The conclusion was like a blow in the face. It stunned him for a moment, and then left his cheeks burning. If she had scuttled away from him like a frightened rabbit, it could be for only one reason; because he had not been able to conceal the truth. And he had thought that he had succeeded in keeping the danger to himself.

He turned in the direction of the Hotel d'Angleterre. He did not intend to try to see her. He wished only to be a little nearer. Surely there was no harm in that. The boulevard had become deserted, and he was terribly lonesome out here alone. The old black dog that had pounced upon him in Paris came back and hugged him closer.

He squared his shoulders. He must shake himself free of that. The thing to keep in mind was that he did not count in this affair. She alone must be considered. If he had frightened her, he must find some way of reassuring her. He must take a tighter grip than ever upon himself, face her to-morrow, and laugh away her fears. He must do that, because he must justify her faith in him. That was all he had of her—her faith in him. If he killed that, then she would vanish utterly.

After this last week, to be here or anywhere else without her was unthinkable. He must make her believe that he took even this new development lightly. He must go to her in the morning as just Monte. So, if he were very, very careful, he might coax her back a little way into his life. That was not very much to hope for.

Monte was all wrong. From beginning to end, he was wrong. Marjory had run away, not from him, but from some one else. When she left the hotel she had been on her way to join monsieur, as Henri had correctly surmised. From her window she had been watching him for the matter of half an hour as he paced up and down the quay before the hotel. Every time Monte disappeared from sight at the end of a lap, she held her breath until he appeared again. Every time he appeared again, her heart beat faster. He seemed such a lonely figure that her conscience troubled her. He was so good, was Monte—so good and four-square.

She had left him to dine alone, and without a protest he had submitted. That was like him; and yet, if he had only as much as looked his disappointment, she would have dressed and come down. She had been ready to do so. It was only the initial excitement that prompted her at first to shut herself up. Coming to this hotel, where for ten years he had been coming alone, was almost like going back into his life for that length of time. Then, Monte had signed the register "Monsieur and Madame Covington." With bated breath she had watched him do it.

After that the roses in her room and the attention of every one to her as to a bride—all those things had frightened her at first. Yet she knew they were bowing low, not to her, but to Madame Covington. This was what made her ears burn. This was what made her seek the seclusion of her room. She felt like an imposter, claiming honors that did not belong to her. It made her so uncomfortable that she could not face even Marie. She sent her off.

Sitting by the open window, she watched Monte as he walked alone, with a queer little ache in her heart. How faithfully he had lived up to his bargain! He had given her every tittle of the freedom she had craved. In all things he had sought her wishes, asking nothing for himself. It was she who gave the order for starting every morning, for stopping at night. She chose this inn or that, as pleased her fancy. She talked when she wished to talk, and remained silent when she preferred. If, instead of coming to Nice and Etois, she had expressed a desire to turn in some other direction, she knew he would merely have nodded.

It was all one to him. East, west, north, or south—what was the odds? Married or single—what was the odds?

So she also should have felt. With this big man by her side to guard her and do her will, she should have been able to abandon herself utterly to the delights of each passing hour—to the magic of the fairy kingdom he had made for her. It was all she had asked for, and that much it was her right to accept, if he chose to give it. She was cheating no one. Monte himself would have been the first to admit that. Therefore she should have been quite at peace with herself.

The fact remained, however, that each day since they had left Paris she had found herself more and more at the mercy of strange moods; sometimes an unusual and inexplicable exhilaration, such as that moment last night when Monte had turned and seized her arm; sometimes an unnatural depression, like that which now oppressed her. These had been only intervals, to be sure. The hours between had been all she had looked forward to—warm, basking hours of lazy content.

To-night she had been longer than ever before in recovering her balance. She had expected to undress, go to bed, and so to sleep. Perhaps it was the sight of Monte pacing up and down there alone that prolonged her mood. Yet, not to see him, all that was necessary was to close her eyes or to turn the other way. It should have been easy to do this. Only it was not. She followed him back and forth. In some ways, a bride could not have acted more absurdly.

At the thought she withdrew from the window in startled confusion. Standing in the middle of the room, she stared about as if challenged as to her right there by some unseen visitor. This would never do. She was too much alone. She must go to Monte. He would set her right, because he understood. She would take his arm, his strong, steady arm, and walk a little way with him and laugh with him. That was what she needed.

She hurried into her clothes, struggling nervously with hooks and buttons as if there were need of haste. Then, throwing a light shawl over her shoulders, she went out past Henri, on her way to Monte.

Monte had been all wrong in his guesses. She had actually been running toward him instead of away from him when, just outside the hotel, she almost collided with Peter Noyes and his sister.

Peter Noyes did not see her at first. His eyes were covered with a green shade, even out here in the night. But his sister Beatrice gave an exclamation that brought him to attention and made him fumble at the shade as if to tear it off. Yet she had spoken but one word:—

"Marjory!"

She whose name had been called shrank back as if hoping the dark would hide her.

"Marjory!" cried Peter Noyes.

Beatrice rushed forward, seizing both the girl's hands.

"It is you," she exclaimed, as if Marjory sought to deny the fact. "Peter—Peter, it's Marjory Stockton!"

Peter stepped forward, his hand outstretched hesitatingly, as one who cannot see. Marjory took the hand, staring with questioning eyes at Beatrice.

"He worked too hard," explained the latter. "This is the price he paid."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Peter!" she cried.

He tried to smile.

"It's at moments like this I mind it," he answered. "I—I thought you were in Paris, Marjory."

"I came here to-day."

She spoke nervously.

"Then," he asked, "you—you are to be here a little while?"

Marjory passed her hand over her forehead.

"I don't know," she faltered.

Peter looked so thin! It was evident he had been long ill. She did not like to see him so. The shade over his eyes horrified her. Beatrice came nearer.

"If you could encourage him a little," she whispered. "He has wanted so much to see you."

It was as if she in some way were being held responsible.

"You're not stopping here?" gasped Marjory.

"At the Hotel des Roses," nodded Beatrice. "And you?"

Peter with his haggard, earnest face, and Beatrice with her clear honest eyes, filled her with sudden shame. It would be impossible to make them understand. They were so American—so direct and uncompromising about such affairs as these.

Beatrice had the features of a Puritan maid, and dressed the part, from her severe little toque, her prim white dress reaching to her ankles, to her sturdy boots. Her blue eyes were already growing big at Marjory's hesitancy at answering so simple a question. She had been here once with Aunt Kitty—they had stopped at the Hotel d'Angleterre. Marjory mumbled that name now.

"Then I may come over to-night to see you for a moment, may I not?" said Beatrice. "It is time Peter went in now."

"I—I may see you in the morning?" asked Peter.

"In the morning," she nodded. "Good-night."

She gave him her hand, and he held it as a child holds a hand in the dark.

"I'll be over in half an hour," Beatrice called back.

It was only a few blocks to the Hotel d'Angleterre, but Marjory ran the distance. Happily the clerk remembered her, or she might have found some difficulty in having her excited excuse accepted that she was not quite suited at the Roses. Then back again to Henri and Marie she hurried, with orders to have the luggage transferred at once.



CHAPTER XV

IN THE DARK

In her new room at the Hotel d'Angleterre, Marjory dismissed Marie and buried her hot face in her hands. She felt like a cornered thing—a shamed and cornered thing. She should not have given the name of the hotel. She should have sought Monte and ordered him to take her away. Only—she could not face Monte himself. She did not know how she was going to see him to-morrow—how she was ever going to see him again. "Monsieur and Madame Covington," he had signed the register. Beatrice must have seen it, but Peter had not. He must never see it, because he would force her to confess the truth—the truth she had been struggling to deny to herself.

She had trifled with a holy thing—that was the shameful truth. She had posed here as a wife when she was no wife. The ceremony at the English chapel helped her none. It only made her more dishonest. The memory of Peter Noyes had warned her at the time, but she had not listened. She had lacked then some vision which she had since gained—gained through Monte. It was that which made her understand Peter now, and the wonder of his love and the glory and sacredness of all love. It was that which made her understand herself now.

She got to her feet, staring into the dark toward the seashore.

"Monte, forgive me—forgive me!" she choked.

She had trifled with the biggest thing in his life and in her life. She shouldered the full blame. Monte knew nothing either of himself or of her. He was just Monte, honest and four-square, living up to his bargain. But she had seen the light in his eyes—the eyes that should have led him to the Holy Grail. He would have had to go such a little way—only as far as her outstretched arms.

She shrank back from the window, her head bowed. It had been her privilege as a woman to be wiser than he. She should have known! Now—the thought wrenched like a physical pain—there was nothing left to her but renunciation. She must help him to be free. She must force him free. She owed that to him and to herself. It was only so that she might ever feel clean again.

Moaning his name, she flung herself upon the bed. So she lay until summoned back to life by Marie, who brought her the card of Miss Beatrice Noyes.

Marjory took the time to bathe her dry cheeks in hot water and to do over her hair before admitting the girl; but, even with those precautions, Beatrice paused at the entrance as if startled by her appearance.

