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.