Dearest of all you will be to me forever [she wrote], but something has happened which must part us. Your brother will explain, in his way. It is not my way; but there are reasons why I must not explain at all, except to say to you, dearest, that I am the Mary of your love, not the Mary your brother thinks me. None of those things which he will tell you, have I done. But I have thought a great deal, and I have prayed to be wise for you, even more than for myself. At first I felt I could not give you up; but now I see that it will be better for us to part, rather than for me to take you selfishly away from your family. You love me, I know, and this will hurt you. I think you will say that I am wrong; but by and by you will realize that what I do is for the best.My only love, I want you to be happy, and so I ask you to forget me. Not quite, perhaps! I couldn't bear that; but all I will let myself wish for is a sweet memory without pain. Don't try to find me. I must not change my mind, and it would be agony to part from you if I saw your face and your dear eyes. It is easier and better this way. And I am going to a place where I shall be as happy as I can ever be without you.I shall not send back your ring, for I know you would like me to keep it; and please keep the few little things I have given you, unless you would rather not be reminded of me by them.I cannot send you my heart, because it is with you already and will be always.
Dearest of all you will be to me forever [she wrote], but something has happened which must part us. Your brother will explain, in his way. It is not my way; but there are reasons why I must not explain at all, except to say to you, dearest, that I am the Mary of your love, not the Mary your brother thinks me. None of those things which he will tell you, have I done. But I have thought a great deal, and I have prayed to be wise for you, even more than for myself. At first I felt I could not give you up; but now I see that it will be better for us to part, rather than for me to take you selfishly away from your family. You love me, I know, and this will hurt you. I think you will say that I am wrong; but by and by you will realize that what I do is for the best.
My only love, I want you to be happy, and so I ask you to forget me. Not quite, perhaps! I couldn't bear that; but all I will let myself wish for is a sweet memory without pain. Don't try to find me. I must not change my mind, and it would be agony to part from you if I saw your face and your dear eyes. It is easier and better this way. And I am going to a place where I shall be as happy as I can ever be without you.
I shall not send back your ring, for I know you would like me to keep it; and please keep the few little things I have given you, unless you would rather not be reminded of me by them.
I cannot send you my heart, because it is with you already and will be always.
Mary.
She was crying as she finished the letter, and the tears were hot on her cold cheeks. She tried not to let them fall on the paper, for she did not wantVanno to know how she suffered. If he realized that her heart was breaking for him, he might search for her. She was afraid of herself when she thought what it would be like to resist the pleading of his voice, his arms, his eyes—"those stars of love," as Marie had said.
The best way to prevent Vanno from guessing where she had gone would be to have her letter posted by Lord Dauntrey in Monte Carlo to-morrow. And instead of sending it to Rome, she would address it to him at Cap Martin. Then he would not have it until he came back to Angelo's house; and if he meant to disobey and look for her, days must pass before he was likely to learn of her whereabouts. She believed that no one who knew her face had seen her in the carriage, driving to Italy. She was more safely hidden than if she had come to the Château Lontana by train; and she had told Vanno and others that she disliked the idea of living in Hannaford's house. Before any one thought of this place, she would perhaps have gone; and though when she began Vanno's letter she had not decided where to go, before she finished her mind was made up. The one spot in which she could endure to live out the rest of her life was the Convent of St. Ursula-of-the-Lake.
"I ought never to have come away," she said. Yet not at the price of twice this suffering—if she could suffer more—would she blot out from her soul the experience life had given her. Maybe, she thought, the blow that shattered her love-story andher happiness was a punishment for weakness in longing for the world. Yet if it were a punishment she was ready to kiss the rod, since she might hold forever the memory of Vanno and his love.
She fastened up her letter to him lest she should be tempted to add other words to those which might on second reading seem cold. God knew if she were cold! But Vanno might suffer less if he believed her so.
By and by, when something like calmness came to her again, she began another letter. It was to Reverend Mother at the convent. The last time Mary wrote she had told of her engagement, and her happiness. Reverend Mother had written back, forgiving and understanding her long silence—a loving letter, rejoicing in her joy; and it was in Mary's writing case at this moment, for she had intended to keep it always. But she could not have borne the pain of rereading it now, over the dead body of her happiness. She wrote quickly, not pausing between words and sentences, as in writing to Vanno. She told Reverend Mother nothing of the story, but said that she was ending her engagement with Prince Giovanni Della Robbia. "It is not because I don't love him," she explained, "but because I love him so dearly I want to do what is best for his whole life. I know that I shall love him always. I can no more forget him than I can forget that I have a heart which must go on beating while I live. But if you don't think a love like this—expecting, hoping for no return—too worldly, oh,Reverend Mother, will you let me come back to you and take the vows after all? I feel the convent is the only home for me; and I believe I am capable of higher, nobler aims because of what I have been taught by a great love. I yearn to be with you now, I am so homesick! I will go through any penance, even if it be years long, if at the end you will accept me for your daughter. I beg of you to write at once, and say if you will have me again. If your answer be yes, I will start immediately. I can hardly wait."
As she folded the letter she remembered how Hannaford had told the story of Galatea, likening her to the statue which had been given life without knowledge of the world. It was almost as if his voice spoke to her now, in this room he had loved, answering when she asked what became of Galatea in the end. "She went back to be a statue." "That is what I shall do," Mary said. "I shall go back into the marble."
All night long the mistral blew; and "out of the fall of lonely seas and the wind's sorrow," the lullaby Hannaford had desired for his ashes was sung under the rock where, already, his urn was enshrined.
At dawn the wild wailing ceased suddenly, as if the wind had drowned itself in the ocean; and Mary went out on to her balcony, in the dead silence which was like peace after war. The hollow bell of the sky, swept clear of clouds by the steel broom of the mistral, blazed with blue fire, and the sea was so crystal pure that it seemed one might look downthrough violet depths into the caves of the mer-people. The still air was very cold; and it seemed to Mary that if the joy of life were not exhausted for her, she might have felt excited and exuberantly happy, alone with the lovely miracle of this new day. As it was, she felt curiously calm, almost resigned to the thought that her heart, like a clock, had run down at the last hour of its happiness. She said to herself that Nemesis had brought her to this house, and there made her lay down her hopes of love. She had accepted much from Captain Hannaford, and had thought of him hardly at all. Now, it was almost as if she were offering this sacrifice to him. "It is Destiny," she said, as Eve Dauntrey had said a few hours ago.
The tired sea had gone to sleep, and was breathing deeply in its dreams, but to Mary it was not the same happy sea that she had looked out upon from her window at Rose Winter's, and at the Villa Mirasole. The little mumbling, baby mouths of the breathing waves bit toothlessly upon the rocks. Mary pitied the faintly heaving swells because they were to her fancy like wretched drowning animals, trying vainly forever to crawl up on land, and forever falling back.