"Perhaps you do not feel like seeing any one to-night," she suggested.

"I do want to see you," answered Marjory. "I want to hear about Peter. But my head—would you mind if we sat in the dark?"

"I think that would be better—if we are to talk about Peter."

The phrase puzzled Marjory, but she turned out the lights and placed two chairs near the open windows.

"Now tell me from the beginning," she requested.

"The beginning came soon after you went away," replied Beatrice in a low voice.

Marjory leaned back wearily. If there were to be more complications for which she must hold herself accountable, she felt that she could not listen. Surely she had lived through enough for one day.

"Peter cared a great deal for you," Beatrice faltered on.

"Why?"

It was a cry in the night.

Impulsively the younger girl leaned forward and fumbled for her hands.

"You did n't realize it?" she asked hopefully.

"I realized nothing then. I realized nothing yesterday," cried Marjory. "It is only to-day that I began to realize anything."

"To-day?"

"Only to-night."

"It was the sight of Peter looking so unlike himself that opened your heart," nodded Beatrice.

"Not my heart—just my eyes," returned Marjory.

"Your heart too," insisted Beatrice; "for it's only through your heart that you can open Peter's eyes."

"I—I don't understand."

"Because he loves you," breathed Beatrice.



"No. No—not that."

"You don't know how much," went on the girl excitedly. "None of us knew how much—until after you went. Oh, he'd never forgive me if he knew I was talking like this! But I can't help it. It was because he would not talk—because he kept it a secret all to himself that this came upon him. They told me at the hospital that it was overwork and worry, and that he had only one chance in a hundred. But I sat by his side, Marjory, night and day, and coaxed him back. Little by little he grew stronger—all except his poor eyes. It was then he told me the truth: how he had tried to forget you in his work."

"He—he blamed me?"

Beatrice was still clinging to her hands.

"No," she answered quickly. "He did not blame you. We never blame those we love, do we?"

"But we hurt those we love!"

"Only when we don't understand. You did not know he loved you like that, did you?"

Marjory withdrew her hands.

"He had no right!" she cried.

Beatrice was silent a moment. There was a great deal here that she herself did not understand. But, though she herself had never loved, there was a great deal she did understand. She spoke as if thinking aloud.

"I have not found love—yet," she said. "But I never thought it was a question of right when people loved. I thought it—it just happened."

Marjory drew a quick breath.

"Yes; it is like that," she admitted.

Only, she was not thinking of Peter. She was thinking of herself. A week ago she would have smiled at that phrase. Even yesterday she would have smiled a little. Love was something a woman or man undertook or not at will. It was a condition to choose as one chose one's style of living. It was accepted or rejected, as suited one's pleasure. If a woman preferred her freedom, then that was her right.

Then, less than an hour ago, she had flung out her hands toward the shadowy figure of a man walking alone by the sea, her heart aching with a great need for the love that might have been hers had she not smiled. That need, springing of her own love, had just happened. The fulfillment of it was a matter to be decided by her own conscience; but the love itself had involved no question of right. She felt a wave of sympathy for Peter. She was able to feel for him now as never before. Poor Peter, lying there alone in the hospital! How the ache, unsatisfied, ate into one.

"Peter would n't tell me at first," Beatrice was running on. "His lips were as tight closed as his poor bandaged eyes."

"The blindness," broke in Marjory. "That is not permanent?"

"I will tell you what the doctor told me," Beatrice replied slowly. "He said that, while his eyes were badly overstrained, the seat of the trouble was mental. 'He is worrying,' he told me. 'Remove the cause of that and he has a chance.'"

"So you have come to me for that?"

"It seems like fate," said Peter's sister, with something of awe in her voice. "When, little by little, Peter told me of his love, I thought of only one thing: of finding you. I wanted to cable you, because I—I thought you would come if you knew. But Peter would not allow that. He made me promise not to do that. Then, as he grew stronger, and the doctor told us that perhaps an ocean voyage would help him, I wanted to bring him to you. He would not allow that either. He thought you were in Paris, and insisted that we take the Mediterranean route. Then—we happen upon you outside the hotel we chose by chance! Does n't it seem as if back of such a thing as that there must be something we don't understand; something higher than just what we may think right or wrong?"

"No, no; that's impossible," exclaimed Marjory.

"Why?"

"Because then we'd have to believe everything that happened was right. And it is n't."

"Was our coming here not right?"

Marjory did not answer.

"If you could have seen the hope in Peter's face when I left him!"

"He does n't know!" choked Marjory.

"He knows you are here, and that is all he needs to know," answered Beatrice.

"If it were only as simple as that."

The younger girl rose and, moving to the other's side, placed an arm over the drooping shoulders.

"Marjory dear," she said. "I feel to-night more like Peter than myself. I have listened so many hours in the dark as he talked about you. He—he has given me a new idea of love. I'd always thought of love in a—a sort of fairy-book way. I did n't think of it as having much to do with everyday life. I supposed that some time a knight would come along on horseback—if ever he came—and take me off on a long holiday."

Marjory gave a start. The girl was smoothing her hair.

"It would always be May-time," she went on, "and we'd have nothing to do but gather posies in the sunshine. We'd laugh and sing, and there'd be no care and no worries. Did you ever think of love that way?"

"Yes."

The girl spoke more slowly now, as if anxious to be quite accurate:—

"But Peter seemed to think of other things. When we talked of you it was as if he wanted you to be a part of himself and help with the big things he was planning to do. He had so many wonderful plans in which you were to help. Instead of running away from cares and worries, it was as though meeting these was what was going to make it May-time. Instead of riding off to some fairy kingdom, he seemed to feel that it was this that would make a fairy kingdom even of New York. Because"—she lowered her voice—"it was of a home and of children he talked, and of what a fine mother you would make. He talked of that—and somehow, Marjory, it made me proud just to be a woman! Oh, perhaps I should n't repeat such things!"

Marjory sprang to her feet.

"You should n't repeat them!" she exclaimed. "You mustn't repeat anything more! And I must n't listen!"

"It is only because you're the woman I came to know so well, sitting by his bed in the dark, that I dared," she said gently.

"You'll go now?" pleaded Marjory. "I must n't listen to any more."

Silently, as if frightened by what she had already said, Beatrice moved toward the door.

Marjory hurried after her.

"You're good," she cried, "and Peter's good! And I—"

The girl finished for her:—

"No matter what happens, you'll always be to me Peter's Marjory," she said. "You'll always keep me proud."



CHAPTER XVI

A WALK ON THE QUAY

Monte, stepping out of his room early after a restless night, saw a black-haired young man wearing a shade over his eyes fumbling about for the elevator button. He had the thin, nervous mouth and the square jaw of an American.

Monte stepped up to him.

"May I help you?" he asked.

"Thank you," answered Noyes; "I thought I could make it alone, but there is n't much light here."

Monte took his arm and assisted him to the elevator. The man appeared half blind. His heart went out to him at once. As they reached the first floor the stranger again hesitated. He smiled nervously.

"I wanted to get out in the air," he explained. "I thought I could find a valet to accompany me."

Monte hesitated. He did not want to intrude, but there was something about this helpless American that appealed to him. Impulsively he said: "Would you come with me? Covington is my name. I 'm just off for a walk along the quay."

"Noyes is my name," answered Peter. "I'd like to come, but I don't want to trouble you to that extent."

Monte took his arm.

"Come on," he said. "It's a bully morning."

"The air smells good," nodded Noyes. "I should have waited for my sister, but I was a bit restless. Do you mind asking the clerk to let her know where I am when she comes down?"

Monte called Henri.

"Inform Miss Noyes we'll be on the quay," he told him.

They walked in silence until they reached the boulevard bordering the ocean.

"We have the place to ourselves," said Monte. "If I walk too fast for you, let me know."

"I 'm not very sure of my feet yet," apologized Noyes. "I suppose in time I'll get used to this."

"Good Lord, you don't expect it to last?"

"No. They tell me I have a fighting chance."

"How did it happen?"

"Used them a bit too much, I guess," answered Noyes.

"That's tough."

"A man has so darned much to do and such a little while to do it in," exclaimed Noyes.

"You must live in New York."

"Yes. And you?"

"I generally drift back for the holidays. I've been traveling a good deal for the last ten years."

"I see. Some sort of research work?"

The way Noyes used that word "work" made Monte uncomfortable. It was as if he took it for granted that a man who was a man must have a definite occupation.

"I don't know that you would call it exactly that," answered Monte. "I 've just been knocking around. I have n't had anything in particular to do. What are you in?"

"Law. I wonder if you're Harvard?"

"Sure thing. And you?"

Noyes named his class—a class six years later than Monte's.

"Well, we have something in common there, anyhow," said Covington cordially. "My father was Harvard Law School. He practiced in Philadelphia."

"I've always lived in New York. I was born there, and I love it. I like the way it makes you hustle—the challenge to get in and live—"

He stopped abruptly, putting one hand to his eyes.

