FREEDOM
With the departure of Peter and his sister--Peter had made his
leave-taking easy by securing an earlier train than she had expected
and sending her a brief note of farewell--Marjory found herself near
that ideal state of perfect freedom she had craved. There was now no
outside influence to check her movements. If she remained where she
was, there was no one to interrupt her in the solitary pursuit of her
own pleasure. Safe from any possibility of intrusion, she was at
liberty to remain in the seclusion of her room; but, if she preferred,
she could walk the quay without the slightest prospect in the world of
being forced to recognize the friendly greeting of any one.
Peter was gone; Beatrice was gone; and Monte was gone. There was no
one else--unless by some chance poor Teddy Hamilton should turn up,
which was so unlikely that she did not even consider it. Yet there
were moments when, if she had met Teddy, she would have smiled a
welcome. She would not have feared him. There was only one person in
the world now of whom she stood in fear, and he was somewhere along the
English coast, playing a poor game of golf.
She was free beyond her most extravagant dreams--absolutely free. She
was so free that it seemed aimless to rise in the morning, because
there was nothing awaiting her attention. She was so free that there
was no object in breakfasting, because there was no obligation
demanding her strength. She was so free that whether she should go out
or remain indoors depended merely upon the whim of the moment. There
was for her nothing either without or within.
For the first twenty-four hours she sat in a sort of stupor.
Marie became anxious.
"Madame is not well?" she asked solicitously.
"Perfectly well," answered Marjory dully.
"Madame's cheeks are very white," Marie ventured further.
Madame shrugged her shoulders.
"Is there any harm in that?" she demanded.
"It is such a beautiful day to walk," suggested Marie.
Marjory turned slowly.
"What do you mean by beautiful?"
"Ma foi, the sky is blue, the sun is shining, the birds singing,"
explained Marie.
"Do those things make a beautiful day?"
"What else, madame?" inquired the maid, in astonishment.
"I do not know," sighed madame. "All I know is that for me those
things do not count at all."
"Then," declared Marie, "it is time to call a doctor."
"For what?"
"To make madame see the blue sky again and hear the birds."
"But I do not care whether I see them or not," concluded madame,
turning away from the subject.
Here was the whole thing in a nutshell. There were some who might
consider this to be an ideal state. Not to care about anything at all
was not to have anything at all to worry about. Certain philosophies
were based upon this state of mind. In part, Monte's own philosophy
was so based. If not to care too much were well, then not to care at
all should be better. It should leave one utterly and sublimely free.
But should it also leave one utterly miserable?
There was something inconsistent in that--something unfair. To be
free, and yet to feel like a prisoner bound and gagged; not to care,
and yet to feel one's vitals eaten with caring; to obtain one's
objective, and then to be marooned there like a forsaken sailor on a
desert island--this was unjust.
Ah, but she did care! It was as if some portion of her refused
absolutely to obey her will in this matter. In silence she might
declare her determination not to care, or through tense lips she might
mutter the same thing in spoken words; but this made no difference.
She was a free agent, to be sure. She had the right to dictate terms
to herself. She had the sole right to be arbiter of her destiny. It
was to that end she had craved freedom. It was for her alone to decide
about what she should care and should not care. She was no longer a
schoolgirl to be controlled by others. She was both judge and jury for
herself, and she had passed sentence to the effect that, since she had
chosen not to care when to care had been her privilege, it was no
longer her privilege to care when she chose to care. Nothing since
then had developed to give her the right to alter that verdict. If
anything, it held truer after Peter's departure than ever. She must
add to her indictment the harm she had done him.
Still, she cared. Staring out of her window upon the quay, she caught
her breath at sight of every new passer-by, in fearful hope that it
might prove to be Monte. She did this when she knew that Monte was
hundreds of miles away. She did this in face of the fact that, if his
coming depended upon her consent, she would have withheld that consent.
If in truth he had suddenly appeared, she would have fled in terror.
He must not come; he should not come--but, O God, if he would come!
[Illustration: "But, O God, if he would come!"]
Sometimes this thought held her for a moment before she realized it.
