Mary felt like an escaped prisoner as the train began to move out of
Victoria Station--the train which was taking her toward France and
Italy. It was like passing through a great gray gate, labeled "This way
to warmth and sunshine and beauty." Already, though the gate itself was
not beautiful, Mary seemed to see through it, far ahead, vistas of
lovely places to which it opened. She sat calmly, as the moving carriage
rescued her from Aunt Sara and Elinor on the platform, but her hands
were locked tightly inside the five-year-old squirrel muff, which would
have been given away, with everything of hers, if Sister Rose had not
changed a certain decision at the eleventh hour. She was quivering with
excitement and the wild sense of freedom which she had not tasted in
London.
In leaving the convent she had not felt this sense of escaping, for the
convent had been "home," the goodbyes had drowned her in grief, and she
had often before driven off with Lady MacMillan, in the springy barouche
behind the fat horses. Even the journey to London had not given her the
thrill she hoped for, as rain had fallen heavily, blotting out the
landscape. Besides, she had even then regarded her stay in London with
the Home-Davises only as a stage on the journey which was eventually to
lead her into warmth and sunlight.
This train, with the foreign-looking people who rushed about chattering
French and German, Italian and Arabic on the platform and in the
corridors, seemed to link London mysteriously with other lands. Even the
strong, active porters, who sprang at huge trunks piled on cabs, and
carried them off to the weighing-room, were different from other
porters, more important, part of a great scheme, and their actions added
to her excitement. She liked the way that an alert guard put her into
her compartment, as if he were posting a letter in a hurry, and had
others to post. Then the great and sudden bustle of the train going out
made her heart beat.
Mary had been brought to the station early, for Elinor had been nervous
lest she might miss the train, and Doctor Smythe was coming at four
o'clock that afternoon. But others who were to share the compartment
were late. It was violently exciting to have them dash in at the last
moment, and dispose of bags and thick rugs in straps to be used on the
Channel.
They were two, mother and daughter perhaps; a delicate birdlike girl and
a plump middle-aged woman with an air of extreme self-satisfaction.
In themselves they did not appear interesting, but Mary was interested,
and wondered where they were going. When they took out fashion-papers
and sixpenny novels, however, she felt that they were no longer worth
attention. How could they read, when they were saying goodbye to
England, and when each minute the windows framed charming pictures of
skimming Kentish landscape? The strangely shaped oast-houses puzzled
Mary. She longed to ask what they were, but the woman and the girl
seemed absorbed in their books and papers. Mary thought they must be
dull and stupid; but suddenly it came to her that to many people, these
among others, maybe, this journey was a commonplace, everyday affair.
Even going to France or Italy might not be to them a high adventure.
Extraordinary to reflect that all over the world men and women were
travelling, going to wonderful new places, seeing wonderful new things,
and taking it as a matter of course!
She had never seen the sea; and when the billowing fields and neat
hedges changed to chalky downs, a sudden whiff of salt on the air
blowing through a half-open window made her heart leap. She nearly
cried, "The sea!" but controlled herself because of her prim
fellow-passengers.
Mary would have been surprised if she had known their real feelings
toward her, which were not as remote as she supposed.
She looked, they both thought, like a schoolgirl going abroad for her
Christmas holidays, only it was early for holidays: but if she were a
schoolgirl it was strange that she should be travelling alone. Her furs
were old-fashioned and inexpensive, her gray tweed dress plain and
without style, her hat had a home-made air, but from under the short
skirt peeped smart patent-leather shoes with silver buckles and pointed
toes, and there was a glimpse of silk stockings thin as a mere polished
film. A schoolgirl would not be allowed to have such shoes and
stockings, which, in any case, were most unsuited to travelling. (Poor
Mary had not known this, in replacing the convent abominations which had
struck Peter as pathetic; and Mrs. Home-Davis had not troubled to tell
her); nor would a schoolgirl be likely to have delicate gray suède
gloves, with many buttons, or a lace handkerchief like a morsel of
seafoam. These oddities in Mary's toilet, due to her inexperience and
untutored shopping, puzzled her companions; and often, while she
supposed them occupied with the fashions, they were stealing furtive
glances at her clear, saintly profile, the full rose-red lips which
contradicted its austerity, and the sparkling waves of hair meekly drawn
down over the small ears. Her rapt expression, also, piqued their
curiosity.