"They hurt?" asked Monte anxiously.

"You need your eyes in New York," he answered simply.

"You went in too hard," suggested Monte.

"Is there any other way?" cried Noyes.

"I used to play football a little," said Monte. "I suppose it's something like that—when a man gets the spirit of the thing. When you hit the line you want to feel that you 're putting into it every ounce in you."

Noyes nodded.

"Into your work—into your life."

"Into your life?" queried Monte.

"Into everything."

Monte turned to look at the man. His thin lips had come together in a straight line. His hollow cheeks were flushed. Every sense was as alert as a fencer's. If he had lived long like that, no wonder his eyes had gone bad. Yet last night Monte himself had lived like that, pacing his room hour after hour. Only it was not work that had given a cutting edge to each minute—not life, whatever Noyes meant by that. His thoughts had all been of a woman. Was that life? Was it what Noyes had meant when he said "everything"?

"This bucking the line all the time raises the devil with you," he said.

"How?" demanded Noyes.

The answer Monte could have returned was obvious. The fact that amazed him was that Noyes could have asked the question with the sun and the blue sky shut away from him. It only proved again what Monte had always maintained—that excesses of any kind, whether of rum or ambition or—or love—drove men stark mad. Blind as a bat from overwork, Noyes still asked the question.

"Look here," said Monte, with a frown. "Before the big events the coach used to take us one side and make us believe that the one thing in life we wanted was that game. He used to make us as hungry for it as a starved dog for a bone. He used to make us ache for it. So we used to wade in and tear ourselves all to pieces to get it."

"Well?"

"If we won it was n't so much; if we lost—it left us aching worse than before."

"Yes."

"There was the crowd that sat and watched us. They did n't care the way we cared. We went back to the locker building in strings; they went off to a comfortable dinner."

"And the moral?" demanded Noyes.

"Is not to care too darned much, is n't it?" growled Monte.

"If you want a comfortable dinner," nodded Noyes.

"Or a comfortable night's sleep. Or if you want to wake up in the morning with the world looking right."

Again Monte saw the impulsive movement of the man's hand to his eyes.

He said quickly: "I did n't mean to refer to that."

"I forget it for a while. Then—suddenly—I remember it."

"You wanted something too hard," said Monte gently.

"I wanted something with all there was in me. I still want it."

"You're not sorry, then?"

"If I were sorry for that, I'd be sorry I was alive."

"But the cost!"

"Of what value is a thing that doesn't cost?" returned Noyes. "All the big things cost big. Half the joy in them is pitting yourself against that and paying the price. The ache you speak of—that's credited to the joy in the end. Those men in the grand-stand don't know that. If you fight hard, you can't lose, no matter what the score is against you."

"You mean it's possible to get some of your fun out of the game itself?"

"What else is there to life—if you pick the things worth fighting for?"

"Then, if you lose—"

"You've lived," concluded Noyes.

"It's men like you who ought really to win," exclaimed Monte. "I hope you get what you went after."

"I mean to," answered Noyes, with grim determination.

They had turned and were coming back in the direction of the hotel when Monte saw a girlish figure hurrying toward them.

"I think your sister is coming," said Monte.

"Then you can be relieved of me," answered Noyes.

"But I 've enjoyed this walk immensely. I hope we can take another. Are you here for long?"

"Indefinitely. And you?"

"Also indefinitely."

Miss Noyes was by their side now.

"Sister—this is Mr. Covington," Peter introduced her.

Miss Noyes smiled.

"I've good news for you, Peter," she said. "I've just heard from Marjory, and she'll see you at ten."

Monte was startled by the name, but was even more startled by the look of joy that illuminated the features of the man by his side. For a second it was as if his blind eyes had suddenly come to life.

Monte caught his breath.



CHAPTER XVII

JUST MONTE

Monte was at the Hotel d'Angleterre at nine. In response to his card he received a brief note.

Dear Monte [he read]: Please don't ask to see me this morning. I'm so mixed up I'm afraid I won't be at all good company.

Yours, MARJORY.

Monte sent back this note in reply:—

Dear Marjory: If you're mixed up, I'm just the one you ought to see. You've been thinking again.

MONTE.

She came into the office looking like a hunted thing; but he stepped forward to meet her with a boyish good humor that reassured her in an instant. The firm grip of his hand alone was enough to steady her. Her tired eyes smiled gratitude.

"I never expected to be married and deserted—all in one week," he said lightly. "What's the trouble?"

He felt like a comedian trying to be funny with the heart gone out of him. But he knew she expected no less. He must remain just Monte or he would only frighten her the more. No matter if his heart pounded until he could not catch his breath, he must play the care-free chump of a compagnon de voyage. That was all she had married—all she wanted. She glanced at his arm in its black sling.

"Who tied that this morning?" she asked.

"The valet."

"He did n't do it at all nicely. There's a little sun parlor on the next floor. Come with me and I 'll do it over."

He followed her upstairs and into a room filled with flowers and wicker chairs. She stood before him and readjusted the handkerchief, so near that he thought he felt her breath. It was a test for a man, and he came through it nobly.

"There—that's better," she said. "Now take the big chair in the sun."

She drew it forward a little, though he protested at so much attention. She dropped into another seat a little away from him.

"Well?" he inquired. "Aren't you going to tell me about it?"

He was making it as easy as possible—easier than she had anticipated.

"Won't you please smoke?"

He lighted a cigarette.

"Now we're off," he encouraged her.

He was leaning back with one leg crossed over the other—a big, wholesome boy. His blue eyes this morning were the color of the sky, and just as clean and just as untroubled. As she studied him the thought uppermost in her mind was that she must not hurt him. She must be very careful about that. She must give him nothing to worry over.

"Monte," she began, "I guess women have a lot of queer notions men don't know anything about. Can't we let it go at that?"

"If you wish," he nodded. "Only—are you going to stay here?"

"For a little while, anyway," she answered.

"You mean—a day or two?"

"Or a week or two."

"You'd rather not tell me why?"

"If you please—not," she answered quickly.

He thought a moment, and then asked:—

"It was n't anything I did?"

"No, no," she assured him. "You've been so good, Monte."

He was so good with her now—so gentle and considerate. It made her heart ache. With her chin in hand, elbow upon the arm of her chair, she was apparently looking at him more or less indifferently, when what she would have liked to do was to smooth away the perplexed frown between his brows.

"Then," he asked, "your coming here has n't anything to do with me?"

She could not answer that directly. With her cheeks burning and her lips dry, she tried to think just what to say. Above all things, she must not worry him!

"It has to do with you and myself and—Peter Noyes," she answered.

"Peter Noyes!"

He sat upright.

"He is at the Hotel des Roses—with his sister," Marjory ran on hurriedly. "They are both old friends, and I met them quite by accident last night. Suddenly, Monte,—they made my position there impossible. They gave me a new point of view on myself—on you. I guess it was an American point of view. What had seemed right before did not seem right then."

"Is that why you resumed your maiden name?"

"That is why. But sooner or later Peter will know the truth, won't he?"

"How will he know?"

"The name you signed on the register."

"That's so, too," Monte admitted. "But that says only 'Madame Covington.' Madame Covington might be any one."

He smiled, but his lips were tense.

"She may have been called home unexpectedly."

The girl hid her face in her hands. He rose and stepped to her side.

"There, there," he said gently. "Don't worry about that. There is no reason why they should ever associate you with her. If they make any inquiries of me about madame, I'll just say she has gone away for a little while—perhaps for a week or two. Is that right?"

"I—I don't know."

"Nothing unusual about that. Wives are always going away. Even Chic's wife goes away every now and then. As for you, little woman, I think you did the only thing possible. I met that Peter Noyes this morning."

Startled, she raised her face from her hands.

"You met—Peter Noyes?" she asked slowly.

"Quite by chance. He was on his way to walk, and I took him with me. He's a wonderful fellow, Marjory."

"You talked with him?"

He nodded.

"He takes life mighty seriously."

"Too seriously, Monte," she returned.

"It's what made him blind; and yet—there 's something worth while about a man who gets into the game that way. Hanged if he did n't leave me feeling uncomfortable."

She looked worried.

"How, Monte?"

"Oh, as though I ought to be doing something instead of just kicking around the Continent. Do you know I had a notion of studying law at one time?"

"But there was no need of it, was there?"

"Not in one way. Only, I suppose I could have made myself useful somewhere, even if I did n't have to earn a living. Maybe there's a use for every one—somewhere."

He had left her side, and was staring out the window toward the ocean. She watched him anxiously. She had never seen him like this, and yet, in a way, this was the same Monte in whose eyes she had caught a glimpse of the wonderful bright light. It was the man who had leaned toward her as they walked on the shore the night before they reached Nice—a gallant prince of the fairy-books, ready to step into real life and be a gallant prince there.

Monte had never had a chance. Had he been left as Peter Noyes had been left, dependent upon himself, he would have done all that Peter had done, without losing his smile. Marjory must not allow him to lose that now. His mouth was drooping with such exaggerated melancholy that she felt something must be done at once. She began to laugh. He turned quickly.

