came up here from South America?" He stood with his cigar unlighted, for
he had let the match burn down to his fingers before attempting to apply
it. "Was your taking the name of Strange," he demanded with sudden
inspiration, "merely an accident, as I've supposed it was--or had it
anything to do with her?"
"It wasn't an accident, and it did have something to do with her."
"Just so! And you kept it dark!"
Something in Conquest's intonation caused Ford to look up. He saw a man
with face suddenly growing gray, as though a light had gone out of it. He
was disturbed only to the point of feeling that he had spoken tactlessly,
and proceeded to repair the error.
"I kept it dark for obvious reasons. If Miss Strange didn't tell you about
it, it's because she isn't the kind of person to talk of an incident in
which her own part was so noble. I'll give you the whole story now."
"I should be obliged to you," Conquest said, dryly.
He sat down on the very edge of one of the big arm-chairs, leaning
forward, and fingering his still unlighted cigar nervously, as he watched
Ford puff out successive rings of smoke before beginning. He was less on
his guard to screen the intenseness with which he listened, because Ford
spoke at first in a dreamy way, without looking in his direction.
With more insight into the circumstances surrounding him Ford would have
told his tale with greater reticence. As it was he spoke with enthusiasm,
an enthusiasm born of an honest desire that Conquest should see the woman
he was about to marry in the full beauty of her character. In regard to
this he himself had made the discovery so slowly and so recently that he
was animated by something like a convert's zeal. Beginning his narrative
quietly, in a reminiscent vein, with intervals in which he lapsed
altogether into meditation, he was presently fired with all the animation
in a story-teller when he perceives he is holding his hearer spellbound.
As a matter of fact, he was moved not so much by the desire of convincing
Conquest of Miriam Strange's nobility, as by the impulse to do her
justice, once in his life at least, in language of his own.
It was a naïve bit of eloquence, of which no detail was lost on the
experienced man of the world, who sat twirling his cigar with nervous
fingers, his eyes growing keener in proportion as his face became more
gray. It was part of his professional acquirement to be able to draw his
deductions from some snatch of human drama as he listened to its
unfolding. His quickness and accuracy of judgment had, indeed, been a
large element in his success; so that the habit of years enabled him to
preserve a certain calmness of comprehension now. It lost nothing in being
a studied calmness, since the forcing of his faculties within restraint
concentrated their acumen.
Ford concluded with what for him was an almost lyric outburst.
"By George! Conquest, I didn't know there were such women in the world.
She's been a revelation to me--as art and religion are revelations to
other people. She came to me as the angel came to Peter in the prison;
but, like Peter, I didn't know it was an angel. There's a sort of glory
about her--a glory which it takes a higher sense than any I've got to see
and understand. After all she's done for me--after all this time--I'm only
now beginning to get glimpses of it; but it's merely as we get glimpses of
an infinite beyond, because we see the stars. She's a mystery to me, in
the same way that genius is a mystery, or holiness. I didn't appreciate
her because I hadn't the soul, and yet it's in seeing that I hadn't the
soul that I begin to get it. That's curious, isn't it? She's like some
heavenly spirit that's passed by me, and touched me into newness of life."
His ardor was so sincere, his hymn of praise so spontaneous that he
expected some sort of echo back. It seemed to him that even if Conquest
did not join in this chant in honor of the woman who presumably loved him,
whom more presumably still he loved, it would be but natural for him to
applaud it. Ford knew that if any one else had sung of Miriam Strange as
he had just been singing, he would have leaped to his feet and wrung the
man's hand till it ached. It surprised him, therefore, it disappointed
him, that Conquest should sit unmoved, unless the spark-like twinkle of
his little eyes could be taken as emotion.
It was a relief to Conquest to get up, scratch another match, and light
his cigar at last, turning his back so that it should not be seen that his
fingers trembled. When he was sure of himself he faced about again, taking
his seat.
"It's the most amazing story I ever heard," was his only comment, in
response to Ford's look of expectation.
"I hoped it might strike you as something more than--amazing," Ford
ventured, after a minute's waiting for a more appreciative word.
"Perhaps it will when I get my breath. You must give me time for that. Do
you actually tell me that she kept you in her studio for weeks----?"
"Three weeks and four days, to be exact."
"And that she furnished you with food and clothing----?"
"And money--but I paid that back."
"And got you away in that ingenious fashion----?"
"Just as I've told you."
"Amazing! Simply amazing! And," he added, with some bitterness, "you came
back here--and you and she together--took us all in."
Ford drew his cigar from his lips, and, turning in his chair, faced
Conquest in an attitude and with a look which could not be misinterpreted.
"I came back here, and took you all in--if you like. Miss Strange had
nothing to do with it. She didn't even expect me."
The last sentence gave Conquest the opening he was looking for, but now
that he had it, he hesitated to make use of it. In his memory were the
very words Miriam Strange had stammered out to him in the sort of
confession no woman ever makes willingly: "Things happened ... such as
don't generally happen ... and even if he never comes ... I'd rather go on
waiting for him ... uselessly." It was all growing clear to him, and yet
not so clear but that there was time even now to let the matter drop into
the limbo of things it is best not to know too much about. It was against
his better judgment, then--his better judgment as a barrister-at-law--that
he found himself saying:
"She didn't expect you at that day and date, perhaps: but she probably
looked for you some time."
"Possibly; but if so, I know little or nothing about it."
The reply, delivered with a certain dignified force of intention, recalled
Conquest to a sense of his own interests. He had too often counselled his
clients to let sleeping dogs lie, not to be aware of the advantage of
doing it himself; and so, restraining his jealous curiosity, he turned the
conversation back to the evidence of Amalia Gramm.
During the next half-hour he manifested that talent--partly native and
partly born of practice--which he had often commended in himself, of
talking about one thing and thinking of another. His exposition of the
line to be adopted in Ford's defence was perfectly lucid, when all the
while he was saying to himself that this was the man whom Miriam Strange
had waited for through eight romantic years.
The fact leaped at him, but it was part of his profession not to be afraid
of facts. If they possessed adverse qualities one recognized them boldly,
in the practise of law, chiefly with a view of circumventing them. The
matter presented itself first of all, not as one involving emotional or
moral issues, but as an annoying arrangement of circumstances which might
cheat him out of what he had honestly acquired. He had no intention of
being cheated by any one whatever; and as he made a rapid summary of the
points of the case he saw that the balance of probabilities was in his
favor. It was to make that clear to Ford that he led the conversation back
again to the subject of his adventures, tempting him to repeat at least a
portion of his hymn of praise. By the time he had finished it Conquest was
able to resume the friendly, confidential tone with which they had begun
the evening.
"It's very satisfactory to me, old man," he said, between quiet puffs at
his cigar, "to know that you think so highly of Miss Strange, because--I
don't know whether you have heard it--she and I are to be married before
long."
He looked to see Ford disconcerted by this announcement and was surprised
to see him take it coolly.
"Yes; I knew that. I've meant to congratulate you when the time came. I
should say it had come now."
There was a candor about him that Conquest could scarcely discredit,
though he was unwilling to trust it too far.