They were inclined to believe it a pose, put on to attract attention;
and though they could not help acknowledging her beauty, they were far
from sure that she was a person to be approved. At one instant the
mother of the birdlike girl fancied her neighbour a child. The next, she
was sure that the stranger was much more mature than she looked, or
wished to look. And when, on leaving the train at Dover, Mary spoke
French to a young Frenchman in difficulties with an English porter, the
doubting hearts of her fellow-travellers closed against the offender.
With an accent like that, this was certainly not her first trip abroad,
they decided. With raised eyebrows they telegraphed each other that they
would not be surprised if she had an extremely intimate knowledge of
Paris and Parisian ways.
Even the Frenchman she befriended was ungrateful enough not to know
quite what to think of Mary. He raised his hat, and gave her a look of
passionate gratitude, in case anything were to be got by it: but the
deep meaning of the gaze was lost on the lately emancipated Sister Rose.
She blushed, because it happened to be the first time she had ever
spoken to a young man unchaperoned by Lady MacMillan: but she was
regarding him as a fellow-being, and remembering that she had been
instructed to seize any chance of doing a kindness, no matter how small.
She had never been told that it was not always safe for a girl to treat
a Frenchman as a fellow-being.
Afterward, on the boat, when a porter had placed her in a sheltered
deck-seat with a curved top, the fellow-being ventured again to thank
the English Mees for coming to his rescue. It was a pleasure to Mary to
speak French, which had been taught her by Sister Marie-des-Anges, a
French nun from Paris; and she and the young man plunged into an
animated conversation. Her travelling companions had chairs on deck not
far off, and they knew what to think of the mystery now. They were on
the way to Mentone, but as they intended stopping a day in Paris, and
going on by a cheaper train than the _train de luxe_, Mary did not see
them again during the journey.
She was unconscious of anything in her appearance or conduct to arouse
disapproval. Her one regret concerning the thin silk stockings and
delicate shoes (which she had bought because they were pretty) was that
her ankles were cold. She had no rug; but the Frenchman insisted on
lending her his, tucking it round her knees and under her feet. Then she
was comfortable, and even more grateful to him than he had been to her
for translating him to the porter. He was dark and thin, cynically
intelligent looking, of a type new to Mary; and she thanked him for
being disappointed that she could not stop in Paris. He inquired if, by
chance, she were going to Monte Carlo. When she said no, she was passing
on much farther, he was again disappointed, because, being an artist, he
often ran down to Monte Carlo himself in the winter, and it would have
been a great privilege to renew acquaintance with so charming an English
lady.
Mary had feared that she might be ill in crossing the Channel, as she
had never been on the water before, and could not know whether she were
a good or a bad sailor. Aunt Sara and Elinor had told her unpleasant
anecdotes of voyages; but when Dover Castle on its gray height, and
white Shakespeare Cliff with its memories of "Lear," had faded from her
following eyes, still she would hardly have known that the vessel was
moving. The purring turbines scarcely thrilled the deck; and presently
Mary ate sandwiches and drank a decoction of coffee, brought by her new
friend. He laughed when she started at a mournful hoot of the siren, and
was enormously interested to hear that she had never set eyes upon the
sea until to-day. Mademoiselle, for such an ingenue, was very
courageous, he thought, and looked at Mary closely; but her eyes
wandered from him to the phantom-shapes that loomed out of a pale,
wintry mist: tramps thrashing their way to the North Sea: a vast,
distant liner with tiers of decks one above the other: a darting
torpedo-destroyer which flashed by like a streak of foam.
Everything was so interesting that Mary would far rather not have had to
talk, but she had been brought up in a school of old-fashioned courtesy.
To her, a failure in politeness would have been almost a crime: and as
the sisters had never imagined the possibility of her talking with a
strange young man, they had not cautioned her against doing so.
She had meant to scribble a few notes of her impressions during the
journey, for the benefit of Reverend Mother and the nuns, posting her
letter in Paris; but as the Frenchman appeared surprised at her
travelling alone, and everybody else seemed to be with friends, she
decided not to write until Florence. There, when she could say that she
had reached her journey's end safely, she might confess that she had
left London without her relatives or even the companion-maid they
advised.
