_ CHAPTER XXVIII. THE CORNICE ROAD
It was the Cornice Road that he followed--the broad white road that skirts the sea at the foot of the Alpes Maritimes. As far as Monte Carlo, he had walked it alone many the time. But he had never walked it with her, so it was a new road. It was a new world too, and as far as he was concerned there was no war. The blue sky overhead gave no hint of war; neither did the Mediterranean; neither did the trees full of singing birds; neither did the grasses and flowers: and these things, with the woman at his side, comprised, for the moment, his whole world. It was the world as originally created for man and woman. All that he was leaving behind--banks and hotels and taxis and servants and railroads--had nothing to do with the primal idea of creation. They were all extraneous. The heavens, the earth, the waters beneath the earth, man and woman created He them. That was all. That was enough.
Once or twice, alone in his camp in the Adirondacks, Monte had sensed this fact. With a bit of food to eat, a bit of tobacco to smoke in his old brier, a bit of ground to lie down upon at night, he had marveled that men found so many other things necessary to their comfort. But, after a week or two of that, he had always grown restless, and hurried back to New York and his club and his men servants. In turn he grew restless there, and hurried on to the still finer luxuries of the German liners and the Continent.
That was because he was lonesome--because she had not been with him. It was because--how clearly he saw it now!--he had never been complete by himself alone. He had been satisfying only half of himself. The other half he had tried to quiet with man-made things, with the artificial products of civilization. He had thought to allay that deep, undefined hunger in him with travel and sports and the attentions of hirelings. It had been easy at first; but, keen as nimble wits had been to keep pace with his desires with an ever-increasing variety of luxuries, he had exhausted them all within a decade and been left unsatisfied.
To-day it was as if with each intake of breath the sweet air reached for the first time the most remote corners of his lungs. He had never before had air enough. The sunshine reached to the marrow of his bones. Muscles that had lagged became vibrant. He could hardly keep his feet upon the ground. He would have liked to run; to keep on running mile after mile. He wondered when he would tire. He had a feeling that he could never tire. His back and arm muscles ached for action. He would have enjoyed a rough-and-tumble fight with some impudent fellow vagabond of the road.
Marjory walked by his side in silence. That was all he asked--simply that she should be there on the left, dependent upon him. Here was the nub of the matter. Always before she had been able to leave him if she wished. She had married him upon that condition. There had never been a moment, until now, when he had not been conscious of the fact that he was in no way necessary to her. The protection against Teddy and the others was merely a convenience. He had been able to save her from annoyance, that was all. At any time on that ride from Paris she could have left him and gone on her way quite safely. At Nice, that was just what she had done. It was to save her from the annoyance of himself that he had finally gone away. Had he been really needed, that would have been impossible. But he knew that she could get along without him as she did. Then when Peter had gone it was more because he needed her than because she needed him that he had returned. Down deep in his heart he knew that, whatever he may have pretended. She was safe enough from everything except possible annoyance. With plenty of gold at her command, there was nothing that he could buy for her that she could not buy for herself.
Now she had no gold--except one louis d'or. He was almost jealous of that single piece. He would have been glad if she lost it. If he had seen it drop from her bag, he would have let it lie where it fell.
She was merely a woman now. The muscles in her arms and legs were not strong. Because of that she could not leave his side, nor order him to leave. She must look to him to fight for her if fighting were necessary. She must look to him to put his strong arm about her and help her if she grew weary. She must look to him to provide her with food and shelter for the night. Physically she was like a child out here on the open road. But he was a man.
He was a man because he had something to protect. He was a man because he was responsible for some one besides himself. It was this that the other half of him had been craving all these years. It was this that completed him.
Yet his attitude toward her, in this respect, was strangely impersonal. He was looking for no reward. He did not consider that he was placing her in any way under an obligation to him. His joy in doing for her was not based upon any idea of furthering his own interests. He was utterly unselfish. He did not look ahead an hour. It was enough to have her here in a position where he could be of some service.
His love for her was another matter entirely. Whether she were with him or not, that would have remained the same. He loved her with all there was in him, and that was more or less distinct from any attitude that she might assume. It was a separate, definite, concrete fact, no longer open to argument--no longer to be affected by any of the petty accidents of circumstance. Not even she had now any control over it. It was within her power to satisfy it or not; but that was all. She could not destroy it. If she left it unfulfilled, then he must endure that, as Peter had. Peter was not sorry that he loved her, and Peter--why, Peter did not have the opportunity to sense more than the first faint beginnings of the word love. Peter had not had those weeks in Paris in which to get to know her; he had not had that wonderful ride through sunny France with Marjory by his side; and Peter had had nothing approaching such a day as this.
Monte turned to look at her. They had passed through Villefranche, and were now taking the up grade. The exercise had flushed her cheeks, giving her back the color she had lacked in the last few weeks. Her eyes were upon the ground, as if she did not dare raise them. Her face always seemed younger when one did not see the eyes. Asleep, she could not have looked over twenty. He marveled at how delicately feminine her forehead and nose were. And the lips--he could not look very long at her lips. Warm and full of curves, they tugged at his heart. They roused desire. Yet, had it been his blessed privilege to touch them with his own, he would have been very gentle about it. A man must needs always be gentle with her, he thought.
