Not until the sound of approaching steps grew near did Josephine
make an effort to free herself from Philip's arms. Unresisting she
had given him her lips to kiss; for one rapturous moment he had
felt the pressure of her arms about his shoulders; in the blue
depths of her eyes he had caught the flash of wonderment and
disbelief, and then the deeper, tenderer glow of her surrender to
him. In this moment he forgot everything except that she had bared
her secret to him, and in baring it had given herself to him. Even
as her hands pressed now against his breast he kissed her lips
again, and his arms tightened about her.
"They are coming to the door, Philip," she panted, straining
against him. "We must not be found like this!"
The voice was booming in the hall again, calling her name, and in
a moment Philip was on his feet raising Josephine to him. Her face
still was white. Her eyes were still on the verge of fear, and as
the steps came nearer he brushed back the warm masses of her hair
and whispered for the twentieth time, as if the words must
convince her: "I love you!" He slipped an arm about her waist, and
Josephine's fingers nervously caught his hand.
Then the door was flung open. Philip knew that it was the master
of Adare House who stood on the threshold--a great, fur-capped
giant of a man who seemed to stoop to enter, and in whose eyes as
they met Philip's there was a wild and half-savage inquiry. Such a
man Philip had not expected to see; awesome in his bulk, a
Thorlike god of the forests, gray-bearded, deep-chested, with
shaggy hair falling out from under his cap, and in whose eyes
there was the glare which Philip understood and which he met
unflinchingly.
For a moment he felt Josephine's fingers grip tighter about his
own; then with a low cry she broke from him, and John Adare opened
his arms to her and crushed his bearded face down to hers as her
arms encircled his neck. In the gloom of the hall beyond them
there appeared for an instant the thin, dark face of Jean Jacques
Croisset. In a flash it had come and gone. In that flash the half-
breed's eyes had met Philip's, and in them was a look that made
the latter take a quick step forward. His impulse was to pass John
Adare and confront Jean in the hall. He held himself back, and
looked at Josephine and her father. She had pushed the cap from
the giant's head and had taken his bearded face between her two
hands, and John Adare was smiling down into her white, pleading
face with the gentleness and worship of a woman. In a moment he
broke forth into a great rumbling laugh, and looked over her head
at Philip.
"God bless my soul, if I don't almost believe my little girl
thought I was coming home to murder her!" he cried. "I guess she
thought I'd hate you for stealing her away from me the way you
did. I have contemplated disliking you, quite seriously, too. But
you're not the sort of looking chap I thought you'd be with that
oily French name. You've shown good judgment. There isn't a man in
the world good enough for my Jo. And if you'll excuse my
frankness, I like your looks!"
As he spoke he held out a hand, and Josephine eagerly faced
Philip. A flush grew in her cheeks as the two men shook hands. Her
eyes were on Philip, and her heart beat a little quicker. She had
not hoped that he would rise to the situation so completely. She
had feared that there would be some betrayal in voice or action.
But he was completely master of himself, and the colour in her
face deepened beautifully. Before this moment she had not wholly
perceived how splendidly clear and fearless were his eyes. His
long blond hair, touched with its premature gray, was still
windblown from his rush out into the night, giving to his head a
touch of leonine strength as he faced her father.
Quietly she slipped aside and looked at them, and neither saw the
strange, proud glow that came like a flash of fire into her eyes.
They were wonderful, these two strong men who were hers. And in
this moment they WERE her own. Neither spoke for a space, as they
stood, hand clasping hand, and in that space, brief as it was, she
saw that they measured each other as completely as man ever
measured man; and that it was not satisfaction alone, but
something deeper and more wonderful to her, that began to show in
their faces. It was as if they had forgotten her presence in this
meeting, and for a moment she, too, forgot that everything was not
real. Moved by an impulse that made her breath quicken, she darted
to them and caught their two clasped hands in both her own. Her
face was glorious as she looked up at them.
