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.