_ CHAPTER XII. A WEDDING JOURNEY
Monte made an extravagant purchase: a new high-powered touring car capacious enough for a whole family--his idea being, that the roomier the car, the less Marie would show up in it. On the other hand, if he cared to consider her in that way, Marie would be there as much for his protection as Marjory's. The task that lay ahead of him this next week was well defined; it was to get back to normal. He had diagnosed his disease--now he must cure it. It would have been much easier to have done this by himself, but this was impossible. He must learn to gaze steadily into her eyes, while gazing into them; he must learn to look indifferently upon her lips, with her within arm's reach of him. Here was a man's job.
He was not even to have the machine to occupy his attention; for there was no time to secure a license, and so he must take with him a chauffeur. He was fortunate in being able to secure one on the spot--Louis Santerre, a good-looking lad with the best of recommendations. He ordered him to be at the hotel at three.
Thus, in less than an hour from the time he entered the salesroom, Monte had bought and paid for his car, hired his man, given orders for certain accessories, and left, with Monsieur Mansart bowing him out and heartily wishing that all his customers were of this type.
There were, however, several little things that Monte still wished to purchase--an automobile coat and cap, for one thing; also some rugs. These he found in a near-by store. It was as he was leaving that the clerk--who, it seems, must have had an eye--noticed the shiny new gold ring upon Monte's left hand.
"Madame is well supplied?" he inquired.
"Madame? Who the devil is madame?" demanded Monte.
"Pardon, monsieur," replied the clerk in some confusion, fearing he had made a grave mistake. "I did not know monsieur was traveling alone."
Then it was Monte's turn to show signs of confusion. It was quite true he was not traveling alone. It was the truest thing he knew just then.
"What is necessary for a lady traveling by motor?" he inquired.
The clerk would take great pleasure in showing him in a department devoted to that very end. It was after one bewildering glance about the counters that he became of the opinion that his question should have been: "What is it that a lady does not wear when traveling by motor?" He saw coats and bonnets and goggles and vanity boxes and gloves, to mention only a few of those things he took in at first glance.
"We are leaving in some haste," explained Monte, "so I'm afraid she has none of these things. Would n't the easiest way be for you to give me one of each?"
That indeed would be a pleasure. Did monsieur know the correct size?
Only in a general way--madame was not quite his height and weighed in the neighborhood of one hundred and fifty pounds. That was enough to go upon for outside garments. Still there remained a wide choice of style and color. In this Monte pleased himself, pointing his stick with sure judgment at what took his fancy, as this and the other thing was placed before him. It was a decidedly novel and a very pleasant occupation.
In this way he spent the best part of another hour, and made a payment in American Express orders of a considerable sum. That, however, involved nothing but tearing from the book he always carried as many orders for twenty-five dollars as most nearly approximated the sum total. The articles were to be delivered within one hour to "Madame M. Covington, Hôtel Normandie."
Monte left the store with a sense of satisfaction, tempered a trifle by an uncomfortable doubt as to just how this presumption on his part would be received. However, he was well within his rights. He held sturdily to that.
With still two hours before he could return,--for he must leave her free until luncheon,--he went on to the Champs Élysées and so to the Bois. He still dwelt with pleasure upon the opportunity that had been offered him to buy those few things for her. It sent him along briskly with a smile on his face. It did more; it suggested a new idea. The reason he had been taking himself so seriously was that he had been thinking too much about himself and not enough about her. The simple way out of that difficulty was from now on not to consider himself at all. After all, what happened to him did not much matter, as long as it did not affect her. His job from now on was to make her happy.
For the rest of his walk he kept tight hold of that idea, and came back to the hotel with a firm grip on it. He called to her through the door of her room:--
"How you making it?"
"Pretty well," came her voice. "Only I went shopping and bought all my things--including a coat for you. Then, when I return, I find a whole boxful from you."
"All my efforts wasted!" he exclaimed.
"No, Monte," she replied quickly. "I could n't allow that, because--well, because it was so thoughtful of you. So I kept the coat and bonnet you selected--and a few other things. I've just sent Marie out to return the rest."
She had kept the coat and bonnet that he selected! What in thunder was there about that to make a man feel so confoundedly well satisfied?
