THE MAKING OF A KNIGHT ERRANT.
Silently, Lawrence rose and went to his work-chair. The zeal with which
he began to cut his wood showed more clearly than any of them quite
knew, the turbulent state of his mind. He was carried far into
speculative possibilities that shook him with their power. He was
absolutely in love with Claire, that was undoubted. He knew it, and he
was determined to tell her so. To continue living in this uncertainty,
with the memory of her pressed against him always compelling him to put
out his arms and draw her again to himself, was intolerable. He would
speak, and settle it once for all, nor would he take any compromising
negative as a reply. That tone she had used could indicate but one
thing, she loved him, and whether she knew it or not, whether she wanted
to know it or not, should not matter. He would argue it out with her,
showing her with the inexorable logic back of their whole experience how
she was his, his in spite of her husband, in spite of blindness, in
spite of everything. Without her, life was useless, barren, and dead. He
must have her!
He carved viciously but accurately, while his mind and body yearned
toward the hour when she would be in his arms, yielding, abandoned,
loving.
Claire watched him from her place at the table in calmness of mind that,
following her day of tumult, she could not understand. Peace, the peace
that comes when one thinks he has settled something forever, was hers.
"Philip," she said, "our artist has buried himself in his work. Shall we
go forth on a chance adventure?"
Lawrence choked back a whirl of jealous suspicion that swept to his
lips, and said from his corner, "Do! I'll have a surprise for your
return."
He wanted to say, "No, stay here, Claire. I wish to tell you something,
to make you see that I love you, that this Philip is not for you, that
he is outside our real lives," but his tongue refused to obey his will.
"It sounds inviting," said Philip, rising. "Suppose we do."
They were gone.
Lawrence worked savagely, his mind grasping at impossible thoughts which
kept struggling for expression. He was afraid, afraid till it chilled
him, lest, after all, she loved Philip. If her voice had sounded so
intense that noon, it had been because she resented his holding her
while her real lover looked on.
Meanwhile Claire and Philip tramped through the pines in silence. She
was wondering why she had come. She hesitated before speaking to him as
she had determined. Perhaps he would be hurt at her imagining he could
think of making any advances to a married woman, he would feel that she
had suspected and accused him of a thing of which he was incapable.
Speech was difficult, so she trudged along, feeling very uncomfortable.
Her heart ached as she saw again the lonely look on Lawrence's face
bending over his work back there in the cabin.
"The adventure is slow in coming," Philip said, genially.
"Perhaps we don't know how to find it," she answered, not heeding her
words especially. "To find adventure, one must be awake to
possibilities."
"True," he mused, looking at her. "So much depends on a man's
experience, knowledge, and imagination."
"I suppose life itself may set us, even calmly walking here, in the
heart of an adventure."
"I have no doubt it does," he said.
Claire looked at him in faint alarm.
"Why," she stammered, "I didn't imagine it was true when I spoke."
"To him who has faith, the wildest dreams are always possibilities."
"Do you believe that, Philip?"
"I have found it to be quite true. I often dreamed of good company here
in my wilderness and a charming woman about my cabin. It has happened."
"But even that has its very strong drawbacks, hasn't it?"
"What, for example?" He looked at her, earnestly.
"Oh," she hesitated, laughed, and said, "the rapidly depleted food
supply, your time for thought broken, and all the rest."
"One sometimes finds a relief from thought very agreeable."
She wanted to laugh at the force with which his words struck her. "I'm
sure that depends on the thought, as Lawrence would say," she answered,
smiling.
"It does. And there is nothing I would not give to escape from my
present thoughts." His voice was pitched low.
Her heart failed her, but she said bravely, "Perhaps you need a
confessor, Sir Philip."
"I do, a gracious one, who can listen well."
"Then a woman would never serve," Claire laughed. "She would want to
talk, you know."
Philip stopped, and looked at her. As far as he could see, she was calm,
indifferent, the lady making talk.
"Perhaps," he said, lightly. "They have that reputation, I know."
"Now, I"--she laughed--"I, also, need a confessor."
"You?" His look searched her, incredulously. "What in the name of all
the saints have you to confess?"
"Oh! Many things. Misunderstandings, social follies, mistakes in
character reading, mean thoughts, lots of things."
"Absurd!" His tone was amused. "Who of us is not a sinner in those
things?"
"But suppose," she ventured, hesitant--"suppose I had misjudged you?
Suppose I had suspected you of things you were not at all guilty of?"
"I should be sorry if you told me of them."
It was impossible, she thought, to go on. He would indeed be sorry, and
how foolish she had been! But what had he meant a moment before?
"Is your confession worse?" she asked.
