In her new room at the Hôtel d'Angleterre, Marjory dismissed Marie and buried her hot face in her hands. She felt like a cornered thing—a shamed and cornered thing. She should not have given the name of the hotel. She should have sought Monte and ordered him to take her away. Only—she could not face Monte himself. She did not know how she was going to see him to-morrow—how she was ever going to see him again. "Monsieur and Madame Covington," he had signed the register. Beatrice must have seen it, but Peter had not. He must never see it, because he would force her to confess the truth—the truth she had been struggling to deny to herself.
She had trifled with a holy thing—that was the shameful truth. She had posed here as a wife when she was no wife. The ceremony at the English chapel helped her none. It only made her more dishonest. The memory of Peter Noyes had warned her at the time, but she had not listened. She had lacked then some vision which she had since gained—gained through Monte. It was that which made her understand Peter now, and the wonder of his love and the glory and sacredness of all love. It was that which made her understand herself now.
She got to her feet, staring into the dark toward the seashore.
"Monte, forgive me—forgive me!" she choked.
She had trifled with the biggest thing in his life and in her life. She shouldered the full blame. Monte knew nothing either of himself or of her. He was just Monte, honest and four-square, living up to his bargain. But she had seen the light in his eyes—the eyes that should have led him to the Holy Grail. He would have had to go such a little way—only as far as her outstretched arms.
She shrank back from the window, her head bowed. It had been her privilege as a woman to be wiser than he. She should have known! Now—the thought wrenched like a physical pain—there was nothing left to her but renunciation. She must help him to be free. She must force him free. She owed that to him and to herself. It was only so that she might ever feel clean again.
Moaning his name, she flung herself upon the bed. So she lay until summoned back to life by Marie, who brought her the card of Miss Beatrice Noyes.
Marjory took the time to bathe her dry cheeks in hot water and to do over her hair before admitting the girl; but, even with those precautions, Beatrice paused at the entrance as if startled by her appearance.
"Perhaps you do not feel like seeing any one to-night," she suggested.
"I do want to see you," answered Marjory. "I want to hear about Peter. But my head—would you mind if we sat in the dark?"
"I think that would be better—if we are to talk about Peter."
The phrase puzzled Marjory, but she turned out the lights and placed two chairs near the open windows.
"Now tell me from the beginning," she requested.
"The beginning came soon after you went away," replied Beatrice in a low voice.
Marjory leaned back wearily. If there were to be more complications for which she must hold herself accountable, she felt that she could not listen. Surely she had lived through enough for one day.
"Peter cared a great deal for you," Beatrice faltered on.
"Why?"
It was a cry in the night.
Impulsively the younger girl leaned forward and fumbled for her hands.
"You did n't realize it?" she asked hopefully.
"I realized nothing then. I realized nothing yesterday," cried Marjory. "It is only to-day that I began to realize anything."
"To-day?"
"Only to-night."
"It was the sight of Peter looking so unlike himself that opened your heart," nodded Beatrice.
"Not my heart—just my eyes," returned Marjory.
"Your heart too," insisted Beatrice; "for it's only through your heart that you can open Peter's eyes."
"I—I don't understand."
"Because he loves you," breathed Beatrice.
"Because he loves you," breathed Beatrice."Because he loves you," breathed Beatrice.
"Because he loves you," breathed Beatrice."Because he loves you," breathed Beatrice.
"No. No—not that."
"You don't know how much," went on the girl excitedly. "None of us knew how much—until after you went. Oh, he'd never forgive me if he knew I was talking like this! But I can't help it. It was because he would not talk—because he kept it a secret all to himself that this came upon him. They told me at the hospital that it was overwork and worry, and that he had only one chance in a hundred. But I sat by his side, Marjory, night and day, and coaxed him back. Little by little he grew stronger—all except his poor eyes. It was then he told me the truth: how he had tried to forget you in his work."
"He—he blamed me?"
Beatrice was still clinging to her hands.
"No," she answered quickly. "He did not blame you. We never blame those we love, do we?"
"But we hurt those we love!"
"Only when we don't understand. You did not know he loved you like that, did you?"
Marjory withdrew her hands.
"He had no right!" she cried.