"When I am in the convent, if Reverend Mother will take me in, I shall never look at the sea again," she thought, "yet I shall always hear it in my heart, remembering last night and to-day. After this I shall be only a hollow shell full of memories, as a shell is full of the voice of the sea."
Lady Dauntrey dared not let her husband take Mary's letters to the post until she had steamed the envelopes, and read what the girl had to say. If she had herself dictated those farewell words to Prince Vanno, they could not have suited her better; and there was nothing objectionable in the appeal to Reverend Mother at the Scotch convent. Only, perhaps it would be as well to keep back that letter for a day or two. The one to Vanno Lord Dauntrey carried with him to Monte Carlo, and posted it there according to Mary's wish.
One afternoon of pouring rain a two-horse, covered cab from Monte Carlo splashed in at the gate of Stellamare, turned noisily on the wet gravel, and stopped in front of Jim Schuyler's marble portico. There was luggage on the cab; and from the vehicle, with rain pelting on her head, descended a girl in a brown travelling dress.
The butler, who acted also as valet for Jim, was engaged in packing for his master, who intended to leave for America next day. A servant (new to the house) answered the door and regarded the visitor with round eyes of astonishment. Few callers came to Stellamare, as Schuyler seldom received those whom he had not specially invited, and never had the footman seen a woman arrive alone.
"Is Mr. Schuyler at home?" the girl asked briskly, in English. The young man looked helpless, and she repeated the question in French.
"Not at home, Mademoiselle," the reply came promptly.
"I know he is always officially out," said the visitor. "But if he is in the house he will see me. I am his cousin, and I've just arrived from Scotland. Tell him, please, that Miss Maxwell has come."
"And the baggage, Mademoiselle?" the strickenman inquired. "Am I to have it taken down? Monsieur leaves for America to-morrow."
"The baggage can stay where it is for the present," said Peter. "You may show me into the library."
"But Monsieur is there."
"All the better. Then I will give him a surprise. You needn't be afraid. He won't be angry with you."
The footman, having already observed that the amazing visitor was not only pretty butchic, decided to obey.
"Mees Maxwell," he announced at the door of the library, and leaving the lady to explain herself, discreetly vanished.
Schuyler was in the act of selecting from his bookshelves a few favourite volumes to take with him from this home of peace, back to the hurly-burly. Unable to believe his ears, he turned quickly, and then for half a second could not believe his eyes. Disarmed, his face told Peter a secret she had long wished to know with certainty. Therefore, though he spoke almost brusquely, and frowned at her instead of smiling, she was so happy that she could have sung for joy. "If I don't fix it all up to-day, my name isn't Molly Maxwell," she informed her inner self, in the quaint, practical way that Mary had loved.
"Peter—it can't be you!" Schuyler exclaimed.
"It's all that's left of me, after missing the luxe and travelling for about seventeen years in any sort of old train I could get," she replied with elaboratenonchalance. "Kindly don't stare as if I were Banquo's ghost or something. I'm so tired and dusty and desperately hungry that if you don't grin at once I shall dissolve in tears."
She held out both hands, and Jim, aching to seize her in his arms and kiss her breath away, took the extended hands as if they had been marked "dangerous."
"Where's your father?" was his first question.
"In New York, as far as I know."
"Great Scott! you haven't come here from Scotland alone?"
"I thought I had, but if you say I haven't, perhaps I've been attended by spirit chaperons."
"My—dear girl, what has possessed you? You are looking impish. What have you come for?"
"Partly to see my darling, precious Mary Grant and criticise her Prince. Partly——"
"Well?"
"Why does your face suddenly look as if you suspected me of criminal intentions?"
"Don't keep me in suspense, my dear goose!"
"Why not 'duck?' It's a day for ducks. Only you're so afraid of paying me compliments. I see you think you know why I've come. Tell me at once, or I won't play. Be frank."
"You really want frankness?"
"Of course. I'm afraid of nothing."
"Well, then—er—I couldn't help seeing in New York that you and Dick Carleton——"
"Good gracious! if I'm a goose, whatareyou?There's no word for it. Dick and I flirted—naturally. What are girls and men for?"
"I supposed this was more serious."
"Then you supposed wrong, as you generally have about me. I can't eventhinkseriously of youths. Let Dick—fly."
Jim laughed out almost boyishly. "That's what I have let him do. Of course you know he's been visiting me—but he's gone with hisFlying Fish."
"So Mary Grant wrote in the one letter I've had from her. That's partly why I came straight to you. I thought you could tell me whether she was still in the bosom of her Princess Della Robbia, where she said she was going to visit for a few days."
"I believe she's still there. But you haven't told me yet the second part of your reason for coming out here—alone."
"It's not quite as simple to explain as the first part. But it is just as important. My most intimate Me forced me to start, the minute I got a letter from Dad saying he couldn't get away from New York till the end of May, and I must wait for him quietly at the convent. I haven't had a peaceful minute there since Mary Grant left. I felt in my bones she'd make straight for Monte Carlo, and knowing certain things about her father and other ancestors, I didn't think it would be a good place for her. The horrid dreams I've had about that girl have been enough to turn my hair gray! I shall probably have to take a course of treatment from abeauty doctor, judging by the way you glare. Luckily it seems to have turned out all right for the dear angel. You know, she's my very bestest friend."
"I didn't know. How should I?"
"She might have told you. Besides, when Dad and I visited you, I showed you the photograph of a lot of girls, and pointed out Mary as my special chum. I said she'd made up her mind to take the vows."
"By Jove, that's why, when I first saw her face, I somehow associated her with you. I'd forgotten the photograph, though the connection was left, a vague, floating mystery that puzzled me. But I won't be switched off the other part of your reason. You say it's important."
"Desperately important. It may affect my whole future, and perhaps yours too, dear cousin, odd as that may seem to you, unless you recall the fable of the mouse and the lion."
"Which am I?"
"I leave that to your imagination. But talking of game, reminds me of food. Do feed me. I want what at the convent we call 'a high tea.' Cold chicken and bread and butter, and cake and jam—lots of both—and tea with cream in it. While you're pressing morsels between my starving lips, I will in some way or other, by word, or gesture, tell you about—theother part, which is so important to us both."
If his eyes had been on her then, he might have had an electric shock of sudden enlightenment, but he had turned his back, to go and touch the bell.
While the servant—ordered to bring everything good—was engaged in laying a small table, the two talked of Mary, and Jim told Peter what he knew of Vanno Della Robbia and his family. Peter had asked to have her "high tea" in Jim's library, because she knew it was the room he liked best, and was most associated with his daily life at Stellamare; but she pretended that it was because of the "special" view from the windows, over the cypress walk with the old garden statues, and down to what she used to call the "classic temple," in a grove of olives and stone pines close to the sea.