"If Reverend Mother saw Aunt Sara, even for five minutes," Mary said to
herself, "she couldn't blame me."
As it happened, there had been such a rush at the last, after the great
decision was made, that Mary had not written to the convent. She had
only telegraphed: "Leaving at once for Florence. Will write."
She was hoping that Reverend Mother would not scold her for what she had
done, when suddenly another cliff, white as the cliffs of Dover,
glimmered through the haze. Then she forgot her sackcloth, for,
according to the Frenchman, this was old Grisnez, pushing its inquiring
nose into the sea; and beyond loomed the tall lighthouse of Calais.
It was absurdly wonderful on landing at Calais to hear every one talking
French. Of course, Mary had known that it would be so, but actually to
hear it, and to think that these people had spoken French since they
were babies, was ridiculously nice. She felt rewarded for all the pains
she had taken to learn verbs and acquire exactly the right accent; and
she half smiled in a friendly way at the dark porters in their blue
blouses, and at the toylike policemen with their swords and capes. Her
porter was a cross-looking, elderly man, but at the smile she had for
him he visibly softened; and, with her dressing-bag slung by a strap
over his broad shoulder, made an aggressive shield of his stout body to
pilot her through the crowd.
Now she left behind the two Englishwomen and her French acquaintance,
for she was a passenger in the _luxe_, which started earlier than the
ordinary first-class train for Paris. The Frenchman hoped and believed
that she would regret his society, but she forgot him before the train
went out, having no premonition of any future meeting.
This, then, was what they called a _wagon lit_! She was delighted with
her quarters, supposing, as the compartment seemed small, that it was
entirely for her use during the journey. She had been told that she
would be provided with a bed, and she wondered how it was to be
arranged.
Darkness fell over France, but Mary felt that she could see through the
black veil, away to the south, where roses were budding in warm
sunshine. She was whole-heartedly glad, for the first time, to be out of
the convent.
If it had not been winter and night, she would perhaps have longed to
stop in Paris, but the sight of the great bleak Gare du Nord chilled
her. The ordeal of the _douane_ had to be gone through there, and Mary
was glad when it was over, and she could go on again, though she was
once more protected by a gallant porter; and a youngish official of the
customs, after a glance at her face, quickly marked crosses on her
luggage without opening it. Other women, older and not attractive, saw
this favouritism, and swelled with resentment, as Elinor Home-Davis had
when saying:
"_Is_ she the kind who can ever let men alone? She makes eyes at the
footman!"
Mary had never heard of "making eyes." One did not use these vulgar
expressions at the convent. But Peter would have known what Elinor
meant; and even Reverend Mother knew instinctively that, if Mary Grant
went out into the world, she would unconsciously influence all sorts and
conditions of men with whom she came in contact, as the moon influences
the tides. And Reverend Mother would have felt it safer for just such
creatures as Mary to live out their lives in the shelter of a convent.
But Mary thought only how kind Frenchmen even of the lower classes were,
and wondered if those of other nations were as polite. Slowly the train
took her round Paris, and, after what seemed a long time, stopped in
another huge station, which shivered under a white, crude flood of
electric light. Its name--Gare du Lyon--sounded warm, however, and sent
her fancy flying southward again. She was growing impatient to get on
when, to her surprise, a porter hovering in the corridor with a large
dressing-bag plumped it into the rack beside her own. Mary started.
Could it be possible that any one else had a right to come in with her?
The question was answered by the appearance of a marvellous lady who
followed the porter. "Which of us is here?" she asked. "Oh, it's you,
Mrs. Collis! That's your bag, I think."
She spoke like an Englishwoman, yet there was a faint roll of the "r"
suggestive of foreign birth or education. Mary had never seen any one
like her before. She was unusually tall, as tall as a man of good
height, and her figure was magnificent. Evidently she was not ashamed of
her stature, for her large black hat had upstanding white wings, and her
heels were high. Her navy blue cloth dress braided with black that had
threads of gold here and there was made to show her form to the best
advantage. Mary had not known that hair could be as black as the heavy
waves which melted into the black velvet of the hat. The level brows
over the long eyes were equally black, and so were the thick short
lashes. Between these inky lines the eyes themselves were as coldly gray
and empty as a northern sea, yet they were attractive, if only by an
almost sinister contrast. The skin was extraordinarily white, and it did
not occur to Mary that Nature alone had not whitened it, or reddened the
large scarlet mouth. Women did not paint at the convent, nor did Lady
MacMillan's guests. Mary did not know anything about paint. She thought
the newcomer very handsome, yet somehow formidable.
