XVII

Mary's one thought was to escape and hide herself from every one. She

felt as fastidious women feel after a journey through miles of thick

black dust, when they cannot bear to have their faces seen with the

disfiguring stains of travel upon them. But she had to go back to the

deck where people were dancing, before she could find her way to any

hiding place; and even then she did not know how she should contrive to

leave the yacht without answering questions and fighting objections.

She was thankful to find Captain Hannaford not dancing, and standing

near the foot of the steps she had just descended. He was some one she

knew, at least, some one whose calm manner made him seem dependable.

Then, too, the physical affliction which repelled her, in making him

appear remote from the world of fortunate men, almost attracted her at

this moment. Standing there as if waiting for her, very quiet,

apparently quite unemotional, he was like a lifeboat in a merciless sea.

She snatched at the help he silently offered.

"I feel ill," she said, chokingly. "Do you think I could get away

without any one noticing? I want to go home."

Instinctively she was sure that she might count upon him to serve her,

that he would rather do so than stay and watch the dancing, for he

himself did not dance.

"Come along," he said, with the calmness which was never ruffled.

"People will think you're engaged to sit out this dance with me. Get

your wraps, and I'll see that the launch is ready to take you across to

the slip."

The ladies' dressing-room was below. One of the largest and finest of

the staterooms had been set apart for that purpose; but there were so

few cloaks that Mary had no difficulty in finding hers, half-dazed as

she was. To her relief, Captain Hannaford was waiting for her not far

from the door when she came out.

"I thought as you're seedy you mightn't be able to find the way alone,"

he said. "It's all right about the launch."

Five minutes later she was being carried toward the shore, the explosive

throbbing of the engine sending stabs of pain through her temples.

Beside her sat Hannaford; silent, his arms folded, his black bandaged

face turned away from her. He had a habit, when he could, of seating

himself so that the unscarred side of his head was in sight of the

person next him; but to-night he had not done this with Mary. He knew

that she would be blind not only to his defects, but to his existence,

if he did not irritate her by trying to attract attention.

Neither spoke a word during the few moments of transit, and Mary gazed

always toward land, as if she did not wish to see the great lighted

yacht which illuminated the whole harbour. It had not occurred to her

that she ought to say, "Don't trouble to come with me. I shall do very

well alone." She took it for granted not only that he would come, but

that he would be glad to come; and there was no conceit in this tacit

assumption. It was borne in upon her mind from his, as if by an

assurance.

When the motor launch had landed them upon the slip, and puffed fussily

away again, Hannaford steadied Mary's steps with a hand on her arm. It

was not until they were on the pavement, and facing up the hill that

leads from the Condamine to higher Monte Carlo, that she spoke. "Oh, I

ought to have left word for Lady Dauntrey!" she exclaimed.

"I thought of that," Hannaford quietly answered. "I wrote on a card that

you had a headache and I was taking you home."

"Thank you," Mary said, mechanically. As soon as she had heard the words

she forgot them, and let her thoughts rush back to the arena of their

martyrdom. Hannaford took her hand and laid it on his arm. She allowed

it to rest there, depending unconsciously on the support he gave. They

did not speak again until they had reached the top of the hill, turned

the corner, and arrived at the steps of the Hôtel de Paris.

Because Lady Dauntrey had chosen to make a late entrance on the scene,

it was after midnight now, though Mary and Hannaford had come away

comparatively early from the dance. The Casino was shut, but Christmas

eve festivities were going on in the restaurant, as well as in the

brilliantly lit Moorish Café de Paris on the opposite side of the

_Place_. Mary's longing for peace and quiet in "coming home" was jarred

out of her mind by the gay music and lights, and sounds of distant

laughter which seemed to have followed her mockingly from the yacht. But

they brought her out of herself; and standing on the lowest step she

thanked Hannaford for all that he had done.

"You know I've done nothing," he said. "I wish there were something I

really could do for you. Isn't there? Wouldn't you like to have an

English doctor prescribe for your headache? I know a splendid one. He'd

cure you in an hour."

"I must try to cure myself," Mary said. "I shall be better soon. I must

be! There's nothing more you can do, thank you very much. Unless----"

"Unless what?" He caught her up more quickly than he usually spoke.

"Now I've come back, I can hardly bear to go indoors after all. I feel

as if I couldn't breathe in a warm room, with curtains over the windows.

Would you take me on the terrace? I think I should like just to sit on

one of the seats there for a few minutes; and afterward maybe I shall be

more ready to go in."

"Come, then," was the brief answer that was somehow comforting to Mary.

She began consciously to realize that this man's calm presence helped

her. She was grateful, and at the same time smitten with remorse for the

faint physical repulsion against him she had never until now quite lost.

