The Wind Bloweth Part 11

-- 4

For days now he had been aware of her presence in Ma.r.s.eilles without thinking of her--aware of her as he was aware of the Hotel de Ville, or of the Consigne, as of the obelisk in the Place Castellane. These things were facts, had their place, and she was a fact. She had become imprinted on his memory as on a sensitive plate. So one dusk on the Prado, as he met her, he was no more surprised than if, in their appointed places he had come across the obelisk or the Consigne or the Hotel de Ville.

She was standing looking out to sea, and the little wind from Africa blew against her, and made her seem poised for flight, like a bird.

And because he saw no reason why he shouldn't and because he was direct and simple as the sea itself, he went to her.

"Are you a sea-captain's wife?"

"No, Monsieur." She seemed to know him without turning. Perhaps she recognized his voice.

"I saw you looking out toward the Pharo. I thought perhaps you were waiting for some one to come home on a s.h.i.+p."

"No," she said slowly. "No. I--I come here some dusks, and look out to sea. There is something. It seems to pull me. The great waters and the blinking lighthouse--I seem to stand out of myself. And miles and miles and miles away there is a new land with a new life where one might go ... and begin.... What is in me seems to struggle to go out there, but it never gets more than an inch or so outside. But even that.... And the wind ... so clean. Are you a sailor?"

"Yes, I am a sailor."

"It is very beautiful and very pure, the sea?"

"Yes, sometimes it is very beautiful. I think it is always beautiful.

And it must be pure--I never thought.... It is strong, and sometimes cruel. It heals, and sometimes it is very lonely. One never quite understands. It is so big."

"Yes, so big and strong ... and it heals. One seems, one's self, one's little cares, to be so little."

And they were silent for a while.

"But perhaps I intrude, Madame. Your husband----"

"My husband is dead in Algiers these six years."

"I am sorry."

Everything was hushed, the tideless sea, the silent wind. Behind them, and still about them, hung the strange dusk of Pontius Pilate. Before them blazed Ma.r.s.eilles.

"You are married?"

"I was married."

"Then your wife is--dead?"

"Yes, Madame, she is dead."

"You grieve?"

"No, I do not grieve."

"Did you not love her?"

"I loved some one I thought was she. It wasn't she."

There was another instant's silence as they walked.

"Ah, I think I understand," she said. And they walked into the blaze of the city. She paused for a moment.

"Will you pardon me for asking things like that? I don't usually.... But in the dusk I seem to be another person...."

"No. In the light we are other persons."

"Ah," she smiled understandingly. "You are going to your s.h.i.+p now?"

There was a finality in her voice. It was more an affirmation than a question.

"Madame," Shane said, "will you please let me see you to your door?"

She looked at him for an intense second, and a little cloud of--was it fear?--flitted across her face.

"Madame, there are thieves and villains of all kinds abroad. You have had one experience. Please let me protect you from a possible second."

"If you wish." She smiled. He called a carriage.

In the light she was a different person. Along the sea-sh.o.r.e walking in the dusk, she was a troubled phantom, a thing of beauty, but without flesh, without the trappings of clothes--as if a spirit had been imprisoned in cold white statuary. But now she was a beautiful woman, gravely gay, a woman of the world, not of the great world, perhaps, and not of the half-world--just a woman aware of and experienced in life.

And poised.

"You are English?"

"Not English. Irish."

Poised she was, but she was like a player playing a game, and the breaks against her. He knew the smile. He had seen it often on Alan Donn's face, playing in some of the great t.i.tle matches. Four holes to go, and he must better par. It's all right, the smile said; there's nothing wrong. But in Alan Donn's was the glint of a naked knife, and in this woman's eyes, down deep, veiled, but ill concealed, was appeal.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

They stopped at her house. He helped her out.

"_Adieu, Monsieur_. And again a thousand thanks."

"_C'etait un vrai plaisir!_"

"Monsieur!"

"Madame!"

The cabman looked surprised when ordered to return. He turned and regarded his fare with amazement.

"_Quai de la Fraternite_," I said.

"_Hup, alors!_" The cabby shrugged his shoulders. And they trotted ploddingly through the dusk of Pontius Pilate to the burning cloud which was Ma.r.s.eilles....