They left the hotel at three, and rode that day as far as a country inn which took their fancy just before coming into Joigny. It was, to Marjory, a wonderful ride--a ride that made her feel that with each succeeding mile she was leaving farther and farther behind her every care she had ever had in the world. It was a ride straight into the heart of a green country basking sleepily beneath blue skies; of contented people going about their pleasant tasks; of snug, fat farms and snug little houses, with glimpses of an occasional chateau in the background.
When Monte held out his hand to assist her down, she laughed light-heartedly, refreshed in body and soul. For Monte had been himself ever since they started--better than himself. He had humored her every mood, allowing her to talk when she had felt like talking, or to sit back with her eyes half closed when she wished to give herself up to lazy content. Often, too, he had made her laugh with his absurd remarks--laugh spontaneously, as a child laughs. She had never seen him in such good humor, and could not remember when she herself had been in such good humor.
The rays of the sun were falling aslant as she stepped out, and the western sky was aglow with crimson and purple and pink. It was a drowsy world, with sounds grown distant and the perfume and color of the flowers grown nearer. At the door of the inn, which, looked as if it must have been standing right there in the days of dashing cavaliers, the proprietor and his wife were obsequiously bowing a welcome. It was not often that the big machines deigned to rest here.
Monte stepped toward them.
"Madame desires to rest here for the night, if accommodations may be secured," he said.
For the night? Mon Dieu! The proprietor had reckoned upon only a temporary sojourn--for a bottle of wine, perhaps. He had never entertained such a host as this. How many rooms would be required?
"Four," answered Monte.
"Let me see; monsieur and madame could be put in the front room."
Monte shook his head.
"Madame will occupy the front room alone," he informed him.
"Eh? Oh, I understand; a sister. That was a curious mistake. Eh bien, madame in the front room. Monsieur in the room to the right. The maid in the room on the back. But there is the chauffeur."
There was no room left for him, or for the machine either.
"Then he can go on to Joigny," announced Monte.
So Louis went on, and in less than five minutes the others were safely sorted out and tucked away in their respective rooms.
"We ought to get out and see the sun set," Monte called to Marjory as she waved him an adieu at her door.
"I'll be down in ten minutes," she nodded.
There is a princess latent in every woman. She makes her appearance early, and too often vanishes early. Not many women have the good fortune to see her--except perhaps for a few brief moments--after seventeen. But, however, far in the background, she remains as at least a romantic possibility as long as any trace of romance itself remains. She is a languid, luxury-loving creature, this princess; an Arabian Nights princess of silks and satins and perfumed surroundings. Through half-closed eyes she looks out upon a world of sunshine and flowers, untroubled as the fairy folk. Every one does her homage, and she in her turn smiles graciously, and there is nought else for her to do except to rest and be amused.
For a moment, here in the twilight, this princess returned to Marjory. As she sat before the mirror, doing over her hair, she held her chin a little higher at the thought and smiled at herself contentedly. She used to do just this--and feel ashamed of herself afterward--long, long ago, after she first met Monte at the Warrens'. For it was he who then had been her gallant knight, without which no one may be a fairy-book princess. He had just finished his college course, and eager-eyed was about to travel over the wide world. He was big and buoyant and handsome, and even more irresponsible then than now.
She recalled how one evening they sat alone upon the porch of the Warren house until late, and he had told her of his proposed journey. She had listened breathlessly, with her chin in her hands and her eyes big. When she came in, Mrs. Warren had placed an arm about her and looked significantly at her flushed cheeks and said gently:--
"Be careful, my dear. Don't you let that careless young prince take away your heart with him. Remember, he has not yet seen the world."
He had sailed away for a year and a day soon after this; and, perhaps because he was safely out of her life, she had allowed herself more liberty with him than otherwise she would have done. At any rate, that year she was a princess and he her prince.
Now, to-night, he came back for a little. It was the twilight, which deals gently with harsh realities, and the perfume of the flowers floating in at the open window, and the old room, doubtless. Only yesterday he called her "Your Highness," and she had not responded. There in the Café Riche none of her old dreams had returned. Perhaps it was because all her surroundings there had been too grossly real. That was no setting for a fairy prince, and a fairy prince was, of course, all he had ever been or was now. He was only for the world when the sun was low.