"Thanks, old man. I scarcely expected you to be so well posted. May I ask
how--?"
"Oh, I've known it a long time. Miss Strange told me before I went to
South America last spring."
This evidence of a confidential relation between the two gave him a second
shock, but he postponed its consideration, contenting himself for the
moment with making it plain to Ford that "Hands off!" must be the first
rule of the game. His next move was meant to carry the play into the
opponent's quarters.
"As a matter of fact, I've never congratulated _you_," he said, with
apparent tranquillity. "I've known about you and Evie for some time past,
but--"
"Oh, that's all off. In the existing circumstances Evie didn't feel
like--keeping the thing up."
"That's too bad. You've been pretty hard hit--what? When a fellow is as
game as you a girl should stand by him, come now! But I know Evie. I've
known her from her cradle. She'll back round, you'll see. When we've
pulled you through, as we're going to, she'll take another view of things.
I know for a fact that she's been head over heels in love with you ever
since her trip to Buenos Aires."
As Ford made no remark, Conquest felt it well to drive the point home.
"We can all help in that, old boy; and you can count on us--both on Miss
Strange and me. No one has such influence over Evie as Miriam, and I know
she's very keen on seeing you and her--you and Evie, I mean--hit it off. I
don't mind telling you that, as a matter of fact, it's been Miriam's
anxiety on Evie's account that has mixed me up in your case at all. I
don't say that I haven't got interested in you for your own sake; but it
was she who stirred me up in the first place. It's going to mean a lot to
her to see you get through--and marry Evie."
Ford smiled--his odd, twisted smile--but as he said nothing, Conquest
decided to let the subject drop. He had, in fact, gone as far as his
present judgment would carry him, and anything farther might lead to a
false step. In a situation alive with claims and counter-claims, with
yearnings of the heart and promptings of the higher law, he could preserve
his rights only by a walk as wary as the treading of a tight-rope.
This became clearer to him later in the night, when Ford had gone away,
and he was left free to review the circumstances with that clarity of
co-ordination he had so often brought to bear on other men's affairs. Out
of the mass of data he selected two conditions as being the only ones of
importance.
If Miriam Strange was marrying him because she loved him, nothing else
needed to be considered. This fact would subordinate everything to itself;
and there were many arguments to support the assumption that she was doing
so. One by one he marshalled them before him, from the first faint
possibility up to the crowning proof that there was no earthly reason for
her marrying him at all, unless she wanted to. He had pointed that out to
her clearly, on the day when she came to him to make her terms. He had
been guilty on that occasion of a foolish generosity, for that it went
with a common-sense honesty to take advantage of another's ignorance, or
impulsiveness, was part of his business creed. Nevertheless, having shown
her this uncalled-for favor, he did not regret it now, since it put the
spontaneous, voluntary nature of her act beyond dispute.
To a late hour of the night he wandered about the great silent rooms of
the house which he had made the expression of himself. Stored with costly,
patiently selected comforts, it lacked only the last requisite which was
to impart the living touch. Having chosen this essential with so much
care, and begun to feel for her something far more vital than the pride of
possession which had been his governing emotion hitherto, it was an agony
with many aspects to think he might have to let her go.
That there was this possibility was undeniable. It was the second of the
two paramount considerations. Though Ford's enthusiasm tried to make
itself enthusiasm and no more, there had been little difficulty in seeing
what it was. All the same, it would be a passion to pity and ignore, if on
Miriam's side there was nothing to respond to it. But it was here that,
in spite of all his arguments, Conquest's doubts began. With much curious
ignorance of women, there was a point of view from which he knew them
well. It was out of many a poignant bit of domestic history, of which his
profession had made him the confidant, that he had distilled the
observation made to Ford earlier in the evening: "It isn't often that a
woman's heroism works in a straight line, like a soldier's or a
fireman's." Notwithstanding her directness, he could see Miriam Strange as
just the type of woman to whom these words might be applicable. If by
marrying a man whom she did not love she thought she could help another
whom she did love, a culpable sacrifice was just the thing of which she
would be capable. He called it culpable sacrifice with some emphasis for
in his eyes all sacrifice was culpable. It was more than culpable, in that
it verged on the absurd. There were few teachings of an illogical
religion, few promptings of a misdirected energy, for which he had a
greater scorn than the precept that the strong should suffer for the weak,
or one man for another. Every man for himself and the survival of the
fittest was the doctrine by which he lived; and his abhorrence of anything
else was the more intense for the moment because he found himself in a
situation where he might be expected to repudiate his faith.
But there it was, that something in public opinion which, in certain
circumstances, might challenge him--might ask him for magnanimity, might
appeal to him for mercy, might demand that he make two other human beings
happy while he denied himself. It was preposterous, it was grotesque, but
it was there. He could hear its voice already, explaining that since
Miriam Strange had given him her word in an excess of self-devotion, it
was his duty to let her off. He could see the line of argument; he could
hear the applause following on his noble act. He had heard it
before--especially in the theatre--and his soul had shaken with laughter.
He had read of it in novels, only to toss such books aside. "The beauty of
renunciation," he had often said, "appeals to the morbid, the sickly, and
the sentimental. It has no function among the healthy and the sane." He
had not only said that, but he had believed it. He believed it still, and
lived by it. By doing so he had amassed his modest fortune and won a
respected position in the world. He had not got on into middle life
without meeting the occasion more than once when he could have saved
others--a brother, or a sister, or a friend--and forborne to save himself.
He had felt the temptation and resisted it, with the result that he was up
in the world when he might have been down in it, and envied by those who
would have despised him without hesitation when they had got out of him
all he could give. He could look back now and see the folly it would have
been had he yielded to impulses that every sentimentalist would have
praised. He was fully conscious that the moment of danger might be on the
point of returning again, and that he must be prepared for it.
He was able to strengthen himself with the greater conviction because of
his belief in the sanctity of rights. The securing of rights, the defining
of rights, the protection of rights, had been his trade ever since he was
twenty-five. The invasion of rights was among the darkest crimes in his
calendar. In the present case his own rights could not be called into
question; they were inviolable. Miriam Strange had come to him
deliberately, and for due consideration had signed herself away. He had
spared nothing, in time, pains, or money, to fulfil his part of the
compact. It would be monstrous, therefore, if he were to be cheated of his
reward. That either Ford or Miriam would attempt this he did not believe,
even if between them the worst, from his point of view, was at the worst;
but that an absurd, elusive principle which called itself chivalry, but
really was effeminacy of will, might try to disarm him by an appeal to
scruples he contemned, was the possibility he feared. He feared it because
he estimated at its worth the force of restraint a sentimental
civilization and a naïve people can bring to bear, in silent pressure,
upon the individual. While he knew himself to be strong in his power of
resistance, he knew too that the mightiest swimmer can go down at last in
a smiling, unrippled sea.
His exasperation was as much with his doubt about himself as with the
impalpable forces threatening him, as he strode fiercely from room to
room, turning out the flaring lights before going to bed. After all, his
final resolutions were pitifully insufficient, in view of the tragic
element--for he took it tragically--that had suddenly crept into his life.
