XXXVII
HE returned in a few moments, and they left the Club House by the main entrance and strolled toward the gardens; then he suddenly led her to the terrace. There were many people walking in the tropical scented park of the Casino, but the digue above the Mediterranean was deserted. Monte Carlo can be cold in May but it can be as warm as July in February, and the night was mild and beautiful. The sea under the stars was almost as blue as by day. The air was very still, although a band was playing somewhere, far away. From the other side of the bay came the faint humming of an aeroplane. There was to be an aviation meet on the morrow, and no doubt one of the airmen was about to make a trial flight.
They sat down on one of the benches, and Valdobia folded his arms, then turned and leaned his elbow on the back of the seat and his head on his hand.
“I am not quite in the mood for love-making,” he said, “after the news I have received; but I can’t go without letting you know why I followed you to Genoa—without some sort of an understanding.”
Ora looked at him out of the corner of her eye. His face was set and determined, but she concluded that he was not the man to be dangerous when grieving for his mother.
“What is it?” she asked softly. “I know, of course, that you—like me.”
“I love you, and I want to marry you. I wish you to divorce your husband and marry me. Don’t give me your final answer now,” he continued, as Ora interrupted him. “It is not a question to decide in a moment. But while I am gone think it over. You do not love your husband. I know all your arguments from your friend. She made them when I first gave her my confidence. They don’t weigh with me for a moment. You will never spend your life with that man, good as he may be. As for obligations,you discharged them long ago. I can make you happy, and I believe that you know I can.”
“I don’t know.” Ora, stunned for a moment, felt thrilled and breathless. “Oh, I don’t know!”
“I have begun to feel sure that you have loved another man, or fancied that you loved him. Would it be possible for you to marry him if you divorced your husband?”
Ora hesitated, then answered, “No.”
“Why is he not your lover?”
“That would be impossible, even if I would do such a thing, and you know I would not.”
He gave a sharp sigh of relief. “Ifeltthat he had not been. Why is it impossible?”
“There are complications. I cannot explain them. But he could not be less to me if he were dead.”
“Does he love you?”
Ora hesitated again. “I have sometimes felt—no, of course, it is impossible. I let my imagination run away with me, that was all.”
“You mean that he never told you—that he doesn’t write to you?”
“I met him only once, and I have never seen his handwriting.”
“Well, dismiss him from your mind. You have imagination and have dreamed, because your demands upon life are very great, greater than you know; and oddly enough, considering your opportunities, fruition has eluded you. But the time has come for you to live; and you could live!”
Ora looked down at her hands. They were ungloved and looked very white and small. Valdobia suddenly covered them with one of his own, and bent his face close to hers. She saw that he had forgotten his mother, and gave a little gasp.
“Ora!” he said. “Don’t you know how happy I could make you? I not only could teach you love, of which you know nothing, but we could always be companions, and you are the loneliest little creature I have ever met.”
To her astonishment she saw two tears splash on his hand, and winking rapidly discovered that they had fallen from her own eyes. As she would have detested to see a man cry, she melted further, and whispered,
“Oh, yes, life with you would be very delightful. Iknow that. I fancy the other man, even if I could marry him, would make me miserable. He—American men that amount to anything give their wives very little of themselves.”
“And you would be lonelier still! I have known American women that loved their busy husbands—thatseekingtype. They interested me, poor things—rushing madly about trying to fill their lives. If you join that sisterhood it will kill you. I am not an idler, for I have business interests to which I devote a certain amount of time, but I have leisure, and I not only should give you the companionship you have craved all your life, but I can offer you the world in all its variety. Now dismiss this man, whoever he is, from your mind. Even were I beside the question, it is your duty to yourself as a woman of character, not a sentimental schoolgirl.”
“Yes, that is true.”
“That sort of thing is morbid, besides being quite beneath a woman of pride and dignity. But women often romance about some dream-hero until they have found the right man. Can you doubt that I am the man for you? You were made for Europe, not for America, and for a man that can give you everything—everything!”
“Yes, I know.” She moved restlessly. “If I could only feel just one thing more for you! I hardly know what to call it—I like you better than anyone in the world. I almost love you. Why don’t I?” Her voice was suddenly full of passion and she clasped both of her hands about his own. “If you could only make me, I should worship you.”
He glanced about rapidly. They were quite alone. He put his arm round her and she felt it vibrate. His face was flushed and his breath short. She could feel his heart thumping against her head, and she was fascinated for more reasons than one: she knew that it was many years since any woman had roused him to strong emotion, and it was the first great passion that had ever been close to her save in her stormy imagination. She was enthralled for a moment, and some of the wildness in her own nature stirred. But it was too soon, she must have time to think. She cast about desperately and found her inspiration.
“We have been here a long time!” she said hurriedly. “You will miss your train. Your mother may be very ill.”
He dropped his arm, and stood up.
“You are a woman of infinite resource,” he said. “And no little cruelty. Will you consider what I have asked you—seriously?”
His anger as well as his power to control himself always fascinated her, and she also experienced a spasm of contrition. She rose and gave him her hand; her eyes were frank and kind.
“Yes,” she said. “I will consider it, and think of you always—and miss you horribly. Will you telegraph to me every day?”
“Two or three times a day, probably. And don’t think I am really angry with you. If you are cruel it is only because you don’t understand. I am glad that you do not, for it is only women that have loved greatly that have forgotten how to be cruel. Come. I must take you to your hotel.”