"You look as if you had lost your last friend," she chided him. "If talking with Peter Noyes does that to you, I don't think you had better talk with him any more."

"He's worth more to-day, blind, than I with my two eyes."

"The trouble with Peter is that he can't smile," she answered. "After all, it would be a sad world if no one were left to smile."

The words brought back to him the phrase she had used at the Normandie: "I am depending on you to keep me normal."

Here was something right at hand for him to do, and a man's job at that. He had wanted a chance to play the game, and here it was. Perhaps the game was not so big as some,—it concerned only her and him,—but there was a certain added challenge in playing the little game hard. Besides, the importance of the game was a good deal in the point of view. If, for him, it was big, that was enough.

As he stood before her now, the demand upon him for all his nerve was enough to satisfy any man. To assume before her the pose of the carefree chump that she needed to balance her own nervous fears—to do this with every muscle in him straining toward her, with the beauty of her making him dizzy, with hot words leaping for expression to his dry lips, those facts, after all, made the game seem not so small.

"Where are you going to lunch to-day?" he asked.

"I don't know, Monte," she answered indifferently. "I told Peter he could come over at ten."

"I see. Want to lunch with him?"

"I don't want to lunch with any one."

"He'll probably expect you. I was going to look at some villas to-day; but I suppose that's all off."

Her cheeks turned scarlet.

"Yes."

"Then I guess I'll walk to Monte Carlo and lunch there. How about dinner?"

"If they see us together—"

"Ask them to come along too. You can tell them I'm an old friend. I am that, am I not?"

"One of the oldest and best," she answered earnestly.

"Then I'll call you up when I come back. Good luck."

With a nod and a smile, he left her.

From the window she watched him out of sight. He did not turn. There was no reason in the world why she should have expected him to turn. He had a pleasant day before him. He would amuse himself at the Casino, enjoy a good luncheon, smoke a cigarette in the sunshine, and call her up at his leisure when he returned. Except for the light obligation of ascertaining her wishes concerning dinner, it was the routine he had followed for ten years. It had kept him satisfied, kept him content. Doubtless, if he were left undisturbed, it would keep him satisfied and content for another decade. He would always be able to walk away from her without turning back.



CHAPTER XVIII

PETER

Beatrice brought Peter at ten, and, in spite of the mute appeal of Marjory's eyes, stole off on tiptoe and left her alone with him.

"Has Trix gone?" demanded Peter.

"Yes."

"She shouldn't have done that," he complained.

Marjory made him comfortable in the chair Monte had lately occupied, finding a cushion for his head.

"Please don't do those things," he objected. "You make me feel as if I were wearing a sign begging for pity."

"How can any one help pitying you, when they see you like this, Peter?" she asked gently.

"What right have they to do it?" he demanded.

"Right?"

She frowned at that word. So many things in her life seemed to have been decided without respect for right.

"I'm the only one to say whether I shall be pitied or not," he declared. "I've lost the use of my eyes temporarily by my own fault. I don't like it; but I refuse to be pitied."

Marjory was surprised to find him so aggressive. It was not what she expected after listening to Beatrice. It changed her whole attitude toward him instantly from one of guarded condolence to honest admiration. There was no whine here. He was blaming no one—neither himself nor her. It was with a wave of deep and sincere sympathy, springing spontaneously from within herself, that she spoke.

"Peter," she said, "I won't pity you any more. But if I 'm sorry for you—awfully sorry—you won't mind that?"

"I'd rather you would n't think of my eyes at all," he answered unsteadily. "I can almost forget them myself—with you."

"Then," she said, "we'll forget them. Are you going to stay here long, Peter?"

"Are you?"

"My plans are uncertain. I don't think I shall ever make any more plans."

"You must n't let yourself feel that way," Peter returned. "The thing to do, if one scheme fails, is to start another—right off."

"But nothing ever comes out as you expect."

"That gives you a chance to try again."

"You can't keep that up forever?"

"Forever and ever," he nodded. "It's what makes life worth living."

"Peter," she said below her breath, "you're wonderful."

He seemed to clear the muggy air around her like a summer shower. In touch with his fine courage, her own returned. She felt herself steadier and calmer than she had been for a week.

"What if you make mistakes, Peter?"

"It's the only way you learn," he answered. "There's a new note in your voice, Marjory. Have—you been learning?"

His meaning was clear. He leaned forward as if trying to pierce the darkness between them. His thin white hands were tight upon the chair arms.

"At least, I've been making mistakes," she answered uneasily.

She felt, for a second, as if she could pour out her troubles to him—as if he would listen patiently and give her of his wisdom and strength. It would be easier—she was ashamed of the thought, but it held true—because he could not see. Almost—she could tell him of herself and of Monte.

"There's such a beautiful woman in you!" he explained passionately.

With her heart beating fast, she dropped back in her chair. There was the old ring in his voice—the old masterful decision that used to frighten her. There used to be moments when she was afraid that he might command her to come with him as with authority, and that she would go.

"I 've always known that you'd learn some day all the fine things that are in you—all the fine things that lay ahead of you to do as a woman," he ran on. "You've only been waiting; that's all."

He could not see her cheeks—she was thankful for that. But the wonder was that he did not hear the pounding of her heart. He spoke like this, not knowing of this last week.

"You remember all the things I said to you—before you left?"

"Yes."

"I can't say them to you now. I must wait until I get my eyes back. Then I shall say them again, and perhaps—"

"Do you think I 'd let you wait for your eyes?" she cried.

"You mean that now—"

"No, no, Peter," she interrupted, in a panic. "I did n't mean I could listen now. Only I did n't want you to think I was so selfish that if it were possible to share the light with you I—I would n't share the dark too."

"There would n't be any dark for me at all if you shared it," he answered gently.

Then she saw his lips tighten.

"We must n't talk of that," he said. "We must n't think of it."

Yet, of all the many things they discussed this morning, nothing left Marjory more to think about. It seemed that, so far, her freedom had done nothing but harm. She had intended no harm. She had desired only to lead her own life day by day, quite by herself. So she had fled from Peter—with this result; then she had fled from Teddy, who had lost his head completely; finally she had fled, not from Monte but with him, because that seemed quite the safest thing to do. It had proved the most dangerous of all! If she had driven Peter blind, Monte—if he only knew it—had brought him sweet revenge, because he had made her, not blind, but something that was worse, a thousand times worse!

There was some hope for Peter. It is so much easier to cure blindness than vision. Always she must see the light that had leaped to Monte's eyes, kindled from the fire in her own soul. Always she must see him coming to her outstretched arms, knowing that she had lost the right to lift her arms. Perhaps she must even see him going to other arms, that flame born of her breathed into fuller life by other lips. If not—then the ultimate curse of watching him remain just Monte, knowing he might have been so much more. This because she had dared trifle with that holy passion and so had made herself unworthy of it.

Peter was telling her of his work; of what he had accomplished already and of what he hoped to accomplish. She heard him as from a distance, and answered mechanically his questions, while she pursued her own thoughts.

It seemed almost as if a woman was not allowed to remain negative; that either she must accomplish positive good or positive harm. So far, she had accomplished only harm; and now here was an opportunity that was almost an obligation to offset that to some degree. She must free Monte as soon as possible. That was necessary in any event. She owed it to him. It was a sacred obligation that she must pay to save even the frayed remnant of her pride. This had nothing to do with Peter. She saw now it would have been necessary just the same, even if Peter had not come to make it clearer. Until she gave up the name to which she had no right, with which she had so shamelessly trifled, she must feel only glad that Peter could not see into her eyes.

So Monte would go on his way again, and she would be left—she and Peter. If, then, what Beatrice said was true,—if it was within her power, at no matter what sacrifice, to give Peter back the sight she had taken,—then so she might undo some of the wrong she had done. The bigger the sacrifice, the fiercer the fire might rage to burn her clean. Because she had thought to sacrifice nothing, she had been forced to sacrifice everything; if now she sacrificed everything, perhaps she could get back a little peace in return. She would give her life to Peter—give him everything that was left in her to give. Humbly she would serve him and nurse the light back into his eyes. Was it possible to do this?

She saw Beatrice at the door, and rose to meet her.

"You're to lunch with me," she said. "Then, for dinner, Mr. Covington has asked us all to join him."

"Covington?" exclaimed Peter. "Is n't he the man who was so decent to me this morning?"

"He said he met you," answered Marjory.

"I liked him," declared Peter. "I'll be mighty glad to see more of him."

"And I too," nodded Beatrice. "He looked so very romantic with his injured arm."

"Monte romantic?" smiled Marjory. "That's the one thing in the world he is n't."

"Just who is he, anyway?" inquired Beatrice.

"He's just Monte," answered Marjory.

"And Madame Monte—where is she? I noticed by the register there is such a person."

"I—I think he said she had been called away—unexpectedly," Marjory gasped.

