For a few moments Philip stood without moving. Jean's return and
the strange things he had said had worked like sharp wine in his
blood. He was breathing quickly. He was afraid that his appearance
just now would betray the mental excitement which he must hide. He
drew back deeper into the shadow of the wall and waited, and while
he waited he thought of Jean. It was not the old Jean that had
returned this night, the Jean with his silence, his strange
repression, the mysterious something that had seemed to link him
with an age-old past. Out of that spirit had risen a new sort of
man--the fighting man. He had seen a new fire in Jean's eyes and
face; he had caught new meaning in his words, Jean was no longer
the passive Jean--waiting, watching, guarding. Out in the forest
something had happened to rouse in him what a word from Josephine
would set flaming in the savage breasts of her dogs. And the
excitement in Philip's blood was the thrill of exultation--the
joy of knowing that action was close at hand, for deep in him had
grown the belief that only through action could Josephine be freed
for him.
Suddenly, softly, there came floating to him the low, sweet tones
of the piano, and then, sweeter still, the voice of Josephine.
Another moment and Miriam's voice had joined her in a song whose
melody seemed to float like that of spirit-voices through the
thick fog walls of Adare House. Soundlessly he moved toward the
room where they were waiting for him, a deeper flush mounting into
his face now. He opened the door without being heard, and looked
in.
Josephine was at the piano. The great lamp above her head flooded
her in a mellow light in which the rich masses of her hair
shimmered in a glorious golden glow. His heart beat with the
knowledge that she had again dressed for him to-night. Her white
neck was bare. In her hair he saw for a second time a red rose.
For a space he saw no one but her. Then his eyes turned for an
instant to Miriam. She was standing a little back, and it seemed
to him that he had never seen her so beautiful. Against the wall,
in a great chair, sat the master of Adare, his bearded chin in the
palm of his hand, looking at the two with a steadiness of gaze
that was more than adoration. Philip entered. Still he was
unheard. He stood silent until the song was finished, and it was
Josephine, turning, who saw him first.
"Philip!" she cried.
Adare started, as if awakening from a dream. Josephine came to
Philip, holding out both her hands, her beautiful face smiling
with welcome. Even as their warm touch thrilled him he felt a
sudden chill creep over him. A swift glance showed him that Adare
had gone to Miriam. Instead of words of greeting, he whispered low
in Josephine's ear:
"I would have come sooner, but I have been with Jean. He returned
a few minutes ago. Strange things have happened, and he says that
he must see you within an hour, and that your father must not
know. He is in my room. You must get away without rousing
suspicion."
Her fingers gripped his tightly. The soft glow in her eyes faded
away. A look of fear leapt into them and her face went suddenly
white. He drew her nearer, until her hands were against his
breast.
"Don't look like that," he whispered. "Nothing can hurt you.
Nothing in the world. See--I must do this to bring your colour
back, or they will guess something is wrong!"
He bent and kissed her on the lips.
Adare's voice burst out happily:
"Good boy, Philip! Don't be bashful when we're around. That's the
first time I've seen you kiss your wife!"
There was none of the white betrayal in Josephine's cheeks now.
They were the colour of the rose in her hair. She had time to look
up into Philip's face, and whisper with a laughing break in her
voice:
"Thank you, Philip. You have saved me again."
With Philip's hand in hers she turned to her father and mother.
"Philip wants to scold me, Mon Pere," she said. "And I cannot
blame him. He has seen almost nothing of me to-day."
"And I have been scolding Miriam because they have given me no
chance with the baby," rumbled Adare. "I have seen him but twice
to-day--the little beggar! And both times he was asleep. But I
have forced them to terms, Philip. From to-morrow I am to have him
as much as I please. When they want him they will find him in the
big room."
Josephine led Philip to her mother, who had seated herself on one
of the divans.
"I want you to talk with Philip, Mikawe," she said. "I have
promised father that he should have a peep at the baby. I will
bring him back very soon."
Philip seated himself beside Miriam as Adare and Josephine left
the room. He noticed that her hair was dressed like Josephine's,
and that in the soft depths of it was partly buried a rose.
"Do you know--I sometimes think that I am half dreaming," he said.
"All this seems too wonderful to be true--you, and Josephine,
almost a thousand miles out of the world. Even flowers like that
which you wear in your hair--hot-house flowers!"
There was a strange sweetness in Miriam's smile, a smile softened
by something that was almost pathetic, a touch of sadness.
"That is the one thing we keep alive out of the world I used to
know--roses," she said. "The first roots came from my babyhood
home, and we have grown them here for more than twenty years. Of
course Josephine has shown you our little hot-house?"
