The following week Monte devoted himself wholly to the entertainment of Marjory and her friends. He placed his car at their disposal, and planned for them daily trips with the thoroughness of a courier, though he generally found some excuse for not going himself. His object was simple: to keep Marjory's days so filled that she would have no time left in which to worry. He wanted to help her, as far as possible, to forget the preceding week, which had so disturbed her. To this end nothing could be better for her than Peter and Beatrice Noyes, who were so simply and honestly plain, everyday Americans. They were just the wholesome, good-natured companions she needed to offset the morbid frame of mind into which he had driven her. Especially Peter. He was good for her and she was good for him.
The more he talked with Peter Noyes the better he liked him. At the end of the day—after seeing them started in the morning, Monte used to go out and walk his legs off till dinner-time—he enjoyed dropping into a chair by the side of Peter. It was wonderful how already Peter had picked up. He had gained not only in weight and color, but a marked mental change was noticeable. He always came back from his ride in high spirits. So completely did he ignore his blindness that Monte, talking with him in the dark, found himself forgetting it—awakening to the fact each time with a shock when it was necessary to offer an assisting arm.
It was the man's enthusiasm Monte admired. He seemed to be always alert—always keen. Yet, as near as he could find out, his life had been anything but adventuresome or varied. After leaving the law school he had settled down in a New York office and just plugged along. He confessed that this was the first vacation he had taken since he began practice.
"You can hardly call this a vacation!" exclaimed Monte.
"Man dear," answered Peter earnestly, "you don't know what these days mean to me."
"You sure are entitled to all the fun you can get out of them," returned Monte. "But I hate to think how I'd feel under the same circumstances."
"I don't believe there is much difference between men," answered Peter. "I imagine that about certain things we all feel a good deal alike."
"I wonder," mused Monte. "I can't imagine myself, for instance, living twelve months in the year in New York and being enthusiastic about it."
"What do you do when you're there?" inquired Peter.
"Not much of anything," admitted Monte.
"Then you're no more in New York when you're there than in Jericho," answered Peter. "You 've got to get into the game really to live in New York. You 've got to work and be one of the million others before you can get the feel of the city. Best of all, a man ought to marry there. You're married, are n't you, Covington?"
"Eh?"
"Did n't Beatrice tell me you registered here with your wife?"
"Did n't Beatrice tell me you registered here with your wife?""Did n't Beatrice tell me you registered here with your wife?"
"Did n't Beatrice tell me you registered here with your wife?""Did n't Beatrice tell me you registered here with your wife?"
Monte moistened his lips.
"Yes—she was here for a day. She—she was called away."
"That's too bad. I hope we'll have an opportunity to meet her before we leave."
"Thanks."
"She ought to help you understand New York."
"Perhaps she would. We've never been there together."
"Been married long?"
"No."
"So you have n't any children."
"Hardly."
"Then," said Peter, "you have your whole life ahead of you. You have n't begun to live anywhere yet."
"And you?"
"It's the same with me," confessed Peter, with a quick breath. "Only—well, I haven't been able to make even the beginning you 've made."
Monte leaned forward with quickened interest.
"That's the thing you wanted so hard?" he asked.
"Yes."
"To marry and have children?"
Monte was silent a moment, and then he added:—
"I know a man who did that."
"A man who does n't is n't a man, is he?"
"I—I don't know," confessed Monte. "I 've visited this friend once or twice. Did you ever see a kiddy with the croup?"
"No," admitted Peter.
"You're darned lucky. It's just as though—as though some one had the little devil by the throat, trying to strangle him."
"There are things you can do."
"Things you can try to do. But mostly you stand around with your hands tied, waiting to see what's going to happen."
"Well?" queried Peter, evidently puzzled.
"That's only one of a thousand things that can happen to 'em. There are worse things. They are happening every day."
"Well?"
"When I think of Chic and his children I think of him pacing the hall with his forehead all sweaty with the ache inside of him. Nothing pleasant about that, is there?"
Peter did not answer for a moment, and then what he said seemed rather pointless.
"What of it?" he asked.
"Only this," answered Monte uneasily. "When you speak of a wife and children you have to remember those facts. You have to consider that you 're going to be torn all to shoe-strings every so often. Maybe you open the gates of heaven, but you throw open the gates of hell too. There's no more jogging along in between on the good old earth."