"I'm glad, glad that you like each other," she cried softly. "I
knew that it would be so, because--"
The master of Adare House had drawn her to him again. She put out
a hand, and it rested on Philip's shoulder. Her eyes turned
directly to him, and he alone saw the swift ebbing of the joyous
light from them. John Adare's voice rumbled happily, and with his
grizzled face bowed in Josephine's hair he said:
"I guess I'm not sorry--but glad, Mignonne." He looked at Philip
again. "Paul, my son, you are welcome to Adare House!"
"Philip, Mon Pere," corrected Josephine. "I like that better than
Paul."
"And you?" said Philip, smiling straight into Adare's eyes. "I am
almost afraid to keep my promise to Josephine. It was that I
should call you mon pere, too."
"There was one other promise, Philip," replied Adare quickly.
"There must have been one other promise, that you would never take
my girl away from me. If you did not swear to that, I am your
enemy!"
"That promise was unnecessary," said Philip. "Outside of my
Josephine's world there is nothing for me. If there is room for me
in Adare House--"
"Room!" interrupted Adare, beginning to throw off his great fur
coat. "Why, I've dreamed of the day when there'd be half a dozen
babies under my feet. I--" His huge frame suddenly stiffened. He
looked at Josephine, and his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper:
"Where's the kid?" he asked.
Philip saw Josephine turn at the question. Silently she pointed to
the curtained bed. As her father moved toward it she went to the
door, but not before Philip had taken a step to intercept her. He
felt her shuddering.
"I must go to my mother," she whispered for him alone. "I will
return soon. If he asks--tell him that we named the baby after
him." With a swift glance in her father's direction she whispered
still lower: "He knows nothing about you, so you may tell him the
truth about yourself--except that you met me in Montreal eighteen
months ago, and married me there."
With this warning she was gone. From the curtains Philip heard a
deep breath. When he came to the other's side John Adare stood
staring down upon the sleeping baby.
"I came in like a monster and didn't wake 'im," he was whispering
to himself. "The little beggar!"
He reached out a great hand behind him, gropingly, and it touched
a chair. He drew it to him, still keeping his eyes on the baby,
and sat down, his huge, bent shoulders doubled over the edge of
the bed, his hands hovering hesitatingly over the counterpane. In
wonderment Philip watched him, and he heard him whisper again:
"You blessed little beggar!"
Then he looked up suddenly. In his face was the transformation
that might have come into a woman's. There was something awesome
in its animal strength and its tenderness. He seized one of
Philip's hands and held it for a moment in a grip that made the
other's fingers ache.
"You're sure it's a boy?" he asked anxiously.
"Quite sure," replied Philip. "We've named him John."
The master of the Adare House leaned over the bed again. Philip
heard him mumbling softly in his thick beard, and very cautiously
he touched the end of a big forefinger to one of the baby's tiny
fists. The little fingers opened, and then they closed tightly
about John Adare's thumb. The older man looked again at Philip,
and from him his eyes sought Josephine. His voice trembled with
ecstasy.
"Where is Josephine?"
"Gone to her mother," replied Philip.
"Bring her--quick!" commanded Adare. "Tell her to bring her mother
and wake the kid or I'll yell. I've got to hear the little beggar
talk." As Philip turned toward the door he flung after him in a
sibilant whisper: "Wait! Maybe you know how to do it--"
"We'd better have Josephine," advised Philip quickly, and before
Adare could argue his suggestion he hurried into the hall.
Where he would find her he had no idea, and as he went down the
hall he listened at each of the several doors he passed. The door
into the big living-room was partly ajar, and he looked in. The
room was empty. For a few moments he stood silent. From the size
and shape of the building whose outside walls he had followed in
his hunt for Jean he knew there must be many other rooms, and
probably other shorter corridors leading to some of them.
Just now his greatest desire was to come face to face with
Croisset--and alone. He had already determined upon a course of
action if such a meeting occurred. Next to that he wanted to see
Josephine's mother. It had struck him as singular that she had not
accompanied her husband to Josephine's room, and his curiosity was
still further aroused by the girl's apparent indifference to this
fact. Jean Croisset and the mistress of Adare House had hung
behind when the older man came into the room where they were
standing. For an instant Jean had revealed himself, and he was
sure that Adare's wife was not far behind him, concealed in the
deeper gloom.
