When Peter stepped into his sister's room he had forgotten that his eyes were open.
"Beatrice," he said, "we must start back for New York as soon as possible."
She sprang from her chair. Pale and without his shade, he was like an apparition.
"Peter!" she cried.
"What's the trouble?"
"Your eyes!"
"They came back this morning."
"Then I was right! Marjory—Marjory worked the miracle!"
He smiled a little.
"Yes."
"It's wonderful. But, Peter—"
"Well?"
"You look so strange—so pale!"
"It's been—well, rather an exciting experience."
She put her arms about his neck and kissed him.
"You should have brought the miracle-worker with you," she smiled.
"And instead of that I'm leaving her."
"Leaving Marjory—after this?"
"Sit down, little sister," he begged. "A great deal has happened this morning—a great deal that I'm afraid it's going to be hard for you to understand. It was hard for me to understand at first; and yet, after all, it's merely a question of fact. It is n't anything that leaves any chance for speculation. It just is, that's all. You see, you—both of us—made an extraordinary mistake. We—we assumed that Marjory was free."
"Free? Of course she's free!" exclaimed Beatrice.
"Only she's not," Peter informed her. "As a matter of fact, she's married."
"Marjory—married!"
"To Covington. She's Covington's wife. They were married a few weeks ago in Paris. You understand? She's Covington's wife." His voice rose a trifle.
"Peter—you 're sure of that?"
"She told me so herself—less than an hour ago."
"That's impossible. Why, she listened to me when—"
"When what?" he cut in.
Frightened, she clasped her hands beneath her chin.
His eyes demanded a reply.
"I—I told her what the doctors told me. Don't look at me so, Peter!"
"You tried to win her sympathy for me?"
"They told me if you stopped worrying, your sight would come back. I told her that, Peter."
"You told her more?"
"That if she could love you—oh, I could n't help it!"
"So that is why she listened to you; why she listened to me. You begged for her pity, and—she gave it. I thought at least I could leave her with my head up."
Beatrice began to sob.
"I—I did the best I knew how," she pleaded.
His head was bowed. He looked crushed. Throwing herself upon her knees in front of him, Beatrice reached for his clasped hands.
"I did the best I knew!" she moaned.
"Yes," he answered dully; "you did that. Every one has done that. Only—nothing should have been done at all. Nothing can ever be done."
"You—you forgive me, Peter?"
"Yes."
But his voice was dead. It had no meaning.
"It may all be for the best," she ran on, anxious to revive him. "We'll go back to New York, Peter—you and I. Perhaps you'll let me stay with you there. We'll get a little apartment together, so that I can care for you. I 'll do that all the days of my life, if you 'll let me."
"I want a better fate than that for you, little sister," he answered.
Rising, he helped her to her feet. He smoothed back her hair from her forehead and kissed her there.
"It won't do to look ahead very far, or backwards either just now," he said. "But if I can believe there is something still left in life for me, I must believe there is a great deal more left for you. Only we must get away from here as soon as possible."
"You have your eyes, Peter," she exclaimed exultingly. "She can't take those away from you again!"
"Hush," he warned. "You must never blame her for anything."
"You mean you still—"
"Still and forever, little sister," he answered. "But we must not talk of that."
"Poor Peter," she trembled.
"Rich Peter!" he corrected, with a wan smile. "There are so many who have n't as much as that."
He went back to his room. The next thing to do was to write some sort of explanation to Covington. His ears burned as he thought of the other letter he had sent. How it must have bored into the man! How it must have hurt! He had been forced to read the confession of love of another man for his wife. The wonder was that he had not taken the next train back and knocked down the writer. It must be that he understood the hopelessness of such a passion. Perhaps he had smiled! Only that was not like Covington. Rather, he had gripped his jaws and stood it.
But if it had hurt and he hankered for revenge, he was to have it now. He, Noyes, had bared his soul to the husband and confessed a love that now he must stand up and recant. That was punishment enough for any man. He must do that, too, without violating any of Marjory's confidences—without helping in any way to disentangle the pitiful snarl that it was within his power to disentangle. She whose happiness might partly have recompensed him for what he had to do, he must still leave unhappy. As far as he himself was concerned, however, he was entitled to tell the truth. He could not recant his love. That would be false. But he had no right to it—that was what he must make Covington understand.