In a moment other people trooped into the corridor and grouped round the
door of Mary's compartment. There was a wisp of a woman with neat
features and sallow complexion, who looked the essence of respectability
combined with a small, tidy intelligence. She was in brown from head to
foot, and her hair was brown, too, where it was not turning gray.
Evidently she was Mrs. Collis, for she took a lively interest in the
bag, and said she must have it down, as the stupid people had put it
wrong side up. She spoke like an American, though not with the
delicately sweet drawl that Peter had. Behind her stood a pretty girl
whose features were neatly cut out on somewhat the same design, and
whose eyes and hair were of the same neutral brown. She had a waist of
painful slenderness, and she reminded Mary of a charming wren. Behind
her came another girl, older and of a different type, with hair yellow
as a gold ring, round eyes of opaque, turquoise blue, without
expression, and complexion of incredible pink and white. Her lips, too,
were extremely pink, and her brows and lashes almost as black as those
of the tall woman. She wore pale purple serge, with a hat to match, and
had a big bunch of violets pinned on a fur stole which was bobbing and
pulsing with numberless tiny, grinning heads of dead animals. On her
enormous muff were more of these animals, and tucked under one arm
appeared a miniature dog with a ferocious face. In the wake of these
ladies who surged round the door and sent forth waves of perfume,
presently arrived a man who joined them as if reluctantly, and because
he could think of nothing else to do.
He was much taller than the woman who had come first, and must have been
well over six feet. His clean-shaven, aquiline face was of a dead
pallor. There were dark shadows and a disagreeable fulness under his
gray, wistful eyes, which seemed to appeal for help without any hope of
receiving it. He walked wearily and slouchingly, stooping a little, as
if he were too tired or bored to take the trouble of throwing back his
shoulders.
The ladies talked together, very fast, all but the tall one, who, though
she talked also, did not chatter as the others did, but spoke slowly, in
a low tone which must be listened to, or it could not be heard. The four
laughed a good deal, and when the tall woman smiled she lost something
of her fascination, for she had large, slightly prominent eye-teeth
which went far to spoil her handsome red mouth. The others paid great
attention to her, and to the big man with the sad eyes. In loud voices,
as if they wished people to hear, they constantly addressed these two as
Lord and Lady Dauntrey.
"I--are you quite sure that you're to be here?" Mary ventured, when Mrs.
Collis had whisked into the compartment, and was ringing for some one to
take down her bag, after the train had started. "I thought--I had this
place to myself."
"Why, if you have, there must be a mistake," replied the American. "Have
you taken both berths?"
"No," said Mary. "Only one. Are there two?"
"My, yes, of course. In some there are four. But this is one of the
little ones. I expect"--and she smiled--"that you haven't made many long
journeys?"
"I haven't travelled at all before," Mary answered, blushing under the
eyes turned upon her.
"Well, you'll find it's all right, what I say," the American lady went
on. "But"--and she lost interest in Mary--"aren't we silly? Miss
Wardrobe had better come in here, where there's only one place, and my
daughter and I'll take a compartment together, as the car seems pretty
full."
"Please don't call me Miss Wardrobe!" exclaimed the golden-haired girl.
"That's the eighth time. I've counted." As she spoke, her tiny dog
yapped in a thin voice at the offender, its round eyes goggling.
"I hope you'll excuse me, I'm sure," returned the American, acidly.
"I must say, I really don't think mamma's had occasion to mention your
name as many times as eight since we first had the pleasure of meeting,"
the charming wren flew to her mother's rescue. "But you've got such a
difficult name."
"Anyhow, it isn't like everybody else's, which is _something_," retorted
the girl who had been called "Miss Wardrobe."
Mary began to be curious to know what the real name was. But perhaps she
would find out later, as the young woman was to share her little room.
It would be interesting to learn things about this odd party, yet she
would rather have been alone.