Beatrice was silent a moment. There was a great deal here that she herself did not understand. But, though she herself had never loved, there was a great deal she did understand. She spoke as if thinking aloud.
"I have not found love—yet," she said. "But I never thought it was a question of right when people loved. I thought it—it just happened."
Marjory drew a quick breath.
"Yes; it is like that," she admitted.
Only, she was not thinking of Peter. She was thinking of herself. A week ago she would have smiled at that phrase. Even yesterday she would have smiled a little. Love was something a woman or man undertook or not at will. It was a condition to choose as one chose one's style of living. It was accepted or rejected, as suited one's pleasure. If a woman preferred her freedom, then that was her right.
Then, less than an hour ago, she had flung out her hands toward the shadowy figure of a man walking alone by the sea, her heart aching with a great need for the love that might have been hers had she not smiled. That need, springing of her own love, had just happened. The fulfillment of it was a matter to be decided by her own conscience; but the love itself had involved no question of right. She felt a wave of sympathy for Peter. She was able to feel for him now as never before. Poor Peter, lying there alone in the hospital! How the ache, unsatisfied, ate into one.
"Peter would n't tell me at first," Beatrice was running on. "His lips were as tight closed as his poor bandaged eyes."
"The blindness," broke in Marjory. "That is not permanent?"
"I will tell you what the doctor told me," Beatrice replied slowly. "He said that, while his eyes were badly overstrained, the seat of the trouble was mental. 'He is worrying,' he told me. 'Remove the cause of that and he has a chance.'"
"So you have come to me for that?"
"It seems like fate," said Peter's sister, with something of awe in her voice. "When, little by little, Peter told me of his love, I thought of only one thing: of finding you. I wanted to cable you, because I—I thought you would come if you knew. But Peter would not allow that. He made me promise not to do that. Then, as he grew stronger, and the doctor told us that perhaps an ocean voyage would help him, I wanted to bring him to you. He would not allow that either. He thought you were in Paris, and insisted that we take the Mediterranean route. Then—we happen upon you outside the hotel we chose by chance! Does n't it seem as if back of such a thing as that there must be something we don't understand; something higher than just what we may think right or wrong?"
"No, no; that's impossible," exclaimed Marjory.
"Why?"
"Because then we'd have to believe everything that happened was right. And it is n't."
"Was our coming here not right?"
Marjory did not answer.
"If you could have seen the hope in Peter's face when I left him!"
"He does n't know!" choked Marjory.
"He knows you are here, and that is all he needs to know," answered Beatrice.
"If it were only as simple as that."
The younger girl rose and, moving to the other's side, placed an arm over the drooping shoulders.
"Marjory dear," she said. "I feel to-night more like Peter than myself. I have listened so many hours in the dark as he talked about you. He—he has given me a new idea of love. I'd always thought of love in a—a sort of fairy-book way. I did n't think of it as having much to do with everyday life. I supposed that some time a knight would come along on horseback—if ever he came—and take me off on a long holiday."
Marjory gave a start. The girl was smoothing her hair.
"It would always be May-time," she went on, "and we'd have nothing to do but gather posies in the sunshine. We'd laugh and sing, and there'd be no care and no worries. Did you ever think of love that way?"
"Yes."
The girl spoke more slowly now, as if anxious to be quite accurate:—
"But Peter seemed to think of other things. When we talked of you it was as if he wanted you to be a part of himself and help with the big things he was planning to do. He had so many wonderful plans in which you were to help. Instead of running away from cares and worries, it was as though meeting these was what was going to make it May-time. Instead of riding off to some fairy kingdom, he seemed to feel that it was this that would make a fairy kingdom even of New York. Because"—she lowered her voice—"it was of a home and of children he talked, and of what a fine mother you would make. He talked of that—and somehow, Marjory, it made me proud just to be a woman! Oh, perhaps I should n't repeat such things!"
Marjory sprang to her feet.
"You should n't repeat them!" she exclaimed. "You mustn't repeat anything more! And I must n't listen!"
"It is only because you're the woman I came to know so well, sitting by his bed in the dark, that I dared," she said gently.
"You'll go now?" pleaded Marjory. "I must n't listen to any more."