When tea came, she insisted upon giving Schuyler a cup. It would, she said, make him more human and sympathetic. Though she had pronounced herself to be starving, after all she was satisfied with very little. Having finished, she leaned her elbows on the table, and gazed out of the long window close by, at the rain which continued to fall in wicked black streaks against a clearing, sunset sky. "It's like the stripes on a tawny snake," she said, "or on a tiger's back. This isn't a proper Riviera day. And the mountains of Italy have put powder on their foreheads and noses. While it's rained down here, it's been snowing on the heights. As my French maid used to say, 'I think the weather's in train to rearrange itself.'"
"Never mind the weather," said Jim. "Tell me about the 'other part.' You've excited my curiosity."
"I meant to. But talking of the weather draws people together, don't you think? just as the thoughtof tea does in England and dear old Scotland. Everybody everywhere having tea at the same time, you know, and the same feelings and thoughts. It's different abroad or in America. Tea's more like an accident than an institution."
"Never mind talking of tea, either."
"I'll talk about you, then."
"I want to talk about you—and what's going to become of you to-night."
"Only think, if I'd arrived to-morrow, I should have been too late!"
"Too late for what?"
"For theother part. You'd have been gone. But Fate's always kind to me. It made me come just in time."
"Tell me, then—about that other part. Do you want my advice?"
"Not exactly advice."
She looked at him across the little table, through the twilight. A sudden fire leaped up in his eyes, which usually looked coldly at life as if he had resigned himself to let its best things pass him by.
"Peter! You don't mean—you can't mean——"
"Do you want me to mean it?—Do you want me——"
"Want you? I've wanted nothing else since before you were out of short frocks, but——"
"Then why didn't you tell me so before I put them on? I was—oh, Jim, I wasdyingto hear it. I was afraid you didn't care in that way, that youthought me a silly child always. That's why I went back to stay in the convent, to try and find peace, and forget. But when I heard about Mary and her love, I couldn't bear it there any longer. I hoped that perhaps, after all—and when I came to-day and you looked at me, I knew for certain. I felt so brave, and I made up my mind to propose, for I was sureyouwouldn't. It's leap year, anyhow."
They were standing now, and Jim had her in his arms.
"I've been miserable without you," he said. "And it's all your fault. You made me sure it was no use. Don't you remember how you said one day that marrying a cousin must be like paying a long dull visit to relatives?—a thing you hated."
"And you took that to yourself?"
"Naturally. I supposed you thought it merciful to choke me off, so I shut up like an oyster. And then there was Dick——"
"He never existed. Oh, Jim, we've both been rather silly, haven't we? But luckily we're both very young."
"I'm not. I'm almost old enough to be your father."
"You're just the right age for a lover. To think that by one speech which I made merely in order to be mildly witty, I came near spoiling the whole show! But you ought to have known better. You're such a distant, uttermost, outlying cousin—a hill brigand of a cousin claiming my relationship or my life."
"I'm going to claim more than either now."
"My gracious! I do hope so, or I shall have come to visit you in vain."
Nobody thought of the unfortunate cabman, but he was not neglectful of his own interests; and having covered his horses and refreshed himself with secret stores of wine and bread, he was asleep under an immense umbrella when, after dark, his existence was remembered. By this time, it was too late in Jim's opinion for Peter to go and call at Princess Della Robbia's. Mary would have begun to dress for dinner, if she were at home; and, besides, a place for Peter to spend the night must be found without delay. She could visit Mary in the morning.
Jim tabooed the idea of a hotel, but thought of Mrs. Winter, as most of her acquaintances did think of her when they wanted practical advice or help. Peter's luggage was transferred from the cab to Jim's automobile, the sleepycocherwas paid above his demands, and the happiest man on the Riviera spun off alone with the happiest girl, in a closed motor car, to Monte Carlo. The chauffeur was told not to drive fast.
Providentially, "St. George's" dreaded aunt had gone, having been told by a doctor that the climate was too exciting for her state of health.
The Winters' spare room was free, and the chaplain and his wife were delighted. News of Mary there was none except that, three or four nights ago, she had called while George and Rose were at Nice and had taken her jewel-case, leaving no message but"her love." Rose supposed that Mary must have wanted some of her pretty things for an entertainment at the Villa Mirasole. Prince Vanno had been away in Rome, but must be due, if he had not already returned. Probably if Miss Maxwell went over to Cap Martin in the morning she would see not only Mary but the Prince, who, said Rose, "looked like a knight-errant or a reformer of the Middle Ages, but, oh, so handsome and so young!"
"I thought when I first saw them together, the very evening of their engagement," she added, "that there was somethingfatalabout them, as if they were not born for ordinary, happy lives, like the rest of us. But thank goodness, I seem to be mistaken. The course of their true love runs so smoothly it almost ceases to be interesting."
Jim Schuyler did not leave Stellamare next day. His butler-valet had the pleasure of unpacking again. The motor was at Peter's service in the morning, and soon after eleven she was driving through the beautiful gateway of the Villa Mirasole.
Americo answered her ring, bowing politely, but one who knew the ruddy brown face would have seen that he was not himself. In some stress of emotion the man in him had got the better of the servant. His eyes were round as an owl's as he informed the stranger that Miss Grant was no longer at the villa. He even forgot to speak English, a sign with him of deep mental disturbance.
"Where has Miss Grant gone?" Peter inquired, thinking the fellow an idiot.
"I do not know, Mademoiselle."
"Then go and inquire, please."
"I regret, it is useless. No one in this house can tell where Mees Grant is."
"You must be mistaken. I'll send my name to the Princess and ask her to see a friend of Miss Grant's."
Americo's face quivered, and his eyes bulged. "Mademoiselle," he said, "I do not think her Highness can see any one this morning. There is—family trouble."
Peter still hesitated, determined somehow to get news of Mary. Could it be that the engagement had been broken off? she asked herself. As she stood wondering what to do, a tall young man flashed from an inner room into the vestibule, seized a hat from a table, and without appearing to see the butler, pushed past the distressed Americo. He would have passed Peter also like a whirlwind, unconscious of her existence, had she not called out sharply, "Is it Prince Giovanni Della Robbia?"
He wheeled abruptly as a soldier on drill, and stared sombrely from under frowning brows. His pallor and stifled fury of impatience made him formidable, almost startling. Peter thought of a wounded stag at bay.
"I beg your pardon," she stammered, losing the gay self-confidence of the spoilt and pretty American girl. "I'm a great friend of Mary Grant's. I must know where she is."
The man's faced changed instantly. Fierce impatience became fiery eagerness. For a second or two he looked at Peter without speaking, his interest too intense to find expression in words. Then, as she also was silent, he said:
"There is no one I would rather see than a friend of Mary's, except Mary herself. Tell me where you knew her."
"At the convent in Scotland," Peter answered promptly. "I suppose she's told you about it. Did she mention her friend Molly Maxwell?"