"Yes." lied Philip. Then he added, finding her dear eyes resting
on him steadily. "And you have never grown lonesome up here?"
"Never. I am sorry that we ever went back into that other world,
even for a day. This has been paradise. We have always been happy.
And you?" she asked suddenly. "Do you sometimes wish for that
other world?"
"I have been out of it four years--with the exception of a short
break. I never want to go back. Josephine has made my paradise, as
you have made another man's."
He fancied, as she turned her face from him, that he heard a
little catch in her breath. But she faced him again quickly.
"We have been happy. No woman in the world has been happier than
I. And you--four years? In that time you have not heard much
music. Shall I play for you?"
She rose and went to the piano without waiting for him to reply.
Philip leaned back and partly closed his eyes as she began to
play. The spell of music held him silent, and neither spoke until
Josephine and her father returned. Philip did not catch the
laughing words Adare turned to his wife. In the door Josephine had
stopped. To his surprise she was dressed in her red coat and hood,
and her feet were moccasined. She made a quick little signal to
him.
"I am ready, Philip," she said.
He arose, fearing that his tongue might betray him if he replied
to her in words. Adare came unwittingly to his assistance.
"You'll get used to this before the winter is over, Philip," he
exclaimed banteringly. "Metoosin once called Josephine
'Wapikunoo'--the White Owl, and the name has stuck ever since. I
haven't known Mignonne to miss a walk on a moonlit winter night
since I can remember. But I prefer my airings in the day. Eh,
Miriam?"
"And there is no moon to-night," laughed his wife.
"Hush--but there is Philip!" whispered Adare loudly. "It may be
that our Josephine will prefer the darker nights after this. Can
you remember--"
Josephine was pulling Philip through the door, laughing back over
her shoulder. As soon as they were in the hall she caught his arm
excitedly.
"Let us hurry to your room," she urged. "You can dress and slip
out unseen, leaving Jean and me alone. You are sure--he wants to
see me--alone?"
There was a tremble in her voice now.
"Yes." They came to his door and he tapped on it lightly.
Instantly it was opened. Josephine stared at Jean as she darted
in.
"Jean--you have something to tell me?" she whispered, no longer
hiding the fear in her face. "You must see me--alone?"
"Oui, M'selle," murmured Jean, turning to Philip. "If M'sieur
Philip can arrange for us to be alone."
"I will be gone in a moment," said Philip, hastily beginning to
put on heavier garments. "Lock the door, Jean. It will not do to
be interrupted now."
When he was ready Josephine went to him, her eyes shining softly.
Jean turned to the window.
"You--your faith in me is beautiful," she said gratefully, so low
that only he could hear her. "I don't deserve it, Philip."
For a moment he pressed her hand, his face telling her more than
he could trust his lips to speak. Jean heard him turn the key in
the lock, and he turned quickly.
"I have thought it would be better for you to go out by the
window, M'sieur."
"You are right," agreed Philip, relocking the door.
Jean raised the window. As Philip dropped himself outside the
half-breed said:
"Go no farther than the edge of the forest, M'sieur. We will turn
the light low and draw the curtain. When the curtain is raised
again return to us as quickly as you can. Remember, M'sieur--and
go no farther than the edge of the forest."
The window dropped behind him, and he turned toward the dark wall
of spruce. There were six inches of fresh snow on the ground, and
the clouds were again drifting out of the sky. Here and there a
star shone through, but the moon was only a pallid haze beyond the
gray-black thickness above. In the first shelter of the spruce and
balsam Philip paused. He found himself a seat by brushing the snow
from a log, and lighted his pipe. Steadily he kept his eyes on the
curtained window. What was happening there now? To what was
Josephine listening in these tense minutes of waiting?
Even as he stared through the darkness to that one lighter spot in
the gloom he knew that the world was changing for the woman he
loved. He believed Jean, and he knew Jean was now telling her the
story of that day and the preceding night--the story which he had
said would destroy the hopes she had built up, throw their plans
into ruin, perhaps even disclose to him the secret which they had
been fighting to hide. What could that story be? And what effect
was it having on Josephine? The minutes passed slowly--with an
oppressive slowness. Three times he lighted matches to look at his
watch. Five minutes passed--ten, fifteen. He rose from the log and
paced back and forth, making a beaten path in the snow. It was
taking Jean a long time to tell the story!
And then, suddenly, a flood of light shot out into the night. The
curtain was raised! It was Jean's signal to him, and with a wildly
beating heart he responded to it.