Silently, as if frightened by what she had already said, Beatrice moved toward the door.
Marjory hurried after her.
"You're good," she cried, "and Peter's good! And I—"
The girl finished for her:—
"No matter what happens, you'll always be to me Peter's Marjory," she said. "You'll always keep me proud."
Monte, stepping out of his room early after a restless night, saw a black-haired young man wearing a shade over his eyes fumbling about for the elevator button. He had the thin, nervous mouth and the square jaw of an American.
Monte stepped up to him.
"May I help you?" he asked.
"Thank you," answered Noyes; "I thought I could make it alone, but there is n't much light here."
Monte took his arm and assisted him to the elevator. The man appeared half blind. His heart went out to him at once. As they reached the first floor the stranger again hesitated. He smiled nervously.
"I wanted to get out in the air," he explained. "I thought I could find a valet to accompany me."
Monte hesitated. He did not want to intrude, but there was something about this helpless American that appealed to him. Impulsively he said: "Would you come with me? Covington is my name. I 'm just off for a walk along the quay."
"Noyes is my name," answered Peter. "I'd like to come, but I don't want to trouble you to that extent."
Monte took his arm.
"Come on," he said. "It's a bully morning."
"The air smells good," nodded Noyes. "I should have waited for my sister, but I was a bit restless. Do you mind asking the clerk to let her know where I am when she comes down?"
Monte called Henri.
"Inform Miss Noyes we'll be on the quay," he told him.
They walked in silence until they reached the boulevard bordering the ocean.
"We have the place to ourselves," said Monte. "If I walk too fast for you, let me know."
"I 'm not very sure of my feet yet," apologized Noyes. "I suppose in time I'll get used to this."
"Good Lord, you don't expect it to last?"
"No. They tell me I have a fighting chance."
"How did it happen?"
"Used them a bit too much, I guess," answered Noyes.
"That's tough."
"A man has so darned much to do and such a little while to do it in," exclaimed Noyes.
"You must live in New York."
"Yes. And you?"
"I generally drift back for the holidays. I've been traveling a good deal for the last ten years."
"I see. Some sort of research work?"
The way Noyes used that word "work" made Monte uncomfortable. It was as if he took it for granted that a man who was a man must have a definite occupation.
"I don't know that you would call it exactly that," answered Monte. "I 've just been knocking around. I have n't had anything in particular to do. What are you in?"
"Law. I wonder if you're Harvard?"
"Sure thing. And you?"
Noyes named his class—a class six years later than Monte's.
"Well, we have something in common there, anyhow," said Covington cordially. "My father was Harvard Law School. He practiced in Philadelphia."
"I've always lived in New York. I was born there, and I love it. I like the way it makes you hustle—the challenge to get in and live—"
He stopped abruptly, putting one hand to his eyes.
"They hurt?" asked Monte anxiously.
"You need your eyes in New York," he answered simply.
"You went in too hard," suggested Monte.
"Is there any other way?" cried Noyes.
"I used to play football a little," said Monte. "I suppose it's something like that—when a man gets the spirit of the thing. When you hit the line you want to feel that you 're putting into it every ounce in you."
Noyes nodded.
"Into your work—into your life."
"Into your life?" queried Monte.
"Into everything."
Monte turned to look at the man. His thin lips had come together in a straight line. His hollow cheeks were flushed. Every sense was as alert as a fencer's. If he had lived long like that, no wonder his eyes had gone bad. Yet last night Monte himself had lived like that, pacing his room hour after hour. Only it was not work that had given a cutting edge to each minute—not life, whatever Noyes meant by that. His thoughts had all been of a woman. Was that life? Was it what Noyes had meant when he said "everything"?
"This bucking the line all the time raises the devil with you," he said.
"How?" demanded Noyes.
The answer Monte could have returned was obvious. The fact that amazed him was that Noyes could have asked the question with the sun and the blue sky shut away from him. It only proved again what Monte had always maintained—that excesses of any kind, whether of rum or ambition or—or love—drove men stark mad. Blind as a bat from overwork, Noyes still asked the question.
"Look here," said Monte, with a frown. "Before the big events the coach used to take us one side and make us believe that the one thing in life we wanted was that game. He used to make us as hungry for it as a starved dog for a bone. He used to make us ache for it. So we used to wade in and tear ourselves all to pieces to get it."