"She said she had two friends named Mary. Wehad little time to talk together—not many days in all. When did you see her last?"
"In November, just before she left the convent. She went and stayed with an aunt a few weeks in London, and then came here. She wrote me about you, and I recognized you from her description. That's why I——"
"Forgive me. I believe you can be of the greatest service to Mary, and to me." He glanced at Americo, who held the door open. "Let us walk in the woods, if you aren't afraid of damp. I've something important to say."
They went down the steps and out of the gate together, like old acquaintances. Peter had no longer any doubt that the "family trouble" concerned Mary; but it was easy to see that whatever it might be, Prince Vanno was on her side. Peter admired him, and burned to serve her friend.
"There has been an abominable lie told," Vanno began, as soon as they were outside his brother's gate. "I must explain to you quickly what's happened, if you're to understand. I went to Rome to tell my father of our engagement. I left Mary with my brother and sister-in-law. I had two happy letters from her. This morning I arrived here in the Rome express. I came straight to Cap Martin, expecting to find Mary. Instead I found my brother and his wife alone. My sister-in-law, I must say in justice, seemed terribly grieved at what had happened. She could or would tell me nothing. But Angelo—my brother—began some rigmarole aboutMary having run away from her convent-school years ago with a man, and—but I won't repeat the story. I refused to listen. I can never forgive my brother."
"Good for you!" exclaimed the American girl. "But I see the whole thing, and you needn't even try to repeat the story. I know it without your telling. It happened to another girl with a name almost exactly like Mary's. That's how the mistake must have come about. The girl who ran away disappeared about four years ago.MyMary was at the convent till last fall. I can prove everything I say."
"Will you see my brother and his wife now, and tell them what you know?"
"With the greatest pleasure."
"Thank God you came! In another minute I should have been gone. And I don't know where to look for Mary."
"You don't know? Didn't she write? Or did she expect you to believe things against her?"
"I could hardly have blamed her if she had expected it, for—I failed her once. But that was before I knew her. Nothing could make me doubt her now. She did write to me. I found a letter waiting at the villa this morning—a letter postmarked Monte Carlo, to say I mustn't look for her—that all is over for ever and ever."
"But you're going to look for her all the same?"
"And to find her. I won't rest till I've got her back."
"You're the right sort of man, though you aren't an American."
"My mother was one."
"So much the better. Let's go into the house, and I'll soon make your people swallow any words they've said against Mary."
Americo was still at the door, or had returned there. "Highness," he said, "the Princess wishes me to make you come in. She has to talk. She send me in woods, but I not go, because of young lady with you. I wait here. Princess in yellow saloon, by her lone."
"Come," Vanno said to Peter. "We'll speak to her, and find out what she wants. Then my brother shall come and hear your story."
"Go first and explain me, please," Peter said.
Vanno would have obeyed, but Princess Della Robbia gave him no time. She was wandering restlessly about the room, too impatient to sit down. When she saw Vanno at the door, she went to him swiftly. "I'm so glad Americo found you," she cried. "I need to have a word with you alone. Angelo is so hard! He wouldn't let me see Mary before she went, or even write her a line of love and sympathy. I've hardly eaten or slept since that awful afternoon. If you could know how ill I am, you wouldn't blame me so much! I love Mary. My heart's breaking for her trouble. But I can do nothing, except send a letter for you to give, in case you find her. Please take it—I've written it already, in case—and don't tell Angelo."
"I've brought a friend of Mary's who can prove to you both that she isn't the heroine of that story you and my brother were so quick to believe," Vanno broke in, lacking patience to hear her through.
With a faint "Oh!" Marie shrank back, looking suddenly smaller and older. The pretty hand which had pressed Vanno's sleeve dropped heavily as if its many rings weighed the fingers down. Sickly pale, she fixed her eyes upon him, unable to speak, though her lips fell apart, seeming to form the word "Who?"
Vanno waited for no further explaining, but called Peter, who hovered outside the open door. "Miss Maxwell, will you come?"
Peter appeared instantly, but seeing the Princess, stopped on the threshold, with the face of one who meets a ghost. "Marie Grant!" she exclaimed, the two short words explosive as revolver shots.
The figure in white collapsed like a tossed bundle, into a chair. It seemed that the woman ceased to breathe. In a second the peculiar freshness of her beauty had shrivelled as if scorched by a rushing flame. Only her eyes were alive. They moved wistfully from Peter to Vanno, and from Vanno to the half-open door, as if seeking mercy or escape. She looked agonized, broken, like a fawn caught in a trap.
Peter turned to Vanno. "This is the girl who ran away from our convent with a man," she said crudely. "As she's here in the house, how did Mary come to be suspected?"
"That is my sister-in-law, Princess Della Robbia," Vanno answered. As he spoke his forehead flamed, and his eyes grew keen as swords. His look stripped Marie's soul bare of lies.
She held out her hands, but there was no mercy for her then in either heart. In a moment the two had judged her, with the unhesitating cruelty of youth. Peter's eyes narrowed in disgust, as if the white thing cowering in the chair were a noxious animal, a creature to be exterminated.
"I understand too, very well," she said slowly. "Horrible, wicked woman! You put the blame of your own sins on my Mary, to save yourself, and like the saint she is, she let you do it. But I won't. God sent me here, I see now. You've got to confess, and right my girl."
Tears fell from Marie's eyes. Her face quivered, then crinkled up piteously as a child's face crinkles in a storm of weeping. "Shut the door," she stammered between sobs. "For God's sake, shut the door! If Angelo should come!"
Neither Vanno nor Peter moved. They wished Angelo to come. Seeing them stand there, rigid, relentless, Marie realized as she had not fully realized before that they were her enemies, that no softness or prettiness, no agony of tears could turn their hearts. She sprang up with a choking cry, and stumbled toward the door. Vanno, thinking she meant to run away, took two long steps and placed himself before her.
"Angel with the flaming sword!" were the wordsthat spoke themselves in Peter's mind. But she had no pity yet for Marie.
"I—I only want to shut the door—that's all—because you wouldn't," the Princess faltered. "Just for a few minutes. It's all I ask. Give me a little time."
Vanno closed the door without noise, and stood in front of it like a sentinel. "You may have a few minutes," he said. "Then I shall call Angelo to hear the truth from you or from me. It's for you to choose which."
"Haven't you any mercy in your heart?" she wailed. "I'm only a woman. I'm your brother's wife. He loves me."
"I love Mary," Vanno said.
"It was Mary who spared me. She saw it was worse for me than for her, because I'm married to Angelo. My whole life's at stake. That's why she sacrificed herself. I——"
"The more you say, the worse you make us hate you," Peter cut her short. "You were always selfish. Even when I liked you, I used to think you just like a white Persian cat. When you were petted, you purred. When things went wrong, you scratched. You don't deserve the name of woman. What you've done is as bad as murder."