She turned aside with an uncomfortable feeling that Beatrice had noticed her confusion.



CHAPTER XIX

AN EXPLANATION

The following week Monte devoted himself wholly to the entertainment of Marjory and her friends. He placed his car at their disposal, and planned for them daily trips with the thoroughness of a courier, though he generally found some excuse for not going himself. His object was simple: to keep Marjory's days so filled that she would have no time left in which to worry. He wanted to help her, as far as possible, to forget the preceding week, which had so disturbed her. To this end nothing could be better for her than Peter and Beatrice Noyes, who were so simply and honestly plain, everyday Americans. They were just the wholesome, good-natured companions she needed to offset the morbid frame of mind into which he had driven her. Especially Peter. He was good for her and she was good for him.

The more he talked with Peter Noyes the better he liked him. At the end of the day—after seeing them started in the morning, Monte used to go out and walk his legs off till dinner-time—he enjoyed dropping into a chair by the side of Peter. It was wonderful how already Peter had picked up. He had gained not only in weight and color, but a marked mental change was noticeable. He always came back from his ride in high spirits. So completely did he ignore his blindness that Monte, talking with him in the dark, found himself forgetting it—awakening to the fact each time with a shock when it was necessary to offer an assisting arm.

It was the man's enthusiasm Monte admired. He seemed to be always alert—always keen. Yet, as near as he could find out, his life had been anything but adventuresome or varied. After leaving the law school he had settled down in a New York office and just plugged along. He confessed that this was the first vacation he had taken since he began practice.

"You can hardly call this a vacation!" exclaimed Monte.

"Man dear," answered Peter earnestly, "you don't know what these days mean to me."

"You sure are entitled to all the fun you can get out of them," returned Monte. "But I hate to think how I'd feel under the same circumstances."

"I don't believe there is much difference between men," answered Peter. "I imagine that about certain things we all feel a good deal alike."

"I wonder," mused Monte. "I can't imagine myself, for instance, living twelve months in the year in New York and being enthusiastic about it."

"What do you do when you're there?" inquired Peter.

"Not much of anything," admitted Monte.

"Then you're no more in New York when you're there than in Jericho," answered Peter. "You 've got to get into the game really to live in New York. You 've got to work and be one of the million others before you can get the feel of the city. Best of all, a man ought to marry there. You're married, are n't you, Covington?"

"Eh?"

"Did n't Beatrice tell me you registered here with your wife?"



Monte moistened his lips.

"Yes—she was here for a day. She—she was called away."

"That's too bad. I hope we'll have an opportunity to meet her before we leave."

"Thanks."

"She ought to help you understand New York."

"Perhaps she would. We've never been there together."

"Been married long?"

"No."

"So you have n't any children."

"Hardly."

"Then," said Peter, "you have your whole life ahead of you. You have n't begun to live anywhere yet."

"And you?"

"It's the same with me," confessed Peter, with a quick breath. "Only—well, I haven't been able to make even the beginning you 've made."

Monte leaned forward with quickened interest.

"That's the thing you wanted so hard?" he asked.

"Yes."

"To marry and have children?"

Monte was silent a moment, and then he added:—

"I know a man who did that."

"A man who does n't is n't a man, is he?"

"I—I don't know," confessed Monte. "I 've visited this friend once or twice. Did you ever see a kiddy with the croup?"

"No," admitted Peter.

"You're darned lucky. It's just as though—as though some one had the little devil by the throat, trying to strangle him."

"There are things you can do."

"Things you can try to do. But mostly you stand around with your hands tied, waiting to see what's going to happen."

"Well?" queried Peter, evidently puzzled.

"That's only one of a thousand things that can happen to 'em. There are worse things. They are happening every day."

"Well?"

"When I think of Chic and his children I think of him pacing the hall with his forehead all sweaty with the ache inside of him. Nothing pleasant about that, is there?"

Peter did not answer for a moment, and then what he said seemed rather pointless.

"What of it?" he asked.

"Only this," answered Monte uneasily. "When you speak of a wife and children you have to remember those facts. You have to consider that you 're going to be torn all to shoe-strings every so often. Maybe you open the gates of heaven, but you throw open the gates of hell too. There's no more jogging along in between on the good old earth."

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Peter. "You consider such things?"

"I've always tried to stay normal," answered Monte uneasily.

"Yet you said you're married?"

"Even so, is n't it possible for a man to keep his head?" demanded Monte.

"I don't understand," replied Peter.

"Look here—I don't want to intrude in your affairs, but I don't suppose you are talking merely abstractedly. You have some one definite in mind?"

"Yes."

"Then you ought to understand; you've kept steady."

"I wouldn't be like this if I had," answered Peter.

"You mean your eyes."

"I tried to forget her because she wasn't ready to listen. I turned to my work, and put in twenty hours a day. It was a fool thing to do. And yet—"

Monte held his breath.

"From the depths I saw the heights, I saw the wonderful beauty of the peaks."

"And still see them?"

"Clearer than ever now."

"Then you aren't sorry she came into your life?"

"Sorry, man?" exclaimed Peter. "Even at this price—even if there were no hope ahead, I'd still have my visions."

"But there is hope?"

"I have one chance in a thousand. It's more than anything I 've had up to now."

"One in a thousand is a fighting chance," Monte returned.

"You speak as if that were more than you had."

"It was."

"Yet you won out."

"How?" demanded Monte.

"She married you."

"Yes," answered Monte, "that's true. I say, old man—it's getting a bit cool here. Perhaps we'd better go in."

Monte had planned for them a drive to Cannes the day Beatrice sent word to Marjory that she would be unable to go.

"But you two will go, won't you?" she concluded her note. "Peter will be terribly disappointed if you don't."

So they went, leaving at ten o'clock. At ten-fifteen Beatrice came downstairs, and ran into Monte just as he was about to start his walk.

"You're feeling better?" he asked politely.

She shook her head.

"I—I'm afraid I told a fib."

"You mean you stayed because you did n't want to go."

"Yes. But I did n't say I had a headache."

"I know how you feel about that," he returned. "Leaving people to guess wrong lets you out in one way, and in another it does n't."

She appeared surprised at his directness. She had expected him to pass the incident over lightly.

"It was for Peter's sake, anyhow," she tried to justify her position. "But don't let me delay you, please. I know you 're off for your morning walk."

That was true. But he was interested in that statement she had just made that it was for Peter's sake she had remained behind. It revealed an amazingly dense ignorance of both her brother's position and Marjory's. On no other theory could he make it seem consistent for her to encourage a tete-a-tete between a married woman and a man as deeply in love with some one else as Peter was.

"Won't you come along a little way?" he asked. "We can turn back at any time."

She hesitated a moment—but only a moment.

"Thanks."

She fell into step at his side as he sought the quay.

"You've been very good to Peter," she said. "I've wanted a chance to tell you so."

"You did n't remain behind for that, I hope," he smiled.

"No," she admitted; "but I do appreciate your kindness. Peter has had such a terrible time of it."

"And yet," mused Monte aloud, "he does n't seem to feel that way himself."

"He has confided in you?"

"A little. He told me he regretted nothing."

"He has such fine courage!" she exclaimed.

"Not that alone. He has had some beautiful dreams."

"That's because of his courage."

"It takes courage, then, to dream?" Monte asked.

"Don't you think it does—with your eyes gone?"

"With or without eyes," he admitted.

"You don't know what he's been through," she frowned. "Even he does n't know. When I came to him, there was so little of him left. I 'll never forget the first sight I had of him in the hospital. Thin and white and blind, he lay there as though dead."

He looked at the frail young woman by his side. She must have had fine courage too. There was something of Peter in her.

"And you nursed him back."

She blushed at the praise.

"Perhaps I helped a little; but, after all, it was the dreams he had that counted most. All I did was to listen and try to make them real to him. I tried to make him hope."

"That was fine."

"He loved so hard, with all there was in him, as he does everything," she explained.

"I suppose that was the trouble," he nodded.

She turned quickly. It was as if he said that was the mistake.

"After all, that's just love, is n't it? There can't be any halfway about it, can there?"

"I wonder."

"You—you wonder, Mr. Covington?"

He was stupid at first. He did not get the connection. Then, as she turned her dark eyes full upon him, the blood leaped to his cheeks. He was married—that was what she was trying to tell him. He had a wife, and so presumably knew what love was. For her to assume anything else, for him to admit anything else, was impossible.

"Perhaps we'd better turn back," she said uneasily.

He felt like a cad. He turned instantly.

"I 'm afraid I did n't make myself very clear," he faltered. "We are n't all of us like Peter."

"There is no one in the world quite as good as Peter," the girl declared.

"Then you should n't blame me too much," he suggested.

"It is not for me to criticize you at all," she returned somewhat stiffly.

"But you did."

"How?"

"When you suggested turning back. It was as if you had determined I was not quite a proper person to walk with."

"Mr. Covington!" she protested.

"We may as well be frank. It seems to be a misfortune of mine lately to get things mixed up. Peter is helping me to see straight. That's why I like to talk with him."