"Well?"
"If we won it was n't so much; if we lost—it left us aching worse than before."
"Yes."
"There was the crowd that sat and watched us. They did n't care the way we cared. We went back to the locker building in strings; they went off to a comfortable dinner."
"And the moral?" demanded Noyes.
"Is not to care too darned much, is n't it?" growled Monte.
"If you want a comfortable dinner," nodded Noyes.
"Or a comfortable night's sleep. Or if you want to wake up in the morning with the world looking right."
Again Monte saw the impulsive movement of the man's hand to his eyes.
He said quickly: "I did n't mean to refer to that."
"I forget it for a while. Then—suddenly—I remember it."
"You wanted something too hard," said Monte gently.
"I wanted something with all there was in me. I still want it."
"You're not sorry, then?"
"If I were sorry for that, I'd be sorry I was alive."
"But the cost!"
"Of what value is a thing that doesn't cost?" returned Noyes. "All the big things cost big. Half the joy in them is pitting yourself against that and paying the price. The ache you speak of—that's credited to the joy in the end. Those men in the grand-stand don't know that. If you fight hard, you can't lose, no matter what the score is against you."
"You mean it's possible to get some of your fun out of the game itself?"
"What else is there to life—if you pick the things worth fighting for?"
"Then, if you lose—"
"You've lived," concluded Noyes.
"It's men like you who ought really to win," exclaimed Monte. "I hope you get what you went after."
"I mean to," answered Noyes, with grim determination.
They had turned and were coming back in the direction of the hotel when Monte saw a girlish figure hurrying toward them.
"I think your sister is coming," said Monte.
"Then you can be relieved of me," answered Noyes.
"But I 've enjoyed this walk immensely. I hope we can take another. Are you here for long?"
"Indefinitely. And you?"
"Also indefinitely."
Miss Noyes was by their side now.
"Sister—this is Mr. Covington," Peter introduced her.
Miss Noyes smiled.
"I've good news for you, Peter," she said. "I've just heard from Marjory, and she'll see you at ten."
Monte was startled by the name, but was even more startled by the look of joy that illuminated the features of the man by his side. For a second it was as if his blind eyes had suddenly come to life.
Monte caught his breath.
Monte was at the Hôtel d'Angleterre at nine. In response to his card he received a brief note.
Dear Monte[he read]: Please don't ask to see me this morning. I'm so mixed up I'm afraid I won't be at all good company.Yours, MARJORY.
Monte sent back this note in reply:—
Dear Marjory: If you're mixed up, I'm just the one you ought to see. You've been thinking again.MONTE.
She came into the office looking like a hunted thing; but he stepped forward to meet her with a boyish good humor that reassured her in an instant. The firm grip of his hand alone was enough to steady her. Her tired eyes smiled gratitude.
"I never expected to be married and deserted—all in one week," he said lightly. "What's the trouble?"
He felt like a comedian trying to be funny with the heart gone out of him. But he knew she expected no less. He must remain just Monte or he would only frighten her the more. No matter if his heart pounded until he could not catch his breath, he must play the care-free chump of acompagnon de voyage. That was all she had married—all she wanted. She glanced at his arm in its black sling.
"Who tied that this morning?" she asked.
"The valet."
"He did n't do it at all nicely. There's a little sun parlor on the next floor. Come with me and I 'll do it over."
He followed her upstairs and into a room filled with flowers and wicker chairs. She stood before him and readjusted the handkerchief, so near that he thought he felt her breath. It was a test for a man, and he came through it nobly.
"There—that's better," she said. "Now take the big chair in the sun."
She drew it forward a little, though he protested at so much attention. She dropped into another seat a little away from him.
"Well?" he inquired. "Aren't you going to tell me about it?"
He was making it as easy as possible—easier than she had anticipated.
"Won't you please smoke?"
He lighted a cigarette.
"Now we're off," he encouraged her.
He was leaning back with one leg crossed over the other—a big, wholesome boy. His blue eyes this morning were the color of the sky, and just as clean and just as untroubled. As she studied him the thought uppermost in her mind was that she must not hurt him. She must be very careful about that. She must give him nothing to worry over.