"I did it for Angelo," Marie pleaded. "I love him so! I couldn't lose his love."
"So you flung Mary to the wolves!" Vanno said. He had not believed that he could see a woman cry without pitying and wishing to help her. But his heart felt hard as stone as he watched Marie's streaming tears. All the brutality of his fierce ancestors had rushed to arms in his nature. The fancy came to his mind that he would still be hard and cold if he had to see her flogged. Then at the suggested picture, something in him writhed and revolted. He was not so hard as he had thought. He had to steel himself against her by thinking of what she had done to Mary.
"You deserve to die!" said Peter.
"I want to die," Marie answered pitifully. She stood supporting herself with an arm that clung to the high straight back of a Florentine chair. "If you will only not tell Angelo till I am dead, that's all I'll ask. Please wait—a little while. I couldn't live and look him in the face if he knew, so I would have to kill myself before you told. I'm too unhappy to be afraid of dying—for my own sake. I've suffered such agonies of fear, nothing could be worse. But there's a reason why it would be wicked to die just now—of my own accord. There's a child coming—in a few months. Afterward, I'll swear to you to kill myself, and then you can tell Angelo everything. Won't you wait till then—only till the end of the summer? Mary would say yes, if she were here."
The one weapon by which she could defend herself against their justice, she had drawn, and stood weakly on guard, her strength spent.
Vanno and Peter looked at one another in silence, in the eyes of each the same question. "Is this the truth?"
Marie read their faces. "Angelo knows that there will be a baby," she whispered. "Indeed it's true. As soon as my child is born, I'm ready to die."
"No one wants you to die!" Peter said sharply.
"Except myself. I must die if you're going to tell. If you won't wait, it will have to be now, at any cost."
"You know that you force us to wait," Vanno answered. "Trust weak woman to conquer! We cannot wish for your death. But I'll find Mary and marry her, in spite of herself. As for my brother, never will I forgive him. And I hope that I may never see you or Angelo again. Let your own soul punish you, while you live."
"Are we to go?" asked Peter.
"Yes," Vanno said.
They went out together, and left Marie staring after them.
For a little while she was safe.
All this time Jim Schuyler's motor had been waiting. It was strange to go out into the sunshine and see the smart chauffeur in his place, placidly reading a newspaper.
"Won't you come with me to Monte Carlo?" Peter asked. "We may find Mary at a hotel."
"I will come," Vanno said. "Her letter was posted there, yet I feel she has gone. She used to talk about Italy, but I don't think she would go to the house Hannaford left her. She couldn't bear the idea of living in his place."
"Let's go straight to Mrs. Winter's and ask her advice," Peter suggested. "She told me all about the Château Lontana last night."
They sat silent as the motor carried them swiftly along the white road. Peter longed to talk, but all the things she most wished to say were impossible to put into words. How Marie had checkmated them! It was like her, Peter thought; but she did not doubt the truth of that thing the Princess had said. There are some looks, some tones, which cannot lie.
Peter did not see what other course they could have taken, instead of that which they had chosen quickly, without discussion, accepting the inevitable.She believed, and she thought Vanno believed, that Marie would have kept her word and killed herself if they had persisted in telling Angelo what she was and had done. She had begged them to "wait a little while," but it was not only a question of waiting. Marie, as usual, had done well for herself. Vanno could not in cold blood, after months had passed and Marie was the mother of his brother's child, tell Angelo the story. At least, Peter was sure he would not bring himself to do that. Even she, who detested Marie now with an almost tigerish hatred, could not imagine herself pouring out such a tale when the first fire of rage had died—no, not even in defence of Mary; for Mary would be the one of all others to say, "Do not speak." Yet it filled Peter with fury to think that now no one could fight for Mary—sweet Mary, who was not by nature one to fight for herself. The great wrong had been done. Vanno could not forgive his brother's injustice. The two would be separated in heart and life while Marie lived. All this through Marie's sin and cowardice in covering it. Yet even those she had injured could not urge her on to death.
Suddenly, just as the motor slowed down near the Monaco frontier, Peter cried out, "There's Mrs. Winter, walking!"
She touched an electric bell, and the chauffeur stopped his car.
Rose was taking her morning exercise. She looked up, smiling at sight of Peter and Vanno getting out of the automobile to meet her.
"Where's Mary?" she asked, then checked herself quickly. She saw by the two faces that something was wrong. "Mary's not ill, I hope?" she amended her question.
Peter left the explanation to Vanno. It concerned his family, and how much he might choose to tell she did not know.
"There's been a misunderstanding," he said. "I came back this morning to find Mary gone. I'm afraid my brother and sister-in-law were not kind to her, and nothing can ever be the same between us again because of that. But the one important thing is to find Mary. She has—thrown me over, in a letter, and it does not tell me where she is. Do you think she can be in Monte Carlo?"
"No, I don't," Rose replied with her usual promptness. "What a shame I was out when she called the other night. Perhaps she would have confided in me. Now I see why she took her jewellery. Maybe she needed money. If we'd been at home, we'd have made her stay with us. Do you know, I shouldn't wonder if she'd gone to the Château Lontana?"
"I thought of that," Vanno said, "but she didn't want to live in Hannaford's house."
"With you! But now she's alone and sad, poor child. If we could only be sure, you could telegraph, not to waste time. I'll tell you what! If she went there, she probably drove instead of taking a train. Wait a minute, while I ask the hunchbacked beggar if he saw her. They were great chums; and it was talking to him I came across her first."
Rose began running to the bridge, where the dwarf, in his shady hat and comfortable cloak, was engaged in eating his luncheon on a newspaper, kept down on the parapet with stones. Vanno and Peter followed quickly, but before they arrived Rose had extracted the desired information. "He did see Mary three nights ago, in a carriage, driving in the direction of Italy," she announced in triumph. "He was just starting for home. What a good thing he hadn't gone!"
"There was another lady in the carriage with my Mademoiselle," added the beggar in bad French, his mouth full of bread and cheese.
"Another lady!" Rose echoed. "Who could it have been?"
"A dark lady, young but not a girl," the hunchback cheerfully went on. "She looked out at me, then threw herself back as if she did not want me to see who she was. Perhaps because she did not wish to spare me a penny, and was ashamed. Some people are stingy."
"Did you know the lady's face?"
"No, I never saw it before that I can remember. It was not a sweet face like Mademoiselle's. That lady would laugh while a beggar starved. I always know at the first look. I have trained myself to judge. It is my métier."
He spoke with pride, but no one was listening.
"A dark woman," Vanno repeated. "What has become of the Dauntreys? Do you know, Mrs. Winter?"
"I heard yesterday that they'd disappeared, owing every one money."
"Miss Maxwell, will you let me go now at once to Italy in your car?" Vanno asked.
