BACK TO SCHEDULE
Monte rose the next morning to find the skies leaden and a light,
drizzling rain falling that promised to continue all day. It was the
sort of weather that ordinarily left him quite helpless, because, not
caring for either bridge or billiards, nothing remained but to pace the
hotel piazza--an amusement that under the most favorable conditions has
its limitations. But to-day--even though the rain had further
interfered with his arrangements by making it necessary to cancel the
trip he had planned for Marjory and Peter to Cannes--the weather was an
inconsequential incident. It did not matter greatly to him whether it
rained or not.
Not that he was depressed to indifference. Rather he was conscious of
a certain nervous excitement akin to exhilaration that he had not felt
since the days of the big games, when he used to get up with his blood
tingling in heady anticipation of the task before him. He took his
plunge with hearty relish, and rubbed his body until it glowed with the
Turkish towel.
His arm was free of the sling now, and, though it was still a bit
stiff, it was beginning to limber up nicely. In another week it would
be as good as new, with only a slight scar left to serve as a reminder
of the episode that had led to so much. In time that too would
disappear; and then-- But he was not concerned with the future. That,
any more than the weather, was no affair of his.
This morning Marjory would perforce remain indoors, and so if he went
to see her it was doubtful whether he would be interfering with any
plans she might have made for Peter. An hour was all he
needed--perhaps less. This would leave the two the remainder of the
day free--and, after that, all the days to come. There would be
hundreds of them--all the days of the summer, all the days of the fall,
all the days of the winter, and all the days of the spring; then
another summer, and so a new cycle full of days twenty-four hours long.
Out of these he was going to take one niggardly hour. Nor was he
asking that little for his own sake. Eager as he was--as he had been
for two weeks--for the privilege of just being alone with her, he would
have foregone that now, had it been possible to write her what he had
to say. In a letter it is easy to leave unsaid so many things. But he
must face her leaving the same things unsaid, because she was a woman
who demanded that a man speak what he had to say man-fashion. He must
do that, even though there would be little truth in his words. He must
make her believe the lie. He cringed at the word. But, after all, it
was the truth to her. That was what he must keep always in mind. He
had only to help her keep her own conception. He was coming to her,
not in his proper person, but as just Monte. As such he would be
telling the truth.
He shaved and dressed with some care. The rain beat against the
window, and he did not hear it. He went down to breakfast and faced
the vacant chair which he had ordered to be left at his table. She had
never sat there, though at every meal it stood ready for her. Peter
suggested once that he join them at their table until madame returned;
but Monte had shaken his head.
Monte did not telephone her until ten, and then he asked simply if he
might come over for an hour.
"Certainly," she answered: "I shall be glad to see you. It's a
miserable day, Monte."
"It's raining a bit, but I don't mind."
"That's because you're so good-natured."
He frowned. It was a privilege he had over the telephone.
"Anyhow, what you can't help you may as well grin and bear."
"I suppose so, Monte," she answered. "But if I 'm to grin, I must
depend upon you to make me."
"I'll be over in five minutes," he replied.
She needed him to make her grin! That was all he was good for. Thank
Heaven, he had it in his power to do this much; as soon as he told her
she was to be free again, the smile would return to her lips.
He went at once to the hotel, and she came down to meet him, looking
very serious--and very beautiful. Her deep eyes seemed deeper than
ever, perhaps because of a trace of dark below them. She had color,
but it was bright crimson against a dead white. Her lips were more
mobile than usual, as if she were having difficulty in controlling
them--as if many unspoken things were struggling there for expression.
When he took her warm hand, she raised her head a little, half closing
her eyes. It was clear that she was worrying more than even he had
suspected. Poor little woman, her conscience was probably harrying the
life out of her. This must not be.
They went upstairs to the damp, desolate sun parlor, and he undertook
at once the business in hand.
"It has n't worked very well, has it, Marjory?" he began, with a forced
smile.
Turning aside her head, she answered in a voice scarcely above a
whisper:--
"No, Monte."
"But," he went on, "there's no sense in getting stirred up about that."
"It was such a--a hideous mistake," she said.
"That's where you're wrong," he declared. "We've tried a little
experiment, and it failed. Is n't that all there is to it?"
"All?"
"Absolutely all," he replied. "What we did n't reckon with was running
across old friends who would take the adventure so seriously. If we'd
only gone to Central Africa or Asia Minor--"
"It would have been just the same if we'd gone to the North Pole," she
broke in.
"You think so?"
"I know it. Women can't trifle with--with such things without getting
hurt."
"I 'm sorry. I suppose I should have known."
"You were just trying to be kind, Monte," she answered. "Don't take
any of the blame. It's all mine."
"I urged you."
"What of that?" she demanded. "It was for me to come or not to come.
That is one part of her life over which a woman has absolute control.
I came because I was so utterly selfish I did not realize what I was
doing."
"And I?" he asked quickly.
"You?"
She turned and tried to meet his honest eyes.
"I'm afraid I've spoiled your holiday," she murmured.
He clinched his jaws against the words that surged to his lips.
"If we could leave those last few weeks just as they were--" he said.
"Can't we call that evening I met you in Paris the beginning, and the
day we reached Nice the end?"
"Only there is no end," she cried.
"Let the day we reached the Hôtel des Roses be the end. I should like
to go away feeling that the whole incident up to then was something
detached from the rest of our lives."
"You're going--where?" she gasped.
He tried to smile.
"I 'll have to pick up my schedule again."
"You're going--when?"
"In a day or two now," he replied. "You see--it's necessary for me to
desert you."
"Monte!"
"The law demands the matter of six months' absence--perhaps a little
longer. I 'll have this looked up and will notify you. Desertion is
an ugly word; but, after all, it sounds better than cruel and abusive
treatment."