While his gleam of happiness was in danger of going out, the sole means he
could find of keeping it aglow was in deciding on a prudent ignoring of
whatever did not meet the eye, on a discreet assumption that what he had
been dreaming for the past few months was true. As a matter of fact, there
was nothing to show him that it wasn't true; and it was only common sense
to let the first move toward clearing his vision come from the other side
rather than from his.
And yet it was precisely this passive attitude which he found himself next
day least able to maintain. If he needed anything further to teach him
that love was love, it was this restless, prying jealousy, making it
impossible to let well enough alone. After a trying day at the office,
during which he irritated his partners and worried his clerks, he
presented himself late in the afternoon at Miriam's apartment at the hour
when he generally went to his club, and he knew she would not expect him.
Thinking to surprise Ford with her--like the suspicious husband in a
French play, he owned to himself, grimly--he experienced something akin to
disappointment to find her drinking tea with two old ladies, whom he
outstayed. During the ceremonies of their leave-taking he watched Miriam
closely, seeking for some impossible proof that she either loved Ford or
did not love him, and getting nothing but a renewed and maddening
conviction of her grace and quiet charm.
* * * * *
"What about Evie's happiness?"
Miriam raised her eyebrows inquiringly at the question before stooping to
put out the spirit-lamp.
"Well, what about it?" she asked, without looking up.
"Oh, nothing--except that we don't seem to be securing it."
She gazed at him now, with an expression frankly puzzled. He had refused
tea, but she kept her accustomed place behind the tea-table, while he
stretched himself comfortably in the low arm-chair by the hearth, which
she often occupied herself.
"Don't you remember?" he went on. "Evie's happiness was the motive of our
little--agreement."
He endeavored to make his tone playful, but there was a something sharp
and aggressive in his manner, at which she colored slightly, no less than
at his words.
"I suppose," she said, as if after meditation, "Evie's happiness isn't in
our hands."
"True; but there's a good deal that _is_ in our hands. There's, for
example--our own."
"Up to a point--yes."
"And up to that point we should take care of it. Shouldn't we?"
"I dare say. But I don't know what you mean."
He gave the nervous little laugh which helped him over moments of
embarrassment.
"Ford was with me last night. He said it was all off between him and
Evie."
"I thought he might tell you that."
"So that," he went on, forcing a smile, with which his voice and manner
were not in accord, "our undertaking having failed, the bottom's out of
everything. Don't you see?"
She was so astonished that she walked into his trap, just as he expected.
"I don't see in the least. I thought our undertaking--as you call it--was
going to be particularly successful."
"Successful--how?"
He dropped his smile and looked interrogative, his bit of acting still
keeping her off her guard.
"Why, if Amalia Gramm's testimony is all you think it's going to be----"
"Oh, I see. That's the way you look at it."
"Isn't it the way you look at it, too?"
He smiled again, indulgently, but with significance.
"No; I confess it isn't--at least, it hasn't been. I thought--perhaps I
was wrong--that our interest was in getting Ford off, so that he could
marry Evie. Since he isn't going to marry her, why--naturally--we don't
care so much--whether he gets off or not."
"Oh, but----"
She checked herself; she even grew a little pale. She began to see dimly
whither he was leading her.
"Of course I don't say we should chuck him over," he went on; "but it
isn't the same thing any longer, is it? I think it only fair to point that
out to you, because it gives you reasonable ground for reconsidering
your--decision."
"Oh, but I don't want to."
While she had said exactly what he hoped to hear, she had not said it as
he hoped to hear it. There were shades of tone even to impetuosity, and
this one lacked the note his ear was listening for. None the less, he told
himself, a wise man would have stopped right there; and he was conscious
of his folly in persisting, while he still persisted.
"That's for you to decide, of course. Only if we go on, it must be
understood that we've somewhat shifted our ground."
"I haven't shifted mine."
"Not as you understand it yourself--as, possibly, you've understood it all
along. But you have, as I see things. When you came to me--to my
office----"
She put up her hand as though she would have screened her face, but
controlled herself to listen quietly.
"Your object, then," Conquest continued, cruelly, "was to get Ford off, so
that he might marry Evie. Now, I understand it to be simply--to get him
off."
She looked at him with eyes full of distress or protest. It was a minute
or two before she spoke.
"I don't see the necessity for such close definition."
"I do. I want you to know exactly what you're doing. I want you to see
that you're paying a higher price than you need pay--for the services
rendered."
He had got her now just where he had been trying to put her. He had snared
her, or given her an opportunity, according as she chose to take it. She
could have availed herself of the latter by a look or a simple intonation,
for the craving of his heart was such that his perceptions were acute for
the slightest hint. Had she known that, it would have been easy for her to
respond to him, playing her part with the loyalty with which she had begun
it. As it was, his cold manner and his slightly mocking tone betrayed her.
Her answer was meant to give him the kind of assurance she thought he was
looking for; and she couched it in the language she supposed he would most
easily understand. In the things it said and did not say her very
sincerity was what stabbed him.
"I hope it won't be necessary to bring this subject up again. I know what
I undertook, and I'm anxious to fulfil it. I should be very much hurt if I
wasn't allowed to, just because you had scruples about taking me at my
word. You've been so--so splendid--in doing your part that I should feel
humiliated if I didn't do mine."
There was earnestness in her regard and a suggestion of haughtiness in the
tilt of her head. The Wise Man within him bade him be content, and this
time he listened to the voice. He did her the justice to remember, too,
that she was offering him all he had ever asked of her; and if he was
dissatisfied, it was because he had increased his demands without telling
her.
It was by a transition of topic that he saw he could nail her to her
purpose.
"By-the-way," he said, when they had got on neutral ground again, and
were speaking of Wayne, "I wish you would come and see what I think of
doing for him. There are two rooms back of my library--too dark for my
use--but that wouldn't matter to him, poor fellow--"
He saw that she was nerving herself not to flinch at this confrontation
with the practical. He saw too that her courage and her self-command would
have deceived any one but him. The very pluck with which she nodded her
comprehension of his idea, and her sympathy with it, enraged him to a
point at which, so it seemed to him, he could have struck her. Had she
cried off from her bargain he could have borne it far more easily. That
would at least have given him a sense of superiority, and helped him to be
magnanimous; while this readiness to pay put him in the wrong, and drove
him to exact the uttermost farthing of his rights. On a weak woman he
might have taken pity; but this strong creature, who refused to sue to him
by so much as the quiver of an eyelid, and rejected his concessions before
he had time to put them forth, exasperated every nerve that had been wont
to tingle to his sense of power. Since she had asked no quarter, why
should he give it?--above all, when to give quarter was against his
principles.
"And perhaps," he pursued, in an even voice, showing no sign of the
tempest within, "that would be as good a time as any for you to look over
the entire house. If there are any changes you would like to have
made----"
"I don't think there will be."
"All the same, I should like you to see. A man's house, however well
arranged, isn't always right for a woman's occupancy; and so----"
"Very well; I'll come."
"When?"
"I'll come to-morrow."
"About four?"
"Yes; about four. That would suit me perfectly."