"Yes," Peter said. "It's not my car, but it belongs to my best friend. He and I will both be glad, but you must take me with you."
Rose looked wistful, but she did not ask to go. The others were not thinking of her.
"Do you know the Château Lontana?" she inquired of Schuyler's chauffeur. "And have you got your papers for Italy?"
The man, who was English, touched his cap. "Yes, Madam, I know where the place is. And everything is in order."
As a last thought, Vanno went to the beggar and put two gold pieces into his knotted hand. The little man's red-rimmed eyes glittered with joyful astonishment. He bit first one coin, then the other.
Peter had expected Jim in the afternoon, but Rose promised to telephone.
Neither the girl nor Vanno thought of lunching. They went on without a pause except for the formalities at the Italian frontier, and it was early in the afternoon when the car slowed down before the closed gates of the Château Lontana. The chauffeur got out and tried to open them, but they were locked. He turned to the Prince for instructions. "What are we to do, sir? There is no bell." His tone was plaintive, for he was hungry and consequently irritable.
Vanno jumped out and tried the gates in vain. The chauffeur looked at the ground to hide his pleasure in the gentleman's failure. Peter peered from the car anxiously. "Perhaps Mary didn't come here after all, or else she's gone away," the girl suggested. "It would have meant a horrid delay, trying to find the cabman who drove her from Monte Carlo, but after all it might have been better."
Vanno was ungallant enough not to answer. He was hardly conscious that Peter was speaking. The iron gates, set between tall stone posts, were very high. On the other side an ill-kept road overgrown with bunches of rough grass wound up the cypress and olive clad hill. At the very top stood the house which somewhat pretentiously named itself a château. It was built of the beautiful mottled stone of the country, brown and gray, veined and splashed with green, purple, yellow, and rose pink. There were two square towers and several large balconies and terraces with windows looking out upon them; but the windows in sight were closed and shuttered. The thick flowering creepers which almost covered the walls as high as the windows of the second story—roses, bougainvillea, plumbago, and convolvulus—were tangled and matted together, great branches trailing over the shut eyes of the windows. Cypresses and olives were untrimmed, and there was a straggling wilderness of orange trees. The place had a sad yet poetic look of having been forgotten by the world.
Vanno knew little of its history, except that anelderly French woman, a great actress long before his time, had bought and lived in the house for many years, letting the whole property fall into decay while her money was given to the Casino.
It seemed impossible that Mary could be there behind those shuttered windows, but he was determined not to go away without being sure. Rose Winter had said half jestingly that Lady Dauntrey was a woman who might "look on her neighbour's jewels when it was dark." And Vanno had taken a dislike to the hostess at the Villa Bella Vista. He had been glad to take Mary out of her hands, to put her in charge of Rose Winter. As he stood and stared at the high, locked gates he remembered what the beggar had said about the dark woman who threw herself back in the carriage as if she did not wish to be seen.
"Shall I blow my horn and try to make some one come?" asked Schuyler's chauffeur.
"No, I think not," Vanno said on reflection. "I have an idea that if people are there, they won't come down for that. I can get over all right if you'll back the car close to the gates."
The chauffeur's expression withdrew itself like a snail within its shell, but suddenly he became interested enough to forget his hunger. He had supposed that the young lady wished to pay a mere call at a time of day inconvenient to him: but evidently there was something under the surface of this excursion. He had not stopped the engine, and turning the motor with the bonnet toward France, hecarefully backed against the iron grating. In a moment Vanno had climbed on to the top of the car, had swung himself over the gate, and dropped down on the other side. The chauffeur, who, like most of his countrymen, hated to be made conspicuous, rejoiced that this was accomplished when the road was empty. He would not have enjoyed being stared at even by a peasant in a cart.
Peter was out in the road, watching Vanno's manœuvres. "I wish I could do that!" she exclaimed.
"I'll let you in, or send some one to unlock the gates if possible," he promised. Then as he walked swiftly up the avenue his thoughts rushed far ahead, and he forgot Peter.
The motor moved a little away from the gates, and waited. It waited a long time and no sign of life showed on the blank face of the house. For many minutes Peter stood in the road, looking up, hoping to see Vanno, or a servant coming with a key. But nothing happened, and when she had grown very tired of standing, she reluctantly went back to the car. She sat leaning forward, her face at the window, gazing at the house; and at last she began to be angry with Vanno. Surely he might come or send, knowing how anxious she must be to hear of Mary. It was too inconsiderate to leave her there in suspense!
Vanno hoped that he might find Mary in the garden; for mounting from lower to higher levels, above the cypresses and olives which formed a windscreen for upper terraces near the house, he saw viewpoints furnished with seats of old, carved marble, pergolas roofed with masses of banksia, and one long arbour, darkly green, with crimson camelias flaming at the far end like a magic lamp. At any moment a slender white figure might start up from a marble bench, or gleam out like a statue against a background of clipped laurel or box. He began to feel so strongly conscious of a loved and loving presence, that he was as much surprised as disappointed when he reached the steps leading up to the house-terrace without having seen Mary. If he had been willing to harbour superstitious fancies then, he would have believed that Mary had sent her spirit to meet him in this mournfully sweet garden; but less than at any other time would he listen to whispers of superstition. Vanno pulled the old-fashioned bell of the front door, and heard it ring janglingly with that peculiar plaintiveness which bells have in empty houses. It seemed to complain of being roused from sleep, when waking could give no promise of hope or pleasure.
Twice Vanno rang, and then there came the sound of unlocking and unbolting. A handsome and very dark young woman of the peasant class looked out at him questioningly, with eyes of topaz under black brows that met in a straight line across her forehead. The eyes lit when Vanno spoke to her in Italian, and she beamed when he inquired for Miss Grant.
"The beautiful Signorina!" she exclaimed. "The gracious Signore is a relative who has come for her?"
"We are to be married," he answered with the frank simplicity of Italians in such matters.
"Heaven be praised!" the woman cried. "Will the Signore step into the house?"
"She is here, then?" Vanno asked, entering the vestibule that opened into the white coldness of the hall.
"She has been here for three nights and two days."
"Thank God!" Vanno muttered under his breath. An immense relief, like a bath of balm, eased the pain of suspense. He felt that he had come to the end of his trouble. After all, what did Angelo or any one in the world matter, except Mary? He trusted himself to make her realize this. A few minutes more and she would be in his arms, on his heart, and her scruples would be burnt to ashes in the fire of his love.
"Will you tell the Signorina that Prince Giovanni Della Robbia has come?" he said.
The woman threw out her hands in a gesture of apology and regret.
"The Signora will not let me go into the room," she answered, and a look of sullen ferocity opened a door into depths of her nature where fire smouldered. She lifted her eyes to Vanno's, and for a long instant the Prince and the peasant gazed fixedly at each other. At the end of that instant Vanno knew that this woman hated the "Signora" and her commands; and Apollonia knew that this man would protect her through any disobedience.