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Peter. "You consider such things?"
"I've always tried to stay normal," answered Monte uneasily.
"Yet you said you're married?"
"Even so, is n't it possible for a man to keep his head?" demanded Monte.
"I don't understand," replied Peter.
"Look here—I don't want to intrude in your affairs, but I don't suppose you are talking merely abstractedly. You have some one definite in mind?"
"Yes."
"Then you ought to understand; you've kept steady."
"I wouldn't be like this if I had," answered Peter.
"You mean your eyes."
"I tried to forget her because she wasn't ready to listen. I turned to my work, and put in twenty hours a day. It was a fool thing to do. And yet—"
Monte held his breath.
"From the depths I saw the heights, I saw the wonderful beauty of the peaks."
"And still see them?"
"Clearer than ever now."
"Then you aren't sorry she came into your life?"
"Sorry, man?" exclaimed Peter. "Even at this price—even if there were no hope ahead, I'd still have my visions."
"But there is hope?"
"I have one chance in a thousand. It's more than anything I 've had up to now."
"One in a thousand is a fighting chance," Monte returned.
"You speak as if that were more than you had."
"It was."
"Yet you won out."
"How?" demanded Monte.
"She married you."
"Yes," answered Monte, "that's true. I say, old man—it's getting a bit cool here. Perhaps we'd better go in."
Monte had planned for them a drive to Cannes the day Beatrice sent word to Marjory that she would be unable to go.
"But you two will go, won't you?" she concluded her note. "Peter will be terribly disappointed if you don't."
So they went, leaving at ten o'clock. At ten-fifteen Beatrice came downstairs, and ran into Monte just as he was about to start his walk.
"You're feeling better?" he asked politely.
She shook her head.
"I—I'm afraid I told a fib."
"You mean you stayed because you did n't want to go."
"Yes. But I did n't say I had a headache."
"I know how you feel about that," he returned. "Leaving people to guess wrong lets you out in one way, and in another it does n't."
She appeared surprised at his directness. She had expected him to pass the incident over lightly.
"It was for Peter's sake, anyhow," she tried to justify her position. "But don't let me delay you, please. I know you 're off for your morning walk."
That was true. But he was interested in that statement she had just made that it was for Peter's sake she had remained behind. It revealed an amazingly dense ignorance of both her brother's position and Marjory's. On no other theory could he make it seem consistent for her to encourage a tête-à-tête between a married woman and a man as deeply in love with some one else as Peter was.
"Won't you come along a little way?" he asked. "We can turn back at any time."
She hesitated a moment—but only a moment.
"Thanks."
She fell into step at his side as he sought the quay.
"You've been very good to Peter," she said. "I've wanted a chance to tell you so."
"You did n't remain behind for that, I hope," he smiled.
"No," she admitted; "but I do appreciate your kindness. Peter has had such a terrible time of it."
"And yet," mused Monte aloud, "he does n't seem to feel that way himself."
"He has confided in you?"
"A little. He told me he regretted nothing."
"He has such fine courage!" she exclaimed.
"Not that alone. He has had some beautiful dreams."
"That's because of his courage."
"It takes courage, then, to dream?" Monte asked.
"Don't you think it does—with your eyes gone?"
"With or without eyes," he admitted.
"You don't know what he's been through," she frowned. "Even he does n't know. When I came to him, there was so little of him left. I 'll never forget the first sight I had of him in the hospital. Thin and white and blind, he lay there as though dead."
He looked at the frail young woman by his side. She must have had fine courage too. There was something of Peter in her.
"And you nursed him back."
She blushed at the praise.
"Perhaps I helped a little; but, after all, it was the dreams he had that counted most. All I did was to listen and try to make them real to him. I tried to make him hope."
"That was fine."
"He loved so hard, with all there was in him, as he does everything," she explained.
"I suppose that was the trouble," he nodded.
She turned quickly. It was as if he said that was the mistake.
"After all, that's just love, is n't it? There can't be any halfway about it, can there?"
"I wonder."
"You—you wonder, Mr. Covington?"
