. +</P> + +<P> +"No—just Monte," Marjory answered quickly. "It's just the outside of +him. The man you call Covington—the man inside—is another man." +</P> + +<P> +"It's the real man," declared Peter. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," she nodded, with a catch in her voice. "That's the real man. +But—don't you understand?—it was n't that man who married me. It was +Monte who married me to escape Covington. He trusted me not to disturb +the real man, just as I trusted him not to disturb the real me." +</P> + +<P> +Peter leaned forward with a new hope in his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Then," he said, "perhaps, after all, he did n't get to the real you." +</P> + +<P> +Quite simply she replied:— +</P> + +<P> +"He did, Peter. He does not know it, but he did." +</P> + +<P> +"You are sure?" +</P> + +<P> +She knew the pain she was causing him, but she answered:— +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I could n't admit that to any one else in the world but you—and +it hurts you, Peter." +</P> + +<P> +"It hurts like the devil," he said. +</P> + +<P> +She placed her hand upon his. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor Peter," she said gently. +</P> + +<P> +"It hurts like the devil, but it's nothing for you to pity me for," he +put in quickly. "I'd rather have the hurt from you than nothing." +</P> + +<P> +"You feel like that?" she asked earnestly. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Then," she said, "you must understand how, even with me, the joy and the +grief are one?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I understand that. Only if he knew—" +</P> + +<P> +"He'd come back to me, you're going to say again. And I tell you again, +I won't have him come back, kind and gentle and smiling. If he came back +now,—if it were possible for him really to come to me,—I 'd want him to +ache with love. I 'd want him to be hurt with love." +</P> + +<P> +She was talking fiercely, with a wild, unrestrained passion such as Peter +had never seen in any woman. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'd want," she hurried on, out of all control of herself—"I'd want +everything I don't want him to give—everything I 've no right to ask. I +'d want him to live on tiptoe from one morning through to the next. I'd +begrudge him every minute he was just comfortable. I'd want him always +eager, always worried, because I 'd be always looking for him to do great +things. I 'd have him always ready for great sacrifices—not for me +alone, but for himself. I 'd be so proud of him I think I—I could with +a smile see him sacrifice even his life for another. For I should know +that, after a little waiting, I should meet him again, a finer and nobler +man. And all those things I asked of him I should want to do for him. I +'d like to lay down my life for him." +</P> + +<P> +She stopped as abruptly as she had begun, staring about like some one +suddenly awakened to find herself in a strange country. It was Peter's +voice that brought her back again to the empty room. +</P> + +<P> +"How you do love him!" he said solemnly. +</P> + +<P> +"Peter," she cried, "you shouldn't have listened!" +</P> + +<P> +She shrank back toward the door. +</P> + +<P> +"And I—I thought just kisses on the eyes stood for love," he added. +</P> + +<P> +"You must forget all I said," she moaned. "I was mad—for a moment!" +</P> + +<P> +"You were wonderful," he told her. +</P> + +<P> +She was still backing toward the door. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm going off to hide," she said piteously. +</P> + +<P> +"Not that," he called after her. +</P> + +<P> +But the door closed in front of her. The door closed in front of him. +With his lips clenched, Peter Noyes walked back to the Hôtel des Roses. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap25"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXV +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +SO LONG +</H3> + + +<P> +When Peter stepped into his sister's room he had forgotten that his +eyes were open. +</P> + +<P> +"Beatrice," he said, "we must start back for New York as soon as +possible." +</P> + +<P> +She sprang from her chair. Pale and without his shade, he was like an +apparition. +</P> + +<P> +"Peter!" she cried. +</P> + +<P> +"What's the trouble?" +</P> + +<P> +"Your eyes!" +</P> + +<P> +"They came back this morning." +</P> + +<P> +"Then I was right! Marjory—Marjory worked the miracle!" +</P> + +<P> +He smiled a little. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"It's wonderful. But, Peter—" +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" +</P> + +<P> +"You look so strange—so pale!" +</P> + +<P> +"It's been—well, rather an exciting experience." +</P> + +<P> +She put her arms about his neck and kissed him. +</P> + +<P> +"You should have brought the miracle-worker with you," she smiled. +</P> + +<P> +"And instead of that I'm leaving her." +</P> + +<P> +"Leaving Marjory—after this?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sit down, little sister," he begged. "A great deal has happened this +morning—a great deal that I'm afraid it's going to be hard for you to +understand. It was hard for me to understand at first; and yet, after +all, it's merely a question of fact. It is n't anything that leaves +any chance for speculation. It just is, that's all. You see, +you—both of us—made an extraordinary mistake. We—we assumed that +Marjory was free." +</P> + +<P> +"Free? Of course she's free!" exclaimed Beatrice. +</P> + +<P> +"Only she's not," Peter informed her. "As a matter of fact, she's +married." +</P> + +<P> +"Marjory—married!" +</P> + +<P> +"To Covington. She's Covington's wife. They were married a few weeks +ago in Paris. You understand? She's Covington's wife." His voice +rose a trifle. +</P> + +<P> +"Peter—you 're sure of that?" +</P> + +<P> +"She told me so herself—less than an hour ago." +</P> + +<P> +"That's impossible. Why, she listened to me when—" +</P> + +<P> +"When what?" he cut in. +</P> + +<P> +Frightened, she clasped her hands beneath her chin. +</P> + +<P> +His eyes demanded a reply. +</P> + +<P> +"I—I told her what the doctors told me. Don't look at me so, Peter!" +</P> + +<P> +"You tried to win her sympathy for me?" +</P> + +<P> +"They told me if you stopped worrying, your sight would come back. I +told her that, Peter." +</P> + +<P> +"You told her more?" +</P> + +<P> +"That if she could love you—oh, I could n't help it!" +</P> + +<P> +"So that is why she listened to you; why she listened to me. You +begged for her pity, and—she gave it. I thought at least I could +leave her with my head up." +</P> + +<P> +Beatrice began to sob. +</P> + +<P> +"I—I did the best I knew how," she pleaded. +</P> + +<P> +His head was bowed. He looked crushed. Throwing herself upon her +knees in front of him, Beatrice reached for his clasped hands. +</P> + +<P> +"I did the best I knew!" she moaned. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he answered dully; "you did that. Every one has done that. +Only—nothing should have been done at all. Nothing can ever be done." +</P> + +<P> +"You—you forgive me, Peter?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +But his voice was dead. It had no meaning. +</P> + +<P> +"It may all be for the best," she ran on, anxious to revive him. +"We'll go back to New York, Peter—you and I. Perhaps you'll let me +stay with you there. We'll get a little apartment together, so that I +can care for you. I 'll do that all the days of my life, if you 'll +let me." +</P> + +<P> +"I want a better fate than that for you, little sister," he answered. +</P> + +<P> +Rising, he helped her to her feet. He smoothed back her hair from her +forehead and kissed her there. +</P> + +<P> +"It won't do to look ahead very far, or backwards either just now," he +said. "But if I can believe there is something still left in life for +me, I must believe there is a great deal more left for you. Only we +must get away from here as soon as possible." +</P> + +<P> +"You have your eyes, Peter," she exclaimed exultingly. "She can't take +those away from you again!" +</P> + +<P> +"Hush," he warned. "You must never blame her for anything." +</P> + +<P> +"You mean you still—" +</P> + +<P> +"Still and forever, little sister," he answered. "But we must not talk +of that." +</P> + +<P> +"Poor Peter," she trembled. +</P> + +<P> +"Rich Peter!" he corrected, with a wan smile. "There are so many who +have n't as much as that." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +He went back to his room. The next thing to do was to write some sort +of explanation to Covington. His ears burned as he thought of the +other letter he had sent. How it must have bored into the man! How it +must have hurt! He had been forced to read the confession of love of +another man for his wife. The wonder was that he had not taken the +next train back and knocked down the writer. It must be that he +understood the hopelessness of such a passion. Perhaps he had smiled! +Only that was not like Covington. Rather, he had gripped his jaws and +stood it. +</P> + +<P> +But if it had hurt and he hankered for revenge, he was to have it now. +He, Noyes, had bared his soul to the husband and confessed a love that +now he must stand up and recant. That was punishment enough for any +man. He must do that, too, without violating any of Marjory's +confidences—without helping in any way to disentangle the pitiful +snarl that it was within his power to disentangle. She whose happiness +might partly have recompensed him for what he had to do, he must still +leave unhappy. As far as he himself was concerned, however, he was +entitled to tell the truth. He could not recant his love. That would +be false. But he had no right to it—that was what he must make +Covington understand. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +<I>Dear Covington</I> [he began]: I am writing this with my eyes open. The +miracle I spoke of came to pass. Also a great many other things have +come to pass. You'll realize how hard it is to write about them after +that other letter, when I tell you I have learned the truth: that +Marjory is Mrs. Covington. She told me herself, when our relations +reached a crisis where she had to tell. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I feel, naturally, as if I owed you some sort of apology; and yet, when +I come to frame it, I find myself baffled. Of course I'm leaving for +home as soon as possible—probably to-morrow. Of course if I had known +the truth I should have left long ago, and that letter would never have +had any occasion for being written. I'm assuming, Covington, that you +will believe that without any question. You knew what I did not know +and did not tell me even after you knew how I felt. I suppose you felt +so confident of her that you trusted her absolutely to handle an affair +of this sort herself. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I want to say right here, you were justified. Whatever in that other +letter I may have said to lead you to believe she had come to care for +me in the slightest was a result solely of my own self-delusion and her +innate gentleness. I have discovered that my sister, meaning no harm, +went to her and told her that the restoration of my sight depended upon +her interest in me. It was manifestly unfair of my sister to put it +that way, but the little woman was thinking only of me. I'm sorry it +was done. Evidently it was the basis upon which she made the feeble +promise I spoke of, and which I exaggerated into something more. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +She cared for me no more than for a friend temporarily afflicted. +That's all, Covington. Neither in word nor thought nor deed has she +ever gone any further. Looking back upon the last few days now, it is +clear enough. Rather than hurt me, she allowed me to talk—allowed me +to believe. Rather, she suffered it. It was not pleasant for her. +She endured it because of what my sister had said. It seems hard luck +that I should have been led in this fashion to add to whatever other +burdens she may have had. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I ask you to believe—it would be an impertinence, except for what I +told you before—that on her side there has been nothing between us of +which you could not approve. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +Now for myself. In the light of what I know to-day, I could not have +written you of her as I did. Yet, had I remained silent, all I said +would have remained just as much God's truth as then. Though I must +admit the utter hopelessness of my love, I see no reason why I should +think of attempting to deny that love. It would n't be decent to +myself, to you, or to her. It began before you came into her life at +all. It has grown bigger and cleaner since then. It persists to-day. +I'm talking to you as man to man, Covington. I know you won't confuse +that statement with any desire on my part—with any hope, however +remote—to see that love fulfilled further than it is fulfilled to-day. +That delusion has vanished forever. I shall never entertain it again, +no matter what course your destiny or her destiny may take. I cannot +make that emphatic enough, Covington. It is based upon a certain +knowledge of facts which, unfortunately, I am not at liberty to reveal +to you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +So, as far as my own emotions are concerned then, I retract nothing of +what I told you. In fact, to-day I could say more. To me she is and +ever will be the most wonderful woman who ever lived. Thinking of you +before, I said there ought to be two of her, so that one might be left +for you. Now, thinking of myself, I would to God there were two of +her, so that one might be left for me. Yet that is inconceivable. It +might be possible to find another who looked like her; who thought like +her; who was willing for the big things of life like her. But this +other would not be Marjory. Besides everything else she has in common +with other women, she has something all her own that makes her herself. +It's that something that has got hold of me, Covington. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I don't suppose it's in particularly good taste for me to talk to you +of your wife in this fashion; but it's my dying speech, old man, as far +as this subject is concerned, and I 'm talking to you and to no one +else. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +There's just one thing more I want to say. I don't want either you or +Marjory to think I'm going out of your lives a martyr—that I'm going +off to pine and die. The first time she left me I made an ass of +myself, and that was because I had not then got hold of the essential +fact of love. As I see it now, love—real love—does not lie in the +personal gratification of selfish desires. The wanting is only the +first stage. Perhaps it is a ruse of Nature to entice men to the +second stage, which is giving. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +Until recently my whole thought was centered on getting. I was +thinking of myself alone. It was baffled desire and injured vanity +that led me to do what I did before, and I was justly punished. It was +when I began to think less about myself and more about her that I was +reprieved. I'm leaving her now with but one desire: to do for her +whatever I may, at any time and in any place, to make her happy; and, +because of her, to do the same for any others with whom for the rest of +my life I may be thrown in contact. Thus I may be of some use and find +peace. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +I'm going away, Covington. That will leave her here alone. Wherever +you are, there must be trains back to Nice—starting perhaps within the +hour. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +So long. +</P> + +<P CLASS="closing"> +PETER J. NOYES. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap26"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXVI +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +FREEDOM +</H3> + + +<P> +With the departure of Peter and his sister—Peter had made his +leave-taking easy by securing an earlier train than she had expected +and sending her a brief note of farewell—Marjory found herself near +that ideal state of perfect freedom she had craved. There was now no +outside influence to check her movements. If she remained where she +was, there was no one to interrupt her in the solitary pursuit of her +own pleasure. Safe from any possibility of intrusion, she was at +liberty to remain in the seclusion of her room; but, if she preferred, +she could walk the quay without the slightest prospect in the world of +being forced to recognize the friendly greeting of any one. +</P> + +<P> +Peter was gone; Beatrice was gone; and Monte was gone. There was no +one else—unless by some chance poor Teddy Hamilton should turn up, +which was so unlikely that she did not even consider it. Yet there +were moments when, if she had met Teddy, she would have smiled a +welcome. She would not have feared him. There was only one person in +the world now of whom she stood in fear, and he was somewhere along the +English coast, playing a poor game of golf. +</P> + +<P> +She was free beyond her most extravagant dreams—absolutely free. She +was so free that it seemed aimless to rise in the morning, because +there was nothing awaiting her attention. She was so free that there +was no object in breakfasting, because there was no obligation +demanding her strength. She was so free that whether she should go out +or remain indoors depended merely upon the whim of the moment. There +was for her nothing either without or within. +</P> + +<P> +For the first twenty-four hours she sat in a sort of stupor. +</P> + +<P> +Marie became anxious. +</P> + +<P> +"Madame is not well?" she asked solicitously. +</P> + +<P> +"Perfectly well," answered Marjory dully. +</P> + +<P> +"Madame's cheeks are very white," Marie ventured further. +</P> + +<P> +Madame shrugged her shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"Is there any harm in that?" she demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"It is such a beautiful day to walk," suggested Marie. +</P> + +<P> +Marjory turned slowly. +</P> + +<P> +"What do you mean by beautiful?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ma foi, the sky is blue, the sun is shining, the birds singing," +explained Marie. +</P> + +<P> +"Do those things make a beautiful day?" +</P> + +<P> +"What else, madame?" inquired the maid, in astonishment. +</P> + +<P> +"I do not know," sighed madame. "All I know is that for me those +things do not count at all." +</P> + +<P> +"Then," declared Marie, "it is time to call a doctor." +</P> + +<P> +"For what?" +</P> + +<P> +"To make madame see the blue sky again and hear the birds." +</P> + +<P> +"But I do not care whether I see them or not," concluded madame, +turning away from the subject. +</P> + +<P> +Here was the whole thing in a nutshell. There were some who might +consider this to be an ideal state. Not to care about anything at all +was not to have anything at all to worry about. Certain philosophies +were based upon this state of mind. In part, Monte's own philosophy +was so based. If not to care too much were well, then not to care at +all should be better. It should leave one utterly and sublimely free. +But should it also leave one utterly miserable? +</P> + +<P> +There was something inconsistent in that—something unfair. To be +free, and yet to feel like a prisoner bound and gagged; not to care, +and yet to feel one's vitals eaten with caring; to obtain one's +objective, and then to be marooned there like a forsaken sailor on a +desert island—this was unjust. +</P> + +<P> +Ah, but she did care! It was as if some portion of her refused +absolutely to obey her will in this matter. In silence she might +declare her determination not to care, or through tense lips she might +mutter the same thing in spoken words; but this made no difference. +She was a free agent, to be sure. She had the right to dictate terms +to herself. She had the sole right to be arbiter of her destiny. It +was to that end she had craved freedom. It was for her alone to decide +about what she should care and should not care. She was no longer a +schoolgirl to be controlled by others. She was both judge and jury for +herself, and she had passed sentence to the effect that, since she had +chosen not to care when to care had been her privilege, it was no +longer her privilege to care when she chose to care. Nothing since +then had developed to give her the right to alter that verdict. If +anything, it held truer after Peter's departure than ever. She must +add to her indictment the harm she had done him. +</P> + +<P> +Still, she cared. Staring out of her window upon the quay, she caught +her breath at sight of every new passer-by, in fearful hope that it +might prove to be Monte. She did this when she knew that Monte was +hundreds of miles away. She did this in face of the fact that, if his +coming depended upon her consent, she would have withheld that consent. +If in truth he had suddenly appeared, she would have fled in terror. +He must not come; he should not come—but, O God, if he would come! +</P> + +<A NAME="img-276"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-276.jpg" ALT=""But, O God, if he would come!"" BORDER="2" WIDTH="403" HEIGHT="569"> +<H3 CLASS="h3center" STYLE="width: 403px"> +"But, O God, if he would come!" +</H3> +</CENTER> + +<P> +Sometimes this thought held her for a moment before she realized it. +Then for a space the sun appeared in the blue sky and the birds set up +such a singing as Marie had never heard in all her life. Perhaps for a +step or two she saw him striding toward her with his face aglow, his +clear, blue eyes smiling, his tender man mouth open to greet her. So +her heart leaped to her throat and her arms trembled. Then—the fall +into the abyss as she caught herself. Then her head drooping upon her +arm and the racking, dry sobs. +</P> + +<P> +How she did care! It was as if everything she had ever hungered for in +the past—all her beautiful, timid girlhood dreams; all that good part +of her later hunger for freedom; all of to-day and all that was worth +while of the days to come, had been gathered together, like jewels in a +single jewel casket, and handed over to him. He had them all. None +had been left her. She had none left. +</P> + +<P> +She had always known that if ever she loved it was so that she must +love. It was this that she had feared. She had known that if she gave +at all she must give utterly—all that she ever had or hoped to have. +Suddenly she recalled Mrs. Chic. It was with a new emotion. The +latter had always been to her the symbol of complete self-sacrifice. +It centered around the night Chic, Junior was born. That night she had +been paler than Mrs. Chic herself; she had whimpered more than Mrs. +Chic. Outside, waiting, she had feared more than the wife within who +was wrestling with death for a new life. She had sat alone, with her +hands over her ears in an agony of fear and horror. She had marveled +that any woman would consent to face such a crisis. It had seemed +wrong that love—an affair of orange blossoms and music and +laughter—should lead to that. Wide-eyed, she had sobbed in terror +until it was over. It was with awe and wonder that a few days later +she had seen Mrs. Chic lying in her big white bed so crooningly happy +and jubilant. +</P> + +<P> +Now she understood. The fear and horror had vanished. Had she been in +the next room to-day, her heart would have leaped with joy in tune with +her who was fighting her grim fight. Because the aches and the pains +are but an incident of preparation. Not only that, but one can so love +that pain, physical pain, may in the end be the only means for an +adequate expression of that love. The two may be one, so blended as to +lead, in the end, to perfect joy. Even mental pains, such as she +herself now suffered, can do that. For all she was undergoing she +would not have given up one second to be back again where she was a +month before. +</P> + +<P> +Something comes with love. It is that more than love itself which is +the greatest thing in the world. Sitting by her window, watching the +shadows pass, Marjory was sensing this. The knowledge was coming +slowly, imperceptibly; but it was bringing her strength. It was +steadying her nerves. It was preparing her for the supreme test. +</P> + +<P> +Because that very day, toward sunset-time, as she still sat by her +window, she saw a shadow that looked like Monte. She smiled a little, +because she knew it would soon dissolve. Rapidly the shadow strode +along the quay until opposite the hotel. Then, instead of vanishing, +it came on—straight toward her. She sprang to her feet, leaning back +against the wall, not daring to look again. So she stood, counting her +heart-beats; for she was still certain that when a hundred or so of +them had passed, the illusion also would fade. +</P> + +<P> +Marjory did not have time to count a full hundred heart-beats before +she heard a light rap at the door. For the fraction of a second she +swayed in the fear that, taking the stairs three at a time, Monte might +have ventured to her very room. But it would be with no such gentle +tap that he would announce himself. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes?" she called. +</P> + +<P> +"A card for madame," came the voice of the garçon. +</P> + +<P> +Her knees still weak, she crossed the room and took the card. There +was no longer any hope left to her. Apparitions do not materialize to +the point where they present their cards. +</P> + +<P> +"Madame is in?" queried the boy. +</P> + +<P> +"What else can I say?" she asked, as if, in her desperate need, seeking +counsel of him. +</P> + +<P> +The boy shrugged his shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"If madame desires, I can report madame is away," he offered. +</P> + +<P> +It was all one to him. It was all one to every one else in the world +but herself. No one was interested. She was alone. Then why had not +Monte himself let her alone? That was the point, but to determine that +it was necessary to see him. +</P> + +<P> +It was possible he had come merely by chance. It was possible he had +come to see Peter, not knowing that Peter had gone. It was possible he +had returned this way in order to take the Mediterranean route home. +On the face of it, anything was more probable than that he had come +deliberately to see her. +</P> + +<P> +"You will ask monsieur to wait, and I will be down in a few moments," +she replied to the boy. +</P> + +<P> +She called to Marie. +</P> + +<P> +"I have a caller," she announced nervously. "You must make me look as +young as possible." +</P> + +<P> +Even if she had grown old inside, there was no reason why she should +reveal her secret. +</P> + +<P> +"I am glad," nodded Marie. "Madame should put on a white gown and wear +a ribbon in her hair." +</P> + +<P> +"A ribbon!" exclaimed madame. "That would look absurd." +</P> + +<P> +"You shall see." +</P> + +<P> +She was too weak to protest. She was glad enough to sit down and give +herself up utterly to Marie. +</P> + +<P> +"Only we must not keep him waiting too long," she said. "Monsieur +Covington does not like to be kept waiting." +</P> + +<P> +"It is he?" exclaimed Marie. +</P> + +<P> +"It—it is quite a surprise." She blushed. "I—I do not understand +why he is here." +</P> + +<P> +"It should not be difficult to understand," ventured Marie. +</P> + +<P> +To that madame made no reply. It was clear enough what Marie meant. +It was a natural enough mistake. To her, Monsieur Covington was still +the husband of madame. She had stood in the little chapel in Paris +when madame was married. When one was married, one was married; and +that was all there was to it for all time. So, doubtless, Marie +reasoned. It was the simple peasant way—the old, honest, woman way. +</P> + +<P> +Madame folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes while Marie did +her hair and adjusted the ribbon. Then Marie slipped a white gown over +her head. +</P> + +<P> +"There," concluded the maid, with satisfaction, as she fastened the +last hook. "Madame looks as young as when she was married." +</P> + +<P> +But the color that made her look young vanished the moment Marjory +started down the stairs alone to meet him. Several times she paused to +catch her breath; several times she was upon the point of turning back. +Then she saw him coming up to meet her. She felt her hand in his. +</P> + +<P> +"Jove!" he was saying, "but it's good to see you again." +</P> + +<P> +"But I don't understand why you are here," she managed to gasp. +</P> + +<P> +To him it was evidently as simple as to Marie. +</P> + +<P> +"To see you," he answered promptly. +</P> + +<P> +"If that is all, then you should not have come," she declared. +</P> + +<P> +They were still on the stairs. She led the way down and into the lower +reception-room. She did not care to go again into the sun parlor. She +thought it would be easier to talk to him in surroundings not +associated with anything in the past. They had the room to themselves. +She sat down and motioned him to another chair at some little distance. +He paid no attention to her implied request. With his feet planted +firmly, his arms folded, he stood before her while she tried to find +some way of avoiding his gaze. +</P> + +<P> +"Peter Noyes has gone," he began. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," she nodded. "You heard about his eyes?" +</P> + +<P> +"He wrote me." +</P> + +<P> +She looked up swiftly. +</P> + +<P> +"Peter wrote you?" she trembled. +</P> + +<P> +"He told me he had recovered his sight. He told me he was going." +</P> + +<P> +What else had he told? Dizzily she waited. For the first time in her +life, she felt as if she might faint. That would be such a silly thing +to do! +</P> + +<P> +"He said he was going home—out of your life." +</P> + +<P> +Peter had told Monte that! What else had he told? +</P> + +<P> +He paused a moment, as if expecting her to make some reply. There, was +nothing she could say. +</P> + +<P> +"It was n't what I expected," he went on. +</P> + +<P> +What else had Peter told him? +</P> + +<P> +"Was n't there any other way?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"I did n't send him home. He—he chose to go," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Because it was n't any use for him to remain?" +</P> + +<P> +"I told him the truth," she nodded. +</P> + +<P> +"And he took it like a man!" exclaimed Monte enthusiastically. "I 'd +like to show you his letter, only I don't know that it would be quite +fair to him." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't want to see it," she cut in. "I—I know I should n't." +</P> + +<P> +What else besides his going had Peter told Monte? +</P> + +<P> +"It was his letter that brought me back," he said. +</P> + +<P> +She held her breath. She had warned Peter that if he as much as hinted +at anything that she had confessed to him, she would lie to Monte. So +she should—but God forbid that this added humiliation be brought upon +her. +</P> + +<P> +"You see, when I went I expected that he would be left to care for you. +With him and his sister here, I knew you would n't be alone. I thought +they'd stay, or if they went—you'd go with them." +</P> + +<P> +"But why should n't I be alone?" she gathered strength to ask. +</P> + +<P> +"Because," he answered quickly, "it is n't good for you. It is n't +good for any one. Besides, it is n't right. When we were married I +made certain promises, and those hold good until we're unmarried." +</P> + +<P> +"Monte!" she cried. +</P> + +<P> +"As long as Peter was around, that was one thing; now that he's gone—" +</P> + +<P> +"It throws me back on your hands," she interrupted, in an attempt to +assert herself. "Please to sit down. You're making your old mistake +of trying to be serious. There's not the slightest reason in the world +why you should bother about me like this." +</P> + +<P> +She ventured to look at him again. His brows were drawn together in a +puzzled frown. Dear Monte—it was cruel of her to confuse him like +this, when he was trying to see straight. He looked so very woe-begone +when he looked troubled at all. +</P> + +<P> +"It—it is n't any bother," he stammered. +</P> + +<P> +"I should think it was a good deal," she answered, feeling for a moment +that she had the upper hand. "Where did you come from to here?" +</P> + +<P> +"Paris." +</P> + +<P> +"You did n't go on to England at all?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you did n't get back to your schedule. If you had done that, you +would n't have had any time left to—to think about other things." +</P> + +<P> +"I did n't get beyond the Normandie," he answered. "My schedule +stopped short right there." +</P> + +<P> +He was still standing before her. Apparently he intended to remain. +So she rose and crossed to another chair. He followed. +</P> + +<P> +"You should have gone on," she insisted. +</P> + +<P> +"I had my old room—next to yours," he said. +</P> + +<P> +She must trouble him still more. There was no other way. +</P> + +<P> +"That was rather sentimental of you, Monte, was n't it?" she asked +lightly. +</P> + +<P> +"I went there as a man goes home," he answered softly. +</P> + +<P> +Her lips became suddenly dumb. +</P> + +<P> +"Then I had a long letter from Peter; the first one." +</P> + +<P> +"He has written you before?" +</P> + +<P> +"He wrote me that he loved you and was going to marry you. That was +before he learned the truth." +</P> + +<P> +"About you?" +</P> + +<P> +"And about you. When he wrote again, he said you had told him +everything." +</P> + +<P> +So she had; more, far more than she should. What of that had he told +Monte? The question left her faint again. +</P> + +<P> +"How did it happen?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"I—I don't know," she faltered. "He guessed a little, and then I had +to tell him the rest." +</P> + +<P> +Monte's mouth hardened. +</P> + +<P> +"That should n't have been left for you to do. I should have told him +myself." +</P> + +<P> +"Now that it's all over—can't we forget it, Monte, with all the rest?" +</P> + +<P> +He bent a little toward her. +</P> + +<P> +"Have you forgotten all the rest?" he demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"At least, I 'm trying," she gasped. +</P> + +<P> +"I wonder if you have found it as hard as I even to try?" +</P> + +<P> +Steady—she must hold herself steady. His words were afire. With her +eyes on the ground, she felt his eyes searching her face. +</P> + +<P> +"Whether it is hard or not makes no difference," she answered. +</P> + +<P> +"It's just that which makes all the difference in the world," he +contradicted. "I wanted to be honest with myself and with you. So I +went away, willing to forget if that were the honest way. But, from +the moment I took the train here at Nice, I've done nothing but +remember. I've remembered every single minute of the time since I met +you in Paris. The present has been made up of nothing but the past. +Passing hours were nothing but echoes of past hours. +</P> + +<P> +"I've remembered everything—even things away back that I thought I had +forgotten. I dug up even those glimpses I had had of you at Chic's +house when you were only a school-girl. And I did n't do it on +purpose, Marjory. I 'd have been glad not to do it, because at the +time it hurt to remember them. I thought I'd given you over to Peter. +I thought he was going to take you away from me. So I 'd have been +glad enough to forget, if it had been possible." +</P> + +<P> +She sprang to her feet. +</P> + +<P> +"What are you saying, Monte?" she trembled. +</P> + +<P> +With his head erect and his eyes shining, he was telling her what her +heart hungered to hear. That was what he was doing. Only she must not +listen. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm telling you that to forget was not possible," he repeated hotly; +"I'm telling you that I shall never try again. I've come back to get +you and keep you this time." +</P> + +<P> +He held out his arms to her. She shrank back. +</P> + +<P> +"You're making it so hard," she quavered. +</P> + +<P> +"Come to me," he said gently. "That's the easy way. I love you, +Marjory. Don't you understand? I love you with all my heart and soul, +and I want you to begin life with me now in earnest. Come, little +woman." +</P> + +<P> +He reached her hands and tried to draw her toward him. She resisted +with all her strength. +</P> + +<P> +"You must n't," she gasped. "You must n't!" +</P> + +<P> +"It's you who're making it hard now, wife o' mine," he whispered. +</P> + +<P> +Yes, she was making it hard. But she must make it still harder. He +had come back to her because she was alone, moved temporarily by a +feeling of sentimental responsibility. That was all. He was sincere +enough for the moment, but she must not confuse this with any deeper +passion. He had made a mistake in returning to the Normandie. +Doubtless he had felt lonesome there. It was only natural that he +should exaggerate that, for the time being, into something more. +</P> + +<P> +Then Peter's two letters had come. If Peter had not told him anything +that he should n't, he had probably told him a great deal more than he +should. Monte, big-hearted and good, had, as a consequence of all +these things, imagined himself in love. This delusion might last a +week or two; and then, when he came to himself again, the rude +awakening would follow. He would see her then merely as a trifler. +Worse than that, he might see himself as merely a trifler. That would +be deadly. +</P> + +<P> +"It's you who are making it hard now," he repeated. +</P> + +<P> +She had succeeded in freeing herself, leaving him before her as amazed +and hurt as a spurned child. +</P> + +<P> +"You're forcing me to run away from you—to run away as I did from the +others," she said. +</P> + +<P> +He staggered before the blow. +</P> + +<P> +"Not that!" he cried hoarsely. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm going home," she ran on. "I'm going back to my little farm, where +I started." +</P> + +<P> +"You're running away—from me?" +</P> + +<P> +"I must go right off." +</P> + +<P> +She looked around as if for Marie. It was as if she were about to +start that second. +</P> + +<P> +"Where is Marie?" she asked dully. +</P> + +<P> +She made for the door. +</P> + +<P> +"Marjory," he called after her. "Don't do that!" +</P> + +<P> +"I must go—right off," she said again. +</P> + +<P> +"Wife o' mine," he cried, "there is no need of that." +</P> + +<P> +"Marie!" she called as she reached the door. "Marie!" +</P> + +<P> +Frantically she ran up the stairs. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap27"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXVII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +WAR +</H3> + + +<P> +War! +</P> + +<P> +A summer sky, warm and fragrant, suddenly became dour and overcast. +Within a day thunder rolled and lightning flashed. Men glanced up in +startled surprise, then clenched their jaws. Women who were laughing +gayly turned suddenly white. Orders were speeded over the wires and +through the clouds to the remotest hamlets of France. In a few hours +men began to gather in uniform, bearing rifles. They posted themselves +about the gates of stations. They increased in numbers until they were +everywhere. Trumpets sounded, drums rolled. Excited groups gathered +in the hotels and rushed off to the consulates. The very air was tense +and vibrant. +</P> + +<P> +War! +</P> + +<P> +People massed in groups. The individual no longer counted. +Storekeepers, bankers, dandies, chauffeurs, postmen, gardeners, hotel +proprietors became merely Frenchmen. They dropped the clothes that +distinguished their caste, and became merely men in uniform. +</P> + +<P> +Foreign visitors no longer counted as individuals. They ran about in +panic-stricken groups like vagrant dogs. Those in uniform looked on +indifferently, or gave sharp orders turning strangers back from this +road or that, this gate or that. A chauffeur in uniform might turn +back his millionaire foreign master. +</P> + +<P> +Credit money no longer counted. Banks refused to give out gold, and +the shopkeepers and hotel proprietors refused to accept anything but +gold. No one knew what might happen, and refused to risk. A man might +brandish a letter of credit for ten thousand francs and be refused a +glass of wine. A man with a thousand francs in gold was in a better +position than a millionaire with only paper. +</P> + +<P> +Monte discovered this when he hurried to his own bankers. With half a +million dollars and more to his credit at home, he was not allowed a +single louis d'or. Somewhat bewildered, he stood on the steps and +counted the gold he happened to have in his pockets. It amounted to +some fifty dollars. To all intents and purposes, that embraced his +entire capital. In the present emergency his stocks and bonds were of +no avail whatever to him. He thought of the cables, but gold could not +be cabled—only more credit, which in this grim crisis went for +nothing. It was as if he had suddenly been forced into bankruptcy. +His fortune temporarily had been swept away. +</P> + +<P> +If that was true of his own, it must be equally true of Marjory's. She +was no wealthier now than the sum total of the gold she happened to +have in her possession. The thought came to him at first as a shock. +What was she going to do? She was upon the point of leaving, and her +plans must have been suddenly checked. She was, in effect, a prisoner +here. She was stranded as completely as if she were any penniless +young woman. +</P> + +<P> +Then some emotion—some feeling indistinctly connected with the +grandfather who had crossed the plains in forty-nine—swept over him. +It was a primitive exultation. It made him conscious of the muscles in +his back and legs. It made him throw back his head and square his +shoulders. A moment before, with railroads and steamships at her +command, with a hundred men standing ready to do her bidding in +response to the magic of her check-book, she had been as much mistress +of her little world as any ancient queen. +</P> + +<P> +Sweaty men were rushing fruits from the tropics, silks from India, +diamonds from Africa, caviar from the north; others were making ready +fine quarters in every corner of the globe; others were weaving cloths +and making shoes; others were rehearsing plays and music—all for her +and others like her, who had only to call upon their banks to pay for +all this toil. Instead of one man to supply her needs, she had a +thousand, ten thousand. With the machinery of civilization working +smoothly, she had only to nod—and sign a check. +</P> + +<P> +Now, overnight, this had been changed. The machinery was to be put to +other uses. Ships that had been carrying silks were needed for men +with rifles. Railroads were for troops. The sweat of men was to be in +battle. Servants were to be used for the slaughter of other servants. +With nations at one another's throats, the very basis of credit, mutual +trust and esteem, was gone. She and others like her did not count. +Men with the lust for blood in their hearts could not bother with them. +They might sit in their rooms and sob, or they might starve. It did +not much matter. A check was only a bit of paper. Under such +conditions it might be good or not. Gold was what counted—gold and +men. Broad backs counted, and stout legs. +</P> + +<P> +Monte took a deep breath. Now—it might be possible that he would +count. It was so that his grandfather had counted. He had fought his +way across a continent and back for just such another woman as Marjory. +Life had been primitive then. It was primitive now. Men and women +were forced to stand together and take the long road side by side. +</P> + +<P> +The blood rushed to Monte's head. He must get to her at once. She +would need him now—if only for a little while. He must carry her +home. She could not go without him. +</P> + +<P> +He started down the steps of the bank, two at a time, and almost ran +against her. She was on her way to the bank as he had been, in search +of gold. Her eyes greeted him with the welcome her lips would not. +</P> + +<P> +"You see!" he exclaimed, with a quick laugh. +</P> + +<P> +"When you need me I come." +</P> + +<P> +She was dressed in the very traveling costume she had worn when they +left Paris together. She was wearing, too, the same hat. It might +have been yesterday. +</P> + +<P> +"They refused my check at the hotel," she explained nervously. "They +say they must have gold." +</P> + +<P> +"Have you any?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"One louis d'or." +</P> + +<P> +"And I have ten," he informed her. +</P> + +<P> +She did not understand why he should be so exultant over this fact. +</P> + +<P> +"I have come here to get enough to pay my bill and buy my ticket. I am +leaving this morning." +</P> + +<P> +"They won't give you any," he explained. "Besides, they won't carry +you on the train unless you put on a uniform." +</P> + +<P> +"Monte!" +</P> + +<P> +"It's a fact." +</P> + +<P> +"Then—what am I to do?" +</P> + +<P> +She looked quite helpless—deliciously helpless. +</P> + +<P> +He laughed joyously. +</P> + +<P> +"You are bankrupt," he said. "So am I. We have only fifty-five +dollars between us. But that is something. Also there is the machine. +That will take us over the Italian frontier and to Genoa. I ought to +be able to sell it there for something. Come on." +</P> + +<P> +"Where?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"We must get the car as soon as possible. I have a notion that with +every passing hour it is going to be more difficult to get out." +</P> + +<P> +"But I'm not going with you, Monte. It's—it's impossible!" +</P> + +<P> +"It's the only way, little woman." +</P> + +<P> +He gave her no time to argue about it, but took her arm and hurried her +to the garage. It was necessary to walk. Taxis were as if they had +never been. They passed groups of soldiers who turned to look at +Marjory. The eyes of many were hot with wine, and she was very glad +that she was not alone. +</P> + +<P> +At the door of the garage stood a soldier in uniform. As Monte +attempted to pass, he was brought to a halt. +</P> + +<P> +"It is not permitted to pass," explained the guard. +</P> + +<P> +"But I want to get my car." +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm afraid monsieur has no car." +</P> + +<P> +"Eh?" +</P> + +<P> +"They have all been taken for la patrie." +</P> + +<P> +"You mean my machine has been confiscated?" +</P> + +<P> +"Borrowed, perhaps. After the victory—" The guard shrugged his +shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +Monte shrugged his own shoulders. Then he laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"After all," he said, "that is little enough to do for France. Inform +the authorities they are welcome." +</P> + +<P> +He saluted the guard, who returned the salute. Again he took Marjory's +arm, and turned toward the hotel. +</P> + +<P> +"There is nothing to do but to walk," he declared. +</P> + +<P> +"Where?" +</P> + +<P> +She could not understand his mood. It was as if this were a holiday +instead of a very serious plight. +</P> + +<P> +"Over the border. It is only some twenty-five miles. We can do it +easily in two days; but even if it takes three—" +</P> + +<P> +Even if it took a hundred, what did it matter, with her by his side? +And by his side she must remain until her credit was restored. With +only one louis d'or in her pocket, she was merely a woman, with all the +limitations of her sex. She could not take to the open road alone. +She did not have the physical strength that dictated the law for +vagabonds. She must have a man near to fight for her, or it would go +hard. Even Marie would be no protection in time of war. +</P> + +<P> +Dumbly she followed his pace until they reached the hotel. The place +was in confusion and the proprietor at his wits' end. In the midst of +it, Monte was the only one apparently unmoved. +</P> + +<P> +"Pack one small hand-bag," he ordered. "You must leave your trunks +here." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Monte," she submitted. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll run back to the Roses, and meet you here in a half-hour. Will +you be ready?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Marie will come with us, of course." +</P> + +<P> +He shook his head. +</P> + +<P> +"She must wait here until she can get to Paris. Find out if she has +any cash." +</P> + +<P> +"I want her to come with me," she pleaded. +</P> + +<P> +"I doubt if she will want to come. Anyway, our fifty-five dollars +won't stretch to her. We—we can't afford a maid." +</P> + +<P> +She flushed at his use of "we." Nevertheless, what he said was true +enough. That sum was a mere pittance. Fate had her in a tight grip. +</P> + +<P> +"Be sure to bring your passport," he reminded her. "It is ten-thirty. +I 'll be here at eleven." +</P> + +<P> +Hurrying back to his room, he took what he could crowd into his +pockets: his safety razor and toothbrush, a few handkerchiefs and a +change of socks. One did not need much on the open road. He carried +his sweater—the old crimson sweater with the black "H"—more for her +than for himself. The rest of his things he threw into his trunk and +left in the care of the hotel. +</P> + +<P> +She was waiting for him when he returned to the Hôtel d'Angleterre. +</P> + +<P> +"You were right about Marie," she acknowledged. "She has two brothers +in the army. She has money enough for her fare to Paris, and is going +as soon as possible." +</P> + +<P> +"In the meanwhile she is safe enough here. So, en avant!" +</P> + +<P> +He took her bag, and they stepped out into the sunshine. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap28"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXVIII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE CORNICE ROAD +</H3> + + +<P> +It was the Cornice Road that he followed—the broad white road that +skirts the sea at the foot of the Alpes Maritimes. As far as Monte +Carlo, he had walked it alone many the time. But he had never walked +it with her, so it was a new road. It was a new world too, and as far +as he was concerned there was no war. The blue sky overhead gave no +hint of war; neither did the Mediterranean; neither did the trees full +of singing birds; neither did the grasses and flowers: and these +things, with the woman at his side, comprised, for the moment, his +whole world. It was the world as originally created for man and woman. +All that he was leaving behind—banks and hotels and taxis and servants +and railroads—had nothing to do with the primal idea of creation. +They were all extraneous. The heavens, the earth, the waters beneath +the earth, man and woman created He them. That was all. That was +enough. +</P> + +<P> +Once or twice, alone in his camp in the Adirondacks, Monte had sensed +this fact. With a bit of food to eat, a bit of tobacco to smoke in his +old brier, a bit of ground to lie down upon at night, he had marveled +that men found so many other things necessary to their comfort. But, +after a week or two of that, he had always grown restless, and hurried +back to New York and his club and his men servants. In turn he grew +restless there, and hurried on to the still finer luxuries of the +German liners and the Continent. +</P> + +<P> +That was because he was lonesome—because she had not been with him. +It was because—how clearly he saw it now!—he had never been complete +by himself alone. He had been satisfying only half of himself. The +other half he had tried to quiet with man-made things, with the +artificial products of civilization. He had thought to allay that +deep, undefined hunger in him with travel and sports and the attentions +of hirelings. It had been easy at first; but, keen as nimble wits had +been to keep pace with his desires with an ever-increasing variety of +luxuries, he had exhausted them all within a decade and been left +unsatisfied. +</P> + +<P> +To-day it was as if with each intake of breath the sweet air reached +for the first time the most remote corners of his lungs. He had never +before had air enough. The sunshine reached to the marrow of his +bones. Muscles that had lagged became vibrant. He could hardly keep +his feet upon the ground. He would have liked to run; to keep on +running mile after mile. He wondered when he would tire. He had a +feeling that he could never tire. His back and arm muscles ached for +action. He would have enjoyed a rough-and-tumble fight with some +impudent fellow vagabond of the road. +</P> + +<P> +Marjory walked by his side in silence. That was all he asked—simply +that she should be there on the left, dependent upon him. Here was the +nub of the matter. Always before she had been able to leave him if she +wished. She had married him upon that condition. There had never been +a moment, until now, when he had not been conscious of the fact that he +was in no way necessary to her. The protection against Teddy and the +others was merely a convenience. He had been able to save her from +annoyance, that was all. At any time on that ride from Paris she could +have left him and gone on her way quite safely. At Nice, that was just +what she had done. It was to save her from the annoyance of himself +that he had finally gone away. Had he been really needed, that would +have been impossible. But he knew that she could get along without him +as she did. Then when Peter had gone it was more because he needed her +than because she needed him that he had returned. Down deep in his +heart he knew that, whatever he may have pretended. She was safe +enough from everything except possible annoyance. With plenty of gold +at her command, there was nothing that he could buy for her that she +could not buy for herself. +</P> + +<P> +Now she had no gold—except one louis d'or. He was almost jealous of +that single piece. He would have been glad if she lost it. If he had +seen it drop from her bag, he would have let it lie where it fell. +</P> + +<P> +She was merely a woman now. The muscles in her arms and legs were not +strong. Because of that she could not leave his side, nor order him to +leave. She must look to him to fight for her if fighting were +necessary. She must look to him to put his strong arm about her and +help her if she grew weary. She must look to him to provide her with +food and shelter for the night. Physically she was like a child out +here on the open road. But he was a man. +</P> + +<P> +He was a man because he had something to protect. He was a man because +he was responsible for some one besides himself. It was this that the +other half of him had been craving all these years. It was this that +completed him. +</P> + +<P> +Yet his attitude toward her, in this respect, was strangely impersonal. +He was looking for no reward. He did not consider that he was placing +her in any way under an obligation to him. His joy in doing for her +was not based upon any idea of furthering his own interests. He was +utterly unselfish. He did not look ahead an hour. It was enough to +have her here in a position where he could be of some service. +</P> + +<P> +His love for her was another matter entirely. Whether she were with +him or not, that would have remained the same. He loved her with all +there was in him, and that was more or less distinct from any attitude +that she might assume. It was a separate, definite, concrete fact, no +longer open to argument—no longer to be affected by any of the petty +accidents of circumstance. Not even she had now any control over it. +It was within her power to satisfy it or not; but that was all. She +could not destroy it. If she left it unfulfilled, then he must endure +that, as Peter had. Peter was not sorry that he loved her, and +Peter—why, Peter did not have the opportunity to sense more than the +first faint beginnings of the word love. Peter had not had those weeks +in Paris in which to get to know her; he had not had that wonderful +ride through sunny France with Marjory by his side; and Peter had had +nothing approaching such a day as this. +</P> + +<P> +Monte turned to look at her. They had passed through Villefranche, and +were now taking the up grade. The exercise had flushed her cheeks, +giving her back the color she had lacked in the last few weeks. Her +eyes were upon the ground, as if she did not dare raise them. Her face +always seemed younger when one did not see the eyes. Asleep, she could +not have looked over twenty. He marveled at how delicately feminine +her forehead and nose were. And the lips—he could not look very long +at her lips. Warm and full of curves, they tugged at his heart. They +roused desire. Yet, had it been his blessed privilege to touch them +with his own, he would have been very gentle about it. A man must +needs always be gentle with her, he thought. +</P> + +<P> +That was why he must not utter the phrases that burned within. It +would only frighten her, and he must see that she was never frightened +again. To himself he might say as much as he pleased, because she +could not hear. He could repeat to himself over and over again, as he +did now, "I love you—I love you—I love you." +</P> + +<P> +Out loud, however, he said only:— +</P> + +<P> +"Are you tired?" +</P> + +<P> +She started even at that. +</P> + +<P> +"No, Monte," she answered. +</P> + +<P> +"We can rest any time you wish. We have all the time in the world +ahead of us." +</P> + +<P> +"Have we?" +</P> + +<P> +"Days and weeks and months," he replied. +</P> + +<P> +It was the old Monte she heard—the easy, care-free Monte. It made her +feel easier. +</P> + +<P> +"We should cross the border by to-morrow night, should n't we?" she +asked. +</P> + +<P> +"We could, if it were necessary," he admitted. +</P> + +<P> +She quickened her pace unconsciously. +</P> + +<P> +"I think we should get there as soon as possible." +</P> + +<P> +"That," he said, "would be like hurrying through Eden." +</P> + +<P> +She ventured to glance up at him. With his lean, strong face to the +sun, his lithe body swinging rhythmically to his stride, he looked like +an Indian chieftain. So he would have stalked through virgin forests. +So, under different conditions, she might have been following his lead. +But conditions were as they were. That is what she must keep in mind. +He was here merely to escort her safely to Italy and to the steamer in +which she was soon to sail for home. He was being decent to her, as +under the same conditions he would be to any woman. He could scarcely +do less than he was doing. She was forced upon him. +</P> + +<P> +That he apparently took pleasure in the episode was natural enough. It +was just the sort of experience he enjoyed. It was another pleasant +excursion like the motor trip from Paris, with a touch of adventure +added to give it spice. Possibly in his present mood there was also a +trace of romance. Monte had his romantic side, based upon his quick +sympathies. A maiden in distress was enough to rouse this. That was +what happened yesterday when he told her of his love. He had been +sincere enough for the moment, and no doubt believed everything he +said. He had not given himself quite time enough to get back to his +schedule. With that in good running order he would laugh at his +present folly. +</P> + +<P> +For she must remember that Monte had not as yet touched either the +heights or the depths of love. It was in him to do that, but she must +see to it that he did not. That was her task. Love as he saw it now +was merely a pleasant garden, in May. It was a gypsy jaunt along the +open road where it was pleasant enough to have her with him as he +whistled along. A day or a week or a month or two of that was well +enough, as he had said. Only she—she could not last that long. +To-day and to-morrow at the utmost was as much as she could endure, +with every minute a struggle to whip back her emotions. Were it safe, +she would try to keep it up for his sake. If without danger she could +keep him happy this way, not allowing him to go any further, she would +try. But there is a limit to what of herself a woman may sacrifice, +even if she is willing. +</P> + +<P> +So, with her lips set, she stumbled along the Cornice Road by his side. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +At five that evening they had made half their journey and stopped at a +wayside inn—the inn of L'Agneau dansant. On a squeaking sign before +the ancient stone structure, which looked as if it must have been there +in the days of post-chaises, a frolicsome lamb danced upon his hind +legs, smiling to all who paused there an invitation to join him in this +innocent pastime and not take the world too seriously. The good humor +of the crude painting appealed to Monte. He grinned back at L'Agneau +dansant. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm with you," he nodded. +</P> + +<P> +Marjory, dusty and footsore, followed his gaze. +</P> + +<P> +Then she too smiled. +</P> + +<P> +"That fellow has the proper spirit," he declared. "Shall we place +ourselves in his care?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm afraid I can't go any farther," she answered wearily. +</P> + +<P> +Monsieur Soucin came out, looking to be in anything but the mood of the +gay lamb before his door. +</P> + +<P> +"Two rooms, a little supper, and some breakfast," explained Monte. +"But we must strike a bargain. We are not American tourists—merely +two travelers of the road without much gold and a long way to go." +</P> + +<P> +"I have but a single louis d'or," put in madame. +</P> + +<P> +"Monsieur! Madame!" interrupted Soucin. "I am sorry, but I cannot +accommodate you at any price. In the next village a regiment of +soldiers have arrived. I have had word that I must receive here ten +officers. They come at seven to-night." +</P> + +<P> +"But look here—madame is very tired," frowned Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"I am sorry," answered Soucin helplessly. +</P> + +<P> +Monte stepped nearer and jingled the gold in his pocket. +</P> + +<P> +"Doubtless the next village in that case is without accommodations +also," said Monte. "We will strike no bargain. Name your price up to +ten louis d'or; for madame must rest." +</P> + +<P> +Soucin shook his head. +</P> + +<P> +"I am giving up my own room. I must sleep in the kitchen—if I sleep +at all; which, mon Dieu, is doubtful." +</P> + +<P> +"Supposing we had arrived yesterday, would you have turned us out +to-night?" +</P> + +<P> +"The inquiry was made how many rooms I had, and I answered truthfully." +</P> + +<P> +Madame had sunk down on a bench by the door. Monte stared up the road +and down the road. There was no other house in sight. +</P> + +<P> +"You could not find a bed for madame even for ten louis d'or?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not for a thousand, monsieur. If there are no beds, there are no +beds." +</P> + +<P> +Yet there was room enough thereabouts. Behind the inn an olive orchard +extended up a gentle incline to a stone wall. Over this the sun was +descending in a blaze of glory. A warm breeze stirred the dark leaves +of the trees. A man could sleep out of doors on such a night as this. +Monte turned again to the man. +</P> + +<P> +"The orchard behind the house is yours?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, monsieur." +</P> + +<P> +"Then," said Monte, "if you will spare us a few blankets, madame and I +will sleep there." +</P> + +<P> +"Upon the ground?" +</P> + +<P> +"Upon the blankets," smiled Monte. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, monsieur is from America!" exclaimed Soucin, as if that explained +everything. +</P> + +<P> +"Truly." +</P> + +<P> +"And it is so the Indians sleep, I have read." +</P> + +<P> +"You have read well. But we must have supper before the officers +arrive. You can spare some bread and cheese?" +</P> + +<P> +"I will do that." +</P> + +<P> +"Then make it ready at once. And some coffee?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, monsieur." +</P> + +<P> +Monte returned to madame. +</P> + +<P> +"I have engaged two rooms in the olive orchard," he announced. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap29"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXIX +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BENEATH THE STARS +</H3> + + +<P> +The situation was absurd, but what could be done about it? France was +at war, and there would be many who would sleep upon the ground who had +never slept there before. Many, too, in the ground. Still, the +situation was absurd—that Marjory, with all her thousands of dollars, +should be forced to sleep out of doors. It gave her a startling sense +of helplessness. She had been before in crowded places, but the +securing of accommodations was merely a matter of increasing the size +of her check. But here, even if one had a thousand louis d'or, that +would have made no difference. Officers of the Army of France were not +to be disturbed by the tinkle of gold. With a single gold-piece, +moreover, one could not even make a tinkle. +</P> + +<P> +She went into the inn to tidy herself before supper; but she hurried +back to Monte as quickly as possible. Out of sight of him she felt as +lost as a child in a forest. She had nothing to lean upon now but him. +Without him here she would scarcely have had even identity. Her name, +except as signed to a check, meant nothing. To have announced herself +as Miss Marjory Stockton, or even as Madame Covington, would have left +the soldiers of France merely smiling. To her sex they might have paid +some deference, but to her sex alone. She was not anything except as +she was attached to Monte—as a woman under the protection of her man. +</P> + +<P> +This did not humble her. Her first clean, unguarded emotion was one of +pride. Had it been her privilege to let herself go, she would have +taken her place near him with her eyes afire—with her head held as +proudly as any queen. Gladly would she have rested by his side in an +olive orchard or a fisherman's hut or a forest or on the plains or +anywhere fortune might take him. By his side—that would have been +enough. If she were his woman and he her man, that would have been +enough. +</P> + +<P> +If she could only let herself go! As she came into the smoky old +tavern room and he stepped forward to meet her, she swayed a little. +He looked so big and wholesome and eager with his arms outstretched! +They were alone here. It would have been so easy just to close her +eyes and let her head rest against his shoulder—so easy and restful. +He would have kissed her hair, and the ache would all have gone from +her body and heart. He would draw her close and hold her tight—yes, +for a day or two or a month or two. Then he would remember that week +in which she had trifled with him, and he would hate her. +</P> + +<P> +She pulled herself together. +</P> + +<P> +"Is supper ready?" +</P> + +<P> +It was such an inane remark! He turned aside like a boy who has been +snubbed. +</P> + +<P> +Monsieur Soucin had provided bread and cheese, a salad, and coffee. It +was enough. She had no appetite. She took much more satisfaction in +watching Monte and in pouring his coffee. His honest hunger was not +disturbed by any vain speculations. He ate like a man, as he did +everything like a man. It restored her confidence again. +</P> + +<P> +"Soucin lent a mattress, which I have arranged just the other side of +the wall. That is your room. With plenty of blankets you should be +comfortable enough there," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"And you?" she inquired. +</P> + +<P> +"I am on this side of the wall," he replied gravely. +</P> + +<P> +"What are you going to sleep upon?" +</P> + +<P> +"A blanket." +</P> + +<P> +If it had been possible to do so, she would have given him the mattress +and slept upon the ground herself. That is what she would have liked +to do. +</P> + +<P> +"It's no more than I have done in the woods when I could n't make camp +in time," he explained. "I had hoped to take you some day to my cabin +near the lake." +</P> + +<P> +She could think of nothing better than another inane remark:— +</P> + +<P> +"It must be beautiful there." +</P> + +<P> +He looked up. +</P> + +<P> +"It always has been, but now—without you—" +</P> + +<P> +"You must n't let me make any difference," she put in quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because you must n't. You must go on just as if you had never met me." +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" He was as direct as a boy. +</P> + +<P> +"Because that's best. Oh, I know, Monte. You must trust me to know +what is good for you," she cried. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't believe you know even what is good for yourself," he answered. +</P> + +<P> +"I—I know what is right," she faltered. +</P> + +<P> +He saw that he was disturbing her, and he did not want to do that. +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps in time we'll see," he said. "I have a notion that some day +you and I will get straightened out." +</P> + +<P> +"It does n't make so much difference about me; but you—you must get +back to your schedule again as soon as ever you can." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps to a new one; but that must include you." +</P> + +<P> +She could not help the color in her cheeks. It was beyond her control. +</P> + +<P> +"I must make my own little schedule," she insisted. +</P> + +<P> +"You are going back to the farm?" +</P> + +<P> +She nodded. +</P> + +<P> +"To-morrow we shall be in Italy. Then a train to Genoa and the next +boat," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"After that?" +</P> + +<P> +"In a week or so I shall be back where I started." +</P> + +<P> +"Then?" +</P> + +<P> +She laughed nervously. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't think much ahead of that. Perhaps I shall raise chickens." +</P> + +<P> +"Year after year?" +</P> + +<P> +"Maybe." +</P> + +<P> +"If you lived to be seventy you'd have a lot of chickens by then, would +n't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"I—I don't know." +</P> + +<P> +It did sound ridiculous, the way he put it. +</P> + +<P> +"Then—would you will them to some one?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +He was laughing at her. She was glad to have him do that rather than +remain serious. +</P> + +<P> +"Please don't make me look ahead to seventy," she shuddered. +</P> + +<P> +Monsieur Soucin was hovering about nervously. He wished to have +everything cleared away before the officers arrived, and they would be +here now in half an hour. He was solicitous about madame. +</P> + +<P> +"It is a great pity that madame should sleep out of doors," he said. +"It makes my heart ache. But, with monsieur to guard her, at least +madame will be safe." +</P> + +<P> +Yes, safe from every one but herself. However, Monsieur Soucin could +not be expected to read a lady's innermost thoughts. Indeed, it would +scarcely have been gallant so to do. +</P> + +<P> +"And now you wish to be rid of us," said Monte as he rose. +</P> + +<P> +"Monsieur should not be unkind," sighed Soucin. "It is a necessity and +not a wish." +</P> + +<P> +"You have done as well as you could," Monte reassured him. "We shall +probably rise early and be on our way before the soldiers, so—" +</P> + +<P> +Monte slipped into his hand a gold-piece. It was too much from one +point of view, and yet from another it was little enough. Soucin had +unwittingly made an arrangement for which Monte could not pay in money. +</P> + +<P> +"And my share?" inquired Marjory. +</P> + +<P> +"One louis d'or," answered Monte unblushingly. +</P> + +<P> +She fumbled in her bag and brought it out—the last she had. And +Monte, in his reckless joy, handed that over also to Soucin. The man +was too bewildered to do more than bow as he might before a prince and +princess. +</P> + +<P> +Monte led her up the incline through the heavy-leaved olive trees to +her couch against the wall. It had been made up as neatly as in any +hotel, with plenty of blankets and a pillow for her head. +</P> + +<P> +"If you wish to retire at once," he said, "I'll go back to my side of +the wall." +</P> + +<P> +She hesitated. The wall was man-high and so thick that once he was +behind it she would feel terribly alone. +</P> + +<P> +"Or better still," he suggested, "you lie down and let me sit and smoke +here. I 'll be quiet." +</P> + +<P> +It was a temptation she would have resisted had she not been so tired +physically. As it was, half numbed with fatigue, she removed her hat +and lay down between the blankets. +</P> + +<P> +Monte slipped on his sweater with the black "H" and took a place +against the wall at Marjory's feet. +</P> + +<P> +"All comfy?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"It's impossible to feel altogether comfortable when you're selfish," +Marjory declared. +</P> + +<P> +He took a thoughtful puff of his cigarette. +</P> + +<P> +"I think you're right about that," he answered. "Only in this case +there's no reason in the world for you to feel like that, because I'm +comfortable too." +</P> + +<P> +"Honestly?" +</P> + +<P> +"Cross my heart. I'd rather be here than in the finest bed in Paris." +</P> + +<P> +"You're so good," she murmured. +</P> + +<P> +With all her muscles relaxed, and with him there, she felt as if she +were floating in the clouds. +</P> + +<P> +"It's strange you've always had that notion, because I 'm not +especially good," he replied. "Do you want to go to sleep, or may I +talk a while longer?" +</P> + +<P> +"Please to talk." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," he ran on meditatively, "something depends upon what you +mean by being good. I used to think it was merely being decent. I've +been that. It happened to be easy. But being good, as I see it now, +is being good when it isn't easy—and then something more." +</P> + +<P> +She was listening with bated breath, because he was voicing her own +thoughts. +</P> + +<P> +"It's being good to others besides yourself," he continued. +"Forgetting yourself for them—when that is n't easy." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, it's that," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't want to boast," he said; "but, in a way, I come nearer being +good at this moment, than ever before in my life." +</P> + +<P> +"You mean because it's tiresome for you to sit there?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because it's hard for me to sit here when I'd like to be kneeling by +your side, kissing your hand, your forehead, your lips," he answered +passionately. +</P> + +<P> +She started to her elbow. +</P> + +<P> +"I shan't move," he assured her. "But it is n't easy to sit here like +a bump on a log with everything you're starving for within arm's reach." +</P> + +<P> +"Monte!" she gasped. "Perhaps you'd better not talk." +</P> + +<P> +"If it were only as easy to stop thinking!" +</P> + +<P> +"Why don't one's thoughts mind?" she cried. "When they are told what's +right, why don't they come right?" +</P> + +<P> +"God knows," he answered. "I sit here and tell myself that if you +don't love me I should let it go at that, and think the way I did +before the solemn little pastor in Paris got so serious over what +wasn't meant to be serious. I've tried, little woman. I tried hard +when I left you with Peter. I could n't do it then, and I can't do it +now. I hear over and over again the words the little minister spoke, +and they grow more wonderful and fine every day. I think he must have +known then that I loved you or he would not have uttered them." +</P> + +<P> +The leaves in the olive trees rustled beneath the stars. +</P> + +<P> +"Dear wife," he cried, "when are you coming to me?" +</P> + +<P> +He did not move. She saw his broad shoulders against the wall. She +saw his arms folded over his chest as if to keep them tight. She saw +his clenched lips. +</P> + +<P> +"God help me to keep silent," she prayed. +</P> + +<P> +"When are you coming?" he repeated wearily. "Will it be one year or +two years or three years?" +</P> + +<P> +She moistened her lips. He seemed to speak as though it were only a +matter of time—as though it were he who was being punished and it was +only a question of how long. She sank back with her eyes upon the +stars darting shafts of white light through the purple. +</P> + +<P> +"And what am I going to do while I'm waiting?" he went on, as though to +himself. +</P> + +<P> +Grimly she forced out the words:— +</P> + +<P> +"You—you must n't wait. There 's nothing to wait for." +</P> + +<P> +She saw his arms tighten; saw his lips grow hard. +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing?" he exclaimed. "Don't make me believe that, because—then +there would n't be anything." +</P> + +<P> +She grew suddenly afraid. +</P> + +<P> +"There would be everything else in the world for you—everything except +me," she trembled. "And I count for so little. That's what I want you +to learn. That's what, in a little while, you will learn. That's what +you must learn. If you'll only hold on until to-morrow—until the next +day and I'm gone—" +</P> + +<P> +"Gone?" +</P> + +<P> +He sprang to his feet. +</P> + +<P> +"Monte!" she warned. +</P> + +<P> +In terror she struggled to her own feet. The white light of the stars +bathed their faces. In the distance he heard the notes of a trumpet +sounding taps. It roused him further. It was as though the night were +closing in upon him—as though life were closing in on him. +</P> + +<P> +He turned and seized her. +</P> + +<P> +"Marjory!" he cried. "Look me in the eyes." +</P> + +<P> +She obeyed. +</P> + +<P> +"They are sounding taps over there," he panted. "Before they are +through—do you love me, Marjory?" +</P> + +<P> +Never before in all his life had he asked her that directly. Always +she had been able to avoid the direct answer. Now— +</P> + +<P> +She tried to struggle free. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't—don't ask me that!" she pleaded. +</P> + +<P> +"Before they are through—do you love me?" +</P> + +<P> +Piercing the still night air the final notes came to her. There was no +escape. Either she must lie or tell the truth and to lie—that meant +death. +</P> + +<P> +"Quick!" he cried. +</P> + +<P> +"I do!" she whispered. +</P> + +<P> +"Then—" +</P> + +<P> +He tried to draw her to him. +</P> + +<P> +"You made me tell you, Monte," she sobbed. "Oh, you made me tell the +truth." +</P> + +<P> +"The truth," he nodded with a smile; "that was all that was necessary. +It's all that is ever necessary." +</P> + +<P> +He had released her. She was crowding against the wall. She looked up +at him. +</P> + +<P> +"Now," he said, "if it's one year or two years or three years—what's +the difference?" +</P> + +<P> +Her eyes suddenly grew as brilliant as the stars. She straightened +herself. +</P> + +<P> +"Then," she trembled, "if it's like that—" +</P> + +<P> +"It might as well be now," he pleaded. +</P> + +<P> +Unsteadily, like one walking in a dream, she tottered toward him. He +caught her in his arms and kissed her lips—there in the starlight, +there in the olive orchard, there in the Garden of Eden. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="finis"> +THE END +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Triflers, by Frederick Orin Bartlett + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRIFLERS *** + +***** This file should be named 20458-h.htm or 20458-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/0/4/5/20458/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Triflers + +Author: Frederick Orin Bartlett + +Release Date: January 27, 2007 [EBook #20458] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRIFLERS *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + + +[Frontispiece: A new tenderness swept over her] + + + + + + +THE TRIFLERS + + +BY + +FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT + + + +_With Illustrations by_ + +_George Ellis Wolfe_ + + + +TORONTO + +THOMAS ALLEN + +BOSTON AND NEW YORK + +HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY + +1917 + + + + +COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY EVERY WEEK CORPORATION + +COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT + +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + +_Published March 1917_ + + + + +TO + +ANN AND KENT + + + + +CONTENTS + + + I. THE TROUBLE WITH MONTE + II. THE TROUBLE WITH MARJORY + III. A SUMMONS + IV. A PROPOSAL + V. PISTOLS + VI. GENDARMES AND ETHER + VII. THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING SHOT + VIII. DRAWBACKS OF RECOVERY + IX. BLUE AND GOLD + X. THE AFFAIR AT MAXIM'S + XI. A CANCELED RESERVATION + XII. A WEDDING JOURNEY + XIII. A WEDDING JOURNEY (_continued_) + XIV. THE BRIDE RUNS AWAY + XV. IN THE DARK + XVI. A WALK ON THE QUAY + XVII. JUST MONTE + XVIII. PETER + XIX. AN EXPLANATION + XX. PAYING LIKE A MAN + XXI. BACK TO SCHEDULE + XXII. A CONFESSION + XXIII. LETTERS + XXIV. THE BLIND SEE + XXV. SO LONG + XXVI. FREEDOM + XXVII. WAR + XXVIII. THE CORNICE ROAD + XXIX. BENEATH THE STARS + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + +LOI +A NEW TENDERNESS SWEPT OVER HER . . . _Frontispiece_ + +"WE'RE TO BE MARRIED TO-MORROW?" + +MONSIEUR'S EYES WARMED AS HE SLIPPED THE WRAP OVER MADAME'S SHOULDERS + +"BECAUSE HE LOVES YOU," BREATHED BEATRICE + +"DID N'T BEATRICE TELL ME YOU REGISTERED HERE WITH YOUR WIFE?" + +"PETER!" SHE CRIED, FALLING BACK A STEP + +"BUT, O GOD, IF HE WOULD COME!" + + + +_From drawings by George E. Wolfe_ + + + + +THE TRIFLERS + + +CHAPTER I + +THE TROUBLE WITH MONTE + +For a man to keep himself consistently amused for ten years after his +graduation from college, even with an inheritance to furnish ample +financial assistance, suggests a certain quality of genius. This much +Monte Covington had accomplished--accomplished, furthermore, without +placing himself under obligations of any sort to the opposite sex. He +left no trail of broken hearts in his wake. If some of the younger +sisters of the big sisters took the liberty of falling in love with him +secretly and in the privacy of their chambers, that was no fault of +his, and did neither them nor him the slightest harm. + +Such minor complications could not very well be avoided, because, +discreet as Monte tried to be, it was not possible for him to deny +certain patent facts, to wit: that he was a Covington of Philadelphia; +that he was six feet tall and light-haired; that he had wonderfully +decent blue eyes; that he had a straight nose; that he had the firm +mouth and jaws of an Arctic explorer; that he had more money than he +knew what to do with; and that he was just old enough to be known as a +bachelor without in the slightest looking like one. + +At the point where the older sisters gave him up as hopeless, he came +as a sort of challenge to the younger. + +This might have proved dangerous for him had it not been for his +schedule, which did not leave him very long in any one place and which +kept him always pretty well occupied. By spending his winters at his +New York club until after the holidays; then journeying to Switzerland +for the winter sports; then to Nice for tennis; then to Paris for a +month of gay spring and the Grand Prix; and so over to England for a +few days in London and a month of golf along the coast--he was able to +come back refreshed to his camp in the Adirondacks, there to fish until +it was time to return to Cambridge for the football season, where he +found himself still useful as a coach in the art of drop-kicking. + +The fact that he could get into his old football togs without letting +out any strings or pulling any in, and could even come through an +occasional scrimmage without losing his breath, was proof that he kept +himself in good condition. + +It was not until his eleventh trip that Monte became aware of certain +symptoms which seemed to hint that even as pleasant a cycle as his +could not be pursued indefinitely. At Davos he first noted a change. +Though he took the curves in the long run with a daring that proved his +eye to be as quick and his nerves as steady as ever, he was restless. + +Later, when he came to Nice, it was with a listlessness foreign to him. +In the first place, he missed Edhart, the old maitre d'hotel who for a +decade had catered to his primitive American tastes in the matter of +foodstuffs with as much enthusiasm as if he had been a Parisian epicure. + +The passing of Edhart did more to call Monte's attention to the fact +that in his own life a decade had also passed than anything else could +possibly have done. Between birthdays there is only the lapse each +time of a year; but between the coming and going of the maitre d'hotel +there was a period of ten years, which with his disappearance seemed to +vanish. Monte was twenty-two when he first came to Nice, and now he +was thirty-two. He became thirty-two the moment he was forced to point +out to the new management his own particular table in the corner, and +to explain that, however barbarous the custom might appear, he always +had for breakfast either a mutton chop or a beefsteak. Edhart had made +him believe, even to last year, that in this matter and a hundred +others he was merely expressing the light preferences of a young man. +Now, because he was obliged to emphasize his wishes by explicit orders, +they became the definite likes and dislikes of a man of middle age. + +For relief Monte turned to the tennis courts, and played so much in the +next week that he went stale and in the club tournament put up the +worst game of his life. That evening, in disgust, he boarded the train +for Monte Carlo, and before eleven o'clock had lost five thousand +francs at roulette--which was more than even he could afford for an +evening's entertainment that did not entertain. Without waiting for +the croupier to rake in his last note, Monte hurried out and, to clear +his head, walked all the way back to Nice along the Cornice Road. +Above him, the mountains; below, the blue Mediterranean; while the road +hung suspended between them like a silver ribbon. Yet even here he did +not find content. + +Monte visited the rooms every evening for the next three days; but, as +he did not play again and found there nothing more interesting than the +faces, or their counterparts, which he had seen for the past ten years, +the programme grew stupid. + +So, really, he had no alternative but Paris, although it was several +weeks ahead of his schedule. As a matter of fact, it was several weeks +too early. The city was not quite ready for him. The trees in the +Champs Elysees were in much the condition of a lady half an hour before +an expected caller. The broad vista to the triumphal arches was merely +the setting for a few nurses and their charges. The little iron tables +were so deserted that they remained merely little iron tables. + +Of course the boulevards were as always; but after a night or two +before the Cafe de la Paix he had enough. Even with fifty thousand +people passing in review before him, he was not as amused as he should +have been. He sipped his black coffee as drowsily as an old man. + +In an effort to rouse himself, he resolved to visit the cafes upon +Montmartre, which he had outgrown many years ago. That night he +climbed the narrow stairs to l'Abbaye. It was exactly as it had +been--a square room bounded by long seats before tables. Some two +dozen young ladies of various nationalities wandered about the center +of the room, trying their best, but with manifest effort, to keep pace +to the frenzied music of an orchestra paid to keep frenzied. A +half-dozen of the ladies pounced upon Monte as he sat alone, and he +gladly turned over to them the wine he purchased as the price of +admission. Yvonne, she with the languid Egyptian eyes, tried to rouse +the big American. Was it that he was bored? Possibly it was that, +Monte admitted. Then another bottle of wine was the proper thing. So +he ordered another bottle, and to the toast Yvonne proposed, raised his +glass. But the wine did him no good, and the music did him no good, +and Yvonne did him no good. The place had gone flat. Whatever he +needed, it was nothing l'Abbaye had to offer. + +Covington went out into the night again, and, though the music from a +dozen other cafes called him to come in and forget, he continued down +the hill to the boulevard, deaf to the gay entreaties of the whole +city. It was clear that he was out of tune with Paris. + +As he came into the Place de l'Opera he ran into the crowd pouring from +the big gray opera house, an eager, voluble crowd that jostled him +about as if he were an intruder. They had been warmed by fine music +and stirred by the great passions of this mimic world, so that the +women clung more tightly to the arms of their escorts. + +Covington, who had fallen back a little to watch them pass, felt +strangely isolated. They hurried on without seeing him, as if he were +merely some spectral bystander. Yet the significant fact was not that +a thousand strangers should pass him without being aware of his +presence, but that he himself should notice their indifference. It was +not like him. + +Ordinarily it was exactly what he would desire. But to-night he was in +an unusual mood--a mood that was the culmination of a restlessness +covering an entire month. But what the deuce was the name and cause of +it? He could no longer attribute it to the fact that he had gone stale +physically, because he had now had a rest of several weeks. It was not +that he was bored; those who are bored never stop to ask themselves why +they are bored or they would not be bored. It was not that he was +homesick, because, strictly speaking, he had no home. A home seems to +involve the female element and some degree of permanence. This unrest +was something new--something, apparently, that had to do vaguely with +the fact that he was thirty-two. If Edhart-- + +Impatiently he started again for his hotel. This confoundedly +good-natured, self-satisfied crowd moving in couples irritated him. At +that moment a tall, slender girl turned, hesitated, then started toward +him. He did not recognize her at first, but the mere fact that she +came toward him--that any one came toward him--quickened his pulse. It +brought him back instantly from the shadowy realm of specters to the +good old solid earth. It was he, Covington, who was standing there. + +Then she raised her eyes--dark eyes deep as trout pools; steady, +confident, but rather sad eyes. They appeared to be puzzled by the +eagerness with which he stepped forward and grasped her hand. + +"Marjory!" he exclaimed. "I did n't know you were in Paris!" + +She smiled--a smile that extended no farther than the corners of her +perfect mouth. + +"That's to excuse yourself for not looking me up, Monte?" + +She had a full, clear voice. It was good to hear a voice that he could +recognize. + +"No," he answered frankly. "That's honest. I thought you were +somewhere in Brittany. But are you bound anywhere in particular?" + +"Only home." + +"Still living on the Boulevard Saint-Germain?" + +She nodded. + +"Number forty-three?" + +He was glad he was able to remember that number. + +"Number sixty-four," she corrected. + +They had been moving toward the Metro station, and here she paused. + +"There is no need for you to come with me," she said. "But I'd like to +have you drop in for tea some afternoon--if you have time." + +The strangers were still hurrying past him--to the north, the south, +the east, the west. Men and women were hurrying past, laughing, intent +upon themselves, each with some definite objective in mind. He himself +was able to smile with them now. Then she held out her gloved hand, +and he felt alone again. + +"I may accompany you home, may I not?" he asked eagerly. + +"If you wish." + +Once again she raised her eyes with that expression of puzzled +interest. This was not like Monte. Of course he would accompany her +home, but that he should seem really to take pleasure in the +prospect--that was novel. + +"Let me call a taxi," he said. "I'm never sure where these French +undergrounds are going to land me." + +"They are much quicker," she suggested. + +"There is no hurry," he answered. + +With twenty-four hours a day on his hands, he was never in a hurry. + +Instead of giving to the driver the number sixty-four Boulevard +Saint-Germain, he ordered him to forty-seven Rue Saint-Michel, which is +the Cafe d'Harcourt. + +It had suddenly occurred to Monte what the trouble was with him. He +was lonesome. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +THE TROUBLE WITH MARJORY + +She was surprised when the car stopped before the cafe, and mildly +interested. + +"Do you mind?" he asked. + +"No, Monte." + +She followed him through the smoke and chatter to one of the little +dining-rooms in the rear where the smoke and chatter were somewhat +subdued. There Henri removed their wraps with a look of frank +approval. It was rather an elaborate dinner that Monte ordered, +because he remembered for the first time that he had not yet dined this +evening. It was also a dinner of which he felt Edhart would thoroughly +approve, and that always was a satisfaction. + +"Now," he said to the girl, as soon as Henri had left, "tell me about +yourself." + +"You knew about Aunt Kitty?" she asked. + +"No," he replied hesitatingly, with an uneasy feeling that it was one +of those things that he should know about. + +"She was taken ill here in Paris in February, and died shortly after we +reached New York," she explained. + +What Covington would have honestly liked to do was to congratulate her. +Stripping the situation of all sentimentalism, the naked truth remained +that she had for ten years given up her life utterly to her aunt--had +almost sold herself into slavery. Ostensibly this Aunt Kitty had taken +the girl to educate, although she had never forgiven her sister for +having married Stockton; had never forgiven her for having had this +child, which had cost her life; had never forgiven Stockton for losing +in business her sister's share of the Dolliver fortune. + +Poor old Stockton--he had done his best, and the failure killed him. +It was Chic Warren who had told Covington the pitiful little tale. +Chic always spoke of the aunt as "the Vamp.," the abbreviation, as he +explained, being solely out of respect to her gray hairs. Marjory had +received her education, to be sure; but she had paid for it in the only +coin she had--the best of her young self from seventeen to +twenty-seven. The only concession the aunt had ever made was to allow +her niece to study art in Paris this last year. + +"I have n't heard from Chic since Christmas," he explained; "so I did +n't know. Then you are back here in Paris--alone?" + +Unconsciously he had emphasized that word "alone." + +"Why not?" she asked directly. + +She held her head a bit high, as if in challenge. + +"Nothing; only--" + +He did not finish. He could not very well tell her that she was too +confoundedly good-looking to be alone in Paris. Yet that was what he +thought, in spite of his belief that, of all the women he had ever met, +she was the best able to be alone anywhere. There were times when he +had sat beside her, not feeling sure that he was in the same room with +her: it was as if he were looking at her through plate-glass. +To-night, however, it was not like that. She looked like a younger +sister of herself. + +"Still painting?" he inquired. + +"As much as they will let me." + +"They?" + +She leaned forward with a frown, folding her arms upon the table. + +"What is the matter with men?" she demanded. "Why won't they believe a +woman when she tells the truth?" + +He was somewhat startled by the question, and by her earnestness. + +"Just what do you mean?" + +"Why can't they leave a woman alone?" + +It was clear that he was not expected to answer, and so, with her +permission, he lighted a cigarette and waited with considerable +interest for her to go on. + +For a moment she studied him, as if wondering if it were worth while to +continue her confidence. Her acquaintance with Monte dated back ten +years, when, as a girl of seventeen, she had met him on one of his rare +week-end visits to the Warrens. She was then fresh from finishing +school, and he was one of the very few men she had been allowed to meet +in any more intimate way than merely to shake hands with in passing. +She had been tremendously impressed. She could smile at it now. But, +really, she had been like one of the younger sisters, and for a year or +so after that he had been to her a sort of vague knight errant. + +It was three years ago that her aunt had begun to travel with her, and +after that she had seen Monte not oftener than once or twice a year, +and then for scarcely more than a greeting and good-bye. On the other +hand, Mrs. Warren had always talked and written to her a great deal +about him. Chic and he had been roommates in college, and ever since +had kept in close touch with each other by letter. The trivial gossip +of Monte's life had always been passed on to Marjory, so that she had +really for these last few years been following his movements and +adventures month by month, until she felt in almost as intimate contact +with him as with the Warrens. She had reason to think that, in turn, +her movements were retailed to Monte. The design was obvious--and +amusing. + +On the whole, Marjory concluded that it was not especially worth while +to burden him with her troubles; and yet, it was just because of that +she was inclined to continue--in, however, a less serious mood. Monte +had so few burdens of his own. That odd little smile--scarcely more +than the ghost of a smile--returned to the corners of her mouth. + +"To-night," she said, "I ran away from Teddy Hamilton, for all the +world like a heroine of melodrama. Do you know Teddy?" + +"Yes," he answered slowly, "I do." + +He refrained with difficulty from voicing his opinion of the man, which +he could have put into three words--"the little beast." But how did it +happen that she, of all women, had been thrown into contact with this +pale-faced Don Juan of the New York music-halls and Paris cafes? + +"I lent Marie, my maid, one of my new hats and a heavy veil," she went +on. "She came out and stepped into a taxi, with instructions to keep +driving in a circle of a mile. Teddy followed in another machine. +And"--she paused to look up and smile--"for all I know, he may still be +following her round and round. I came on to the opera." + +"Kind of tough on Marie," he commented, with his blue eyes reflecting a +hearty relish of the situation. + +"Marie will undoubtedly enjoy a nap," she said. "As for Teddy--well, +he is generally out of funds, so I hope he may get into difficulties +with the driver." + +"He won't," declared Monte. "He'll probably end by borrowing a +_pour-boire_ of the driver." + +She nodded. + +"That is possible. He is very clever." + +"The fact that he is still out of jail--" began Monte. + +Then he checked himself. He was not a man to talk about other +men--even about one so little of a man as Teddy Hamilton. + +"Tell me what you know of him," she requested. + +"I'd rather not," he answered. + +"Is he as bad as that?" she queried thoughtfully. "But what I don't +understand is why--why, then, he can sing like a white-robed choir-boy." + +Monte looked serious. + +"I've heard him," he admitted. "But it was generally after he had been +sipping absinthe rather heavily. His specialty is 'The Rosary.'" + +"And the barcarole from the 'Contes d'Hoffmann.'" + +"And little Spanish serenades," he added. + +"But if he's all bad inside?" + +She raised those deep, dark eyes as a child might. She had been for +ten years like one in a convent. + +Covington shook his head. + +"I can't explain it," he said. "Perhaps, in a way, it's because of +that--because of the contrast. But I 've heard him do it. I 've heard +him make a room full of those girls on Montmartre stop their dancing +and gulp hard. But where--" + +"Did I meet him?" she finished. "It was on the boat coming over this +last time. You see-- I 'm talking a great deal about myself." + +"Please go on." + + +He had forgotten that her face was so young. The true lines of her +features were scarcely more than sketched in, though that much had been +done with a sure hand. Whatever was to come, he thought, must be +added. There would be need of few erasures. Up to a certain point it +was the face of any of those young women of gentle breeding that he met +when at home--the inheritance of the best of many generations. + +As she was sitting now, her head slightly turned, the arch of one brow +blended in a perfect curve into her straight, thin nose. But the mouth +and chin--they were firmer than one might have expected. If, not +knowing her, he had seen her driving in the Bois or upon Rotten Row, he +would have been curious about her title. It had always seemed to him +that she should by rights have been Her Royal Highness Something or +Other. + +This was due partly to a certain air of serene security and a certain +aloofness that characterized her. He felt it to a lesser degree +to-night than ever before, but he made no mistake. He might be +permitted to admire those features as one admires a beautiful portrait, +but somewhere a barrier existed. There are faces that reflect the +soul; there are faces that hide the soul. + +"Please go on," he repeated, as she still hesitated. + +She was trying to explain why it was that she was tempted at all to +talk about herself to-night. Perhaps it was because she had been so +long silent--for many years silent. Perhaps it was because Monte was +so very impersonal that it was a good deal like talking out loud to +herself, with the advantage of being able to do this without wondering +if she were losing her wits. Then, too, after Teddy, Monte's +straight-seeing blue eyes freshened her thoughts like a clean north +wind. She always spoke of Monte as the most American man she knew; and +by that she meant something direct and honest--something four-square. + +"I met Teddy on the boat," she resumed. "I was traveling alone +because--well, just because I wanted to be alone. You know, Aunt Kitty +was very good to me, but I'd been with her every minute for more than +ten years, and so I wanted to be by myself a little while. Right after +she died, I went down to the farm--her farm in Connecticut--and thought +I could be alone there. But--she left me a great deal of money, Monte." + +Somehow, she could speak of such a thing to him. She was quite +matter-of-fact about it. + +"It was a great deal too much," she went on. "I did n't mind myself, +because I could forget about it; but other people--they made me feel +like a rabbit running before the hounds. Some one put the will in the +papers, and people I'd never heard of began to write to me--dozens of +them. Then men with all sorts of schemes--charities and gold mines and +copper mines and oil wells and I don't know what all, came down there +to see me: down there to the little farm, where I wanted to be alone. +Of course, I could be out to them; but even then I was conscious that +they were around. Some of them even waited until I ventured from the +house, and waylaid me on the road. + +"Then there were others--people I knew and could n't refuse to see +without being rude. I felt," she said, looking up at Monte, "as if the +world of people had suddenly all turned into men, and that they were +hunting me. I could n't get away from them without locking myself up, +and that was just the thing I did n't want to do. In a way, I 'd been +locked up all my life. So I just packed my things and took the steamer +without telling any one but my lawyer where I was going." + +"It's too bad they wouldn't let you alone," said Monte. + +"It was like an evil dream," she said. "I did n't know men were like +that." + +Monte frowned. + +Of course, that is just what would happen to a young woman as +good-looking as she, suddenly left alone with a fortune. Her name, +without a doubt, was on the mailing list of every promoter from New +York to San Francisco. It was also undoubtedly upon the list of every +man and woman who could presume an acquaintance with her. She had +become fair game. + +"Then on the boat I met Teddy," she went on. "It was difficult not to +meet him." + +He nodded. + +"I did n't mind so much at first; he was interesting." + +"Yes, he's that," admitted Monte. + +"And he was very pleasant until--he began to make love to me." + +If Monte knew Teddy Hamilton, this happened about the third day. + +"That was very annoying," she said reminiscently. "It was annoying, +not only because of Teddy, but in itself. In some ways he did it very +nicely--especially when he sang in the moonlight. I suppose it was my +fault that I gave him the opportunity. I could have kept myself in my +stateroom, or I could have played bridge with the elderly ladies in the +cabin. But, you see, that's what Aunty always made me do, and I did +want to get out. I did enjoy Teddy up to that point. But I did not +want to fall in love with him, or with any one else. I suppose I 'm +too selfish--too utterly and completely selfish." + +"To--er--to fall in love?" he questioned. + +"Yes. Oh, as long as I'm making you my father confessor, I may as well +be thorough." She smiled. + +Monte leaned forward with sudden interest. Here was a question that at +odd moments had disturbed his own peace of mind. It was Chic Warren +who had first told him that in remaining a bachelor he was leading an +utterly selfish life. + +"Does a distaste for falling in love necessarily go back to +selfishness?" he asked. "Is n't it sometimes merely a matter of +temperament?" + +"And temperament," she asked, "is what?" + +That was altogether too abstract a problem for Monte to discuss. Yet +he had his own ideas. + +"It's the way you're made," he suggested. + +"I doubt it, Monte," she answered. "I think it's rather the way you +make yourself; because I imagine that, to start with, we are all made a +good deal alike. It's just what you 'd rather do." + +"And you'd rather paint?" + +She considered a moment. It was as if she were trying at this time to +be very honest with herself. + +"I'd rather be free to paint or not," she declared. "While Aunty was +alive, to paint seemed to be the only way to be free. It gave me the +excuse for coming here, for getting away a few hours a day. Now--well, +just to be free seems enough. I don't suppose a man knows how a woman +hungers for that--for just sheer, elemental freedom." + +He did not. He supposed that freedom was what women enjoyed from +birth--like queens. He supposed they even had especial opportunities +in that direction, and that most men were in the nature of being their +humble servitors. + +"It is n't that I want to do anything especially proper or improper," +she hastened to assure him. "I have n't either the cravings or the +ambitions of the new woman. That, again, is where I 'm selfish. I'd +like to be"--she spoke hesitatingly--"I'd like to be just like you, +Monte." + +"Like me?" he exclaimed in surprise. + +"Free to do just what I want to do--nothing particularly good, nothing +particularly bad; free to go here or go there; free to live my own +life; free to be free." + +"Well," he asked, "what's to prevent?" + +"Teddy Hamilton--and the others," she answered. "In a way, they take +the place of Aunty. They won't let me alone. They won't believe me +when I tell them I don't want them around. They seem to assume that, +just because I'm not married-- Oh, they are stupid, Monte!" + +Henri, who had been stealing in with course after course, refilled the +glasses. He smiled discreetly as he saw her earnest face. + +"What you need," suggested Monte, "is a sort of chaperon or secretary." + +She shook her head. + +"Would you like one yourself?" she demanded. + +"It would be a good deal of a nuisance," he admitted; "but, after all--" + +"I won't have it!" she burst out. "It would spoil everything. It +would be like building one's own jail and employing one's own jailer. +I could n't stand that. I 'd rather be annoyed as I am than be annoyed +by a chaperon." + +She was silent a moment, and then she exclaimed: + +"Why, I'd almost rather marry Teddy! I'd feel freer--honestly, I think +I 'd feel freer with a husband than a chaperon." + +"Oh, see here!" protested Monte. "You must n't do that." + +"I don't propose to," she answered quietly. + +"Then," he said, "the only thing left is to go away where Teddy and the +others can't find you." + +"Where?" she asked with interest. + +"There are lots of little villages in Switzerland." + +She shook her head. + +"And along the Riviera." + +"I love the little villages," she replied. "I love them here and at +home. But it's no use." + +She smiled. There was something pathetic about that smile--something +that made Covington's arm muscles twitch. + +"I should n't even have the aid of the taxis in the little villages," +she said. + +Monte leaned back. + +"If they only had here in Paris a force of good, honest Irish cops +instead of these confounded gendarmes," he mused. + +She looked her astonishment at the irrelevant observation. + +"You see," he explained, "it might be possible then to lay for Teddy H. +some evening and--argue with him." + +"It's nice of you, Monte, to think of that," she murmured. + +Monte was nice in a good many ways. + +"The trouble is, they lack sentiment, these gendarmes," he concluded. +"They are altogether too law-abiding." + + + + +CHAPTER III + +A SUMMONS + +Monte himself had sometimes been accused of lacking sentiment; and yet, +the very first thing he did when starting for his walk the next morning +was to order a large bunch of violets to be sent to number sixty-four +Boulevard Saint-Germain. Then, at a somewhat faster pace than usual, +he followed the river to the Jardin des Tuileries, and crossed there to +the Avenue des Champs Elysees into the Bois. + +He walked as confidently as if overnight his schedule had again been +put in good running order; for, overnight, spring had come, and that +was what his schedule called for in Paris. The buds, which until now +had hesitated to unfold, trembled forth almost before his eyes under +the influence of a sun that this morning blazed in a turquoise sky. +Perhaps they had hurried a trifle to overtake Monte. + +With his shoulders well back, filling his lungs deep with the perfumed +morning air, he swung along with a hearty, self-confident stride that +caused many a little nursemaid to turn and look at him again. + +He had sent her violets; and yet, except for the fact that he had never +before sent her flowers, he could not rightly be accused of +sentimentalism. He had acted on the spur of the moment, remembering +only the sad, wistful smile with which she had bade him good-night when +she stood at the door of the _pension_. Or perhaps he had been +prompted by the fact that she was in Paris alone. + +Until now it had never been possible to dissociate her completely from +Aunt Kitty. Marjory had never had a separate existence of her own. To +a great many people she had never been known except as Miss Dolliver's +charming niece, although to Monte she had been known more particularly +as a young friend of the Warrens. But, even in this more intimate +capacity, he had always been relieved of any sense of responsibility +because of this aunt. Wherever he met her, there was never any +occasion for him to put himself out to be nice to her, because it was +always understood that she could never leave Aunt Kitty even for an +evening. This gave him a certain sense of security. With her he never +was forced to consider either the present or the future. + +Last night it had been almost like meeting her for the first time +alone. It was as if in all these years he had known her only through +her photograph, as one knows friends of one's friends about whom one +has for long heard a great deal, without ever meeting them face to +face. From the moment he first saw her in the Place de l'Opera she had +made him conscious of her as, in another way, he had always been +conscious of Edhart. The latter, until his death, had always remained +in Monte's outer consciousness like a fixed point. Because he was so +permanent, so unchanging, he dominated the rest of Monte's schedule as +the north star does the mariner's course. + +Each year began when Edhart bade him a smiling au revoir at the door of +the Hotel des Roses; and that same year did not end, but began again, +when the matter of ten or eleven months later Monte found Edhart still +at the door to greet him. So it was always possible, the year round, +to think of Edhart as ever standing by the door smilingly awaiting him. +This was very pleasant, and prevented Monte from getting really +lonesome, and consequently from getting old. It was only in the last +few weeks that he fully realized all that Edhart had done for him. + +It was, in some ways, as if Edhart had come back to life again in +Marjory. He had felt it the moment she had smilingly confided in him; +he felt it still more when, after she bade him good-night, he had +turned back into the city, not feeling alone any more. Now it was as +if he were indebted to her for this morning walk, and for restoring to +him his springtime Paris. It was for these things that he had sent her +violets--because she had made him comfortable again. So, after all, +his act had been one, not of sentimentalism, but of just plain +gratitude. + +Monte's objection to sentiment was not based upon any of the modern +schools of philosophy, which deplore it as a weakness. He took his +stand upon much simpler grounds: that, as far as he had been able to +observe, it did not make for content. It had been his fate to be +thrown in contact with a good deal of it in its most acute stages, +because the route he followed was unhappily the route also followed by +those upon their honeymoon. If what he observed was sentiment at its +zenith, then he did not care for it. Bridegrooms made the poorest sort +of traveling companions; and that, after all, was the supreme test of +men. They appeared restless, dazed, and were continually looking at +their watches. Few of them were able to talk intelligently or to play +a decent game of bridge. + +Perhaps, too, he had been unfortunate in the result of his observations +of the same passion in its later stages; but it is certain that those +were not inspiring, either. Chic Warren was an exception. He seemed +fairly happy and normal, but Covington would never forget the night he +spent there when Chic, Junior had the whooping-cough. He walked by +Chic's side up and down the hall, up and down the hall, up and down the +hall, with Chic a ghastly white and the sweat standing in beads upon +his forehead. His own throat had tightened and he grew weak in the +knees every time the rubber-soled nurse stole into sight. Every now +and then he heard that gasping cough, and felt the spasmodic grip of +Chic's fingers upon his arm. It was terrible; for weeks afterward +Covington heard that cough. + + +At the end of an hour Covington turned back, wheeling like a soldier on +parade. There had never seemed to him any reason why, when a man was +entirely comfortable, as he was, he should take the risk of a change. +He had told Chic as much when sometimes the latter, over a pipe, had +introduced the subject. The last time, Chic had gone a little farther +than usual. + +"But, man alive!" Chic had exclaimed. "A day will come when you'll be +sorry." + +"I don't believe it," Monte answered. + +Yet it was only yesterday that he had wandered over half Paris in +search of something to bring his schedule back to normal. And he had +found it--in front of the Opera House at eleven o'clock at night. + +Monte strode into his hotel with a snap that made the little clerk +glance up in surprise. + +"Any mail for me?" he inquired. + +"A telephone message, monsieur." + +He handed Monte an envelope. It was not often that he received +telephone messages. It read as follows:-- + +Can't you come over? Teddy was very angry about the taxi, and I think +I shall leave Paris tonight. The flowers were beautiful. + + +Monte felt his breath coming fast. + +"How long has this been waiting for me?" he demanded. + +"A half-hour, monsieur." + +He hurried out the door and into a taxi. + +"Sixty-four Boulevard Saint-Germain--and hurry." + +Leaving Paris? She had no right to do that. Edhart never left. That +was the beauty of Edhart--that he remained stationary, so that he could +always be found. He was quite sure that Edhart was too considerate +even to die, could he have avoided it. Now Marjory was proposing to go +and leave him here alone. He could not allow that. It was too early +to quit Paris, anyway. It was only the first day of spring! + +She came down into the gloomy _pension_ reception-room looking as if +she had already begun to assist Marie with the packing. Her hair had +become loosened, and escaped in several places in black curls that gave +her a distinctly girlish appearance. There was more color, too, in her +cheeks; but it was the flush of excitement rather than the honest red +that colored his own cheeks. She looked tired and discouraged. She +sank into a chair. + +"It was good of you to come, Monte," she said. "But I don't know why I +should bother you with my affairs. Only--he was so disagreeable. He +frightened me, for a moment." + +"What did he do?" demanded Monte. + +"He came here early, and when Marie told him I was out he said he would +wait until I came back. So he sat down--right here. Then, every five +minutes, he called Madame Courcy and sent her up with a note. I was +afraid of a scene, because madame spoke of sending for the gendarmes." + +"Why didn't you let her?" + +"That would have made still more of a scene." + +She was speaking in a weary, emotionless voice, like one who is very +tired. + +"So I came down and saw him," she said. "He was very melodramatic." + +It seemed difficult for her to go on. + +"Absinthe?" he questioned. + +"I don't know. He wanted me to marry him at once. He drew a revolver +and threatened to shoot himself--threatened to shoot me." + +Monte clenched his fists. + +"Good Lord!" he said softly. "That is going a bit far." + +"Is it so men act--when they are in love?" she asked. + +Monte started. + +"I don't know. If it is, then they ought to be put in jail." + +"If it is, it is most unpleasant," she said; "and I can't stand it, +Monte. There is no reason why I should, is there?" + +"No: if you can avoid it." + +"That's the trouble," she frowned. "I've been quite frank with him. I +told him that I did not want to marry him. I've told him that I could +not conceive of any possible circumstances under which I would marry +him. I've told him that in French and I 've told him that in English, +and he won't believe me." + +"The cad!" exclaimed Monte. + +"It does n't seem fair," she mused. "The only thing I ask for is to be +allowed to lead my life undisturbed, and he won't let me. There are +others, too. I had five letters this morning. So all I can do is to +run away again." + +"To where?" asked Monte. + +"You spoke of the little villages along the Riviera." + +"Yes," he nodded. "There is the village of Etois--back in the +mountains." + +"Then I might go there. _C'est tout egal_." + +She shrugged her shoulders. (She had beautiful shoulders.) + +"But look here. Supposing the--this Hamilton should follow you there?" + +"Then I must move again." + +Monte paced the room. Obviously this was not right. There was no +reason why she should be continually hounded. Yet there seemed to be +no way to prevent it. + +He stopped in front of her. She glanced up--her eyes, even now, calm +and deep as trout pools. + +"I'll get hold of the beggar to-day," he said grimly. + +She shook her head. + +"Please not." + +"But he's the one who must go away. If I could have a few minutes with +him alone, I think perhaps I could make him see that." + +"Please not," she repeated. + +"What's the harm?" + +"I don't think it would be safe--for either of you." + +She raised her eyes as she said that, and for a moment Monte was held +by them. Then she rose. + +"After all, it's too bad for me to inflict my troubles on you," she +said. + +"I don't mind," he answered quickly. "Only--hang it all, there does +n't seem to be anything I can do!" + +"I guess there is n't anything any one can do," she replied helplessly. + +"So you're going away?" + +"To-night," she nodded. + +"To Etois?" + +"Perhaps. Perhaps to India. Perhaps to Japan." + +It was the indefiniteness that Monte did not relish. Even as she +spoke, it was as if she began to disappear; and for a second he felt +again the full weight of his thirty-two years. He was perfectly +certain that the moment she went he was going to feel alone--more alone +than he had ever felt in his life. + +It was in the nature of a hunch. Within twenty-four hours he would be +wandering over Paris as he had wandered yesterday. That would not do +at all. Of course, he could pack up and go on to England, but at the +moment he felt that it would be even worse there, where all the world +spoke English. + +"Suppose I order young Hamilton to leave Paris?" he asked. + +"But what right have you to order him to leave Paris?" + +"Well, I can tell him he is annoying you and that I won't stand for +it," he declared. + +For a second her eyes grew mellow; for a second a more natural red +flushed her cheeks. + +"If you were only my big brother, now," she breathed. + +Monte saw the point. His own cheeks turned a red to match hers. + +"You mean he'll ask--what business you are of mine?" + +"Yes." + +And Monte would have no answer. He realized that. As a friend he had, +of course, certain rights; but they were distinctly limited. It was, +for instance, no business of his whether she went to Etois or Japan or +India. By no stretch of the imagination could he make it his +business--though it affected his whole schedule, though it affected her +whole life. As a friend he would be justified, perhaps, in throwing +young Hamilton out of the door if he happened to be around when the man +was actually annoying her; but there was no way in which he could guard +her against such annoyances in the future. He had no authority that +extended beyond the moment; nor was it possible for Marjory herself to +give him that authority. Young Hamilton, if he chose, could harry her +around the world, and it would be none of Monte's business. + +There was something wrong with a situation of that sort. If he had +only been born her brother or father, or even a first cousin, then it +might be possible to do something, because, if necessary, he could +remain always at hand. He wondered vaguely if there were not some law +that would make him a first cousin. He was on the point of suggesting +it when a bell jangled solemnly in the hall. + +The girl clutched his arm. + +"I'm afraid he's come again," she gasped. + +Monte threw back his shoulders. + +"Fine," he smiled. "It could n't be better." + +"But I don't want to see him! I won't see him!" + +"There is n't the slightest need in the world of it," he nodded. "You +go upstairs, and I'll see him." + +But, clinging to his arm, she drew him into the hall and toward the +stairs. The bell rang again--impatiently. + +"Come," she insisted. + +He tried to calm her. + +"Steady! Steady! I promise you I won't make a scene." + +"But he will. Oh, you don't know him. I won't have it. Do you hear? +I won't have it." + +To Madame Courcy, who appeared, she whispered:-- + +"Tell him I refuse to see him again. Tell him you will call the +gendarmes." + +"It seems so foolish to call in those fellows when the whole thing +might be settled quietly right now," pleaded Monte. + +He turned eagerly toward the door. + +"If you don't come away, Monte," she said quietly, "I won't ever send +for you again." + +Reluctantly he followed her up the stairs as the bell jangled harshly, +wildly. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +A PROPOSAL + +Dejectedly, Monte seated himself upon a trunk in the midst of a scene +of fluffy chaos. Marie had swooped in from the next room, seized one +armful, and returned in consternation as her mistress stood poised at +the threshold. Then, with her face white, Marjory closed the door and +locked it. + +"He's down there," she informed Monte. + +Monte glanced at his watch. + +"It's quarter of twelve," he announced. "I'll give him until twelve to +leave." + +Marjory crossed to the window and stared out at the sun-lighted street. +It was very beautiful out there--very warm and gentle and peaceful. +And at her back all this turmoil. Once again the unspoken cry that +sprang to her lips was just this:-- + +"It is n't fair--it is n't fair!" + +For ten years she had surrendered herself to Aunt Kitty--surrendered +utterly the deep, budding years of her young womanhood. To the last +minute she had paid her obligations in full. Then, at the moment she +had been about to spread her long-folded wings and soar into the +sunshine, this other complication had come. When the lawyer informed +her of the fortune that was hers, she had caught her breath. It +spelled freedom. Yet she asked for so little--for neither luxuries nor +vanities; for just the privilege of leading for a space her own life, +undisturbed by any responsibility. + +Selfish? Yes. But she had a right to be selfish for a little. She +had answered that question when Peter Noyes--Monte reminded her in many +ways of Peter--had come down to her farm in Littlefield one Sunday. +She had seen more of Peter than of any other man, and knew him to be +honest. He had been very gentle with her, and very considerate; but +she knew what was in his heart, so she had put the question to herself +then and there. If she chose to follow the road to which he silently +beckoned--the road to all those wonderful hopes that had surged in upon +her at eighteen--she had only to nod. If she had let herself go, she +could have loved Peter. Then--she drew back at so surrendering +herself. It meant a new set of self-sacrifices. It meant, however +hallowed, a new prison. Because, if she loved, she would love hard. + +Monte glanced at his watch again. + +"Five minutes gone! Have you seen him leave?" + +"No, Monte," she answered. + +He folded his arms resignedly. + +"You don't really mean to act against my wishes, Monte?" + +"If that's the only way of getting rid of him," he answered coolly. + +"But don't you see--don't you understand that you will only make a +scandal of it?" she said. + +"What do you mean?" + +"If he makes a scene it will be in the papers, and then--oh, well, they +will ask by what right--" + +"I'd answer I was simply ridding you of a crazy man." + +"They would smile. Oh, I know them! Here in Paris they won't believe +that a woman who is n't married--" + +She stopped abruptly. + +Monte's brows came together. + +Here was the same situation that had confronted him a few minutes +before. Not only had he no right, but if he assumed a right his claim +might be misinterpreted. Undoubtedly Teddy himself would be the first +to misinterpret it. It would be impossible for a man of his sort to +think in any other direction. And then--well, such stories were easier +to start than to stop. + +Monte's lips came together. As far as he himself was concerned, he was +willing to take the risk; but the risk was not his to take. As long as +he found himself unable to devise any scheme by which he could, even +technically, make himself over into her father, her brother, or even a +first cousin, there appeared no possible way in which he could assume +the right that would not make it a risk. + +Except one way. + +Here Monte caught his breath. + +There was just one relationship open to him that would bestow upon him +automatically the undeniable right to say to Teddy Hamilton anything +that might occur to him--that would grant him fuller privileges, now +and for as long as the relationship was maintained, than even that of +blood. + +To be sure, the idea was rather staggering. It was distinctly novel, +for one thing, and not at all in his line, for another. This, however, +was a crisis calling for staggering novelties if it could not be +handled in the ordinary way. Ten minutes had already passed. + +Monte walked slowly to Marjory's side. She turned and met his eyes. +On the whole, he would have felt more comfortable had she continued +looking out the window. + +"Marjory," he said--"Marjory, will you marry me?" + +She shrank away. + +"Monte!" + +"I mean it," he said. "Will you marry me?" + +After the first shock she seemed more hurt than anything. + +"You are n't going to be like the others?" she pleaded. + +"No," he assured her. "That's why--well, that's why I thought we might +arrange it." + +"But I don't love you, Monte!" she exclaimed. + +"Of course not." + +"And you--you don't love me." + +"That's it," he nodded eagerly. + +"Yet you are asking me to marry you?" + +"Just because of that," he said. "Don't you understand?" + +She was trying hard to understand, because she had a great deal of +faith in Monte and because at this moment she needed him. + +"I don't see why being engaged to a man you don't care about need +bother you at all," he ran on. "It's the caring that seems to make the +trouble--whether you 're engaged or not. I suppose that's what ails +Teddy." + +She had been watching Monte's eyes; but she turned away for a second. + +"Of course," he continued, "you can care--without caring too much. +Can't people care in just a friendly sort of way?" + +"I should think so, Monte," she answered. + +"Then why can't people become engaged--in just a friendly sort of way?" + +"It would n't mean very much, would it?" + +"Just enough," he said. + +He held out his hand. + +"Is it a bargain?" + +She searched his eyes. They were clean and blue. + +"It's so absurd, Monte!" she gasped. + +"You can call me, to yourself, your secretary," he suggested. + +"No--not that." + +"Then," he said, "call me just a _camarade de voyage_." + +Her eyes warmed a trifle. + +"I'll keep on calling you just Monte," she whispered. + +And she gave him her hand. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +PISTOLS + +Evidently young Hamilton did not hear Monte come down the stairs, for +he was sitting in a chair near the window, with his head in his hands, +and did not move even when Monte entered the room. + +"Hello, Hamilton," said Covington. + +Hamilton sprang to his feet--a shaking, ghastly remnant of a man. He +had grown thinner and paler than when Covington last saw him. But his +eyes--they held Covington for a moment. They burned in their hollow +sockets like two candles in a dark room. + +"Covington!" gasped the man. + +Then his eyes narrowed. + +"What the devil you doing here?" he demanded. + +"Sit down," suggested Monte. "I want to have a little talk with you." + +It was physical weakness that forced Hamilton to obey. + +Monte drew up a chair opposite him. + +"Now," he said quietly, "tell me just what it is you want of Miss +Stockton." + +"What business is that of yours?" demanded Hamilton nervously. + +Monte was silent a moment. Here at the start was the question Marjory +had anticipated--the question that might have caused him some +embarrassment had it not been so adequately provided for in the last +few moments. As it was, he became conscious of a little glow of +satisfaction which moderated his feelings toward young Hamilton +considerably. He actually felt a certain amount of sympathy for him. +After all, the little beggar was in bad shape. + +But, even now, there was no reason, just yet, why he should make him +his confidant. Secure in his position, he felt it was none of +Hamilton's business. + +"Miss Stockton and I are old friends," he answered. + +"Then--she has told you?" + +"She gave me to believe you made a good deal of an ass of yourself this +morning," nodded Monte. + +Hamilton sank back limply in his chair. + +"I did," he groaned. "Oh, my God, I did!" + +"All that business of waving a pistol--I did n't think you were that +much of a cub, Hamilton." + +"She drove me mad. I did n't know what I was doing." + +"In just what way do you blame her?" inquired Monte. + +"She would n't believe me," exclaimed Hamilton. "I saw it in her eyes. +I could n't make her believe me." + +"Believe what?" + +Hamilton got to his feet and leaned against the wall. He was breathing +rapidly, like a man in a fever. + +Monte studied him with a curious interest. + +"That I love her," gasped Hamilton. "She thought I was lying. I could +n't make her believe it, I tell you! She just sat there and +smiled--not believing." + +"Good Lord!" said Monte. "You don't mean that you really do love her?" + +Hamilton sprang with what little strength there was in him. + +"Damn you, Covington--what do you think?" he choked. + +Monte caught the man by the arms and forced him again into his chair. + +"Steady," he warned. + +Exhausted by his exertion, Hamilton sat there panting for breath, his +eyes burning into Covington's. + +"What I meant," said Monte, "was, do you love her with--with an +honest-to-God love?" + +When Hamilton answered this time, Covington saw what Marjory meant when +she wondered how Hamilton could look like a white-robed choir-boy as he +sang to her. He had grown suddenly calm, and when he spoke the red +light in his eyes had turned to white. + +"It's with all there is in me, Covington," he said. + +The pity of it was, of course, that so little was left in him--that so +much had been wasted, so much soiled, in the last few years. The +wonder was that so much was left. + +As Monte looked down at the man, he felt his own heart beating faster. +He felt several other things that left him none too comfortable. Again +that curious interest that made him want to listen, that held him with +a weird fascination. + +"Tell me about it," said Covington. + +Hamilton sat up with a start. He faced Covington as if searching his +soul. + +"Do you believe me?" he demanded. + +"Yes," answered Monte; "I think I do." + +"Because--did you see a play in New York called 'Peter Grimm'?" + +"I remember it," nodded Monte. + +"It's been like that--like dying and coming back and trying to make +people hear, and not being able to. I made an ass of myself until I +met her. I know that. I'm not fit to be in the same room with her. I +know that you can say nothing too bad about me--up to the day I met +her. I would n't care what people said up to that day--if they'd only +believe the rest; if she'd only believe the rest. I think I could +stand it even if I knew she--she did not care for me--if only I could +make her understand how much she means to me." + +Monte looked puzzled. + +"Just what does she mean to you?" he asked. + +"All that's left in life," answered Hamilton. "All that's left to work +for, to live for, to hope for. It's been like that ever since I saw +her on the boat. I was coming over here to go the old rounds, and +then--everything was changed. There was no place to go, after that, +except where she went. I counted the hours at night to the time when +the sun came up and I could see her again. I did n't begin to live +until then; the rest of the time I was only waiting to live. Every +time she came in sight it--it was as if I were resurrected, Covington; +as if in the mean while I'd been dead. I thought at first I had a +chance, and I planned to come back home with her to do things. I +wanted to do big things for her. I thought I had a chance all the +while, until she came here--until this morning. Then, when she only +smiled--well, I lost my head." + +"What was the idea back of the gun?" asked Monte. + +Hamilton answered without bravado. + +"I meant to end it for both of us; but I lost my nerve." + +"Good Lord! You would have gone as far as that?" + +"Yes," answered Hamilton wearily. "But I'm glad I fell down." + +Monte passed his hand over his forehead. He could not fully grasp the +meaning of a passion that led a man to such lengths as this. Why, the +man had proposed murder--murder and suicide; and all because of this +strange love of a woman. He had been driven stark raving mad because +of it. He sat there now before him, an odd combination of craven +weakness and giant strength because of it. In the face of such a +revelation, Covington felt petty; he felt negative. + +Less than ten minutes ago he himself had looked into the same eyes that +had so stirred this man. He had seen nothing there particularly to +disturb any one. They were very beautiful eyes, and the woman back of +them was very beautiful. He had a feeling that, day in and day out for +a great many years, they would remain beautiful. They had helped him +last night to make the city his own; they had helped him this morning +to recover his balance; they helped him now to see straight again. + +But, after all, it was arrant nonsense for Hamilton to act like this. +Admitting the man believed in himself,--and Covington believed that +much,--he was, after all, Teddy Hamilton. The fact remained, even as +he himself admitted, that he was not fit to be in the same room with +her. It was not possible for a man in a month to cleanse himself of +the accumulated mire of ten years. + +Furthermore, that too was beside the point. The girl cared nothing +about him. She particularly desired not to care about him or any one +else. It was not consistent with her scheme of life. She had told him +as much. It was this that had made his own engagement to her possible. + +Monte rose from his chair and paced the room a moment. If possible, he +wished to settle this matter once for all. On the whole, it was more +difficult than he had anticipated. When he came down he had intended +to dispose of it in five minutes. Suddenly he wheeled and faced +Hamilton. + +"It seems to me," he said, "that if a man loved a woman,--really loved +her,--then one of the things he would be most anxious about would be to +make her happy. Are you with me on that?" + +Hamilton raised his head. + +"Yes," he answered. + +"Then," continued Monte, "it does n't seem to me that you are going +about it in just the right way. Waving pistols and throwing fits--" + +"I was mad, I tell you," Hamilton broke in. + +"Admitting that," resumed Monte, "I should think the best thing you +could do would be to go away and sober up." + +"Go away?" + +"I would. I'd go a long way--to Japan or India." + +The old mad light came back to Hamilton's eyes. + +"Did she ask you to tell me that?" + +"No," answered Monte; "it is my own idea. Because, you see, if you +don't go she'll have to." + +"What do you mean?" + +"Steady, now," warned Monte. "I mean just what I say. She can't stay +here and let you camp in her front hall. Even Madame Courcy won't +stand for that. So--why don't you get out, quietly and without any +confusion?" + +"That's your own suggestion?" said Hamilton, tottering to his feet. + +"Exactly." + +"Then," said Hamilton, "I'll see you in hell first. It's no business +of yours, I say." + +"But it is," said Monte. + +"Tell me how it is," growled Hamilton. + +"Why, you see," said Monte quietly, "Miss Stockton and I are engaged." + +"You lie!" choked Hamilton. "You--" + +Monte heard a deafening report, and felt a biting pain in his shoulder. +As he staggered back he saw a pistol smoking in Hamilton's hand. +Recovering, he threw himself forward on the man and bore him to the +floor. + +It was no very difficult matter for Monte to wrest the revolver from +Hamilton's weak fingers, even with one arm hanging limp; but it was +quite a different proposition to quiet Madame Courcy and Marie, who +were screaming hysterically in the hall. Marjory, to be sure, was +splendid; but even she could do little with madame, who insisted that +some one had been murdered, even when it was quite obvious, with both +men alive, that this was a mistake. To make matters worse, she had +called up the police on the telephone, and at least a dozen gendarmes +were now on their way. + +The pain in Monte's arm was acute, and it hung from his shoulder as +limply as an empty sleeve; but, fortunately, it was not bleeding a +great deal,--or at least it was not messing things up,--and he was +able, therefore, by always keeping his good arm toward the ladies, to +conceal from them this disagreeable consequence of Hamilton's rashness. + +Hamilton himself had staggered to his feet, and, leaning against the +wall, was staring blankly at the confusion about him. + +Monte turned to Marjory. + +"Hurry out and get a taxi," he said. "We can't allow the man to be +arrested." + +"He tried to shoot--himself?" she asked. + +"I don't believe he knows what he tried to do. Hurry, please." + +As she went out, he turned to Marie. + +"Help madame into her room," he ordered. + +Madame did not want to go; but Monte impatiently grasped one arm and +Marie the other, so madame went. + +Then he came back to Hamilton. + +"Madame has sent for the police. Do you understand?" + +"Yes," Hamilton answered dully. + +"And I have sent for a taxi. It depends on which gets here first +whether you go to jail or not," said Monte. + +Then he sat down in a chair, because his knees were beginning to feel +weak. + +Marjory was back in a minute, and when she came in Monte was on his +feet again. + +"It's at the door," she said. + +At the sound of her voice Hamilton seemed to revive; but Monte had him +instantly by the arm. + +"Come on," he ordered. + +He shoved the boy ahead a little as he passed Marjory, and turning, +drew the revolver from his pocket. He did not dare take it with him, +because he knew that in five minutes he would be unable to use it. +Hamilton, on the other hand, might not be. He shoved it into her hand. + +"Take it upstairs and hide it," he said. "Be careful with it." + +"You're coming back here?" she asked quickly. + +She thought his cheeks were very white. + +"I can't tell," he answered. "But--don't worry." + +He hurried Hamilton down the steps and pushed him into the car. + +"To the Hotel Normandie," he ordered the driver, as he stumbled in +himself. + +The bumping of the car hurt Monte's arm a good deal. In fact, with +every bump he felt as if Hamilton were prodding his shoulder with a +stiletto. Besides being unpleasant, this told rapidly on his strength, +and that was dangerous. Above all things, he must remain conscious. +Hamilton was quiet because he thought Monte still had the gun and was +still able to use it; but let him sway, and matters would be reversed. +So Monte gripped his jaws and bent his full energy to keeping control +of himself until they crossed the Seine. It seemed like a full day's +journey before he saw that the muddy waters were behind them. Then he +ordered the driver to stop. + +Hamilton's shifty eyes looked up. + +"Hamilton," said Monte, "have you got it clear yet that--that Miss +Stockton and I are engaged?" + +Hamilton did not answer. His fingers were working nervously. + +Monte, summoning all his strength, shook the fellow. + +"Do you hear?" he called. + +"Yes," muttered Hamilton. + +"Then," said Monte, "I want you to get hold of the next point: that +from now on you're to let her alone. Get that?" + +Hamilton's lips began to twitch. + +"Because if you come around bothering her any more," explained Monte, +"I'll be there myself; and, believe me, you'll go out the door. And if +you try any more gun-play--the little fellows will nail you next time. +Sure as preaching, they'll nail you. That would be too bad for every +one--for you and for her." + +"How for her?" demanded Hamilton hoarsely. + +"The papers," answered Monte. "And for you because--" + +"I don't care what they do to me," growled Hamilton. + +"I believe that," nodded Monte. "Do you know that I 'm the one person +on earth who is inclined to believe what you say?" + +He saw Hamilton crouch as if to spring. Monte placed his left hand in +his empty pocket. + +"Steady," he warned. "There are still four shots left in that gun." + +Hamilton relaxed. + +"You don't care what the little fellows do to you," said Monte. "But +you don't want to queer yourself any further with her, do you? Now, +listen. She thinks you tried to shoot yourself. By that much I have a +hunch she thinks the better of you." + +Hamilton groaned, + +"And because I believe what you told me about her," he ran on, fighting +for breath--"just because--because I believe the shooting fits into +that, I 'm glad to--to have her think that little the better of you, +Hamilton." + +The interior of the cab was beginning to move slowly around in a +circle. He leaned back his head a second to steady himself--his white +lips pressed together. + +"So--so--clear out," he whispered. + +"You--you won't tell her?" + +"No. But--clear out, quick." + +Hamilton opened the cab door. + +"Got any money?" inquired Monte. + +"No." + +Monte drew out his bill-book and handed it to Hamilton. + +"Take what there is," he ordered. + +Hamilton obeyed, and returned the empty purse. + +"Remember," faltered Monte, his voice trailing off into an inaudible +murmur, "we're engaged--Marjory and I--" + +But Hamilton had disappeared. It was the driver who was peering in the +door. + +"Where next, monsieur?" he was saying. + +"Normandie," muttered Monte. + +The windows began to revolve in a circle before his eyes--faster and +faster, until suddenly he no longer was conscious of the pain in his +shoulder. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +GENDARMES AND ETHER + +When the gendarmes came hurrying to sixty-four Boulevard Saint-Germain, +Marjory was the only one in the house cool enough to meet them at the +door. She quieted them with a smile. + +"It is too bad, messieurs," she apologized, because it did seem too bad +to put them to so much trouble for nothing. "It was only a +disagreeable incident between friends, and it is closed. Madame Courcy +lost her head." + +"But we were told it was an assassination," the lieutenant informed +her. He was a very smart-looking lieutenant, and he noticed her eyes +at once. + +"To have an assassination it is necessary to have some one +assassinated, is it not?" inquired Marjory. + +"But yes, certainly." + +"Then truly it is a mistake, because the two gentlemen went off +together in a cab." + +The lieutenant took out a memorandum-book. + +"Is that necessary?" asked Marjory anxiously. + +"A report must be made." + +"It was nothing, I assure you," she insisted. "It was what in America +is called a false alarm." + +"You are American?" inquired the lieutenant, twisting his mustache. + +"It is a compliment to my French that you did not know," smiled Marjory. + +It was also a compliment to the lieutenant that she smiled. At least, +it was so that he interpreted it. + +"The report is only a matter of routine," he informed her. "If +mademoiselle will kindly give me her name." + +"But the newspapers!" she exclaimed. "They make so much of so little." + +"It will be a pleasure to see that the report is treated as +confidential," said the lieutenant, with a bow. + +So, as a matter of fact, after a perfunctory interview with madame and +Marie, who had so far recovered themselves as to be easily handled by +Marjory, the lieutenant and his men bowed themselves out and the +incident was closed. + +Marjory escorted them to the door, and then, a little breathless with +excitement, went into the reception room a moment to collect herself. + +The scene was set exactly as it had been when from upstairs she heard +that shot--the shot that for a second had checked her breathing as if +she herself had been hit. As clearly as if she had been in the room, +she had seen Monte stretched out on the floor, with Hamilton bending +over him. She had not thought of any other possibility. As she sprang +down the stairs she had been sure of what she was about to see. But +when she entered she had found Monte standing erect--erect and smiling, +with his light hair all awry like a schoolboy's. + +Then, sinking into the chair near the window,--this very chair beside +which she now stood,--he had asked her to go out and attend to madame. + +Come to think of it, it was odd that he had been smiling. It was not +quite natural for one to smile over as serious a matter as that. After +all, even if Teddy was melodramatic, even if his shot had missed its +mark, it was not a matter to take lightly. + +She seated herself in the chair he had occupied, and her hands dropped +wearily to her side. Her fingers touched something sticky--something +on the side of the chair next to the wall--something that the gendarmes +had not noticed. She did not dare to move them. She was paralyzed, as +if her fingers had met some cold, strange hand. For one second, two +seconds, three seconds, she sat there transfixed, fearing, if she moved +as much as a muscle, that something would spring at her from +below--some awful fact. + +Then finally she did move. She moved slowly, with her eyes closed. +Then, suddenly opening them wide, she saw her fingers stained carmine. +She knew then why Monte had smiled. It was like him to do that. +Running swiftly to her room, she called Marie as she ran. + +"Marie--my hat! Your hat! Hurry!" + +"Oh, mon Dieu!" exclaimed Marie. "Has anything happened?" + +"I have just learned what has already happened," she answered. "But do +not alarm madame." + +It was impossible not to alarm madame. + +The mere fact that they were going out alarmed madame. Marjory stopped +in the hall and quite coolly worked on her gloves. + +"We are going for a little walk in the sunshine," she said. "Will you +not come with us?" + +Decidedly madame would not. She was too weak and faint. She should +send for a friend to stay with her while she rested on her bed. + +"That is best for you," nodded Marjory. "Au revoir." + +With Marie by her side, she took her little walk in the sunshine, +without hurrying, as far as around the first corner. Then she signaled +for a cab, and showed the driver a louis d'or. + +"Hotel Normandie. This is for you--if you make speed," she said. + +It was a wonder the driver was not arrested within a block; but it was +nothing less than a miracle that he reached the hotel without loss of +life. A louis d'or is a great deal of money, but these Americans are +all mad. When Marie followed her mistress from the cab, she made a +little prayer of thanks to the bon Dieu who had saved her life. + +Mademoiselle inquired of the clerk for Monsieur Covington. + +Yes, Monsieur Covington had reached the hotel some fifteen minutes +before. But he was ill. He had met with an accident. Already a +surgeon was with him. + +"He--he is not badly injured?" inquired Marjory. + +"I do not know," answered the clerk. "He was carried to his room in a +faint. He was very white." + +"I will wait in the writing-room. When the surgeon comes down I wish +to see him. At once--do you understand?" + +"Yes, mademoiselle." + +Marie suspected what had happened. Monsieur Covington, too, had +presented the driver with a louis d'or, and--miracles do not occur +twice in one day. + +Marjory seated herself by a desk, where she had a full view of the +office--of all who came in and all who went out. That she was here +doing this and that Monte Covington was upstairs wounded by a pistol +shot was confusing, considering the fact that as short a time ago as +yesterday evening she had not been conscious of the existence in Paris +of either this hotel or of Monsieur Covington. Of the man who, on the +other hand, had been disturbing her a great deal--this Teddy +Hamilton--she thought not at all. It was as if he had ceased to exist. +She did not even associate him, at this moment, with her presence here. +She was here solely because of Monte. + +He had stood by the window in Madame Courcy's dingy reception room, +smiling--his hair all awry. She recalled many other details now: how +his arm had hung limp; how he had been to a good deal of awkward +trouble to keep his left arm always toward her; how white he had been +when he passed her on his way out; how he had seemed to stumble when he +stepped into the cab. + +She must have been a fool not to understand that something was wrong +with him--the more so because only a few minutes before that he had +stood before her with his cheeks a deep red, his body firm, his eyes +clear and bright. + +That was when he had asked her to marry him. Monte Covington had asked +her to marry him, and she had consented. With her chin in her hand, +she thought that over. He had asked her in order that it might be his +privilege to go downstairs and rid her of Teddy. It had been suggested +in a moment, and she had consented in a moment. So, technically, she +was at this moment engaged. The man upstairs was her fiance. That +gave her the right to be here. It was as if this had all been arranged +beforehand to this very end. + +It was this feature of her strange position that interested her. She +had been more startled, more excited, when Monte proposed, than she was +at this moment. It had taken away her breath at first; but now she was +able to look at it quite coolly. He did not love her, he said. Good +old Monte--honest and four-square. Of course he did not love her. Why +should he? He was leading his life, with all the wide world to wander +over, free to do this or to do that; utterly without care; utterly +without responsibility. + +It was this that had always appealed to her in him ever since she had +first known him. It was this that had made her envious of him. It was +exactly as she would have done in his circumstances. It was exactly as +she tried to do when her own circumstances changed so that it had +seemed possible. She had failed merely because she was a +woman--because men refused to leave her free. + +His proposal was merely that she share his freedom. Good old +Monte--honest and four-square! + +In return, there were little ways in which she might help him, even as +he might help her; but they had come faster than either had expected. + +Where was the surgeon? She rose and went to the clerk. + +"Are you sure the surgeon has not gone?" she asked. + +"Very sure," answered the clerk. "He has just sent out for a nurse to +remain with monsieur." + +"A nurse?" repeated Marjory. + +"The doctor says Monsieur Covington must not be left alone." + +"It's as bad--as that?" questioned Marjory. + +"I do not know." + +"I must see the doctor at once," she said. "But, first,--can you give +me apartments on the same floor,--for myself and maid? I am his +fiancee," she informed him. + +"I can give mademoiselle apartments adjoining," said the clerk eagerly. + +"Then do so." + +She signed her name in the register, and beckoned for Marie. + +"Marie," she said, "you may return and finish packing my trunks. +Please bring them here." + +"Here?" queried Marie. + +"Here," answered Marjory. + +She turned to the clerk. + +"Take me upstairs at once." + +There was a strong smell of ether in the hall outside the door of Monte +Covington's room. It made her gasp for a moment. It seemed to make +concrete what, after all, had until this moment been more or less +vague. It was like fiction suddenly made true. That pungent odor was +a grim reality. So was that black-bearded Dr. Marcellin, who, leaving +his patient in the hands of his assistant, came to the door wiping his +hands upon a towel. + +"I am Mr. Covington's fiancee--Miss Stockton," she said at once. "You +will tell me the truth?" + +After one glance at her eyes Dr. Marcellin was willing to tell the +truth. + +"It is an ugly bullet wound in his shoulder," he said. + +"It is not serious?" + +"Such things are always serious. Luckily, I was able to find the +bullet and remove it. It was a narrow escape for him." + +"Of course," she added, "I shall serve as his nurse." + +"Good," he nodded. + +But he added, having had some experience with fiancees as nurses:-- + +"Of course I shall have for a week my own nurse also; but I shall be +glad of your assistance. This--er--was an accident?" + +She nodded. + +"He was trying to save a foolish friend from killing himself." + +"I understand." + +"Nothing more need be said about it?" + +"Nothing more," Dr. Marcellin assured her. "If you will come in I will +give you your instructions. Mademoiselle Duval will soon be here." + +"Is she necessary?" inquired Marjory. "I have engaged the next +apartment for myself and maid." + +"That is very good, but--Mademoiselle Duval is necessary for the +present. Will you come in?" + +She followed the doctor into Monsieur Covington's room. There the odor +of ether hung still heavier. + +She heard him muttering a name. She listened to catch it. + +"Edhart," he called. "Oh, Edhart!" + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING SHOT + +Under proper conditions, being wounded in the shoulder may have its +pleasant features. They were not so obvious to Monte in the early part +of the evening, because he was pretty much befuddled with ether; but +sometime before dawn he woke up feeling fairly normal and clear-headed +and interested. This was where fifteen years of clean living counted +for something. When Marcellin and his assistant had first stripped +Monte to the waist the day before, they had paused for a moment to +admire what they called his torso. It was not often, in their city +practice, that they ran across a man of thirty with muscles as clearly +outlined as in an anatomical illustration. + +Monte was conscious of a burning pain in his shoulder, and he was not +quite certain as to where he was. So he hitched up on one elbow. This +caused a shadow to detach itself from the dark at the other end of the +room--a shadow that rustled and came toward him. It is small wonder +that he was startled. + +"Who the deuce are you?" he inquired in plain English. + +"Monsieur is not to sit up," the shadow answered in plain French. + +Monte repeated his question, this time in French. + +"I am the nurse sent here by Dr. Marcellin," she informed him. +"Monsieur is not to talk." + +She placed her hand below his neck and helped him to settle down again +upon his pillow. Then she rustled off again beyond the range of the +shaded electric light. + +"What happened?" Monte called into the dark. + +Then he thought he heard a door open, and further rustling, and a +whispered conversation. + +"Who's that?" he demanded. + +It sounded like a conspiracy of some sort, so he tried again to make +his elbow. Mademoiselle appeared promptly, and, again placing her hand +beneath his neck, lowered him once more to his pillow. + +"Turn up the light, will you?" requested Monte. + +"But certainly not," answered the nurse. "Monsieur is to lie very +quiet and sleep." + +"I can't sleep." + +"Perhaps it will help monsieur to be quiet if he knows his fiancee is +in the next room." + +Momentarily this announcement appeared to have directly the opposite +effect. + +"My what?" gasped Monte. + +"Monsieur's fiancee. With her maid, she is occupying the next +apartment in order to be near monsieur. If you are very quiet +to-night, it is possible that to-morrow the doctor will permit you to +see her." + +"Was that she who came in and whispered to you?" + +"Yes, monsieur." + +Monte remained quiet after that--but he was not sleeping. He was +thinking. + +In the first place, this was enough to make him recall all that had +happened. This led him to speculate on all that might be about to +happen--how much he could not at that moment even imagine. Neither +line of thought was conducive to sleep. + +Marjory was in the next room, awake, and at the sound of his voice had +come in. In the dark, even with this great night city of Paris asleep +around him, she had come near enough so that he heard the rustle of her +skirt and her whispering voice. That was unusual--most unusual--and +rather satisfactory. If worse came to worse and he reached a point +where it was necessary for him to talk to some one, he could get her in +here again in spite of this nurse woman. He had only to call her name. +Not that he really had any intention in the world of doing it. The +idea rather embarrassed him. He would not know what to say to a young +lady at this hour of the night--even Marjory. But there she was--some +one from home, some one he knew and who knew him. It was like having +Edhart within reach. + +In this last week he had sometimes awakened as he was now awake, and +the silence had oppressed him. Ordinarily there was nothing morbid +about Monte, but Edhart's death and the big empty space that was left +all about Nice, the silence where once he had been so sure of hearing +Edhart's voice, the ghostly reminders of Edhart in those who clicked +about in Edhart's bones without his flesh--all these things had given +Monte's thoughts an occasional novel trend. + +Once or twice he had gone as far as to picture himself as upon the +point of death here in this foreign city. It was a very sad, a +melancholy thing to speak about. He might call until he was hoarse, +and no one would answer except possibly the night clerk or a gendarme. +And they would look upon him only as something of a nuisance. It is +really pathetic--the depths of misery into which a healthy man may, in +such a mood, plunge himself. + +All around him the dark, silent city, asleep save for the night clerks, +the gendarmes, the evildoers, and the merrymakers. And these last +would only leer at him. If he did not join them, then it was his fault +if he lay dying alone. + +"Is she in there now?" Monte called to the nurse in the dark. + +"Certainly, monsieur. But I thought you were sleeping." + +No, he was not sleeping; but he did not mind now the pain in his +shoulder. She had announced herself as his fiancee. Well, +technically, she was. He had asked her to marry him, and she had +accepted. At the time he had not seen much farther ahead than the next +few minutes; and even then had not foreseen what was to happen in those +few minutes. The proposal had given him his right to talk to Hamilton, +and her acceptance--well, it had given Marjory her right to be here. + +Curious thing about that code of rights and wrongs! Society was a +stickler for form. If either he or Marjory had neglected the +preliminaries, then he might have lain here alone for a week, with +society shaking its Puritan head. This nurse woman might have come, +but she did not count; and, besides, he had to get shot before even she +would be allowed. + +Now it was all right. It was all right and proper for her, all right +and proper for him, all right and proper for society. Not only that, +but it was so utterly normal that society would have frowned if she had +not hurried to his side in such an emergency. It forced her here, +willy-nilly. Perhaps that was the only reason she was here. + +Still, he did not like to think that. She was too true blue to quit a +friend. It would be more like her to come anyway. He remembered how +she had stood by that old aunt to the end. She would be standing by +her to-day were she alive. Even Chic, who fulfilled his own +obligations to the last word, had sometimes urged her to lead her own +life, and she had only smiled. There was man stuff in her. + +It showed when she announced to these people her engagement. He did +not believe she did that either because it was necessary or proper. +She did it because it was the literal truth, and she was not ashamed of +the literal truth in anything. + +"Is Mademoiselle Stockton sitting up--there in the next room?" + +"I do not know," answered the nurse. + +"Do you mind finding out for me?" + +"If monsieur will promise to sleep after that." + +"How can a man promise to sleep?" + +Even under normal conditions, that was a foolish thing to promise. But +when a man was experiencing brand-new sensations--the sensations of +being engaged--it was quite impossible to make such a promise. + +"Monsieur can at least promise not to talk." + +"I will do that," agreed Monte. + +She came back and reported that mademoiselle was sitting up, and begged +to present her regards and express the hope that he was resting +comfortably. + +"Please to tell her I am, and that I hope she will now go to bed," he +answered. + +Nurse Duval did that, and returned. + +"What did she say?" inquired Monte. + +"But, monsieur--" + +She had no intention of spending the rest of the night as a messenger +between those two rooms. + +"Very well," submitted Monte. "But you might tell me what she said." + +"She said she was not sleepy," answered the nurse. + +"I'm glad she's awake," said Monte. + +Just because he was awake. In a sense, it gave them this city for +themselves. It was as if this immediately became their city. That was +not good arithmetic. Assuming that the city contained a population of +three millions,--he did not have his Baedeker at hand,--then clearly he +could consider only one three millionth part of the city as his. With +her awake in the next room, that made only two of them, so that taken +collectively they had a right to claim only two three-millionths parts +as belonging to them. Yet that was not the way it worked out. As far +as he was concerned, the other two millions nine hundred and +ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight did not exist. + +There was nothing sentimental about this conclusion. He did not think +of it as it affected her--merely as it affected him. It gave him +rather a comfortable, completed feeling, as if he now had within +himself the means for peacefully enjoying life, wherever he might be, +even at thirty-two. Under the influence of this soothing thought, he +fell asleep again. + + +After the doctors were through with Monte the next morning, they +decided, after a consultation, that there was no apparent reason why, +during the day, Miss Stockton, if she desired, should not serve as his +nurse while Miss Duval went home to sleep. + +"My assistant will come in at least twice," said Dr. Marcellin. +"Besides, you have the constitution of a prize-fighter. It might well +be possible to place a bullet through the heart of such a man without +greatly discommoding him." + +He spoke as if with some resentment. + +After they had gone out, Marjory came in. She hesitated at the door a +moment, perhaps to make sure that he was awake; perhaps to make sure +that she herself was awake. Monte, from the bed, could see her better +than she could see him. He thought she looked whiter than usual, but +she was very beautiful. + +There was something about her that distinguished her from other +women--from this nurse woman, for example, who was the only other woman +with whom it was possible to compare her in a like situation. With one +hand resting on the door, her chin well up, she looked more than ever +like Her Royal Highness Something or Other. She was dressed in +something white and light and fluffy, like the gowns he used to see on +Class Day. Around her white throat there was a narrow band of black +velvet. + +"Good-morning, Marjory," he called. + +She came at once to his side, walking graciously, as a princess might +walk. + +"I did n't know if you were awake," she said. + +It was one thing to have her here in the dark, and another to have her +here in broad daylight. The sun was streaming in at the windows now, +and outside the birds were chattering. + +"Did you rest well last night?" she inquired. + +"I heard you when you came in and whispered to the nurse woman. It was +mighty white of you to come." + +"What else could I do?" She seated herself in a chair by his bed. + +"Because we are engaged?" he asked. + +She smiled a little as he said that. + +"Then you have not forgotten?" + +"Forgotten!" he exclaimed. "I'm just beginning to realize it." + +"I was afraid it might come back to you as a shock, Monte," she said. +"But it is very convenient--at just this time." + +"I don't know what I should have done without it," he nodded. "It +certainly gives a man a comfortable feeling to know--well, just to know +there is some one around." + +"I'm glad if I've been able to do anything." + +"It's a whole lot just having you here," he assured her. + +It changed the whole character of this room, for one thing. It ceased +to be merely a hotel room--merely number fifty-four attached with a big +brass star to a key. It was more like a room in the Hotel des Roses, +which was the nearest to home of any place Monte had found in a decade. +It was as if when she came in she completely refurnished it with little +things with which he was familiar. Edhart always used to place flowers +in his apartment; and it was like that. + +"The only bother with the arrangement," he said, looking serious, "is +that it takes your time. Ought n't you to be at Julien's this morning?" + +She had forgotten about Julien's. Yet for the last two years it had +been the very center of her own individual life. Now the crowded +studio, the smell of turpentine, the odd cosmopolitan gathering of +fellow students, the little pangs following the bitter criticisms of +the master, receded into the background until they became as a dream of +long ago. + +"I don't think I shall ever go to Julien's again," she answered. + +"But look here--that won't do," he objected. "If I'm to interfere with +all your plans--" + +"It isn't that, Monte," she assured him. "Ever since I came back this +last time, I knew I did n't belong there. When Aunt Kitty was alive it +was all the opportunity I had; but now--" She paused. + +"Well?" + +"I have my hands full with you until you get out again," she answered +lightly. + +"That's what I object to," he said; "If being engaged is going to pin +you down, then I don't think you ought to be engaged. You've had +enough of that in your life." + +The curious feature of her present position was that she had no sense +of being pinned down. She had thought of this in the night. She had +never felt freer in her life. Within a few hours of her engagement she +had been able to do exactly what she wished to do without a single +qualm of conscience. She had been able to come here and look after him +in this emergency. She would have done this anyway, but she knew how +Marcellin and his assistant and even Nurse Duval would have made her +pay for her act--an act based upon nothing but decent loyalty and +honest responsibility. Raised eyebrows--gossip in the air--covert +smiles--the whole detestable atmosphere of intrigue with which they +would have surrounded her, had vanished as by a spell before the magic +word fiancee. She was breathing air like that upon the mountain-tops. +It was sweet and clean and bracing. + +"Monte," she said, "I'm doing at this moment just exactly what I want +to do; and you can't understand what a treat that is, because you've +always done just exactly as you wanted. I 'm sure I 'm entirely +selfish about this, because--because I'm not making any sacrifice. You +can't understand that, either, Monte,--so please don't try. I think +we'd better not talk any more about it. Can't we just let it go on as +it is a little while?" + +"It suits me," smiled Monte. "So maybe I'm selfish, too." + +"Maybe," she nodded. "Now I'll see about your breakfast. The doctor +told me just what you must have." + +So she went out--moving away like a vision in dainty white across the +room and out the door. A few minutes later she was back again with a +vase of red roses, which she arranged upon the table where he could see +them. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +DRAWBACKS OF RECOVERY + +Monte's recovery was rapid--in many ways more rapid than he desired. +In a few days Nurse Duval disappeared, and in a few days more Monte was +able to dress himself with the help of the hotel valet, and sit by the +window while Marjory read to him. Half the time he gave no heed to +what she was reading, but that did not detract from his pleasure in the +slightest. He liked the sound of her voice, and liked the idea of +sitting opposite her. + +Her eyes were always interesting when she read. For then she forgot +about them and let them have their own way--now to light with a smile, +now to darken with disapproval, and sometimes to grow very tender, as +the story she happened to be reading dictated. + +This was luxury such as Monte had never known, and for more than ten +years now he had ordered of the world its choicest in the way of luxury. + +At his New York club the experience of many, many years in catering to +man comfort was placed at his disposal. As far as possible, every +desire was anticipated, so that little more effort was required of him +than merely to furnish the desires. In a house where no limit whatever +had been set upon the expense, a hundred lackeys stood ready to jump if +a man as much as raised an eyebrow. And they understood, those +fellows, what a man needs--from the chef who searched the markets of +the world to satisfy tender tastes, to the doorman who acquainted +himself with the names of the members and their personal idiosyncrasies. + +That same service was furnished him, if to a more limited extent, on +the transatlantic liners, where Monte's name upon the passenger list +was immediately passed down the line with the word that he must have +the best. At Davos his needs were anticipated a week in advance; at +Nice there had been Edhart, who added his smiling self to everything +else. + +But no one at his club, on the boat, or at Davos--not even Edhart--had +given him this: this being the somewhat vague word he used to describe +what he was now enjoying as Marjory sat by the window reading to him. +It had nothing to do with being read aloud to. He could at any time +have summoned a valet to do that, and in five minutes would have felt +like throwing the book--any book--at the valet's head. It had nothing +to do with the mere fact that she was a woman. Nurse Duval could not +have taken her place. Kind as she had been, he was heartily bored with +her before she left. + +It would seem, then, that in some mysterious way he derived his +pleasure from Marjory herself. But, if so, then she had gone farther +than all those who made it their life-work to see that man was +comfortable; for they satisfied only existing wants, while she created +a new one. Whenever she left the room he was conscious of this want. + +Yet, when Monte faced the issue squarely and asked himself if this were +not a symptom of being in love, he answered it as fairly as he could +out of an experience that covered Chic Warren's pre-nuptial +brain-storms; a close observation of several dozen honeymoon couples on +shipboard, to say nothing of many incipient cases which started there; +and, finally, the case of Teddy Hamilton. + +The leading feature of all those distressing examples seemed to +indicate that, while theoretically the man was in an ideal state of +blissful ecstasy, he was, practically, in a condition bordering on +madness. At the very moment he was supposed to be happy, he was about +half the time most miserable. Even at its best, it did not make for +comfort. Poor Chic ran the gamut every week from hell to heaven. It +was with a sigh of relief that Monte was able to answer his own +question conscientiously in the negative. It was just because he was +able to retain the use of his faculties that he was able to enjoy the +situation. + +Monte liked to consider himself thoroughly normal in everything. As +far as he had any theory of life, it was based upon the wisdom of +keeping cool--of keeping normal. To get the utmost out of every day, +this was necessary. It was not the man who drank too much who enjoyed +his wine: it was the man who drank little. That was true of +everything. If Hamilton had only kept his head--well, after all, Monte +was indebted to Hamilton for not having kept his head. + +Monte was not in love: that was certain. Marjory was not in love: that +also was certain. This was why he was able to light his cigarette, +lean back his head on the pillow she arranged, and drift into a state +of dreamy content as she read to him. This happy arrangement might go +on forever except that, in the course of time, his shoulder was bound +to heal. And then--he knew well enough that old Dame Society was even +at the end of these first ten days beginning to fidget. He knew that +Marjory knew it, too. It began the day Dr. Marcellin advised him to +take a walk in the Champs Elysees. + +He was perfectly willing to do that. It was beautiful out there. They +sat down at one of the little iron tables--the little tables were so +warm and sociable now--and beneath the whispering trees sipped their +cafe au lait. But the fact that he was able to get out of his room +seemed to make a difference in their thoughts. It was as if his status +had changed. It was as if those who passed him, with a glance at his +arm in its sling, stopped to tell him so. + +It was none of their business, at that. It would have been sheer +presumption of them to have butted into any of the other affairs of his +life: whether he was losing money or making money; whether he was going +to England or to Spain, or going to remain where he was; whether he +preferred chops for breakfast, or bread and coffee. Theoretically, +then, it was sheer presumption for them to interest themselves in the +question of whether he was an invalid confined to his room, or a +convalescent able to get out, or a man wholly recovered. + +Yet he knew that, with every passing day that he came out into the +sunshine, these same people were managing to make Marjory's position +more and more delicate. It became increasingly less comfortable for +her and for him when they returned to the hotel. + +Therefore he was not greatly surprised when she remarked one morning:-- + +"Monte, I've been thinking over where I shall go, and I 've about +decided to go to Etois." + +"When?" he asked. + +"Very soon--before the end of the week, anyway." + +"But look here!" he protested. "What am I going to do?" + +"I don't know," she smiled. "But one thing is certain: you can't play +sick very much longer." + +"The doctor says it will be another two weeks before my arm is out of +the sling." + +"Even so, the rest of you is well. There is n't much excuse for my +bringing in your breakfasts, Monte." + +"Do you mind doing it?" + +"No." + +"Who is to tie on this silk handkerchief?" He wore a black silk +handkerchief over his bandages, which she always adjusted for him. + +She met his eyes a moment, and smiled again. + +"I'm going to Etois," she said. "I think I shall get a little villa +there and stay all summer." + +"Then," he declared, "I think I shall go to Etois myself." + +"I 'm afraid you must n't." + +"But the doctor says I must n't play golf for six months. What do you +think I'm going to do with myself until then?" + +"There's all the rest of the world," she suggested. + +Monte frowned. + +"Are you going to break our engagement, then?" + +"It has served its purpose, hasn't it?" she asked. + +"Up to now," he admitted. "But you say it can't go any farther." + +"No, Monte." + +The next suggestion that leaped into Monte's mind was obvious enough, +yet he paused a moment before voicing it. Perhaps even then he would +not have found the courage had he not been rather panic-stricken. He +had exactly the same feeling, when he thought of her in Etois, that he +had when he thought of Edhart in Paradise. It started as resentment, +but ended in a slate-gray loneliness. + +He could imagine himself as sitting here alone at one of these little +iron tables, and decidedly it was not pleasant. When he pictured +himself as returning to his room in the hotel and to the company of the +hotel valet, it put him in a mood that augured ill for the valet. + +It would have been bad enough had he been able to resume his normal +schedule and fill his time with golf; but, with even that relaxation +denied him, such a situation as she proposed was impossible. For the +present, at any rate, she was absolutely indispensable. She ought to +know that a valet could not adjust a silk handkerchief properly, and +that without this he could not even go upon the street. And who would +read to him from the American papers? + +There was no further excuse, she said, for her to bring in his +breakfasts, but if she did not sit opposite him at breakfast, what in +thunder was the use of eating breakfast? If she had not begun +breakfasting with him, then he would never have known the difference. +But she had begun it; she had first suggested it. And now she calmly +proposed turning him over to a valet. + +"Marjory," he said, "didn't I ask you to marry me?" + +She nodded. + +"That was necessary in order that we might be engaged," she reminded +him. + +"Exactly," he agreed. "Now there seems to be only one way that we may +keep right on being engaged." + +"I don't see that, Monte," she answered. "We may keep on being engaged +as long as we please, may n't we?" + +"It seems not. That is, there is n't much sense in it if it won't let +me go to Etois with you." + +"Of course you can't do that." + +"And yet," he said, "if we were married I could go, couldn't I?" + +"Why--er--yes," she faltered; "I suppose so." + +"Then," he said, "why don't we get married?" + +She did not turn away her head. She lifted her dark eyes to his. + +"Just what do you mean, Monte?" she demanded. + +"I mean," he said uneasily, "that we should get married just so that we +can go on--as we have been these last ten days. Really, we'll still +only be engaged, but no one need know that. Besides, no one will care, +if we're married." + +He gained confidence as he went on, though he was somewhat afraid of +the wonder in her eyes. + +"People don't care anything more about you after you're married," he +said. "They just let you drop as if you were done for. It's a queer +thing, but they do. Why, if we were married we could sit here all day +and no one would give us a second glance. We could have breakfast +together as often as we wished, and no one would care a hang. I've +seen it done. We could go to Etois together, and I could pay for half +the villa and you could pay for half. You can bring Marie, and we can +stay as long as we wish without having any one turn an eye." + +He was growing enthusiastic now. + +"There will be nothing to prevent you from doing just as you wish. You +can paint all day if you want. You can paint yards of things--olive +trees and sky and rocks. There are lots of them around Etois. And I--" + +"Yes," she interrupted; "what can you do, Monte?" + +"I can watch you paint," he answered. "Or I can walk. Or I can--oh, +there'll be plenty for me to do. If we tire of Etois we can move +somewhere else. If we tire of each other's company, why, we can each +go somewhere else. It's simple, is n't it? We can both do just as we +please, can't we? There won't be a living soul with the right to open +his head to us. Do you get that? Why, even if you want to go off by +yourself, with Mrs. in front of your name they'll let you alone." + +At first she had been surprised, then she had been amused, but now she +was thinking. + +"It's queer, is n't it, Monte, that it should be like that?" + +"It's the way it is. It makes everything simple and puts the whole +matter up to us." + +"Yes," she admitted thoughtfully. + +"Of course," he said, "I'm assuming you don't mind having me around +quite a lot." + +"No, I don't mind that," she assured him. "But I 'm wondering if +you'll mind--having me around?" + +"I did n't realize until this last week how--well, how comfortable it +was having you around," he confessed. + +She glanced up. + +"Yes," she said, "that's the word. I think we've made each other +comfortable. After all--that's something." + +"It's a whole lot." + +"And it need n't ever be anything else, need it?" + +"Certainly not," he declared. "That would spoil everything. That's +what we're trying to avoid." + +To his surprise, she suddenly rose as if to leave. + +"Look here!" he exclaimed. "Can't we settle this right now--so that we +won't have to worry about it?" + +He disliked having anything left to worry about. + +"I should think the least you'd expect of me would be to think it +over," she answered. + +"It would be so much simpler just to go ahead," he declared. + + +There seemed to be no apparent reason in the world why she should not +assent to Monte's proposal. In and of itself, the arrangement offered +her exactly what she craved--the widest possible freedom to lead her +own life without let or hindrance from any one, combined with the least +possible responsibility. As far as she could see, it would remove once +and for all the single fretting annoyance that, so far, had disarranged +all her plans. + +Monte's argument was sound. Once she was married, the world of men +would let her alone. So, too, would the world of women. She could +face them both with a challenge to dispute her privileges. All this +she would receive without any of the obligations with which most women +pay so heavily for their release from the bondage in which they are +held until married. For they pay even more when they love--pay the +more, in a way, the more they love. It cannot be helped. + +She was thinking of the Warrens--the same Warrens Monte had visited +when Chic, Junior had the whooping cough. She had been there when +Chic, Junior was born. Marion had wanted her near--in the next room. +She had learned then how they pay--these women who love. + +She had been there at other times--less dramatic times. It was just +the same. From the moment Marion awoke in the morning until she sank +wearily into her bed at night, her time, her thought, her heart, her +soul almost, was claimed by some one else. She gave, gave, until +nothing was left for herself. + +Marjory, in her lesser way, had done much the same--so she knew the +cost. It was rare when she had been able to leave her aunt for a whole +day and night. Year after year, she too had awakened in the morning to +her tasks for another--for this woman who had demanded them as her +right. She too had given her time, her thought, her soul, almost, to +another. If she had not given her heart, it was perhaps because it was +not asked; perhaps, again, it was because she had no heart to give. + +Sometimes, in that strange, emotionless existence she had lived so long +where duty took the place of love, she had wondered about that. If she +had a heart, it never beat any faster to let her know she had it. + +She paid her debt of duty in full--paid until her release came. In the +final two weeks of her aunt's life she had never left her side. +Patiently, steadfastly, she helped with all there was in her to fight +that last fight. When it was over, she did not break down, as the +doctors predicted. She went to bed and slept forty-eight hours, and +awoke ten years younger. + +She awoke as one out of bondage, and stared with keen, eager eyes at a +new world. For a few weeks she had twenty-four hours a day of her own. +Then Peter had come, and others had come, and finally Teddy had come. +They wanted to take from her that which she had just gained--each in +his own fashion. + +"Give us of yourself," they pleaded. "Begin again your sacrifices." + +Peter put it best, even though he did not say much. But she had only +to look in his eyes and read his proposal. + +"Come with me and stand by my side while I carve my career," was what +his eyes said. "I'll love you and make you love me as Marion loves. +You 'll begin the day with me, and you 'll guard my home while I 'm +gone until night, and you'll share my honors and my disappointments, +and perhaps a time will come when Marion will stand in the next room, +as once you stood in the next room. Then--" + +It was at this point she drew back. Then her soul would go out into +the new-born soul, and after that she would only live and breathe and +hope through that other. When Marion laughed and said that she was as +she was because she did not know, Marion was wrong. It was because she +did know--because she knew how madly and irrevocably she would give, if +ever she gave again. There would be nothing left for herself at all. +It would be as if she had died. + +She did not wish to give like that. She wished to live a little. She +wished to be herself a little--herself as she now was. She wished to +get back some of those years between seventeen and twenty-seven--taste +the world as it was then. + +What Teddy offered was different. Something was there that even Peter +did not have--something that made her catch her breath once or twice +when he sang to her like a white-robed choir-boy. It was as if he +asked her to take his hand and jump with him into a white-hot flame. +He carried her farther back in her passions than Peter did--back to +seventeen, back to the primitive, elemental part of her. He really +made her heart beat. But on guard within her stood the older woman, +and she could not move. + +Now came Monte--asking nothing. He asked nothing because he wished to +give nothing. She was under no illusion about that. There was not +anything idealistic about Monte. This was to be purely an arrangement +for their mutual comfort. They were to be companions on an indefinite +tour of the world--each paying his own bills. + +At thirty-two he needed a comrade of some sort, and in his turn he +offered himself as an escort. She found no apparent reason, then, even +when she had spent half the night getting as far as this, why she +should not immediately accept his proposal. Yet she still hesitated. + +It was not that she did not trust Monte. Not the slightest doubt in +the world existed in her mind about that. She would trust him farther +than she would even Peter--trust him farther than any man she had ever +met. He was four-square, and she knew it. Perhaps it was a curious +suggestion--it was just because of this that she hesitated. + +In a way, she was considering Monte. She did not like to help him give +up responsibilities that might be good for him. She was somewhat +disappointed that he was willing to give them up. He did not have the +excuse she had--years of self-sacrifice. He had been free all his life +to indulge himself, and he had done so. He had never known a care, +never known a heartache. Having money, he had used it decently, so +that he had avoided even the compensating curse that is supposed to +come with money. + +She knew there was a lot to Monte. She had sensed that from the first. +He had proved it in the last two weeks. It only needed some one to +bring it out, and he would average high. Love might do it--the same +white-hot love that had driven Teddy mad. + +But that was what he was avoiding, just as she was. Well, what of it? +If one did not reach the heights, then one did not sound the depths. +After all, it was not within her province to direct Monte's life. She +was selfish--she had warned him of that. He was selfish--and had +warned her. + +Yet, as she lay there in her bed, she felt that she was about to give +up something forever, and that Monte was about to give up something +forever. It is one thing not to want something, and another to make an +irrevocable decision never to have it. Also, it is one thing to fret +one's self into an unnecessary panic over a problem at night, and +another to handle it lightly in the balmy sunshine of a Parisian +springtime morning. + + +Monte had risen early and gone out and bought her violets again. When +she came in, he handed them to her, and she buried her face in their +dewy fragrance. It was good to have some one think of just such little +attentions. Then, too, his boyish enthusiasm swept her off her guard. +He was so eager and light-hearted this morning that she found herself +breaking into a laugh. She was still laughing when he brought back to +her last night's discussion. + +"Well, have you decided to marry me?" he demanded. + +She shook her head, her face still buried in the violets. + +"What's worrying you about it?" he asked. + +"You, Monte," she answered. + +"I? Well, that isn't much. I looked up the time-tables, and we could +take the six-ten to-night if you were ready." + +"I could n't possibly be ready," she replied decidedly. + +"To-morrow, then?" + +When he insisted upon being definite, the proposition sounded a great +deal more absurd than when he allowed it to be indefinite. She was +still hesitating when Marie appeared. + +"A telephone for mademoiselle," she announced. + +Monte heard her startled exclamation from the next room. He hurried to +the door. She saw him, and, placing her hand over the telephone, +turned excitedly. + +"It's Teddy again," she trembled. + +"Let me talk to him," he commanded. + +"He says he does n't believe in our--our engagement." + +"We're to be married to-morrow?" he asked quickly. + +[Illustration: "We're to be married to-morrow?"] + +"Oh!" + +"It's the only way to get rid of him." + +"Then--" + +"To-morrow?" + +Catching her breath, she nodded. + +He took the receiver. + +"This is Covington," he said. "Miss Stockton and I are to be married +to-morrow. Get that? . . . Well, keep hold of it, because the moment +I 'm her husband--" + +Following an oath at the other end, Monte heard the click of the +receiver as it was snapped up. + +"That settles it very nicely," he smiled. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +BLUE AND GOLD + +Marjory was to be married on June eighteenth, at eleven o'clock, in the +chapel of the English Congregational Church. At ten o'clock of that +day she was in her room before the mirror, trying to account for her +heightened color. Marie had just left her in despair and bewilderment, +after trying to make her look as bridelike as possible when she did not +wish to look bridelike. Marie had wished to do her hair in some absurd +new fashion for the occasion. + +"But, Marie," she had explained, "nothing is to be changed. Therefore +why should I change my appearance?" + +"Mademoiselle to be a bride--and nothing changed?" Marie had cried. + +"Nothing about me; nothing about Mr. Covington. We are merely to be +married, that is all--as a matter of convenience." + +"Mademoiselle will see," Marie had answered cryptically. + +"You will see yourself," Marjory had laughed. + +Eh bien! something was changed already, as she had only to look in the +mirror to observe. There was a deep flush upon her cheeks and her eyes +did not look quite natural. She saw, and seeing only made it worse. +Manifestly it was absurd of her to become excited now over a matter +that up to this point she had been able to handle so reasonably. It +was scarcely loyal to Monte. He had a right to expect her to be more +sensible. + +He had put it well last night when he had remarked that for her to go +to a chapel to be married was no more serious than to go to an embassy +for a passport. She was merely to share with him the freedom that was +his as a birthright of his sex. In no other respect whatever was she +to be under any obligations to him. With ample means of her own, he +was simply giving her an opportunity to enjoy them unmolested--a +privilege which the world denied her as long as she remained unmarried. +In no way was he to be responsible for her or to her. He understood +this fully, and it was exactly what he himself desired. + +She, in return for this privilege, was to make herself as entertaining +a traveling companion as possible. She was to be what she had been +these last few weeks. + +Neither was making any sacrifice. That was precisely what they were +avoiding. That was the beauty of the arrangement. Instead of +multiplying cares and responsibilities, as ordinary folk did,--thereby +defeating the very object for which they married, a fuller and wider +freedom,--each was to do away with the few they already had as +individuals. + +Therefore it seemed scarcely decent for Marie to speak of her as a +bride. Perhaps that accounted for the color. No sentiment was +involved here. This was what made the arrangement possible. Sentiment +involved caring; and, as Monte had once said, "It's the caring that +seems to make the trouble." That was the trouble with the Warrens. +How she cared--from morning till night, with her whole heart and soul +in a flutter--for Chic and the children. In a different way, Marjory +supposed, Teddy cared. This was the one thing that made him so +impossible. In another way, Peter Noyes cared. + +She gave a quick start as she thought of Peter Noyes. She turned away +from the mirror as if--as if ashamed. She sprang to her feet, with an +odd, tense expression about her mouth. It was as if she were looking +into his dark, earnest eyes. Peter had always been so intensely in +earnest about everything. In college he had worked himself thin to +lead his class. In the law school he had graduated among the first +five, though he came out almost half blind. His record, however, had +won for him a place with a leading law firm in New York, where in his +earnest way he was already making himself felt. It was just this +quality that had frightened her. He had made love to her with his lips +set as if love were some great responsibility. He had talked of duty +and the joy of sacrifice until she had run away from him. + +That had been her privilege. That had been her right. She had been +under no obligation to him then; she was under no obligation to him +now. Her life was hers, to do with as she saw fit. He had no business +to intrude himself, at this of all times, upon her. + +Not daring to look in the mirror again, she called Marie to adjust her +hat and veil. + +"It is half past ten, Marie," she announced nervously. "I--I think +Monsieur Covington must be waiting for us." + +"Yes, mademoiselle." + +Her ears caught at the word. + +"Marie." + +"Yes, mademoiselle." + +"I wish--even after this--to have you always address me as +mademoiselle." + +"But that--" + +"It is my wish." + + +It was a blue-and-gold morning, with the city looking as if it had +received a scrubbing during the night. So too did Monte, who was +waiting below for her. Clean-shaven and ruddy, in a dark-gray morning +coat and top hat, he looked very handsome, even with his crippled arm. +And quite like a bridegroom! For a moment he made her wish she had +taken Marie's advice about her hair. She was in a brown traveling suit +with a piquant hat that made her look quite Parisienne--though her low +tan shoes, tied with big silk bows at her trim ankles, were distinctly +American. + +Monte was smiling. + +"You are n't afraid?" he asked. + +"Of what, Monte?" + +"I don't know. We 're on our way." + +She took a long look at his steady blue eyes. They braced her like +wine. + +"You must never let me be afraid," she answered. + +"Then--en avant!" he called. + +In a way, it was a pity that they could not have been married out of +doors. They should have gone into a garden for the ceremony instead of +into the subdued light of the chapel. Then, too, it would have been +much better had the Reverend Alexander Gordon been younger. He was a +gentle, saintly-looking man of sixty, but serious--terribly serious. +He had lived long in Paris, but instead of learning to be gay he had +become like those sad-faced priests at Notre Dame. Perhaps if he had +understood better the present circumstances he would have entered into +the occasion instead of remaining so very solemn. + +As Marjory shook hands with him she lost her bright color. Then, too, +he had a voice that made her think again of Peter Noyes. In sudden +terror she clung to Monte's arm, and during the brief ceremony gave her +responses in a whisper. + +Peter Noyes himself could not have made of this journey to the embassy +a more trying ordeal. A ring was slipped upon the fourth finger of her +left hand. A short prayer followed, and an earnest "God bless you, my +children," which left her feeling suffocated. She thought Monte would +never finish talking with him--would never get out into the sunshine +again. When he did, she shrank away from the glare of the living day. + +Monte gave a sigh of relief. + +"That's over, anyhow," he said. + +Hearing a queer noise behind him, he turned. There stood Marie, +sniffling and wiping her eyes. + +"Good Heavens," he demanded, "what's this?" + +Marjory instantly moved to the girl's side. + +"There--there," she soothed her gently; "it's only the excitement, +n'est ce pas?" + +"Yes, madame; and you know I wish you all happiness." + +"And me also?" put in Monte. + +"It goes without saying that monsieur will be happy." + +He thrust some gold-pieces into her hand. + +"Then drink to our good health with your friends," he suggested. + +Calling a taxicab, he assisted her in; but before the door closed +Marjory leaned toward her and whispered in her ear:-- + +"You will come back to the hotel at six?" + +"Yes, madame." + +So Marie went off to her cousins, looking in some ways more like a +bride than her mistress. + +Marjory preferred to walk. She wanted to get back again to the mood of +half an hour ago. She must in some way get Peter Noyes out of her +mind. So quite aimlessly they moved down the Avenue Montaigne, and +Monte waved his hand at the passing people. + +"Now," he announced, "you are none of anybody's business." + +"Is that true, Monte?" Marjory asked eagerly. + +"True as preaching." + +"And no one has any right to scold me?" + +"Not the slightest. If any one tries it, turn him over to me." + +"That might not always be possible." + +"You don't mean to say any one has begun this soon?" + +He glared about as if to find the culprit. + +"Don't look so fierce, Monte," she protested, with a laugh. + +"Then don't you look so worried," he retorted. + +Already, by his side, she was beginning to recover. A Parisian dandy +coming toward them stared rather overlong at her. An hour ago it would +have made her uneasy; now she felt like making a face at him. + +She laughed a little. + +"The minister was terribly serious, was n't he, Monte?" + +"Too darned serious," he nodded. "But, you see, he did n't know. I +suppose the cross-your-throat, hope-to-die kind of marriage is serious. +That's the trouble with it." + +"Yes; that's the trouble with it." + +"I can see Chic coming down the aisle now, with his face chalk-white +and--" + +"Don't," she broke in. + +He looked down at her--surprised that she herself was taking this so +seriously. + +"My comrade," he said, "what you need is to play a little." + +"Yes," she agreed eagerly. + +"Then where shall we go? The world is before you." + +He was in exactly the mood to which she herself had looked forward--a +mood of springtime and irresponsibility. That was what he should be. +It was her right to feel like that also. + +"Oh," she exclaimed, "I'd like to go to all the places I could n't go +alone! Take me." + +"To the Cafe de Paris for lunch?" + +She nodded. + +"To the races afterward and to the Riche for dinner?" + +"Yes, yes." + +"So to the theater and to Maxim's?" + +Her face was flushed as she nodded again. + +"We're off!" he exclaimed, taking her arm. + + +It was an afternoon that left her no time to think. She was caught up +by the gay, care-free crowd and swept around in a dizzy circle. Yet +always Monte was by her side. She could take his arm if she became too +confused, and that always steadied her. + +Then she was whirled back to the hotel and to Marie, with no more time +than was necessary to dress for dinner. She was glad there was no more +time. For at least to-day there must be no unfilled intervals. She +felt refreshed after her bath, and, to Marie's delight, consented to +attire herself in one of her newest evening gowns, a costume of silk +and lace that revealed her neck and arms. Also she allowed Marie to do +her hair as she pleased. That was a good sign, but Marie thought +madame's cheeks did not look like a good sign. + +"I hope madame--" + +"Have you so soon forgotten what I asked of you?" Marjory interrupted. + +"I hope mademoiselle," Marie corrected herself, "has not caught a +fever." + +"I should hope not," exclaimed Marjory. "What put that into your head?" + +"Mademoiselle's cheeks are very hot." + +Marjory brought her hand to her face. It did not feel hot, because her +hands were equally hot. + +"It is nothing but the excitement that brings the color," she informed +Marie. "I have been living almost like a nun; and now--to get out all +at once takes away one's breath. + +"Also being a bride." + +"Marie!" + +"Eh bien, madame--mademoiselle was married only this morning." + +"You do not seem to understand," Marjory explained; "but it is +necessary that you should understand. Monsieur Covington is to me only +like--like a big brother. It is in order that he might be with me as a +big brother we went through the ceremony. People about here talk a +great deal, and I have taken his name to prevent that. That is all. +And you are to remain with me and everything is to go on exactly as +before, he in his apartments and we in ours. You understand now?" + +At least, Marie heard. + +"It is rather an amusing situation, is it not?" demanded Marjory. + +"I--I do not know," replied Marie. + +"Then in time you shall see. In the mean while, you might smile. Why +do you not smile?" + +"I--I do not know," Marie replied honestly. + +"You must learn how. It is necessary. It is necessary even to laugh. +Monsieur Covington laughed a great deal this afternoon." + +"He--he is a man," observed Marie, as if that were some explanation. + +"Eh bien--is it men alone who have the privilege of laughing?" + +"I do not know," answered Marie; "but I have noticed that men laugh a +great deal more about some things than women." + +"Then that is because women are fools," affirmed Marjory petulantly. + +Though Marie was by no means convinced, she was ready to drop the +matter in her admiration of the picture her mistress made when properly +gowned. Whether she wished or not, madame, when she was done with her +this evening, looked as a bride should look. And monsieur, waiting +below, was worthy of her. + +In his evening clothes he looked at least a foot taller than usual. +Marie saw his eyes warm as he slipped over madame's beautiful white +shoulders her evening wrap. + +[Illustration: Monsieur's eyes warmed as he slipped the wrap over +madame's shoulders] + +Before madame left she turned and whispered in Marie's ear. + +"I may be late," she said; "but you will be here when I return." + +"Yes, mademoiselle." + +"Without fail?" + +"Yes, mademoiselle." + +Marie watched monsieur take his bride's arm as they went out the door, +and the thing she whispered to herself had nothing to do with madame at +all. + +"Poor monsieur!" she said. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +THE AFFAIR AT MAXIM'S + +It was all new to Marjory. In the year and a half she had lived in +Paris with her aunt she had dined mostly in her room. Such cafes as +this she had seen only occasionally from a cab on her way to the opera. +As she stood at the entrance to the big room, which sparkled like a +diamond beneath a light, she was as dazed as a debutante entering her +first ballroom. The head waiter, after one glance at Monte, was bent +upon securing the best available table. Here was an American prince, +if ever he had seen one. + +Had monsieur any choice? + +Decidedly. He desired a quiet table in a corner, not too near the +music. + +Such a table was immediately secured, and as Covington crossed the room +with Marjory by his side he was conscious of being more observed than +ever he had been when entering the Riche alone. His bandaged arm lent +him a touch of distinction, to be sure; but this served only to turn +eyes back again to Marjory, as if seeking in her the cause for it. She +moved like a princess, with her head well up and her dark eyes +brilliant. + +"All eyes are upon you," he smiled, when he had given his order. + +"If they are it's very absurd," she returned. + +Also, if they were, it did not matter. That was the fact she most +appreciated. Ever since she had been old enough to observe that men +had eyes, it had been her duty to avoid those eyes. That had been +especially true in Paris, and still more especially true in the few +weeks she had been there alone. + +Now, with Monte opposite her, she was at liberty to meet men's eyes and +study them with interest. There was no danger. It was they who turned +away from her--after a glance at Monte. It amused her to watch them +turn away; it gave her a new sense of power. But of one thing she was +certain: there was not a man in the lot with whom she would have felt +comfortable to be here as she felt comfortable with Monte. + +Monte was having a very pleasant time of it. The thing that surprised +him was the way Marjory quickened his zest in old things that had +become stale. Here, for instance, she took him back to the days when +he had responded with a piquant tingle to the lights and the music and +the gay Parisian chatter, to the quick glance of smiling eyes where +adventure lurked. He had been content to observe without accepting the +challenges, principally because he lived mostly in the sunshine. +To-night, in a clean, decent way, he felt again the old tingle. But +this time it came from a different source. When Marjory raised her +eyes to his, the lights blazed as brilliantly as if a hundred new ones +had been lighted; the music mixed with his blood until his thoughts +danced. + +With the coffee he lighted a cigarette and leaned back contentedly +until it was time to go. + +As they went out of the room, he was aware that once again all eyes +were turned toward her, so that he threw back his shoulders a little +farther than usual and looked about with some scorn at those who had +with them only ordinary women. + +The comedy at the Gymnase was sufficiently amusing to hold her +attention, and that was the best she could ask for; but Monte watched +it indifferently, resenting the fact that it did hold her attention. +Besides, there were too many people all about her here. For two hours +and a half it was as if she had gone back into the crowd. He was glad +when the final curtain rang down and he was able to take her arm and +guide her out. + +"Maxim's next?" he inquired. + +"Do you want to go?" she asked. + +"It's for you to decide," he answered. + +She was dead tired by now, but she did not dare to stop. + +"All right," she said; "we'll go." + +It was a harlequin crowd at Maxim's--a noisier, tenser, more hectic +crowd than at the Riche. The room was gray with smoke, and everywhere +she looked were gold-tipped wine bottles. Though it was still early, +there was much hysterical laughter and much tossing about of long +streamers of colored paper and confetti. As they entered she +instinctively shrank away from it. Had the waiter delayed another +second before leading them to a table, she would have gone out. + +Monte ordered the wine he was expected to order, but Marjory scarcely +touched it to her lips, while he was content to watch it bubble in his +glass. He did not like to have her here, and yet it was almost worth +the visit to watch her eyes grow big, to watch her sensitive mouth +express the disgust she felt for the mad crowd, to have her +unconsciously hitch her chair nearer his. + +"The worst of it is," he explained to her, "it's the outsiders who are +doing all this--Americans, most of them." + +Suddenly, from behind them, a clear tenor voice made itself heard +through the din. The first notes were indistinct; but in a few seconds +the singer had the room to himself. Turning quickly, Marjory saw the +slender figure of Hamilton, swaying slightly, standing by a table, his +eyes leveled upon hers. He was singing "The Rosary"--singing it as +only he, when half mad, could sing it. + +She clutched Monte's hand as he half rose from his seat. + +"Please," she whispered, "it's best to sit still." + +Stronger and stronger the plaintive melody fell from his lips, until +finally the orchestra itself joined. Women strained forward, and +half-dazed men sat back and listened with bated breath. Even Monte +forgot for a moment the boldness that inspired Hamilton, and became +conscious only of Marjory's warm fingers within his. So, had the +singer been any one else, he would have been content to sit to the end. +But he knew the danger there. His only alternative, however, was to +rise and press through the enraptured crowd, which certainly would have +resented the interruption. It seemed better to wait, and go out during +the noisy applause that was sure to follow. + +At the second verse Hamilton, still singing, came nearer. A path +opened before him, as before an inspired prophet. It was only Monte +who moved his chair slightly and made ready. Still there was nothing +he could do until the man committed some overt act. When Hamilton +concluded his song, he was less than two feet away. By then Monte was +on his feet. As the applause swept from every corner of the room, +Hamilton seized from a near-by table a glass of wine, and, raising it, +shouted a toast:-- + +"To the bride." + +The crowd followed his eyes to the shrinking girl behind Monte. In +good humor they rose, to a man, and joined in, draining their glasses. +It was Monte's opportunity. Taking Marjory's arm, he started for the +door. + +But Hamilton was madder than he had ever been. He ran forward, +laughing hysterically. + +"Kiss the bride," he called. + +This he actually attempted. Monte had only his left arm, and it was +not his strongest; but back of it he felt a new power. He took +Hamilton beneath the chin, and with a lurch the man fell sprawling over +a table among the glasses. In the screaming confusion that followed, +Monte fought his way to the door, using his shoulders and a straight +arm to clear a path. In another second he had lifted Marjory into a +cab. + +Leaning forward, she clutched his arm as the cab jumped ahead. + +"I'm sorry I had to make a scene," he apologized. "I should n't have +hit him, but--I saw red for a second." + +She would never forget that picture of Monte standing by her side, his +head erect, his arm drawn back for the second blow which had proved +unnecessary. All the other faces surrounding her had faded into a +smoky background. She had been conscious of him alone, and of his +great strength. She had felt that moment as if his strength had +literally been hers also. She could have struck out, had it been +necessary. + +"You did n't hurt your shoulder, did you?" she asked anxiously. + +He did not know--it did not much matter. Had Hamilton actually +succeeded in reaching her lips, he would have torn his wounded arm from +the bandages and struck with that too. He had never realized until +then what sacred things her lips were. He had known them only as +beautiful. They were beautiful now as he looked down at them. +Slightly parted, they held his eyes with a strange, new fascination. +They were alive, those lips. They were warm and pulsating. He found +himself breathing faster because of them. He seemed, against his will, +to be bending toward them. Then, with a wrench, he tore himself free +from the spell, not daring to look at her again. + +Leaving her to Marie at the door of her room, Monte went into his own +apartment. He threw open a window, and stood there in the dark with +the cool night breeze blowing in upon him. After Maxim's, the more +clean air the better; after what had followed in the cab, the more cool +air the better. + +He was still confused by it; still frightened by it. For a moment he +had felt himself caught in the clutch of some power over which he had +no control. That was the startling truth that stood out most +prominently. He had been like one intoxicated--he who never before in +his life had lost a grip upon himself. That fact struck at the very +heart of his whole philosophy of life. Always normal--that had been +his boast; never losing his head over this thing or that. It was the +only way a man could keep from worrying. It was the only way a man +could keep sane. The moment you wanted anything like the devil, then +the devil was to pay. This evening he had proved that. + +He went back to the affair at Maxim's. He should have known better +than to take her there, anyway. She did not belong in such a place. +She did not belong anywhere he had taken her to-day. To-morrow--but +all this was beside the point. + +The question that he would most like to answer at this moment was +whether this last wild episode of Hamilton's was due to absinthe or to +that same weird passion which a few weeks before had led the man to +shoot. It had been beastly of Hamilton to try to reach her lips. +That, doubtless, was the absinthe. It robbed him of his senses. But +the look in the man's eyes when he sang, the awful hunger that burned +in them when he gave his mad toast--those things seemed to spring from +a different source. The man, in a room full of strangers, had seen +only her, had sung only to her. Monte doubted if the crazed fellow saw +even him. He saw no one but this one woman. That was madness--but it +did not come of absinthe. The absinthe may have caused the final utter +breakdown of Hamilton's self-control here and at Madame Courcy's--but +that the desire could be there without it Monte had twice proved to +himself that evening. + +Once was when he had struck Hamilton. He alone knew that when he hit +that time it was with the lust to kill--even as Hamilton had shot to +kill. The feeling lasted only the fraction of a second--merely while +his fist was plunging toward Hamilton's chin. But, however brief, it +had sprung from within him--a blood-red, frenzied desire to beat down +the other man. At the moment he was not so much conscious of trying to +protect her as to rid himself of Hamilton. + +The second mad moment had come in the cab, when he had looked down at +her lips. As the passion to kill left him, another equally strong +passion had taken its place. He had hungered for her lips--the very +lips Hamilton, a moment before, had attempted to violate. He who all +his life had looked as indifferently upon living lips as upon +sculptured lips had suddenly found himself in the clutch of a mighty +desire. For a second he had swayed under the temptation. He had been +ready to risk everything, because for a heart-beat or two nothing else +seemed to matter. In his madness, he had even dared think that +delicate, sensitive mouth trembled a like desire. + +Even here in the dark, alone, something of the same desire returned. +He began to pace the room. + +How she would have hated him had he yielded to that impulse! He +shuddered as he pictured the look of horror that would have leaped into +her dark eyes. Then she would have shrunk away frightened, and her +eyes would have grown cold--those eyes that had only so lately warmed +at all. Her face would have turned to marble--the face that only so +lately had relaxed. + +She trusted him--trusted him to the extent of being willing to marry +him to save herself from the very danger with which he had threatened +her. Except that at the last moment he had resisted, he was no better +than Hamilton. + +In her despair she had cried, "Why won't they let me alone?" And he +had urged her to come with him, so that she might be let alone. He was +to be merely her _camarade de voyage_--her big brother. Then, in less +than twelve hours, he had become like the others. He felt unfit to +remain in the next room to her--unfit to greet her in the morning. In +an agony of remorse, he clenched his fists. + +He drew himself up shortly. A new question leaped to his brain. Was +this, then, love? The thought brought both solace and fresh terror. +It gave him at least some justification for his moment of temptation; +but it also brought vividly before him countless new dangers. If this +were love, then he must face day after day of this sort of thing. Then +he would be at the mercy of a passion that must inevitably lead him +either to Hamilton's plight or to Chic Warren's equally unenviable +position. Each man, in his own way, paid the cost: Hamilton, mad at +Maxim's; Chic pacing the floor, with beaded brow, at night. With these +two examples before him, surely he should have learned his lesson. +Against them he could place his own normal life--ten years of it +without a single hour such as these hours through which he was now +living. + +That was because he had kept steady. Ambition, love, drunkenness, +gluttony--these were all excesses. His own father had desired mightily +to be governor of a State, and it had killed him; his grandfather had +died amassing the Covington fortune; he had friends who had died of +love, and others who had overdrunk and overeaten. The secret of +happiness was not to want anything you did not have. If you went +beyond that, you paid the cost in new sacrifices, leading again to +sacrifices growing out of those. + +Monte lighted a cigarette and inhaled a deep puff. The thing for him +to do was fairly clear: to pack his bag and leave while he still +retained the use of his reasoning faculties. He had been swept off his +feet for an instant, that was all. Let him go on with his schedule for +a month, and he would recover his balance. + +The suggestion was considerably simplified by the fact that it was not +necessary to consider Marjory in any way. He would be in no sense +deserting her, because she was in no way dependent upon him. She had +ample funds of her own, and Marie for company. He had not married her +because of any need she had for him along those lines. The protection +of his name she would still have. As Mrs. Covington she could travel +as safely without him as with him. Even Hamilton was eliminated. He +had received his lesson. Anyway, she would probably leave Paris at +once for Etois, and so be out of reach of Hamilton. + +Monte wondered if she would miss him. Perhaps, for a day or so; but, +after all, she would have without him the same wider freedom she +craved. She would have all the advantages of a widow without the +necessity of admitting that her husband was dead. He would always be +in the background--an invisible guard. It was odd that neither she nor +he had considered that as an attractive possibility. It was decidedly +more practical than the present arrangement. + +As for himself, he was ready to admit frankly that after to-day golf on +an English course would for a time be a bore. From the first sight of +her this morning until now, he had not had a dull moment. She had +taken him back to the days when his emotions had been quick to respond +to each day as a new adventure in life. + +It was last winter in Davos that he had first begun to note the keen +edge of pleasure becoming the least bit dulled. He had followed the +routine of his amusements almost mechanically. He had been conscious +of a younger element there who seemed to crowd in just ahead of him. +Some of them were young ladies he remembered having seen with +pig-tails. They smiled saucily at him--with a confidence that +suggested he was no longer to be greatly feared. He could remember +when they blushed shyly if he as much as glanced in their direction. +His schedule had become a little too much of a schedule. It suggested +the annual tour of the middle-aged gentlemen who follow the spas and +drink of the waters. + +He felt all those things now even more keenly than he had at the time. +Looking back at them, he gained a new perspective that emphasized each +disagreeable detail. But he had only to think of Marjory as there with +him and--presto, they vanished. Had she been with him at Davos--better +still, were she able to go to Davos with him next winter--he knew with +what joy she would sit in front of him on the bob-sled and take the +breathless dip of the Long Run. He knew how she would meet him in the +morning with her cheeks stung into a deep red by the clean cold of the +mountain air. She would climb the heights with him, laughing. She +would skate with him and ski with him, and there would be no one +younger than they. + +Monte again began to pace his room. She must go to Davos with him next +winter. He must take her around the whole schedule with him. She must +go to England and golf with him, and from there to his camp. She would +love it there. He could picture her in the woods, on the lake, and +before the camp-fire, beneath the stars. + +From there they would go on to Cambridge for the football season. She +would like that. As a girl she had been cheated of all the big games, +and he would make up for it. So they would go on to New York for the +holidays. He had had rather a stupid time of it last year. He had +gone down to Chic's for Christmas, but had been oppressed by an +uncomfortable feeling that he did not belong there. Mrs. Chic had been +busy with so many presents for others that he had felt like old +Scrooge. He had made his usual gifts to relatives, but only as a +matter of habit. With Marjory with him, he would be glad to go +shopping as Chic and Mrs. Chic did. He might even go on to +Philadelphia with her and look up some of the relatives he had lately +been avoiding. + +Where in thunder had his thoughts taken him again? He put his head in +his hands. He had carried her around his whole schedule with him just +as if this were some honest-to-God marriage. He had done this while +she lay in the next room peacefully sleeping in perfect trust. + +She must never know this danger, nor be further subjected to it. There +was only one safe way--to take the early train for Calais without even +seeing her again. + +Monte sat down at the writing-desk and seized a pen. + + +_Dear Marjory_ [he began]: Something has come up unexpectedly that +makes it necessary for me to take an early train for England. I can't +tell how long I shall be gone, but that of course is not important. I +hope you will go on to Etois, as we had planned; or, at any rate, leave +Paris. Somehow, I feel that you belong out under the blue sky and not +in town. + + +He paused a moment and read over that last sentence. Then he scratched +it out. Then he tore up the whole letter. + +What he had to say should be not written. He must meet her in the +morning and tell her like a man. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +A CANCELED RESERVATION + +Though it was late when he retired, Monte found himself wide awake at +half past seven. Springing from bed, he took his cold tub, shaved, and +after dressing proceeded to pack his bags. The process was simple; he +called the hotel valet, gave the order to have them ready as soon as +possible, and went below. From the office he telephoned upstairs to +Marie, and learned that madame would meet him in the breakfast-room at +nine. This left him a half-hour in which to pay his bill at the hotel, +order a reservation on the express to Calais, and buy a large bunch of +fresh violets, which he had placed on the breakfast table--a little +table in a sunshiny corner. + +Monte was calmer this morning than he had been the night before. He +was rested; the interval of eight hours that had passed since he last +saw her gave him, however slight, a certain perspective, while his +normal surroundings, seen in broad daylight, tended to steady him +further. The hotel clerk, busy about his uninspired duties; the +impassive waiters in black and white; the solid-looking Englishmen and +their wives who began to make their appearance, lent a sense of +unreality to the events of yesterday. + +Yet, even so, his thoughts clung tenaciously to the necessity of his +departure. In a way, the very normality of this morning world +emphasized that necessity. He recalled that it was to just such a day +as this he had awakened, yesterday. The hotel clerk had been standing +exactly where he was now, sorting the morning mail, stopping every now +and then with a troubled frown to make out an indistinct address. The +corpulent porter in his blue blouse stood exactly where he was now +standing, jealously guarding the door. Vehicles had been passing this +way and that on the street outside. He had heard the same undertone of +leisurely moving life--the scuffling of feet, the closing of doors, +distant voices, the rumble of traffic. Then, after this lazy prelude, +he had been swept on and on to the final dizzy climax. + +That must not happen again. At this moment he knew he had a firm grip +on himself--but at this moment yesterday he had felt even more secure. +There had been no past then. That seemed a big word to use for such +recent events covering so few hours; and yet it was none too big. It +covered nothing less than the revelation of a man to himself. If that +process sometimes takes years, it is none the less significant if it +takes place in a day. + +"Good-morning, Monte." + +He turned quickly--so quickly that she started in surprise. + +"Is anything the matter?" she asked. + +She was in blue this morning, and wore at an angle a broad-brimmed hat +trimmed with black and white. He thought her eyes looked a trifle +tired. He would have said she had not slept well. + +"I--I didn't know you were down," he faltered. + +The interval of six hours upon which he had been depending vanished +instantly. To-day was but the continuation of yesterday. As he moved +toward the breakfast-room at her side, the outside world disappeared as +by magic, leaving only her world--the world immediately about her, +which she dominated. This room which she entered by his side was no +longer merely the salle-a-manger of the Normandie. He was conscious of +no portion of it other than that which included their table. All the +sunshine in the world concentrated into the rays that fell about her. + +He felt this, and yet at the same time he was aware of the absurdity of +such exaggeration. It was the sort of thing that annoyed him when he +saw it in others. All those newly married couples he used to meet on +the German liners were afflicted in this same way. Each one of them +acted as if the ship were their ship, the ocean their ocean, even the +blue sky and the stars at night their sky and their stars. When he was +in a good humor, he used to laugh at this; when in a bad humor, it +disgusted him. + +"Monte," she said, as soon as they were seated, "I was depending upon +you this morning." + +She studied him a second, and then tried to smile, adding quickly:-- + +"I don't like you to disappoint me like this." + +"What do you mean?" he asked nervously. + +She frowned, but it was at herself, not at him. It did not do much +except make dimples between her brows. + +"I lay awake a good deal last night--thinking," she answered. + +"Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "You ought n't to have done that!" + +"It was n't wise," she admitted. "But I looked forward to the +daylight--and you--to bring me back to normal." + +"Well, here we are," he hastened to assure her. "I had the sun up +ready for you several hours ago." + +"You--you look so serious." + +She leaned forward. + +"Monte," she pleaded, "you must n't go back on me like that--now. I +suppose women can't help getting the fidgets once in a while and +thinking all sorts of things. I was tired. I 'm not used to being so +very gay. And I let myself go a little, because I thought in the +morning I 'd find you the same old Monte. I 've known you so long, and +you always _have_ been the same." + +"It was a pretty exciting day for both of us," he tried to explain. + +"How for you?" + +"Well, to start with, one does n't get married every morning." + +He saw her cheeks flush. Then she drew back. + +"I think we ought to forget that as much as possible," she told him. + +Here was his opportunity. The way to forget--the only way--was for him +to continue with his interrupted schedule to England, and for her to go +on alone to Etois. It was not too late for that--if he started at +once. Surely it ought to be the matter of only a few weeks to undo a +single day. Let him get the tang of the salt air, let him go to bed +every night dog-tired physically, let him get out of sight of her eyes +and lips, and that something--intangible as a perfume--that emanated +from her, and doubtless he would be laughing at himself as heartily as +he had laughed at others. + +But he could not frame the words. His lips refused to move. Not only +that, but, facing her here, it seemed a grossly brutal thing to do. +She looked so gentle and fragile this morning as, picking up the +violets, she half hid her face in them. + +"You mean we ought to go back to the day before yesterday?" he asked. + +"In our thoughts," she answered. + +"And forget that we are--" + +She nodded quickly, not allowing him to finish. + +"Because," she explained, "I think it must be that which is making you +serious. I don't know you that way. It is n't you. I 've seen you +all these years, wandering around wherever your fancy took +you--care-free and smiling. I've always envied you, and now--I thought +you were just going to keep right on, only taking me with you. Is n't +that what we planned?" + +"Yes," he nodded. "We started yesterday." + +"I shall never forget that part of yesterday," she said. + +"It was n't so bad, except for Hamilton." + +"It was n't so bad even with Hamilton," she corrected. "I don't think +I can ever be afraid of him again." + +"Then it was n't he that bothered you last night?" he asked quickly. + +"No," she answered. + +"It--it was n't I?" + +She laughed uneasily. + +"No, Monte; because you were just yourself yesterday." + +He wondered about that. He wondered, if he placed before her all the +facts, including the hours after he left her, if she would have said +that. Here was his second opportunity to tell her what he had planned. +If he did not intend to go on, he should speak now. To-morrow it would +be too late. By noon it would be too late. By the time they finished +their breakfast, it would be too late. + +He met her eyes. They were steady as planets. They were honest and +clear and clean and confident. They trusted him, and he knew it. He +took a deep breath and leaned forward. Impulsively she leaned across +the table and placed her hand upon his. + +"Dear old Monte," she breathed. + +It was too late--now! He saw her in a sort of mist of dancing golden +motes. He felt the steady throb of her pulse. + +She withdrew her hand as quickly as she had given it. It was as if she +did not dare allow it to remain there. It was that which made him +smile with a certain confidence of his own. + +"What we'd better do," he said, "is to get out of Paris. I'm afraid +the pace here is too hot for us." + +"To Etois?" she asked. + +"That's as good a place as any. Could you start this afternoon?" + +"If you wish." + +"The idea is to move on as soon as you begin to think," he explained, +with his old-time lightness. "Of course, the best way is to walk. If +you can't walk--why, the next best thing--" + +He paused a moment to consider a new idea. It was odd that it had +never occurred to him before. + +"I have it!" he continued. "We'll go to Etois by motor. It's a +beautiful drive down there. I made the trip alone three years ago in a +car I owned. We'll take our time, putting up at the little villages +along the way. We'll let the sun soak into us. We'll get away from +people. It's people who make you worry. I have a notion it will be +good for us both. This Hamilton episode has left us a bit morbid. +What we need is something to bring us back to normal." + +"I'd love it," she fell in eagerly. "We'll just play gypsy." + +"Right. Now, what you want to do is to throw into a dress-suitcase a +few things, and we'll ship the trunks by rail to Nice. All you need is +a toothbrush, a change of socks, and--" + +"There's Marie," she interrupted. + +"Can't we ship her by rail too?" + +"No, Monte," she answered, with a decided shake of her head. + +"But, hang it all, people don't go a-gypsying with French maids!" + +"Why not?" she demanded. + +She asked the question quite honestly. He had forgotten Marie utterly +until this moment, and she seemed to join the party like an intruder. +Always she would be upon the back seat. + +"Wouldn't you feel freer without her?" he asked. + +"I should n't feel at all proper," she declared. + +"Then we might just as well not have been married." + +"Only," she laughed, "if we had n't taken that precaution it would n't +have been proper for me to go, even with Marie." + +"I'm glad we've accomplished something, anyhow," he answered +good-naturedly. + +"We've accomplished a great deal," she assured him. "Yesterday morning +I could n't--at this time--have done even the proper things and felt +proper. Oh, you don't know how people look at you, and how that look +makes you feel, even when you know better. I could n't have sat here +at breakfast with you and felt comfortable. Now we can sit here and +plan a wonderful trip like this. It's all because you're just Monte." + +"And you just you!" + +"Only I don't count for anything. It makes me feel even more selfish +than I am." + +"Don't count?" he exclaimed. "Why--" + +He stifled the words that sprang to his lips. It was only because she +thought she did not count that she was able to feel comfortable. Once +let her know that she counted as at that moment she did count to him, +and even what little happiness he was able to bring her would vanish. +He would be to her then merely one of the others--even as he was to +himself. + +He rose abruptly. + +"I must see about getting a machine," he said. "I want to start this +afternoon if possible." + +"I'll be ready," she agreed. + +As they went out to the office, the clerk stepped up to him. + +"I have secured the reservation, monsieur," he announced. + +"Please cancel it," replied Monte. + +"Reservation?" inquired Marjory. + +"On the Calais express--for a friend of mine who has decided not to +go," he answered. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +A WEDDING JOURNEY + +Monte made an extravagant purchase: a new high-powered touring car +capacious enough for a whole family--his idea being, that the roomier +the car, the less Marie would show up in it. On the other hand, if he +cared to consider her in that way, Marie would be there as much for his +protection as Marjory's. The task that lay ahead of him this next week +was well defined; it was to get back to normal. He had diagnosed his +disease--now he must cure it. It would have been much easier to have +done this by himself, but this was impossible. He must learn to gaze +steadily into her eyes, while gazing into them; he must learn to look +indifferently upon her lips, with her within arm's reach of him. Here +was a man's job. + +He was not even to have the machine to occupy his attention; for there +was no time to secure a license, and so he must take with him a +chauffeur. He was fortunate in being able to secure one on the +spot--Louis Santerre, a good-looking lad with the best of +recommendations. He ordered him to be at the hotel at three. + +Thus, in less than an hour from the time he entered the salesroom, +Monte had bought and paid for his car, hired his man, given orders for +certain accessories, and left, with Monsieur Mansart bowing him out and +heartily wishing that all his customers were of this type. + +There were, however, several little things that Monte still wished to +purchase--an automobile coat and cap, for one thing; also some rugs. +These he found in a near-by store. It was as he was leaving that the +clerk--who, it seems, must have had an eye--noticed the shiny new gold +ring upon Monte's left hand. + +"Madame is well supplied?" he inquired. + +"Madame? Who the devil is madame?" demanded Monte. + +"Pardon, monsieur," replied the clerk in some confusion, fearing he had +made a grave mistake. "I did not know monsieur was traveling alone." + +Then it was Monte's turn to show signs of confusion. It was quite true +he was not traveling alone. It was the truest thing he knew just then. + +"What is necessary for a lady traveling by motor?" he inquired. + +The clerk would take great pleasure in showing him in a department +devoted to that very end. It was after one bewildering glance about +the counters that he became of the opinion that his question should +have been: "What is it that a lady does not wear when traveling by +motor?" He saw coats and bonnets and goggles and vanity boxes and +gloves, to mention only a few of those things he took in at first +glance. + +"We are leaving in some haste," explained Monte, "so I'm afraid she has +none of these things. Would n't the easiest way be for you to give me +one of each?" + +That indeed would be a pleasure. Did monsieur know the correct size? + +Only in a general way--madame was not quite his height and weighed in +the neighborhood of one hundred and fifty pounds. That was enough to +go upon for outside garments. Still there remained a wide choice of +style and color. In this Monte pleased himself, pointing his stick +with sure judgment at what took his fancy, as this and the other thing +was placed before him. It was a decidedly novel and a very pleasant +occupation. + +In this way he spent the best part of another hour, and made a payment +in American Express orders of a considerable sum. That, however, +involved nothing but tearing from the book he always carried as many +orders for twenty-five dollars as most nearly approximated the sum +total. The articles were to be delivered within one hour to "Madame M. +Covington, Hotel Normandie." + +Monte left the store with a sense of satisfaction, tempered a trifle by +an uncomfortable doubt as to just how this presumption on his part +would be received. However, he was well within his rights. He held +sturdily to that. + +With still two hours before he could return,--for he must leave her +free until luncheon,--he went on to the Champs Elysees and so to the +Bois. He still dwelt with pleasure upon the opportunity that had been +offered him to buy those few things for her. It sent him along briskly +with a smile on his face. It did more; it suggested a new idea. The +reason he had been taking himself so seriously was that he had been +thinking too much about himself and not enough about her. The simple +way out of that difficulty was from now on not to consider himself at +all. After all, what happened to him did not much matter, as long as +it did not affect her. His job from now on was to make her happy. + +For the rest of his walk he kept tight hold of that idea, and came back +to the hotel with a firm grip on it. He called to her through the door +of her room:-- + +"How you making it?" + +"Pretty well," came her voice. "Only I went shopping and bought all my +things--including a coat for you. Then, when I return, I find a whole +boxful from you." + +"All my efforts wasted!" he exclaimed. + +"No, Monte," she replied quickly. "I could n't allow that, +because--well, because it was so thoughtful of you. So I kept the coat +and bonnet you selected--and a few other things. I've just sent Marie +out to return the rest." + +She had kept the coat and bonnet that he selected! What in thunder was +there about that to make a man feel so confoundedly well satisfied? + +They left the hotel at three, and rode that day as far as a country inn +which took their fancy just before coming into Joigny. It was, to +Marjory, a wonderful ride--a ride that made her feel that with each +succeeding mile she was leaving farther and farther behind her every +care she had ever had in the world. It was a ride straight into the +heart of a green country basking sleepily beneath blue skies; of +contented people going about their pleasant tasks; of snug, fat farms +and snug little houses, with glimpses of an occasional chateau in the +background. + +When Monte held out his hand to assist her down, she laughed +light-heartedly, refreshed in body and soul. For Monte had been +himself ever since they started--better than himself. He had humored +her every mood, allowing her to talk when she had felt like talking, or +to sit back with her eyes half closed when she wished to give herself +up to lazy content. Often, too, he had made her laugh with his absurd +remarks--laugh spontaneously, as a child laughs. She had never seen +him in such good humor, and could not remember when she herself had +been in such good humor. + +The rays of the sun were falling aslant as she stepped out, and the +western sky was aglow with crimson and purple and pink. It was a +drowsy world, with sounds grown distant and the perfume and color of +the flowers grown nearer. At the door of the inn, which, looked as if +it must have been standing right there in the days of dashing +cavaliers, the proprietor and his wife were obsequiously bowing a +welcome. It was not often that the big machines deigned to rest here. + +Monte stepped toward them. + +"Madame desires to rest here for the night, if accommodations may be +secured," he said. + +For the night? Mon Dieu! The proprietor had reckoned upon only a +temporary sojourn--for a bottle of wine, perhaps. He had never +entertained such a host as this. How many rooms would be required? + +"Four," answered Monte. + +"Let me see; monsieur and madame could be put in the front room." + +Monte shook his head. + +"Madame will occupy the front room alone," he informed him. + +"Eh? Oh, I understand; a sister. That was a curious mistake. Eh +bien, madame in the front room. Monsieur in the room to the right. +The maid in the room on the back. But there is the chauffeur." + +There was no room left for him, or for the machine either. + +"Then he can go on to Joigny," announced Monte. + +So Louis went on, and in less than five minutes the others were safely +sorted out and tucked away in their respective rooms. + +"We ought to get out and see the sun set," Monte called to Marjory as +she waved him an adieu at her door. + +"I'll be down in ten minutes," she nodded. + + +There is a princess latent in every woman. She makes her appearance +early, and too often vanishes early. Not many women have the good +fortune to see her--except perhaps for a few brief moments--after +seventeen. But, however, far in the background, she remains as at +least a romantic possibility as long as any trace of romance itself +remains. She is a languid, luxury-loving creature, this princess; an +Arabian Nights princess of silks and satins and perfumed surroundings. +Through half-closed eyes she looks out upon a world of sunshine and +flowers, untroubled as the fairy folk. Every one does her homage, and +she in her turn smiles graciously, and there is nought else for her to +do except to rest and be amused. + +For a moment, here in the twilight, this princess returned to Marjory. +As she sat before the mirror, doing over her hair, she held her chin a +little higher at the thought and smiled at herself contentedly. She +used to do just this--and feel ashamed of herself afterward--long, long +ago, after she first met Monte at the Warrens'. For it was he who then +had been her gallant knight, without which no one may be a fairy-book +princess. He had just finished his college course, and eager-eyed was +about to travel over the wide world. He was big and buoyant and +handsome, and even more irresponsible then than now. + +She recalled how one evening they sat alone upon the porch of the +Warren house until late, and he had told her of his proposed journey. +She had listened breathlessly, with her chin in her hands and her eyes +big. When she came in, Mrs. Warren had placed an arm about her and +looked significantly at her flushed cheeks and said gently:-- + +"Be careful, my dear. Don't you let that careless young prince take +away your heart with him. Remember, he has not yet seen the world." + +He had sailed away for a year and a day soon after this; and, perhaps +because he was safely out of her life, she had allowed herself more +liberty with him than otherwise she would have done. At any rate, that +year she was a princess and he her prince. + +Now, to-night, he came back for a little. It was the twilight, which +deals gently with harsh realities, and the perfume of the flowers +floating in at the open window, and the old room, doubtless. Only +yesterday he called her "Your Highness," and she had not responded. +There in the Cafe Riche none of her old dreams had returned. Perhaps +it was because all her surroundings there had been too grossly real. +That was no setting for a fairy prince, and a fairy prince was, of +course, all he had ever been or was now. He was only for the world +when the sun was low. + +Outside her window she heard a voice:-- + +"Oh, Marjory." + +She started. It was her prince calling. It was bewildering to have +dreams suddenly blended with life itself. It was bewildering also to +have the thoughts of seventeen suddenly blended with the realities of +twenty-seven. She remained silent, breathing gently, as if afraid of +being discovered. + +"Marjory," he called again. + +"Coming," she answered, with a quiet intake of breath. + +Hatless and with a silk shawl over her shoulders, she hurried to where +he was waiting. He too was hatless, even as he had been that night +long ago when he had sat beside her. Something, too, of the same light +of youth was in his eyes now as then. + +Side by side they strolled through the quaint village of stone houses +and to the top of a near-by hill, where they found themselves looking +down upon Joigny outlined against the hazy tints of the pink-and-gold +horizon. + +"Oh, it's beautiful!" she exclaimed enthusiastically. "It's a fairy +world." + +"Better; it's a real world," he answered. + +"I doubt it, Monte," she disagreed, with a touch of regret. "It's too +perfect." + +It would not last. It would begin to fade in a moment, even as her +fairy prince would fade and become just Monte. She knew from the past. +Besides, it was absolutely essential that this should not last. If it +did--why, that would be absurd. It would be worse. It made her +uncomfortable even to imagine this possibility for a moment, thus +bringing about the very condition most unfavorable for fairy princes. +For, if there is one advantage they have over ordinary princes, it is +the gift of keeping their princesses always happy and content. + +Somewhat shyly she glanced up at Monte. He was standing with his +uninjured hand thrust into the pocket of his Norfolk jacket, staring +fixedly at the western sky as if he had lost himself there. She +thought his face was a bit set; but, for all that, he looked this +moment more as she had known him at twenty-one than when he came back +at twenty-two. After his travels of a year he had seemed to her so +much wiser than she that he had instantly become her senior. She had +listened to him as to a man of the world, with something of awe. It +was more difficult then to have him for a prince, because princes, +though brave and adventurous, must not be too wise. + +She smiled as she realized that, as he stood there now, Monte did not +in the least inspire her with awe or fear or a sense of superior +wisdom. The mellow light softened his features and the light breeze +had tousled his hair, so that for all his years told he might have been +back in his football days. He had been like that all the afternoon. + +A new tenderness swept over her. She would have liked to reach up her +hand and smooth away the little puzzled frown between his brows. She +almost dared to do it. Then he turned. + +"You're right," he said, with a shrug of his shoulders. "It is n't +real. See, it's fading now." + +The pink clouds were turning a dull gray. + +"Perhaps it's better it should," she suggested. "If it stayed like +that all the time, we'd get so used to it we would n't see it." + +He took out his watch. + +"I ordered supper to be ready in a half hour," he said. "We'd better +get back." + +She fell in step by his side--by the side of her fairy prince. For, +oddly enough, he had not begun to fade as the sunset faded. The +twilight was deepening into the hushed night--a wonderful night that +was like beautiful music heard at a distance. It left her scarcely +conscious of moving. In the sky the stars were becoming clearer; in +the houses, candles were beginning to twinkle. It was difficult to +tell which were which--as if the sky and the earth were one. + +There was no abrupt change even when they came into the inn, where near +the open window a table had been set and two candles were burning. + +"Oh," she exclaimed again, "here is another bit of fairy world." + +He laughed abruptly. + +"I hope the supper is real, anyhow," he said. + +He spoke as if making a conscious effort to break the spell. It made +her glance up as he seated her; but all she thought of then was that +she would like to smooth back his hair. The spell was not broken. + +Chops and cauliflower and a salad were served to them, with patties of +fresh butter and crusted white bread. She was glad to see him eat +heartily. She prepared his salad with a dash of salt and pepper, a +little vinegar and oil. That much, at least, she was at liberty to do +for him. It gave her a new pleasure. + +"Monte," she asked, "do you suppose it's always as nice as this here?" + +"If it were, would you like to stay?" he asked. + +She thought a moment over that. Would it be possible just to drift on +day after day, with Monte always a fairy prince beside her? She +glanced up and met his eyes. + +"I--I guess it's best to follow our schedule," she decided, with a +little gasp. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +A WEDDING JOURNEY (_continued_) + +Through the golden sunshine and beneath the blue sky, they went on the +next day, until with a nod she chose her place to stop for lunch, until +with another nod, as the sun was getting low, she chose her place to +stop for the night. This time they did not ask to know even the name +of the village. It was his suggestion. + +"Because," he explained, "that makes it seem as if we were trying to +get somewhere. And we are n't, are we?" + +"Wherever we are, we are," she nodded gayly. + +"It is n't even important that we get to Etois," he insisted. + +"Not in the slightest," she agreed. "Only, if we keep on going we'll +get to the sea, won't we?" + +"Then we can either skirt the shore or take a boat and cross the sea. +It's all one." + +"All one! You make me feel as if I had wings." + +"Then you're happy?" + +"Very, very happy, Monte. And you?" + +"Yes," he answered abruptly. + +She had no reason to doubt it. That night, as she sat alone in her +room, she reviewed this day in order to satisfy herself on this point; +for she felt a certain obligation. He had given to her so generously +that the least she in her turn could do was to make sure that he was +comfortable and content. That, all his life, was the most he had asked +for. It was the most he asked for now. He must wake each morning free +of worries, come down to a good breakfast and find his coffee hot, have +a pleasant time of it during the day without being bored, and end with +a roast and salad and later a good bed. These were simple +desires--thoroughly wholesome, normal desires. With the means at his +command, with the freedom from restraint that had been his ever since +he left college, it was a great deal to his credit that he had been +able to retain such modest tastes. He had been at liberty to choose +what he wished, and he had chosen decently. + +This morning she had come down early and looked to his coffee herself. +It was a slight thing, but she had awakened with a desire to do +something positive and personal for him. She had been satisfied when +he exclaimed, without knowing the part she played in it:-- + +"This coffee is bully!" + +It had started the day right and given her a lightness of spirit that +was reflected in her talk and even in her smiles. She had smiled from +within. She was quite sure that the day had been a success, and that +so far, at any rate, Monte had not been either bored or worried. +Sitting there in the dark, she felt strangely elated over the fact. +She had been able to send her fairy prince to his sleep contented. It +gave her a motherly feeling of a task well done. After all, Monte was +scarcely more than a boy. + +Her thoughts went back to the phrase he had used at the end of the +day's journey. + +"We aren't getting anywhere, are we?" he had asked. + +At the moment she had not thought he meant anything more than he said. +He seldom did. It was restful to know that she need never look for +hidden meanings in his chance remarks. He meant only that there was no +haste; that it made no difference when they reached this town or that. + +They had no destination. + +That was true, and yet the thought disturbed her a trifle. It did not +seem quite right for Monte to have no destination. He was worth +something more than merely to revolve in a circle. He should have a +Holy Grail. Give him something to fight for, and he would fight hard. +Twice to-day she had caught a light in his eyes that had suggested this +to her--a clean, white light that had hinted of a Monte with a +destination. But would not that destroy the very poise that made him +just Monte? + +It was too puzzling a question for her own peace of mind. She turned +away from it and slowly began to take down her hair. + + +On and on they went the third day--straight on--with their destination +still hidden. That night, when again alone, she sat even longer by her +open window than she had yesterday, instead of going to bed and to +sleep, which would have been the sensible thing to do. In some ways +this had been rather a more exciting day than the others. Again she +had risen early and come down to order his coffee; but he too must have +risen early, for he had come upon her as she was giving her +instructions. It had been an embarrassing moment for her, and she had +tried to carry it off with a laugh. That she was not to do so +surprised her and added a still deeper flush to her cheeks. + +"So this is the secret of my good coffee?" he asked. + +"There is so very little I can do for you," she faltered. + +"That is a whole lot more than I deserve," he answered. + +However, he was pleased by this trivial attention, and she knew it. It +was an absurdly insignificant incident, and yet here she was recalling +it with something like a thrill. Not only that, but she recalled +another and equally preposterous detail of the day. She had dropped +her vanity-box in the car, and as they both stooped for it his cheek +had brushed hers. He laughed lightly and apologized--forgetting it the +next second. Eight hours later she dared remember it, like any +schoolgirl. Small wonder that she glanced about to make sure the room +was empty. It sent her to bed shamefaced. + +The fourth day came, with the golden road still unfolding before them +and her fairy prince still beside her. Then the fifth day, and that +night they stopped within sight of the ocean. It came as a surprise to +both of them. It was as if, after all, they had reached a destination, +when as a matter of fact they had done nothing of the sort. It meant, +to be sure, that the next day would find them in Nice, which would end +their ride, because they intended to remain there for a day or two +until they arranged for a villa in Etois, which, being in the +mountains, they must reach afoot. But if she did not like it she had +only to nod and they could move on to somewhere else. There was +nothing final even about Etois. + +That evening they walked by the shore of the sea, and Monte appeared +quieter than usual. + +"I have wired ahead for rooms at the Hotel des Roses," he announced. + +"Yes, Monte," she said. + +"It's where I've stopped for ten years. The last time I was there I +found Edhart gone, and was very uncomfortable." + +"You were as dependent upon him as that?" she asked. + +"It was what lured me on to Paris--and you," he smiled. + +"Then I must be indebted to Edhart also." + +"I think it would be no more than decent to look up his grave and place +a wreath of roses there," he observed. + +"But, Monte," she protested, "I should hate to imagine he had to give +up his life--for just this." + +"At any rate, if he hadn't died I'm sure I should have kept to my +schedule," he said seriously. + +"And then?" + +"I should not have been here." + +"You speak regretfully?" she asked. + +He stopped abruptly and seized her arm. + +"You know better," he answered. + +For a moment she looked dizzily into his eyes. Then he broke the +tension by smiling. + +"I guess we'd better turn back," he said below his breath. + +It was evident that Monte was not quite himself at that moment. That +night she heard the roll of the ocean as she tried to sleep, and it +said many strange things to her. She did not sleep well. + +The next morning they were on their way again, reaching the Hotel des +Roses at six in the afternoon. Henri was at the door to meet them. +Henri, he thought, had greatly improved since his last visit. Perhaps +Edhart, from his seat on high, had been instructing him. The man +seemed to understand better without being told what Monsieur Covington +desired. The apartments were ready, and it was merely a personal +matter between Monte and the garcon to have his trunk transferred from +the second floor to the third and Marie's trunk brought down from the +third to the second. Even Edhart might have been pardoned for making +this mistake in the distribution of the luggage, if not previously +informed. + +That evening Marjory begged to be excused from dinner, and Monte dined +alone. He dined alone in the small salle-a-manger where he had always +dined alone, and where the last time he was here he had grown in an +instant from twenty-two to thirty-two. Now, in another instant, it was +as if he had gone back to twenty-two. It was even almost as if Edhart +had returned to life. The mellow glow of the long twilight tinted the +room just as it used to do. Across the boulevard he saw the +Mediterranean, languid and blue. + +A thing that impressed Monte was how amazingly friendly every one +was--how amazingly friendly even the material objects were. His old +table in the corner had been reserved for him, but this time it had +been arranged for two. The empty chair opposite him was quite as +friendly as Marjory herself might have been. It kept him company and +humored his thoughts. It said, as plainly as it is possible for a +chair to speak:-- + +"Madame Covington is disappointed to think she could not join you this +evening, but you must remember that it is not to be expected of a woman +to stand these long journeys like a man. However, she will have +breakfast with you in the morning. That is something to look forward +to. In the meanwhile let me serve to remind you that she is +upstairs--upstairs in the room you used to occupy. Perhaps even at +this moment she is looking out the window at this same languid blue +sea. Being up there, she is within call. Should you need her--really +need her--you may be perfectly sure that she would come to you. + +"That time you were ill here two years ago, you had rather a bad time +of it because there was no one to visit you except a few chance +acquaintances about whom you did not care. Well, it would not be like +that now. She would sit by your bed all night long and all day long, +too, if you permitted. She is that kind. So, you see, you are really +not dining alone to-night. I, though only an empty chair, am here to +remind you of that." + +Felix, who was in charge of the salle-a-manger, hovered near Monte as +if he felt the latter to be his especial charge. He served as Monte's +right hand--the hand of the sling. He was very much disturbed because +madame refused her dinner, and every now and then thought of something +new that possibly might tempt her. + +Every one else about the hotel was equally friendly, racking his brains +to find a way of serving Monte by serving madame. It made him feel +quite like those lordly personages who used to come here with a title +and turn the place topsy-turvy for themselves and for their women-folk. +He recalled a certain count of something who arrived with his young +wife and who in a day had half of Nice in his service. Monte felt like +him, only more so. There was a certain obsequiousness that the count +demanded which vanished the moment his back was turned; but the +interest of Felix and his fellows now was based upon something finer +than fear. Monte felt it had to do with Marjory herself, and +also--well, in a sense she was carrying a title too. She was, to these +others, a bride. + +But it was a great relief to know that she was not the sort of bride of +which he had seen too many in the last ten years. It would be a +pleasure to show these fellows a bride who would give them no cause to +smile behind their hands. He would show them a bride who could still +conduct herself like a rational human being, instead of like a petulant +princess or a moon-struck school girl. + +Monte lighted a cigarette and went out upon the Quai Massena for a +stroll. It was late in the season for the crowds. They had long since +adjourned to the mountains or to Paris. But still there were plenty +remaining. He would not have cared greatly had there been no one left. +It was a relief to have the shore to himself. He had formerly been +rather sensitive about being anywhere out of season. In fact, this was +the first time he had ever been here later than May. But the +difference was not so great as he had imagined it must be. Neither the +night sky nor the great turquoise mirror beneath it appeared out of +season. + +Monte did not stray far. He walked contentedly back and forth for the +matter of an hour. He might have kept on until midnight, had it not +been for a messenger from the hotel who handed him a note. +Indifferently he opened it and read: + + +I've gone to the Hotel d'Angleterre. Please don't try to see me +to-night. Hastily, + +MARJORY. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +THE BRIDE RUNS AWAY + +Henri, who was greatly disturbed, explained to Monte that madame came +downstairs shortly after monsieur left for his walk and asked for him. +Being told that monsieur had gone out, she too had gone out, wearing a +light shawl--to meet monsieur, as Henri supposed. In some fifteen +minutes madame had returned, appearing somewhat excited, if it were +permissible to say so. Thereupon she had given orders to have her +luggage and the luggage of her maid removed at once to the Hotel +d'Angleterre. Henri had assured her that if her rooms were not +suitable he would turn the house upside down to please her. + +"No, no," she had answered; "it is not that. You are very kind, Henri." + +He had then made so bold as to suggest that a messenger be sent out to +find monsieur. + +"By all means," she had answered. "I will give you a note to take to +him." + +She had sat down and written the note and Henri had dispatched it +immediately. But, also immediately, madame and her maid had left. + +"I beg monsieur to believe that if there is anything--" + +Monte waved the man aside, went to the telephone, and rang up the Hotel +d'Angleterre. + +"I wish to know if a Madame Covington has recently arrived." + +"Non, monsieur," was the response. + +"Look here," said Monte sharply. "Make sure of that. She must have +reached there within fifteen minutes." + +"We have had no arrivals here within that time except a Mademoiselle +Stockton and her maid." + +"Eh?" snapped Monte. "Repeat that again." + +"Mademoiselle Stockton," the clerk obeyed. + +"She signed the register with that name?" + +"But yes. If monsieur--" + +"All right; thanks." + +"You found her?" inquired Henri solicitously. + +"Yes," nodded Monte, and went out into the night again. + + +There was nothing he could do--absolutely nothing. She had given her +orders, and they must be obeyed. He returned to the Quai Massena, to +the shore of the sea; but he walked nervously now, in a world that, as +far as he was concerned, was starless and colorless. He had thought at +first, naturally enough, that Hamilton was in some way concerned; but +he dismissed that now as wholly unplausible. Instead of running away, +in that case, she would have sent for him. It was decidedly more +likely that this was some strange whimsy springing from within herself. + +In looking back at the last few days, he recalled now that upon several +occasions she had acted in a way not quite like herself. Last night, +for instance, she had been disturbed. Again, it was most unusual for +her not to dine with him. He had accepted her excuse that she was +tired; but now he blamed himself for not having seen through so +artificial an excuse, for not having detected that something else was +troubling her. + +She had run away as if in fear. She had not dared even to talk over +with him the cause for her uneasiness. And he--blind fool that he +was--had not detected anything unusual. He had gone off mooning, +leaving her to fight her own fight. He had been so confoundedly +self-satisfied and content because she was here with him, where +heretofore he had always been alone, that he had gone stony blind to +her comfort. That was the crude fact. + +However, accusing himself did not bring him any nearer an explanation +of her strange conduct. She would not have left him unless she had +felt herself in some danger. If Hamilton were eliminated, who then +remained by whom she could feel menaced? Clearly it must be himself. + +The conclusion was like a blow in the face. It stunned him for a +moment, and then left his cheeks burning. If she had scuttled away +from him like a frightened rabbit, it could be for only one reason; +because he had not been able to conceal the truth. And he had thought +that he had succeeded in keeping the danger to himself. + +He turned in the direction of the Hotel d'Angleterre. He did not +intend to try to see her. He wished only to be a little nearer. +Surely there was no harm in that. The boulevard had become deserted, +and he was terribly lonesome out here alone. The old black dog that +had pounced upon him in Paris came back and hugged him closer. + +He squared his shoulders. He must shake himself free of that. The +thing to keep in mind was that he did not count in this affair. She +alone must be considered. If he had frightened her, he must find some +way of reassuring her. He must take a tighter grip than ever upon +himself, face her to-morrow, and laugh away her fears. He must do +that, because he must justify her faith in him. That was all he had of +her--her faith in him. If he killed that, then she would vanish +utterly. + +After this last week, to be here or anywhere else without her was +unthinkable. He must make her believe that he took even this new +development lightly. He must go to her in the morning as just Monte. +So, if he were very, very careful, he might coax her back a little way +into his life. That was not very much to hope for. + + +Monte was all wrong. From beginning to end, he was wrong. Marjory had +run away, not from him, but from some one else. When she left the +hotel she had been on her way to join monsieur, as Henri had correctly +surmised. From her window she had been watching him for the matter of +half an hour as he paced up and down the quay before the hotel. Every +time Monte disappeared from sight at the end of a lap, she held her +breath until he appeared again. Every time he appeared again, her +heart beat faster. He seemed such a lonely figure that her conscience +troubled her. He was so good, was Monte--so good and four-square. + +She had left him to dine alone, and without a protest he had submitted. +That was like him; and yet, if he had only as much as looked his +disappointment, she would have dressed and come down. She had been +ready to do so. It was only the initial excitement that prompted her +at first to shut herself up. Coming to this hotel, where for ten years +he had been coming alone, was almost like going back into his life for +that length of time. Then, Monte had signed the register "Monsieur and +Madame Covington." With bated breath she had watched him do it. + +After that the roses in her room and the attention of every one to her +as to a bride--all those things had frightened her at first. Yet she +knew they were bowing low, not to her, but to Madame Covington. This +was what made her ears burn. This was what made her seek the seclusion +of her room. She felt like an imposter, claiming honors that did not +belong to her. It made her so uncomfortable that she could not face +even Marie. She sent her off. + +Sitting by the open window, she watched Monte as he walked alone, with +a queer little ache in her heart. How faithfully he had lived up to +his bargain! He had given her every tittle of the freedom she had +craved. In all things he had sought her wishes, asking nothing for +himself. It was she who gave the order for starting every morning, for +stopping at night. She chose this inn or that, as pleased her fancy. +She talked when she wished to talk, and remained silent when she +preferred. If, instead of coming to Nice and Etois, she had expressed +a desire to turn in some other direction, she knew he would merely have +nodded. + +It was all one to him. East, west, north, or south--what was the odds? +Married or single--what was the odds? + +So she also should have felt. With this big man by her side to guard +her and do her will, she should have been able to abandon herself +utterly to the delights of each passing hour--to the magic of the fairy +kingdom he had made for her. It was all she had asked for, and that +much it was her right to accept, if he chose to give it. She was +cheating no one. Monte himself would have been the first to admit +that. Therefore she should have been quite at peace with herself. + +The fact remained, however, that each day since they had left Paris she +had found herself more and more at the mercy of strange moods; +sometimes an unusual and inexplicable exhilaration, such as that moment +last night when Monte had turned and seized her arm; sometimes an +unnatural depression, like that which now oppressed her. These had +been only intervals, to be sure. The hours between had been all she +had looked forward to--warm, basking hours of lazy content. + +To-night she had been longer than ever before in recovering her +balance. She had expected to undress, go to bed, and so to sleep. +Perhaps it was the sight of Monte pacing up and down there alone that +prolonged her mood. Yet, not to see him, all that was necessary was to +close her eyes or to turn the other way. It should have been easy to +do this. Only it was not. She followed him back and forth. In some +ways, a bride could not have acted more absurdly. + +At the thought she withdrew from the window in startled confusion. +Standing in the middle of the room, she stared about as if challenged +as to her right there by some unseen visitor. This would never do. +She was too much alone. She must go to Monte. He would set her right, +because he understood. She would take his arm, his strong, steady arm, +and walk a little way with him and laugh with him. That was what she +needed. + +She hurried into her clothes, struggling nervously with hooks and +buttons as if there were need of haste. Then, throwing a light shawl +over her shoulders, she went out past Henri, on her way to Monte. + +Monte had been all wrong in his guesses. She had actually been running +toward him instead of away from him when, just outside the hotel, she +almost collided with Peter Noyes and his sister. + +Peter Noyes did not see her at first. His eyes were covered with a +green shade, even out here in the night. But his sister Beatrice gave +an exclamation that brought him to attention and made him fumble at the +shade as if to tear it off. Yet she had spoken but one word:-- + +"Marjory!" + +She whose name had been called shrank back as if hoping the dark would +hide her. + +"Marjory!" cried Peter Noyes. + +Beatrice rushed forward, seizing both the girl's hands. + +"It is you," she exclaimed, as if Marjory sought to deny the fact. +"Peter--Peter, it's Marjory Stockton!" + +Peter stepped forward, his hand outstretched hesitatingly, as one who +cannot see. Marjory took the hand, staring with questioning eyes at +Beatrice. + +"He worked too hard," explained the latter. "This is the price he +paid." + +"Oh, I'm sorry, Peter!" she cried. + +He tried to smile. + +"It's at moments like this I mind it," he answered. "I--I thought you +were in Paris, Marjory." + +"I came here to-day." + +She spoke nervously. + +"Then," he asked, "you--you are to be here a little while?" + +Marjory passed her hand over her forehead. + +"I don't know," she faltered. + +Peter looked so thin! It was evident he had been long ill. She did +not like to see him so. The shade over his eyes horrified her. +Beatrice came nearer. + +"If you could encourage him a little," she whispered. "He has wanted +so much to see you." + +It was as if she in some way were being held responsible. + +"You're not stopping here?" gasped Marjory. + +"At the Hotel des Roses," nodded Beatrice. "And you?" + +Peter with his haggard, earnest face, and Beatrice with her clear +honest eyes, filled her with sudden shame. It would be impossible to +make them understand. They were so American--so direct and +uncompromising about such affairs as these. + +Beatrice had the features of a Puritan maid, and dressed the part, from +her severe little toque, her prim white dress reaching to her ankles, +to her sturdy boots. Her blue eyes were already growing big at +Marjory's hesitancy at answering so simple a question. She had been +here once with Aunt Kitty--they had stopped at the Hotel d'Angleterre. +Marjory mumbled that name now. + +"Then I may come over to-night to see you for a moment, may I not?" +said Beatrice. "It is time Peter went in now." + +"I--I may see you in the morning?" asked Peter. + +"In the morning," she nodded. "Good-night." + +She gave him her hand, and he held it as a child holds a hand in the +dark. + +"I'll be over in half an hour," Beatrice called back. + +It was only a few blocks to the Hotel d'Angleterre, but Marjory ran the +distance. Happily the clerk remembered her, or she might have found +some difficulty in having her excited excuse accepted that she was not +quite suited at the Roses. Then back again to Henri and Marie she +hurried, with orders to have the luggage transferred at once. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +IN THE DARK + +In her new room at the Hotel d'Angleterre, Marjory dismissed Marie and +buried her hot face in her hands. She felt like a cornered thing--a +shamed and cornered thing. She should not have given the name of the +hotel. She should have sought Monte and ordered him to take her away. +Only--she could not face Monte himself. She did not know how she was +going to see him to-morrow--how she was ever going to see him again. +"Monsieur and Madame Covington," he had signed the register. Beatrice +must have seen it, but Peter had not. He must never see it, because he +would force her to confess the truth--the truth she had been struggling +to deny to herself. + +She had trifled with a holy thing--that was the shameful truth. She +had posed here as a wife when she was no wife. The ceremony at the +English chapel helped her none. It only made her more dishonest. The +memory of Peter Noyes had warned her at the time, but she had not +listened. She had lacked then some vision which she had since +gained--gained through Monte. It was that which made her understand +Peter now, and the wonder of his love and the glory and sacredness of +all love. It was that which made her understand herself now. + +She got to her feet, staring into the dark toward the seashore. + +"Monte, forgive me--forgive me!" she choked. + +She had trifled with the biggest thing in his life and in her life. +She shouldered the full blame. Monte knew nothing either of himself or +of her. He was just Monte, honest and four-square, living up to his +bargain. But she had seen the light in his eyes--the eyes that should +have led him to the Holy Grail. He would have had to go such a little +way--only as far as her outstretched arms. + +She shrank back from the window, her head bowed. It had been her +privilege as a woman to be wiser than he. She should have known! +Now--the thought wrenched like a physical pain--there was nothing left +to her but renunciation. She must help him to be free. She must force +him free. She owed that to him and to herself. It was only so that +she might ever feel clean again. + +Moaning his name, she flung herself upon the bed. So she lay until +summoned back to life by Marie, who brought her the card of Miss +Beatrice Noyes. + +Marjory took the time to bathe her dry cheeks in hot water and to do +over her hair before admitting the girl; but, even with those +precautions, Beatrice paused at the entrance as if startled by her +appearance. + +"Perhaps you do not feel like seeing any one to-night," she suggested. + +"I do want to see you," answered Marjory. "I want to hear about Peter. +But my head--would you mind if we sat in the dark?" + +"I think that would be better--if we are to talk about Peter." + +The phrase puzzled Marjory, but she turned out the lights and placed +two chairs near the open windows. + +"Now tell me from the beginning," she requested. + +"The beginning came soon after you went away," replied Beatrice in a +low voice. + +Marjory leaned back wearily. If there were to be more complications +for which she must hold herself accountable, she felt that she could +not listen. Surely she had lived through enough for one day. + +"Peter cared a great deal for you," Beatrice faltered on. + +"Why?" + +It was a cry in the night. + +Impulsively the younger girl leaned forward and fumbled for her hands. + +"You did n't realize it?" she asked hopefully. + +"I realized nothing then. I realized nothing yesterday," cried +Marjory. "It is only to-day that I began to realize anything." + +"To-day?" + +"Only to-night." + +"It was the sight of Peter looking so unlike himself that opened your +heart," nodded Beatrice. + +"Not my heart--just my eyes," returned Marjory. + +"Your heart too," insisted Beatrice; "for it's only through your heart +that you can open Peter's eyes." + +"I--I don't understand." + +"Because he loves you," breathed Beatrice. + +[Illustration: "Because he loves you," breathed Beatrice.] + +"No. No--not that." + +"You don't know how much," went on the girl excitedly. "None of us +knew how much--until after you went. Oh, he'd never forgive me if he +knew I was talking like this! But I can't help it. It was because he +would not talk--because he kept it a secret all to himself that this +came upon him. They told me at the hospital that it was overwork and +worry, and that he had only one chance in a hundred. But I sat by his +side, Marjory, night and day, and coaxed him back. Little by little he +grew stronger--all except his poor eyes. It was then he told me the +truth: how he had tried to forget you in his work." + +"He--he blamed me?" + +Beatrice was still clinging to her hands. + +"No," she answered quickly. "He did not blame you. We never blame +those we love, do we?" + +"But we hurt those we love!" + +"Only when we don't understand. You did not know he loved you like +that, did you?" + +Marjory withdrew her hands. + +"He had no right!" she cried. + +Beatrice was silent a moment. There was a great deal here that she +herself did not understand. But, though she herself had never loved, +there was a great deal she did understand. She spoke as if thinking +aloud. + +"I have not found love--yet," she said. "But I never thought it was a +question of right when people loved. I thought it--it just happened." + +Marjory drew a quick breath. + +"Yes; it is like that," she admitted. + +Only, she was not thinking of Peter. She was thinking of herself. A +week ago she would have smiled at that phrase. Even yesterday she +would have smiled a little. Love was something a woman or man +undertook or not at will. It was a condition to choose as one chose +one's style of living. It was accepted or rejected, as suited one's +pleasure. If a woman preferred her freedom, then that was her right. + +Then, less than an hour ago, she had flung out her hands toward the +shadowy figure of a man walking alone by the sea, her heart aching with +a great need for the love that might have been hers had she not smiled. +That need, springing of her own love, had just happened. The +fulfillment of it was a matter to be decided by her own conscience; but +the love itself had involved no question of right. She felt a wave of +sympathy for Peter. She was able to feel for him now as never before. +Poor Peter, lying there alone in the hospital! How the ache, +unsatisfied, ate into one. + +"Peter would n't tell me at first," Beatrice was running on. "His lips +were as tight closed as his poor bandaged eyes." + +"The blindness," broke in Marjory. "That is not permanent?" + +"I will tell you what the doctor told me," Beatrice replied slowly. +"He said that, while his eyes were badly overstrained, the seat of the +trouble was mental. 'He is worrying,' he told me. 'Remove the cause +of that and he has a chance.'" + +"So you have come to me for that?" + +"It seems like fate," said Peter's sister, with something of awe in her +voice. "When, little by little, Peter told me of his love, I thought +of only one thing: of finding you. I wanted to cable you, because I--I +thought you would come if you knew. But Peter would not allow that. +He made me promise not to do that. Then, as he grew stronger, and the +doctor told us that perhaps an ocean voyage would help him, I wanted to +bring him to you. He would not allow that either. He thought you were +in Paris, and insisted that we take the Mediterranean route. Then--we +happen upon you outside the hotel we chose by chance! Does n't it seem +as if back of such a thing as that there must be something we don't +understand; something higher than just what we may think right or +wrong?" + +"No, no; that's impossible," exclaimed Marjory. + +"Why?" + +"Because then we'd have to believe everything that happened was right. +And it is n't." + +"Was our coming here not right?" + +Marjory did not answer. + +"If you could have seen the hope in Peter's face when I left him!" + +"He does n't know!" choked Marjory. + +"He knows you are here, and that is all he needs to know," answered +Beatrice. + +"If it were only as simple as that." + +The younger girl rose and, moving to the other's side, placed an arm +over the drooping shoulders. + +"Marjory dear," she said. "I feel to-night more like Peter than +myself. I have listened so many hours in the dark as he talked about +you. He--he has given me a new idea of love. I'd always thought of +love in a--a sort of fairy-book way. I did n't think of it as having +much to do with everyday life. I supposed that some time a knight +would come along on horseback--if ever he came--and take me off on a +long holiday." + +Marjory gave a start. The girl was smoothing her hair. + +"It would always be May-time," she went on, "and we'd have nothing to +do but gather posies in the sunshine. We'd laugh and sing, and there'd +be no care and no worries. Did you ever think of love that way?" + +"Yes." + +The girl spoke more slowly now, as if anxious to be quite accurate:-- + +"But Peter seemed to think of other things. When we talked of you it +was as if he wanted you to be a part of himself and help with the big +things he was planning to do. He had so many wonderful plans in which +you were to help. Instead of running away from cares and worries, it +was as though meeting these was what was going to make it May-time. +Instead of riding off to some fairy kingdom, he seemed to feel that it +was this that would make a fairy kingdom even of New York. +Because"--she lowered her voice--"it was of a home and of children he +talked, and of what a fine mother you would make. He talked of +that--and somehow, Marjory, it made me proud just to be a woman! Oh, +perhaps I should n't repeat such things!" + +Marjory sprang to her feet. + +"You should n't repeat them!" she exclaimed. "You mustn't repeat +anything more! And I must n't listen!" + +"It is only because you're the woman I came to know so well, sitting by +his bed in the dark, that I dared," she said gently. + +"You'll go now?" pleaded Marjory. "I must n't listen to any more." + +Silently, as if frightened by what she had already said, Beatrice moved +toward the door. + +Marjory hurried after her. + +"You're good," she cried, "and Peter's good! And I--" + +The girl finished for her:-- + +"No matter what happens, you'll always be to me Peter's Marjory," she +said. "You'll always keep me proud." + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +A WALK ON THE QUAY + +Monte, stepping out of his room early after a restless night, saw a +black-haired young man wearing a shade over his eyes fumbling about for +the elevator button. He had the thin, nervous mouth and the square jaw +of an American. + +Monte stepped up to him. + +"May I help you?" he asked. + +"Thank you," answered Noyes; "I thought I could make it alone, but +there is n't much light here." + +Monte took his arm and assisted him to the elevator. The man appeared +half blind. His heart went out to him at once. As they reached the +first floor the stranger again hesitated. He smiled nervously. + +"I wanted to get out in the air," he explained. "I thought I could +find a valet to accompany me." + +Monte hesitated. He did not want to intrude, but there was something +about this helpless American that appealed to him. Impulsively he +said: "Would you come with me? Covington is my name. I 'm just off +for a walk along the quay." + +"Noyes is my name," answered Peter. "I'd like to come, but I don't +want to trouble you to that extent." + +Monte took his arm. + +"Come on," he said. "It's a bully morning." + +"The air smells good," nodded Noyes. "I should have waited for my +sister, but I was a bit restless. Do you mind asking the clerk to let +her know where I am when she comes down?" + +Monte called Henri. + +"Inform Miss Noyes we'll be on the quay," he told him. + +They walked in silence until they reached the boulevard bordering the +ocean. + +"We have the place to ourselves," said Monte. "If I walk too fast for +you, let me know." + +"I 'm not very sure of my feet yet," apologized Noyes. "I suppose in +time I'll get used to this." + +"Good Lord, you don't expect it to last?" + +"No. They tell me I have a fighting chance." + +"How did it happen?" + +"Used them a bit too much, I guess," answered Noyes. + +"That's tough." + +"A man has so darned much to do and such a little while to do it in," +exclaimed Noyes. + +"You must live in New York." + +"Yes. And you?" + +"I generally drift back for the holidays. I've been traveling a good +deal for the last ten years." + +"I see. Some sort of research work?" + +The way Noyes used that word "work" made Monte uncomfortable. It was +as if he took it for granted that a man who was a man must have a +definite occupation. + +"I don't know that you would call it exactly that," answered Monte. "I +'ve just been knocking around. I have n't had anything in particular +to do. What are you in?" + +"Law. I wonder if you're Harvard?" + +"Sure thing. And you?" + +Noyes named his class--a class six years later than Monte's. + +"Well, we have something in common there, anyhow," said Covington +cordially. "My father was Harvard Law School. He practiced in +Philadelphia." + +"I've always lived in New York. I was born there, and I love it. I +like the way it makes you hustle--the challenge to get in and live--" + +He stopped abruptly, putting one hand to his eyes. + +"They hurt?" asked Monte anxiously. + +"You need your eyes in New York," he answered simply. + +"You went in too hard," suggested Monte. + +"Is there any other way?" cried Noyes. + +"I used to play football a little," said Monte. "I suppose it's +something like that--when a man gets the spirit of the thing. When you +hit the line you want to feel that you 're putting into it every ounce +in you." + +Noyes nodded. + +"Into your work--into your life." + +"Into your life?" queried Monte. + +"Into everything." + +Monte turned to look at the man. His thin lips had come together in a +straight line. His hollow cheeks were flushed. Every sense was as +alert as a fencer's. If he had lived long like that, no wonder his +eyes had gone bad. Yet last night Monte himself had lived like that, +pacing his room hour after hour. Only it was not work that had given a +cutting edge to each minute--not life, whatever Noyes meant by that. +His thoughts had all been of a woman. Was that life? Was it what +Noyes had meant when he said "everything"? + +"This bucking the line all the time raises the devil with you," he said. + +"How?" demanded Noyes. + +The answer Monte could have returned was obvious. The fact that amazed +him was that Noyes could have asked the question with the sun and the +blue sky shut away from him. It only proved again what Monte had +always maintained--that excesses of any kind, whether of rum or +ambition or--or love--drove men stark mad. Blind as a bat from +overwork, Noyes still asked the question. + +"Look here," said Monte, with a frown. "Before the big events the +coach used to take us one side and make us believe that the one thing +in life we wanted was that game. He used to make us as hungry for it +as a starved dog for a bone. He used to make us ache for it. So we +used to wade in and tear ourselves all to pieces to get it." + +"Well?" + +"If we won it was n't so much; if we lost--it left us aching worse than +before." + +"Yes." + +"There was the crowd that sat and watched us. They did n't care the +way we cared. We went back to the locker building in strings; they +went off to a comfortable dinner." + +"And the moral?" demanded Noyes. + +"Is not to care too darned much, is n't it?" growled Monte. + +"If you want a comfortable dinner," nodded Noyes. + +"Or a comfortable night's sleep. Or if you want to wake up in the +morning with the world looking right." + +Again Monte saw the impulsive movement of the man's hand to his eyes. + +He said quickly: "I did n't mean to refer to that." + +"I forget it for a while. Then--suddenly--I remember it." + +"You wanted something too hard," said Monte gently. + +"I wanted something with all there was in me. I still want it." + +"You're not sorry, then?" + +"If I were sorry for that, I'd be sorry I was alive." + +"But the cost!" + +"Of what value is a thing that doesn't cost?" returned Noyes. "All the +big things cost big. Half the joy in them is pitting yourself against +that and paying the price. The ache you speak of--that's credited to +the joy in the end. Those men in the grand-stand don't know that. If +you fight hard, you can't lose, no matter what the score is against +you." + +"You mean it's possible to get some of your fun out of the game itself?" + +"What else is there to life--if you pick the things worth fighting for?" + +"Then, if you lose--" + +"You've lived," concluded Noyes. + +"It's men like you who ought really to win," exclaimed Monte. "I hope +you get what you went after." + +"I mean to," answered Noyes, with grim determination. + +They had turned and were coming back in the direction of the hotel when +Monte saw a girlish figure hurrying toward them. + +"I think your sister is coming," said Monte. + +"Then you can be relieved of me," answered Noyes. + +"But I 've enjoyed this walk immensely. I hope we can take another. +Are you here for long?" + +"Indefinitely. And you?" + +"Also indefinitely." + +Miss Noyes was by their side now. + +"Sister--this is Mr. Covington," Peter introduced her. + +Miss Noyes smiled. + +"I've good news for you, Peter," she said. "I've just heard from +Marjory, and she'll see you at ten." + +Monte was startled by the name, but was even more startled by the look +of joy that illuminated the features of the man by his side. For a +second it was as if his blind eyes had suddenly come to life. + +Monte caught his breath. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +JUST MONTE + +Monte was at the Hotel d'Angleterre at nine. In response to his card +he received a brief note. + + +_Dear Monte_ [he read]: Please don't ask to see me this morning. I'm +so mixed up I'm afraid I won't be at all good company. + +Yours, MARJORY. + + +Monte sent back this note in reply:-- + + +_Dear Marjory_: If you're mixed up, I'm just the one you ought to see. +You've been thinking again. + +MONTE. + + +She came into the office looking like a hunted thing; but he stepped +forward to meet her with a boyish good humor that reassured her in an +instant. The firm grip of his hand alone was enough to steady her. +Her tired eyes smiled gratitude. + +"I never expected to be married and deserted--all in one week," he said +lightly. "What's the trouble?" + +He felt like a comedian trying to be funny with the heart gone out of +him. But he knew she expected no less. He must remain just Monte or +he would only frighten her the more. No matter if his heart pounded +until he could not catch his breath, he must play the care-free chump +of a _compagnon de voyage_. That was all she had married--all she +wanted. She glanced at his arm in its black sling. + +"Who tied that this morning?" she asked. + +"The valet." + +"He did n't do it at all nicely. There's a little sun parlor on the +next floor. Come with me and I 'll do it over." + +He followed her upstairs and into a room filled with flowers and wicker +chairs. She stood before him and readjusted the handkerchief, so near +that he thought he felt her breath. It was a test for a man, and he +came through it nobly. + +"There--that's better," she said. "Now take the big chair in the sun." + +She drew it forward a little, though he protested at so much attention. +She dropped into another seat a little away from him. + +"Well?" he inquired. "Aren't you going to tell me about it?" + +He was making it as easy as possible--easier than she had anticipated. + +"Won't you please smoke?" + +He lighted a cigarette. + +"Now we're off," he encouraged her. + +He was leaning back with one leg crossed over the other--a big, +wholesome boy. His blue eyes this morning were the color of the sky, +and just as clean and just as untroubled. As she studied him the +thought uppermost in her mind was that she must not hurt him. She must +be very careful about that. She must give him nothing to worry over. + +"Monte," she began, "I guess women have a lot of queer notions men +don't know anything about. Can't we let it go at that?" + +"If you wish," he nodded. "Only--are you going to stay here?" + +"For a little while, anyway," she answered. + +"You mean--a day or two?" + +"Or a week or two." + +"You'd rather not tell me why?" + +"If you please--not," she answered quickly. + +He thought a moment, and then asked:-- + +"It was n't anything I did?" + +"No, no," she assured him. "You've been so good, Monte." + +He was so good with her now--so gentle and considerate. It made her +heart ache. With her chin in hand, elbow upon the arm of her chair, +she was apparently looking at him more or less indifferently, when what +she would have liked to do was to smooth away the perplexed frown +between his brows. + +"Then," he asked, "your coming here has n't anything to do with me?" + +She could not answer that directly. With her cheeks burning and her +lips dry, she tried to think just what to say. Above all things, she +must not worry him! + +"It has to do with you and myself and--Peter Noyes," she answered. + +"Peter Noyes!" + +He sat upright. + +"He is at the Hotel des Roses--with his sister," Marjory ran on +hurriedly. "They are both old friends, and I met them quite by +accident last night. Suddenly, Monte,--they made my position there +impossible. They gave me a new point of view on myself--on you. I +guess it was an American point of view. What had seemed right before +did not seem right then." + +"Is that why you resumed your maiden name?" + +"That is why. But sooner or later Peter will know the truth, won't he?" + +"How will he know?" + +"The name you signed on the register." + +"That's so, too," Monte admitted. "But that says only 'Madame +Covington.' Madame Covington might be any one." + +He smiled, but his lips were tense. + +"She may have been called home unexpectedly." + +The girl hid her face in her hands. He rose and stepped to her side. + +"There, there," he said gently. "Don't worry about that. There is no +reason why they should ever associate you with her. If they make any +inquiries of me about madame, I'll just say she has gone away for a +little while--perhaps for a week or two. Is that right?" + +"I--I don't know." + +"Nothing unusual about that. Wives are always going away. Even Chic's +wife goes away every now and then. As for you, little woman, I think +you did the only thing possible. I met that Peter Noyes this morning." + +Startled, she raised her face from her hands. + +"You met--Peter Noyes?" she asked slowly. + +"Quite by chance. He was on his way to walk, and I took him with me. +He's a wonderful fellow, Marjory." + +"You talked with him?" + +He nodded. + +"He takes life mighty seriously." + +"Too seriously, Monte," she returned. + +"It's what made him blind; and yet--there 's something worth while +about a man who gets into the game that way. Hanged if he did n't +leave me feeling uncomfortable." + +She looked worried. + +"How, Monte?" + +"Oh, as though I ought to be doing something instead of just kicking +around the Continent. Do you know I had a notion of studying law at +one time?" + +"But there was no need of it, was there?" + +"Not in one way. Only, I suppose I could have made myself useful +somewhere, even if I did n't have to earn a living. Maybe there's a +use for every one--somewhere." + +He had left her side, and was staring out the window toward the ocean. +She watched him anxiously. She had never seen him like this, and yet, +in a way, this was the same Monte in whose eyes she had caught a +glimpse of the wonderful bright light. It was the man who had leaned +toward her as they walked on the shore the night before they reached +Nice--a gallant prince of the fairy-books, ready to step into real life +and be a gallant prince there. + +Monte had never had a chance. Had he been left as Peter Noyes had been +left, dependent upon himself, he would have done all that Peter had +done, without losing his smile. Marjory must not allow him to lose +that now. His mouth was drooping with such exaggerated melancholy that +she felt something must be done at once. She began to laugh. He +turned quickly. + +"You look as if you had lost your last friend," she chided him. "If +talking with Peter Noyes does that to you, I don't think you had better +talk with him any more." + +"He's worth more to-day, blind, than I with my two eyes." + +"The trouble with Peter is that he can't smile," she answered. "After +all, it would be a sad world if no one were left to smile." + +The words brought back to him the phrase she had used at the Normandie: +"I am depending on you to keep me normal." + +Here was something right at hand for him to do, and a man's job at +that. He had wanted a chance to play the game, and here it was. +Perhaps the game was not so big as some,--it concerned only her and +him,--but there was a certain added challenge in playing the little +game hard. Besides, the importance of the game was a good deal in the +point of view. If, for him, it was big, that was enough. + +As he stood before her now, the demand upon him for all his nerve was +enough to satisfy any man. To assume before her the pose of the +carefree chump that she needed to balance her own nervous fears--to do +this with every muscle in him straining toward her, with the beauty of +her making him dizzy, with hot words leaping for expression to his dry +lips, those facts, after all, made the game seem not so small. + +"Where are you going to lunch to-day?" he asked. + +"I don't know, Monte," she answered indifferently. "I told Peter he +could come over at ten." + +"I see. Want to lunch with him?" + +"I don't want to lunch with any one." + +"He'll probably expect you. I was going to look at some villas to-day; +but I suppose that's all off." + +Her cheeks turned scarlet. + +"Yes." + +"Then I guess I'll walk to Monte Carlo and lunch there. How about +dinner?" + +"If they see us together--" + +"Ask them to come along too. You can tell them I'm an old friend. I +am that, am I not?" + +"One of the oldest and best," she answered earnestly. + +"Then I'll call you up when I come back. Good luck." + +With a nod and a smile, he left her. + +From the window she watched him out of sight. He did not turn. There +was no reason in the world why she should have expected him to turn. +He had a pleasant day before him. He would amuse himself at the +Casino, enjoy a good luncheon, smoke a cigarette in the sunshine, and +call her up at his leisure when he returned. Except for the light +obligation of ascertaining her wishes concerning dinner, it was the +routine he had followed for ten years. It had kept him satisfied, kept +him content. Doubtless, if he were left undisturbed, it would keep him +satisfied and content for another decade. He would always be able to +walk away from her without turning back. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +PETER + +Beatrice brought Peter at ten, and, in spite of the mute appeal of +Marjory's eyes, stole off on tiptoe and left her alone with him. + +"Has Trix gone?" demanded Peter. + +"Yes." + +"She shouldn't have done that," he complained. + +Marjory made him comfortable in the chair Monte had lately occupied, +finding a cushion for his head. + +"Please don't do those things," he objected. "You make me feel as if I +were wearing a sign begging for pity." + +"How can any one help pitying you, when they see you like this, Peter?" +she asked gently. + +"What right have they to do it?" he demanded. + +"Right?" + +She frowned at that word. So many things in her life seemed to have +been decided without respect for right. + +"I'm the only one to say whether I shall be pitied or not," he +declared. "I've lost the use of my eyes temporarily by my own fault. +I don't like it; but I refuse to be pitied." + +Marjory was surprised to find him so aggressive. It was not what she +expected after listening to Beatrice. It changed her whole attitude +toward him instantly from one of guarded condolence to honest +admiration. There was no whine here. He was blaming no one--neither +himself nor her. It was with a wave of deep and sincere sympathy, +springing spontaneously from within herself, that she spoke. + +"Peter," she said, "I won't pity you any more. But if I 'm sorry for +you--awfully sorry--you won't mind that?" + +"I'd rather you would n't think of my eyes at all," he answered +unsteadily. "I can almost forget them myself--with you." + +"Then," she said, "we'll forget them. Are you going to stay here long, +Peter?" + +"Are you?" + +"My plans are uncertain. I don't think I shall ever make any more +plans." + +"You must n't let yourself feel that way," Peter returned. "The thing +to do, if one scheme fails, is to start another--right off." + +"But nothing ever comes out as you expect." + +"That gives you a chance to try again." + +"You can't keep that up forever?" + +"Forever and ever," he nodded. "It's what makes life worth living." + +"Peter," she said below her breath, "you're wonderful." + +He seemed to clear the muggy air around her like a summer shower. In +touch with his fine courage, her own returned. She felt herself +steadier and calmer than she had been for a week. + +"What if you make mistakes, Peter?" + +"It's the only way you learn," he answered. "There's a new note in +your voice, Marjory. Have--you been learning?" + +His meaning was clear. He leaned forward as if trying to pierce the +darkness between them. His thin white hands were tight upon the chair +arms. + +"At least, I've been making mistakes," she answered uneasily. + +She felt, for a second, as if she could pour out her troubles to +him--as if he would listen patiently and give her of his wisdom and +strength. It would be easier--she was ashamed of the thought, but it +held true--because he could not see. Almost--she could tell him of +herself and of Monte. + +"There's such a beautiful woman in you!" he explained passionately. + +With her heart beating fast, she dropped back in her chair. There was +the old ring in his voice--the old masterful decision that used to +frighten her. There used to be moments when she was afraid that he +might command her to come with him as with authority, and that she +would go. + +"I 've always known that you'd learn some day all the fine things that +are in you--all the fine things that lay ahead of you to do as a +woman," he ran on. "You've only been waiting; that's all." + +He could not see her cheeks--she was thankful for that. But the wonder +was that he did not hear the pounding of her heart. He spoke like +this, not knowing of this last week. + +"You remember all the things I said to you--before you left?" + +"Yes." + +"I can't say them to you now. I must wait until I get my eyes back. +Then I shall say them again, and perhaps--" + +"Do you think I 'd let you wait for your eyes?" she cried. + +"You mean that now--" + +"No, no, Peter," she interrupted, in a panic. "I did n't mean I could +listen now. Only I did n't want you to think I was so selfish that if +it were possible to share the light with you I--I would n't share the +dark too." + +"There would n't be any dark for me at all if you shared it," he +answered gently. + +Then she saw his lips tighten. + +"We must n't talk of that," he said. "We must n't think of it." + +Yet, of all the many things they discussed this morning, nothing left +Marjory more to think about. It seemed that, so far, her freedom had +done nothing but harm. She had intended no harm. She had desired only +to lead her own life day by day, quite by herself. So she had fled +from Peter--with this result; then she had fled from Teddy, who had +lost his head completely; finally she had fled, not from Monte but with +him, because that seemed quite the safest thing to do. It had proved +the most dangerous of all! If she had driven Peter blind, Monte--if he +only knew it--had brought him sweet revenge, because he had made her, +not blind, but something that was worse, a thousand times worse! + +There was some hope for Peter. It is so much easier to cure blindness +than vision. Always she must see the light that had leaped to Monte's +eyes, kindled from the fire in her own soul. Always she must see him +coming to her outstretched arms, knowing that she had lost the right to +lift her arms. Perhaps she must even see him going to other arms, that +flame born of her breathed into fuller life by other lips. If +not--then the ultimate curse of watching him remain just Monte, knowing +he might have been so much more. This because she had dared trifle +with that holy passion and so had made herself unworthy of it. + +Peter was telling her of his work; of what he had accomplished already +and of what he hoped to accomplish. She heard him as from a distance, +and answered mechanically his questions, while she pursued her own +thoughts. + +It seemed almost as if a woman was not allowed to remain negative; that +either she must accomplish positive good or positive harm. So far, she +had accomplished only harm; and now here was an opportunity that was +almost an obligation to offset that to some degree. She must free +Monte as soon as possible. That was necessary in any event. She owed +it to him. It was a sacred obligation that she must pay to save even +the frayed remnant of her pride. This had nothing to do with Peter. +She saw now it would have been necessary just the same, even if Peter +had not come to make it clearer. Until she gave up the name to which +she had no right, with which she had so shamelessly trifled, she must +feel only glad that Peter could not see into her eyes. + +So Monte would go on his way again, and she would be left--she and +Peter. If, then, what Beatrice said was true,--if it was within her +power, at no matter what sacrifice, to give Peter back the sight she +had taken,--then so she might undo some of the wrong she had done. The +bigger the sacrifice, the fiercer the fire might rage to burn her +clean. Because she had thought to sacrifice nothing, she had been +forced to sacrifice everything; if now she sacrificed everything, +perhaps she could get back a little peace in return. She would give +her life to Peter--give him everything that was left in her to give. +Humbly she would serve him and nurse the light back into his eyes. Was +it possible to do this? + +She saw Beatrice at the door, and rose to meet her. + +"You're to lunch with me," she said. "Then, for dinner, Mr. Covington +has asked us all to join him." + +"Covington?" exclaimed Peter. "Is n't he the man who was so decent to +me this morning?" + +"He said he met you," answered Marjory. + +"I liked him," declared Peter. "I'll be mighty glad to see more of +him." + +"And I too," nodded Beatrice. "He looked so very romantic with his +injured arm." + +"Monte romantic?" smiled Marjory. "That's the one thing in the world +he is n't." + +"Just who is he, anyway?" inquired Beatrice. + +"He's just Monte," answered Marjory. + +"And Madame Monte--where is she? I noticed by the register there is +such a person." + +"I--I think he said she had been called away--unexpectedly," Marjory +gasped. + +She turned aside with an uncomfortable feeling that Beatrice had +noticed her confusion. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +AN EXPLANATION + +The following week Monte devoted himself wholly to the entertainment of +Marjory and her friends. He placed his car at their disposal, and +planned for them daily trips with the thoroughness of a courier, though +he generally found some excuse for not going himself. His object was +simple: to keep Marjory's days so filled that she would have no time +left in which to worry. He wanted to help her, as far as possible, to +forget the preceding week, which had so disturbed her. To this end +nothing could be better for her than Peter and Beatrice Noyes, who were +so simply and honestly plain, everyday Americans. They were just the +wholesome, good-natured companions she needed to offset the morbid +frame of mind into which he had driven her. Especially Peter. He was +good for her and she was good for him. + +The more he talked with Peter Noyes the better he liked him. At the +end of the day--after seeing them started in the morning, Monte used to +go out and walk his legs off till dinner-time--he enjoyed dropping into +a chair by the side of Peter. It was wonderful how already Peter had +picked up. He had gained not only in weight and color, but a marked +mental change was noticeable. He always came back from his ride in +high spirits. So completely did he ignore his blindness that Monte, +talking with him in the dark, found himself forgetting it--awakening to +the fact each time with a shock when it was necessary to offer an +assisting arm. + +It was the man's enthusiasm Monte admired. He seemed to be always +alert--always keen. Yet, as near as he could find out, his life had +been anything but adventuresome or varied. After leaving the law +school he had settled down in a New York office and just plugged along. +He confessed that this was the first vacation he had taken since he +began practice. + +"You can hardly call this a vacation!" exclaimed Monte. + +"Man dear," answered Peter earnestly, "you don't know what these days +mean to me." + +"You sure are entitled to all the fun you can get out of them," +returned Monte. "But I hate to think how I'd feel under the same +circumstances." + +"I don't believe there is much difference between men," answered Peter. +"I imagine that about certain things we all feel a good deal alike." + +"I wonder," mused Monte. "I can't imagine myself, for instance, living +twelve months in the year in New York and being enthusiastic about it." + +"What do you do when you're there?" inquired Peter. + +"Not much of anything," admitted Monte. + +"Then you're no more in New York when you're there than in Jericho," +answered Peter. "You 've got to get into the game really to live in +New York. You 've got to work and be one of the million others before +you can get the feel of the city. Best of all, a man ought to marry +there. You're married, are n't you, Covington?" + +"Eh?" + +"Did n't Beatrice tell me you registered here with your wife?" + +[Illustration: "Did n't Beatrice tell me you registered here with your +wife?"] + +Monte moistened his lips. + +"Yes--she was here for a day. She--she was called away." + +"That's too bad. I hope we'll have an opportunity to meet her before +we leave." + +"Thanks." + +"She ought to help you understand New York." + +"Perhaps she would. We've never been there together." + +"Been married long?" + +"No." + +"So you have n't any children." + +"Hardly." + +"Then," said Peter, "you have your whole life ahead of you. You have +n't begun to live anywhere yet." + +"And you?" + +"It's the same with me," confessed Peter, with a quick breath. +"Only--well, I haven't been able to make even the beginning you 've +made." + +Monte leaned forward with quickened interest. + +"That's the thing you wanted so hard?" he asked. + +"Yes." + +"To marry and have children?" + +Monte was silent a moment, and then he added:-- + +"I know a man who did that." + +"A man who does n't is n't a man, is he?" + +"I--I don't know," confessed Monte. "I 've visited this friend once or +twice. Did you ever see a kiddy with the croup?" + +"No," admitted Peter. + +"You're darned lucky. It's just as though--as though some one had the +little devil by the throat, trying to strangle him." + +"There are things you can do." + +"Things you can try to do. But mostly you stand around with your hands +tied, waiting to see what's going to happen." + +"Well?" queried Peter, evidently puzzled. + +"That's only one of a thousand things that can happen to 'em. There +are worse things. They are happening every day." + +"Well?" + +"When I think of Chic and his children I think of him pacing the hall +with his forehead all sweaty with the ache inside of him. Nothing +pleasant about that, is there?" + +Peter did not answer for a moment, and then what he said seemed rather +pointless. + +"What of it?" he asked. + +"Only this," answered Monte uneasily. "When you speak of a wife and +children you have to remember those facts. You have to consider that +you 're going to be torn all to shoe-strings every so often. Maybe you +open the gates of heaven, but you throw open the gates of hell too. +There's no more jogging along in between on the good old earth." + +"Good Lord!" exclaimed Peter. "You consider such things?" + +"I've always tried to stay normal," answered Monte uneasily. + +"Yet you said you're married?" + +"Even so, is n't it possible for a man to keep his head?" demanded +Monte. + +"I don't understand," replied Peter. + +"Look here--I don't want to intrude in your affairs, but I don't +suppose you are talking merely abstractedly. You have some one +definite in mind?" + +"Yes." + +"Then you ought to understand; you've kept steady." + +"I wouldn't be like this if I had," answered Peter. + +"You mean your eyes." + +"I tried to forget her because she wasn't ready to listen. I turned to +my work, and put in twenty hours a day. It was a fool thing to do. +And yet--" + +Monte held his breath. + +"From the depths I saw the heights, I saw the wonderful beauty of the +peaks." + +"And still see them?" + +"Clearer than ever now." + +"Then you aren't sorry she came into your life?" + +"Sorry, man?" exclaimed Peter. "Even at this price--even if there were +no hope ahead, I'd still have my visions." + +"But there is hope?" + +"I have one chance in a thousand. It's more than anything I 've had up +to now." + +"One in a thousand is a fighting chance," Monte returned. + +"You speak as if that were more than you had." + +"It was." + +"Yet you won out." + +"How?" demanded Monte. + +"She married you." + +"Yes," answered Monte, "that's true. I say, old man--it's getting a +bit cool here. Perhaps we'd better go in." + + +Monte had planned for them a drive to Cannes the day Beatrice sent word +to Marjory that she would be unable to go. + +"But you two will go, won't you?" she concluded her note. "Peter will +be terribly disappointed if you don't." + +So they went, leaving at ten o'clock. At ten-fifteen Beatrice came +downstairs, and ran into Monte just as he was about to start his walk. + +"You're feeling better?" he asked politely. + +She shook her head. + +"I--I'm afraid I told a fib." + +"You mean you stayed because you did n't want to go." + +"Yes. But I did n't say I had a headache." + +"I know how you feel about that," he returned. "Leaving people to +guess wrong lets you out in one way, and in another it does n't." + +She appeared surprised at his directness. She had expected him to pass +the incident over lightly. + +"It was for Peter's sake, anyhow," she tried to justify her position. +"But don't let me delay you, please. I know you 're off for your +morning walk." + +That was true. But he was interested in that statement she had just +made that it was for Peter's sake she had remained behind. It revealed +an amazingly dense ignorance of both her brother's position and +Marjory's. On no other theory could he make it seem consistent for her +to encourage a tete-a-tete between a married woman and a man as deeply +in love with some one else as Peter was. + +"Won't you come along a little way?" he asked. "We can turn back at +any time." + +She hesitated a moment--but only a moment. + +"Thanks." + +She fell into step at his side as he sought the quay. + +"You've been very good to Peter," she said. "I've wanted a chance to +tell you so." + +"You did n't remain behind for that, I hope," he smiled. + +"No," she admitted; "but I do appreciate your kindness. Peter has had +such a terrible time of it." + +"And yet," mused Monte aloud, "he does n't seem to feel that way +himself." + +"He has confided in you?" + +"A little. He told me he regretted nothing." + +"He has such fine courage!" she exclaimed. + +"Not that alone. He has had some beautiful dreams." + +"That's because of his courage." + +"It takes courage, then, to dream?" Monte asked. + +"Don't you think it does--with your eyes gone?" + +"With or without eyes," he admitted. + +"You don't know what he's been through," she frowned. "Even he does +n't know. When I came to him, there was so little of him left. I 'll +never forget the first sight I had of him in the hospital. Thin and +white and blind, he lay there as though dead." + +He looked at the frail young woman by his side. She must have had fine +courage too. There was something of Peter in her. + +"And you nursed him back." + +She blushed at the praise. + +"Perhaps I helped a little; but, after all, it was the dreams he had +that counted most. All I did was to listen and try to make them real +to him. I tried to make him hope." + +"That was fine." + +"He loved so hard, with all there was in him, as he does everything," +she explained. + +"I suppose that was the trouble," he nodded. + +She turned quickly. It was as if he said that was the mistake. + +"After all, that's just love, is n't it? There can't be any halfway +about it, can there?" + +"I wonder." + +"You--you wonder, Mr. Covington?" + +He was stupid at first. He did not get the connection. Then, as she +turned her dark eyes full upon him, the blood leaped to his cheeks. He +was married--that was what she was trying to tell him. He had a wife, +and so presumably knew what love was. For her to assume anything else, +for him to admit anything else, was impossible. + +"Perhaps we'd better turn back," she said uneasily. + +He felt like a cad. He turned instantly. + +"I 'm afraid I did n't make myself very clear," he faltered. "We are +n't all of us like Peter." + +"There is no one in the world quite as good as Peter," the girl +declared. + +"Then you should n't blame me too much," he suggested. + +"It is not for me to criticize you at all," she returned somewhat +stiffly. + +"But you did." + +"How?" + +"When you suggested turning back. It was as if you had determined I +was not quite a proper person to walk with." + +"Mr. Covington!" she protested. + +"We may as well be frank. It seems to be a misfortune of mine lately +to get things mixed up. Peter is helping me to see straight. That's +why I like to talk with him." + +"He sees so straight himself." + +"That's it." + +"If only now he recovers his eyes." + +"He says there's hope." + +"It all depends upon her," she said. + +"Upon this woman?" + +"Upon this one woman." + +"If she realized it--" + +"She does," broke in Beatrice. "I made her realize it. I went to her +and told her." + +"You did that?" + +She raised her head in swift challenge. + +"Even though Peter commanded me not to--even though I knew he would +never forgive me if he learned." + +"You women are so wonderful," breathed Monte. + +"With Peter's future--with his life at stake--what else could I do?" + +"And she, knowing that, refused to come to him?" + +"Fate brought us to her." + +"Then," exclaimed Monte, "what are you doing here?" + +She stopped and faced him. It was evident that he was sincere. + +"You men--all men are so stupid at times!" she cried, with a little +laugh. + +He shook his head slowly. + +"I 'll have to admit it." + +"Why, he's with her now," she laughed. "That's why I stayed at home +to-day." + +Monte held his breath for a second, and then he said:-- + +"You mean, the woman Peter loves is--is Marjory Stockton?" + +"No other. I thought he must have told you. If not, I thought you +must have guessed it from her." + +"Why, no," he admitted; "I did n't." + +"Then you've had your eyes closed." + +"That's it," he nodded; "I've had my eyes closed. Why, that explains a +lot of things." + +Impulsively the girl placed her hand on Monte's arm. + +"As an old friend of hers, you'll use your influence to help Peter?" + +"I 'll do what I can." + +"Then I'm so glad I told you." + +"Yes," agreed Monte. "I suppose it is just as well for me to know." + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +PAYING LIKE A MAN + +Everything considered, Monte should have been glad at the revelation +Beatrice made to him. If Peter were in love with Marjory and she with +Peter--why, it solved his own problem, by the simple process of +elimination, neatly and with despatch. All that remained for him to do +was to remove himself from the awkward triangle as soon as possible. +He must leave Marjory free, and Peter would look after the rest. No +doubt a divorce on the grounds of desertion could be easily arranged; +and thus, by that one stroke, they two would be made happy, and +he--well, what the devil was to become of him? + +The answer was obvious. It did not matter a picayune to any one what +became of him. What had he ever done to make his life worth while to +any one? He had never done any particular harm, that was true; but +neither had he done any particular good. It is the positive things +that count, when a man stands before the judgment-seat; and that is +where Monte stood on the night Marjory came back from Cannes by the +side of Peter, with her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed as if she +had come straight from Eden. + +They all dined together, and Monte grubbed hungrily for every look she +vouchsafed him, for every word she tossed him. She had been more than +ordinarily vivacious, spurred on partly by Beatrice and partly by +Peter. Monte had felt himself merely an onlooker. That, in fact, was +all he was. That was all he had been his whole life. + +He dodged Peter this evening to escape their usual after-dinner talk, +and went to his room. He was there now, with his face white and tense. + +He had been densely stupid from the first, as Beatrice had informed +him. Any man of the world ought to have suspected something when, at +the first sight of Peter, she ran away. She had never run from him. +Women run only when there is danger of capture, and she had nothing to +fear from him in that way. She was safe with him. She dared even come +with him to escape those from whom there might be some possible danger. +Until now he had been rather proud of this--as if it were some honor. +She had trusted him as she would not trust other men. It had made him +throw back his shoulders--dense fool that he was! + +She had trusted him because she did not fear him; she did not fear him +because there was nothing in him to fear. It was not that he was more +decent than other men: it was merely because he was less of a man. +Why, she had run even from Peter--good, honest, conscientious Peter, +with the heart and the soul and the nerve of a man. Peter had sent her +scurrying before him because of the great love he dared to have for +her. Peter challenged her to take up life with him--to buck New York +with him. This was after he had waded in himself with naked fists, +man-fashion. That was what gave Peter his right. That right was what +she feared. + +Monte had a grandfather who in forty-nine crossed the plains. A +picture of him hung in the Covington house in Philadelphia. The +painting revealed steel-gray eyes and, even below the beard of +respectability, a mouth that in many ways was like Peter's. Montague +Sears Covington--that was his name; the name that had been handed down +to Monte. The man had shouldered a rifle, fought his way across +deserts and over mountain paths, had risked his life a dozen times a +day to reach the unknown El Dorado of the West. He had done this +partly for a woman--a slip of a girl in New York whom he left behind to +wait for him, though she begged to go. That was Monte's grandmother. + +Monte, in spite of his ancestry, had jogged along, dodging the +responsibilities--the responsibilities that Peter Noyes rushed forward +to meet. He had ducked even love, even fatherhood. Like any quitter +on the gridiron, instead of tackling low and hard, he had side-stepped. +He had seen Chic in agony, and because of that had taken the next boat +for Marseilles. He had turned tail and run. He had seen Teddy, and +had run to what he thought was safe cover. If he paid the cost after +that, whose the fault? The least he could do now was to pay the cost +like a man. + +Here was the salient necessity--to pay the cost like a man. There must +be no whining, no regretting, no side-stepping this time. He must make +her free by surrendering all his own rights, privileges, and title. He +must turn her over to Peter, who had played the game. He must do more. +He must see that she went to Peter. He must accomplish something +positive this time. + +Beatrice had asked him to use his influence. It was slight, pitifully +slight, but he must do what he could. He must plan for them, +deliberately, more such opportunities as this one he had planned for +them unconsciously to-day. He must give them more chances to be +together. He had looked forward to having breakfast with her in the +morning. He must give up that. He must keep himself in the background +while he was here, and then, at the right moment, get out altogether. + +Technically, he must desert her. He must make that supreme sacrifice. +At the moment when he stood ready to challenge the world for her--at +the moment when his heart within him burned to face for her all the +dangers from which he had run--at that point he must relinquish even +this privilege, and with smiling lips pose before the world and before +her as a quitter. He must not even use the deserter's prerogative of +running. He must leave her cheerfully and jauntily--as the care-free +ass known to her and to the world as just Monte. + +The scorn of those words stung him white with helpless passion. She +had wished him always to be just Monte, because she thought that was +the best there was in him. As such he was at least harmless--a +good-natured chump to be trusted to do no harm, if he did no good. The +grandson of the Covington who had faced thirst and hunger and sudden +death for his woman, who had won for her a fortune fighting against +other strong men, the grandson of a man who had tackled life like a +man, must sacrifice his one chance to allow this ancestor to know his +own as a man. He could have met him chin up with Madame Covington on +his arm. He had that chance once. + +How ever had he missed it? He sat there with his fists clenched +between his knees, asking himself the question over and over again. He +had known her for over a decade. As a school-girl he had seen her at +Chic's, and now ten years later he saw that even then she had within +her all that she now had. That clear, white forehead had been there +then; the black arched brows, the thin, straight nose, and the mobile +lips. He caught his breath as he thought of those lips. Her eyes, +too--but no, a change had taken place there. He had always thought of +her eyes as cold--as impenetrable. They were not that now. Once or +twice he thought he had seen into them a little way. Once or twice he +thought he had glimpsed gentle, fluttering figures in them. Once or +twice they had been like windows in a long-closed house, suddenly flung +open upon warm rooms filled with flowers. It made him dizzy now to +remember those moments. + +He paced his room. In another week or two, if he had kept on,--if +Peter had not come,--he might have been admitted farther into that +house. He squared his shoulders. If he fought for his own even +now--if, man against man, he challenged Peter for her--he might have a +fighting chance. Was not that his right? In New York, in the world +outside New York, that was the law: a hard fight--the best man to win. +In war, favors might be shown; but in life, with a man's own at stake, +it was every one for himself. Peter himself would agree to that. He +was not one to ask favors. A fair fight was all he demanded. Then let +it be a clean, fair fight with bare knuckles to a finish. Let him show +himself to Marjory as the grandson of the man who gave him his name; +let him press his claims. + +He was ready now to face the world with her. He was eager to do that. +Neither heights nor depths held any terrors for him. He envied +Chic--he envied even poor mad Hamilton. + +Suddenly he saw a great truth. There is no difference between the +heights and the depths to those who are playing the game. It is only +those who sit in the grand-stand who see the difference. He ought to +have known that. The hard throws, the stinging tackles that used to +bring the grandstand to its feet, he never felt. The players knew +something that those upon the seats did not know, and thrilled with a +keener joy than the onlookers dreamed of. + +If he could only be given another chance to do something for +Marjory--something that would bite into him, something that would twist +his body and maul him! If he could not face some serious physical +danger for her, then some great sacrifice-- + +Which was precisely the opportunity now offered. He had been +considering this sacrifice from his own personal point of view. He had +looked upon it as merely a personal punishment. But, after all, it was +for her. It was for her alone. Peter played no part in it whatever. +Neither did he himself. It was for her--for her! + +Monte set his jaws. If, through Peter, he could bring her happiness, +then that was all the reward he could ask. Here was a man who loved +her, who would be good to her and fight hard for her. He was just the +sort of man he could trust her to. If he could see them settled in New +York, as Chic and Mrs. Chic were settled, see them start the brave +adventure, then he would have accomplished more than he had ever been +able to accomplish so far. + +There was no need of thinking beyond that point. What became of his +life after that did not matter in the slightest. Wherever he was, he +would always know that she was where she belonged, and that was enough. +He must hold fast to that thought. + +A knock at his door made him turn on his heels. + +"Who's that?" he demanded. + +"It's I--Noyes," came the answer. "Have you gone to bed yet?" + +Monte swung open the door. + +"Come in," he said. + +"I thought I 'd like to talk with you, if it is n't too late," +explained Peter nervously. + +"On the contrary, you could n't have come more opportunely. I was just +thinking about you." + +He led Peter to a chair. + +"Sit down and make yourself comfortable." + +Monte lighted a cigarette, sank into a near-by chair, and waited. + +"Beatrice said she told you," began Peter. + +"She did," answered Monte; "I'd congratulate you if it would n't be so +manifestly superfluous." + +"I did n't realize she was an old friend of yours." + +"I've known her for ten years," said Monte. + +"It's wonderful to have known her as long as that. I envy you." + +"That's strange, because I almost envy you." + +Peter laughed. + +"I have a notion I 'd be worried if you were n't already married, +Covington." + +"Worried?" + +"I think Mrs. Covington must be a good deal like Marjory." + +"She is," admitted Monte. + +"So, if I had n't been lucky enough to find you already suited, you +might have given me a race." + +"You forget that the ladies themselves have some voice in such +matters," Monte replied slowly. + +"I have better reasons than you for not forgetting that," answered +Peter. + +Monte started. + +"I was n't thinking of you," he put in quickly. "Besides, you did n't +give Marjory a fair chance. Her aunt had just died, and she--well, she +has learned a lot since then." + +"She has changed!" exclaimed Peter. "I noticed it at once; but I was +almost afraid to believe it. She seems steadier--more serious." + +"Yes." + +"You've seen a good deal of her recently?" + +"For the last two or three weeks," answered Monte. + +"You don't mind my talking to you about her?" + +"Not at all." + +"As you're an old friend of hers, I feel as if I had the right." + +"Go ahead." + +"It seems to me as if she had suddenly grown from a girl to a woman. I +saw the woman in her all the time. It--it was to her I spoke before. +Maybe, as you said, the woman was n't quite ready." + +"I'm sure of it." + +"You speak with conviction." + +"As I told you, I've come to know her better these last few weeks than +ever before. I 've had a chance to study her. She's had a chance, +too, to study--other men. There's been one in particular--" + +Peter straightened a bit. + +"One in particular?" he demanded aggressively. + +"No one you need fear," replied Monte. "In a way, it's because of him +that your own chances have improved." + +"How?" + +"It has given her an opportunity to compare him with you." + +"Are you at liberty to tell me about him?" + +"Yes; I think I have that right," replied Monte; "I'll not be violating +any confidences, because what I know about him I know from the man +himself. Furthermore, it was I who introduced him to her." + +"Oh--a friend of yours." + +"Not a friend, exactly; an acquaintance of long standing would be more +accurate. I've been in touch with him all my life, but it's only +lately I've felt that I was really getting to know him." + +"Is he here in Nice now?" inquired Peter. + +"No," answered Monte slowly. "He went away a little while ago. He +went suddenly--God knows where. I don't think he will ever come back." + +"You can't help pitying the poor devil if he was fond of her," said +Peter. + +"But he was n't good enough for her. It was his own fault too, so he +is n't deserving even of pity." + +"Probably that makes it all the harder. What was the matter with him?" + +"He was one of the kind we spoke of the other night--the kind who +always sits in the grandstand instead of getting into the game." + +"Pardon me if I 'm wrong, but--I thought you spoke rather +sympathetically of that kind the other night." + +"I was probably reflecting his views," Monte parried. + +"That accounts for it," returned Peter. "Somehow, it did n't sound +consistent in you. I wish I could see your face, Covington." + +"We're sitting in the dark here," answered Monte. + +"Go on." + +"Marjory liked this fellow well enough because--well, because he looked +more or less like a man. He was big physically, and all that. +Besides, his ancestors were all men, and I suppose they handed down +something." + +"What was his name?" + +"I think I 'd rather not tell you that. It's of no importance. This +is all strictly in confidence." + +"I understand." + +"So she let herself see a good deal of him. He was able to amuse her. +That kind of fellow generally can entertain a woman. In fact, that is +about all they are good for. When it comes down to the big things, +there is n't much there. They are well enough for the holidays, and I +guess that was all she was thinking about. She had had a hard time, +and wanted amusement. Maybe she fancied that was all she ever wanted; +but--well, there was more in her than she knew herself." + +"A thousand times more!" exclaimed Peter. + +"She found it out. Perhaps, after all, this fellow served his purpose +in helping her to realize that." + +"Perhaps." + +"So, after that, he left." + +"And he cared for her?" + +"Yes." + +"Poor devil!" + +"I don't know," mused Monte. "He seemed, on the whole, rather glad +that he had been able to do that much for her." + +"I 'd like to meet that man some day. I have a notion there is more in +him than you give him credit for, Covington." + +"I doubt it." + +"A man who would give up her--" + +"She's the sort of woman a man would want to do his level best for," +broke in Monte. "If that meant giving her up,--if the fellow felt he +was n't big enough for her,--then he could n't do anything else, could +he?" + +"The kind big enough to consider that would be big enough for her," +declared Peter. + +Monte drew a quick breath. + +"Do you mind repeating that?" + +"I say the man really loving her who would make such a sacrifice comes +pretty close to measuring up to her standard." + +"I think he would like to hear that. You see, it's the first real +sacrifice he ever undertook." + +"It may be the making of him." + +"Perhaps." + +"He'll always have her before him as an ideal. When you come in touch +with such a woman as she--you can't lose, Covington, no matter how +things turn out." + +"I 'll tell him that too." + +"It's what I tell myself over and over again. To-day--well, I had an +idea there must be some one in the background of her life I did n't +know about." + +"You 'd better get that out of your head. This man is n't even in the +background, Noyes." + +"I 'm not so sure. I thought she seemed worried. I tried to make her +tell me, but she only laughed. She'd face death with a smile, that +woman. I got to thinking about it in my room, and that's why I came +down here to you. You've seen more of her these last few months than I +have." + +"Not months; only weeks." + +"And this other--I don't want to pry into her affairs, but we're all +just looking to her happiness, are n't we?" + +"Consider this other man as dead and gone," cut in Monte. "He was +lucky to be able to play the small part in her life that he did play." + +"But something is disturbing her. I know her voice; I know her laugh. +If I did n't have those to go by, there'd be something else. I can +_feel_ when she's herself and when she is n't." + +Monte grasped his chair arms. He had studied her closely the last few +days, and had not been able to detect the fact that she was worried. +He had thought her gayer, more light-hearted, than usual. It was so +that she had held herself before him. If Peter was right,--and Monte +did not doubt the man's superior intuition,--then obviously she was +worrying over the technicality that still held her a prisoner. Until +she was actually free she would live up to the letter of her contract. +This would naturally tend to strain her intercourse with Peter. She +was not one to take such things lightly. + +Monte rose, crossed the room, and placed his hand on Peter's shoulder. + +"I think I can assure you," he said slowly, "that if there is anything +bothering her now, it is nothing that will last. All you've got to do +is to be patient and hold on." + +"You seem to be mighty confident." + +"If you knew what I know, you'd be confident too." + +Peter frowned. + +"I don't like discussing these things, but--they mean so much." + +"So much to all of us," nodded Monte. "Now, the thing to do is to turn +in and get a good night's sleep. After all, there _is_ something in +keeping normal." + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +BACK TO SCHEDULE + +Monte rose the next morning to find the skies leaden and a light, +drizzling rain falling that promised to continue all day. It was the +sort of weather that ordinarily left him quite helpless, because, not +caring for either bridge or billiards, nothing remained but to pace the +hotel piazza--an amusement that under the most favorable conditions has +its limitations. But to-day--even though the rain had further +interfered with his arrangements by making it necessary to cancel the +trip he had planned for Marjory and Peter to Cannes--the weather was an +inconsequential incident. It did not matter greatly to him whether it +rained or not. + +Not that he was depressed to indifference. Rather he was conscious of +a certain nervous excitement akin to exhilaration that he had not felt +since the days of the big games, when he used to get up with his blood +tingling in heady anticipation of the task before him. He took his +plunge with hearty relish, and rubbed his body until it glowed with the +Turkish towel. + +His arm was free of the sling now, and, though it was still a bit +stiff, it was beginning to limber up nicely. In another week it would +be as good as new, with only a slight scar left to serve as a reminder +of the episode that had led to so much. In time that too would +disappear; and then-- But he was not concerned with the future. That, +any more than the weather, was no affair of his. + +This morning Marjory would perforce remain indoors, and so if he went +to see her it was doubtful whether he would be interfering with any +plans she might have made for Peter. An hour was all he +needed--perhaps less. This would leave the two the remainder of the +day free--and, after that, all the days to come. There would be +hundreds of them--all the days of the summer, all the days of the fall, +all the days of the winter, and all the days of the spring; then +another summer, and so a new cycle full of days twenty-four hours long. + +Out of these he was going to take one niggardly hour. Nor was he +asking that little for his own sake. Eager as he was--as he had been +for two weeks--for the privilege of just being alone with her, he would +have foregone that now, had it been possible to write her what he had +to say. In a letter it is easy to leave unsaid so many things. But he +must face her leaving the same things unsaid, because she was a woman +who demanded that a man speak what he had to say man-fashion. He must +do that, even though there would be little truth in his words. He must +make her believe the lie. He cringed at the word. But, after all, it +was the truth to her. That was what he must keep always in mind. He +had only to help her keep her own conception. He was coming to her, +not in his proper person, but as just Monte. As such he would be +telling the truth. + +He shaved and dressed with some care. The rain beat against the +window, and he did not hear it. He went down to breakfast and faced +the vacant chair which he had ordered to be left at his table. She had +never sat there, though at every meal it stood ready for her. Peter +suggested once that he join them at their table until madame returned; +but Monte had shaken his head. + +Monte did not telephone her until ten, and then he asked simply if he +might come over for an hour. + +"Certainly," she answered: "I shall be glad to see you. It's a +miserable day, Monte." + +"It's raining a bit, but I don't mind." + +"That's because you're so good-natured." + +He frowned. It was a privilege he had over the telephone. + +"Anyhow, what you can't help you may as well grin and bear." + +"I suppose so, Monte," she answered. "But if I 'm to grin, I must +depend upon you to make me." + +"I'll be over in five minutes," he replied. + +She needed him to make her grin! That was all he was good for. Thank +Heaven, he had it in his power to do this much; as soon as he told her +she was to be free again, the smile would return to her lips. + +He went at once to the hotel, and she came down to meet him, looking +very serious--and very beautiful. Her deep eyes seemed deeper than +ever, perhaps because of a trace of dark below them. She had color, +but it was bright crimson against a dead white. Her lips were more +mobile than usual, as if she were having difficulty in controlling +them--as if many unspoken things were struggling there for expression. + +When he took her warm hand, she raised her head a little, half closing +her eyes. It was clear that she was worrying more than even he had +suspected. Poor little woman, her conscience was probably harrying the +life out of her. This must not be. + +They went upstairs to the damp, desolate sun parlor, and he undertook +at once the business in hand. + +"It has n't worked very well, has it, Marjory?" he began, with a forced +smile. + +Turning aside her head, she answered in a voice scarcely above a +whisper:-- + +"No, Monte." + +"But," he went on, "there's no sense in getting stirred up about that." + +"It was such a--a hideous mistake," she said. + +"That's where you're wrong," he declared. "We've tried a little +experiment, and it failed. Is n't that all there is to it?" + +"All?" + +"Absolutely all," he replied. "What we did n't reckon with was running +across old friends who would take the adventure so seriously. If we'd +only gone to Central Africa or Asia Minor--" + +"It would have been just the same if we'd gone to the North Pole," she +broke in. + +"You think so?" + +"I know it. Women can't trifle with--with such things without getting +hurt." + +"I 'm sorry. I suppose I should have known." + +"You were just trying to be kind, Monte," she answered. "Don't take +any of the blame. It's all mine." + +"I urged you." + +"What of that?" she demanded. "It was for me to come or not to come. +That is one part of her life over which a woman has absolute control. +I came because I was so utterly selfish I did not realize what I was +doing." + +"And I?" he asked quickly. + +"You?" + +She turned and tried to meet his honest eyes. + +"I'm afraid I've spoiled your holiday," she murmured. + +He clinched his jaws against the words that surged to his lips. + +"If we could leave those last few weeks just as they were--" he said. +"Can't we call that evening I met you in Paris the beginning, and the +day we reached Nice the end?" + +"Only there is no end," she cried. + +"Let the day we reached the Hotel des Roses be the end. I should like +to go away feeling that the whole incident up to then was something +detached from the rest of our lives." + +"You're going--where?" she gasped. + +He tried to smile. + +"I 'll have to pick up my schedule again." + +"You're going--when?" + +"In a day or two now," he replied. "You see--it's necessary for me to +desert you." + +"Monte!" + +"The law demands the matter of six months' absence--perhaps a little +longer. I 'll have this looked up and will notify you. Desertion is +an ugly word; but, after all, it sounds better than cruel and abusive +treatment." + +"It's I who deserted," she said. + +He waved the argument aside. + +"Anyway, it's only a technicality. The point is that I must show the +world that--that we did not mean what we said. So I 'll go on to +England." + +"And play golf," she added for him. + +He nodded. + +"I 'll probably put up a punk game. Never was much good at golf. But +it will help get me back into the rut. Then I 'll sail about the first +of August for New York and put a few weeks into camp." + +"Then you'll go on to Cambridge." + +"And hang around until after the Yale game." + +"Then--" + +"How many months have I been gone already?" + +"Four." + +"Oh, yes; then I'll go back to New York." + +"What will you do there, Monte?" + +"I--I don't know. Maybe I'll call on Chic some day." + +"If they should ever learn!" cried Marjory. + +"Eh?" + +Monte passed his hand over his forehead. + +"There is n't any danger of that, is there?" + +"I don't think I'll ever dare meet _her_ again." + +Monte squared his shoulders. + +"See here, little woman; you must n't feel this way. It won't do at +all. That's why I thought if you could only separate these last few +weeks from everything else--just put them one side and go from +there--it would be so much better. You see, we've got to go on +and--holy smoke! this has got to be as if it never happened. You have +your life ahead of you and I have mine. We can't let this spoil all +the years ahead. You--why, you--" + +She looked up. It was a wonder he did not take her in his arms in that +moment. He held himself as he had once held himself when eleven men +were trying to push him and his fellows over the last three yards +separating them from a goal. + +"It's necessary to go on, is n't it?" he repeated helplessly. + +"Yes, yes," she answered quickly. "You must go back to your schedule +just as soon as ever you can. As soon as we're over the ugly part--" + +"The divorce?" + +"As soon as we're over that, everything will be all right again," she +nodded. + +"Surely," he agreed. + +"But we must n't remember anything. That's quite impossible. The +thing to do is to forget." + +She appeared so earnest that he hastened to reassure her. + +"Then we'll forget." + +He said it so cheerfully, she was ready to believe him. + +"That ought to be easy for you," he added. + +"For me?" + +"I 'm going to leave you with Peter." + +She caught her breath. She did not dare answer. + +"I've seen a good deal of him lately," he continued. "We've come to +know each other rather intimately, as sometimes men do in a short while +when they have interests in common." + +"You and Peter have interests in common!" she exclaimed. + +He appeared uneasy. + +"We're both Harvard, you know." + +"I see." + +"Of course, I 've had to do more or less hedging on account--of Madame +Covington." + +"I'm sorry, Monte." + +"You need n't be, because it was she who introduced me to him. And, I +tell you, he's fine and big and worth while all through. But you know +that." + +"Yes." + +"That's why I 'm going to feel quite safe about leaving you with him." + +She started. That word "safe" was like a stab with a penknife. She +would have rather had him strike her a full blow in the face than use +it. Yet, in its miserable fashion, it expressed all that he had sought +through her--all that she had allowed him to seek. From the first they +had each sought safety, because they did not dare face the big things. + +Now, at the moment she was ready, the same weakness that she had +encouraged in him was helping take him away from her. And the pitiful +tragedy of it was that Peter was helping too, and then challenging her +to accept still graver dangers through him. It was a pitiful tangle, +and yet one that she must allow to continue. + +"You mean he'll help you not to worry about me?" + +"That's it," he nodded. "Because I've seen the man side of him, and +it's even finer than the side you see." + +Her lips came together. + +"There's no reason why you should feel responsibility for me even +without Peter," she protested. + +She was seated in one of the wicker chairs, chin in hand. He stepped +toward her. + +"You don't think I'd be cad enough to desert my wife actually?" he +demanded. + +He seemed so much in earnest that for a second the color flushed the +chalk-white portions of her cheeks. + +"Sit down, Monte," she pleaded. "I--I did n't expect you to take it +like that. I 'm afraid Peter is making you too serious. After all, +you know, I 'm of age. I 'm not a child." + +He sat down, bending toward her. + +"We've both acted more or less like children," he said gently. "Now I +guess the time has come for us to grow up. Peter will help you do +that." + +"And you?" + +"He has helped me already. And when he gets his eyes back--" + +"You think there is a chance for that?" + +"Just one chance," he answered. + +"Oh!" she cried. + +"It's a big opportunity," he said. + +She rose and went to the window, where she looked out upon the gray +ocean and the slanting rain and a world grown dull and sodden. He +followed her there, but with his shoulders erect now. + +"I 'm going now," he said. "I think I shall take the night train for +Paris. I want to leave the machine--the machine we came down here +in--for you." + +"Don't--please don't." + +"It's for you and Peter. The thing for you both to do is to get out in +it every day." + +"I--I don't want to." + +"You mean--" + +He placed his hand upon her arm, and she ventured one more look into +his eyes. He was frowning. She must not allow that. She must send +him away in good spirits. That was the least she could do. So she +forced a smile. + +"All right," she promised; "if it will make you more comfortable." + +"It would worry me a lot if I thought you were n't going to be happy." + +"I'll go out every fair day." + +"That's fine." + +He took a card from his pocket and scribbled his banker's address upon +it. + +"If anything should come up where--where I can be of any use, you can +always reach me through this address." + +She took the card. Even to the end he was good--good and four-square. +He was so good that her throat ached. She could not endure this very +much longer. He extended his hand. + +"S'long and good luck," he said. + +"I--I hope your golf will be better than you think." + +Then he said a peculiar thing. He seldom swore, and seldom lost his +head as completely as he did that second. But, looking her full in the +eyes, he ejaculated below his breath:-- + +"Damn golf!" + +The observation was utterly irrelevant. Turning, he clicked his heels +together like a soldier and went out. The door closed behind him. For +a second her face was illumined as with a great joy. In a sort of +ecstasy, she repeated his words. + +"He said," she whispered--"he said, 'Damn golf.'" Then she threw +herself into a wicker chair and began to sob. + +"Oh!" she choked. "If--if--" + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +A CONFESSION + +Monte left Nice on the twentieth of July, to join--as Peter +supposed--Madame Covington in Paris. Monte himself had been extremely +ambiguous about his destination, being sure of only one fact: that he +should not return inside of a year, if he did then. Peter had asked +for his address, and Monte had given him the same address that he gave +Marjory. + +"I want to keep in touch with you," Peter said. + +Peter missed the man. On the ride with Marjory that he enjoyed the +next day after Monte's departure, he talked a great deal of him. + +"I 'd like to have seen into his eyes," he told her. "I kept feeling I +'d find something there more than I got hold of in his voice and the +grip of his hand." + +"He has blue eyes," she told him, "and they are clean as a child's." + +"They are a bit sad?" + +"Monte's eyes sad?" she exclaimed. "What made you think so?" + +"Perhaps because, from what he let drop the other night, I gathered he +was n't altogether happy with Mrs. Covington." + +"He told you that?" + +"No; not directly," he assured her. "He's too loyal. I may be utterly +mistaken; only he was rather vague as to why she was not here with him." + +"She was not with him," Marjory answered slowly. "She was not with him +because she was n't big enough to deserve him." + +"Then it's a fact there's a tragedy in his life?" + +"Not in his--in hers," she answered passionately. + +"How can that be?" + +"Because she's the one who realizes the truth." + +"But she's the one who went away." + +"Because of that. It's a miserable story, Peter." + +"You knew her intimately?" + +"A great many years." + +"I think Covington said he had known you a long time." + +"Yes." + +"Then, knowing her and knowing him, was n't there anything you could +do?" + +"I did what I could," she answered wearily. + +"Perhaps that explains why he hurried back to her." + +"He has n't gone to her. He'll never go back to her. She deserted +him, and now--he's going to make it permanent." + +"A divorce?" + +"Yes, Peter," she answered, with a little shiver. + +"You're taking it hard." + +"I know all that he means to her," she choked. + +"She loves him?" + +"With all her heart and soul." + +"And he does n't know it?" + +"Why, he would n't believe it--if she told him. She can never let him +know it. She'd deny it if he asked her. She loves him enough for +that." + +"Good Lord!" exclaimed Peter. "There's a mistake there somewhere." + +"The mistake came first," she ran on. "Oh, I don't know why I'm +telling you these things, except that it is a relief to tell them to +some one." + +"Tell me all about it," he encouraged her. "I knew there was something +on your mind." + +"Peter," she said earnestly, "can you imagine a woman so selfish that +she wanted to marry just to escape the responsibilities of marriage?" + +"It is n't possible," he declared. + +Her cheeks were a vivid scarlet. Had he been able to see them, she +could not have gone on. + +"A woman so selfish," she faltered ahead, "that she preferred a +make-believe husband to a real husband, because--because so she thought +she would be left free." + +"Free for what?" he demanded. + +"To live." + +"When love and marriage and children are all there is to life?" he +asked. + +She caught her breath. + +"You see, she did not know that then. She thought all those things +called for the sacrifice of her freedom." + +"What freedom?" he demanded again. "It's when we're alone that we're +slaves--slaves to ourselves. A woman alone, a man alone, living to +himself alone--what is there for him? He can only go around and around +in a pitifully small circle--a circle that grows smaller and smaller +with every year. Between twenty and thirty a man can exhaust all there +is in life for himself alone. He has eaten and slept and traveled and +played until his senses have become dull. Perhaps a woman lasts a +little longer, but not much longer. Then they are locked away in +themselves until they die." + +"Peter!" she cried in terror. + +"It's only as we live in others that we live forever," he ran on. "It +is only by toiling and sacrificing and suffering and loving that we +become immortal. It is so we acquire real freedom." + +"Yes, Peter," she agreed, with a gasp. + +"Could n't you make her understand that?" + +"She does understand. That's the pity of it." + +"And Covington?" + +"It's in him to understand; only--she lost the right to make him +understand. She--she debased herself. So she must sacrifice herself +to get clean again. She must make even greater sacrifices than any she +cowed away from. She must do this without any of the compensations +that come to those who have been honest and unafraid." + +"What of him?" + +"He must never know. He'll go round and round his little circle, and +she must watch him." + +"It's terrible," he murmured. "It will be terrible for her to watch +him do that. If you had told him how she felt--" + +"God forbid!" + +"Or if you had only told me, so that I could have told him--" + +She seized Peter's arm. + +"You would n't have dared!" + +"I'd dare anything to save two people from such torment." + +"You--you don't think he will worry?" + +"I think he is worrying a great deal." + +"Only for the moment," she broke in. "But soon--in a week or two--he +will be quite himself again. He has a great many things to do. He has +tennis and--and golf." + +She checked herself abruptly. ("Damn golf!" Monte had said.) + +"There's too much of a man in him now to be satisfied with such +things," said Peter. "It's a pity--it's a pity there are not two of +you, Marjory." + +"Of me?" + +"He thinks a great deal of you. If he had met you before he met this +other--" + +"What are you saying, Peter?" + +"That you're the sort of woman who could have called out in him an +honest love." + +There, beside Peter who could not see, Marjory bent low and buried her +face in her hands. + +"You 're the sort of woman," he went on, "who could have roused the man +in him that has been waiting all this time for some one like you." + +How Peter was hurting her! How he was pinching her with red-hot irons! +It hurt so much that she was glad. Here, at last, she was beginning +her sacrifice for Monte. So she made neither moan nor groan, nor +covered her ears, but took her punishment like a man. + +"Some one else must do all that," she said. + +"Yes," he answered. "Or his life will be wasted. He needs to suffer. +He needs to give up. This thing we call a tragedy may be the making of +him." + +"For some one else," she repeated. + +Peter was fumbling about for her hand. Suddenly she straightened +herself. + +"It must be for some one else," he said hoarsely--"because I want you +for myself. In time--you must be mine. With the experience of those +two before us, we must n't make the same mistake ourselves. I--I was +n't going to tell you this until I had my eyes back. But, heart o' +mine, I 've held in so long. Here in the dark one gets so much alone. +And being alone is what kills." + +She was hiding her hand from him. + +"I can't find your hand," he whispered, like a child lost in the dark. + +Summoning all her strength, she placed her hand within his. "It is +cold!" he cried. + +Yet the day was warm. They were speeding through a sunlighted country +of olive trees and flowers in bloom--a warm world and tender. + +He drew her fingers to his lips and kissed them passionately. She +suffered it, closing her eyes against the pain. + +"I've wanted you so all these months!" he cried. "I should n't have +let you go in the first place. I should n't have let you go." + +"No, Peter," she answered. + +"And now that I've found you again, you'll stay?" + +He was lifting his face to hers--straining to see her. To have +answered any way but as he pleaded would have been to strike that +upturned face. + +"I--I 'll try to stay," she faltered. + +"I 'll make you!" he breathed. "I 'll hold you tight, soul of mine. +Would you--would you kiss my eyes?" + +Holding her breath, Marjory lightly brushed each of his eyes with her +lips. + +"It's like balm," he whispered. "I've dreamed at night of this." + +"Every day I'll do it," she said. "Only--for a little while--you 'll +not ask for anything more, Peter?" + +"Not until some day they open--in answer to that call," he replied. + +"I did n't mean that, Peter," she said hurriedly. "Only I'm so mixed +up myself." + +"It's so new to you," he nodded. "To me it's like a day foreseen a +dozen years. Long before I saw you I knew I was getting ready for you. +Now--what do a few weeks matter?" + +"It may be months, Peter, before I'm quite steady." + +"Even if it's years," he exclaimed, "I've felt your lips." + +"Only on your eyes," she cried in terror. + +"I--I would n't dare to feel them except on my eyes--for a little +while. Even there they take away my breath." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +LETTERS + +Letter from Peter Noyes to Monte Covington, received by the latter at +the Hotel Normandie, Paris, France:-- + + +NICE, FRANCE, July 22. + +_Dear Covington_:-- + +I don't know whether you can make out this scrawl, because I have to +feel my way across the paper; but I'm sitting alone in my room, aching +to talk with you as we used to talk. If you were here I know you would +be glad to listen, because--suddenly all I told you about has come true. + +Riding to Cannes the very next day after you left, I spoke to her +and--she listened. It was all rather vague and she made no promises, +but she listened. In a few weeks or months or years, now, she'll be +mine for all time. She does n't want me to tell Beatrice, and there is +no one else to tell except you--so forgive me, old man, if I let myself +loose. + +Besides, in a way, you're responsible. We were talking of you, because +we missed you. You have a mighty good friend in her, Covington. She +knows you--the real you that I thought only I had glimpsed. She sees +the man in the game--not the man in the grand-stand. Her Covington is +the man they used to give nine long Harvards for. I never heard that +in front of my name. I was a grind--a "greasy grind," they used to +call me. It did n't hurt, for I smiled in rather a superior sort of +way at the men I thought were wasting their energy on the gridiron. +But, after all, you fellows got something out of it that the rest of us +did n't get. A 'Varsity man remains a 'Varsity man all his life. +To-day you stand before her as a 'Varsity man. I think she always +thinks of you as in a red sweater with a black "H." Any time that you +feel you're up against anything hard, that ought to help you. + +We talked a great deal of you, as I said, and I find myself now +thinking more of you than of myself in connection with her. I don't +understand it. Perhaps it's because she seems so alone in the world, +and you are the most intimate friend she has. Perhaps it's because +you've seen so much more of her than I in these last few months. +Anyway, I have a feeling that somehow you are an integral part of her. +I've tried to puzzle out the relationship, and I can't. "Brother" does +not define it; neither does "comrade." If you were not already +married, I'd almost suspect her of being in love with you. + +I know that sounds absurd. I know it is absurd. She is n't the kind +to allow her emotions to get away from her like that. But I'll say +this much, Covington: that if we three were to start fresh, I'd stand a +mighty poor chance with her. + +This is strange talk from a man who less than six hours ago became +officially engaged. I told her that I had let her go once, and that +now I had found her again I wanted her to stay. And she said, "I'll +try." That was n't very much, Covington, was it? But I seized the +implied promise as a drowning man does a straw. It was so much more +than anything I have hoped for. + +I should have kept her that time I found her on the little farm in +Connecticut. If I had been a little more insistent then, I think she +would have come with me. But I was afraid of her money. It was +rumored that her aunt left her a vast fortune, and--you know the +mongrels that hound a girl in that position, Covington? I was afraid +she might think I was one of the pack. She was frightened--bewildered. +I should have snatched her away from them all and gone off with her. I +was earning enough to support her decently, and I should have thought +of nothing else. Instead of that I held back a little, and so lost +her, as I thought. She sailed away, and I returned to my work like a +madman--and I nearly died. + +Now I feel alive clear to my finger-tips. I 'm going to get my eyes +back. I have n't the slightest doubt in the world about that. Already +I feel the magic of the new balm that has been applied. They don't +ache any more. Sitting here to-night without my shade, I can hold them +open and catch the feeble light that filters in from the street lamps +at a distance. It is only a question of a few months, perhaps weeks, +perhaps days. The next time we meet I shall be able to see you. + +You won't object to hearing a man rave a little, Covington? If you do, +you can tear up this right here. But I know I can't say anything good +about Marjory that you won't agree with. Maybe, however, you'd call my +present condition abnormal. Perhaps it is; but I wonder if it is n't +part of every normal man's life to be abnormal to this extent at least +once--to see, for once, this staid old world through the eyes of a +prince of the ancient city of Bagdad; to thrill with the magic and +gorgeous beauty of it? It shows what might always be, if one were poet +enough to sustain the mood. + +Here am I, a plugging lawyer of the Borough of Manhattan, City of New +York, State of New York--which is just about as far away from the city +of Bagdad as you can get. I'm concerned mainly with certain details of +corporation law--the structure of soulless business institutions which +were never heard of in Bagdad. My daily path takes me from certain +uptown bachelor quarters through the subway to a certain niche in a +downtown cave dwelling. Then--presto, she comes. I pass over all that +intervened, because it is no longer important, but--presto again, I +find myself here a prince in some royal castle of Bagdad, counting the +moments until another day breaks and I can feel the touch of my +princess's hand. Even my dull eyes count for me, because so I can +fancy myself, if I choose, in some royal apartment, surrounded by +hanging curtains of silk, priceless marbles, and ornaments of gold and +silver, with many silent eunuchs awaiting my commands. From my windows +I'm at liberty to imagine towers and minarets and domes of copper. + +Always she, my princess, is somewhere in the background, when she is +not actually by my side. When I saw her before, Covington, I marveled +at her eyes--those deep, wonderful eyes that told you so little and +made you dream so much. I saw her hair too, and her straight nose, and +her beautiful lips. Those things I see now as I saw them then. I must +wait a little while really to see them again. In their place, however, +I have now her voice and the sound of her footsteps. To hear her +coming, just to hear the light fall of her feet upon the ground, is +like music. + +But when she speaks, Covington, then all other sounds cease, and she +speaks alone to me in a world grown silent to listen. There is some +quality in that voice that gets into me--that reaches and vibrates +certain hidden strings I did not know were there. So sweet is the +music that I can hardly give enough attention to make out the meaning +of her words. What she says does not so much matter as that she should +be speaking to me--to my ears alone. + +And these things are merely the superficialities of her. There still +remains the princess herself below these wonderful externals. There +still remains the woman herself. Woman, any woman, is marvelous +enough, Covington. When you think of all they stand for, the fineness +of them compared with our man grossness, that wonderful power of +creation in them, their exquisite delicacy, combined with the +big-souled capacity for sacrifice and suffering that dwarfs any of our +petty burdens into insignificance--God knows, a man should bow his knee +before the least of them. But when to all those general attributes of +the sex you add that something more born in a woman like Marjory--what +in the world can a man do big enough to deserve the charge of such a +soul? In the midst of all my princely emotions, that thought makes me +humble, Covington. + +I fear I have rambled a good deal, old man. I can't read over what I +have been scribbling here, so I must let it go as it is. But I wanted +to tell you some of these things that are rushing through my head all +the time, because I knew you would be glad for me and glad for her. Or +does my own joy result in such supreme selfishness that I am tempted to +intrude it upon others? I don't believe so, because there is no one +else in the world to whom I would venture to write as I 've written to +you. + +I'm not asking you to answer, because what I should want to hear from +you I would n't allow any one else to read. So tear this up and forget +it if you want. Some day I shall meet you again and see you. Then I +can talk to you face to face. + +Yours, + +PETER J. NOYES. + + +Sitting alone in his room at the Normandie, Monte read this through. +Then his hands dropped to his side and the letter fell from them to the +floor. + +"Oh, my God!" he said. "Oh, my God!" + + +Letter from Madame Covington to her husband, Monte Covington, which the +latter never received at all because it was never sent. It was never +meant to be sent. It was written merely to save herself from doing +something rash, something for which she could never forgive +herself--like taking the next train to Paris and claiming this man as +if he were her own:-- + + +_Dearest Prince of my Heart_:-- + +You've been gone from me twelve hours. For twelve hours you've left me +here all alone. I don't know how I've lived. I don't know how I'm +going to get through the night and to-morrow. Only there won't be any +to-morrow. There'll never be anything more than periods of twelve +hours, until you come back: just from dawn to dark, and then from dark +to dawn, over and over again. Each period must be fought through as it +comes, with no thought about the others. I 'm beginning on the third. +The morning will bring the fourth. + +Each one is like a lifetime--a birth and a death. And oh, my Prince, I +shall soon be very, very old. I don't dare look in the mirror +to-night, for fear of seeing how old I've grown since morning. I +remember a word they used on shipboard when the waves threw the big +propeller out of the water and the full power of the engines was wasted +on air. They called it "racing." It was bad for the ship to have this +energy go for nothing. It racked her and made her tremble and groan. +I've been racing ever since you went, churning the air to no purpose, +with a power that was meant to drive me ahead. I 'm right where I +started after it all. + +Dearest heart of mine, I love you. Though I tremble away from those +words, I must put them down for once in black and white. Though I tear +them up into little pieces so small that no one can read them, I must +write them once. It is such a relief, here by myself, to be honest. +If you were here and I were honest, I 'd stand very straight and look +you fair in the eyes and tell you that over and over again. "I love +you, Monte," I would say. "I love you with all my heart and soul, +Monte," I would say. "Right or wrong, coward that I am or not, whether +it is good for you or not, I love you, Monte," I would say. And, if +you wished, I would let you kiss me. And, if you would let me, I would +kiss you on your dear tousled hair, on your forehead, on your eyes-- + +That is where I kissed Peter to-day. I will tell you here, as I would +tell you standing before you. I kissed Peter on his eyes, and I have +promised to kiss him again upon his eyes to-morrow--if to-morrow comes. +I did it because he said it would help him to see again. And if he +sees again--why, Monte, if he sees again, then he will see how absurd +it is that he should ask me to love him. + +Blind as he is, he almost saw that to-day, when he made me promise to +try to stay by his side. With his eyes full open, then he will be able +to read my eyes. So I shall kiss him there as often as he wishes. +Then, when he understands, I shall not fear for him. He is a man. +Only, if I told him with my lips, he would not understand. He must +find out for himself. Then he will throw back his shoulders and take +the blow--as we all of us have had to take our blows. It will be no +worse for him than for you, dear, or for me. + +It is not as I kissed him that I should kiss you. How silly it is of +men to ask for kisses when, if they come at all, they come unasked. +What shall I do with all of mine that are for you alone? I throw them +out across the dark to you--here and here and here. + +I wonder what you are doing at this moment? I have wondered so about +every moment since you went. Because I cannot know, I feel as if I +were being robbed. At times I fancy I can see as clearly as if I were +with you. You went to the station and bought your ticket and got into +your compartment. I could see you sitting there smoking, your eyes +turned out the window. I could see what you saw, but I could not tell +of what you were thinking. And that is what counts. That is the only +thing that counts. There are those about me who watch me going my +usual way, but how little they know of what a change has come over me! +How little even Peter knows, who imagines he knows me so well. + +I see you reaching Paris and driving to your hotel. I wonder if you +are at the Normandie. I don't even know that. I'd like to know that. +I wonder if you would dare sleep in your old room. Oh, I'd like to +know that. It would be so restful to think of you there. But what, if +there, are you thinking about? About me, at all? I don't want you to +think about me, but I 'd die if I knew you did _not_ think about me. + +I don't want you to be worried, dear you. I won't have you unhappy. +You said once, "Is n't it possible to care a little without caring too +much?" Now I 'm going to ask you: "Is n't it possible for you to think +of me a little without thinking too much?" If you could remember some +of those evenings on the ride to Nice,--even if with a smile,--that +would be better than nothing. If you could remember that last night +before we got to Nice, when--when I looked up at you and something +almost leaped from my eyes to yours. If you could remember that with +just a little knowledge of what it meant--not enough to make you +unhappy, but enough to make you want to see me again. Could you do +that without getting uncomfortable--without mixing up your schedule? + +I cried a little right here, Monte. It was a silly thing to do. But +you're alone in Paris, where we were together, and I'm alone here. It +is still raining. I think it is going to rain forever. I can't +imagine ever seeing the blue sky again. If I did, it would only make +me think of those glorious days between Paris and Nice. How wonderful +it was that it never rained at all. The sky was always pink in the +east when I woke up, and we saw it grow pink again at night, side by +side. Then the purple of the night, with the myriad silver stars, each +one beautiful in itself. + +At night you always seemed to me to grow bigger than ever--inches +taller and broader, until some evenings when I bade you good-night I +was almost afraid of you. Because as you grew bigger I grew smaller. +I used to think that, if you took a notion to do so, you'd just pick me +up and carry me off. If you only had! + +If you had only said, "We'll quit this child's play. You'll come with +me and we'll make a home and settle down, like Chic." + +I'd have been a good wife to you, Monte. Honest, I would--if you'd +done like that any time before I met Peter and became ashamed. Up to +that point I'd have gone with you if you had loved me enough to take +me. Only, you did n't love me. That was the trouble, Monte. I'd made +you think I did not want to be loved. Then I made you think I was n't +worth loving. Then, when Peter came and made me see and hang my +head,--why, then it was too late, even though you had wanted to take me. + +But you don't know, and never will know, what a good wife I'd have +been. But I would have tried to lead you a little, too. I would have +watched over you and been at your command, but I would have tried to +guide you into doing something worth while. + +Perhaps we could have done something together worth while. You have a +great deal of money, Monte, and I have a great deal. We have more than +is good for us. I think if we had worked together we could have done +something for other people with it. I never thought of that until +lately; but the other evening, after you had been talking about your +days in college, I lay awake in bed, thinking how nice it would be if +we could do something for some of the young fellows there now who do +not have money enough. I imagined myself going back to Cambridge with +you some day and calling on the president or the dean, and hearing you +say to him: "Madame Covington and I have decided that we want to help +every year one or more young men needing help. If you will send to us +those you approve of, we will lend them enough to finish their course." + +I thought it would be nicer to lend the money than give it to them, +because they would feel better about it. And they could be as long as +they wished in paying it back, or if they fell into hard luck need +never pay it back. + +So every year we would start as many as we could, each of us paying +half. They would come to us, and we would get to know them, and we +would watch them through, and after that watch them fight the good +fight. Why, in no time, Monte, we would have quite a family to watch +over; and they would come to you for advice, and perhaps sometimes to +me. Think what an interest that would add to your life! It would be +so good for you, Monte. And good for me, too. Even if we had--oh, +Monte, we might in time have had boys of our own in Harvard too! Then +they would have selected other boys for us, and that would have been +good for them too. + +Here by myself I can tell you these things, because--because, God keep +me, you cannot hear. You did not think I could dream such dreams as +those, did you? You thought I was always thinking of myself and my own +happiness, and of nothing else. You thought I asked everything and +wished to give nothing. But that was before I knew what love is. That +was before you touched me with the magic wand. That was before I +learned that our individual lives are as brief as the sparks that fly +upward, except as we live them through others; and that then--they are +eternal. It was within our grasp, Monte, dear, and we trifled with it +and let it go. + +No, not you. It was I who refused the gift. Some day it will come to +you again, through some other. That is what I tell myself over and +over again. I don't think men are like women. They do not give so +much of themselves, and so they may choose from two or three. So in +time, as you wander about, you will find some one who will hold out her +arms, and you will come. She will give you everything she has,--all +honest women do that,--but it will not be all I would have given. You +may think so, and so be happy; but it will not be true. I shall always +know the difference. And you will give her what you have, but it will +not be what you would have given me--what I would have drawn out of +you. I shall always know that. Because, as I love you, heart of me, I +would have found in you treasures that were meant for me alone. + +I'm getting wild. I must stop. My head is spinning. Soon it will be +dawn, and I am to ride again with Peter to-morrow. I told you I would +ride every fair day with him, and I am hoping it will rain. But it +will not rain, though to me the sky may be murky. I can see the clouds +scudding before a west wind. It will be clear, and I shall ride with +him as I promised, and I shall kiss him upon his eyes. But if you were +with me-- + +Here and here and here I throw them out into the dark. + +Good-night, soul of my soul. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +THE BLIND SEE + +Day by day Peter's eyes grew stronger, because day by day he was thinking +less about himself and more about Marjory. + +"He needs to get away from himself," the doctors had told Beatrice. "If +you can find something that will occupy his thoughts, so that he will +quit thinking about his eyes, you 'll double his chances." Beatrice had +done that when she found Marjory, and now she was more than satisfied +with the result and with herself. Every morning she saw Peter safely +entrusted to Marjory's care, and this left her free the rest of the day +to walk a little, read her favorite books, and nibble chocolates. She +was getting a much-needed rest, secure in the belief that everything was +working out in quite an ideal way. + +The only thing that seemed to her at all strange was a sudden reluctance +on Peter's part to talk to her of Marjory. At the end of the day the +three had dinner together at the Hotel d'Angleterre,--Marjory could never +be persuaded to dine at the Roses,--and when by eight Peter and his +sister returned to their own hotel, he gave her only the barest details +of his excursion, and retired early to his room. But he seemed cheerful +enough, so that, after all, this might be only another favorable symptom +of his progress. Peter always had been more or less secretive, and until +his illness neither she nor his parents knew more than an outline of his +life in New York. Periodically they came on to visit him for a few days, +and periodically he went home for a few days. He was making a name for +himself, and they were very proud of him, and the details did not matter. +Knowing Peter as they did, it was easy enough to fill them in. + +Even with Marjory, Peter talked less and less about himself. From his +own ambitions, hopes, and dreams he turned more and more to hers. Now +that he had succeeded in making her a prisoner, however slender the +thread by which he held her, he seemed intent upon filling in all the +past as fully as possible. Up to a certain point that was easy enough. +She was willing to talk of her girlhood; of her father, whom she adored; +and even of Aunt Kitty, who had claimed her young womanhood. She was +even eager. It afforded her a safe topic in which she found relief. It +gave her an opportunity also to justify, in a fashion, or at least to +explain, both to herself and Peter, the frame of mind that led her up to +later events. + +"I ran away from you, Peter," she admitted. + +"I know," he answered. + +"Only it was not so much from you as from what you stood for," she +hurried on. "I was thinking of myself alone, and of the present alone. +I had been a prisoner so long, I wanted to be free a little." + +"Free?" he broke in quickly, with a frown. "I don't like to hear you use +that word. That's the way Covington's wife talked, is n't it?" + +"Yes," she murmured. + +"It's the way so many women are talking to-day--and so many men, too. +Freedom is such a big word that a lot of people seem to think it will +cloak anything they care to do. They lose sight of the fact that the +freer a man or a woman is, the more responsibility he assumes. The free +are put upon their honor to fulfill the obligations that are exacted by +force from the irresponsible. So those who abuse this privilege are +doubly treacherous--treacherous to themselves, and treacherous to +society, which trusted them." + +Marjory turned aside her head, so that he might not even look upon her +with his blind eyes. + +"I--I didn't mean any harm, Peter," she said. + +"Of course you did n't. I don't suppose Mrs. Covington did, either; did +she?" + +"No, Peter, I'm sure she didn't. She--she was selfish." + +"Besides, if you only come through safe, and learn--" + +"At least, I've learned," she answered. + +"Since you went away from me?" + +"Yes." + +"You have n't told me very much about that." + +She caught her breath. + +"Is--is it dishonest to keep to one's self how one learns?" she asked. + +"No, little woman; only, I feel as though I'd like to know you as I know +myself. I'd like to feel that there was n't a nook or cranny in your +mind that was n't open to me." + +"Peter!" + +"Is that asking too much?" + +"Some day you must know, but not now." + +"If Mrs. Covington--" + +"Must we talk any more about her?" she exclaimed. + +"I did n't know it hurt you." + +"It does--more than you realize." + +"I'm sorry," he said quickly. + +He fumbled about for her hand. She allowed him to take it. + +"Have you heard from Covington since he left?" + +He felt her fingers twitch. + +"Does it hurt, too, to talk about him?" he asked. + +"It's impossible to talk about Monte without talking about +his--his--about Mrs. Covington," Marjory explained feebly. + +"They ought to be one," he admitted. "But you said they are about to +separate." + +"Yes, Peter; only I keep thinking of what ought to be." + +She withdrew her hand and leaned back on the seat a little away from him. +Sensitive to every movement of hers, he glanced up at this. + +"Somehow,"--he said, with a strained expression,--"somehow I feel the +need of seeing your eyes to-day. There's something I 'm missing. +There's something here I don't understand." + +"Don't try to understand, Peter," she cried. "It's better that you +should n't." + +"It's best always to know the truth," he said. + +"Not always." + +"Always," he insisted. + +"Sometimes it does n't do any good to know the truth. It only hurts." + +"Even then, it's best. When I get my eyes--" + +She shrank farther away from him, for she saw him struggling even then to +open them. + + +It was this possibility which from that point on added a new terror to +these daily drives. Marjory had told Monte that Peter's recovery was +something to which she looked forward; but when she said that she had +been sitting alone and pouring out her heart to Monte. She had not then +been facing this fact by the side of Peter. It was one thing to dream +boldly, with all her thoughts of Monte, and quite another to confront the +same facts actually and alone. If this crisis came now, it was going to +hurt her and hurt Peter, and do no good to any one; while, if it could be +postponed six months, perhaps it would not hurt so much. It was better +for Peter to endure his blindness a little longer than to see too soon. +So the next day she decided she would not kiss his eyes. He came to her +in the morning, and stood before her, waiting. She placed her hand upon +his shoulder. + +"Peter," she said as gently as she could, "I do not think I shall kiss +you again for a little while." + +She saw his lips tighten; but, to her surprise, he made no protest. + +"No, dear heart," he answered. + +"It is n't because I wish to be unkind," she said. "Only, until you know +the whole truth, I don't feel honest with you." + +"Come over by the window and sit down in the light," he requested. + +With a start she glanced nervously at his eyes. They were closed. She +took a chair in the sun, and he sat down opposite her. + +For a moment they sat so, in silence. With her chin in her hand, she +stared out across the blue waters of the Mediterranean, across the quay +where Monte used to walk. It looked so desolate out there without him! +How many hours since he left she had watched people pass back and forth +along the broad path, as if hoping against hope that by some chance he +might suddenly appear among them. But he never did, and she knew that +she might sit here watching year after year and he would not come. + +By this time he was probably in England--probably, on such a day as this, +out upon the links. She smiled a little. "Damn golf!" he had said. + +She thought for a moment that she heard his voice repeating it. It was +only Peter's voice. + +"You have grown even more beautiful than I thought," Peter was saying. + +She sprang to her feet. He was looking at he--shading his opened eyes +with one hand. + +"Peter!" she cried, falling back a step. + +[Illustration: "Peter!" she cried, falling back a step.] + +"More beautiful," he repeated. "But your eyes are sadder." + +"Peter," she said again, "your eyes are open!" + +"Yes," he said. "It became necessary for me to see--so they opened." + +Before them, she felt ashamed--almost like one naked. She began to +tremble. Then, with her cheeks scarlet, she covered her face with her +hands. + +Peter rose and helped her back to a chair as if she, in her turn, had +suddenly become blind. + +"If I frighten you like this I--I must not look at you," he faltered. + +Still she trembled; still she covered her face. + +"See!" he cried. "I have closed them again." + +She looked up in amazement. He was standing with his eyes tight shut. +He who had been in darkness all these long months had dared, to save her +from her own shame, to return again to the pit. For a second it stopped +her heart from beating. Then, springing to his side, she seized his +hands. + +"Peter," she commanded, "open your eyes!" + +He was pale--ghastly pale. + +"Not if it hurts you." + +Swiftly leaning toward him, she kissed the closed lids. + +"Will you open them--now?" + +She was in terror lest he should find it impossible again--as if that had +been some temporary miracle which, having been scorned, would not be +repeated. + +Then once again she saw his eyes flutter open. This time she faced them +with her fists clenched by her side. What a difference those eyes made +in him. Closed, he was like a helpless child; open, he was a man. He +grew taller, bigger, older, while she who had been leading him about +shrank into insignificance. She felt pettier, plainer, less worthy than +ever she had in her life. By sheer force of will power she held up her +head and faced him as if she were facing the sun. + +For a moment he feasted upon her hungrily. To see her hair, when for +months he had been forced to content himself with memories of it; to see +her white forehead, her big, deep eyes and straight nose; to see the lips +which he had only felt--all that held him silent. But he saw something +else there, too. In physical detail this face was the same that he had +seen before he was stricken. But something had been added. Before she +had the features of a girl; now she had the features of a woman. +Something had since been added to the eyes and mouth--something he knew +nothing about. + +"Marjory," he said slowly, "I think there is a great deal you have left +untold." + +She tightened her lips. There was no further use of evasion. If he +pressed her with his eyes open, he must know the truth. + +"Yes, Peter," she answered. + +"I can't decide," he went on slowly, "whether it has to do with a great +grief or a great joy." + +"The two so often come together," she trembled. + +"Yes," he nodded; "I think that is true. Perhaps they belong together." + +"I have only just learned that," she said. + +"And you've been left with the grief?" + +"I can't tell, Peter. Sometimes I think so, and then again I see the +justice of it, and it seems beautiful. All I 'm sure of is that I 'm +left alone." + +"Even with me?" + +"Even with you, Peter." + +He passed his hand over his eyes. + +"This other--do I know him?" he asked finally. + +"Yes." + +"It--it is Covington?" + +"Yes." + +She spoke almost mechanically. + +"I--I should have guessed it before. Had I been able to see, I should +have known." + +"That is why I did n't wish you to see me--so soon," Marjory said. + +"Covington!" he repeated. "But what of the other woman?" + +She took a long breath. + +"I--I'm the other woman," she answered. + +"Marjory!" he cried. "Not she you told me of?" + +"Yes." + +"His wife!" + +"No--not that. Merely Mrs. Covington." + +"I don't understand. You don't mean you're not his wife!" He checked +himself abruptly. + +"We were married in Paris," she hastened to explain. "But--but we agreed +the marriage was to be only a form. He was to come down here with me as +a _compagnon de voyage_. He wished only to give me the protection of his +name, and that--that was all I wished. It was not until I met you, +Peter, that I realized what I had done." + +"It was not until then you realized that you really loved him?" + +"Not until then," she moaned. + +"But, knowing that, you allowed me to talk as I did; to hope--" + +"Peter--dear Peter!" she broke in. "It was not then. It was only after +I knew he had gone out of my life forever that I allowed that. You see, +he has gone. He has gone to England, and from there he is going home. +You know what he is going for. He is never coming back. So it is as if +he died, isn't it? I allowed you to talk because I knew you were telling +the truth. And I did not promise much. When you asked me never to go +from you, all I said was that I 'd try. You remember that? And I have +tried, and I was going to keep on trying--ever so hard. I had ruined my +own life and his life, and--and I did n't want to hurt you any more. I +wanted to do what I could to undo some of the harm I'd already done. I +thought that perhaps if we went on like this long enough, I might forget +a little of the past and look forward only to the future. Some day I +meant to tell you. You know that, Peter. You know I would n't be +dishonest with you." She was talking hysterically, anxious only to +relieve the tenseness of his lips. She was not sure that he heard her at +all. He was looking at her, but with curious detachment, as if he were +at a play. + +"Peter--say something!" she begged. + +"It's extraordinary that I should ever have dared hope you were for me," +he said. + +"You mean you--you don't want me, Peter?" + +"Want you?" he cried hoarsely. "I'd go through hell to get you. I'd +stay mole-blind the rest of my life to get you! Want you?" + +He stepped toward her with his hands outstretched as if to seize her. In +spite of herself, she shrank away. + +"You see," he ran on. "What difference does it make if I want you? You +belong to another. You belong to Covington. You have n't anything to do +with yourself any more. You have n't yourself to give. You're his." + +With her hand above her eyes as if to ward off his blows, she gasped:-- + +"You must n't say such things, Peter." + +"I'm only telling the truth, and there's no harm in that. I 'm telling +you what you have n't dared tell yourself." + +"Things I mustn't tell myself!" she cried. "Things I must n't hear." + +"What I don't understand," he said, "is why Covington did n't tell you +all this himself. He must have known." + +"He knew nothing," she broke in. "I was a mere incident in his life. We +met in Paris quite by accident when he happened to have an idle week. He +was alone and I was alone, and he saved me from a disagreeable situation. +Then, because he still had nothing in particular to do and I had nothing +in particular to do, he suggested this further arrangement. We were each +considering nothing but our own comfort. We wanted nothing more. It was +to escape just such complications as this--to escape responsibility, as I +told you--that we--we married. He was only a boy, Peter, and knew no +better. But I was a woman, and should have known. And I came to know! +That was my punishment." + +"He came to know, too," said Peter. + +"He might have come to know," she corrected breathlessly. "There were +moments when I dared think so. If I had kept myself true--oh, Peter, +these are terrible things to say!" + +She buried her face in her hands again--a picture of total and abject +misery. Her frame shook with sobs that she was fighting hard to suppress. + +Peter placed his hand gently upon her shoulder. + +"There, little woman," he tried to comfort. "Cry a minute. It will do +you good." + +"I have n't even the right to cry," she sobbed. + +"You _must_ cry," he said. "You have n't let yourself go enough. That's +been the whole trouble." + +He was silent a moment, patting her back, with his eyes leveled out of +the window as if trying to look beyond the horizon, beyond that to the +secret places of eternity. + +"You have n't let yourself go enough," he repeated, almost like a seer. +"You have tried to force your destiny from its appointed course. You +have, and Covington has, and I have. We have tried to force things that +were not meant to be and to balk things that were meant to be. That's +because we've been selfish--all three of us. We've each thought of +ourself alone--of our own petty little happiness of the moment. That's +deadly. It warps the vision. It--it makes people stone-blind. + +"I understand now. When you went away from me, it was myself alone I +considered. I was hurt and worried, and made a martyr of myself. If I +had thought more of you, all would have been well. This time I think +I--I have thought a little more of you. It was to get at you and not +myself that I wanted to see again. So I saw again. I let go of myself +and reached out for you. So now--why, everything is quite clear." + +She raised her head. + +"Clear, Peter?" + +"Quite clear. I'm to go back to my work, and to use my eyes less and my +head and heart more. I 'm to deal less with statutes and more with +people. Instead of quoting precedents, perhaps I 'm going to try to +establish precedents. There's work enough to be done, God knows, of a +sort that is born of just such a year as this I 've lived through. I +must let go of myself and let myself go. I must think less of my own +ambitions and more of the ambitions of others. So I shall live in +others. Perhaps I may even be able to live a little through you two." + +"Peter!" she cried. + +"For Covington must come back to you as fast as ever he can." + +"No! No! No!" + +"You don't understand how much he loves his wife." + +"Please!" + +"And, he, poor devil, does n't understand how much his wife loves him." + +"You--you"--she trembled aghast--"you would n't dare repeat what I've +told you!" + +"You don't want to stagger on in the dark any longer. You'll let me tell +him." + +She rose to her feet, her face white. + +"Peter," she said slowly, "if ever you told him that, I'd never forgive +you. If ever you told him, I 'd deny it. You 'd only force me into more +lies. You'd only crush me lower." + +"Steady, Marjory," he said. + +"You're wonderful, Peter!" she exclaimed. "You 've--you 've been seeing +visions. But when you speak of telling him what I've told you, you don't +understand how terrible that would be. Peter--you'll promise me you +won't do that?" + +She was pleading, with panic in her eyes. + +"Yet, if he knew, he'd come racing to you." + +"He'd do that because he's a gentleman and four-square. He'd come to me +and pretend. He'd feel himself at fault, and pity me. Do you know how +it hurts a woman to be pitied? I'd rather he'd hate me. I'd rather he'd +forget me altogether.", + +"But what of the talks I had with him in the dark?" he questioned. "When +he talked to me of you then, it was not in pity." + +"Because,"--she choked,--"because he does n't know himself as I know him. +He--he does n't like changes--dear Monte. It disturbed him to go because +it would have been so much easier to have stayed. So, for the moment, he +may have been--a bit sentimental." + +"You don't think as little of him as that!" he cried. + +"He--he is the man who married me," she answered unsteadily. "It +was--just Monte who married me--honest, easy-going, care-free Monte, who +is willing to do a woman a favor even to the extent of marrying her. He +is very honest and very gallant and very normal. He likes one day to be +as another. He does n't wish to be stirred up. He asked me this, Peter: +'Is n't it possible to care without caring too much?' And I said, 'Yes.' +That was why he married me. He had seen others who cared a great deal, +and they frightened him. They cared so much that they made themselves +uncomfortable, and he feared that." + +"Good Lord, you call that man Covington?" exclaimed Peter. + +"No--just Monte," Marjory answered quickly. "It's just the outside of +him. The man you call Covington--the man inside--is another man." + +"It's the real man," declared Peter. + +"Yes," she nodded, with a catch in her voice. "That's the real man. +But--don't you understand?--it was n't that man who married me. It was +Monte who married me to escape Covington. He trusted me not to disturb +the real man, just as I trusted him not to disturb the real me." + +Peter leaned forward with a new hope in his eyes. + +"Then," he said, "perhaps, after all, he did n't get to the real you." + +Quite simply she replied:-- + +"He did, Peter. He does not know it, but he did." + +"You are sure?" + +She knew the pain she was causing him, but she answered:-- + +"Yes. I could n't admit that to any one else in the world but you--and +it hurts you, Peter." + +"It hurts like the devil," he said. + +She placed her hand upon his. + +"Poor Peter," she said gently. + +"It hurts like the devil, but it's nothing for you to pity me for," he +put in quickly. "I'd rather have the hurt from you than nothing." + +"You feel like that?" she asked earnestly. + +"Yes." + +"Then," she said, "you must understand how, even with me, the joy and the +grief are one?" + +"Yes, I understand that. Only if he knew--" + +"He'd come back to me, you're going to say again. And I tell you again, +I won't have him come back, kind and gentle and smiling. If he came back +now,--if it were possible for him really to come to me,--I 'd want him to +ache with love. I 'd want him to be hurt with love." + +She was talking fiercely, with a wild, unrestrained passion such as Peter +had never seen in any woman. + +"I 'd want," she hurried on, out of all control of herself--"I'd want +everything I don't want him to give--everything I 've no right to ask. I +'d want him to live on tiptoe from one morning through to the next. I'd +begrudge him every minute he was just comfortable. I'd want him always +eager, always worried, because I 'd be always looking for him to do great +things. I 'd have him always ready for great sacrifices--not for me +alone, but for himself. I 'd be so proud of him I think I--I could with +a smile see him sacrifice even his life for another. For I should know +that, after a little waiting, I should meet him again, a finer and nobler +man. And all those things I asked of him I should want to do for him. I +'d like to lay down my life for him." + +She stopped as abruptly as she had begun, staring about like some one +suddenly awakened to find herself in a strange country. It was Peter's +voice that brought her back again to the empty room. + +"How you do love him!" he said solemnly. + +"Peter," she cried, "you shouldn't have listened!" + +She shrank back toward the door. + +"And I--I thought just kisses on the eyes stood for love," he added. + +"You must forget all I said," she moaned. "I was mad--for a moment!" + +"You were wonderful," he told her. + +She was still backing toward the door. + +"I'm going off to hide," she said piteously. + +"Not that," he called after her. + +But the door closed in front of her. The door closed in front of him. +With his lips clenched, Peter Noyes walked back to the Hotel des Roses. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +SO LONG + +When Peter stepped into his sister's room he had forgotten that his +eyes were open. + +"Beatrice," he said, "we must start back for New York as soon as +possible." + +She sprang from her chair. Pale and without his shade, he was like an +apparition. + +"Peter!" she cried. + +"What's the trouble?" + +"Your eyes!" + +"They came back this morning." + +"Then I was right! Marjory--Marjory worked the miracle!" + +He smiled a little. + +"Yes." + +"It's wonderful. But, Peter--" + +"Well?" + +"You look so strange--so pale!" + +"It's been--well, rather an exciting experience." + +She put her arms about his neck and kissed him. + +"You should have brought the miracle-worker with you," she smiled. + +"And instead of that I'm leaving her." + +"Leaving Marjory--after this?" + +"Sit down, little sister," he begged. "A great deal has happened this +morning--a great deal that I'm afraid it's going to be hard for you to +understand. It was hard for me to understand at first; and yet, after +all, it's merely a question of fact. It is n't anything that leaves +any chance for speculation. It just is, that's all. You see, +you--both of us--made an extraordinary mistake. We--we assumed that +Marjory was free." + +"Free? Of course she's free!" exclaimed Beatrice. + +"Only she's not," Peter informed her. "As a matter of fact, she's +married." + +"Marjory--married!" + +"To Covington. She's Covington's wife. They were married a few weeks +ago in Paris. You understand? She's Covington's wife." His voice +rose a trifle. + +"Peter--you 're sure of that?" + +"She told me so herself--less than an hour ago." + +"That's impossible. Why, she listened to me when--" + +"When what?" he cut in. + +Frightened, she clasped her hands beneath her chin. + +His eyes demanded a reply. + +"I--I told her what the doctors told me. Don't look at me so, Peter!" + +"You tried to win her sympathy for me?" + +"They told me if you stopped worrying, your sight would come back. I +told her that, Peter." + +"You told her more?" + +"That if she could love you--oh, I could n't help it!" + +"So that is why she listened to you; why she listened to me. You +begged for her pity, and--she gave it. I thought at least I could +leave her with my head up." + +Beatrice began to sob. + +"I--I did the best I knew how," she pleaded. + +His head was bowed. He looked crushed. Throwing herself upon her +knees in front of him, Beatrice reached for his clasped hands. + +"I did the best I knew!" she moaned. + +"Yes," he answered dully; "you did that. Every one has done that. +Only--nothing should have been done at all. Nothing can ever be done." + +"You--you forgive me, Peter?" + +"Yes." + +But his voice was dead. It had no meaning. + +"It may all be for the best," she ran on, anxious to revive him. +"We'll go back to New York, Peter--you and I. Perhaps you'll let me +stay with you there. We'll get a little apartment together, so that I +can care for you. I 'll do that all the days of my life, if you 'll +let me." + +"I want a better fate than that for you, little sister," he answered. + +Rising, he helped her to her feet. He smoothed back her hair from her +forehead and kissed her there. + +"It won't do to look ahead very far, or backwards either just now," he +said. "But if I can believe there is something still left in life for +me, I must believe there is a great deal more left for you. Only we +must get away from here as soon as possible." + +"You have your eyes, Peter," she exclaimed exultingly. "She can't take +those away from you again!" + +"Hush," he warned. "You must never blame her for anything." + +"You mean you still--" + +"Still and forever, little sister," he answered. "But we must not talk +of that." + +"Poor Peter," she trembled. + +"Rich Peter!" he corrected, with a wan smile. "There are so many who +have n't as much as that." + + +He went back to his room. The next thing to do was to write some sort +of explanation to Covington. His ears burned as he thought of the +other letter he had sent. How it must have bored into the man! How it +must have hurt! He had been forced to read the confession of love of +another man for his wife. The wonder was that he had not taken the +next train back and knocked down the writer. It must be that he +understood the hopelessness of such a passion. Perhaps he had smiled! +Only that was not like Covington. Rather, he had gripped his jaws and +stood it. + +But if it had hurt and he hankered for revenge, he was to have it now. +He, Noyes, had bared his soul to the husband and confessed a love that +now he must stand up and recant. That was punishment enough for any +man. He must do that, too, without violating any of Marjory's +confidences--without helping in any way to disentangle the pitiful +snarl that it was within his power to disentangle. She whose happiness +might partly have recompensed him for what he had to do, he must still +leave unhappy. As far as he himself was concerned, however, he was +entitled to tell the truth. He could not recant his love. That would +be false. But he had no right to it--that was what he must make +Covington understand. + + +_Dear Covington_ [he began]: I am writing this with my eyes open. The +miracle I spoke of came to pass. Also a great many other things have +come to pass. You'll realize how hard it is to write about them after +that other letter, when I tell you I have learned the truth: that +Marjory is Mrs. Covington. She told me herself, when our relations +reached a crisis where she had to tell. + +I feel, naturally, as if I owed you some sort of apology; and yet, when +I come to frame it, I find myself baffled. Of course I'm leaving for +home as soon as possible--probably to-morrow. Of course if I had known +the truth I should have left long ago, and that letter would never have +had any occasion for being written. I'm assuming, Covington, that you +will believe that without any question. You knew what I did not know +and did not tell me even after you knew how I felt. I suppose you felt +so confident of her that you trusted her absolutely to handle an affair +of this sort herself. + +I want to say right here, you were justified. Whatever in that other +letter I may have said to lead you to believe she had come to care for +me in the slightest was a result solely of my own self-delusion and her +innate gentleness. I have discovered that my sister, meaning no harm, +went to her and told her that the restoration of my sight depended upon +her interest in me. It was manifestly unfair of my sister to put it +that way, but the little woman was thinking only of me. I'm sorry it +was done. Evidently it was the basis upon which she made the feeble +promise I spoke of, and which I exaggerated into something more. + +She cared for me no more than for a friend temporarily afflicted. +That's all, Covington. Neither in word nor thought nor deed has she +ever gone any further. Looking back upon the last few days now, it is +clear enough. Rather than hurt me, she allowed me to talk--allowed me +to believe. Rather, she suffered it. It was not pleasant for her. +She endured it because of what my sister had said. It seems hard luck +that I should have been led in this fashion to add to whatever other +burdens she may have had. + +I ask you to believe--it would be an impertinence, except for what I +told you before--that on her side there has been nothing between us of +which you could not approve. + +Now for myself. In the light of what I know to-day, I could not have +written you of her as I did. Yet, had I remained silent, all I said +would have remained just as much God's truth as then. Though I must +admit the utter hopelessness of my love, I see no reason why I should +think of attempting to deny that love. It would n't be decent to +myself, to you, or to her. It began before you came into her life at +all. It has grown bigger and cleaner since then. It persists to-day. +I'm talking to you as man to man, Covington. I know you won't confuse +that statement with any desire on my part--with any hope, however +remote--to see that love fulfilled further than it is fulfilled to-day. +That delusion has vanished forever. I shall never entertain it again, +no matter what course your destiny or her destiny may take. I cannot +make that emphatic enough, Covington. It is based upon a certain +knowledge of facts which, unfortunately, I am not at liberty to reveal +to you. + +So, as far as my own emotions are concerned then, I retract nothing of +what I told you. In fact, to-day I could say more. To me she is and +ever will be the most wonderful woman who ever lived. Thinking of you +before, I said there ought to be two of her, so that one might be left +for you. Now, thinking of myself, I would to God there were two of +her, so that one might be left for me. Yet that is inconceivable. It +might be possible to find another who looked like her; who thought like +her; who was willing for the big things of life like her. But this +other would not be Marjory. Besides everything else she has in common +with other women, she has something all her own that makes her herself. +It's that something that has got hold of me, Covington. + +I don't suppose it's in particularly good taste for me to talk to you +of your wife in this fashion; but it's my dying speech, old man, as far +as this subject is concerned, and I 'm talking to you and to no one +else. + +There's just one thing more I want to say. I don't want either you or +Marjory to think I'm going out of your lives a martyr--that I'm going +off to pine and die. The first time she left me I made an ass of +myself, and that was because I had not then got hold of the essential +fact of love. As I see it now, love--real love--does not lie in the +personal gratification of selfish desires. The wanting is only the +first stage. Perhaps it is a ruse of Nature to entice men to the +second stage, which is giving. + +Until recently my whole thought was centered on getting. I was +thinking of myself alone. It was baffled desire and injured vanity +that led me to do what I did before, and I was justly punished. It was +when I began to think less about myself and more about her that I was +reprieved. I'm leaving her now with but one desire: to do for her +whatever I may, at any time and in any place, to make her happy; and, +because of her, to do the same for any others with whom for the rest of +my life I may be thrown in contact. Thus I may be of some use and find +peace. + +I'm going away, Covington. That will leave her here alone. Wherever +you are, there must be trains back to Nice--starting perhaps within the +hour. + +So long. + +PETER J. NOYES. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +FREEDOM + +With the departure of Peter and his sister--Peter had made his +leave-taking easy by securing an earlier train than she had expected +and sending her a brief note of farewell--Marjory found herself near +that ideal state of perfect freedom she had craved. There was now no +outside influence to check her movements. If she remained where she +was, there was no one to interrupt her in the solitary pursuit of her +own pleasure. Safe from any possibility of intrusion, she was at +liberty to remain in the seclusion of her room; but, if she preferred, +she could walk the quay without the slightest prospect in the world of +being forced to recognize the friendly greeting of any one. + +Peter was gone; Beatrice was gone; and Monte was gone. There was no +one else--unless by some chance poor Teddy Hamilton should turn up, +which was so unlikely that she did not even consider it. Yet there +were moments when, if she had met Teddy, she would have smiled a +welcome. She would not have feared him. There was only one person in +the world now of whom she stood in fear, and he was somewhere along the +English coast, playing a poor game of golf. + +She was free beyond her most extravagant dreams--absolutely free. She +was so free that it seemed aimless to rise in the morning, because +there was nothing awaiting her attention. She was so free that there +was no object in breakfasting, because there was no obligation +demanding her strength. She was so free that whether she should go out +or remain indoors depended merely upon the whim of the moment. There +was for her nothing either without or within. + +For the first twenty-four hours she sat in a sort of stupor. + +Marie became anxious. + +"Madame is not well?" she asked solicitously. + +"Perfectly well," answered Marjory dully. + +"Madame's cheeks are very white," Marie ventured further. + +Madame shrugged her shoulders. + +"Is there any harm in that?" she demanded. + +"It is such a beautiful day to walk," suggested Marie. + +Marjory turned slowly. + +"What do you mean by beautiful?" + +"Ma foi, the sky is blue, the sun is shining, the birds singing," +explained Marie. + +"Do those things make a beautiful day?" + +"What else, madame?" inquired the maid, in astonishment. + +"I do not know," sighed madame. "All I know is that for me those +things do not count at all." + +"Then," declared Marie, "it is time to call a doctor." + +"For what?" + +"To make madame see the blue sky again and hear the birds." + +"But I do not care whether I see them or not," concluded madame, +turning away from the subject. + +Here was the whole thing in a nutshell. There were some who might +consider this to be an ideal state. Not to care about anything at all +was not to have anything at all to worry about. Certain philosophies +were based upon this state of mind. In part, Monte's own philosophy +was so based. If not to care too much were well, then not to care at +all should be better. It should leave one utterly and sublimely free. +But should it also leave one utterly miserable? + +There was something inconsistent in that--something unfair. To be +free, and yet to feel like a prisoner bound and gagged; not to care, +and yet to feel one's vitals eaten with caring; to obtain one's +objective, and then to be marooned there like a forsaken sailor on a +desert island--this was unjust. + +Ah, but she did care! It was as if some portion of her refused +absolutely to obey her will in this matter. In silence she might +declare her determination not to care, or through tense lips she might +mutter the same thing in spoken words; but this made no difference. +She was a free agent, to be sure. She had the right to dictate terms +to herself. She had the sole right to be arbiter of her destiny. It +was to that end she had craved freedom. It was for her alone to decide +about what she should care and should not care. She was no longer a +schoolgirl to be controlled by others. She was both judge and jury for +herself, and she had passed sentence to the effect that, since she had +chosen not to care when to care had been her privilege, it was no +longer her privilege to care when she chose to care. Nothing since +then had developed to give her the right to alter that verdict. If +anything, it held truer after Peter's departure than ever. She must +add to her indictment the harm she had done him. + +Still, she cared. Staring out of her window upon the quay, she caught +her breath at sight of every new passer-by, in fearful hope that it +might prove to be Monte. She did this when she knew that Monte was +hundreds of miles away. She did this in face of the fact that, if his +coming depended upon her consent, she would have withheld that consent. +If in truth he had suddenly appeared, she would have fled in terror. +He must not come; he should not come--but, O God, if he would come! + +[Illustration: "But, O God, if he would come!"] + +Sometimes this thought held her for a moment before she realized it. +Then for a space the sun appeared in the blue sky and the birds set up +such a singing as Marie had never heard in all her life. Perhaps for a +step or two she saw him striding toward her with his face aglow, his +clear, blue eyes smiling, his tender man mouth open to greet her. So +her heart leaped to her throat and her arms trembled. Then--the fall +into the abyss as she caught herself. Then her head drooping upon her +arm and the racking, dry sobs. + +How she did care! It was as if everything she had ever hungered for in +the past--all her beautiful, timid girlhood dreams; all that good part +of her later hunger for freedom; all of to-day and all that was worth +while of the days to come, had been gathered together, like jewels in a +single jewel casket, and handed over to him. He had them all. None +had been left her. She had none left. + +She had always known that if ever she loved it was so that she must +love. It was this that she had feared. She had known that if she gave +at all she must give utterly--all that she ever had or hoped to have. +Suddenly she recalled Mrs. Chic. It was with a new emotion. The +latter had always been to her the symbol of complete self-sacrifice. +It centered around the night Chic, Junior was born. That night she had +been paler than Mrs. Chic herself; she had whimpered more than Mrs. +Chic. Outside, waiting, she had feared more than the wife within who +was wrestling with death for a new life. She had sat alone, with her +hands over her ears in an agony of fear and horror. She had marveled +that any woman would consent to face such a crisis. It had seemed +wrong that love--an affair of orange blossoms and music and +laughter--should lead to that. Wide-eyed, she had sobbed in terror +until it was over. It was with awe and wonder that a few days later +she had seen Mrs. Chic lying in her big white bed so crooningly happy +and jubilant. + +Now she understood. The fear and horror had vanished. Had she been in +the next room to-day, her heart would have leaped with joy in tune with +her who was fighting her grim fight. Because the aches and the pains +are but an incident of preparation. Not only that, but one can so love +that pain, physical pain, may in the end be the only means for an +adequate expression of that love. The two may be one, so blended as to +lead, in the end, to perfect joy. Even mental pains, such as she +herself now suffered, can do that. For all she was undergoing she +would not have given up one second to be back again where she was a +month before. + +Something comes with love. It is that more than love itself which is +the greatest thing in the world. Sitting by her window, watching the +shadows pass, Marjory was sensing this. The knowledge was coming +slowly, imperceptibly; but it was bringing her strength. It was +steadying her nerves. It was preparing her for the supreme test. + +Because that very day, toward sunset-time, as she still sat by her +window, she saw a shadow that looked like Monte. She smiled a little, +because she knew it would soon dissolve. Rapidly the shadow strode +along the quay until opposite the hotel. Then, instead of vanishing, +it came on--straight toward her. She sprang to her feet, leaning back +against the wall, not daring to look again. So she stood, counting her +heart-beats; for she was still certain that when a hundred or so of +them had passed, the illusion also would fade. + +Marjory did not have time to count a full hundred heart-beats before +she heard a light rap at the door. For the fraction of a second she +swayed in the fear that, taking the stairs three at a time, Monte might +have ventured to her very room. But it would be with no such gentle +tap that he would announce himself. + +"Yes?" she called. + +"A card for madame," came the voice of the garcon. + +Her knees still weak, she crossed the room and took the card. There +was no longer any hope left to her. Apparitions do not materialize to +the point where they present their cards. + +"Madame is in?" queried the boy. + +"What else can I say?" she asked, as if, in her desperate need, seeking +counsel of him. + +The boy shrugged his shoulders. + +"If madame desires, I can report madame is away," he offered. + +It was all one to him. It was all one to every one else in the world +but herself. No one was interested. She was alone. Then why had not +Monte himself let her alone? That was the point, but to determine that +it was necessary to see him. + +It was possible he had come merely by chance. It was possible he had +come to see Peter, not knowing that Peter had gone. It was possible he +had returned this way in order to take the Mediterranean route home. +On the face of it, anything was more probable than that he had come +deliberately to see her. + +"You will ask monsieur to wait, and I will be down in a few moments," +she replied to the boy. + +She called to Marie. + +"I have a caller," she announced nervously. "You must make me look as +young as possible." + +Even if she had grown old inside, there was no reason why she should +reveal her secret. + +"I am glad," nodded Marie. "Madame should put on a white gown and wear +a ribbon in her hair." + +"A ribbon!" exclaimed madame. "That would look absurd." + +"You shall see." + +She was too weak to protest. She was glad enough to sit down and give +herself up utterly to Marie. + +"Only we must not keep him waiting too long," she said. "Monsieur +Covington does not like to be kept waiting." + +"It is he?" exclaimed Marie. + +"It--it is quite a surprise." She blushed. "I--I do not understand +why he is here." + +"It should not be difficult to understand," ventured Marie. + +To that madame made no reply. It was clear enough what Marie meant. +It was a natural enough mistake. To her, Monsieur Covington was still +the husband of madame. She had stood in the little chapel in Paris +when madame was married. When one was married, one was married; and +that was all there was to it for all time. So, doubtless, Marie +reasoned. It was the simple peasant way--the old, honest, woman way. + +Madame folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes while Marie did +her hair and adjusted the ribbon. Then Marie slipped a white gown over +her head. + +"There," concluded the maid, with satisfaction, as she fastened the +last hook. "Madame looks as young as when she was married." + +But the color that made her look young vanished the moment Marjory +started down the stairs alone to meet him. Several times she paused to +catch her breath; several times she was upon the point of turning back. +Then she saw him coming up to meet her. She felt her hand in his. + +"Jove!" he was saying, "but it's good to see you again." + +"But I don't understand why you are here," she managed to gasp. + +To him it was evidently as simple as to Marie. + +"To see you," he answered promptly. + +"If that is all, then you should not have come," she declared. + +They were still on the stairs. She led the way down and into the lower +reception-room. She did not care to go again into the sun parlor. She +thought it would be easier to talk to him in surroundings not +associated with anything in the past. They had the room to themselves. +She sat down and motioned him to another chair at some little distance. +He paid no attention to her implied request. With his feet planted +firmly, his arms folded, he stood before her while she tried to find +some way of avoiding his gaze. + +"Peter Noyes has gone," he began. + +"Yes," she nodded. "You heard about his eyes?" + +"He wrote me." + +She looked up swiftly. + +"Peter wrote you?" she trembled. + +"He told me he had recovered his sight. He told me he was going." + +What else had he told? Dizzily she waited. For the first time in her +life, she felt as if she might faint. That would be such a silly thing +to do! + +"He said he was going home--out of your life." + +Peter had told Monte that! What else had he told? + +He paused a moment, as if expecting her to make some reply. There, was +nothing she could say. + +"It was n't what I expected," he went on. + +What else had Peter told him? + +"Was n't there any other way?" he asked. + +"I did n't send him home. He--he chose to go," she said. + +"Because it was n't any use for him to remain?" + +"I told him the truth," she nodded. + +"And he took it like a man!" exclaimed Monte enthusiastically. "I 'd +like to show you his letter, only I don't know that it would be quite +fair to him." + +"I don't want to see it," she cut in. "I--I know I should n't." + +What else besides his going had Peter told Monte? + +"It was his letter that brought me back," he said. + +She held her breath. She had warned Peter that if he as much as hinted +at anything that she had confessed to him, she would lie to Monte. So +she should--but God forbid that this added humiliation be brought upon +her. + +"You see, when I went I expected that he would be left to care for you. +With him and his sister here, I knew you would n't be alone. I thought +they'd stay, or if they went--you'd go with them." + +"But why should n't I be alone?" she gathered strength to ask. + +"Because," he answered quickly, "it is n't good for you. It is n't +good for any one. Besides, it is n't right. When we were married I +made certain promises, and those hold good until we're unmarried." + +"Monte!" she cried. + +"As long as Peter was around, that was one thing; now that he's gone--" + +"It throws me back on your hands," she interrupted, in an attempt to +assert herself. "Please to sit down. You're making your old mistake +of trying to be serious. There's not the slightest reason in the world +why you should bother about me like this." + +She ventured to look at him again. His brows were drawn together in a +puzzled frown. Dear Monte--it was cruel of her to confuse him like +this, when he was trying to see straight. He looked so very woe-begone +when he looked troubled at all. + +"It--it is n't any bother," he stammered. + +"I should think it was a good deal," she answered, feeling for a moment +that she had the upper hand. "Where did you come from to here?" + +"Paris." + +"You did n't go on to England at all?" + +"No." + +"Then you did n't get back to your schedule. If you had done that, you +would n't have had any time left to--to think about other things." + +"I did n't get beyond the Normandie," he answered. "My schedule +stopped short right there." + +He was still standing before her. Apparently he intended to remain. +So she rose and crossed to another chair. He followed. + +"You should have gone on," she insisted. + +"I had my old room--next to yours," he said. + +She must trouble him still more. There was no other way. + +"That was rather sentimental of you, Monte, was n't it?" she asked +lightly. + +"I went there as a man goes home," he answered softly. + +Her lips became suddenly dumb. + +"Then I had a long letter from Peter; the first one." + +"He has written you before?" + +"He wrote me that he loved you and was going to marry you. That was +before he learned the truth." + +"About you?" + +"And about you. When he wrote again, he said you had told him +everything." + +So she had; more, far more than she should. What of that had he told +Monte? The question left her faint again. + +"How did it happen?" he asked. + +"I--I don't know," she faltered. "He guessed a little, and then I had +to tell him the rest." + +Monte's mouth hardened. + +"That should n't have been left for you to do. I should have told him +myself." + +"Now that it's all over--can't we forget it, Monte, with all the rest?" + +He bent a little toward her. + +"Have you forgotten all the rest?" he demanded. + +"At least, I 'm trying," she gasped. + +"I wonder if you have found it as hard as I even to try?" + +Steady--she must hold herself steady. His words were afire. With her +eyes on the ground, she felt his eyes searching her face. + +"Whether it is hard or not makes no difference," she answered. + +"It's just that which makes all the difference in the world," he +contradicted. "I wanted to be honest with myself and with you. So I +went away, willing to forget if that were the honest way. But, from +the moment I took the train here at Nice, I've done nothing but +remember. I've remembered every single minute of the time since I met +you in Paris. The present has been made up of nothing but the past. +Passing hours were nothing but echoes of past hours. + +"I've remembered everything--even things away back that I thought I had +forgotten. I dug up even those glimpses I had had of you at Chic's +house when you were only a school-girl. And I did n't do it on +purpose, Marjory. I 'd have been glad not to do it, because at the +time it hurt to remember them. I thought I'd given you over to Peter. +I thought he was going to take you away from me. So I 'd have been +glad enough to forget, if it had been possible." + +She sprang to her feet. + +"What are you saying, Monte?" she trembled. + +With his head erect and his eyes shining, he was telling her what her +heart hungered to hear. That was what he was doing. Only she must not +listen. + +"I'm telling you that to forget was not possible," he repeated hotly; +"I'm telling you that I shall never try again. I've come back to get +you and keep you this time." + +He held out his arms to her. She shrank back. + +"You're making it so hard," she quavered. + +"Come to me," he said gently. "That's the easy way. I love you, +Marjory. Don't you understand? I love you with all my heart and soul, +and I want you to begin life with me now in earnest. Come, little +woman." + +He reached her hands and tried to draw her toward him. She resisted +with all her strength. + +"You must n't," she gasped. "You must n't!" + +"It's you who're making it hard now, wife o' mine," he whispered. + +Yes, she was making it hard. But she must make it still harder. He +had come back to her because she was alone, moved temporarily by a +feeling of sentimental responsibility. That was all. He was sincere +enough for the moment, but she must not confuse this with any deeper +passion. He had made a mistake in returning to the Normandie. +Doubtless he had felt lonesome there. It was only natural that he +should exaggerate that, for the time being, into something more. + +Then Peter's two letters had come. If Peter had not told him anything +that he should n't, he had probably told him a great deal more than he +should. Monte, big-hearted and good, had, as a consequence of all +these things, imagined himself in love. This delusion might last a +week or two; and then, when he came to himself again, the rude +awakening would follow. He would see her then merely as a trifler. +Worse than that, he might see himself as merely a trifler. That would +be deadly. + +"It's you who are making it hard now," he repeated. + +She had succeeded in freeing herself, leaving him before her as amazed +and hurt as a spurned child. + +"You're forcing me to run away from you--to run away as I did from the +others," she said. + +He staggered before the blow. + +"Not that!" he cried hoarsely. + +"I'm going home," she ran on. "I'm going back to my little farm, where +I started." + +"You're running away--from me?" + +"I must go right off." + +She looked around as if for Marie. It was as if she were about to +start that second. + +"Where is Marie?" she asked dully. + +She made for the door. + +"Marjory," he called after her. "Don't do that!" + +"I must go--right off," she said again. + +"Wife o' mine," he cried, "there is no need of that." + +"Marie!" she called as she reached the door. "Marie!" + +Frantically she ran up the stairs. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +WAR + +War! + +A summer sky, warm and fragrant, suddenly became dour and overcast. +Within a day thunder rolled and lightning flashed. Men glanced up in +startled surprise, then clenched their jaws. Women who were laughing +gayly turned suddenly white. Orders were speeded over the wires and +through the clouds to the remotest hamlets of France. In a few hours +men began to gather in uniform, bearing rifles. They posted themselves +about the gates of stations. They increased in numbers until they were +everywhere. Trumpets sounded, drums rolled. Excited groups gathered +in the hotels and rushed off to the consulates. The very air was tense +and vibrant. + +War! + +People massed in groups. The individual no longer counted. +Storekeepers, bankers, dandies, chauffeurs, postmen, gardeners, hotel +proprietors became merely Frenchmen. They dropped the clothes that +distinguished their caste, and became merely men in uniform. + +Foreign visitors no longer counted as individuals. They ran about in +panic-stricken groups like vagrant dogs. Those in uniform looked on +indifferently, or gave sharp orders turning strangers back from this +road or that, this gate or that. A chauffeur in uniform might turn +back his millionaire foreign master. + +Credit money no longer counted. Banks refused to give out gold, and +the shopkeepers and hotel proprietors refused to accept anything but +gold. No one knew what might happen, and refused to risk. A man might +brandish a letter of credit for ten thousand francs and be refused a +glass of wine. A man with a thousand francs in gold was in a better +position than a millionaire with only paper. + +Monte discovered this when he hurried to his own bankers. With half a +million dollars and more to his credit at home, he was not allowed a +single louis d'or. Somewhat bewildered, he stood on the steps and +counted the gold he happened to have in his pockets. It amounted to +some fifty dollars. To all intents and purposes, that embraced his +entire capital. In the present emergency his stocks and bonds were of +no avail whatever to him. He thought of the cables, but gold could not +be cabled--only more credit, which in this grim crisis went for +nothing. It was as if he had suddenly been forced into bankruptcy. +His fortune temporarily had been swept away. + +If that was true of his own, it must be equally true of Marjory's. She +was no wealthier now than the sum total of the gold she happened to +have in her possession. The thought came to him at first as a shock. +What was she going to do? She was upon the point of leaving, and her +plans must have been suddenly checked. She was, in effect, a prisoner +here. She was stranded as completely as if she were any penniless +young woman. + +Then some emotion--some feeling indistinctly connected with the +grandfather who had crossed the plains in forty-nine--swept over him. +It was a primitive exultation. It made him conscious of the muscles in +his back and legs. It made him throw back his head and square his +shoulders. A moment before, with railroads and steamships at her +command, with a hundred men standing ready to do her bidding in +response to the magic of her check-book, she had been as much mistress +of her little world as any ancient queen. + +Sweaty men were rushing fruits from the tropics, silks from India, +diamonds from Africa, caviar from the north; others were making ready +fine quarters in every corner of the globe; others were weaving cloths +and making shoes; others were rehearsing plays and music--all for her +and others like her, who had only to call upon their banks to pay for +all this toil. Instead of one man to supply her needs, she had a +thousand, ten thousand. With the machinery of civilization working +smoothly, she had only to nod--and sign a check. + +Now, overnight, this had been changed. The machinery was to be put to +other uses. Ships that had been carrying silks were needed for men +with rifles. Railroads were for troops. The sweat of men was to be in +battle. Servants were to be used for the slaughter of other servants. +With nations at one another's throats, the very basis of credit, mutual +trust and esteem, was gone. She and others like her did not count. +Men with the lust for blood in their hearts could not bother with them. +They might sit in their rooms and sob, or they might starve. It did +not much matter. A check was only a bit of paper. Under such +conditions it might be good or not. Gold was what counted--gold and +men. Broad backs counted, and stout legs. + +Monte took a deep breath. Now--it might be possible that he would +count. It was so that his grandfather had counted. He had fought his +way across a continent and back for just such another woman as Marjory. +Life had been primitive then. It was primitive now. Men and women +were forced to stand together and take the long road side by side. + +The blood rushed to Monte's head. He must get to her at once. She +would need him now--if only for a little while. He must carry her +home. She could not go without him. + +He started down the steps of the bank, two at a time, and almost ran +against her. She was on her way to the bank as he had been, in search +of gold. Her eyes greeted him with the welcome her lips would not. + +"You see!" he exclaimed, with a quick laugh. + +"When you need me I come." + +She was dressed in the very traveling costume she had worn when they +left Paris together. She was wearing, too, the same hat. It might +have been yesterday. + +"They refused my check at the hotel," she explained nervously. "They +say they must have gold." + +"Have you any?" he asked. + +"One louis d'or." + +"And I have ten," he informed her. + +She did not understand why he should be so exultant over this fact. + +"I have come here to get enough to pay my bill and buy my ticket. I am +leaving this morning." + +"They won't give you any," he explained. "Besides, they won't carry +you on the train unless you put on a uniform." + +"Monte!" + +"It's a fact." + +"Then--what am I to do?" + +She looked quite helpless--deliciously helpless. + +He laughed joyously. + +"You are bankrupt," he said. "So am I. We have only fifty-five +dollars between us. But that is something. Also there is the machine. +That will take us over the Italian frontier and to Genoa. I ought to +be able to sell it there for something. Come on." + +"Where?" she asked. + +"We must get the car as soon as possible. I have a notion that with +every passing hour it is going to be more difficult to get out." + +"But I'm not going with you, Monte. It's--it's impossible!" + +"It's the only way, little woman." + +He gave her no time to argue about it, but took her arm and hurried her +to the garage. It was necessary to walk. Taxis were as if they had +never been. They passed groups of soldiers who turned to look at +Marjory. The eyes of many were hot with wine, and she was very glad +that she was not alone. + +At the door of the garage stood a soldier in uniform. As Monte +attempted to pass, he was brought to a halt. + +"It is not permitted to pass," explained the guard. + +"But I want to get my car." + +"I 'm afraid monsieur has no car." + +"Eh?" + +"They have all been taken for la patrie." + +"You mean my machine has been confiscated?" + +"Borrowed, perhaps. After the victory--" The guard shrugged his +shoulders. + +Monte shrugged his own shoulders. Then he laughed. + +"After all," he said, "that is little enough to do for France. Inform +the authorities they are welcome." + +He saluted the guard, who returned the salute. Again he took Marjory's +arm, and turned toward the hotel. + +"There is nothing to do but to walk," he declared. + +"Where?" + +She could not understand his mood. It was as if this were a holiday +instead of a very serious plight. + +"Over the border. It is only some twenty-five miles. We can do it +easily in two days; but even if it takes three--" + +Even if it took a hundred, what did it matter, with her by his side? +And by his side she must remain until her credit was restored. With +only one louis d'or in her pocket, she was merely a woman, with all the +limitations of her sex. She could not take to the open road alone. +She did not have the physical strength that dictated the law for +vagabonds. She must have a man near to fight for her, or it would go +hard. Even Marie would be no protection in time of war. + +Dumbly she followed his pace until they reached the hotel. The place +was in confusion and the proprietor at his wits' end. In the midst of +it, Monte was the only one apparently unmoved. + +"Pack one small hand-bag," he ordered. "You must leave your trunks +here." + +"Yes, Monte," she submitted. + +"I'll run back to the Roses, and meet you here in a half-hour. Will +you be ready?" + +"Yes. Marie will come with us, of course." + +He shook his head. + +"She must wait here until she can get to Paris. Find out if she has +any cash." + +"I want her to come with me," she pleaded. + +"I doubt if she will want to come. Anyway, our fifty-five dollars +won't stretch to her. We--we can't afford a maid." + +She flushed at his use of "we." Nevertheless, what he said was true +enough. That sum was a mere pittance. Fate had her in a tight grip. + +"Be sure to bring your passport," he reminded her. "It is ten-thirty. +I 'll be here at eleven." + +Hurrying back to his room, he took what he could crowd into his +pockets: his safety razor and toothbrush, a few handkerchiefs and a +change of socks. One did not need much on the open road. He carried +his sweater--the old crimson sweater with the black "H"--more for her +than for himself. The rest of his things he threw into his trunk and +left in the care of the hotel. + +She was waiting for him when he returned to the Hotel d'Angleterre. + +"You were right about Marie," she acknowledged. "She has two brothers +in the army. She has money enough for her fare to Paris, and is going +as soon as possible." + +"In the meanwhile she is safe enough here. So, en avant!" + +He took her bag, and they stepped out into the sunshine. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +THE CORNICE ROAD + +It was the Cornice Road that he followed--the broad white road that +skirts the sea at the foot of the Alpes Maritimes. As far as Monte +Carlo, he had walked it alone many the time. But he had never walked +it with her, so it was a new road. It was a new world too, and as far +as he was concerned there was no war. The blue sky overhead gave no +hint of war; neither did the Mediterranean; neither did the trees full +of singing birds; neither did the grasses and flowers: and these +things, with the woman at his side, comprised, for the moment, his +whole world. It was the world as originally created for man and woman. +All that he was leaving behind--banks and hotels and taxis and servants +and railroads--had nothing to do with the primal idea of creation. +They were all extraneous. The heavens, the earth, the waters beneath +the earth, man and woman created He them. That was all. That was +enough. + +Once or twice, alone in his camp in the Adirondacks, Monte had sensed +this fact. With a bit of food to eat, a bit of tobacco to smoke in his +old brier, a bit of ground to lie down upon at night, he had marveled +that men found so many other things necessary to their comfort. But, +after a week or two of that, he had always grown restless, and hurried +back to New York and his club and his men servants. In turn he grew +restless there, and hurried on to the still finer luxuries of the +German liners and the Continent. + +That was because he was lonesome--because she had not been with him. +It was because--how clearly he saw it now!--he had never been complete +by himself alone. He had been satisfying only half of himself. The +other half he had tried to quiet with man-made things, with the +artificial products of civilization. He had thought to allay that +deep, undefined hunger in him with travel and sports and the attentions +of hirelings. It had been easy at first; but, keen as nimble wits had +been to keep pace with his desires with an ever-increasing variety of +luxuries, he had exhausted them all within a decade and been left +unsatisfied. + +To-day it was as if with each intake of breath the sweet air reached +for the first time the most remote corners of his lungs. He had never +before had air enough. The sunshine reached to the marrow of his +bones. Muscles that had lagged became vibrant. He could hardly keep +his feet upon the ground. He would have liked to run; to keep on +running mile after mile. He wondered when he would tire. He had a +feeling that he could never tire. His back and arm muscles ached for +action. He would have enjoyed a rough-and-tumble fight with some +impudent fellow vagabond of the road. + +Marjory walked by his side in silence. That was all he asked--simply +that she should be there on the left, dependent upon him. Here was the +nub of the matter. Always before she had been able to leave him if she +wished. She had married him upon that condition. There had never been +a moment, until now, when he had not been conscious of the fact that he +was in no way necessary to her. The protection against Teddy and the +others was merely a convenience. He had been able to save her from +annoyance, that was all. At any time on that ride from Paris she could +have left him and gone on her way quite safely. At Nice, that was just +what she had done. It was to save her from the annoyance of himself +that he had finally gone away. Had he been really needed, that would +have been impossible. But he knew that she could get along without him +as she did. Then when Peter had gone it was more because he needed her +than because she needed him that he had returned. Down deep in his +heart he knew that, whatever he may have pretended. She was safe +enough from everything except possible annoyance. With plenty of gold +at her command, there was nothing that he could buy for her that she +could not buy for herself. + +Now she had no gold--except one louis d'or. He was almost jealous of +that single piece. He would have been glad if she lost it. If he had +seen it drop from her bag, he would have let it lie where it fell. + +She was merely a woman now. The muscles in her arms and legs were not +strong. Because of that she could not leave his side, nor order him to +leave. She must look to him to fight for her if fighting were +necessary. She must look to him to put his strong arm about her and +help her if she grew weary. She must look to him to provide her with +food and shelter for the night. Physically she was like a child out +here on the open road. But he was a man. + +He was a man because he had something to protect. He was a man because +he was responsible for some one besides himself. It was this that the +other half of him had been craving all these years. It was this that +completed him. + +Yet his attitude toward her, in this respect, was strangely impersonal. +He was looking for no reward. He did not consider that he was placing +her in any way under an obligation to him. His joy in doing for her +was not based upon any idea of furthering his own interests. He was +utterly unselfish. He did not look ahead an hour. It was enough to +have her here in a position where he could be of some service. + +His love for her was another matter entirely. Whether she were with +him or not, that would have remained the same. He loved her with all +there was in him, and that was more or less distinct from any attitude +that she might assume. It was a separate, definite, concrete fact, no +longer open to argument--no longer to be affected by any of the petty +accidents of circumstance. Not even she had now any control over it. +It was within her power to satisfy it or not; but that was all. She +could not destroy it. If she left it unfulfilled, then he must endure +that, as Peter had. Peter was not sorry that he loved her, and +Peter--why, Peter did not have the opportunity to sense more than the +first faint beginnings of the word love. Peter had not had those weeks +in Paris in which to get to know her; he had not had that wonderful +ride through sunny France with Marjory by his side; and Peter had had +nothing approaching such a day as this. + +Monte turned to look at her. They had passed through Villefranche, and +were now taking the up grade. The exercise had flushed her cheeks, +giving her back the color she had lacked in the last few weeks. Her +eyes were upon the ground, as if she did not dare raise them. Her face +always seemed younger when one did not see the eyes. Asleep, she could +not have looked over twenty. He marveled at how delicately feminine +her forehead and nose were. And the lips--he could not look very long +at her lips. Warm and full of curves, they tugged at his heart. They +roused desire. Yet, had it been his blessed privilege to touch them +with his own, he would have been very gentle about it. A man must +needs always be gentle with her, he thought. + +That was why he must not utter the phrases that burned within. It +would only frighten her, and he must see that she was never frightened +again. To himself he might say as much as he pleased, because she +could not hear. He could repeat to himself over and over again, as he +did now, "I love you--I love you--I love you." + +Out loud, however, he said only:-- + +"Are you tired?" + +She started even at that. + +"No, Monte," she answered. + +"We can rest any time you wish. We have all the time in the world +ahead of us." + +"Have we?" + +"Days and weeks and months," he replied. + +It was the old Monte she heard--the easy, care-free Monte. It made her +feel easier. + +"We should cross the border by to-morrow night, should n't we?" she +asked. + +"We could, if it were necessary," he admitted. + +She quickened her pace unconsciously. + +"I think we should get there as soon as possible." + +"That," he said, "would be like hurrying through Eden." + +She ventured to glance up at him. With his lean, strong face to the +sun, his lithe body swinging rhythmically to his stride, he looked like +an Indian chieftain. So he would have stalked through virgin forests. +So, under different conditions, she might have been following his lead. +But conditions were as they were. That is what she must keep in mind. +He was here merely to escort her safely to Italy and to the steamer in +which she was soon to sail for home. He was being decent to her, as +under the same conditions he would be to any woman. He could scarcely +do less than he was doing. She was forced upon him. + +That he apparently took pleasure in the episode was natural enough. It +was just the sort of experience he enjoyed. It was another pleasant +excursion like the motor trip from Paris, with a touch of adventure +added to give it spice. Possibly in his present mood there was also a +trace of romance. Monte had his romantic side, based upon his quick +sympathies. A maiden in distress was enough to rouse this. That was +what happened yesterday when he told her of his love. He had been +sincere enough for the moment, and no doubt believed everything he +said. He had not given himself quite time enough to get back to his +schedule. With that in good running order he would laugh at his +present folly. + +For she must remember that Monte had not as yet touched either the +heights or the depths of love. It was in him to do that, but she must +see to it that he did not. That was her task. Love as he saw it now +was merely a pleasant garden, in May. It was a gypsy jaunt along the +open road where it was pleasant enough to have her with him as he +whistled along. A day or a week or a month or two of that was well +enough, as he had said. Only she--she could not last that long. +To-day and to-morrow at the utmost was as much as she could endure, +with every minute a struggle to whip back her emotions. Were it safe, +she would try to keep it up for his sake. If without danger she could +keep him happy this way, not allowing him to go any further, she would +try. But there is a limit to what of herself a woman may sacrifice, +even if she is willing. + +So, with her lips set, she stumbled along the Cornice Road by his side. + + +At five that evening they had made half their journey and stopped at a +wayside inn--the inn of L'Agneau dansant. On a squeaking sign before +the ancient stone structure, which looked as if it must have been there +in the days of post-chaises, a frolicsome lamb danced upon his hind +legs, smiling to all who paused there an invitation to join him in this +innocent pastime and not take the world too seriously. The good humor +of the crude painting appealed to Monte. He grinned back at L'Agneau +dansant. + +"I'm with you," he nodded. + +Marjory, dusty and footsore, followed his gaze. + +Then she too smiled. + +"That fellow has the proper spirit," he declared. "Shall we place +ourselves in his care?" + +"I'm afraid I can't go any farther," she answered wearily. + +Monsieur Soucin came out, looking to be in anything but the mood of the +gay lamb before his door. + +"Two rooms, a little supper, and some breakfast," explained Monte. +"But we must strike a bargain. We are not American tourists--merely +two travelers of the road without much gold and a long way to go." + +"I have but a single louis d'or," put in madame. + +"Monsieur! Madame!" interrupted Soucin. "I am sorry, but I cannot +accommodate you at any price. In the next village a regiment of +soldiers have arrived. I have had word that I must receive here ten +officers. They come at seven to-night." + +"But look here--madame is very tired," frowned Monte. + +"I am sorry," answered Soucin helplessly. + +Monte stepped nearer and jingled the gold in his pocket. + +"Doubtless the next village in that case is without accommodations +also," said Monte. "We will strike no bargain. Name your price up to +ten louis d'or; for madame must rest." + +Soucin shook his head. + +"I am giving up my own room. I must sleep in the kitchen--if I sleep +at all; which, mon Dieu, is doubtful." + +"Supposing we had arrived yesterday, would you have turned us out +to-night?" + +"The inquiry was made how many rooms I had, and I answered truthfully." + +Madame had sunk down on a bench by the door. Monte stared up the road +and down the road. There was no other house in sight. + +"You could not find a bed for madame even for ten louis d'or?" + +"Not for a thousand, monsieur. If there are no beds, there are no +beds." + +Yet there was room enough thereabouts. Behind the inn an olive orchard +extended up a gentle incline to a stone wall. Over this the sun was +descending in a blaze of glory. A warm breeze stirred the dark leaves +of the trees. A man could sleep out of doors on such a night as this. +Monte turned again to the man. + +"The orchard behind the house is yours?" he asked. + +"Yes, monsieur." + +"Then," said Monte, "if you will spare us a few blankets, madame and I +will sleep there." + +"Upon the ground?" + +"Upon the blankets," smiled Monte. + +"Ah, monsieur is from America!" exclaimed Soucin, as if that explained +everything. + +"Truly." + +"And it is so the Indians sleep, I have read." + +"You have read well. But we must have supper before the officers +arrive. You can spare some bread and cheese?" + +"I will do that." + +"Then make it ready at once. And some coffee?" + +"Yes, monsieur." + +Monte returned to madame. + +"I have engaged two rooms in the olive orchard," he announced. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +BENEATH THE STARS + +The situation was absurd, but what could be done about it? France was +at war, and there would be many who would sleep upon the ground who had +never slept there before. Many, too, in the ground. Still, the +situation was absurd--that Marjory, with all her thousands of dollars, +should be forced to sleep out of doors. It gave her a startling sense +of helplessness. She had been before in crowded places, but the +securing of accommodations was merely a matter of increasing the size +of her check. But here, even if one had a thousand louis d'or, that +would have made no difference. Officers of the Army of France were not +to be disturbed by the tinkle of gold. With a single gold-piece, +moreover, one could not even make a tinkle. + +She went into the inn to tidy herself before supper; but she hurried +back to Monte as quickly as possible. Out of sight of him she felt as +lost as a child in a forest. She had nothing to lean upon now but him. +Without him here she would scarcely have had even identity. Her name, +except as signed to a check, meant nothing. To have announced herself +as Miss Marjory Stockton, or even as Madame Covington, would have left +the soldiers of France merely smiling. To her sex they might have paid +some deference, but to her sex alone. She was not anything except as +she was attached to Monte--as a woman under the protection of her man. + +This did not humble her. Her first clean, unguarded emotion was one of +pride. Had it been her privilege to let herself go, she would have +taken her place near him with her eyes afire--with her head held as +proudly as any queen. Gladly would she have rested by his side in an +olive orchard or a fisherman's hut or a forest or on the plains or +anywhere fortune might take him. By his side--that would have been +enough. If she were his woman and he her man, that would have been +enough. + +If she could only let herself go! As she came into the smoky old +tavern room and he stepped forward to meet her, she swayed a little. +He looked so big and wholesome and eager with his arms outstretched! +They were alone here. It would have been so easy just to close her +eyes and let her head rest against his shoulder--so easy and restful. +He would have kissed her hair, and the ache would all have gone from +her body and heart. He would draw her close and hold her tight--yes, +for a day or two or a month or two. Then he would remember that week +in which she had trifled with him, and he would hate her. + +She pulled herself together. + +"Is supper ready?" + +It was such an inane remark! He turned aside like a boy who has been +snubbed. + +Monsieur Soucin had provided bread and cheese, a salad, and coffee. It +was enough. She had no appetite. She took much more satisfaction in +watching Monte and in pouring his coffee. His honest hunger was not +disturbed by any vain speculations. He ate like a man, as he did +everything like a man. It restored her confidence again. + +"Soucin lent a mattress, which I have arranged just the other side of +the wall. That is your room. With plenty of blankets you should be +comfortable enough there," he said. + +"And you?" she inquired. + +"I am on this side of the wall," he replied gravely. + +"What are you going to sleep upon?" + +"A blanket." + +If it had been possible to do so, she would have given him the mattress +and slept upon the ground herself. That is what she would have liked +to do. + +"It's no more than I have done in the woods when I could n't make camp +in time," he explained. "I had hoped to take you some day to my cabin +near the lake." + +She could think of nothing better than another inane remark:-- + +"It must be beautiful there." + +He looked up. + +"It always has been, but now--without you--" + +"You must n't let me make any difference," she put in quickly. + +"Why not?" + +"Because you must n't. You must go on just as if you had never met me." + +"Why?" He was as direct as a boy. + +"Because that's best. Oh, I know, Monte. You must trust me to know +what is good for you," she cried. + +"I don't believe you know even what is good for yourself," he answered. + +"I--I know what is right," she faltered. + +He saw that he was disturbing her, and he did not want to do that. + +"Perhaps in time we'll see," he said. "I have a notion that some day +you and I will get straightened out." + +"It does n't make so much difference about me; but you--you must get +back to your schedule again as soon as ever you can." + +"Perhaps to a new one; but that must include you." + +She could not help the color in her cheeks. It was beyond her control. + +"I must make my own little schedule," she insisted. + +"You are going back to the farm?" + +She nodded. + +"To-morrow we shall be in Italy. Then a train to Genoa and the next +boat," she said. + +"After that?" + +"In a week or so I shall be back where I started." + +"Then?" + +She laughed nervously. + +"I can't think much ahead of that. Perhaps I shall raise chickens." + +"Year after year?" + +"Maybe." + +"If you lived to be seventy you'd have a lot of chickens by then, would +n't you?" + +"I--I don't know." + +It did sound ridiculous, the way he put it. + +"Then--would you will them to some one?" he asked. + +He was laughing at her. She was glad to have him do that rather than +remain serious. + +"Please don't make me look ahead to seventy," she shuddered. + +Monsieur Soucin was hovering about nervously. He wished to have +everything cleared away before the officers arrived, and they would be +here now in half an hour. He was solicitous about madame. + +"It is a great pity that madame should sleep out of doors," he said. +"It makes my heart ache. But, with monsieur to guard her, at least +madame will be safe." + +Yes, safe from every one but herself. However, Monsieur Soucin could +not be expected to read a lady's innermost thoughts. Indeed, it would +scarcely have been gallant so to do. + +"And now you wish to be rid of us," said Monte as he rose. + +"Monsieur should not be unkind," sighed Soucin. "It is a necessity and +not a wish." + +"You have done as well as you could," Monte reassured him. "We shall +probably rise early and be on our way before the soldiers, so--" + +Monte slipped into his hand a gold-piece. It was too much from one +point of view, and yet from another it was little enough. Soucin had +unwittingly made an arrangement for which Monte could not pay in money. + +"And my share?" inquired Marjory. + +"One louis d'or," answered Monte unblushingly. + +She fumbled in her bag and brought it out--the last she had. And +Monte, in his reckless joy, handed that over also to Soucin. The man +was too bewildered to do more than bow as he might before a prince and +princess. + +Monte led her up the incline through the heavy-leaved olive trees to +her couch against the wall. It had been made up as neatly as in any +hotel, with plenty of blankets and a pillow for her head. + +"If you wish to retire at once," he said, "I'll go back to my side of +the wall." + +She hesitated. The wall was man-high and so thick that once he was +behind it she would feel terribly alone. + +"Or better still," he suggested, "you lie down and let me sit and smoke +here. I 'll be quiet." + +It was a temptation she would have resisted had she not been so tired +physically. As it was, half numbed with fatigue, she removed her hat +and lay down between the blankets. + +Monte slipped on his sweater with the black "H" and took a place +against the wall at Marjory's feet. + +"All comfy?" he asked. + +"It's impossible to feel altogether comfortable when you're selfish," +Marjory declared. + +He took a thoughtful puff of his cigarette. + +"I think you're right about that," he answered. "Only in this case +there's no reason in the world for you to feel like that, because I'm +comfortable too." + +"Honestly?" + +"Cross my heart. I'd rather be here than in the finest bed in Paris." + +"You're so good," she murmured. + +With all her muscles relaxed, and with him there, she felt as if she +were floating in the clouds. + +"It's strange you've always had that notion, because I 'm not +especially good," he replied. "Do you want to go to sleep, or may I +talk a while longer?" + +"Please to talk." + +"Of course," he ran on meditatively, "something depends upon what you +mean by being good. I used to think it was merely being decent. I've +been that. It happened to be easy. But being good, as I see it now, +is being good when it isn't easy--and then something more." + +She was listening with bated breath, because he was voicing her own +thoughts. + +"It's being good to others besides yourself," he continued. +"Forgetting yourself for them--when that is n't easy." + +"Yes, it's that," she said. + +"I don't want to boast," he said; "but, in a way, I come nearer being +good at this moment, than ever before in my life." + +"You mean because it's tiresome for you to sit there?" + +"Because it's hard for me to sit here when I'd like to be kneeling by +your side, kissing your hand, your forehead, your lips," he answered +passionately. + +She started to her elbow. + +"I shan't move," he assured her. "But it is n't easy to sit here like +a bump on a log with everything you're starving for within arm's reach." + +"Monte!" she gasped. "Perhaps you'd better not talk." + +"If it were only as easy to stop thinking!" + +"Why don't one's thoughts mind?" she cried. "When they are told what's +right, why don't they come right?" + +"God knows," he answered. "I sit here and tell myself that if you +don't love me I should let it go at that, and think the way I did +before the solemn little pastor in Paris got so serious over what +wasn't meant to be serious. I've tried, little woman. I tried hard +when I left you with Peter. I could n't do it then, and I can't do it +now. I hear over and over again the words the little minister spoke, +and they grow more wonderful and fine every day. I think he must have +known then that I loved you or he would not have uttered them." + +The leaves in the olive trees rustled beneath the stars. + +"Dear wife," he cried, "when are you coming to me?" + +He did not move. She saw his broad shoulders against the wall. She +saw his arms folded over his chest as if to keep them tight. She saw +his clenched lips. + +"God help me to keep silent," she prayed. + +"When are you coming?" he repeated wearily. "Will it be one year or +two years or three years?" + +She moistened her lips. He seemed to speak as though it were only a +matter of time--as though it were he who was being punished and it was +only a question of how long. She sank back with her eyes upon the +stars darting shafts of white light through the purple. + +"And what am I going to do while I'm waiting?" he went on, as though to +himself. + +Grimly she forced out the words:-- + +"You--you must n't wait. There 's nothing to wait for." + +She saw his arms tighten; saw his lips grow hard. + +"Nothing?" he exclaimed. "Don't make me believe that, because--then +there would n't be anything." + +She grew suddenly afraid. + +"There would be everything else in the world for you--everything except +me," she trembled. "And I count for so little. That's what I want you +to learn. That's what, in a little while, you will learn. That's what +you must learn. If you'll only hold on until to-morrow--until the next +day and I'm gone--" + +"Gone?" + +He sprang to his feet. + +"Monte!" she warned. + +In terror she struggled to her own feet. The white light of the stars +bathed their faces. In the distance he heard the notes of a trumpet +sounding taps. It roused him further. It was as though the night were +closing in upon him--as though life were closing in on him. + +He turned and seized her. + +"Marjory!" he cried. "Look me in the eyes." + +She obeyed. + +"They are sounding taps over there," he panted. "Before they are +through--do you love me, Marjory?" + +Never before in all his life had he asked her that directly. Always +she had been able to avoid the direct answer. Now-- + +She tried to struggle free. + +"Don't--don't ask me that!" she pleaded. + +"Before they are through--do you love me?" + +Piercing the still night air the final notes came to her. There was no +escape. Either she must lie or tell the truth and to lie--that meant +death. + +"Quick!" he cried. + +"I do!" she whispered. + +"Then--" + +He tried to draw her to him. + +"You made me tell you, Monte," she sobbed. "Oh, you made me tell the +truth." + +"The truth," he nodded with a smile; "that was all that was necessary. +It's all that is ever necessary." + +He had released her. She was crowding against the wall. She looked up +at him. + +"Now," he said, "if it's one year or two years or three years--what's +the difference?" + +Her eyes suddenly grew as brilliant as the stars. She straightened +herself. + +"Then," she trembled, "if it's like that--" + +"It might as well be now," he pleaded. + +Unsteadily, like one walking in a dream, she tottered toward him. He +caught her in his arms and kissed her lips--there in the starlight, +there in the olive orchard, there in the Garden of Eden. + + + + +THE END + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Triflers, by Frederick Orin Bartlett + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRIFLERS *** + +***** This file should be named 20458.txt or 20458.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/0/4/5/20458/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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