Soon after Paris there was dinner in the dining-car not far away, and
Mary had opposite her the girl with the queer name. No one else was at
the table. At first they did not speak, and Mary remembered the training
of her childhood, never to seem observant of strangers; but she could
not help looking sometimes at her neighbour. The first thing the latter
did on sitting down was to draw off her gloves, and roll them inside
out. She then opened a chain bag of platinum and gold, which looked
rather dirty, and taking out, one after another, eight jewelled rings,
slipped them on affectionately. Several fingers were adorned with two or
three, each ring appearing to have its recognized place. When all were
on, their wearer laid a hand on either side of her plate, and regarded
first one, then the other, contentedly, with a slight movement causing
the pink manicured nails to glitter, and bringing out deep flashes from
diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. Glancing up suddenly, with
self-conscious composure, the young woman saw that her neighbour's eyes
appreciated the exhibition. She smiled, and Mary smiled too.
"If I didn't think my stable-companion was all right, I wouldn't have
dared put them on," remarked "Miss Wardrobe." "But I do feel so--well,
undressed almost, without my rings; don't you?"
"I haven't any," Mary confessed.
"Why--don't you like rings?"
"Yes, on other people. I love jewels. But for myself, I've never thought
of having any--yet."
"I've thought more about it than about anything else," remarked the
girl, smiling a broad, flat smile that showed beautiful white teeth. She
looked curiously unintelligent when she smiled.
"Perhaps I shall begin thinking more about it now."
"That sounds interesting. What will start your mind to working on the
subject? Looking at my rings?" She had an odd, persistent accent which
irritated Mary's ears. If it was like anything the convent-bred girl had
heard, it resembled the accent of a housemaid who "did" her bedroom in
Cromwell Road. This maid had said that she was a London girl. And
somehow Mary imagined that, if she had rings, she would like taking them
out of a gold bag and putting them on at the dinner-table. Because Mary
had never had for a companion any girl or woman not a lady, she did not
know how to account for peculiarities which would not have puzzled one
more experienced.
"Perhaps," she answered, smiling.
"Maybe you mean to win a lot of money at Monte, and buy some?"
"At Monte--does that mean Monte Carlo? Oh, no, I'm going to Florence.
But some money has been left to me lately, so I can do and have things I
shouldn't have thought of before." Mary explained all this frankly, yet
without any real wish to talk of her own affairs.
The four others of the party were at a table opposite; and as there was
a moment's lull in the rush of waiters and clatter of plates for a
change of courses, now and then a few words of conversation at one table
reached another. As Mary mentioned the legacy Lady Dauntrey suddenly
flashed a glance at her, and though the long pale eyes were turned away
immediately, she had the air of listening to catch the rest of the
sentence. By this time the little quarrel over "Miss Wardrobe's" name
had apparently been forgotten. The five were on good terms, and talked
to each other across the gangway. Again the title of the two leading
members of the party was called out conspicuously, and people at other
tables turned their heads or stretched their necks to look at this party
who advertised the "jolly time" they were having. They chattered about
"Monte," and about celebrities supposed to have arrived there already,
though it was still early in the season. Lady Dauntrey told anecdotes of
the "Rooms," as if to show that she was not ignorant of the place; but
Lord Dauntrey said nothing unless he were addressed, and then answered
in as few words as possible. Nevertheless he had something of that
old-world courtesy which Mary had been taught, and she felt an odd,
instinctive sympathy with him. She even found herself pitying the man,
though she did not know why. A man might be taciturn and tired-looking
yet not unhappy.
They sat a long time at dinner before they were allowed to pay and go.
Lord Dauntrey's party smoked, and the girl at Mary's table offered her a
cigarette from a gold case with the name "Dodo" written across it in
diamonds. Mary thanked her, and refused. She had heard girls at school
say that they knew women who smoked, but she had never seen a woman
smoking. It seemed odd that no one looked surprised.
Her neighbour, whom she now heard addressed as Miss Wardropp, did not
come into their compartment at once, but stopped in another of the same
size, where she, with Lord and Lady Dauntrey and Miss Collis, played a
game with a little wheel which they turned. When Mary stood in the
corridor, while the beds were being made, she saw them turning this
wheel, and wondered what the game could be. They had a folding board
with yellow numbers on a dark green ground, and they were playing with
ivory chips of different colours.
Mary had the lower berth, but when she realized how much pleasanter it
would be to sleep in the upper one, she could not bring herself to take
it. She felt that it would be selfish to be found there when Miss
Wardropp came to undress; and when the latter did appear, toward
midnight, it was to see the lower berth left free.