"He sees so straight himself."

"That's it."

"If only now he recovers his eyes."

"He says there's hope."

"It all depends upon her," she said.

"Upon this woman?"

"Upon this one woman."

"If she realized it—"

"She does," broke in Beatrice. "I made her realize it. I went to her and told her."

"You did that?"

She raised her head in swift challenge.

"Even though Peter commanded me not to—even though I knew he would never forgive me if he learned."

"You women are so wonderful," breathed Monte.

"With Peter's future—with his life at stake—what else could I do?"

"And she, knowing that, refused to come to him?"

"Fate brought us to her."

"Then," exclaimed Monte, "what are you doing here?"

She stopped and faced him. It was evident that he was sincere.

"You men—all men are so stupid at times!" she cried, with a little laugh.

He shook his head slowly.

"I 'll have to admit it."

"Why, he's with her now," she laughed. "That's why I stayed at home to-day."

Monte held his breath for a second, and then he said:—

"You mean, the woman Peter loves is—is Marjory Stockton?"

"No other. I thought he must have told you. If not, I thought you must have guessed it from her."

"Why, no," he admitted; "I did n't."

"Then you've had your eyes closed."

"That's it," he nodded; "I've had my eyes closed. Why, that explains a lot of things."

Impulsively the girl placed her hand on Monte's arm.

"As an old friend of hers, you'll use your influence to help Peter?"

"I 'll do what I can."

"Then I'm so glad I told you."

"Yes," agreed Monte. "I suppose it is just as well for me to know."



CHAPTER XX

PAYING LIKE A MAN

Everything considered, Monte should have been glad at the revelation Beatrice made to him. If Peter were in love with Marjory and she with Peter—why, it solved his own problem, by the simple process of elimination, neatly and with despatch. All that remained for him to do was to remove himself from the awkward triangle as soon as possible. He must leave Marjory free, and Peter would look after the rest. No doubt a divorce on the grounds of desertion could be easily arranged; and thus, by that one stroke, they two would be made happy, and he—well, what the devil was to become of him?

The answer was obvious. It did not matter a picayune to any one what became of him. What had he ever done to make his life worth while to any one? He had never done any particular harm, that was true; but neither had he done any particular good. It is the positive things that count, when a man stands before the judgment-seat; and that is where Monte stood on the night Marjory came back from Cannes by the side of Peter, with her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed as if she had come straight from Eden.

They all dined together, and Monte grubbed hungrily for every look she vouchsafed him, for every word she tossed him. She had been more than ordinarily vivacious, spurred on partly by Beatrice and partly by Peter. Monte had felt himself merely an onlooker. That, in fact, was all he was. That was all he had been his whole life.

He dodged Peter this evening to escape their usual after-dinner talk, and went to his room. He was there now, with his face white and tense.

He had been densely stupid from the first, as Beatrice had informed him. Any man of the world ought to have suspected something when, at the first sight of Peter, she ran away. She had never run from him. Women run only when there is danger of capture, and she had nothing to fear from him in that way. She was safe with him. She dared even come with him to escape those from whom there might be some possible danger. Until now he had been rather proud of this—as if it were some honor. She had trusted him as she would not trust other men. It had made him throw back his shoulders—dense fool that he was!

She had trusted him because she did not fear him; she did not fear him because there was nothing in him to fear. It was not that he was more decent than other men: it was merely because he was less of a man. Why, she had run even from Peter—good, honest, conscientious Peter, with the heart and the soul and the nerve of a man. Peter had sent her scurrying before him because of the great love he dared to have for her. Peter challenged her to take up life with him—to buck New York with him. This was after he had waded in himself with naked fists, man-fashion. That was what gave Peter his right. That right was what she feared.

Monte had a grandfather who in forty-nine crossed the plains. A picture of him hung in the Covington house in Philadelphia. The painting revealed steel-gray eyes and, even below the beard of respectability, a mouth that in many ways was like Peter's. Montague Sears Covington—that was his name; the name that had been handed down to Monte. The man had shouldered a rifle, fought his way across deserts and over mountain paths, had risked his life a dozen times a day to reach the unknown El Dorado of the West. He had done this partly for a woman—a slip of a girl in New York whom he left behind to wait for him, though she begged to go. That was Monte's grandmother.

Monte, in spite of his ancestry, had jogged along, dodging the responsibilities—the responsibilities that Peter Noyes rushed forward to meet. He had ducked even love, even fatherhood. Like any quitter on the gridiron, instead of tackling low and hard, he had side-stepped. He had seen Chic in agony, and because of that had taken the next boat for Marseilles. He had turned tail and run. He had seen Teddy, and had run to what he thought was safe cover. If he paid the cost after that, whose the fault? The least he could do now was to pay the cost like a man.

Here was the salient necessity—to pay the cost like a man. There must be no whining, no regretting, no side-stepping this time. He must make her free by surrendering all his own rights, privileges, and title. He must turn her over to Peter, who had played the game. He must do more. He must see that she went to Peter. He must accomplish something positive this time.

Beatrice had asked him to use his influence. It was slight, pitifully slight, but he must do what he could. He must plan for them, deliberately, more such opportunities as this one he had planned for them unconsciously to-day. He must give them more chances to be together. He had looked forward to having breakfast with her in the morning. He must give up that. He must keep himself in the background while he was here, and then, at the right moment, get out altogether.

Technically, he must desert her. He must make that supreme sacrifice. At the moment when he stood ready to challenge the world for her—at the moment when his heart within him burned to face for her all the dangers from which he had run—at that point he must relinquish even this privilege, and with smiling lips pose before the world and before her as a quitter. He must not even use the deserter's prerogative of running. He must leave her cheerfully and jauntily—as the care-free ass known to her and to the world as just Monte.

The scorn of those words stung him white with helpless passion. She had wished him always to be just Monte, because she thought that was the best there was in him. As such he was at least harmless—a good-natured chump to be trusted to do no harm, if he did no good. The grandson of the Covington who had faced thirst and hunger and sudden death for his woman, who had won for her a fortune fighting against other strong men, the grandson of a man who had tackled life like a man, must sacrifice his one chance to allow this ancestor to know his own as a man. He could have met him chin up with Madame Covington on his arm. He had that chance once.

How ever had he missed it? He sat there with his fists clenched between his knees, asking himself the question over and over again. He had known her for over a decade. As a school-girl he had seen her at Chic's, and now ten years later he saw that even then she had within her all that she now had. That clear, white forehead had been there then; the black arched brows, the thin, straight nose, and the mobile lips. He caught his breath as he thought of those lips. Her eyes, too—but no, a change had taken place there. He had always thought of her eyes as cold—as impenetrable. They were not that now. Once or twice he thought he had seen into them a little way. Once or twice he thought he had glimpsed gentle, fluttering figures in them. Once or twice they had been like windows in a long-closed house, suddenly flung open upon warm rooms filled with flowers. It made him dizzy now to remember those moments.

He paced his room. In another week or two, if he had kept on,—if Peter had not come,—he might have been admitted farther into that house. He squared his shoulders. If he fought for his own even now—if, man against man, he challenged Peter for her—he might have a fighting chance. Was not that his right? In New York, in the world outside New York, that was the law: a hard fight—the best man to win. In war, favors might be shown; but in life, with a man's own at stake, it was every one for himself. Peter himself would agree to that. He was not one to ask favors. A fair fight was all he demanded. Then let it be a clean, fair fight with bare knuckles to a finish. Let him show himself to Marjory as the grandson of the man who gave him his name; let him press his claims.

He was ready now to face the world with her. He was eager to do that. Neither heights nor depths held any terrors for him. He envied Chic—he envied even poor mad Hamilton.

Suddenly he saw a great truth. There is no difference between the heights and the depths to those who are playing the game. It is only those who sit in the grand-stand who see the difference. He ought to have known that. The hard throws, the stinging tackles that used to bring the grandstand to its feet, he never felt. The players knew something that those upon the seats did not know, and thrilled with a keener joy than the onlookers dreamed of.

If he could only be given another chance to do something for Marjory—something that would bite into him, something that would twist his body and maul him! If he could not face some serious physical danger for her, then some great sacrifice—

Which was precisely the opportunity now offered. He had been considering this sacrifice from his own personal point of view. He had looked upon it as merely a personal punishment. But, after all, it was for her. It was for her alone. Peter played no part in it whatever. Neither did he himself. It was for her—for her!

Monte set his jaws. If, through Peter, he could bring her happiness, then that was all the reward he could ask. Here was a man who loved her, who would be good to her and fight hard for her. He was just the sort of man he could trust her to. If he could see them settled in New York, as Chic and Mrs. Chic were settled, see them start the brave adventure, then he would have accomplished more than he had ever been able to accomplish so far.

There was no need of thinking beyond that point. What became of his life after that did not matter in the slightest. Wherever he was, he would always know that she was where she belonged, and that was enough. He must hold fast to that thought.

A knock at his door made him turn on his heels.

"Who's that?" he demanded.

