The Guests of Hercules | Page 6

that have
moulded you into what you are. But, there's something different
underneath."
"Nothing very bad, I hope?" Mary looked actually frightened, as if she
did not know herself, and feared an unfavourable opinion, which might
be true.
"No, indeed. But different--quite a different You from what any of us,

even yourself, have ever seen. It will come out. Life will bring it out."
"You talk," said Mary, "as if you were older than I."
"So I am, in every way except years, and they count least. Oh, Mary,
how I do wish I were going with you!"
"So do I. And yet perhaps it will be good for me to begin alone."
"You won't be alone."
"No. Of course, there will be Lady MacMillan taking me to London.
And afterward there'll be my aunt and cousin. But I've never seen them
since I was too tiny to remember them at all, except that my cousin
Elinor had a lovely big doll she wouldn't let me touch. It's the same as
being alone, going to them. I shall have to get acquainted with them
and the world at the same time."
"Are you terrified?"
"A little. Oh, a good deal! I think now, at the last moment, I'd take
everything back, and stay, if I could."
"No, you wouldn't, if you had the choice, and you saw the gates closing
on you--forever. You'd run out."
"I don't know. Perhaps. But how I shall miss them all! Reverend
Mother, and the sisters, and you, and the garden, and looking out over
the lake far away to the mountains."
"But there'll be other mountains."
"Yes, other mountains."
"Think of the mountains of Italy."
"Oh, I do. When the waves of regret and homesickness come I cheer
myself with thoughts of Italy. Ever since I can remember, I've wanted
Italy; ever since I began to study history and look at maps, and even to

read the lives of the saints, I've cared more about Italy than any other
country. When I expected to spend all my life in a convent, I used to
think that maybe I could go to the mother-house in Italy for a while
some day. You can't realize, Peter--you, who have lived in warm
countries--how I've pined for warmth. I've never been warm enough,
never in my life, for more than a few hours together. Even in summer
it's never really hot here, never hot with the glorious burning heat of the
sun that I long to feel. How I do want to be warm, all through my veins.
I've wanted it always. Even at the most sacred hours, when I ought to
have forgotten that I had a body, I've shivered and yearned to be
warm--warm to the heart. I shall go to Italy and bask in the sun."
"Marie used to say that, too, that she wanted to be warm," Peter
murmured in an odd, hesitating, shamefaced way. And she looked at
the novice intently, as she had looked before. Mary's white cheeks were
faintly stained with rose, and her eyes dilated. Peter had never seen
quite the same expression on her face, or heard quite the same ring in
her voice. The girl felt that the different, unknown self she had spoken
of was beginning already to waken and stir in the nun's soul.
"Marie!" Sister Rose repeated. "It's odd you should have spoken of
Marie. I've been thinking about her lately. I can't get her out of my head.
And I've dreamed of seeing her--meeting her unexpectedly
somewhere."
"Perhaps she's been thinking of you, wherever she is, and you feel her
mind calling to yours. I believe in such things, don't you?"
"I never thought much about them before, I suppose because I've had so
few people outside who were likely to think of me. No one but you. Or
perhaps Marie, if she ever does think of old times. I wish I could meet
her, not in dreams, but really."
"Queerer things have happened. And if you're going to travel you can't
tell but you may run across each other," said Peter. "I've sometimes
caught myself wondering whether I should see her in New York, for
there it's like London and Monte Carlo--the most unexpected people are
always turning up."

"Is Monte Carlo like that?" Mary asked, with the quick, only
half-veiled curiosity which Peter had noticed in her before when
relating her own adventures on the Riviera.
"Yes. More than any other place I've ever been to in the world. Every
one comes--anything can happen--there. But I don't want to talk about
Monte Carlo. You really wouldn't find it half as interesting as your
beloved Italy. And I shouldn't like to think of poor Marie drifting there,
either--Marie as she must be now."
"I used to