She spoke frankly, and even smiled faintly, with just such a shadow of a
blush as the situation called for. The Wise Man within him begged him once
more to be content. If, the Wise Man argued, this well-poised serenity was
not love, it was something so like it that the distinction would require a
splitting of hairs. Conquest strove to listen and obey; but even as he did
so he was aware again of that rage of impotence which finds its easiest
outlet in violence. As he rose to take his leave, with all the outward
signs of friendly ceremoniousness, he had time to be appalled at the
perception that he, the middle-aged, spick-and-span New-Yorker, should so
fully understand how it is that a certain type of frenzied brute can kill
the woman whom he passionately loves, but who is hopelessly out of reach.
XXIV
Except when his business instincts were on the alert, Ford's slowness of
perception was perhaps most apparent in his judgment of character and his
analysis of other people's motives. Taking men and women as he found them,
he had little tendency to speculate as to the impulses within their lives,
any more than as to the furnishings behind their house-fronts. A human
being was all exterior to him, something like a street. Even in matters
that touched him closely, the act alone was his concern; and he dealt with
its consequences, without, as a rule, much inquisitive probing of its
cause.
So when Miriam Strange elected to marry Conquest, he accepted the settled
fact, for the time being, in the spirit in which he would have taken some
disastrous manifestation of natural phenomena. Investigation of the motive
of such a step was as little in his line as it would have been in the case
of a destructive storm at sea. To his essentially simple way of viewing
life it was something to be lamented, but to be borne as best one was
able, while one said as little as one could about it.
And yet, somewhere in the wide, rarely explored regions of his nature
there were wonderings, questionings, yearnings protests, cries, that
forced themselves to the surface now and then, as the boiling waters
within the earth gush out in geyser springs. It required urgent pressure
to impel them forth, but when they came it was with violence. Such an
occasion had been his night on Lake Champlain; such another was the
evening when he announced to Miriam his intention of becoming Norrie Ford
again. When these moments came they took him by surprise, even though
afterward he was able to recognize the fact that they had been long
preparing.
It was in this way, without warning, that his heart had sprung on him the
question: Why should she marry him? At the minute when Conquest was
leaving Miriam, he, Ford, was tramping the streets of New York, watching
them grow alive with light, in glaring, imaginative ugliness--ugliness so
dazzling in its audacity and so fanciful in its crude commercialism that
it had the power to thrill. It was perhaps the electric stimulus of sheer
light that quickened the pace of his slow mentality from the march of
acceptance to the rush of protest, at an instant when he thought he had
resigned himself to the facts.
Why should she marry Conquest? He was shouldering his way through the
crowds when the question made itself heard, with a curious illuminating
force that suggested its own answer. He was walking, partly to work off
the tension of the strain under which these few days were passing, and
partly because he had got the idea that he was being shadowed. He had no
profound objection to that, though he would have preferred to give himself
up of his own free will rather than to be arrested. Perhaps, after all, it
was only an accident that had caused him to catch sight of the same two
men at different moments through the day, and just now it amused him to
put them to the test by leading them a dance. He had come to the
conclusion that he had been mistaken, or that he had outwitted them, when
this odd question, irrelevant to anything he had directly in his thoughts,
presented itself as though it had been asked by some voice outside him:
Why should she marry him?
Up to the present his unanalytical mind would have replied--as it would
have replied to the same query concerning any one else--that she was
marrying him "because she wanted to." That would have seemed to him to
cover the whole ground of any one's affairs; but all at once it had become
insufficient. It was as if the street had suddenly become insufficient as
a highway, breaking into a chasm. He stopped abruptly, confronting, as it
were, that bewildering void which a psychological situation invariably
seemed to him. To get into a place where his few straightforward formulæ
did not apply gave him that sense of distress which every creature feels
out of its native element.
It was a proof of the dependence with which, in matters requiring mental
or emotional experience, he had come to lean on Miriam Strange, as well as
of the directness with which he appealed to her for help, that he should
face about on the instant, and turn his steps toward her.
* * * * *
Only a few minutes earlier she had seen Conquest go, and in the interval
since his departure she had had time to detect the windings of his
strategy, and to be content with the skill with which she had met them.
She understood him thoroughly, both in his fear of letting her go and his
shame at holding her. Standing in her wide bay-window, her slight figure
erect, her hands behind her back, she looked down, without seeing it, on
the spangled city, as angels intent on their own high thoughts might pass
over the Milky Way. She smiled faintly to herself, thinking how she
should lead this kindly man, who for her sake had done so much for Norrie
Ford, back to a sense of security and self-respect. When Norrie Ford went
free she meant to live for nothing else but the happiness of the man who
had cleared his name and given him back to the world. It would be a kind
of consecration to her, like that of the nun who forsakes the dearest ties
for a life of good works and prayer. Conquest had told her that she was
paying a bigger price than she needed to pay for the services rendered,
but that depended somewhat on the value one set on the services. In this
case she would not have been content in paying less. To do so would seem
to indicate that she was not grateful. Since perceiving his compunction as
to claiming his reward, she was aware of an elation, an exaltation, in
forcing it upon him.
She was in the glow of this sentiment when Ford was ushered in. He was so
vitally in her thoughts that, though she did not expect him, his presence
gave her no surprise. It helped her, in fact, to sustain the romantic
quality in her mood to treat his coming as a matter of course, and make it
a natural incident to the moment.
"Come and look down on the stars," she said, in the tone she might have
used to another member of her household who had appeared accidentally.
"The view here, in the evening, makes one feel as if one had been wafted
above the sky."
She half-turned toward him, but did not offer her hand as he took his
place by her side. For a few seconds he said nothing, and when he spoke
she accepted his words in the manner in which she had taken his coming.
"So you're going to marry Conquest!"
It was to show that the abrupt remark had not perturbed her that she
nodded her head assentingly, still with the smile that had greeted his
arrival.
"Why?"
In spite of her efforts she manifested some surprise.
"What makes you ask that question--now?"
"Because it never occurred to me before that there might be a special
reason."
"Well, there is one."
"Has it anything to do with me?"
She backed away from him slightly, to the side curve of the window, where
it joined the straight line of the wall. In this position she had him more
directly in view.
"I said there was a reason," she answered, after some hesitation. "I
didn't say I would tell you what it was."
"No, but you will, won't you?"
"I don't see why you should want to know."
"Is that quite true?" he queried, with a somewhat startling fixing of his
eyes upon her. "Don't you see? Can't you imagine?"
"I don't see why--in such circumstances as these--any man should want to
know what a woman doesn't tell him."
"Then I'll explain to you. I want to know, because ... I think ... you're
marrying Conquest ... when you don't love him ..."
"He never asked me to love him. He said he could do without that."
"... while ... you do love ... some one else."
She reflected before speaking. Under his piercing look she took on once
more the appealing expression of forest creatures at bay.
"Even if that were true," she said, at last, "there would be no harm in
it as long as there was what you asked me for at first--a special reason."
"Is there ever a reason for a step like that? I don't believe it."
"But I do believe it, you see. That makes a difference."