Dear Covington[he began]: I am writing this with my eyes open. The miracle I spoke of came to pass. Also a great many other things have come to pass. You'll realize how hard it is to write about them after that other letter, when I tell you I have learned the truth: that Marjory is Mrs. Covington. She told me herself, when our relations reached a crisis where she had to tell.
I feel, naturally, as if I owed you some sort of apology; and yet, when I come to frame it, I find myself baffled. Of course I'm leaving for home as soon as possible—probably to-morrow. Of course if I had known the truth I should have left long ago, and that letter would never have had any occasion for being written. I'm assuming, Covington, that you will believe that without any question. You knew what I did not know and did not tell me even after you knew how I felt. I suppose you felt so confident of her that you trusted her absolutely to handle an affair of this sort herself.
I want to say right here, you were justified. Whatever in that other letter I may have said to lead you to believe she had come to care for me in the slightest was a result solely of my own self-delusion and her innate gentleness. I have discovered that my sister, meaning no harm, went to her and told her that the restoration of my sight depended upon her interest in me. It was manifestly unfair of my sister to put it that way, but the little woman was thinking only of me. I'm sorry it was done. Evidently it was the basis upon which she made the feeble promise I spoke of, and which I exaggerated into something more.
She cared for me no more than for a friend temporarily afflicted. That's all, Covington. Neither in word nor thought nor deed has she ever gone any further. Looking back upon the last few days now, it is clear enough. Rather than hurt me, she allowed me to talk—allowed me to believe. Rather, she suffered it. It was not pleasant for her. She endured it because of what my sister had said. It seems hard luck that I should have been led in this fashion to add to whatever other burdens she may have had.
I ask you to believe—it would be an impertinence, except for what I told you before—that on her side there has been nothing between us of which you could not approve.
Now for myself. In the light of what I know to-day, I could not have written you of her as I did. Yet, had I remained silent, all I said would have remained just as much God's truth as then. Though I must admit the utter hopelessness of my love, I see no reason why I should think of attempting to deny that love. It would n't be decent to myself, to you, or to her. It began before you came into her life at all. It has grown bigger and cleaner since then. It persists to-day. I'm talking to you as man to man, Covington. I know you won't confuse that statement with any desire on my part—with any hope, however remote—to see that love fulfilled further than it is fulfilled to-day. That delusion has vanished forever. I shall never entertain it again, no matter what course your destiny or her destiny may take. I cannot make that emphatic enough, Covington. It is based upon a certain knowledge of facts which, unfortunately, I am not at liberty to reveal to you.
So, as far as my own emotions are concerned then, I retract nothing of what I told you. In fact, to-day I could say more. To me she is and ever will be the most wonderful woman who ever lived. Thinking of you before, I said there ought to be two of her, so that one might be left for you. Now, thinking of myself, I would to God there were two of her, so that one might be left for me. Yet that is inconceivable. It might be possible to find another who looked like her; who thought like her; who was willing for the big things of life like her. But this other would not be Marjory. Besides everything else she has in common with other women, she has something all her own that makes her herself. It's that something that has got hold of me, Covington.
I don't suppose it's in particularly good taste for me to talk to you of your wife in this fashion; but it's my dying speech, old man, as far as this subject is concerned, and I 'm talking to you and to no one else.
There's just one thing more I want to say. I don't want either you or Marjory to think I'm going out of your lives a martyr—that I'm going off to pine and die. The first time she left me I made an ass of myself, and that was because I had not then got hold of the essential fact of love. As I see it now, love—real love—does not lie in the personal gratification of selfish desires. The wanting is only the first stage. Perhaps it is a ruse of Nature to entice men to the second stage, which is giving.
Until recently my whole thought was centered on getting. I was thinking of myself alone. It was baffled desire and injured vanity that led me to do what I did before, and I was justly punished. It was when I began to think less about myself and more about her that I was reprieved. I'm leaving her now with but one desire: to do for her whatever I may, at any time and in any place, to make her happy; and, because of her, to do the same for any others with whom for the rest of my life I may be thrown in contact. Thus I may be of some use and find peace.
