XXIII

There came a moment when it seemed to Mary that she had promised to do

an undignified thing, a thing which would make Vanno respect her less

than ever. To go out deliberately to meet him, after all that had

passed!--it was impossible. She must send a message to the curé saying

that she could not come to his garden.

She even began such a letter, late on the night after his call; but as

she wrote, the good brown eyes of the priest seemed to look at her,

saying, "I thank you for trusting me." Then she tore up the sheet of

paper, and went on trusting him blindly. She slept better afterward than

she had slept since Christmas, her first night in the Villa Bella Vista.

Mary's habit was to go to the Casino every morning as soon as the doors

opened, and she paid the artist whom she had met in the Paris train to

seize a place for her, in the rush of early players. For doing this he

received ten francs, which gave him two stakes at roulette, and

sometimes enabled him to play for several hours before he was "cleaned

out." She had lost a good deal by this time; all her original winnings,

and had begun to fall back on her own capital, for her luck had never

returned for more than a few hours together. A hateful sense of failure

was upon her. She was feverishly anxious to get back her losses, not so

much for the money's sake as for the pleasure of "beating the bank," as

she had continually beaten it at first. Once, she had had the great

white, good-natured animal under her feet, and people had looked at her

with wondering admiration, as if she had been Una leading an obedient

lion. Now the admiring looks, tributes to her lovely face and pretty

clothes or jewels, were tempered with pity. The lion had Una in his

mouth. There seemed to be no question in the public mind as to how he

would eventually dispose of her. Mary felt the difference keenly. She

could hardly submit to it. She wanted desperately to do something which,

in every sense, would turn the tables. She risked huge sums in a wild

hope that her courage might conquer luck, that again she might know the

peculiar joy, the indescribable thrill of seeing the "bank" send for

more money. Yet deep down within her a voice said that the moment would

never come again; and she had no longer her old gay confidence in

placing her stakes.

The crowds had ceased to collect round her table, to watch the

"wonderful Miss Grant." It is the sensational wins, where piles of gold

and notes mount up, that people rush to gaze upon. They are not amused

by seeing money monotonously swept off the tables, even in immense sums.

It discourages and depresses them. Nobody likes to be discouraged and

depressed; therefore Mary had lost her audiences. Still she played on,

and listened to no advice.

This morning, however, when she woke to remember her promise to the

curé, she felt oddly disinclined to go to the Casino. Usually she

wakened, after dozing fitfully, dreaming over again last night's

worries, with an almost tremulous longing to be at the tables once more,

a longing that seemed even more physical than mental, an aching of the

nerves. Now the burning desire was suddenly assuaged, or forgotten in

the powerful sway of a new thought, as illness can be forgotten in

sudden fear or joy. The Casino appeared unimportant, trivial. All there

was of her was already on the mountain, in the little garden which Rose

Winter had said was like fairyland.

Mary did not wish to be questioned by anybody in the house, however; so

she went out at the usual hour, found her employé in the long queue of

those who waited before the Casino doors, paid him, and said that he

might keep the seat for himself. She then went to walk on the terrace,

hoping that no one she knew might be there: and it seemed likely that

she would have her wish, for most of her acquaintances were keen

gamblers who considered a morning wasted outside the Casino.

Mary walked to the eastern end of the terrace, where the _ascenseur_

comes up from the level of the railway station below. She remembered how

she had heard the little boy give his musical cry, and how she had

looked out of the train window, and his smile had decided her not to go

on. If she had gone on, how different everything would have been, how

much better perhaps; and yet--she could not be sorry to-day, as she was

sometimes in bitter moments, that she had come to Monte Carlo.

As she stood by the balustrade, looking away toward Italy, a voice she

knew spoke behind her. She turned, and saw Hannaford, his hat off, his

marred face pale in the sunshine.

"Oh," she said impulsively, "I think you're the one person I could

endure talking to just now!"