"It would make a still greater difference if I begged you not to do it,
wouldn't it?"
She shook her head. "It wouldn't--now."
"I let you see yesterday that I--I loved you."
"Since you force me to acknowledge it--yes."
"And you've shown me," he ventured, "within the last minute, that
you--love me."
Her figure grew more erect against the background of exterior darkness.
Even the hand that rested on the woodwork of the window became tense.
Lambent fire in her eyes--the light that he used to call non-Aryan--took
the place of the fugitive glance of the woodland animal; but she kept her
composure.
"Well, what then?"
"Then you'd be committing a sacrilege against yourself--if you married any
one else but me."
If her heart bounded at the words, she did nothing to betray it.
"You say that, because it seems so to you. I take another view of it. Love
to me does not necessarily mean marriage, any more than marriage
necessarily implies love. There have been happy marriages without love,
and there can be honorable love that doesn't ask marriage as its object.
If I married you now, I should seem to myself to be deserting a high
impulse for a lower one."
"There's only one sort of impulse to love."
"Not to my love. I know what you mean--but my love has more than one
prompting, and the highest is--or I hope it is--to try to do what's
right."
"But this would not be right."
"I'm the only judge of that."
"Not if we love each other. In that case I become a judge of it, too."
Once more she reflected. In speaking she lifted her head and looked at him
frankly.
"Very well; I'll admit it. Perhaps it's true. In any case, I'd rather
things were clear to you. It will help us both. I'll tell you what I'm
doing, and why I'm doing it."
It was one of those occasions when a woman's emotion is so great that she
seems to have none at all. As iron is said to come to a degree of heat so
intense that it does not burn, so Miriam Strange seemed to herself to have
reached a stage where the sheer truth, simple and without reserve, could
bring no shame to her womanhood. Words that could not have passed her lips
either before that evening or after it escaped her in the subsequent
minutes as a matter of course.
"I entered into your life twice, and each time I did you harm. On the
first occasion I turned you into Herbert Strange, and sent you out on a
career of deception; on the second, I came between you and Evie, and
brought you to the present pass, where you're facing death again, as you
were eight or nine years ago. It's no use to tell you that I wanted to do
my best, because good intentions are not much excuse for the trouble they
often cause. But I'm ready to say this: that whenever you've suffered,
I've suffered more. That's especially true of what's happened in the last
six months. And when I saw how much I had put wrong, it was a comfort to
think there was something at least that I could put right again."
"But you've put nothing wrong. That's what I should like to convince you
of."
"I've put you in a position of danger. When I see that, I see enough to
act upon."
"It's a very slight danger."
"It is now, because I've made it slight. It wasn't--before I went to Mr.
Conquest."
"You went to him--what for?"
"He wanted me to marry him. He had wanted it for a long time. I told him I
would do so, on condition that he found the evidence that would prove you
innocent."
Ford laughed harshly, and rather loudly, stopping suddenly, as though he
had ceased to see the joke.
"So that's it! That's why Conquest has been so devilishly kind. I wondered
at his interest--or at least I should have wondered if I'd had the time.
As a matter of fact, I took it for granted that he should help me, as a
drowning man takes it for granted that the chance passer-by should pull
him out. It wasn't till this evening--about half an hour ago--By Jove! I
ran right up against it."
"You ran right up against--what?"
"Against the truth. It came in a flash--just like that." He snapped his
fingers. "You're selling yourself--to get me off."
She seemed to grow straighter, taller. For the minute he saw nothing but
the blaze of her eyes.
"Well? Why shouldn't I? My mother sold herself--to get a man off. He was
my father. I'm proud of her. She did the best she could with her life. I'm
doing the best I can with mine."
"But I shouldn't be doing the best I can with mine--if I let you
continue."
"Isn't it too late for you to stop me? If I've sold myself as you put it,
the price has been paid in. Mr. Conquest has secured the evidence that
will acquit you. It will be used. That's all I care about--much."
She saw the hot color surge into his cheeks and brows. It seemed to her
that his eyes grew red as the blood left his lips. She had never before
been called on to confront a man angry with a passion beyond his control,
but instinct told her what the signs were. Instinct told her, too, that,
however confused his own sensations might be, his anger was not so much
resentment against anything she might have done as it was despair at
having lost her. She had guessed already that he would be seized with a
blind impulse to strike, as soon as he came to a realizing sense of her
action; though she had not expected the moment of his fury till after he
went free. Till then, she had thought, he would be partially unconscious
of his pain, just as a soldier fighting will run along for a while without
feeling a bullet in his flesh. The anticipation of an awakening on his
part some time enabled her to see beyond the madness of this instinct,
even though the words he threw at her struck like stones. The very fact
that she could see how he labored with himself to keep them back gave her
strength to take them without flinching.
"You ... dared...? Without ... my ... permission...?"
"I'd done so many things without your permission that it seemed I could
venture that far."
"You were wrong. It was--too far."
"It wasn't too far--when I loved you."
She uttered the words in a matter-of-fact voice, without a tremor. She
foresaw their effect in bringing him to himself In his next words his tone
had already softened slightly to one of protest.
"But I could have done it so much better--! so much more easily--!
without----"
"I could have done that too. Mr. Conquest pointed it out to me. He took no
advantage of my ignorance. As a matter of fact, I wasn't ignorant at all.
I was extremely clear-sighted and wise. My love for you made me so. I
knew--I felt it--that money might fail to do what I wanted. But I knew too
that there was one thing that wouldn't fail. If you were innocent--and I
wasn't wholly sure that you were--I knew there was one energy that would
surely prove you so--and that was Charles Conquest's desire to have me as
his wife. I took the course in which there was least risk of failure--and
you see----"
A little gesture, triumphant in its suggestion, finished her sentence.
"What I see is this," Ford answered, thickly, "that I'm to hold my life at
the cost of your degradation."
"Degradation? That's a hard word. But as applied to me--I don't know what
it means."
"Isn't it degradation?--to enter into a marriage in which you put no
love?"
There was a kind of superb indifference in her answer.
[Illustration: "I'm to hold my life at the cost of your degradation"]
"You may call it degradation if you choose. I shouldn't. As long as you go
free, you can call my action anything you like. I dare say," she admitted,
"you're quite right, from the highest moral--and modern--point of view;
but that doesn't appeal to me. You see--you've got to make allowances for
it--I'm not a child of your civilization. I'm not a child of any
civilization at all. At best I'm like the wild creature that submits to
being tamed because it doesn't know what else to do--but remains wild at
heart. I used to think I could come into your system of law and order if
any one would take me. But now I know I shall always be outside it. The
very word you've just used of me shows me that. You say I'm to be
degraded--it's your civilized point of view. I have no comprehension of
that whatever. Because I love you I want to save you. I don't care
anything about the means so long as I reach the end. To undo the harm I've
done to you I'd freely give my body to be burned; so why shoudn't I--? No,
no," she cried, as he made as though he would approach her, "keep away.
Don't come near me! I can only talk to you like this--at a distance. I
shall never say these things again--but I want to tell you--to explain to
you--I should like you to understand."