"Monte," she began, "I guess women have a lot of queer notions men don't know anything about. Can't we let it go at that?"
"If you wish," he nodded. "Only—are you going to stay here?"
"For a little while, anyway," she answered.
"You mean—a day or two?"
"Or a week or two."
"You'd rather not tell me why?"
"If you please—not," she answered quickly.
He thought a moment, and then asked:—
"It was n't anything I did?"
"No, no," she assured him. "You've been so good, Monte."
He was so good with her now—so gentle and considerate. It made her heart ache. With her chin in hand, elbow upon the arm of her chair, she was apparently looking at him more or less indifferently, when what she would have liked to do was to smooth away the perplexed frown between his brows.
"Then," he asked, "your coming here has n't anything to do with me?"
She could not answer that directly. With her cheeks burning and her lips dry, she tried to think just what to say. Above all things, she must not worry him!
"It has to do with you and myself and—Peter Noyes," she answered.
"Peter Noyes!"
He sat upright.
"He is at the Hôtel des Roses—with his sister," Marjory ran on hurriedly. "They are both old friends, and I met them quite by accident last night. Suddenly, Monte,—they made my position there impossible. They gave me a new point of view on myself—on you. I guess it was an American point of view. What had seemed right before did not seem right then."
"Is that why you resumed your maiden name?"
"That is why. But sooner or later Peter will know the truth, won't he?"
"How will he know?"
"The name you signed on the register."
"That's so, too," Monte admitted. "But that says only 'Madame Covington.' Madame Covington might be any one."
He smiled, but his lips were tense.
"She may have been called home unexpectedly."
The girl hid her face in her hands. He rose and stepped to her side.
"There, there," he said gently. "Don't worry about that. There is no reason why they should ever associate you with her. If they make any inquiries of me about madame, I'll just say she has gone away for a little while—perhaps for a week or two. Is that right?"
"I—I don't know."
"Nothing unusual about that. Wives are always going away. Even Chic's wife goes away every now and then. As for you, little woman, I think you did the only thing possible. I met that Peter Noyes this morning."
Startled, she raised her face from her hands.
"You met—Peter Noyes?" she asked slowly.
"Quite by chance. He was on his way to walk, and I took him with me. He's a wonderful fellow, Marjory."
"You talked with him?"
He nodded.
"He takes life mighty seriously."
"Too seriously, Monte," she returned.
"It's what made him blind; and yet—there 's something worth while about a man who gets into the game that way. Hanged if he did n't leave me feeling uncomfortable."
She looked worried.
"How, Monte?"
"Oh, as though I ought to be doing something instead of just kicking around the Continent. Do you know I had a notion of studying law at one time?"
"But there was no need of it, was there?"
"Not in one way. Only, I suppose I could have made myself useful somewhere, even if I did n't have to earn a living. Maybe there's a use for every one—somewhere."
He had left her side, and was staring out the window toward the ocean. She watched him anxiously. She had never seen him like this, and yet, in a way, this was the same Monte in whose eyes she had caught a glimpse of the wonderful bright light. It was the man who had leaned toward her as they walked on the shore the night before they reached Nice—a gallant prince of the fairy-books, ready to step into real life and be a gallant prince there.
Monte had never had a chance. Had he been left as Peter Noyes had been left, dependent upon himself, he would have done all that Peter had done, without losing his smile. Marjory must not allow him to lose that now. His mouth was drooping with such exaggerated melancholy that she felt something must be done at once. She began to laugh. He turned quickly.
"You look as if you had lost your last friend," she chided him. "If talking with Peter Noyes does that to you, I don't think you had better talk with him any more."
"He's worth more to-day, blind, than I with my two eyes."
"The trouble with Peter is that he can't smile," she answered. "After all, it would be a sad world if no one were left to smile."
The words brought back to him the phrase she had used at the Normandie: "I am depending on you to keep me normal."
Here was something right at hand for him to do, and a man's job at that. He had wanted a chance to play the game, and here it was. Perhaps the game was not so big as some,—it concerned only her and him,—but there was a certain added challenge in playing the little game hard. Besides, the importance of the game was a good deal in the point of view. If, for him, it was big, that was enough.