Since the night of the ball on the yacht, when they had sat on the

terrace in the moonlight, they had become good friends, she and

Hannaford. She had no feeling of repulsion for him now. That was lost in

pity, and forgotten in gratitude for the sympathy which made it possible

to confide in him as she could in no one else. He stood entirely apart

from other men, in her eyes, as he seemed to stand apart from life, and

out of the sun. When she spoke to him of her troubles or hopes it was

not, to her, as if she spoke to a man like other men, but to a sad

spirit, who knew all the sadness her spirit could ever know.

Often they had walked here together on the terrace, but it was usually

in the afternoon, when Hannaford could persuade her out of the Casino

for a few minutes, to "revive herself with a breath of fresh air," or to

see the gold-and-crimson sunset glory behind the Rock of Hercules. Since

Hannaford had won the money he wanted for the buying of his villa, he

had kept his resolution not to play seriously; but he spent a good deal

of time in the Casino, unobtrusively watching over Mary. He did not

feel the slightest desire to play, he told Carleton, and other men who

were amused or made curious by the sudden change in him. He had a "new

interest in life," he explained; and every one took it for granted that

he meant the villa, now his own. But he never said it was that which had

made life better worth living for him.

"If it's a question of bare endurance of me, I'll go," he answered

Mary's greeting, "and leave you to walk by yourself."

"No," she assured him. "I'd really like to have you. I thought I wanted

to be alone. But I see now that being with you is better."

Hannaford drew in a long breath of the exquisite air, and looked up into

the sunshine as if for once he did not feel himself unfitted for the

light. "Do you really mean that, I wonder?" he asked in a low voice.

"Yes. I wouldn't say it if I didn't," Mary answered with complete

frankness. "How do you happen to be here at this time of day?"

"To tell the truth, I saw you go down the steps, and followed to ask the

same question."

"I came, because for some reason I have to be out of doors. I _couldn't_

go into the Rooms! I'd take a long walk, if I knew where to go."

"Good. I'm glad to hear it. Will you let me guide you somewhere, and

give you a surprise?"

Mary looked undecided. "I'd like that. But I have an engagement this

afternoon. Not in the Casino--or anywhere at Monte Carlo. It's up at

Roquebrune. I have promised to go and see the--the curé's garden there."

"I'll bring you back from my expedition in plenty of time, if that's

all," said Hannaford. He did not urge, but Mary knew that he very much

wanted her to say yes.

"Will it be out of doors?"

"All the time out of doors, except for a few minutes when you're looking

at a curiosity. First we have to get to Mentone. I'll spin you over

there in a taxi. Then we can walk to--to the surprise. I'm sure you've

never been."

"Is it to see your villa?" Mary asked, for he had suggested her going

there some day.

"No, for I wouldn't take you to my house alone. We're not very

conventional, you and I, I'm afraid; but there must be a party for your

first visit to my 'castle in Spain' transplanted into Italy. I'll give

you, and any people you like to ask, a picnic luncheon over there. But

to-day I want you to lunch with me alone somewhere."

There was rather an odd ring in his voice, which made Mary look up

quickly, but his face was calm, even stolid, as usual; and she thought

that she had been mistaken. She put herself quietly into his care,

feeling the comfort of perfect ease in his companionship. She could talk

to him if she chose, or be silent. Whatever she liked, he too would

like.

Half an hour later the taxi which Hannaford had hired stopped at the

bridge dedicated to the Empress of Austria, the bridge which marks the

dividing line between the communes of Roquebrune and Mentone. Then the

two walked along the sea front, where the spray spouted gold in the sun,

and a salt tang was on the breeze. It was a different world, somehow,

from the world of Monte Carlo, though it was made up of pleasure-seekers

from many countries. There were smartly dressed women, pretty girls with

tennis rackets, men in flannels, with Panama hats pulled over their

tanned faces; men with fine, clear profiles, who had been soldiers;

solemn judges on holiday; fat old couples who waddled from side to side,

as if their legs were set on at the corners, like the legs of chairs and

tables; thin, middle-aged ladies with long, flat feet which showed under

short tweed skirts; ladies clothed as unalluringly as possible as if to

apologize for belonging to the female sex; elderly gentlemen with

superior, selfish expressions, and faces like ten thousand other elderly

gentlemen who live in _pensions_, talk of their "well-connected"

friends, and collect all the newspapers to brood over in corners, as

dogs collect bones. There were invalids, too, in bath-chairs, and

children playing with huge St. Bernards or Great Danes, and charming

actresses from the Mentone Casino, with incredibly slim figures, immense

ermine muffs, and miniature Japanese spaniels. Mary could see no reason

why these people who promenaded and listened to the music should be

different both individually and in mass from a crowd to be seen at Monte

Carlo, yet the fact remained that they were different; and among the

faces there were none she knew, save those of the bird-like girl and her

mother, half forgotten since the meeting in the train.