Then for a space the sun appeared in the blue sky and the birds set up
such a singing as Marie had never heard in all her life. Perhaps for a
step or two she saw him striding toward her with his face aglow, his
clear, blue eyes smiling, his tender man mouth open to greet her. So
her heart leaped to her throat and her arms trembled. Then--the fall
into the abyss as she caught herself. Then her head drooping upon her
arm and the racking, dry sobs.
How she did care! It was as if everything she had ever hungered for in
the past--all her beautiful, timid girlhood dreams; all that good part
of her later hunger for freedom; all of to-day and all that was worth
while of the days to come, had been gathered together, like jewels in a
single jewel casket, and handed over to him. He had them all. None
had been left her. She had none left.
She had always known that if ever she loved it was so that she must
love. It was this that she had feared. She had known that if she gave
at all she must give utterly--all that she ever had or hoped to have.
Suddenly she recalled Mrs. Chic. It was with a new emotion. The
latter had always been to her the symbol of complete self-sacrifice.
It centered around the night Chic, Junior was born. That night she had
been paler than Mrs. Chic herself; she had whimpered more than Mrs.
Chic. Outside, waiting, she had feared more than the wife within who
was wrestling with death for a new life. She had sat alone, with her
hands over her ears in an agony of fear and horror. She had marveled
that any woman would consent to face such a crisis. It had seemed
wrong that love--an affair of orange blossoms and music and
laughter--should lead to that. Wide-eyed, she had sobbed in terror
until it was over. It was with awe and wonder that a few days later
she had seen Mrs. Chic lying in her big white bed so crooningly happy
and jubilant.
Now she understood. The fear and horror had vanished. Had she been in
the next room to-day, her heart would have leaped with joy in tune with
her who was fighting her grim fight. Because the aches and the pains
are but an incident of preparation. Not only that, but one can so love
that pain, physical pain, may in the end be the only means for an
adequate expression of that love. The two may be one, so blended as to
lead, in the end, to perfect joy. Even mental pains, such as she
herself now suffered, can do that. For all she was undergoing she
would not have given up one second to be back again where she was a
month before.
Something comes with love. It is that more than love itself which is
the greatest thing in the world. Sitting by her window, watching the
shadows pass, Marjory was sensing this. The knowledge was coming
slowly, imperceptibly; but it was bringing her strength. It was
steadying her nerves. It was preparing her for the supreme test.
Because that very day, toward sunset-time, as she still sat by her
window, she saw a shadow that looked like Monte. She smiled a little,
because she knew it would soon dissolve. Rapidly the shadow strode
along the quay until opposite the hotel. Then, instead of vanishing,
it came on--straight toward her. She sprang to her feet, leaning back
against the wall, not daring to look again. So she stood, counting her
heart-beats; for she was still certain that when a hundred or so of
them had passed, the illusion also would fade.
Marjory did not have time to count a full hundred heart-beats before
she heard a light rap at the door. For the fraction of a second she
swayed in the fear that, taking the stairs three at a time, Monte might
have ventured to her very room. But it would be with no such gentle
tap that he would announce himself.
"Yes?" she called.
"A card for madame," came the voice of the garçon.
Her knees still weak, she crossed the room and took the card. There
was no longer any hope left to her. Apparitions do not materialize to
the point where they present their cards.
"Madame is in?" queried the boy.
"What else can I say?" she asked, as if, in her desperate need, seeking
counsel of him.
The boy shrugged his shoulders.
"If madame desires, I can report madame is away," he offered.
It was all one to him. It was all one to every one else in the world
but herself. No one was interested. She was alone. Then why had not
Monte himself let her alone? That was the point, but to determine that
it was necessary to see him.
It was possible he had come merely by chance. It was possible he had
come to see Peter, not knowing that Peter had gone. It was possible he
had returned this way in order to take the Mediterranean route home.
On the face of it, anything was more probable than that he had come
deliberately to see her.
"You will ask monsieur to wait, and I will be down in a few moments,"
she replied to the boy.
She called to Marie.
"I have a caller," she announced nervously. "You must make me look as
young as possible."
Even if she had grown old inside, there was no reason why she should
reveal her secret.
"I am glad," nodded Marie. "Madame should put on a white gown and wear
a ribbon in her hair."
"A ribbon!" exclaimed madame. "That would look absurd."
"You shall see."
She was too weak to protest. She was glad enough to sit down and give
herself up utterly to Marie.