"It's I who deserted," she said.
He waved the argument aside.
"Anyway, it's only a technicality. The point is that I must show the
world that--that we did not mean what we said. So I 'll go on to
England."
"And play golf," she added for him.
He nodded.
"I 'll probably put up a punk game. Never was much good at golf. But
it will help get me back into the rut. Then I 'll sail about the first
of August for New York and put a few weeks into camp."
"Then you'll go on to Cambridge."
"And hang around until after the Yale game."
"Then--"
"How many months have I been gone already?"
"Four."
"Oh, yes; then I'll go back to New York."
"What will you do there, Monte?"
"I--I don't know. Maybe I'll call on Chic some day."
"If they should ever learn!" cried Marjory.
"Eh?"
Monte passed his hand over his forehead.
"There is n't any danger of that, is there?"
"I don't think I'll ever dare meet _her_ again."
Monte squared his shoulders.
"See here, little woman; you must n't feel this way. It won't do at
all. That's why I thought if you could only separate these last few
weeks from everything else--just put them one side and go from
there--it would be so much better. You see, we've got to go on
and--holy smoke! this has got to be as if it never happened. You have
your life ahead of you and I have mine. We can't let this spoil all
the years ahead. You--why, you--"
She looked up. It was a wonder he did not take her in his arms in that
moment. He held himself as he had once held himself when eleven men
were trying to push him and his fellows over the last three yards
separating them from a goal.
"It's necessary to go on, is n't it?" he repeated helplessly.
"Yes, yes," she answered quickly. "You must go back to your schedule
just as soon as ever you can. As soon as we're over the ugly part--"
"The divorce?"
"As soon as we're over that, everything will be all right again," she
nodded.
"Surely," he agreed.
"But we must n't remember anything. That's quite impossible. The
thing to do is to forget."
She appeared so earnest that he hastened to reassure her.
"Then we'll forget."
He said it so cheerfully, she was ready to believe him.
"That ought to be easy for you," he added.
"For me?"
"I 'm going to leave you with Peter."
She caught her breath. She did not dare answer.
"I've seen a good deal of him lately," he continued. "We've come to
know each other rather intimately, as sometimes men do in a short while
when they have interests in common."
"You and Peter have interests in common!" she exclaimed.
He appeared uneasy.
"We're both Harvard, you know."
"I see."
"Of course, I 've had to do more or less hedging on account--of Madame
Covington."
"I'm sorry, Monte."
"You need n't be, because it was she who introduced me to him. And, I
tell you, he's fine and big and worth while all through. But you know
that."
"Yes."
"That's why I 'm going to feel quite safe about leaving you with him."
She started. That word "safe" was like a stab with a penknife. She
would have rather had him strike her a full blow in the face than use
it. Yet, in its miserable fashion, it expressed all that he had sought
through her--all that she had allowed him to seek. From the first they
had each sought safety, because they did not dare face the big things.
Now, at the moment she was ready, the same weakness that she had
encouraged in him was helping take him away from her. And the pitiful
tragedy of it was that Peter was helping too, and then challenging her
to accept still graver dangers through him. It was a pitiful tangle,
and yet one that she must allow to continue.
"You mean he'll help you not to worry about me?"
"That's it," he nodded. "Because I've seen the man side of him, and
it's even finer than the side you see."
Her lips came together.
"There's no reason why you should feel responsibility for me even
without Peter," she protested.
She was seated in one of the wicker chairs, chin in hand. He stepped
toward her.
"You don't think I'd be cad enough to desert my wife actually?" he
demanded.
He seemed so much in earnest that for a second the color flushed the
chalk-white portions of her cheeks.
"Sit down, Monte," she pleaded. "I--I did n't expect you to take it
like that. I 'm afraid Peter is making you too serious. After all,
you know, I 'm of age. I 'm not a child."
He sat down, bending toward her.
"We've both acted more or less like children," he said gently. "Now I
guess the time has come for us to grow up. Peter will help you do
that."
"And you?"
"He has helped me already. And when he gets his eyes back--"
"You think there is a chance for that?"
"Just one chance," he answered.
"Oh!" she cried.
"It's a big opportunity," he said.
She rose and went to the window, where she looked out upon the gray
ocean and the slanting rain and a world grown dull and sodden. He
followed her there, but with his shoulders erect now.
"I 'm going now," he said. "I think I shall take the night train for
Paris. I want to leave the machine--the machine we came down here
in--for you."
"Don't--please don't."
"It's for you and Peter. The thing for you both to do is to get out in
it every day."
"I--I don't want to."
"You mean--"
He placed his hand upon her arm, and she ventured one more look into
his eyes. He was frowning. She must not allow that. She must send
him away in good spirits. That was the least she could do. So she
forced a smile.
"All right," she promised; "if it will make you more comfortable."
"It would worry me a lot if I thought you were n't going to be happy."
"I'll go out every fair day."
"That's fine."
He took a card from his pocket and scribbled his banker's address upon
it.
"If anything should come up where--where I can be of any use, you can
always reach me through this address."
She took the card. Even to the end he was good--good and four-square.
He was so good that her throat ached. She could not endure this very
much longer. He extended his hand.
"S'long and good luck," he said.
"I--I hope your golf will be better than you think."
Then he said a peculiar thing. He seldom swore, and seldom lost his
head as completely as he did that second. But, looking her full in the
eyes, he ejaculated below his breath:--
"Damn golf!"
The observation was utterly irrelevant. Turning, he clicked his heels
together like a soldier and went out. The door closed behind him. For
a second her face was illumined as with a great joy. In a sort of
ecstasy, she repeated his words.
"He said," she whispered--"he said, 'Damn golf.'" Then she threw
herself into a wicker chair and began to sob.
"Oh!" she choked. "If--if--"