As he stood before her now, the demand upon him for all his nerve was enough to satisfy any man. To assume before her the pose of the carefree chump that she needed to balance her own nervous fears—to do this with every muscle in him straining toward her, with the beauty of her making him dizzy, with hot words leaping for expression to his dry lips, those facts, after all, made the game seem not so small.
"Where are you going to lunch to-day?" he asked.
"I don't know, Monte," she answered indifferently. "I told Peter he could come over at ten."
"I see. Want to lunch with him?"
"I don't want to lunch with any one."
"He'll probably expect you. I was going to look at some villas to-day; but I suppose that's all off."
Her cheeks turned scarlet.
"Yes."
"Then I guess I'll walk to Monte Carlo and lunch there. How about dinner?"
"If they see us together—"
"Ask them to come along too. You can tell them I'm an old friend. I am that, am I not?"
"One of the oldest and best," she answered earnestly.
"Then I'll call you up when I come back. Good luck."
With a nod and a smile, he left her.
From the window she watched him out of sight. He did not turn. There was no reason in the world why she should have expected him to turn. He had a pleasant day before him. He would amuse himself at the Casino, enjoy a good luncheon, smoke a cigarette in the sunshine, and call her up at his leisure when he returned. Except for the light obligation of ascertaining her wishes concerning dinner, it was the routine he had followed for ten years. It had kept him satisfied, kept him content. Doubtless, if he were left undisturbed, it would keep him satisfied and content for another decade. He would always be able to walk away from her without turning back.
Beatrice brought Peter at ten, and, in spite of the mute appeal of Marjory's eyes, stole off on tiptoe and left her alone with him.
"Has Trix gone?" demanded Peter.
"Yes."
"She shouldn't have done that," he complained.
Marjory made him comfortable in the chair Monte had lately occupied, finding a cushion for his head.
"Please don't do those things," he objected. "You make me feel as if I were wearing a sign begging for pity."
"How can any one help pitying you, when they see you like this, Peter?" she asked gently.
"What right have they to do it?" he demanded.
"Right?"
She frowned at that word. So many things in her life seemed to have been decided without respect for right.
"I'm the only one to say whether I shall be pitied or not," he declared. "I've lost the use of my eyes temporarily by my own fault. I don't like it; but I refuse to be pitied."
Marjory was surprised to find him so aggressive. It was not what she expected after listening to Beatrice. It changed her whole attitude toward him instantly from one of guarded condolence to honest admiration. There was no whine here. He was blaming no one—neither himself nor her. It was with a wave of deep and sincere sympathy, springing spontaneously from within herself, that she spoke.
"Peter," she said, "I won't pity you any more. But if I 'm sorry for you—awfully sorry—you won't mind that?"
"I'd rather you would n't think of my eyes at all," he answered unsteadily. "I can almost forget them myself—with you."
"Then," she said, "we'll forget them. Are you going to stay here long, Peter?"
"Are you?"
"My plans are uncertain. I don't think I shall ever make any more plans."
"You must n't let yourself feel that way," Peter returned. "The thing to do, if one scheme fails, is to start another—right off."
"But nothing ever comes out as you expect."
"That gives you a chance to try again."
"You can't keep that up forever?"
"Forever and ever," he nodded. "It's what makes life worth living."
"Peter," she said below her breath, "you're wonderful."
He seemed to clear the muggy air around her like a summer shower. In touch with his fine courage, her own returned. She felt herself steadier and calmer than she had been for a week.
"What if you make mistakes, Peter?"
"It's the only way you learn," he answered. "There's a new note in your voice, Marjory. Have—you been learning?"
His meaning was clear. He leaned forward as if trying to pierce the darkness between them. His thin white hands were tight upon the chair arms.
"At least, I've been making mistakes," she answered uneasily.
She felt, for a second, as if she could pour out her troubles to him—as if he would listen patiently and give her of his wisdom and strength. It would be easier—she was ashamed of the thought, but it held true—because he could not see. Almost—she could tell him of herself and of Monte.
"There's such a beautiful woman in you!" he explained passionately.