She repeated herself haltingly because, as Ford held back from approaching
her, a sudden spasm passed over his face, while he hung his head, and
compressed his lips in a way that made him seem surprisingly boyish all at
once, and touched that maternal tenderness in her that had always formed
such a large part of her yearning over him. It was the kind of tenderness
that steadied her own nerve, and kept her dry-eyed and strong, as she saw
him reel to a chair, and flinging his arms on the table beside it, bow
himself down on them, while his form shook convulsively. She had no shame
for him. She understood perfectly that the pressure of years had been
brought to bear on the complex emotions of the moment--to which reaction
from his brief anger and his bitter words added an element of remorse--to
cause this honest, manly nature that had never made any pretence of being
stronger than it was, to give way to the instant's weakness. She was sure
he would never have done it in the presence of any one but her, and she
was thrilled with a curious joy at this proof of their spiritual intimacy.
What was difficult was not the keeping of her own self-control, but the
holding herself back from crossing the room and laying a hand on his
shoulder, in token of their oneness at heart; but there, she felt, the
forbidden line would be passed. She could only wait--it was not long--till
he was calm again. Then he pulled himself together, got up heavily, and
obviously refrained from looking her in the face. In the act and the
attitude there was something so boylike, so natural, so entirely lacking
in the dignity of grief, that if she had any impulse to let her own tears
flow it was then.
But she knew it to be one of those minutes when a woman has to be strong
for herself and for the man, too, even though she break down afterward.
The necessity of coming to an understanding with him, once for all,
impelled her to the economy of her forces, while the nervous snapping of
his fortitude had given her an opportunity she could not afford to lose.
"So I want you to see," she went on, quietly, as though no interruption
had occurred, "that having gained my point in helping to--to get you off,
it's to some extent a matter of indifference what you think of me--what
any one thinks of me--just as it was when I hid you in my studio, nearly
nine years ago. You must put it down to my being of wild origin and not
wholly amenable to civilized dictates. I can only do what the inward
urging drives me on to do--just as my mother did--and my father. If it's
degrading--"
Raising his head at last, he strode toward her. He put his hands rigidly
behind his back, as if to show her that he pinioned them there in token
that she had nothing to fear from him. His eyes were red, and there was
still a painful tightening about his lips.
"You'll have to let me take that back," he muttered, unsteadily. "I didn't
know what I was saying. It's come on me so suddenly that it's broken me
all up. I haven't realized till this evening what--what everything meant.
It seemed to me then that I couldn't stand it."
"But you can."
"Yes, I can," he replied, doggedly. "One can stand anything. If I reached
my limit for a minute, it was in seeing that you have to suffer for my
sake----"
"Wouldn't you suffer for mine?"
"I couldn't. Suffering for your sake would become such a joy----"
"That it wouldn't be suffering. That's just it. That's what I feel,
exactly. It isn't hard for me to do what I'm doing because I know--I
_know_--I'm helping to save your honor if not your life. I don't believe
money would have done it. Mr. Conquest reminded me that the best legal
services can be bought, but I never thought for an instant that you could
secure zeal such as his for anything less than I offered him. And he's
been so superb! He's given himself up to the thing absolutely. He's
followed every trail with a scent--- with a certainty--your other men,
your Kilcup and Warren, would never have been capable of. I've seen that;
I'm sure of it. He has a wonderful mind, and in his way he has the kindest
heart in the world. I'm very, very fond of him, and I'm deeply grateful.
Next to seeing you free, I don't think I have any desire in life so
strong as to make him happy. I dare say that isn't civilized either--but
it's what I feel. And so we must think of this," she continued, eagerly
explanative; "we must be loyal to him, you and I, as the first of all our
duties. Don't you think so?"
He withdrew his eyes from hers before answering. His power of resistance
was broken. The signs of struggle were visible, and yet the quixotic
element in his own nature helped him to respond to that in hers.
"I'll try," he muttered, looking on the ground.
"You'll do more than try--you'll succeed. Only very small souls could
grudge him what he's earned when he's worked so hard and given himself so
unstintingly. The very fact that you and I know that we love each other
will make it easier to be true to him."
"Conquest must know that we love each other, too," he declared, with some
bitterness.
"Perhaps he does; but, you see, every one has a different way of looking
at life, and I don't think that with him it's a thing that counts greatly.
I'm not sure that I understand him in that respect. I only know that you
and I, who owe him so much, can repay him by giving him what he asks for.
Will you promise me to do it?"
He continued to look downward, as though finding it hard to give his word;
but when he raised his eyes again, he flung back his head with his old air
of resolution.
"I'll promise to do anything you ask me throughout our lives. I don't
admit that Conquest should demand this thing or that he had any right to
let you offer it. But since you want to give it--and I can show you no
other token of my love--and shall never again be able to tell you that I
adore you--that I _adore_ you--I promise--to obey."
XXV
The inspection of the house was over, and they had come back to the
drawing-room for tea. Conquest had lavished pains on the occasion, putting
flowers in the rooms, and strewing handsome objects carelessly about, so
as to impart to the great shell as much as possible the air of being lived
in. To the tea-table he had given particular attention, ordering out the
most ornamental silver and the costliest porcelain, and placing the table
itself just where she would probably have it in days to come, so as to get
the effect she produced in sitting there, as he liked to do with a new
picture or piece of furniture.
On her part, Miriam had made the rounds of the rooms with conscientious
care, observing, admiring, suggesting, with just that mingling of shyness
and interest with which a woman in her situation would view her future
home. Having got, by intuition, the idea that he was watching for some
flaw in her manner, she was determined that he should find none. It was
the beginning of that lifelong schooling to his service to which she had
vowed herself, though the effort would have been easier had he not
rendered her self-conscious by scanning her so keenly out of his little
gray-green eyes. Nevertheless, she was pleased with the manner in which
she was acquitting herself, giving him his tea and taking her own with no
sign of embarrassment. As on the preceding day, it was this perfection of
acting, as he chose to call it, that exasperated his restless suspicion
more than any display of weakness.
The thought that she was keeping her true self locked against him had,
during the last twenty-four hours, become an obsession, making it
impossible for him to eat or to sleep. In her serene, impeccable bearing
he saw nothing but the bars up and the blinds drawn down. An instant of
faltering or self-betrayal would have admitted him to at least a glimpse
of what was passing within; but through this well-balanced graciousness it
was as difficult to get at her soul as to read the mind of the Venus of
Milo in the marble nobility of her face. He had led her from room to room,
describing one, explaining another, and apologizing for a third, but all
the while trying to break down her guard, only to find, as they returned
to the point at which they started, that he had failed. It was with nerves
all unstrung, and with a lack of self-command he would have been, in his
saner senses, the first to condemn, that he strode up at last and rapped
sharply at the door of her barricaded citadel.
"Why did you never tell me that you knew Norrie Ford--years ago?"
He was putting his empty cup on the table as he spoke, so that he could
avoid looking at her. She was glad of this respite from his gaze, for she
found the question startling. Before the scrutiny of his eyes was turned
on her again she had herself in hand.
"I should probably have told you some time."
"Very likely. The odd thing is that you didn't tell me at once."