"Why does the Signorina keep her room?"
"It seems that she is not well."
"When did you see her last?"
"Yesterday morning, Principe. I went then to her room to prepare her bath, and to take her coffee with bread which I had toasted."
"Was she not well then?"
"When I inquired after her health she said she had not slept. And the night before it had been the same. She was pale, very pale, and there were shadows under her eyes, but she did not complain of illness. While I was there the Signora came and since then the young lady has not been out of her room."
"What is that Signora's name?" Vanno asked.
"I do not know, Principe, I have not been told, and I do not understand the sound of English words, though I have learned a little French."
"Is the lady's husband here?"
"Oh, yes, a very sad, tired-looking gentleman who seems to be ill himself; but he is a doctor. I know that, for when I offered to make a tisane of orange flowers for the Signorina to soothe her nerves and bring her sleep, she thanked me, but said the Signore had got her a sleeping draught made up the day before, when he went back over the French frontier. She told me that he was a doctor, and had prescribed for her."
"A doctor!" Vanno repeated, suddenly puzzled. He had been confident that the "Signore and Signora" were Lord and Lady Dauntrey. But he had never heard that Dauntrey had studied medicineand practised in South Africa. "Where is the Signore now?" he asked quickly.
"He was with his wife in the room of the Signorina a short time ago."
"Take me to the door of that room, and I will talk with one of them."
"Oh, with the greatest joy, Principe. I have not been happy leaving them alone with her, but what could I do? I am only a servant."
"Why were you not happy leaving them alone with her? Did you think they might do her harm?"
Apollonia shrugged her shoulders, and tears sparkled in her eyes, yellow as the eyes of a lioness. "How can I tell, Principe? She said they were her friends. And the Signore has not a bad face. But it is his wife who rules. And something in myself tells me she is wicked, and does not truly love the Signorina. I have been a wondering whether I should go into that room in spite of those two, and force them to leave her. I would not have minded frightening them with a big knife I keep in the kitchen for cutting bread, only that would have alarmed the Signorina. And perhaps they are not bad after all. Then I should have been wrong. I have thought so much yesterday and to-day about this thing that I seem to have wheels spinning in my head. I thank the blessed saints who have sent the Principe."
"We will go now to the Signorina's door," said Vanno.
"At once, Principe; but we will find it locked."
"How do you know that?"
"I have tried it, softly, more than once, both to-day and last night. Never once have the two left the Signorina alone. Always one was with her. Through the night the Signora was there—with the key turned. One only has come for meals."
"The gate, too, has been locked," said Vanno. "Is that a custom here?"
"No, Principe, it has always been open since I came to serve the Captain Hannaford. It is the only way of entrance, and there is no gate-bell. Not that people often come. But since the Signorina and her friends arrived, it has been locked. It is the Signora who has the key. She seemed to be afraid of thieves, though we have nothing here which thieves can take, unless she herself has brought it. I wondered at first how the Principe had got in, but as soon as he told me he was the betrothed of the Signorina, I knew he would not be stopped by a locked gate."
"I climbed over," Vanno admitted, simply. "Those people must have heard me ring the doorbell, I suppose?"
"It is likely. The Signorina's room is far away, but the bell makes a great noise."
As they talked in low voices which the echoes could not catch and repeat, Apollonia was conducting Vanno upstairs, through an upper hall, and along a corridor. At the end of this passage she paused, without speaking, and indicated a door. The Prince went close to it, and called in a cleartone: "Mary, it's I, Vanno. I've come to find you and take you away."
There was no answer; but it seemed to him that there was a faint rustle as of whispering on the other side. He tried the handle. It did not yield; and Apollonia's yellow eyes sent out a flash of excited expectation. She looked an amazon, waiting the signal to fall upon an enemy.
"Lady Dauntrey, I ask that you will open the door," Vanno said.
Almost immediately a key turned in the lock, the door opened quickly, letting Eve Dauntrey step out, and was closed again by her husband. It would also have been locked, but before Dauntrey could turn the key, Vanno twisted the handle round violently, pushed the door back and thrust his foot into the aperture.
"Take care, Prince," Lady Dauntrey said softly. "You mustn't frighten her. I assure you we're acting for her good."
Her voice was so calm, so gentle and even sincere that in spite of himself Vanno was impressed. He ceased to push against the door, but kept his foot in the opening.
"We were so hoping you'd come," Eve went on, "and I wanted to send for you, but Mary refused. She said that even if you came she would not see you, because she had broken off the engagement, and never wished to meet you again."
"That was all a mistake," Vanno said. "I must see her."
"I quite understand how you feel," Lady Dauntrey agreed, soothingly, "but don't you think, as she's resting for the first time in more than thirty hours, you'd better let the poor child have her sleep out first? I don't know if you are aware that my husband is a doctor; but he is, and practised in South Africa, very successfully. He's with Mary now, and has helped me watch over her. The dear girl begged us to come here. She said there had been trouble between her and your brother and sister-in-law, so she couldn't stay at their villa. Afterward she told us about the broken engagement, and that explained the dreadful state of nervousness she was in from the moment she came to us at Monte Carlo, till she collapsed here, and became delirious. We have done our very best—and I'm so thankful to have been with her, though it was most inconvenient for our plans. We were just ready to start for England when she appealed to us not to let her come to this dreary, haunted sort of place by herself. I don't know what would have become of the poor darling if she'd been alone with this dreadful woman—almost a savage from the mountains, whom Captain Hannaford engaged as caretaker."
Eve talked rapidly and gravely, in a whisper. As she spoke of Apollonia, she turned a look upon her; and the woman "made horns" with two pointing fingers. Vanno knew well what this meant.
If Lady Dauntrey's story had begun to impress him, that glance thrown at Apollonia brought back in a flash all his enmity and suspicion. It was a murderous look. He knew that she hated the woman for having brought him to the door of Mary's room.
He was silent for an instant when Eve ceased to speak. Then he said, "I won't disturb Mary. I will go in quietly and look at her while she sleeps."
"You may wake her."
"If she did not wake when I called, she won't wake at the sound of a footstep."
"But my husband—we ought to consult him——"
Before she could finish, Vanno pushed open the door, by virtue of his strength, which was far greater than that of Lord Dauntrey, who kept guard on the other side. Noiselessly the young man entered the room; and as Dauntrey realized that opposition would not avail, he gave way.
It was a large room, sparsely furnished, and so full of light that for a second or two Vanno was confused, after the dimness of the corridor outside. The huge window had no curtains, and the afternoon sunlight poured through it upon the bed which stood near by, facing the door. Mary's face lying low on the pillow was colourless as wax. The sun lit up her hair, and turned it to living gold.