"Only we must not keep him waiting too long," she said. "Monsieur
Covington does not like to be kept waiting."
"It is he?" exclaimed Marie.
"It--it is quite a surprise." She blushed. "I--I do not understand
why he is here."
"It should not be difficult to understand," ventured Marie.
To that madame made no reply. It was clear enough what Marie meant.
It was a natural enough mistake. To her, Monsieur Covington was still
the husband of madame. She had stood in the little chapel in Paris
when madame was married. When one was married, one was married; and
that was all there was to it for all time. So, doubtless, Marie
reasoned. It was the simple peasant way--the old, honest, woman way.
Madame folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes while Marie did
her hair and adjusted the ribbon. Then Marie slipped a white gown over
her head.
"There," concluded the maid, with satisfaction, as she fastened the
last hook. "Madame looks as young as when she was married."
But the color that made her look young vanished the moment Marjory
started down the stairs alone to meet him. Several times she paused to
catch her breath; several times she was upon the point of turning back.
Then she saw him coming up to meet her. She felt her hand in his.
"Jove!" he was saying, "but it's good to see you again."
"But I don't understand why you are here," she managed to gasp.
To him it was evidently as simple as to Marie.
"To see you," he answered promptly.
"If that is all, then you should not have come," she declared.
They were still on the stairs. She led the way down and into the lower
reception-room. She did not care to go again into the sun parlor. She
thought it would be easier to talk to him in surroundings not
associated with anything in the past. They had the room to themselves.
She sat down and motioned him to another chair at some little distance.
He paid no attention to her implied request. With his feet planted
firmly, his arms folded, he stood before her while she tried to find
some way of avoiding his gaze.
"Peter Noyes has gone," he began.
"Yes," she nodded. "You heard about his eyes?"
"He wrote me."
She looked up swiftly.
"Peter wrote you?" she trembled.
"He told me he had recovered his sight. He told me he was going."
What else had he told? Dizzily she waited. For the first time in her
life, she felt as if she might faint. That would be such a silly thing
to do!
"He said he was going home--out of your life."
Peter had told Monte that! What else had he told?
He paused a moment, as if expecting her to make some reply. There, was
nothing she could say.
"It was n't what I expected," he went on.
What else had Peter told him?
"Was n't there any other way?" he asked.
"I did n't send him home. He--he chose to go," she said.
"Because it was n't any use for him to remain?"
"I told him the truth," she nodded.
"And he took it like a man!" exclaimed Monte enthusiastically. "I 'd
like to show you his letter, only I don't know that it would be quite
fair to him."
"I don't want to see it," she cut in. "I--I know I should n't."
What else besides his going had Peter told Monte?
"It was his letter that brought me back," he said.
She held her breath. She had warned Peter that if he as much as hinted
at anything that she had confessed to him, she would lie to Monte. So
she should--but God forbid that this added humiliation be brought upon
her.
"You see, when I went I expected that he would be left to care for you.
With him and his sister here, I knew you would n't be alone. I thought
they'd stay, or if they went--you'd go with them."
"But why should n't I be alone?" she gathered strength to ask.
"Because," he answered quickly, "it is n't good for you. It is n't
good for any one. Besides, it is n't right. When we were married I
made certain promises, and those hold good until we're unmarried."
"Monte!" she cried.
"As long as Peter was around, that was one thing; now that he's gone--"
"It throws me back on your hands," she interrupted, in an attempt to
assert herself. "Please to sit down. You're making your old mistake
of trying to be serious. There's not the slightest reason in the world
why you should bother about me like this."
She ventured to look at him again. His brows were drawn together in a
puzzled frown. Dear Monte--it was cruel of her to confuse him like
this, when he was trying to see straight. He looked so very woe-begone
when he looked troubled at all.
"It--it is n't any bother," he stammered.
"I should think it was a good deal," she answered, feeling for a moment
that she had the upper hand. "Where did you come from to here?"
"Paris."
"You did n't go on to England at all?"
"No."
"Then you did n't get back to your schedule. If you had done that, you
would n't have had any time left to--to think about other things."
"I did n't get beyond the Normandie," he answered. "My schedule
stopped short right there."
He was still standing before her. Apparently he intended to remain.
So she rose and crossed to another chair. He followed.