He was stupid at first. He did not get the connection. Then, as she turned her dark eyes full upon him, the blood leaped to his cheeks. He was married—that was what she was trying to tell him. He had a wife, and so presumably knew what love was. For her to assume anything else, for him to admit anything else, was impossible.
"Perhaps we'd better turn back," she said uneasily.
He felt like a cad. He turned instantly.
"I 'm afraid I did n't make myself very clear," he faltered. "We are n't all of us like Peter."
"There is no one in the world quite as good as Peter," the girl declared.
"Then you should n't blame me too much," he suggested.
"It is not for me to criticize you at all," she returned somewhat stiffly.
"But you did."
"How?"
"When you suggested turning back. It was as if you had determined I was not quite a proper person to walk with."
"Mr. Covington!" she protested.
"We may as well be frank. It seems to be a misfortune of mine lately to get things mixed up. Peter is helping me to see straight. That's why I like to talk with him."
"He sees so straight himself."
"That's it."
"If only now he recovers his eyes."
"He says there's hope."
"It all depends upon her," she said.
"Upon this woman?"
"Upon this one woman."
"If she realized it—"
"She does," broke in Beatrice. "I made her realize it. I went to her and told her."
"You did that?"
She raised her head in swift challenge.
"Even though Peter commanded me not to—even though I knew he would never forgive me if he learned."
"You women are so wonderful," breathed Monte.
"With Peter's future—with his life at stake—what else could I do?"
"And she, knowing that, refused to come to him?"
"Fate brought us to her."
"Then," exclaimed Monte, "what are you doing here?"
She stopped and faced him. It was evident that he was sincere.
"You men—all men are so stupid at times!" she cried, with a little laugh.
He shook his head slowly.
"I 'll have to admit it."
"Why, he's with her now," she laughed. "That's why I stayed at home to-day."
Monte held his breath for a second, and then he said:—
"You mean, the woman Peter loves is—is Marjory Stockton?"
"No other. I thought he must have told you. If not, I thought you must have guessed it from her."
"Why, no," he admitted; "I did n't."
"Then you've had your eyes closed."
"That's it," he nodded; "I've had my eyes closed. Why, that explains a lot of things."
Impulsively the girl placed her hand on Monte's arm.
"As an old friend of hers, you'll use your influence to help Peter?"
"I 'll do what I can."
"Then I'm so glad I told you."
"Yes," agreed Monte. "I suppose it is just as well for me to know."
Everything considered, Monte should have been glad at the revelation Beatrice made to him. If Peter were in love with Marjory and she with Peter—why, it solved his own problem, by the simple process of elimination, neatly and with despatch. All that remained for him to do was to remove himself from the awkward triangle as soon as possible. He must leave Marjory free, and Peter would look after the rest. No doubt a divorce on the grounds of desertion could be easily arranged; and thus, by that one stroke, they two would be made happy, and he—well, what the devil was to become of him?
The answer was obvious. It did not matter a picayune to any one what became of him. What had he ever done to make his life worth while to any one? He had never done any particular harm, that was true; but neither had he done any particular good. It is the positive things that count, when a man stands before the judgment-seat; and that is where Monte stood on the night Marjory came back from Cannes by the side of Peter, with her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed as if she had come straight from Eden.
They all dined together, and Monte grubbed hungrily for every look she vouchsafed him, for every word she tossed him. She had been more than ordinarily vivacious, spurred on partly by Beatrice and partly by Peter. Monte had felt himself merely an onlooker. That, in fact, was all he was. That was all he had been his whole life.
He dodged Peter this evening to escape their usual after-dinner talk, and went to his room. He was there now, with his face white and tense.
He had been densely stupid from the first, as Beatrice had informed him. Any man of the world ought to have suspected something when, at the first sight of Peter, she ran away. She had never run from him. Women run only when there is danger of capture, and she had nothing to fear from him in that way. She was safe with him. She dared even come with him to escape those from whom there might be some possible danger. Until now he had been rather proud of this—as if it were some honor. She had trusted him as she would not trust other men. It had made him throw back his shoulders—dense fool that he was!
She had trusted him because she did not fear him; she did not fear him because there was nothing in him to fear. It was not that he was more decent than other men: it was merely because he was less of a man. Why, she had run even from Peter—good, honest, conscientious Peter, with the heart and the soul and the nerve of a man. Peter had sent her scurrying before him because of the great love he dared to have for her. Peter challenged her to take up life with him—to buck New York with him. This was after he had waded in himself with naked fists, man-fashion. That was what gave Peter his right. That right was what she feared.