"It's I—Noyes," came the answer. "Have you gone to bed yet?"

Monte swung open the door.

"Come in," he said.

"I thought I 'd like to talk with you, if it is n't too late," explained Peter nervously.

"On the contrary, you could n't have come more opportunely. I was just thinking about you."

He led Peter to a chair.

"Sit down and make yourself comfortable."

Monte lighted a cigarette, sank into a near-by chair, and waited.

"Beatrice said she told you," began Peter.

"She did," answered Monte; "I'd congratulate you if it would n't be so manifestly superfluous."

"I did n't realize she was an old friend of yours."

"I've known her for ten years," said Monte.

"It's wonderful to have known her as long as that. I envy you."

"That's strange, because I almost envy you."

Peter laughed.

"I have a notion I 'd be worried if you were n't already married, Covington."

"Worried?"

"I think Mrs. Covington must be a good deal like Marjory."

"She is," admitted Monte.

"So, if I had n't been lucky enough to find you already suited, you might have given me a race."

"You forget that the ladies themselves have some voice in such matters," Monte replied slowly.

"I have better reasons than you for not forgetting that," answered Peter.

Monte started.

"I was n't thinking of you," he put in quickly. "Besides, you did n't give Marjory a fair chance. Her aunt had just died, and she—well, she has learned a lot since then."

"She has changed!" exclaimed Peter. "I noticed it at once; but I was almost afraid to believe it. She seems steadier—more serious."

"Yes."

"You've seen a good deal of her recently?"

"For the last two or three weeks," answered Monte.

"You don't mind my talking to you about her?"

"Not at all."

"As you're an old friend of hers, I feel as if I had the right."

"Go ahead."

"It seems to me as if she had suddenly grown from a girl to a woman. I saw the woman in her all the time. It—it was to her I spoke before. Maybe, as you said, the woman was n't quite ready."

"I'm sure of it."

"You speak with conviction."

"As I told you, I've come to know her better these last few weeks than ever before. I 've had a chance to study her. She's had a chance, too, to study—other men. There's been one in particular—"

Peter straightened a bit.

"One in particular?" he demanded aggressively.

"No one you need fear," replied Monte. "In a way, it's because of him that your own chances have improved."

"How?"

"It has given her an opportunity to compare him with you."

"Are you at liberty to tell me about him?"

"Yes; I think I have that right," replied Monte; "I'll not be violating any confidences, because what I know about him I know from the man himself. Furthermore, it was I who introduced him to her."

"Oh—a friend of yours."

"Not a friend, exactly; an acquaintance of long standing would be more accurate. I've been in touch with him all my life, but it's only lately I've felt that I was really getting to know him."

"Is he here in Nice now?" inquired Peter.

"No," answered Monte slowly. "He went away a little while ago. He went suddenly—God knows where. I don't think he will ever come back."

"You can't help pitying the poor devil if he was fond of her," said Peter.

"But he was n't good enough for her. It was his own fault too, so he is n't deserving even of pity."

"Probably that makes it all the harder. What was the matter with him?"

"He was one of the kind we spoke of the other night—the kind who always sits in the grandstand instead of getting into the game."

"Pardon me if I 'm wrong, but—I thought you spoke rather sympathetically of that kind the other night."

"I was probably reflecting his views," Monte parried.

"That accounts for it," returned Peter. "Somehow, it did n't sound consistent in you. I wish I could see your face, Covington."

"We're sitting in the dark here," answered Monte.

"Go on."

"Marjory liked this fellow well enough because—well, because he looked more or less like a man. He was big physically, and all that. Besides, his ancestors were all men, and I suppose they handed down something."

"What was his name?"

"I think I 'd rather not tell you that. It's of no importance. This is all strictly in confidence."

"I understand."

"So she let herself see a good deal of him. He was able to amuse her. That kind of fellow generally can entertain a woman. In fact, that is about all they are good for. When it comes down to the big things, there is n't much there. They are well enough for the holidays, and I guess that was all she was thinking about. She had had a hard time, and wanted amusement. Maybe she fancied that was all she ever wanted; but—well, there was more in her than she knew herself."

"A thousand times more!" exclaimed Peter.

"She found it out. Perhaps, after all, this fellow served his purpose in helping her to realize that."

"Perhaps."

"So, after that, he left."

"And he cared for her?"

"Yes."

"Poor devil!"

"I don't know," mused Monte. "He seemed, on the whole, rather glad that he had been able to do that much for her."

"I 'd like to meet that man some day. I have a notion there is more in him than you give him credit for, Covington."

"I doubt it."

"A man who would give up her—"

"She's the sort of woman a man would want to do his level best for," broke in Monte. "If that meant giving her up,—if the fellow felt he was n't big enough for her,—then he could n't do anything else, could he?"

"The kind big enough to consider that would be big enough for her," declared Peter.

Monte drew a quick breath.

"Do you mind repeating that?"

"I say the man really loving her who would make such a sacrifice comes pretty close to measuring up to her standard."

"I think he would like to hear that. You see, it's the first real sacrifice he ever undertook."

"It may be the making of him."

"Perhaps."

"He'll always have her before him as an ideal. When you come in touch with such a woman as she—you can't lose, Covington, no matter how things turn out."

"I 'll tell him that too."

"It's what I tell myself over and over again. To-day—well, I had an idea there must be some one in the background of her life I did n't know about."

"You 'd better get that out of your head. This man is n't even in the background, Noyes."

"I 'm not so sure. I thought she seemed worried. I tried to make her tell me, but she only laughed. She'd face death with a smile, that woman. I got to thinking about it in my room, and that's why I came down here to you. You've seen more of her these last few months than I have."

"Not months; only weeks."

"And this other—I don't want to pry into her affairs, but we're all just looking to her happiness, are n't we?"

"Consider this other man as dead and gone," cut in Monte. "He was lucky to be able to play the small part in her life that he did play."

"But something is disturbing her. I know her voice; I know her laugh. If I did n't have those to go by, there'd be something else. I can feel when she's herself and when she is n't."

Monte grasped his chair arms. He had studied her closely the last few days, and had not been able to detect the fact that she was worried. He had thought her gayer, more light-hearted, than usual. It was so that she had held herself before him. If Peter was right,—and Monte did not doubt the man's superior intuition,—then obviously she was worrying over the technicality that still held her a prisoner. Until she was actually free she would live up to the letter of her contract. This would naturally tend to strain her intercourse with Peter. She was not one to take such things lightly.

Monte rose, crossed the room, and placed his hand on Peter's shoulder.

"I think I can assure you," he said slowly, "that if there is anything bothering her now, it is nothing that will last. All you've got to do is to be patient and hold on."

"You seem to be mighty confident."

"If you knew what I know, you'd be confident too."

Peter frowned.

"I don't like discussing these things, but—they mean so much."

"So much to all of us," nodded Monte. "Now, the thing to do is to turn in and get a good night's sleep. After all, there is something in keeping normal."



CHAPTER XXI

BACK TO SCHEDULE

Monte rose the next morning to find the skies leaden and a light, drizzling rain falling that promised to continue all day. It was the sort of weather that ordinarily left him quite helpless, because, not caring for either bridge or billiards, nothing remained but to pace the hotel piazza—an amusement that under the most favorable conditions has its limitations. But to-day—even though the rain had further interfered with his arrangements by making it necessary to cancel the trip he had planned for Marjory and Peter to Cannes—the weather was an inconsequential incident. It did not matter greatly to him whether it rained or not.

Not that he was depressed to indifference. Rather he was conscious of a certain nervous excitement akin to exhilaration that he had not felt since the days of the big games, when he used to get up with his blood tingling in heady anticipation of the task before him. He took his plunge with hearty relish, and rubbed his body until it glowed with the Turkish towel.

His arm was free of the sling now, and, though it was still a bit stiff, it was beginning to limber up nicely. In another week it would be as good as new, with only a slight scar left to serve as a reminder of the episode that had led to so much. In time that too would disappear; and then— But he was not concerned with the future. That, any more than the weather, was no affair of his.

This morning Marjory would perforce remain indoors, and so if he went to see her it was doubtful whether he would be interfering with any plans she might have made for Peter. An hour was all he needed—perhaps less. This would leave the two the remainder of the day free—and, after that, all the days to come. There would be hundreds of them—all the days of the summer, all the days of the fall, all the days of the winter, and all the days of the spring; then another summer, and so a new cycle full of days twenty-four hours long.

Out of these he was going to take one niggardly hour. Nor was he asking that little for his own sake. Eager as he was—as he had been for two weeks—for the privilege of just being alone with her, he would have foregone that now, had it been possible to write her what he had to say. In a letter it is easy to leave unsaid so many things. But he must face her leaving the same things unsaid, because she was a woman who demanded that a man speak what he had to say man-fashion. He must do that, even though there would be little truth in his words. He must make her believe the lie. He cringed at the word. But, after all, it was the truth to her. That was what he must keep always in mind. He had only to help her keep her own conception. He was coming to her, not in his proper person, but as just Monte. As such he would be telling the truth.