Hannaford took her by the Port, and past the old town whose heights

towered picturesquely up and up, roof after roof, above the queer shops

and pink and yellow houses of the sea level. Then came the East Bay,

with its new villas and hotels, and background of hills silvered with

olives; and at last, by a turn to the right which avoided the high road

to Italy, they dipped into a rough path past a pebble floored stream,

where pretty kneeling girls sang and scrubbed clothing on the stones.

Two douaniers, one French, the other Italian, lounging on opposite sides

of the little stream flowing down from the Gorge of St. Louis, told that

this was the frontier. It was not the road to Italy that Mary knew, when

once or twice she had motored over the high bridge flung across the dark

Gorge of St. Louis on excursions to Bordighera and San Remo.

Nevertheless they were in Italy, and a mysterious change had come over

the landscape, the indefinable change that belongs to frontiers. The

buildings were shabbier; yet, as if in generous pity for their poorness,

roses and pink geraniums draped them in cataracts of bloom. Gardens were

less well kept, yet somehow more poetic. The colour of the old plastered

walls and pergolas was more beautiful here, because more faded, stained

green with moss, and splashed with many flower-like tints born of age

and weather.

Always ahead, as Mary walked on with Hannaford, the high red wall of the

Rochers Rouges glowed as if stained with blood where the sun struck it;

and between the towering heights of rock and the turquoise sea he

stopped her at an open-air restaurant roofed with palm leaves. There

Hannaford ordered luncheon, at a table almost overhanging the water, and

while the _bouillabaisse_ was being made, he took her to the cave of the

prehistoric skeletons.

Mary was interested, yet depressed. Life seemed such a little thing when

she thought of all the lives that had passed in one unending procession

of brief joys and tedious tragedies since those bones had been clothed

with flesh and had caged hearts which beat as hotly as hers was beating

now. "What does it matter," she said, "whether we are happy or not?"

"Does it not matter to ourselves?" Hannaford answered, rather than

asked.

"Just at this moment, I'm not sure."

"Does it matter more about making others happy?"

"Perhaps. I should like to think that in my life I had made some others

happy."

"I'm going to tell you by and by," he said, "how you can make one other

very happy. It's just a suggestion I have to offer. There may be nothing

in it."

He spoke rather dryly and perfunctorily, as he helped her down the

stairs of the cave-dwellers' rock-house. Mary had a vague idea that he

meant to interest her in a "sad case," as he had done once or twice

before, when he thought she needed to be "taken out of herself." She

expected to hear a tale of some poor girl who had "lost all," and must

be redeemed from disaster by a helping hand lest worse things happen;

and as he was evidently determined not to tell his story then, Mary

waited without impatience.

They were lunching early, and had finished before many people began to

arrive dustily in carriages and automobiles. Hannaford had ordered his

taxi at two o'clock, and there was no hurry. He told the Italian

musicians to play softly, some simple old airs that he loved. Then, when

Mary sat staring dreamily into the water, far down through clear green

depths, he put his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands, and

leaned across to her.

"Of course you know," he said, "that I love you. Don't speak yet--and

don't look at me, please. Keep your eyes on the water. I told you I had

something to ask; but it's not for your love I'm asking. I know that no

woman, not even with your kind and gentle heart, could love a man like

me. But something has hurt you. I told you once before that I didn't

want to hear what it was. Only I'm afraid you're not happy, and

perhaps--if the hurt was in your heart--you may never be happy again in

exactly the old way, as a young girl is when she is full of hope. We

feel alike about a lot of things, you and I. We are good friends. At

least, you look on me as your friend. And as for you, no man will ever

be your friend, as you think of that word. I'm your friend to this

extent, that you've given me back my interest in the world. I used to

want to get out of it all, but I don't now, because you're in it.