Monte had a grandfather who in forty-nine crossed the plains. A picture of him hung in the Covington house in Philadelphia. The painting revealed steel-gray eyes and, even below the beard of respectability, a mouth that in many ways was like Peter's. Montague Sears Covington—that was his name; the name that had been handed down to Monte. The man had shouldered a rifle, fought his way across deserts and over mountain paths, had risked his life a dozen times a day to reach the unknown El Dorado of the West. He had done this partly for a woman—a slip of a girl in New York whom he left behind to wait for him, though she begged to go. That was Monte's grandmother.
Monte, in spite of his ancestry, had jogged along, dodging the responsibilities—the responsibilities that Peter Noyes rushed forward to meet. He had ducked even love, even fatherhood. Like any quitter on the gridiron, instead of tackling low and hard, he had side-stepped. He had seen Chic in agony, and because of that had taken the next boat for Marseilles. He had turned tail and run. He had seen Teddy, and had run to what he thought was safe cover. If he paid the cost after that, whose the fault? The least he could do now was to pay the cost like a man.
Here was the salient necessity—to pay the cost like a man. There must be no whining, no regretting, no side-stepping this time. He must make her free by surrendering all his own rights, privileges, and title. He must turn her over to Peter, who had played the game. He must do more. He must see that she went to Peter. He must accomplish something positive this time.
Beatrice had asked him to use his influence. It was slight, pitifully slight, but he must do what he could. He must plan for them, deliberately, more such opportunities as this one he had planned for them unconsciously to-day. He must give them more chances to be together. He had looked forward to having breakfast with her in the morning. He must give up that. He must keep himself in the background while he was here, and then, at the right moment, get out altogether.
Technically, he must desert her. He must make that supreme sacrifice. At the moment when he stood ready to challenge the world for her—at the moment when his heart within him burned to face for her all the dangers from which he had run—at that point he must relinquish even this privilege, and with smiling lips pose before the world and before her as a quitter. He must not even use the deserter's prerogative of running. He must leave her cheerfully and jauntily—as the care-free ass known to her and to the world as just Monte.
The scorn of those words stung him white with helpless passion. She had wished him always to be just Monte, because she thought that was the best there was in him. As such he was at least harmless—a good-natured chump to be trusted to do no harm, if he did no good. The grandson of the Covington who had faced thirst and hunger and sudden death for his woman, who had won for her a fortune fighting against other strong men, the grandson of a man who had tackled life like a man, must sacrifice his one chance to allow this ancestor to know his own as a man. He could have met him chin up with Madame Covington on his arm. He had that chance once.
How ever had he missed it? He sat there with his fists clenched between his knees, asking himself the question over and over again. He had known her for over a decade. As a school-girl he had seen her at Chic's, and now ten years later he saw that even then she had within her all that she now had. That clear, white forehead had been there then; the black arched brows, the thin, straight nose, and the mobile lips. He caught his breath as he thought of those lips. Her eyes, too—but no, a change had taken place there. He had always thought of her eyes as cold—as impenetrable. They were not that now. Once or twice he thought he had seen into them a little way. Once or twice he thought he had glimpsed gentle, fluttering figures in them. Once or twice they had been like windows in a long-closed house, suddenly flung open upon warm rooms filled with flowers. It made him dizzy now to remember those moments.
He paced his room. In another week or two, if he had kept on,—if Peter had not come,—he might have been admitted farther into that house. He squared his shoulders. If he fought for his own even now—if, man against man, he challenged Peter for her—he might have a fighting chance. Was not that his right? In New York, in the world outside New York, that was the law: a hard fight—the best man to win. In war, favors might be shown; but in life, with a man's own at stake, it was every one for himself. Peter himself would agree to that. He was not one to ask favors. A fair fight was all he demanded. Then let it be a clean, fair fight with bare knuckles to a finish. Let him show himself to Marjory as the grandson of the man who gave him his name; let him press his claims.
He was ready now to face the world with her. He was eager to do that. Neither heights nor depths held any terrors for him. He envied Chic—he envied even poor mad Hamilton.