He shaved and dressed with some care. The rain beat against the window, and he did not hear it. He went down to breakfast and faced the vacant chair which he had ordered to be left at his table. She had never sat there, though at every meal it stood ready for her. Peter suggested once that he join them at their table until madame returned; but Monte had shaken his head.

Monte did not telephone her until ten, and then he asked simply if he might come over for an hour.

"Certainly," she answered: "I shall be glad to see you. It's a miserable day, Monte."

"It's raining a bit, but I don't mind."

"That's because you're so good-natured."

He frowned. It was a privilege he had over the telephone.

"Anyhow, what you can't help you may as well grin and bear."

"I suppose so, Monte," she answered. "But if I 'm to grin, I must depend upon you to make me."

"I'll be over in five minutes," he replied.

She needed him to make her grin! That was all he was good for. Thank Heaven, he had it in his power to do this much; as soon as he told her she was to be free again, the smile would return to her lips.

He went at once to the hotel, and she came down to meet him, looking very serious—and very beautiful. Her deep eyes seemed deeper than ever, perhaps because of a trace of dark below them. She had color, but it was bright crimson against a dead white. Her lips were more mobile than usual, as if she were having difficulty in controlling them—as if many unspoken things were struggling there for expression.

When he took her warm hand, she raised her head a little, half closing her eyes. It was clear that she was worrying more than even he had suspected. Poor little woman, her conscience was probably harrying the life out of her. This must not be.

They went upstairs to the damp, desolate sun parlor, and he undertook at once the business in hand.

"It has n't worked very well, has it, Marjory?" he began, with a forced smile.

Turning aside her head, she answered in a voice scarcely above a whisper:—

"No, Monte."

"But," he went on, "there's no sense in getting stirred up about that."

"It was such a—a hideous mistake," she said.

"That's where you're wrong," he declared. "We've tried a little experiment, and it failed. Is n't that all there is to it?"

"All?"

"Absolutely all," he replied. "What we did n't reckon with was running across old friends who would take the adventure so seriously. If we'd only gone to Central Africa or Asia Minor—"

"It would have been just the same if we'd gone to the North Pole," she broke in.

"You think so?"

"I know it. Women can't trifle with—with such things without getting hurt."

"I 'm sorry. I suppose I should have known."

"You were just trying to be kind, Monte," she answered. "Don't take any of the blame. It's all mine."

"I urged you."

"What of that?" she demanded. "It was for me to come or not to come. That is one part of her life over which a woman has absolute control. I came because I was so utterly selfish I did not realize what I was doing."

"And I?" he asked quickly.

"You?"

She turned and tried to meet his honest eyes.

"I'm afraid I've spoiled your holiday," she murmured.

He clinched his jaws against the words that surged to his lips.

"If we could leave those last few weeks just as they were—" he said. "Can't we call that evening I met you in Paris the beginning, and the day we reached Nice the end?"

"Only there is no end," she cried.

"Let the day we reached the Hotel des Roses be the end. I should like to go away feeling that the whole incident up to then was something detached from the rest of our lives."

"You're going—where?" she gasped.

He tried to smile.

"I 'll have to pick up my schedule again."

"You're going—when?"

"In a day or two now," he replied. "You see—it's necessary for me to desert you."

"Monte!"

"The law demands the matter of six months' absence—perhaps a little longer. I 'll have this looked up and will notify you. Desertion is an ugly word; but, after all, it sounds better than cruel and abusive treatment."

"It's I who deserted," she said.

He waved the argument aside.

"Anyway, it's only a technicality. The point is that I must show the world that—that we did not mean what we said. So I 'll go on to England."

"And play golf," she added for him.

He nodded.

"I 'll probably put up a punk game. Never was much good at golf. But it will help get me back into the rut. Then I 'll sail about the first of August for New York and put a few weeks into camp."

"Then you'll go on to Cambridge."

"And hang around until after the Yale game."

"Then—"

"How many months have I been gone already?"

"Four."

"Oh, yes; then I'll go back to New York."

"What will you do there, Monte?"

"I—I don't know. Maybe I'll call on Chic some day."

"If they should ever learn!" cried Marjory.

"Eh?"

Monte passed his hand over his forehead.

"There is n't any danger of that, is there?"

"I don't think I'll ever dare meet her again."

Monte squared his shoulders.

"See here, little woman; you must n't feel this way. It won't do at all. That's why I thought if you could only separate these last few weeks from everything else—just put them one side and go from there—it would be so much better. You see, we've got to go on and—holy smoke! this has got to be as if it never happened. You have your life ahead of you and I have mine. We can't let this spoil all the years ahead. You—why, you—"

She looked up. It was a wonder he did not take her in his arms in that moment. He held himself as he had once held himself when eleven men were trying to push him and his fellows over the last three yards separating them from a goal.

"It's necessary to go on, is n't it?" he repeated helplessly.

"Yes, yes," she answered quickly. "You must go back to your schedule just as soon as ever you can. As soon as we're over the ugly part—"

"The divorce?"

"As soon as we're over that, everything will be all right again," she nodded.

"Surely," he agreed.

"But we must n't remember anything. That's quite impossible. The thing to do is to forget."

She appeared so earnest that he hastened to reassure her.

"Then we'll forget."

He said it so cheerfully, she was ready to believe him.

"That ought to be easy for you," he added.

"For me?"

"I 'm going to leave you with Peter."

She caught her breath. She did not dare answer.

"I've seen a good deal of him lately," he continued. "We've come to know each other rather intimately, as sometimes men do in a short while when they have interests in common."

"You and Peter have interests in common!" she exclaimed.

He appeared uneasy.

"We're both Harvard, you know."

"I see."

"Of course, I 've had to do more or less hedging on account—of Madame Covington."

"I'm sorry, Monte."

"You need n't be, because it was she who introduced me to him. And, I tell you, he's fine and big and worth while all through. But you know that."

"Yes."

"That's why I 'm going to feel quite safe about leaving you with him."

She started. That word "safe" was like a stab with a penknife. She would have rather had him strike her a full blow in the face than use it. Yet, in its miserable fashion, it expressed all that he had sought through her—all that she had allowed him to seek. From the first they had each sought safety, because they did not dare face the big things.

Now, at the moment she was ready, the same weakness that she had encouraged in him was helping take him away from her. And the pitiful tragedy of it was that Peter was helping too, and then challenging her to accept still graver dangers through him. It was a pitiful tangle, and yet one that she must allow to continue.

"You mean he'll help you not to worry about me?"

"That's it," he nodded. "Because I've seen the man side of him, and it's even finer than the side you see."

Her lips came together.

"There's no reason why you should feel responsibility for me even without Peter," she protested.

She was seated in one of the wicker chairs, chin in hand. He stepped toward her.

"You don't think I'd be cad enough to desert my wife actually?" he demanded.

He seemed so much in earnest that for a second the color flushed the chalk-white portions of her cheeks.

"Sit down, Monte," she pleaded. "I—I did n't expect you to take it like that. I 'm afraid Peter is making you too serious. After all, you know, I 'm of age. I 'm not a child."

He sat down, bending toward her.

"We've both acted more or less like children," he said gently. "Now I guess the time has come for us to grow up. Peter will help you do that."

"And you?"

"He has helped me already. And when he gets his eyes back—"

"You think there is a chance for that?"

"Just one chance," he answered.

"Oh!" she cried.

"It's a big opportunity," he said.

She rose and went to the window, where she looked out upon the gray ocean and the slanting rain and a world grown dull and sodden. He followed her there, but with his shoulders erect now.

"I 'm going now," he said. "I think I shall take the night train for Paris. I want to leave the machine—the machine we came down here in—for you."

"Don't—please don't."

"It's for you and Peter. The thing for you both to do is to get out in it every day."

"I—I don't want to."

"You mean—"

He placed his hand upon her arm, and she ventured one more look into his eyes. He was frowning. She must not allow that. She must send him away in good spirits. That was the least she could do. So she forced a smile.

"All right," she promised; "if it will make you more comfortable."

"It would worry me a lot if I thought you were n't going to be happy."

"I'll go out every fair day."

"That's fine."

He took a card from his pocket and scribbled his banker's address upon it.

"If anything should come up where—where I can be of any use, you can always reach me through this address."

She took the card. Even to the end he was good—good and four-square. He was so good that her throat ached. She could not endure this very much longer. He extended his hand.

"S'long and good luck," he said.

"I—I hope your golf will be better than you think."

Then he said a peculiar thing. He seldom swore, and seldom lost his head as completely as he did that second. But, looking her full in the eyes, he ejaculated below his breath:—

"Damn golf!"

The observation was utterly irrelevant. Turning, he clicked his heels together like a soldier and went out. The door closed behind him. For a second her face was illumined as with a great joy. In a sort of ecstasy, she repeated his words.

"He said," she whispered—"he said, 'Damn golf.'" Then she threw herself into a wicker chair and began to sob.