THE BRIDE RUNS AWAY
Henri, who was greatly disturbed, explained to Monte that madame came
downstairs shortly after monsieur left for his walk and asked for him.
Being told that monsieur had gone out, she too had gone out, wearing a
light shawl--to meet monsieur, as Henri supposed. In some fifteen
minutes madame had returned, appearing somewhat excited, if it were
permissible to say so. Thereupon she had given orders to have her
luggage and the luggage of her maid removed at once to the Hôtel
d'Angleterre. Henri had assured her that if her rooms were not
suitable he would turn the house upside down to please her.
"No, no," she had answered; "it is not that. You are very kind, Henri."
He had then made so bold as to suggest that a messenger be sent out to
find monsieur.
"By all means," she had answered. "I will give you a note to take to
him."
She had sat down and written the note and Henri had dispatched it
immediately. But, also immediately, madame and her maid had left.
"I beg monsieur to believe that if there is anything--"
Monte waved the man aside, went to the telephone, and rang up the Hôtel
d'Angleterre.
"I wish to know if a Madame Covington has recently arrived."
"Non, monsieur," was the response.
"Look here," said Monte sharply. "Make sure of that. She must have
reached there within fifteen minutes."
"We have had no arrivals here within that time except a Mademoiselle
Stockton and her maid."
"Eh?" snapped Monte. "Repeat that again."
"Mademoiselle Stockton," the clerk obeyed.
"She signed the register with that name?"
"But yes. If monsieur--"
"All right; thanks."
"You found her?" inquired Henri solicitously.
"Yes," nodded Monte, and went out into the night again.
There was nothing he could do--absolutely nothing. She had given her
orders, and they must be obeyed. He returned to the Quai Massena, to
the shore of the sea; but he walked nervously now, in a world that, as
far as he was concerned, was starless and colorless. He had thought at
first, naturally enough, that Hamilton was in some way concerned; but
he dismissed that now as wholly unplausible. Instead of running away,
in that case, she would have sent for him. It was decidedly more
likely that this was some strange whimsy springing from within herself.
In looking back at the last few days, he recalled now that upon several
occasions she had acted in a way not quite like herself. Last night,
for instance, she had been disturbed. Again, it was most unusual for
her not to dine with him. He had accepted her excuse that she was
tired; but now he blamed himself for not having seen through so
artificial an excuse, for not having detected that something else was
troubling her.
She had run away as if in fear. She had not dared even to talk over
with him the cause for her uneasiness. And he--blind fool that he
was--had not detected anything unusual. He had gone off mooning,
leaving her to fight her own fight. He had been so confoundedly
self-satisfied and content because she was here with him, where
heretofore he had always been alone, that he had gone stony blind to
her comfort. That was the crude fact.
However, accusing himself did not bring him any nearer an explanation
of her strange conduct. She would not have left him unless she had
felt herself in some danger. If Hamilton were eliminated, who then
remained by whom she could feel menaced? Clearly it must be himself.
The conclusion was like a blow in the face. It stunned him for a
moment, and then left his cheeks burning. If she had scuttled away
from him like a frightened rabbit, it could be for only one reason;
because he had not been able to conceal the truth. And he had thought
that he had succeeded in keeping the danger to himself.
He turned in the direction of the Hôtel d'Angleterre. He did not
intend to try to see her. He wished only to be a little nearer.
Surely there was no harm in that. The boulevard had become deserted,
and he was terribly lonesome out here alone. The old black dog that
had pounced upon him in Paris came back and hugged him closer.
He squared his shoulders. He must shake himself free of that. The
thing to keep in mind was that he did not count in this affair. She
alone must be considered. If he had frightened her, he must find some
way of reassuring her. He must take a tighter grip than ever upon
himself, face her to-morrow, and laugh away her fears. He must do
that, because he must justify her faith in him. That was all he had of
her--her faith in him. If he killed that, then she would vanish
utterly.
After this last week, to be here or anywhere else without her was
unthinkable. He must make her believe that he took even this new
development lightly. He must go to her in the morning as just Monte.
So, if he were very, very careful, he might coax her back a little way
into his life. That was not very much to hope for.
Monte was all wrong. From beginning to end, he was wrong. Marjory had
run away, not from him, but from some one else. When she left the
hotel she had been on her way to join monsieur, as Henri had correctly
surmised. From her window she had been watching him for the matter of
half an hour as he paced up and down the quay before the hotel. Every
time Monte disappeared from sight at the end of a lap, she held her
breath until he appeared again. Every time he appeared again, her
heart beat faster. He seemed such a lonely figure that her conscience
troubled her. He was so good, was Monte--so good and four-square.
She had left him to dine alone, and without a protest he had submitted.
That was like him; and yet, if he had only as much as looked his
disappointment, she would have dressed and come down. She had been
ready to do so. It was only the initial excitement that prompted her
at first to shut herself up. Coming to this hotel, where for ten years
he had been coming alone, was almost like going back into his life for
that length of time. Then, Monte had signed the register "Monsieur and
Madame Covington." With bated breath she had watched him do it.