Suddenly he saw a great truth. There is no difference between the heights and the depths to those who are playing the game. It is only those who sit in the grand-stand who see the difference. He ought to have known that. The hard throws, the stinging tackles that used to bring the grandstand to its feet, he never felt. The players knew something that those upon the seats did not know, and thrilled with a keener joy than the onlookers dreamed of.
If he could only be given another chance to do something for Marjory—something that would bite into him, something that would twist his body and maul him! If he could not face some serious physical danger for her, then some great sacrifice—
Which was precisely the opportunity now offered. He had been considering this sacrifice from his own personal point of view. He had looked upon it as merely a personal punishment. But, after all, it was for her. It was for her alone. Peter played no part in it whatever. Neither did he himself. It was for her—for her!
Monte set his jaws. If, through Peter, he could bring her happiness, then that was all the reward he could ask. Here was a man who loved her, who would be good to her and fight hard for her. He was just the sort of man he could trust her to. If he could see them settled in New York, as Chic and Mrs. Chic were settled, see them start the brave adventure, then he would have accomplished more than he had ever been able to accomplish so far.
There was no need of thinking beyond that point. What became of his life after that did not matter in the slightest. Wherever he was, he would always know that she was where she belonged, and that was enough. He must hold fast to that thought.
A knock at his door made him turn on his heels.
"Who's that?" he demanded.
"It's I—Noyes," came the answer. "Have you gone to bed yet?"
Monte swung open the door.
"Come in," he said.
"I thought I 'd like to talk with you, if it is n't too late," explained Peter nervously.
"On the contrary, you could n't have come more opportunely. I was just thinking about you."
He led Peter to a chair.
"Sit down and make yourself comfortable."
Monte lighted a cigarette, sank into a near-by chair, and waited.
"Beatrice said she told you," began Peter.
"She did," answered Monte; "I'd congratulate you if it would n't be so manifestly superfluous."
"I did n't realize she was an old friend of yours."
"I've known her for ten years," said Monte.
"It's wonderful to have known her as long as that. I envy you."
"That's strange, because I almost envy you."
Peter laughed.
"I have a notion I 'd be worried if you were n't already married, Covington."
"Worried?"
"I think Mrs. Covington must be a good deal like Marjory."
"She is," admitted Monte.
"So, if I had n't been lucky enough to find you already suited, you might have given me a race."
"You forget that the ladies themselves have some voice in such matters," Monte replied slowly.
"I have better reasons than you for not forgetting that," answered Peter.
Monte started.
"I was n't thinking of you," he put in quickly. "Besides, you did n't give Marjory a fair chance. Her aunt had just died, and she—well, she has learned a lot since then."
"She has changed!" exclaimed Peter. "I noticed it at once; but I was almost afraid to believe it. She seems steadier—more serious."
"Yes."
"You've seen a good deal of her recently?"
"For the last two or three weeks," answered Monte.
"You don't mind my talking to you about her?"
"Not at all."
"As you're an old friend of hers, I feel as if I had the right."
"Go ahead."
"It seems to me as if she had suddenly grown from a girl to a woman. I saw the woman in her all the time. It—it was to her I spoke before. Maybe, as you said, the woman was n't quite ready."
"I'm sure of it."
"You speak with conviction."
"As I told you, I've come to know her better these last few weeks than ever before. I 've had a chance to study her. She's had a chance, too, to study—other men. There's been one in particular—"
Peter straightened a bit.
"One in particular?" he demanded aggressively.
"No one you need fear," replied Monte. "In a way, it's because of him that your own chances have improved."
"How?"
"It has given her an opportunity to compare him with you."
"Are you at liberty to tell me about him?"
"Yes; I think I have that right," replied Monte; "I'll not be violating any confidences, because what I know about him I know from the man himself. Furthermore, it was I who introduced him to her."
"Oh—a friend of yours."
"Not a friend, exactly; an acquaintance of long standing would be more accurate. I've been in touch with him all my life, but it's only lately I've felt that I was really getting to know him."
"Is he here in Nice now?" inquired Peter.
"No," answered Monte slowly. "He went away a little while ago. He went suddenly—God knows where. I don't think he will ever come back."