At this moment she believed that it was entirely gone, and could never

return; but she felt that she ought to atone in some way because it had

once existed. She took his arm again, of her own accord, and leaned

on it with a touch that expressed what she dimly meant to

express--confidence in him.

They went down the flight of steps at the end of the Casino, and so to

the terrace, which was completely deserted, as Mary had hoped it would

be. Here, away from the golden lights of hotel and café windows, the

moon had full power, a round white moon that flooded the night with

silver.

They turned to walk along the terrace-front of the Casino, facing toward

Italy, and away from the harbour half girdled by the Rock of Hercules.

They could not see the yacht, but the great illuminated shape rode in

Mary's thoughts as it rode on the water. She knew that in coming back

along this way she would have to see the harbour, and _White Lady_

blazing with light, pulsing with music. Just yet she could not bear

that, and when they came near the eastern end of the terrace she said

that she would sit down on one of the seats.

The moonlight had seemed exquisite as an angel's blessing when she

looked out between the flags and rose branches, drinking in the words "I

love you," as a flower drinks in dew. Now the pale radiance on the

mountains was to Mary's eyes wicked, wicked as a white witch fallen

from her broomstick. All the world was wicked in its weary pallor; and

the dark windows of far-off, moon-bleached villas were like staring

eyeballs in gigantic skulls.

She had not meant to talk, but suddenly the fire within her flamed into

words. "What have I done--what do I do--that could make people think I

am--not good?--make them think they have a right to insult me?"

"Nobody has a right to think that," Hannaford answered, quietly as

always. "If any man has insulted you, tell me, and I'll make him sorry."

"I--there is nothing to tell," she stammered, frightened back into

reticence. "It's only--an idea that came into my head because

of--something I can't explain. But, oh, do be honest with me, Captain

Hannaford, if you are my friend, for I can never ask any one else, and I

can never ask you again. It's just asking _itself_ now, this question,

for I want an answer so much. Is there anything very different about me,

and the way I behave, from other girls or women--those who try to be

good and nice, I mean?"

It was a strange appeal, and went to the man's heart. If Mary had

puzzled him once, and if at first he had thought cynically of her, as he

thought of most pretty women he met, love had washed away those thoughts

many days ago: and in this moment when she turned to him for help he

wondered how it was that he had ever been puzzled. He saw clearly now

into the heart of the mystery, and it was a heart of pure rose and

gold, like the heart of an altar fire.

"Wait a minute," he said, "before I answer that, and let me ask _you_ a

question. Did you ever hear the story or see the play of Galatea?"

"No. Not that I remember. What has it to do with me?"

"I'll tell you about her, and then maybe you'll see. The story is that a

Greek sculptor made a beautiful statue which he worshipped so

desperately that the gods turned it into a living girl. Well, you can

imagine just how much that girl knew about life, can't you? She looked

grown up, and was dressed like other young women of her day, but any

kitten with its eyes open was better equipped for business than she, for

kittens have claws and Galatea hadn't. Naturally she made some queer

mistakes, and because a rather beastly world was slow to understand

perfect innocence--the pre-serpentine innocence of Eve, so to speak--a

lot of injustice was done to the poor little statue come alive. Some of

the people wouldn't believe that she'd ever been a statue at all."

"I see!" exclaimed Mary, sharply. Then she was silent for a moment,

thinking; but at last she put a sudden question: "What happened to

Galatea?"

"Oh, the poor girl was so disgusted with the world that she went back to

being a statue again eventually. I think myself it was rather weak of

her, and that if she'd waited a bit she might have done better."

"I'm not sure," Mary said, slowly. "To-night I feel as if there was

_nothing_ better--than going back and being a statue."

"You won't feel like that to-morrow. The sun brings courage. I know--by

experience. You think, Miss Grant, for some reason or other--I don't

even want you to tell me what, unless it would do you good to tell--that

you're down in the depths. But you're not. You never can be. Where you

are it will always be light, really."

"What makes you believe I am good, if others don't believe it?" She

turned on him with the question, the moon carving her features in marble

purity, as if Galatea were already freezing again into the coldness of a

statue. The whole effect of her, in the long white cloak with its hood

pulled over the shining hair, was spiritual and unearthly. Hannaford

would have given his life for her, happily, just then.

"I don't know what others believe," he said. "I have seen for a long

time now, almost since the first, that you were a very innocent sort of

girl enjoying yourself in a new way, and losing your head over it a

little. Perhaps because I've been down in the depths we talked about,

and look on life differently from what I did before, I may have clearer

sight. I don't know what you did or were until you came here, but I've

realized to-night all of a sudden that you are absolutely a child. There

is no worldly knowledge in you. You're what I said. You're Galatea."