"I think so. A man is so apt to be a mad fool," he said, and lapsed into
silence.
They walked some distance before either spoke. Then Claire laughed
suddenly. "Philip," she said, "we all three need a change of scene."
He turned, and his face was crimson as he looked at her. "It will be
here soon. We can go out in April."
He had answered her dully, with a heavy sadness in his voice. It was her
golden opportunity; and she took it.
"Splendid!" she cried--"splendid! I so want to get back to my husband. I
am scarcely able to wait at all."
"I suppose," he said, "it seems a long time that you have been
separated."
"Oh, so long," she answered, softly. "And I do so want him."
He walked on, slowly. "I shall miss you very much."
Her manner and expression were those of a pleased, frank child when she
answered. "Really, I was so afraid I had been stupid company, and I owe
so much to you. My husband will want to come clear back here to thank
you for your winter's hospitality."
"It would hardly be worth his while. The debt is more than paid."
"I shall be sorry--in a way," she went on. "We have become such good
friends, such good comrades with not the least bit of unpleasantness to
remember. I shall always be glad of that."
"Yes," he said. "I am glad, indeed, that you feel so."
"If any one had ever told me that I should find so rare a gentleman
here"--she laughed--"I would have thought they were talking medieval
gallantry."
"Thank you. A gentleman is always himself when a lady is a lady."
Claire flushed a little, and said nothing.
"I shall remember you with pleasure and regret," continued Philip, his
head high.
Her eyes opened wide, like a child's. "Oh, with regret, too?"
"Yes. Regret that you did not come to my cabin sooner, freer, and to
stay longer."
"You are a consummate flatterer, Philip," she chided.
"I suppose it seems artificial; one can scarcely imagine that I should
be in earnest," he said, a little bitterly.
Her conscience hurt her, though she did not know why. She could have
said those things before and thought nothing of them. Why did she feel
sorry now?
"I didn't mean that," she said, earnestly. "Believe me, I did not."
"No," he replied, "you answered out of mere indifference."
"But I am not indifferent to you, Philip. I like you very much." She was
afraid she had hurt his feelings, and she, herself, was so tense, so
troubled, that she was uncertain of her emotional attitudes these days.
She felt that somehow she had been cruel and very ungracious toward the
man to whom she owed so much.
"I know," he said, "one is interested, of course, in a novel, foreign
mountaineer."
She was beginning to feel achy, and tears were near the surface.
"Philip, why do you misunderstand me?" she cried. "It isn't that at all.
I like you for the man you are."
He smiled sadly. "And did it ever occur to you that I might love you for
the woman you are?" he said suddenly, his good resolutions all gone.
She stopped and her breath quickened. Over her rushed a tide of fear,
regret, sorrow. Even then she wondered that it was pity and not anger
which moved her.
"I do not believe that. How could you?" she said swiftly.
"You cannot even conceive of my loving you?"
"I--I can, Philip--it isn't that, I--I"--she was floundering among her
own emotions--"I can under other circumstances, different conditions.
Oh, don't you see--think of"--she had almost said "Lawrence," but
hastily substituted--"my husband."
"I have thought of him. From the day you came, he has haunted my
footsteps. But after all, he thinks you are dead."
"But I love him. Think of that, too."
"Oh, Claire, Claire, I have seen you when I felt perhaps you
might--might learn to love me."
"Philip, it is impossible!" she cried. "Please don't let's spoil
everything now. I so wanted to be just friends."
His faced kindled and his deep eyes glowed with a fire that both
terrorized and fascinated her.
"We cannot be that, Claire." His voice vibrated with growing passion.
They stood, facing each other, and she trembled like a reed in the wind.
"I saw you this morning in his arms," he was tense and speaking rapidly,
"and I knew then that I loved you. Loved you with all the soul of me. I
could have killed him, I tell you. Claire, Claire, I love you! You must
not deny me love."
She did not, could not answer, her tongue refused to move, and her dry,
hot mouth felt as if she would smother. She looked into his eyes and
said nothing, while she shook violently.
"Claire!" he cried. "Claire! I love you!" His arms closed around her
and he held her tightly. His eyes burned into her own with a flame that
was contagious in its intensity. She gasped, trembled, and did not
struggle, though in her mind she was crying, anguished, "Lawrence!
Lawrence!"
He pressed her more tightly, and his body against her own stirred in her
a passion beyond the control of will. Her eyes lighted warmly and then
closed. She felt suffocated, weak, and her senses reeled. His head bent,
and his lips were pressed fiercely against her own parted ones, stopping
the cry that rose to her throat. He held her fast, keeping his lips
against her own until she felt her strength giving. She half leaned
against him, letting the weight of her body sink into his arms.