Anyhow, I don't want to go if you'll let me be of use to you--if you'll

let me love you. Is it possible, dear, that you could think of marrying

me--just in a friendly sort of way, you know, to have a protector, a man

to look after you, and worship you, without any return except a little

sympathy and kindness?"

Not once had Mary looked up at him, after the first fluttering glance of

surprise when he began. Even when Hannaford stopped, and waited, she

still kept her eyes on the water; but he saw that her hand trembled on

the balustrade, and that a little pulse beat in her throat.

"I never thought!" she quavered, miserably.

"I know that, very well. I wouldn't believe most women who made such an

excuse, after being as kind to me as you have been--a man like me! I

should have thought you knew, and that you were playing, as the boys

play with the frogs. But I realized from the first that you weren't

going to 'think,' unless I put thoughts into your head. I wouldn't ask

such a thing of you if you were happy, but you're not happy. I don't

believe you know what to do with your future. You're not interested in

things, as you were when you first came--except in the Casino, and that

can't go on forever. The sort of thing you're doing now eats a woman's

soul away. Men can stand it longer than women. Almost anything else

would be better for you. Even marrying me. Maybe you would take an

interest in the place I've bought. It could be made so beautiful! You

can't imagine the joy I've had in simply picturing you there."

"I should love to come--to see it--but only as your friend," Mary said,

stammering guiltily, as if she were doing wrong in refusing him. "Oh, I

can't tell you how sorry, how sorry I am!"

"You needn't be sorry," he answered. "I might have known what I wanted

was too good to come true. I might have known I was beyond the pale. And

I did know, in my heart. Only I had to find out, for sure. You mustn't

mind. I wouldn't be without the memory of this day with you, anyhow--not

for the world. It's good enough to live on for the rest of my life."

"But--you speak as if we weren't to see each other any more," said Mary.

"Can't we go on being friends?"

"Yes. Wherever we are, we'll 'go on being friends.' But you may leave

Monte. You probably will. And I--I shall be leaving too. Still, we'll

'go on being friends.' And the next favour I ask of you, if you possibly

can, will you grant it?"

"Indeed I will," Mary promised eagerly. "Ask me now."

"Not yet. Not quite yet. The time hasn't come. But it will before long.

Then you must remember."

"I'll remember always." She stood up and held out her hand. He took it

in his, and shook it heartily. His manner was so quiet, so commonplace,

his face and voice so calm, that she could hardly believe that he really

cared, that he really "minded much," as she put it to herself. Can a man

shake hands like that with a woman, she wondered, if he is

broken-hearted because she has refused him?

"Now we must go," she said. "I--shouldn't like to be late for my

appointment."

"You shan't be late," he assured her, cheerfully. Then, just as they

were moving away from the table, he stopped. "Will you give me one of

those roses," he asked, "to keep for a souvenir?"

Their waiter had adorned the little feast with a glass containing a few

short-stemmed roses. Mary selected the prettiest, a white one just

unfolding from the bud, and gave it to Captain Hannaford. So quickly

that no one saw, he laid it against her faintly smiling lips, then hid

it inside his coat.

When the taxi had rushed up the upper Corniche and had taken the

carriage road to Roquebrune, Mary said goodbye to Hannaford in the

_Place_ under the great wall of the old castle. She guessed that,

perhaps, he would have liked an invitation to go with her to the curé's

garden, which he had never seen. But she did not give the invitation.

She even lingered, so that he must have seen she wished him to drive

away; and he took the hint, if it were a hint, at once.

"Goodbye," he said, pleasantly. "Thank you a thousand times, for

everything."

"But it's I who have to thank you!" she protested.

"If I could think you would ever feel like thanking me for anything, I

should be glad."

He released her hand, after pressing it once very hard; got into the

taxi, gave the chauffeur the name of his hotel in the Condamine, and was

whirled away. The last that Mary saw of him he was looking back, waving

his hat as if he were saying goodbye for a long, long time.