Suddenly the sound of a falling object came to his ears, as if a
book had dropped from a table, or a chair had overturned. It was
from the end of the hall--almost opposite his room. At his own
door he stopped again and listened. This time he could hear
voices, a low and unintelligible murmur. It was quite easy for him
to locate the sound. He moved across to the other door, and
hesitated. He had already disobeyed Josephine's injunction to
remain with her father. Should he take a further advantage by
obeying John Adare's command to bring his wife and daughter? A
strange and subdued excitement was stirring him. Since the
appearance of the threatening face at his window--the knowledge
that in another moment he would have invited death from out of the
night--he felt that he was no longer utterly in the hands of the
woman he loved. And something stronger than he could resist
impelled him to announce his presence at the door.
At his knock there fell a sudden silence beyond the thick panels.
For several moments he waited, holding his breath. Then he heard
quick steps, the door swung slowly open, and he faced Josephine.
"Pardon me for interrupting you," he apologized in a low voice.
"Your father sent me for you and your mother. He says that you
must come and wake the baby."
Slowly Josephine held out a hand to him. He was startled by its
coldness.
"Come in, Philip," she said. "I want you to meet my mother."
He entered into the warm glow of the room. Slightly bending over a
table stood the slender form of a woman, her back toward him.
Without seeing her face he was astonished at her striking
resemblance to Josephine--the same slim, beautiful figure, the
same thick, glowing coils of hair crowning her head--but darker.
She turned toward him, and he was still more amazed by this
resemblance. And yet it was a resemblance which he could not at
first define. Her eyes were very dark instead of blue. Her heavy
hair, drawn smoothly back from her forehead, was of the deep brown
that is almost black in the shadow. Slimness had given her the
appearance of Josephine's height. She was still beautiful. Hair,
eyes, and figure gave her at first glance an appearance of almost
girlish loveliness.
And then, all at once, the difference swept upon him. She was like
Josephine as he had seen her in that hour of calm despair when she
had come to him at the canoe. Home-coming had not brought her
happiness. Her face was colourless, her cheeks slightly hollowed,
in her eyes he saw now the lustreless glow which frequently comes
with a fatal sickness. He was smiling and holding out his hand to
her even as he saw these things, and at his side he heard
Josephine say:
"Mother, this is Philip."
The hand she gave him was small and cold. Her voice, too, was
wonderfully like Josephine's.
"I was not expecting to see you to-night, Philip," she said. "I am
almost ill. But I am glad now that you joined us. Did I hear you
say that my husband sent you?"
"The baby is holding his thumb," laughed Philip. "He says that you
must come and wake him. I doubt if you can get him out of the
baby's room to-night."
The voice of Adare himself answered from the door: "Was holding
it," he corrected. "He's squirming like an eel now and making
grimaces that frightened me. Better hurry to him, Josephine!" He
went directly to his wife, and his voice was filled with an
infinite tenderness as he slipped an arm about her and caressed
her smooth hair with one of his big hands. "You're tired, aren't
you?" he asked gently. "The jaunt was almost too much for my
little girl, wasn't it? It will do you good to see the baby before
you go to bed. Won't you come, Miriam?"
Josephine alone saw the look in Philip's face. And for one moment
Philip forgot himself as he stared at John Adare and his wife.
Beside this flowerlike slip of a woman Adare was more than ever a
giant, and his eyes glowed with the tenderness that was in his
voice. Miriam's lips trembled in a smile as she gazed up at her
husband. In her eyes shone a responsive gentleness; and then
Philip turned to find Josephine looking at him from the door, her
lips drawn in a straight, tense line, her face as white as the bit
of lace at her throat. He hurried to her. Behind him rumbled the
deep, joyous voice of the master of Adare House, and passing
through the door he glanced behind and saw them following, Adare's
arm about his wife's waist. Josephine caught Philip's arm, and
whispered in a low voice:
"They are always like that, always lovers. They are like two
wonderful children, and sometimes I think it is too beautiful to
be true. And now that you have met them I am going to ask you to
go to your room. You have been my true knight--more than I dared
to hope, and to-morrow--"
She interrupted herself as Adare and his wife appeared at the
door.