With her heart beating fast, she dropped back in her chair. There was the old ring in his voice—the old masterful decision that used to frighten her. There used to be moments when she was afraid that he might command her to come with him as with authority, and that she would go.
"I 've always known that you'd learn some day all the fine things that are in you—all the fine things that lay ahead of you to do as a woman," he ran on. "You've only been waiting; that's all."
He could not see her cheeks—she was thankful for that. But the wonder was that he did not hear the pounding of her heart. He spoke like this, not knowing of this last week.
"You remember all the things I said to you—before you left?"
"Yes."
"I can't say them to you now. I must wait until I get my eyes back. Then I shall say them again, and perhaps—"
"Do you think I 'd let you wait for your eyes?" she cried.
"You mean that now—"
"No, no, Peter," she interrupted, in a panic. "I did n't mean I could listen now. Only I did n't want you to think I was so selfish that if it were possible to share the light with you I—I would n't share the dark too."
"There would n't be any dark for me at all if you shared it," he answered gently.
Then she saw his lips tighten.
"We must n't talk of that," he said. "We must n't think of it."
Yet, of all the many things they discussed this morning, nothing left Marjory more to think about. It seemed that, so far, her freedom had done nothing but harm. She had intended no harm. She had desired only to lead her own life day by day, quite by herself. So she had fled from Peter—with this result; then she had fled from Teddy, who had lost his head completely; finally she had fled, not from Monte but with him, because that seemed quite the safest thing to do. It had proved the most dangerous of all! If she had driven Peter blind, Monte—if he only knew it—had brought him sweet revenge, because he had made her, not blind, but something that was worse, a thousand times worse!
There was some hope for Peter. It is so much easier to cure blindness than vision. Always she must see the light that had leaped to Monte's eyes, kindled from the fire in her own soul. Always she must see him coming to her outstretched arms, knowing that she had lost the right to lift her arms. Perhaps she must even see him going to other arms, that flame born of her breathed into fuller life by other lips. If not—then the ultimate curse of watching him remain just Monte, knowing he might have been so much more. This because she had dared trifle with that holy passion and so had made herself unworthy of it.
Peter was telling her of his work; of what he had accomplished already and of what he hoped to accomplish. She heard him as from a distance, and answered mechanically his questions, while she pursued her own thoughts.
It seemed almost as if a woman was not allowed to remain negative; that either she must accomplish positive good or positive harm. So far, she had accomplished only harm; and now here was an opportunity that was almost an obligation to offset that to some degree. She must free Monte as soon as possible. That was necessary in any event. She owed it to him. It was a sacred obligation that she must pay to save even the frayed remnant of her pride. This had nothing to do with Peter. She saw now it would have been necessary just the same, even if Peter had not come to make it clearer. Until she gave up the name to which she had no right, with which she had so shamelessly trifled, she must feel only glad that Peter could not see into her eyes.
So Monte would go on his way again, and she would be left—she and Peter. If, then, what Beatrice said was true,—if it was within her power, at no matter what sacrifice, to give Peter back the sight she had taken,—then so she might undo some of the wrong she had done. The bigger the sacrifice, the fiercer the fire might rage to burn her clean. Because she had thought to sacrifice nothing, she had been forced to sacrifice everything; if now she sacrificed everything, perhaps she could get back a little peace in return. She would give her life to Peter—give him everything that was left in her to give. Humbly she would serve him and nurse the light back into his eyes. Was it possible to do this?
She saw Beatrice at the door, and rose to meet her.
"You're to lunch with me," she said. "Then, for dinner, Mr. Covington has asked us all to join him."
"Covington?" exclaimed Peter. "Is n't he the man who was so decent to me this morning?"
"He said he met you," answered Marjory.
"I liked him," declared Peter. "I'll be mighty glad to see more of him."
"And I too," nodded Beatrice. "He looked so very romantic with his injured arm."
"Monte romantic?" smiled Marjory. "That's the one thing in the world he is n't."
"Just who is he, anyway?" inquired Beatrice.
"He's just Monte," answered Marjory.
"And Madame Monte—where is she? I noticed by the register there is such a person."
"I—I think he said she had been called away—unexpectedly," Marjory gasped.
She turned aside with an uncomfortable feeling that Beatrice had noticed her confusion.