"You should have gone on," she insisted.
"I had my old room--next to yours," he said.
She must trouble him still more. There was no other way.
"That was rather sentimental of you, Monte, was n't it?" she asked
lightly.
"I went there as a man goes home," he answered softly.
Her lips became suddenly dumb.
"Then I had a long letter from Peter; the first one."
"He has written you before?"
"He wrote me that he loved you and was going to marry you. That was
before he learned the truth."
"About you?"
"And about you. When he wrote again, he said you had told him
everything."
So she had; more, far more than she should. What of that had he told
Monte? The question left her faint again.
"How did it happen?" he asked.
"I--I don't know," she faltered. "He guessed a little, and then I had
to tell him the rest."
Monte's mouth hardened.
"That should n't have been left for you to do. I should have told him
myself."
"Now that it's all over--can't we forget it, Monte, with all the rest?"
He bent a little toward her.
"Have you forgotten all the rest?" he demanded.
"At least, I 'm trying," she gasped.
"I wonder if you have found it as hard as I even to try?"
Steady--she must hold herself steady. His words were afire. With her
eyes on the ground, she felt his eyes searching her face.
"Whether it is hard or not makes no difference," she answered.
"It's just that which makes all the difference in the world," he
contradicted. "I wanted to be honest with myself and with you. So I
went away, willing to forget if that were the honest way. But, from
the moment I took the train here at Nice, I've done nothing but
remember. I've remembered every single minute of the time since I met
you in Paris. The present has been made up of nothing but the past.
Passing hours were nothing but echoes of past hours.
"I've remembered everything--even things away back that I thought I had
forgotten. I dug up even those glimpses I had had of you at Chic's
house when you were only a school-girl. And I did n't do it on
purpose, Marjory. I 'd have been glad not to do it, because at the
time it hurt to remember them. I thought I'd given you over to Peter.
I thought he was going to take you away from me. So I 'd have been
glad enough to forget, if it had been possible."
She sprang to her feet.
"What are you saying, Monte?" she trembled.
With his head erect and his eyes shining, he was telling her what her
heart hungered to hear. That was what he was doing. Only she must not
listen.
"I'm telling you that to forget was not possible," he repeated hotly;
"I'm telling you that I shall never try again. I've come back to get
you and keep you this time."
He held out his arms to her. She shrank back.
"You're making it so hard," she quavered.
"Come to me," he said gently. "That's the easy way. I love you,
Marjory. Don't you understand? I love you with all my heart and soul,
and I want you to begin life with me now in earnest. Come, little
woman."
He reached her hands and tried to draw her toward him. She resisted
with all her strength.
"You must n't," she gasped. "You must n't!"
"It's you who're making it hard now, wife o' mine," he whispered.
Yes, she was making it hard. But she must make it still harder. He
had come back to her because she was alone, moved temporarily by a
feeling of sentimental responsibility. That was all. He was sincere
enough for the moment, but she must not confuse this with any deeper
passion. He had made a mistake in returning to the Normandie.
Doubtless he had felt lonesome there. It was only natural that he
should exaggerate that, for the time being, into something more.
Then Peter's two letters had come. If Peter had not told him anything
that he should n't, he had probably told him a great deal more than he
should. Monte, big-hearted and good, had, as a consequence of all
these things, imagined himself in love. This delusion might last a
week or two; and then, when he came to himself again, the rude
awakening would follow. He would see her then merely as a trifler.
Worse than that, he might see himself as merely a trifler. That would
be deadly.
"It's you who are making it hard now," he repeated.
She had succeeded in freeing herself, leaving him before her as amazed
and hurt as a spurned child.
"You're forcing me to run away from you--to run away as I did from the
others," she said.
He staggered before the blow.
"Not that!" he cried hoarsely.
"I'm going home," she ran on. "I'm going back to my little farm, where
I started."
"You're running away--from me?"
"I must go right off."
She looked around as if for Marie. It was as if she were about to
start that second.
"Where is Marie?" she asked dully.
She made for the door.
"Marjory," he called after her. "Don't do that!"
"I must go--right off," she said again.
"Wife o' mine," he cried, "there is no need of that."
"Marie!" she called as she reached the door. "Marie!"
Frantically she ran up the stairs.