"It wasn't so odd--given all the circumstances."
"It wasn't so odd, given some of the circumstances; but given them
all--_all_--I should say, I ought to have known."
She allowed a few seconds to pass.
"I suppose," she said, slowly, then, "that may fairly be considered a
matter of opinion. I don't see, however, that it makes much
difference--since you know now."
"My knowing or not knowing now isn't quite the point. The fact of
importance is that you never told me."
"I'm sorry you should take it in that way; but since I didn't--and the
matter is beyond remedy--I suppose we shouldn't gain anything by
discussing it."
"I don't know about that. It seems to me a subject that ought to
be--aired."
She tried to smile down his aggressiveness, succeeding partially, in that
he subdued the quarrelsomeness of his voice and manner to that affectation
of banter behind which he concealed habitually his real self, and by which
he most easily deceived her.
"Very well," she laughed; "I'm quite ready to air it; only I don't know
just how it's to be done."
"Suppose you were to tell me what happened, in your own language?"
"If Mr. Ford has told you already, as I imagine he has, I don't see that
my language can be very different from his. All the same, I'll try, since
you want me to."
"Just so."
During the few minutes she took to collect her thoughts he could see sweep
over her features one of those swift, light changes--as delicate as the
ripple of summer wind on water--which transformed her in an instant from
the woman of the world to the forest maid, the spirit of the indigenous.
The mystery of the nomadic ages was in her eyes again as she began her
narrative, wistfully, and reminiscently.
"You see, I'd been thinking a good deal of my father and mother. I hadn't
known about them very long, and I lived with their memory. The Mother
Superior had told me a few things--all she knew, I suppose--before I left
the convent at Quebec; and Mr. and Mrs. Wayne--especially Mrs. Wayne--had
added the rest. That was the chief reason why I wanted the studio--so that
I could get away from the house, which was so oppressive to me, and--so it
seemed to me--live with them, with nothing but the woods and the hills and
the sky about me. I could be very happy then--painting thinge I fancied
they might have done, and pinning them up on the wall. I dare say it was
foolish, but----"
"It was very natural. Go on."
"And then came up all this excitement about Norrie Ford. For months the
whole region talked of nothing else. Nearly every one believed he had shot
his uncle, but, except in the villages, the sympathy with him was
tremendous. Some people--especially the hotel-keepers and those who
depended on the tourist travel--were for law and order; but others said
that old Chris Ford had got no more than he deserved. That was the way
they used to talk. Mr. Wayne was on the side of law and order,
too--naturally--till the trial came on; and then he began----"
"I know all about that. Go on."
"My own sympathy was with the man in prison. I used to dream about him. I
remembered what Mrs. Wayne had told me my mother had done for my father. I
was proud of that. Though I knew only vaguely what it was, I was sure it
was what I should have done, too. So when there was talk of breaking into
the jail and helping Norrie to escape, I used to think how easily I could
keep any one hidden in my studio. I don't mean I thought of it as a
practical thing; it was just a dream."
"But a dream that came true."
"Yes; it came true. It was wonderful. It was the day Mr. Wayne sentenced
him. I knew what he was suffering--Mr. Wayne, I mean. We were all
suffering; even Mrs. Wayne, who in her gentle way was generally so hard.
Some people thought Mr. Wayne needn't have done it; and I suppose it was
just his conscientiousness--because he had such a horror of the
thing--that drove him on to it. He thought he mustn't shirk his duty. But
that night at the house was awful. We dressed for dinner, and tried to act
as if nothing frightful had happened--but it was as if the hangman was
sitting with us at the table. At last I couldn't endure it. I went out
into the garden--you remember it was one of those gardens with clipped
yews. Out there, in the air, I stopped thinking of Mr. Wayne and his
distress to think of Norrie Ford. It seemed to me as if, in some strange
way, he belonged to me--that I ought to do something--as my mother had
done for my father. And then--all of a sudden--I saw him creep in."
"How did you know it was he?"
"I thought it must be, though I was only sure of it when I was on the
terrace and saw his face. He crept along and crept along--Oh, such a
forlorn, hopeless, outcast figure! My heart ached at the sight of him. I
didn't know what he meant to do, and at first I had no intention of
attempting anything. It was by degrees that my own thought about the
studio came back to me. By that time he was on the veranda of the house,
and I was afraid he meant to kill Mr. Wayne. I went after him. I thought I
would entice him away and hide him. But the minute he heard my footstep he
leaped into the house. The next I saw, he was talking to Mr. and Mrs.
Wayne--and something told me he wouldn't hurt them. After that I watched
my chance till he looked outward, and then I beckoned to him. That's how
it happened."
"And then?"
"After that everything was easy. He must have told you. I kept him in the
studio for three weeks, and brought him food--and clothing of my father's.
It seemed to me that my father was doing everything--not I. That's what
made it so simple. I know my father would have wanted me to do it. I was
only the agent in carrying out his will."
"That's one way of looking at it," Conquest said, grimly.
"It's the only way I've ever looked at it; the only way I ever shall."
* * * * *
"It was a romantic situation," he observed, when she had given him the
outlines of the rest of the story. "I wonder you didn't fall in love with
him."
He smoothed the colorless line of his mustache, as though concealing a
smile. He had recaptured the teasing tone he liked to employ toward her,
though its nervous sharpness would have betrayed him had she suspected his
real thoughts. While she said nothing in response, the tilt of her head
was that which he associated with her moods of indignation or pride.
"Perhaps you did," he persisted. Then, as she remained silent, "Did you?"
She resolved on a bold step--the audacity of that perfect candor she had
always taken as a guide.
"I don't know that one could call it that," she said, quietly.
He drew a quick inward breath, clinching his teeth, but keeping his fixed
smile.
"But you don't know that one couldn't."
"I can't define what I felt at all."
"It was just enough," he pursued, in his bantering tone, "to keep
you--looking for him back--as you told me--that day."
She lifted her eyes in a swift glance of reproach.
"It was that--then."
"But it's more--now. Isn't it?"
She met him squarely.
"I don't think you've any right to ask."
He laughed aloud, somewhat shrilly.
"That's good!--considering we're to be man and wife."
"We're to be man and wife on a very distinct understanding to which I'm
perfectly loyal. I mean to be loyal to it always--and to you. I shall give
you everything you ever asked for. If there are some things--one thing in
particular--out of my power to give you, I've said so from the first, and
you've told me you could do without them. If what I can't give you I've
given to some one else--because--because--I couldn't help it--that's my
secret, and I claim the right to guard it."
They faced one another across the table piled with ornate silver. He had
not lost his smile.
"You've the merit of being clear," was his only comment.
"You force me to be clear," she declared, with heightened color, "and a
little angry. When you asked me to be your wife--long ago--I told you
there were certain conditions I could never fulfil--and you waived them.
On that ground I'm ready to meet all your wishes, and make you a good wife
to the utmost of my power. I'm eager to do it--because I honor and respect
you as women don't always honor and respect the very men they love. I've
told Norrie Ford, and I repeat it to you, that after seeing him go free
and restored to his place among men, the most ardent desire of my life is
to make you happy. I'm perfectly true; I'm perfectly sincere. What more
can you ask of me?"