Vanno saw only the bed, and Mary lying there asleep. He did not once look at Dauntrey, who stole out on tiptoe. Eve, waiting for her husband, put a finger to her lips. As Apollonia peered anxiously into the room, not daring to cross the threshold, Lord and Lady Dauntrey went softly away together, as if they were afraid that a creaking board under their feet might wake the sleeper.
It seemed to Peter that she must have been waiting in Schuyler's automobile for an hour, when at last she saw a man and a woman walking quickly down the avenue, toward the gate. She had never seen Lord and Lady Dauntrey, but she knew that Rose Winter and Vanno believed them to be Mary's companions. In the hand of the woman was a small, rather flat bag of dark blue Russian leather, which might be a jewel-case or a miniature dressing-bag such as women carry when motoring.
The pair had come into sight rounding a turn of the drive; and they saw the girl looking up from the window of the waiting car at the moment when her eyes fell upon them. For an instant they slackened their pace, but the woman spoke to the man, and they came on steadily, walking as briskly as before. The man unfastened the gate with a big key, which he left in the lock, and the two stepped out into the road. They glanced casually at Peter, her chauffeur, and the motor, as if they would pass by, but on an impulse Peter leaned from the window and spoke. "Lord and Lady Dauntrey?"
"Yes," the woman replied, stiffly. "I'm afraid I don't remember——"
"Oh, we've never met, but I knew you were both here, and I'm Mary Maxwell, Mary Grant's best friend. I'll go in and find her and Prince Vanno, now the gate's unlocked. I thought perhaps Mary was sending me out her jewel-case, as I see you have it in your hand."
This was a shot in the dark. All that Peter knew of the jewel-case was Rose Winter's description of it, when she told of Mary's arrival in her absence, to take it away; but Lady Dauntrey's face said that the shot had not gone wide of the mark.
"It is Miss Grant's jewel-case, certainly," she replied. "She put it in my charge. Prince Giovanni Della Robbia has insulted me and my husband, and we are going at once; but I'm too fond of poor Mary to leave her property at the mercy of the only servant in the house—a horrible woman, who would murder one for a franc. She knows about the jewels, and as the Prince won't look after them and Mary isn't able to, I meant to take them back to Mrs. Winter."
"How good of you! I'll save you the trouble," Peter said.
Lady Dauntrey looked at her with narrow eyes, Dauntrey standing apart listlessly. "I don't know you," Eve objected.
"You can ask Mr. James Schuyler's chauffeur about me," Peter suggested. "Or if you won't accept his word, wait a little while, and I'll take you both to Monte Carlo and Mrs. Winter's house, where I'm staying."
"I really think you had better trust this lady," Dauntrey said. He looked at his wife with his sad, tired eyes. Eve shrugged her shoulders, and handed Peter the bag. "Well, the responsibility is off my hands, anyhow!" she cried. "That's one comfort. And it's much more convenient for us not to goto Monte Carlo, on other people's business. Mary Grant's jewels are nothing to us."
"Of course not," Peter agreed, pleasantly. "I hope Mary's well?"
"Then you'll be disappointed," Eve replied, her eyes very bright. "She's far from well. My husband, an experienced doctor, has been treated unbearably by the Prince. You can bear witness that he leaves his patient only because he was insulted. I advise you, if you're fond of Mary Grant, to get in some one else, or it may be too late. It's impossible to know what she may have done, but my private opinion is that her love troubles were too much for her, and she took something——"
"Eve!" Dauntrey stopped his wife. "Be careful what you say."
"Well, it's no longer our affair, since the Prince has taken matters into his own hands, and practically turned out Mary's best friends. Good afternoon, Miss Maxwell."
They walked off quickly, without looking back, the two tall figures marching shoulder to shoulder in the direction of Latte, the nearest railway station.
"You oughtn't to have said what you did," Dauntrey reproached Eve.
"I'm sorry," she replied. "That girl nearly drove me mad. To think she's got the jewels! Nothing to pay us for it all, except the money from the cheque."
"Serves us right," Dauntrey said grimly. "I'd thank God we're out of it at any price, if God waslikely to be looking after us. Better thank the devil."
"Don't talk like that," Eve implored him. "There's nothing against us, nothing. I'm sorry I blurted out that about her taking some stuff, but it can't do us any harm. You said yourself, nobody could find out what——"
"They couldn't prove, but they might suspect. God! What hideous days! I never thought the stuff would act on her like that, or I wouldn't have let you persuade me——"
"I know you wouldn't," Eve cut him short. "It was my fault. You thought there was only a slight risk——"
"Yes, but it acted differently from the beginning. I didn't suppose it would send her to sleep. God knows I did everything I knew to wake her up——"
"Well, we're out of it all now," Eve soothed him. "Remember, they can't prove anything. Even if they send after us, and make us come back, they'll have their trouble for their pains. We've been clever."
"You have!"
"Everything's for and nothing against us. Perhaps it's as well the fellow came, after all. He's given us our excuse to go in a hurry. And we've got money—in gold, no notes, thank goodness. Only—I shall dream of those jewels at night."
"Best to be rid of them, as things have turned out. If she'd given them to us, as you hoped, it would have been all right, but——"
"No use crying over spilt milk," Eve sighed. "Let's walk faster. There ought to be a train for Genoa in twenty minutes, if your time-table is right. That reminds me, I never posted her letter to the convent, but it doesn't matter now."
Mary lay on her back between the pillows, her hair loose around her face, a thick plait of it tossed out over the faded green silk quilt. One arm supported her head, the other was hidden by the bed covering. The bright light that streamed through the window was an illumination.
Suddenly it was as if an iron hand seized Vanno's heart and slowly pressed the blood out of it. The thought had flashed into his head that she was more than ever before like a gentle and lovely Juliet, but Juliet in the tomb, her white beauty lit by many candles.
If she were dead—if those people had killed her——
Never had Vanno seen any one sleep so soundly. There was no flicker of the eyelids, no quivering of the nostrils, no rising and falling of the breast. He laid his hand over her heart, and could not feel it beating, yet he was not sure that it did not beat very faintly. There were bounding pulses in his hand as he touched her. He could not tell whether it was his own blood that throbbed, or whether hers spoke to his, through living veins.
Very gently he lifted her head, and laying it down again, higher on the pillow whence it seemed to haveslipped, he moved the arm that had supported it. Then kneeling beside the bed, he kissed her hand again and again. It was very cold, cold as a lily, he thought, yet not so cold as a lily killed by the frost.
If some one had come to him at that moment and said, "Mary is dead," he would have believed that it was the truth, for she looked as if her eyes had seen the light beyond this world. She was not smiling, yet there was a radiance on her face which did not seem to be given by the sunset. Rather did the light appear to come from within. Yet, because no one said aloud the words that went echoing through his heart, Vanno would not believe that Mary was dead.