Under the clock which only stopped when a Menfrey was going to die a violent death, into the courtyard where the stones were worn with the wheels of carriages and the hoofs of horses over the centuries.
I had come home—a Menfrey.
Bevil must have been thinking the same for he said, “Well, Harriet Menfrey, we’re home.”
Happy women like happy countries, they say, have no histories; so there is little to report of the first weeks of my honeymoon.
We went first to Paris, where I bought the clothes I had promised myself. An exhausting business, standing before mirrors, listening to cooing compliments in French-English. But I did acquire some charming clothes; and Paris, when one loves and is loved, is one of the most wonderful cities in the world.
The Eiffel Tower, the Bois de Boulogne, the Sacre Coeur and the Latin Quarter—they are all sanctified memories to me still. Bevil beside me, laughing, making me do the talking because I had a better command of the language than he had, for he refused to attempt to discard his English accent. I remember the soft lights of restaurants- and the looks of those who served us who, with true Gallic intuition in such matters, knew that we were lovers. We betrayed it— both of us. That was the joy of it—he as much as L
But our ultimate destination was that little town in the mountains, so we left Paris and made our way south.
The Provencal flower season was over, but how I loved the country with its magnificent mountain scenery and its glorious coast! I was immediately enchanted by our hotel, and when I stood on the balcony and looked away to the sea, I thought I had never seen anything so beautiful.
They were happy days.
Madame, the proprietress, knew Bevil. He had been here before.
“And this tune he comes with Madame Menfrey. That is very beautiful.”
Her dark eyes were speculative though, and I wondered with whom Bevil had stayed in this hotel before. Perhaps alone, but it might have been that he had made friends in the town. During the ten days we had spent hi Paris I had had no such thoughts; I had begun to believe I had conquered them; but here they were, at the first sign of suspicion.
But I forgot it when we went down to the dining room, which opened on to the terrace with its view over the mountains. There we dined by candlelight, and all my happiness returned.
“We should stay here for four or five weeks,” Bevil said, for he wanted me to love Provence as he did. Here life was lived simply, and that was how to get the best out of a honeymoon. “No distractions,” he said. “Not that anything could distract me from Harriet Menfrey—but it’s the simple life for me.”
I was content enough. In the mornings we explored the old town with its winding streets and worn steps and alleyways. The dark-eyed children watched us almost furtively. We were so obviously foreigners; and the stall holders were delighted when we paused to buy fruit and flowers in the market square. We sat outside cafes and watched the life go by. During the afternoons we would sit under the palm trees in the garden and lean on the stone balustrade looking over the mountains away to the sea. We hired horses and rode into the mountains, through lonely villages, along dangerously narrow paths. Bevil insisted on leading my horse along such places, and although I was a good horsewoman and capable of managing my mount, I enjoyed the protection. Sometimes we stopped at inns for dinner; we tried all the native dishes and the wine of the country, and we would sit sleepily content half through the afternoon before we rode on.
We rarely made plans. We let each golden day take care of itself. How I loved the warm, sunny days and the evenings when the sun disappeared taking the heat with it Then I put on a warm wrap, and we went out sometimes to walk in the cool mountain air.
One late afternoon we rode into the mountains. We were going into one of the villages for dinner, where Madame had told us we could see some Provencal dancing.
We set off, promising ourselves a ride home by moonlight We were very gay and happy as we rode along, and we sang together a song which Monsieur, Madame’s husband, had taught us. The words were set to the Maid of Aries music, and was about the three wise men coming to Bethlehem. Whenever I hear the tune I am back on that rough mountain path singing, with Bevil beside me … a happy moment which was, in a way, a finale to the complete contentment But, perhaps fortunately, I did not know this then.
Trois grands rob,
Modestes tous les trois,
Brillaient chacun comme un soleil splendide;
Trois grands rois,
Modestes tous les trois,
Etincelaient sur lews blancs palefrois.
Le plus savant
Chevauchait devant,
Mais, chaque nuit, une etoile d’or les guide;
Le plus savant
Chevauchait devant:
J’ai vu flotter sa longue barbe au vent
Bevil, singing out of tune in his atrocious British accent, made me laugh immoderately, and he cried: “Well, you do better, Harriet Menfrey.”
“That won’t be difficult,” I retorted. “There’s so little competition.”
And as I sang he told me: “Your voice isn’t half bad, sweetheart. And you speak the language like a native.”
So we went on singing until we came to the little village, where we were warmly welcomed by Madame and Monsieur. We had been expected, they told us. They would have been disappointed if the English milord and his bride did not come to visit them. Madame from our hotel mothered us, but she gossiped about us evidently. In any case in that small dining room we were given the place of honor near the violins which would provide the music for the dancers.
Food was served with the ceremony to which we had become accustomed; the wine was brought and poured as though it were nectar of the gods, and Madame and her waiter watched us as though they were admitting us to paradise, while we tasted the highly spiced food and declared it to be delicious.
It promised to become one of many happy evenings until the English couple came into the room. Immediately I noticed Devil’s astonishment; and as the woman’s eyes fell on him she stopped short—as surprised as he was. She was delighted, too.
As she approached our table, I noticed her bright, honey-colored hair and long, grey eyes, that her lips were smiling, her body voluptuous, and that in spite of this she walked with a jungle grace which was made more obvious because her companion moved clumsily beside her and was inclined to be chubby.
Bevil had risen.
“Am I dreaming?” she asked. “Pinch me, Bobby … then I shall wake up.”
“I hope it’s not a nightmare,” said Bevil.
“It’s the nicest sort of dream. What are you doing here, Bevil?”
Bevil was smiling at me. “This is an old friend,” he began.
She grimaced. “Did you hear that, Bobby? An old friend. I don’t like the description. It could be ambiguous.”
“Only to the blind,” replied Bevil.
“You should introduce us, my dear,” said Bobby.
“Of course,” put in Bevil. “This is my wife.”
The woman’s gray eyes swept over me, and I fancied they missed little.
“This is my husband.”
Then she laughed, as though it were a great joke that Bevil should have a wife and she a husband.
“Don’t tell me,” she went on, “that you’re having a honeymoon, too.”
“It calls for some sort of celebration, I’m sure,” said Bevil. He turned to me. “Lisa and I knew each other … a long time ago.”