After that the roses in her room and the attention of every one to her
as to a bride--all those things had frightened her at first. Yet she
knew they were bowing low, not to her, but to Madame Covington. This
was what made her ears burn. This was what made her seek the seclusion
of her room. She felt like an imposter, claiming honors that did not
belong to her. It made her so uncomfortable that she could not face
even Marie. She sent her off.
Sitting by the open window, she watched Monte as he walked alone, with
a queer little ache in her heart. How faithfully he had lived up to
his bargain! He had given her every tittle of the freedom she had
craved. In all things he had sought her wishes, asking nothing for
himself. It was she who gave the order for starting every morning, for
stopping at night. She chose this inn or that, as pleased her fancy.
She talked when she wished to talk, and remained silent when she
preferred. If, instead of coming to Nice and Étois, she had expressed
a desire to turn in some other direction, she knew he would merely have
nodded.
It was all one to him. East, west, north, or south--what was the odds?
Married or single--what was the odds?
So she also should have felt. With this big man by her side to guard
her and do her will, she should have been able to abandon herself
utterly to the delights of each passing hour--to the magic of the fairy
kingdom he had made for her. It was all she had asked for, and that
much it was her right to accept, if he chose to give it. She was
cheating no one. Monte himself would have been the first to admit
that. Therefore she should have been quite at peace with herself.
The fact remained, however, that each day since they had left Paris she
had found herself more and more at the mercy of strange moods;
sometimes an unusual and inexplicable exhilaration, such as that moment
last night when Monte had turned and seized her arm; sometimes an
unnatural depression, like that which now oppressed her. These had
been only intervals, to be sure. The hours between had been all she
had looked forward to--warm, basking hours of lazy content.
To-night she had been longer than ever before in recovering her
balance. She had expected to undress, go to bed, and so to sleep.
Perhaps it was the sight of Monte pacing up and down there alone that
prolonged her mood. Yet, not to see him, all that was necessary was to
close her eyes or to turn the other way. It should have been easy to
do this. Only it was not. She followed him back and forth. In some
ways, a bride could not have acted more absurdly.
At the thought she withdrew from the window in startled confusion.
Standing in the middle of the room, she stared about as if challenged
as to her right there by some unseen visitor. This would never do.
She was too much alone. She must go to Monte. He would set her right,
because he understood. She would take his arm, his strong, steady arm,
and walk a little way with him and laugh with him. That was what she
needed.
She hurried into her clothes, struggling nervously with hooks and
buttons as if there were need of haste. Then, throwing a light shawl
over her shoulders, she went out past Henri, on her way to Monte.
Monte had been all wrong in his guesses. She had actually been running
toward him instead of away from him when, just outside the hotel, she
almost collided with Peter Noyes and his sister.
Peter Noyes did not see her at first. His eyes were covered with a
green shade, even out here in the night. But his sister Beatrice gave
an exclamation that brought him to attention and made him fumble at the
shade as if to tear it off. Yet she had spoken but one word:--
"Marjory!"
She whose name had been called shrank back as if hoping the dark would
hide her.
"Marjory!" cried Peter Noyes.
Beatrice rushed forward, seizing both the girl's hands.
"It is you," she exclaimed, as if Marjory sought to deny the fact.
"Peter--Peter, it's Marjory Stockton!"
Peter stepped forward, his hand outstretched hesitatingly, as one who
cannot see. Marjory took the hand, staring with questioning eyes at
Beatrice.
"He worked too hard," explained the latter. "This is the price he
paid."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Peter!" she cried.
He tried to smile.
"It's at moments like this I mind it," he answered. "I--I thought you
were in Paris, Marjory."
"I came here to-day."
She spoke nervously.
"Then," he asked, "you--you are to be here a little while?"
Marjory passed her hand over her forehead.
"I don't know," she faltered.
Peter looked so thin! It was evident he had been long ill. She did
not like to see him so. The shade over his eyes horrified her.
Beatrice came nearer.
"If you could encourage him a little," she whispered. "He has wanted
so much to see you."
It was as if she in some way were being held responsible.
"You're not stopping here?" gasped Marjory.
"At the Hôtel des Roses," nodded Beatrice. "And you?"
Peter with his haggard, earnest face, and Beatrice with her clear
honest eyes, filled her with sudden shame. It would be impossible to
make them understand. They were so American--so direct and
uncompromising about such affairs as these.
Beatrice had the features of a Puritan maid, and dressed the part, from
her severe little toque, her prim white dress reaching to her ankles,
to her sturdy boots. Her blue eyes were already growing big at
Marjory's hesitancy at answering so simple a question. She had been
here once with Aunt Kitty--they had stopped at the Hôtel d'Angleterre.
Marjory mumbled that name now.
"Then I may come over to-night to see you for a moment, may I not?"
said Beatrice. "It is time Peter went in now."
"I--I may see you in the morning?" asked Peter.
"In the morning," she nodded. "Good-night."
She gave him her hand, and he held it as a child holds a hand in the
dark.
"I'll be over in half an hour," Beatrice called back.
It was only a few blocks to the Hôtel d'Angleterre, but Marjory ran the
distance. Happily the clerk remembered her, or she might have found
some difficulty in having her excited excuse accepted that she was not
quite suited at the Roses. Then back again to Henri and Marie she
hurried, with orders to have the luggage transferred at once.