"Why, but you were below. Didn't you know that?" she inquired rather
sharply, as if she expected her room mate to insist on changing.
"Yes," Mary replied meekly. "But I--I left it for you, and your little
dog."
"Well, I do think that's about the most unselfish thing I ever heard of
any one doing!" exclaimed Miss Wardropp. "Thank you very much, I'm sure.
No good my refusing now, as you're already in?"
"No, indeed," Mary laughed.
"I wish you were going with us to the Villa Bella Vista," said the
other. "From what I can see, we don't seem likely to get much
unselfishness there, from anybody."
Then, as she undressed, showing exquisite underclothing, she followed
her ambiguous remark by pouring out information concerning herself, her
companions, and their plans.
She was from Australia, and intimated that her father, lately dead, had
left plenty of money. She had met Lord and Lady Dauntrey a month ago in
Brighton at the Metropole. Where the Dauntreys had "picked up the
Collises," Dodo Wardropp did not know, but they were "late
acquisitions." "Lord and Lady Dauntrey have taken a furnished villa at
Monte for the season," she went on, "a big one, so they can have lots of
guests. I and the Collises are the first instalment, but they're
expecting others: two or three men with titles."
She said this as if "titles" were a disease, like measles. As she rubbed
off the day's powder and paint with cold cream, there was a nice smell
in the little room of the _wagon lit_, like the scent of a theatrical
dressing-room.
"I suppose you're looking forward to a delightful winter," Mary
ventured, from her berth, as Dodo hid a low-necked lace nightgown under
a pink silk kimono embroidered with gold.
"I hope!" exclaimed Miss Wardropp. "I pay for it, anyhow. I don't mind
telling, as you aren't going to Monte, and won't know any of them, that
we're sort of glorified paying-guests. The Collises haven't said to me
they're that, and I haven't said what I am; but we know. I'm paying
fourteen guineas a week for my visit, and I've a sneaking idea her
ladyship's saving up the best room for other friends who'll give more. I
could live at the Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo, I expect, for that
price, but you see the catch is that Lord and Lady Dauntrey can
introduce their guests to swell people. I wouldn't meet the right kind
if I lived in a hotel, even with a first-rate chaperon. I know, for I
came to Monte Carlo with an Australian friend, for a few days on my way
to England. It's no use being at a resort if you don't get into the
smart set, is it?"
"I suppose not," said Mary. "But I think I care more about places than
people."
"I don't understand that feeling. I want to get in with the best. And
though Lord Dauntrey's poor, and I imagine disappointed in expectations
of money with her, he must be acquainted with a lot of important titled
people. He's a viscount, you know, and that's pretty high up."
"I didn't know," Mary confessed. "I don't know anything about society."
"You seem to have led a retired sort of life," Miss Wardropp remarked,
though without much curiosity, for she was not really interested in any
woman except herself, or those connected with her affairs. "Surely you
read about their wedding in South Africa last Spring?"
"No. I have never read newspapers."
"I don't bother either, except society news and fashion pages. But there
were pictures of them both everywhere. I expect she got the photographs
in, for he doesn't seem a man to like that sort of thing. Lord Dauntrey
was out in South Africa for years, trying to make his fortune, but it
didn't appear to come off. Friends of mine I knew at Brighton, who took
me there, a rich Jew and his wife who'd lived in Africa, said when the
Dauntreys turned up at the Metropole that he'd been at a pretty low ebb
out there. I believe he studied for a doctor, but I don't know if he
ever practised. Nobody can say exactly who Lady Dauntrey was originally,
but she was a widow when he married her, and supposed to have money. He
doesn't seem to care for society, but she's ambitious to be some one.
She's so good-looking she's sure to succeed. I expect to know everybody
smart at Monte. That's what I've been promised, and Lady Dauntrey'll
entertain a good deal. If that doesn't amuse her husband he can shoot
pigeons, and gamble at the Casino. He's got a system at roulette that
works splendidly on his little wheel. We were playing it this evening.
But I expect I'm boring you. You look sleepy. I'll turn in, and go
bye-bye with Diablette."
