It was the arrival of Dodo Wardropp with Dom Ferdinand on the bridge
which drove him away and out of himself sufficiently to bid his host and
hostess good-night.
When the motor launch had taken him ashore, the impulse was very strong
in him to go up to Roquebrune and tell the cure what had happened. He
knew that his friend kept a light burning all night in a window, and he
could see it, as Mary had seen it, sending out its message for any who
needed help. Yet what good could come of talking to one who had never
met the girl? Fate had kept the two apart, for some reason, and Vanno
could but consult his own heart. Its counsel was to write to Mary,
explaining all those things that she had not let him explain in words.
This matter of explanation seemed easier than it proved. Letter after
letter had to be torn up before Vanno was able to express on paper
anything at all which she might understand, which might soften her to
forgiveness. Even then he was dissatisfied; but something had to stand,
something had to go. "Write me at least one line," he ended, "if only to
say that you know I did not mean to insult you, in the way you thought
when you left me."
Mary was still "Miss M. Grant" to him, and so he addressed his letter.
Dawn had put the stars to sleep when he sealed the envelope, and he had
to wait for a reasonable hour before sending to her room; but he did not
go to bed, or try to sleep.
"Christmas!" he said to himself, aloud. "The day of peace on earth and
good will toward men.
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