"To-morrow?" he persisted.
"I will try and thank you," she replied. Then she said, and Philip
saw she spoke directly to her father: "You will excuse Philip,
won't you, Mon Pere? I will go with you, for I have taken the care
of baby from Moanne to-night. Her husband is sick."
Adare shook hands with Philip.
"I'm up mornings before the owls have gone to sleep," he said.
"Will you breakfast with me? I'm afraid that if you wait for
Miriam and Mignonne you will go hungry. They will sleep until noon
to make up for to-night."
"Nothing would suit me better," declared Philip. "Will you knock
at my door if I fail to show up?"
Adare was about to answer, but caught himself suddenly as he
looked from Philip to Josephine.
"What! this soon, Mignonne?" he demanded, chuckling in his beard.
"Your rooms at the two ends of the house already! That was never
the way with Miriam and me. Can you remember such a thing, Ma
Cheri?"
"It--it is the baby," gasped Josephine, backing from the light to
hide the wild rush of blood to her face. "Philip cannot sleep,"
she finished desperately.
"Then I disapprove of his nerves," rejoined her father. "Good-
night, Philip, my boy!"
"Good-night!" said Philip.
He was looking at Adare's wife as they moved away. In the dim
light of the hall a strange look had come into her face at her
husband's jesting words. Was it the effect of the shadows, or had
he seen her start--almost as if for an instant she had been
threatened by a blow? Was it imagination, or had he in that same
instant caught a sudden look of alarm, of terror, in her eyes?
Josephine had told him that her mother knew nothing of the tragedy
of the child's birth. If this were so, why had she betrayed the
emotions which Philip was sure he had seen?
A chaotic tangle of questions and of doubts rushed through his
mind. John Adare alone had acted a natural and unrestrained part
in the brief space that had intervened since his home-coming.
Philip had looked upon the big man's love and happiness, his
worship of the woman who was his wife, his ecstasy over the baby,
his affection for Josephine, and it seemed to him that he KNEW
this man now. The few moments he had stood in the room with mother
and daughter had puzzled him most. In their faces he had seen no
sign of gladness at their reunion, and he asked himself if
Josephine had told him all the truth--if her mother were not,
after all, a partner to her secret.
And then there swept upon him in all its overwhelming cloud of
mystery that other question which until now he had not dared to
ask himself: HAD JOSEPHINE HERSELF TOLD HIM ALL THE TRUTH? He did
not dare to tell himself that it was possible that she was NOT the
mother of the child which she had told him was her own. And yet he
could not kill the whispering doubt deep back in his brain. It had
come to him in the room, quick as a flashlight, when she had made
her confession; it was insistent now as he stood looking at the
closed door through which they had disappeared.
For him to believe wholly and unquestioned Josephine's confession
was like asking him to believe that da Vinci's masterpiece hanging
in the big room had been painted by a blind man. In her he had
embodied all that he had ever dreamed of as pure and beautiful in
a woman, and the thought came now. Had Josephine, for some
tremendous reason known only to herself and Jean, tried to destroy
his great love for her by revealing herself in a light that was
untrue?
Instantly he told himself that this could not be so. If he
believed in Josephine at all, he must believe that she had told
him the truth. And he did believe, in spite of the whispering
doubt. He felt that he could not sleep until he had seen Josephine
alone. In her room John Adare had interrupted them a minute too
soon. In spite of the mysterious and unsettling events of the
night his heart still beat with the wild and joyous hope that had
come with Josephine's surrender to his arms and lips.
Instead of accepting the confession of her misfortune as the final
barrier between them, he had taken it as the key that had unlocked
the chains of her bondage. If she had told him the truth--if this
were what separated them--she belonged to him; and he wanted to
tell her this again before he slept, and hear from her lips the
words that would give her to him forever.
Despairing of this, he opened the door to his room.