When, a month later, Frederick Marston went to the hotel on the
_Promenade des Anglais_ at Nice, it was a much improved and
rejuvenated man as compared with the wasted creature who had opened
the closed door of the "academy" in the _Quartier Latin_, and had
dropped the key on the floor. Although still a trifle gaunt, he was
much the same person who, almost a year before, had clung to the
pickets at Churchill Downs, and halted in his view of a two-year-old
finish. Just as the raw air of the north had given place to the wooing
softness of the Riviera, and the wet blankets of haze over the gardens
of the Tuileries to the golden sunlight of the flower-decked south, so
he had come again out of winter into spring, and the final result of
his life's equation was the man that had been Saxon, untouched by the
old Marston.
Duska's stay at Nice had been begun in apathy. About her were all the
influences of beauty and roses and soft breezes, but it was not until
she had read this first letter from Marston that these things meant
anything to her. Then, suddenly, she had awakened to a sense of its
delight. She knew that he would not come at once, and she felt that
this was best. She wanted him to come back to her when he could come
as the man who had been in her life, and, since she knew he was
coming, she could wait. Her eyes had become as brightly blue as the
Mediterranean mirroring the sky, and her cheeks had again taken on
their kinship to the roses of the Riviera. Once more, she was one with
the nature of this favored spot, a country that some magical realist
seems to have torn bodily from the enchanted Isles of Imagination, and
transplanted in the world of Fact.
Now, she became eager to see everything, and it so happened that, when
Marston, who had not notified her of the day of his arrival, reached
her hotel, it was to find that she and her aunt had motored over to
Monte Carlo, by the upper Corniche Road, that show-drive of the world
which climbs along the heights with the sea below and the sky, it
would seem, not far above.
The man turned out again to the _Promenade des Anglais_. The sun was
shining on its whiteness, and it seemed that the city was a huge
structure of solid marble, set between the sea and the color-spotted
slopes of the villa-clad hills.
Marston was highly buoyant as he made his way to the garage where he
could secure a car to give chase. He even paused with boyish and
delighted interest to gaze into the glittering shop windows of the
_Promenade_ and the _Avenue Felix Faure_, where were temptingly
displayed profound booklets guaranteeing the purchaser a sure system
for conquering the chances of roulette "on a capital of L9, playing
red or black, manque or passe, pair or impair, and compiled by one
with four years of experience."
He had soon negotiated for a car, and had gained the friendship of a
chauffeur, who grinned happily and with contentment when he learned
that monsieur's object was speed. Ahead of him stretched nine miles of
perfect macadam, with enough beauty to fill the eye and heart with joy
for every mile, and at the end of the journey--unless he could
happily overtake her sooner--was Duska.
The car sped up between the villas, up to the white ribbon of road
where the ships, lying at anchor in the purpled water beneath, were
white toys no longer than pencils, where towns were only patches of
roof tiles, and mountainsides mere rumpled blankets of green and
color; where the road-houses were delights of picturesque rusticity
and flower-covered walls.
Thanks to a punctured tire, Marston found a large dust-coated car
standing at the roadside when he had covered only half of the journey.
It was drawn up near a road-house that sat back of a rough stone wall,
and was abandoned save for the chauffeur, who labored over his task of
repair. But Marston stopped and ran up the stone stairs to the small
terrace, where, between rose bushes that crowded the time-stained
facade of the modest caravansery, were set two or three small tables
under a trellis; and, at one of the tables, he recognized Mrs. Horton.
Mrs. Horton rose with a little gasp of delight to welcome him, and
recognized how his eyes were ranging in search for an even more
important personage while he greeted her. Off beyond the road, with
its low guarding wall of stone, the mountainside fell away
precipitously to the sea, stretching out below in a limitless expanse
of the bluest blue that our eyes can endure. The slopes were thickly
wooded.
"We blew out a tire," explained Mrs. Horton, "and Duska is exploring
somewhere over the wall there. I was content to sit here and wait--but
you are younger," she added with a smile. "I won't keep you here."
From inside the tavern came the tinkle of guitars, from everywhere in
the clear crystalline air hung the perfume of roses. Marston, with
quick apologies, hastened across the road, vaulted the wall, and began
his search. It was a brief one, for, turning into a clearing, he saw
her below him on a ledge. She stood as straight and slim and
gracefully erect as the lancelike young trees.
He made his way swiftly down the slope, and she had not turned nor
heard his approach. He went straight to her, and took her in his arms.
The girl wheeled with a little cry of recognition and delight; then,
after a moment, she held him off at arms' length, and looked at him.
Her eyes were deep, and needed no words. About them was all the world
and all the beauty of it.
Finally, she laughed with the old, happy laugh.
"Once," she said very slowly, "you quoted poetry to me--a verse about
the young queen's crowning. Do you remember?"
He nodded.
"But that doesn't apply now," he assured her. "You are going to crown
me with an undeserved and unspeakable crown."
"Quote it to me now," she commanded, with reinstated autocracy.
For a moment, the man looked into her face as the sun struck down on
its delicate color, under the softness of hat and filmy automobile
veil; then, clasping her very close, he whispered the lines:
"Beautiful, bold and browned,
Bright-eyed out of the battle,
The young queen rode to be crowned."
"Do you remember some other lines in the same verse?" she questioned,
in a voice that made his throbbing pulses bound faster; but, before he
could answer, she went on:
"'Then the young queen answered swift,
"We hold it crown of our crowning, to take our crown for
a gift."'"
They turned together, and started up the slope.
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Minor punctuation and typographic errors have been corrected.
Hyphenation and accent usage have been made consistent.
Page 180 had the word 'excusive'. This may be a typographic error for
either exclusive or excursive. In the context, exclusive seemed more
appropriate, and has been used--"Unless there were a traitor in very
exclusive and carefully guarded councils, ..."
A table of contents has been added for the convenience of the reader.