"You can't help pitying the poor devil if he was fond of her," said Peter.
"But he was n't good enough for her. It was his own fault too, so he is n't deserving even of pity."
"Probably that makes it all the harder. What was the matter with him?"
"He was one of the kind we spoke of the other night—the kind who always sits in the grandstand instead of getting into the game."
"Pardon me if I 'm wrong, but—I thought you spoke rather sympathetically of that kind the other night."
"I was probably reflecting his views," Monte parried.
"That accounts for it," returned Peter. "Somehow, it did n't sound consistent in you. I wish I could see your face, Covington."
"We're sitting in the dark here," answered Monte.
"Go on."
"Marjory liked this fellow well enough because—well, because he looked more or less like a man. He was big physically, and all that. Besides, his ancestors were all men, and I suppose they handed down something."
"What was his name?"
"I think I 'd rather not tell you that. It's of no importance. This is all strictly in confidence."
"I understand."
"So she let herself see a good deal of him. He was able to amuse her. That kind of fellow generally can entertain a woman. In fact, that is about all they are good for. When it comes down to the big things, there is n't much there. They are well enough for the holidays, and I guess that was all she was thinking about. She had had a hard time, and wanted amusement. Maybe she fancied that was all she ever wanted; but—well, there was more in her than she knew herself."
"A thousand times more!" exclaimed Peter.
"She found it out. Perhaps, after all, this fellow served his purpose in helping her to realize that."
"Perhaps."
"So, after that, he left."
"And he cared for her?"
"Yes."
"Poor devil!"
"I don't know," mused Monte. "He seemed, on the whole, rather glad that he had been able to do that much for her."
"I 'd like to meet that man some day. I have a notion there is more in him than you give him credit for, Covington."
"I doubt it."
"A man who would give up her—"
"She's the sort of woman a man would want to do his level best for," broke in Monte. "If that meant giving her up,—if the fellow felt he was n't big enough for her,—then he could n't do anything else, could he?"
"The kind big enough to consider that would be big enough for her," declared Peter.
Monte drew a quick breath.
"Do you mind repeating that?"
"I say the man really loving her who would make such a sacrifice comes pretty close to measuring up to her standard."
"I think he would like to hear that. You see, it's the first real sacrifice he ever undertook."
"It may be the making of him."
"Perhaps."
"He'll always have her before him as an ideal. When you come in touch with such a woman as she—you can't lose, Covington, no matter how things turn out."
"I 'll tell him that too."
"It's what I tell myself over and over again. To-day—well, I had an idea there must be some one in the background of her life I did n't know about."
"You 'd better get that out of your head. This man is n't even in the background, Noyes."
"I 'm not so sure. I thought she seemed worried. I tried to make her tell me, but she only laughed. She'd face death with a smile, that woman. I got to thinking about it in my room, and that's why I came down here to you. You've seen more of her these last few months than I have."
"Not months; only weeks."
"And this other—I don't want to pry into her affairs, but we're all just looking to her happiness, are n't we?"
"Consider this other man as dead and gone," cut in Monte. "He was lucky to be able to play the small part in her life that he did play."
"But something is disturbing her. I know her voice; I know her laugh. If I did n't have those to go by, there'd be something else. I canfeelwhen she's herself and when she is n't."
Monte grasped his chair arms. He had studied her closely the last few days, and had not been able to detect the fact that she was worried. He had thought her gayer, more light-hearted, than usual. It was so that she had held herself before him. If Peter was right,—and Monte did not doubt the man's superior intuition,—then obviously she was worrying over the technicality that still held her a prisoner. Until she was actually free she would live up to the letter of her contract. This would naturally tend to strain her intercourse with Peter. She was not one to take such things lightly.
Monte rose, crossed the room, and placed his hand on Peter's shoulder.
"I think I can assure you," he said slowly, "that if there is anything bothering her now, it is nothing that will last. All you've got to do is to be patient and hold on."
"You seem to be mighty confident."
"If you knew what I know, you'd be confident too."
Peter frowned.
"I don't like discussing these things, but—they mean so much."
"So much to all of us," nodded Monte. "Now, the thing to do is to turn in and get a good night's sleep. After all, thereissomething in keeping normal."
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 meetheragain."
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—"