I'm going away, Covington. That will leave her here alone. Wherever you are, there must be trains back to Nice—starting perhaps within the hour.
So long.
PETER J. NOYES.
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!
"But, O God, if he would come!""But, O God, if he would come!"
"But, O God, if he would come!""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.
War!
A summer sky, warm and fragrant, suddenly became dour and overcast. Within a day thunder rolled and lightning flashed. Men glanced up in startled surprise, then clenched their jaws. Women who were laughing gayly turned suddenly white. Orders were speeded over the wires and through the clouds to the remotest hamlets of France. In a few hours men began to gather in uniform, bearing rifles. They posted themselves about the gates of stations. They increased in numbers until they were everywhere. Trumpets sounded, drums rolled. Excited groups gathered in the hotels and rushed off to the consulates. The very air was tense and vibrant.
War!
People massed in groups. The individual no longer counted. Storekeepers, bankers, dandies, chauffeurs, postmen, gardeners, hotel proprietors became merely Frenchmen. They dropped the clothes that distinguished their caste, and became merely men in uniform.
Foreign visitors no longer counted as individuals. They ran about in panic-stricken groups like vagrant dogs. Those in uniform looked on indifferently, or gave sharp orders turning strangers back from this road or that, this gate or that. A chauffeur in uniform might turn back his millionaire foreign master.
Credit money no longer counted. Banks refused to give out gold, and the shopkeepers and hotel proprietors refused to accept anything but gold. No one knew what might happen, and refused to risk. A man might brandish a letter of credit for ten thousand francs and be refused a glass of wine. A man with a thousand francs in gold was in a better position than a millionaire with only paper.
Monte discovered this when he hurried to his own bankers. With half a million dollars and more to his credit at home, he was not allowed a single louis d'or. Somewhat bewildered, he stood on the steps and counted the gold he happened to have in his pockets. It amounted to some fifty dollars. To all intents and purposes, that embraced his entire capital. In the present emergency his stocks and bonds were of no avail whatever to him. He thought of the cables, but gold could not be cabled—only more credit, which in this grim crisis went for nothing. It was as if he had suddenly been forced into bankruptcy. His fortune temporarily had been swept away.
If that was true of his own, it must be equally true of Marjory's. She was no wealthier now than the sum total of the gold she happened to have in her possession. The thought came to him at first as a shock. What was she going to do? She was upon the point of leaving, and her plans must have been suddenly checked. She was, in effect, a prisoner here. She was stranded as completely as if she were any penniless young woman.
Then some emotion—some feeling indistinctly connected with the grandfather who had crossed the plains in forty-nine—swept over him. It was a primitive exultation. It made him conscious of the muscles in his back and legs. It made him throw back his head and square his shoulders. A moment before, with railroads and steamships at her command, with a hundred men standing ready to do her bidding in response to the magic of her check-book, she had been as much mistress of her little world as any ancient queen.
Sweaty men were rushing fruits from the tropics, silks from India, diamonds from Africa, caviar from the north; others were making ready fine quarters in every corner of the globe; others were weaving cloths and making shoes; others were rehearsing plays and music—all for her and others like her, who had only to call upon their banks to pay for all this toil. Instead of one man to supply her needs, she had a thousand, ten thousand. With the machinery of civilization working smoothly, she had only to nod—and sign a check.
Now, overnight, this had been changed. The machinery was to be put to other uses. Ships that had been carrying silks were needed for men with rifles. Railroads were for troops. The sweat of men was to be in battle. Servants were to be used for the slaughter of other servants. With nations at one another's throats, the very basis of credit, mutual trust and esteem, was gone. She and others like her did not count. Men with the lust for blood in their hearts could not bother with them. They might sit in their rooms and sob, or they might starve. It did not much matter. A check was only a bit of paper. Under such conditions it might be good or not. Gold was what counted—gold and men. Broad backs counted, and stout legs.
Monte took a deep breath. Now—it might be possible that he would count. It was so that his grandfather had counted. He had fought his way across a continent and back for just such another woman as Marjory. Life had been primitive then. It was primitive now. Men and women were forced to stand together and take the long road side by side.
The blood rushed to Monte's head. He must get to her at once. She would need him now—if only for a little while. He must carry her home. She could not go without him.