"_You_ see this, without any telling," she cried. "And yet----" She bit

her lip and kept back the words that would have rushed out, to shame

her. But he knew with the unerring knowledge of one who loves, that she

had nearly added: "And yet the one man who ought to understand me, does

not. It is only you."

It was a bitter knowledge, but he faced it, hating the other man, who

had hurt and did not deserve her. But he did not guess that the man was

Prince Vanno Della Robbia. He had not heard Vanno almost commanding Mary

to dance with him, and had not seen them go up on the bridge together.

Hannaford was not even aware that they knew each other. The man in his

mind was Dick Carleton, or possibly the Maharajah of Indorwana, whom

some women found strangely attractive.

"I should like to be the one to make all others see--any fools or brutes

who don't," he said.

"I don't want anybody _made_ to see."

"Of course you don't. Well, there isn't one anywhere about worthy to

think of you at all--not a man Jack of us--including me."

"And yet," Mary said, almost pitifully, "I have _liked_ men to think

about me! It's been so new, and interesting. What harm have men done me,

that I should avoid them, just because they are men? Are they all so

much worse than women, I wonder? Oughtn't we to be nice and sweet to

them? It would seem so ungrateful to be cold, because they are so very,

very kind to us. At least, that is what I felt till now--I mean till

quite lately. Men interested me, because they seemed rather mysterious,

so different from us; and I wanted to find out what they were really

like, for I've been with women all my life. I wish now--that is, I hope

I haven't behaved in ways to make people misunderstand?"

"Only fools, as I said before."

"But--what have I done to make the fools misunderstand? You must tell

me!"

"Nothing serious. Only--well, you have gone about with a queer lot

sometimes."

"Men or women?"

"Madame d'Ambre, for instance."

"Yes; but I haven't talked to her for a long time now."

"You've talked to others like her, and--worse."

"Would you have me be cruel? If some of the poor, pretty creatures here

aren't quite what they ought to be, because they've been badly brought

up or unfortunate, would you think it right and womanly not to answer

when they speak, or to turn one's back on them, or slam the Casino door

in their faces, as some cross-looking people do? Wouldn't that drive

them to being worse?"

It was difficult to answer this question with due regard to the laws of

God and man, and at the same time give Galatea a lesson in social

decorum. "I suppose," he said slowly, "you'll just have to follow your

star."

"I don't see any star now worth following. Oh, Captain Hannaford, I was

so happy! It was such a beautiful, lovely world till to-night! Now I

feel as if joy and luck were both gone."

"Does it comfort you a little to know that here's one man who'd do

anything for you?" he asked. "There never was such a friend as I'll try

to be, if you'll have me."

"Thank you," Mary answered. "I shall be very glad of your friendship. I

shall feel and remember it wherever I go."

"Wherever you go? You mean----"

"Yes. I think I must go away--go on to Italy."

"If somebody has hurt you, don't go yet," Hannaford urged. "It would

look as if--well, as if you felt too much. Don't you see?"

"I shouldn't like to give that impression," she said, almost primly.

Then, with a change of tone, "But I can't--I won't stay at the hotel

where I am. To-night at her house Lady Dauntrey invited me to come and

stay there. I was asked before, to Christmas dinner. I could accept, I

suppose?"

"Hm!" Hannaford grumbled, frowning. But he thought quickly, and it

seemed to him that perhaps even Lady Dauntrey's chaperonage might be

better than none. There was nothing against the woman, as far as he

knew, except that she whitewashed her face and had strange eyes. The

rich Mrs. Ernstein, who was staying at the Villa Bella Vista, was

undoubtedly--even dully--respectable, if common. Neither was there any

real harm in Miss Wardropp; and poor Dauntrey did not seem to be a bad

fellow at heart.

"It's not ideal there, I'm afraid," Hannaford said at last, "but for

lack of a better refuge it might do."

Mary felt suddenly as if some very little thing far down in herself was

struggling blindly to escape, as a fly struggles to escape when a glass

tumbler has been shut over it on a table. She drew in a long, deep

breath.

"I'll leave the Hôtel de Paris to-morrow," she said, as if to settle the

matter with herself once and for all. "And I'll go and stay at Lady

Dauntrey's."

Almost unconsciously her eyes were fixed upon the old hill town of

Roquebrune, asleep under the square height of its ruined castle, which

the moon streaked with silver. All the little firefly lights of the

village had died out except one, which still shone "like a good deed in

a naughty world."

"It is perhaps the curé's light," Mary thought; and told herself that as

he was a friend of the Prince, she would never dare to go and see him

now.