A savage joy sprang into his eyes. She opened her own and saw. Throwing
up her hands wildly, she struck his face, twisted her body free, and
shoving him from her, stood, white, defiant, and determined.
She was not angry with Philip, only with herself, but the storm of
self-reproach that swept over her burst into bitter, scorching words
against him.
"You, you coward! You dare to touch me, to take me that way! If I had
only known what sort of a thing you were, you, you viper! Oh, to be here
with you!"
His dark eyes flashed with sudden rage, and he moved to seize her. She
stood defiantly before him, her white face cold as outraged chastity
itself, and his anger died. Into his face came the dejected, suffering
look of a man whose passion ebbs before the compelling force of a
woman's scorn.
"Forgive me, Claire," he moaned, "forgive me. I was mad, mad."
She knew he was sincere, and she smiled sadly.
"I know, Philip," she said. "I understand, but you must realize that it
is impossible. Won't you see that? It was, perhaps, partly my fault.
Forgive me if it was, and let us be friends. Philip, I want a friend,"
she continued. "I need one, a big, strong man whom I can trust, whom I
know to be my loyal friend and my husband's friend."
He put out his hand, shame and love mingling in his face.
"I will be that friend, Claire," he said, earnestly.
She took his hand, her mind breaking with relief. She felt she was going
to cry, and she leaned forward to hide her filling eyes.
"Oh, Philip, God bless you! You do not know what this means to me! You
will never know. I thank you, I thank you!"
The tears rushed down her cheeks and dropped upon their clasped hands.
"Claire, don't, please--please don't," Philip pleaded, anguish in his
tone.
She stopped, forced back her sobs, and smiled at him.
"Philip Ortez," she said, "I shall make you glad of this."
Deep in his heart, the words gave him hope. He grasped at them as a
drowning man at a life-belt, but he did not voice the hope.
"I want to spend much of my time with you, Philip, in the out-of-doors.
I must do it, and it is such a relief to know that I can do it
without--without fear. You will be just my friend, won't you?"
"If it is in my power, I will." He spoke as a knight of old, taking a
holy vow, and in his heart was the deep, sacred sense of the spirit that
still moved in his idealistic soul.
Claire laughed joyously, almost hysterically, with the peace that came
over her at the sound of his words. She was sure that all was well. If
she had known that already he was building on the promise of frequent
days alone, she would have been more afraid than ever. But she did not
know that, neither did she know that in her very promise she was
preparing a more difficult situation for her own struggle with herself
than any she had ever faced in her life. She was only aware of the
crisis passed and the peace that was now hers.
"Let us go back," she said gaily.
They found Lawrence smoothing his little carved child with a stone.
Claire was effervescent with joy. Her great plan seemed sure of
success, and she greeted him with a gaiety that was as abnormal as her
despondency had been before.
"Lawrence," she cried, "we have had such a walk! And here you have
finished for us this beautiful cherub as the symbol of our little home."
Her words stung him with savage pain, filling him with a great fear born
of love and jealousy. For a minute he did not know what he was doing or
saying, and he was scarcely aware of the words that fell from him.
"Cherubs are said to be symbols of the greatest love." He laughed
tonelessly. "It belongs to you, Claire. Take it."
The child was carved standing upon a stump with wings outspread. In the
form and face of the figure there was so much of benevolence, love, and
charity that the imaginative power of this blind artist filled Claire
with awe. She stood reverently before it, her heart singing with pride
in the handiwork of the man she loved. She interpreted his words as a
confession that he had carved it for her as a symbol of his love, and
she was humbled before him, before his work. She wanted to throw herself
in his arms and to tell him with the gift of her unreserved self how
grateful she was for his gift, but she only said, very softly, taking
both his hands: "Thank you, Lawrence."
The words struck his ear with a strangely mixed power in their sound. He
wanted to laugh at the bitter mockery that swept into him. He had made
the image for love of her, and he presented it to her as a symbol of her
love for Philip. It was cruel, but he could endure it. Oh, yes, he was
accustomed to life's little jokes. He did not answer her thanks, only
gripped her hands in his own capable ones till he hurt her.
To Philip, the child brought still other suggestions. Moved by his
present feeling of great, chivalrous guardianship of the woman who had
said she needed him, he felt that it was a symbol of the great
sacrificial love which he was privileged to know, and at the same time
he felt that it was a symbol of hope.
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK. Don't forget this magazine
is issued weekly, and that you will get the
continuation of this story without waiting a month.
Claire
by Leslie Burton Blades
THE BLIND LOVE OF A BLIND HERO
_BY A BLIND AUTHOR_
This story began in the All-Story Weekly for October 5.