That was why he must not utter the phrases that burned within. It would only frighten her, and he must see that she was never frightened again. To himself he might say as much as he pleased, because she could not hear. He could repeat to himself over and over again, as he did now, "I love you--I love you--I love you."
Out loud, however, he said only:--
"Are you tired?"
She started even at that.
"No, Monte," she answered.
"We can rest any time you wish. We have all the time in the world ahead of us."
"Have we?"
"Days and weeks and months," he replied.
It was the old Monte she heard--the easy, care-free Monte. It made her feel easier.
"We should cross the border by to-morrow night, should n't we?" she asked.
"We could, if it were necessary," he admitted.
She quickened her pace unconsciously.
"I think we should get there as soon as possible."
"That," he said, "would be like hurrying through Eden."
She ventured to glance up at him. With his lean, strong face to the sun, his lithe body swinging rhythmically to his stride, he looked like an Indian chieftain. So he would have stalked through virgin forests. So, under different conditions, she might have been following his lead. But conditions were as they were. That is what she must keep in mind. He was here merely to escort her safely to Italy and to the steamer in which she was soon to sail for home. He was being decent to her, as under the same conditions he would be to any woman. He could scarcely do less than he was doing. She was forced upon him.
That he apparently took pleasure in the episode was natural enough. It was just the sort of experience he enjoyed. It was another pleasant excursion like the motor trip from Paris, with a touch of adventure added to give it spice. Possibly in his present mood there was also a trace of romance. Monte had his romantic side, based upon his quick sympathies. A maiden in distress was enough to rouse this. That was what happened yesterday when he told her of his love. He had been sincere enough for the moment, and no doubt believed everything he said. He had not given himself quite time enough to get back to his schedule. With that in good running order he would laugh at his present folly.
For she must remember that Monte had not as yet touched either the heights or the depths of love. It was in him to do that, but she must see to it that he did not. That was her task. Love as he saw it now was merely a pleasant garden, in May. It was a gypsy jaunt along the open road where it was pleasant enough to have her with him as he whistled along. A day or a week or a month or two of that was well enough, as he had said. Only she--she could not last that long. To-day and to-morrow at the utmost was as much as she could endure, with every minute a struggle to whip back her emotions. Were it safe, she would try to keep it up for his sake. If without danger she could keep him happy this way, not allowing him to go any further, she would try. But there is a limit to what of herself a woman may sacrifice, even if she is willing.
So, with her lips set, she stumbled along the Cornice Road by his side.
At five that evening they had made half their journey and stopped at a wayside inn--the inn of L'Agneau dansant. On a squeaking sign before the ancient stone structure, which looked as if it must have been there in the days of post-chaises, a frolicsome lamb danced upon his hind legs, smiling to all who paused there an invitation to join him in this innocent pastime and not take the world too seriously. The good humor of the crude painting appealed to Monte. He grinned back at L'Agneau dansant.
"I'm with you," he nodded.
Marjory, dusty and footsore, followed his gaze.
Then she too smiled.
"That fellow has the proper spirit," he declared. "Shall we place ourselves in his care?"
"I'm afraid I can't go any farther," she answered wearily.
Monsieur Soucin came out, looking to be in anything but the mood of the gay lamb before his door.
"Two rooms, a little supper, and some breakfast," explained Monte. "But we must strike a bargain. We are not American tourists--merely two travelers of the road without much gold and a long way to go."
"I have but a single louis d'or," put in madame.
"Monsieur! Madame!" interrupted Soucin. "I am sorry, but I cannot accommodate you at any price. In the next village a regiment of soldiers have arrived. I have had word that I must receive here ten officers. They come at seven to-night."
"But look here--madame is very tired," frowned Monte.
"I am sorry," answered Soucin helplessly.
Monte stepped nearer and jingled the gold in his pocket.
"Doubtless the next village in that case is without accommodations also," said Monte. "We will strike no bargain. Name your price up to ten louis d'or; for madame must rest."
Soucin shook his head.
"I am giving up my own room. I must sleep in the kitchen--if I sleep at all; which, mon Dieu, is doubtful."
"Supposing we had arrived yesterday, would you have turned us out to-night?"
"The inquiry was made how many rooms I had, and I answered truthfully."
Madame had sunk down on a bench by the door. Monte stared up the road and down the road. There was no other house in sight.
"You could not find a bed for madame even for ten louis d'or?"
"Not for a thousand, monsieur. If there are no beds, there are no beds."
Yet there was room enough thereabouts. Behind the inn an olive orchard extended up a gentle incline to a stone wall. Over this the sun was descending in a blaze of glory. A warm breeze stirred the dark leaves of the trees. A man could sleep out of doors on such a night as this. Monte turned again to the man.
"The orchard behind the house is yours?" he asked.
"Yes, monsieur."
"Then," said Monte, "if you will spare us a few blankets, madame and I will sleep there."
"Upon the ground?"
"Upon the blankets," smiled Monte.
"Ah, monsieur is from America!" exclaimed Soucin, as if that explained everything.
"Truly."
"And it is so the Indians sleep, I have read."
"You have read well. But we must have supper before the officers arrive. You can spare some bread and cheese?"
"I will do that."
"Then make it ready at once. And some coffee?"
"Yes, monsieur."
Monte returned to madame.
"I have engaged two rooms in the olive orchard," he announced. _