Outside her window she heard a voice:--
"Oh, Marjory."
She started. It was her prince calling. It was bewildering to have dreams suddenly blended with life itself. It was bewildering also to have the thoughts of seventeen suddenly blended with the realities of twenty-seven. She remained silent, breathing gently, as if afraid of being discovered.
"Marjory," he called again.
"Coming," she answered, with a quiet intake of breath.
Hatless and with a silk shawl over her shoulders, she hurried to where he was waiting. He too was hatless, even as he had been that night long ago when he had sat beside her. Something, too, of the same light of youth was in his eyes now as then.
Side by side they strolled through the quaint village of stone houses and to the top of a near-by hill, where they found themselves looking down upon Joigny outlined against the hazy tints of the pink-and-gold horizon.
"Oh, it's beautiful!" she exclaimed enthusiastically. "It's a fairy world."
"Better; it's a real world," he answered.
"I doubt it, Monte," she disagreed, with a touch of regret. "It's too perfect."
It would not last. It would begin to fade in a moment, even as her fairy prince would fade and become just Monte. She knew from the past. Besides, it was absolutely essential that this should not last. If it did--why, that would be absurd. It would be worse. It made her uncomfortable even to imagine this possibility for a moment, thus bringing about the very condition most unfavorable for fairy princes. For, if there is one advantage they have over ordinary princes, it is the gift of keeping their princesses always happy and content.
Somewhat shyly she glanced up at Monte. He was standing with his uninjured hand thrust into the pocket of his Norfolk jacket, staring fixedly at the western sky as if he had lost himself there. She thought his face was a bit set; but, for all that, he looked this moment more as she had known him at twenty-one than when he came back at twenty-two. After his travels of a year he had seemed to her so much wiser than she that he had instantly become her senior. She had listened to him as to a man of the world, with something of awe. It was more difficult then to have him for a prince, because princes, though brave and adventurous, must not be too wise.
She smiled as she realized that, as he stood there now, Monte did not in the least inspire her with awe or fear or a sense of superior wisdom. The mellow light softened his features and the light breeze had tousled his hair, so that for all his years told he might have been back in his football days. He had been like that all the afternoon.
A new tenderness swept over her. She would have liked to reach up her hand and smooth away the little puzzled frown between his brows. She almost dared to do it. Then he turned.
"You're right," he said, with a shrug of his shoulders. "It is n't real. See, it's fading now."
The pink clouds were turning a dull gray.
"Perhaps it's better it should," she suggested. "If it stayed like that all the time, we'd get so used to it we would n't see it."
He took out his watch.
"I ordered supper to be ready in a half hour," he said. "We'd better get back."
She fell in step by his side--by the side of her fairy prince. For, oddly enough, he had not begun to fade as the sunset faded. The twilight was deepening into the hushed night--a wonderful night that was like beautiful music heard at a distance. It left her scarcely conscious of moving. In the sky the stars were becoming clearer; in the houses, candles were beginning to twinkle. It was difficult to tell which were which--as if the sky and the earth were one.
There was no abrupt change even when they came into the inn, where near the open window a table had been set and two candles were burning.
"Oh," she exclaimed again, "here is another bit of fairy world."
He laughed abruptly.
"I hope the supper is real, anyhow," he said.
He spoke as if making a conscious effort to break the spell. It made her glance up as he seated her; but all she thought of then was that she would like to smooth back his hair. The spell was not broken.
Chops and cauliflower and a salad were served to them, with patties of fresh butter and crusted white bread. She was glad to see him eat heartily. She prepared his salad with a dash of salt and pepper, a little vinegar and oil. That much, at least, she was at liberty to do for him. It gave her a new pleasure.
"Monte," she asked, "do you suppose it's always as nice as this here?"
"If it were, would you like to stay?" he asked.
She thought a moment over that. Would it be possible just to drift on day after day, with Monte always a fairy prince beside her? She glanced up and met his eyes.
"I--I guess it's best to follow our schedule," she decided, with a little gasp. _