He looked at her searchingly, while he thought hard and rapidly. He could
not complain that the bars were up and the blinds drawn any longer. On the
contrary, she had let him see into the recesses of her life with a clarity
that startled him, as pure truth startles often. As he sat musing, his
pretence at cynicism fell from him, together with something of his
furbished air of youth. She saw him grow graver, grayer, older, under her
very eyes, and was moved with compunction--with compassion. Her face still
aglow and her hands clasped in her lap, she leaned to him across the
table, speaking in the rich, low voice that always thrilled him.
"What I feel for you is ... something so much like ... love ... that you
would never have known the difference ... if you hadn't wrung it from me."
Though he toyed aimlessly with some small silver object on the table and
did not look up, her words sent a tremor through his frame. The Wise Man
within him was very eloquent, repeating again and again the sentence she
herself had used a minute or two ago: What more could he ask of her? What
more _could_ he ask of her, indeed, after this assurance right out of the
earnestness and honesty of her pure heart? It was enough to satisfy men
with far greater claims than he had ever put forth, and far more
pretension than he had ever dreamed of cherishing. The Wise Man supplied
him with two or three phrases of reply--neat little phrases, that would
have bound her forever, and yet saved his self-esteem. He turned them over
in his mind and on his tongue, trying to add a touch of glamour while he
kept them terse. He could feel the Wise Man fidgeting impatiently, just as
he could feel her flaming, expectant eyes upon him; and still he toyed
with the small silver object aimlessly, conscious of a certain bitter joy
in his soul's suspense. He had not yet looked up, nor polished the Wise
Man's phrases to his taste, when a footman threw the door open, and Norrie
Ford himself walked in.
The meeting was saved from awkwardness chiefly by Ford's own lack of
embarrassment. As he crossed the room and shook hands, first with Miriam,
then with Conquest, there was a subdued elation in his manner and glance
that reduced small considerations to nothing.
"No; I won't sit down," he explained, hurriedly, and not without
excitement, "because I only looked in for a minute. I've got a cab waiting
for me outside. The fact is, I ran in to say good-bye."
"Good-bye?" Miriam questioned.
"Not for long, I hope. I'm off--to give myself up."
"But why to-night?" Conquest asked. "What's the rush?"
"Only that I want to get my word in first. They've got their eye on me. I
thought it yesterday, and I know it to-day. I want them to see that I'm
not afraid of them, and so I'm asking their hospitality for to-night. I've
got my bag in the cab, and everything ship-shape. I couldn't do it
without coming round for a last word with you, old man; and I was going to
see you afterward, Miss Strange. But since I've found you here----"
"You won't have to," she finished, brightly. "I'm glad to be able to save
your time. I'm confident we're not losing you for long; and as I know
you're eager, I can only wish you God-speed, and be glad to see you go"
She held out her hand, frankly, strongly, as one who has no fear.
"Now," she added, turning to Conquest, "I'll ask you to see me to my
motor. I shall leave you and Mr Ford together, as I know you must have
some last detail to arrange."
Ford protested, but she gathered up her gloves and furs, and both men
accompanied her to the street.
It was an autumn evening, drizzling and dark. Up and down Fifth Avenue the
wet pavements reflected the electric lamps like blurred mirrors. There
were few passengers on foot, but an occasional motor whizzed weirdly out
of the dark and into it. It was because there were no other people to be
seen that two men standing in the rain attracted the attention of the
three who descended Conquest's steps together.
"There they are," Ford said, jerkily. "By George! they've got ahead of
me."
Instinctively Miriam clutched his arm, while one of the two strangers came
forward apologetically.
"You're Mr. John Norrie Ford, ain't you?"
"I am."
"I'm very sorry, sir, but I've got a warrant for your arrest."
"That's all right," Ford said, cheerily. "I was on my way to you, anyhow.
You'll find my bag in the cab, and everything ready. We'll drive, if it's
all the same to you."
"Yes, sir. Sure thing, sir."
The man dropped back a few paces courteously, while Ford turned to his
friends. His air was buoyant. Miriam, too, reflected the radiance of her
vision of his triumph. Conquest alone, looking small and white and
shrivelled in the rain, showed care and fear.
"I don't think there's anything special to say," Ford remarked, with the
awkwardness of a simple nature at an emotional crisis. "I'm not very good
at thanks. Miss Strange knows that already. But it's all in here"--he
tapped his breast, with a characteristic gesture--"very sacred, very
strong."
"We know that," Conquest said, unsteadily, with an embarrassment like
Ford's own.
"Well, then--good-bye."
"Good-bye."
With a long pressure of the hand to each, he turned toward his cab. Of the
two strangers, one took his place beside the driver on the box, while the
other held the door open for Ford to enter. His foot was already on the
step when Miriam cried, "Wait!"
He turned toward her as she glided across the wet pavement.
"Good-bye, good-bye," she whispered again; and drawing down his face to
hers, she kissed him, as she had kissed him once before, beside the waters
of Champlain.
As she drew back from him, Ford's countenance wore the uplifted look of a
knight who has received the consecration to his quest. Even the two
strangers bowed their heads, as though they had witnessed the bestowal of
a sacrament. To Miriam herself it was the seal set on a past that could
never be reopened. She felt the definiteness with which it was ended, as
she heard, on her way back to Conquest's side, the door slammed, while the
cab lumbered away. It seemed to her that Conquest shrank from her as she
approached him.
* * * * *
"You'll come to-morrow? I shall be home about five."
Conquest had put her into her motor, drawn the rugs about her, and closed
the door. As he did so, she noticed something slow and broken in his
movements. Leaning from the open window, she held out her hand, but he
barely touched it.
"No," he said, hoarsely, "I shall not come to-morrow."
"Then, the next day."
"No, nor the next day."
"Well, when you can. If you let me know, I shall stay in, whenever it may
be."
"You needn't stay in. I'm not coming any more."
"Oh, don't say that. Don't say that," she pleaded. "You hurt me."
"I can't come, Miriam. Don't you see? Isn't it plain enough? I can't come.
I thought I could. I tried to think I could hold you--in spite of
everything. But I can't. I _can't_."
"You can hold me--if I stay. I want to stay. You mustn't let me go. I want
you to be happy. You deserve it. You've done so much for me--and _him_."
It was the stress she laid on the last word--a suggestion of something
triumphant and enraptured beyond restraint--that made him bound back to
the centre of the pavement.
"Go on, Laporte," he said to the chauffeur, in a sharp voice. "Miss
Strange is ready."
"No, no," Miriam cried, stretching both hands toward him. "I'm not ready.
Keep me. I want to stay."
"Go on!" he cried, sternly, as the chauffeur hesitated. "Miss Strange is
quite ready. She must go."
Standing by the curb, he watched the motor glide off into the misty,
lamplit darkness. He was watching it still, as it overtook the carriage in
which Norrie Ford had just driven away. As the two vehicles passed abreast
out of his range of vision, he knew they were bearing Ford and Miriam side
by side into Life.