For the rest of the night all was silence in the compartment, save for
the gobbling noises made in her sleep by the griffon Diablette. Mary lay
awake in her upper berth, longing to look out, and thrilling to musical
cries of big baritone voices at the few stops the train made: "Di-jon-n,
cinq minutes d'arrêt! Ma-con-n, cinq minutes d'ar-rêt! Ly-on, dix
minutes d'a-rr-êt!"
It was wonderful to hear the names ring like bells out of the mystery
and darkness of night, names she had known all her life since she had
been old enough to study history or read romance. She thought that the
criers must have been chosen for their resonant voices, and in her mind
she pictured faces to match, dark and ruddy, with great southern eyes;
for now the train was booming toward Provence: and though Mary began to
be drowsy, she held herself awake on purpose to hear "Avignon" shouted
through the night.
Very early, almost before it was light, she arose noiselessly, bathed as
well as she could, and dressed, so as to be able to look out at
Marseilles. Miss Wardropp was asleep, and as the train slowed into the
big station in the pale glimmer of the winter morning, Mary walked to
the end of the car. The stop would be twenty minutes, and as the train
gave its last jerk Mary jumped on to the platform.
The sky was of a faint, milky blue, like the blue that moves under the
white cloud in a moonstone, and the first far down ray of morning sun,
coming up with the balmy wind from still, secret places where the youth
of the world slept, shimmered golden as a buttercup held under the
pearly chin of a child. This was only Marseilles, but already the smell
of the south was in the air, the scent of warm salt sea, of eucalyptus
logs burning, and pine trees and invisible orange groves. On the
platform, osier baskets packed full of flowers sent out wafts of
perfume; and as Mary stood gazing over the heads of the crowd at the
lightening sky, she thought the dawn rushed up the east like a
torchbearer, bringing good news. Just for a moment she forgot everybody,
and could have sung for joy of life--a feeling new to her, though
something deep down in herself had whispered that it was there and she
might know it if she would. It was such faint whisperings as this which,
repeated often, had driven her from the convent.
"How young I am!" she thought, for once actively self-conscious. "How
young I am, and how young the world is!"
She let her eyes fall from the sky and plunge into the turmoil of the
station, turmoil of people getting in and out of trains, of porters
running with luggage, of restaurant employés wheeling stands of food
through the crowd, piled oranges and mandarines, and white grapes,
decorated with leaves and a few flowers; soldiers arriving or saying
goodbye, jolly dark youths in red and blue; an Arab trying to sell
scarfs from Algiers; a Turkish family travelling; English men and women
newly landed, with P. & O. labels large on their hand-bags; French
_bonnes_ wearing quaint stiff caps and large floating ribbons; Indian
ayahs wrapped in shawls. Mary gazed at the scene as if it were a
panorama, and scarcely dwelt upon individuals until her eyes were drawn
by the eyes of a man.
It was when she had mounted the steps of her own car, and turned once
more before going in. So she looked down at the man looking up.
She blushed under the eyes, for there was something like adoration in
them, romantic admiration such as a man may feel for the picture of a
lovely saint against a golden background, or the poetic heroine of a
classic legend. They were extraordinarily handsome eyes, dark and
mysterious as only Italian eyes can be, though Mary Grant did not know
this, having gazed into few men's eyes, and none that were Italian.
"Looking up so, his face is like what Romeo's must have been," she said
to herself with an answering romantic impulse. "Surely he is Italian!"
And he, looking up at her, said, "What a picture of Giulietta on the
balcony! Is she French, Italian, Russian?"
The man was a Roman, whose American mother had not robbed him of an
ardent temperament that leaned toward romance; and he had just come back
to the west across the sea, from a romantic mission in the east. He had
not exchanged words with a woman for months, in the desert where he had
been living. For this reason, perhaps, he was the readier to find
romance in any lovely pair of eyes; but it seemed to him that there
never had been such eyes as these. For always, in a man's life, there
must be one pair of eyes which are transcendent stars, even if they are
seen but once, then lost forever.
This was not his train, for the _luxe_ does not take local passengers,
in the season when every place is filled between Paris and Nice; but
because of Mary's face, he wished to travel with her, and look into her
eyes again, in order to make sure if they really held the magic of that
first glance.
He found a train-attendant and spoke with him rapidly, in a low voice,
making at the same time a suggestive chinking of gold and silver with
one hand in his pocket.