He started down the steps of the bank, two at a time, and almost ran against her. She was on her way to the bank as he had been, in search of gold. Her eyes greeted him with the welcome her lips would not.
"You see!" he exclaimed, with a quick laugh.
"When you need me I come."
She was dressed in the very traveling costume she had worn when they left Paris together. She was wearing, too, the same hat. It might have been yesterday.
"They refused my check at the hotel," she explained nervously. "They say they must have gold."
"Have you any?" he asked.
"One louis d'or."
"And I have ten," he informed her.
She did not understand why he should be so exultant over this fact.
"I have come here to get enough to pay my bill and buy my ticket. I am leaving this morning."
"They won't give you any," he explained. "Besides, they won't carry you on the train unless you put on a uniform."
"Monte!"
"It's a fact."
"Then—what am I to do?"
She looked quite helpless—deliciously helpless.
He laughed joyously.
"You are bankrupt," he said. "So am I. We have only fifty-five dollars between us. But that is something. Also there is the machine. That will take us over the Italian frontier and to Genoa. I ought to be able to sell it there for something. Come on."
"Where?" she asked.
"We must get the car as soon as possible. I have a notion that with every passing hour it is going to be more difficult to get out."
"But I'm not going with you, Monte. It's—it's impossible!"
"It's the only way, little woman."
He gave her no time to argue about it, but took her arm and hurried her to the garage. It was necessary to walk. Taxis were as if they had never been. They passed groups of soldiers who turned to look at Marjory. The eyes of many were hot with wine, and she was very glad that she was not alone.
At the door of the garage stood a soldier in uniform. As Monte attempted to pass, he was brought to a halt.
"It is not permitted to pass," explained the guard.
"But I want to get my car."
"I 'm afraid monsieur has no car."
"Eh?"
"They have all been taken for la patrie."
"You mean my machine has been confiscated?"
"Borrowed, perhaps. After the victory—" The guard shrugged his shoulders.
Monte shrugged his own shoulders. Then he laughed.
"After all," he said, "that is little enough to do for France. Inform the authorities they are welcome."
He saluted the guard, who returned the salute. Again he took Marjory's arm, and turned toward the hotel.
"There is nothing to do but to walk," he declared.
"Where?"
She could not understand his mood. It was as if this were a holiday instead of a very serious plight.
"Over the border. It is only some twenty-five miles. We can do it easily in two days; but even if it takes three—"
Even if it took a hundred, what did it matter, with her by his side? And by his side she must remain until her credit was restored. With only one louis d'or in her pocket, she was merely a woman, with all the limitations of her sex. She could not take to the open road alone. She did not have the physical strength that dictated the law for vagabonds. She must have a man near to fight for her, or it would go hard. Even Marie would be no protection in time of war.
Dumbly she followed his pace until they reached the hotel. The place was in confusion and the proprietor at his wits' end. In the midst of it, Monte was the only one apparently unmoved.
"Pack one small hand-bag," he ordered. "You must leave your trunks here."
"Yes, Monte," she submitted.
"I'll run back to the Roses, and meet you here in a half-hour. Will you be ready?"
"Yes. Marie will come with us, of course."
He shook his head.
"She must wait here until she can get to Paris. Find out if she has any cash."
"I want her to come with me," she pleaded.
"I doubt if she will want to come. Anyway, our fifty-five dollars won't stretch to her. We—we can't afford a maid."
She flushed at his use of "we." Nevertheless, what he said was true enough. That sum was a mere pittance. Fate had her in a tight grip.
"Be sure to bring your passport," he reminded her. "It is ten-thirty. I 'll be here at eleven."
Hurrying back to his room, he took what he could crowd into his pockets: his safety razor and toothbrush, a few handkerchiefs and a change of socks. One did not need much on the open road. He carried his sweater—the old crimson sweater with the black "H"—more for her than for himself. The rest of his things he threw into his trunk and left in the care of the hotel.
She was waiting for him when he returned to the Hôtel d'Angleterre.
"You were right about Marie," she acknowledged. "She has two brothers in the army. She has money enough for her fare to Paris, and is going as soon as possible."
"In the meanwhile she is safe enough here. So, en avant!"
He took her bag, and they stepped out into the sunshine.