Again there filled Philip the desire to be with Jean in the
forest. The husky's wail told him that the half-breed had begun
his journey. Between this hour and to-morrow night he would be
threading his way swiftly over the wilderness trails on his
strange mission. Philip envied him the action, the exhaustion that
would follow. He envied even the dogs running in the traces. He
was a living dynamo, overcharged, with every nerve in him drawn to
the point that demanded the reaction of physical exertion. He knew
that he could not sleep. The night would be one long and tedious
wait for the dawn. And Jean had told him not to sleep as long as
Josephine was awake!
Was he to take that literally? Did Jean mean that he was to watch
her? He wondered if she was in bed now. At least the half-breed's
admonition offered him an excuse. He would go to her room. If
there was a light he would knock, and ask her if she would join
him in the piano-room. He looked at his watch. It was nearly
midnight. Probably she had retired.
He opened his door and entered the hall. Quietly he went to the
end room. There was no light--and he heard no sound. He was
standing close to it, concealed in the shadows, when his heart
gave a sudden jump. Advancing toward him down the hall was a
figure clad in a flowing white night-robe.
At first he did not know whether it was Josephine or Miriam. And
then, as she came under one of the low-burning lamps, he saw that
it was Miriam. She had turned, and was looking back toward the
room where she had left her husband. Her beautiful hair was loose,
and fell in lustrous masses to her hips. She was listening. And in
that moment Philip heard a low, passionate sob. She turned her
face toward him again, and he could see it drawn with agony. In
the lamp-glow her hands were clasped at her partly bared breast.
She was barefoot, and made no sound as she advanced. Philip drew
himself back closer against the wall. He was sure she had not seen
him. A moment later Miriam turned into the corridor that led into
Adare's big room.
Philip felt that he was trembling. In Miriam's face he had seen
something that had made his heart beat faster. Quietly he went to
the corridor, turned, and made his way cautiously to the door of
Adare's room. It was dark inside, the corridor was black. Hidden
in the gloom he listened. He heard Miriam sink in one of the big
chairs, and from her movement, and the sound of her sobbing, he
knew that she had buried her head in her arms on the table. He
listened for minutes to the grief that seemed racking her soul.
Then there was silence. A moment later he heard her, and she was
so close to the door that he dared not move. She passed him, and
turned into the main hall. He followed again.
She paused only for an instant at the door of the room in which
she and her husband slept. Then she passed on, and scarcely
believing his eyes Philip saw her open the door that led out into
the night!
She was full in the glow of the lamp that hung over the door now,
and Philip saw her plainly. A biting gust of wind flung back her
hair. He saw her bare arms; she turned, and he caught the white
gleam of a naked shoulder. Before he could speak--before he could
call her name, she had darted out into the night!
With a gasp of amazement he sprang after her. Her bare feet were
deep in the snow when he caught her. A frightened cry broke from
her lips. He picked her up in his arms as if she had been a child,
and ran back into the hall with her, closing the door after them.
Panting, shivering with the cold, she stared at him without
speaking.
"Why were you going out there?" he whispered. "Why--like that?"
For a moment he was afraid that from her heaving bosom and
quivering lips would burst forth the strange excitement which she
was fighting back. Something told him that Adare must not discover
them in the hall. He caught her hands. They were cold as ice.
"Go to your room," he whispered gently. "You must not let him know
you were out there in the snow--like this. You--were partly
asleep."
Purposely he gave her the chance to seize upon this explanation.
The sobbing breath came to her lips again.
"I guess--it must have been--that," she said, drawing her hands
from him. "I was going out--to--the baby. Thank you, Philip. I--I
will go to my room now."
She left him, and not until her door had closed behind her did he
move. Had she spoken the truth? Had she in those few moments been
temporarily irresponsible because of grieving over the baby's
death? Some inner consciousness answered him in the negative. It
was not that. And yet--what more could there be? He remembered.
Jean's words, his insistent warnings. Resolutely he moved toward
Josephine's room, and knocked softly upon her door. He was
surprised at the promptness with which her voice answered. When he
spoke his name, and told her it was important for him to see her,
she opened the door. She had unbound her hair. But she was still
dressed, and Philip knew that she had been sitting alone in the
darkness of her room.
She looked at him strangely and expectantly. It seemed to Philip
as if she had been waiting for news which she dreaded, and which
she feared that he was bringing her.
"May I come in?" he whispered. "Or would you prefer to go into the
other room?"
"You may come in, Philip," she replied, letting him take her hand.
"I am still dressed. I have been so dreadfully nervous to-night
that I haven't thought of going to bed. And the moon is so
beautiful through my window. It has been company." Then she asked:
"What have you to tell me, Philip?"
She had stepped into the light that flooded through the window. It
transformed her hair into a lustrous mantle of deep gold; into her
eyes it put the warm glow of the stars. He made a movement, as if
to put his arms about her, but he caught himself, and a little
joyous breath came to Josephine's lips. It was her room, where she
slept--and he had come at a strange hour. She understood the
movement, his desire to take her in his arms, and his big, clean
thoughts of her as he drew a step back. It sent a flush of
pleasure and still deeper trust into her cheeks.
"You have something to tell me?" she asked.
"Yes--about your mother."
Her hand had touched his arm, and he felt her start. Briefly he
told what had happened. Josephine's face was so white that it
startled him when he had finished.
"She said--she was going to the baby!" she breathed, as if
whispering the words to herself. "And she was in her bare feet,
with her hair down, and her gown open to the snow and wind! Oh my
God!"
"Perhaps she was in her sleep," hurried Philip. "It might have
been that, Josephine."
"No, she wasn't in her sleep," replied Josephine, meeting his
eyes. "You know that, Philip. She was awake. And you have come to
tell me so that I may watch her. I understand."
"She might rest easier with you--if you can arrange it," he
agreed. "Your father worries over her now. It will not do to let
him know this."
She nodded.
"I will bring her to my room, Philip. I will tell my father that I
am nervous and cannot sleep. And I will say nothing to her of what
has happened. I will go as soon as you have returned to your
room."
He went to the door, and there for a moment she stood close to
him, gazing up into his face. Still he did not put his hands to
her. To-night--in her own room--it seemed to him something like
sacrilege to touch her. And then, suddenly, she raised her two
arms up through her shimmering hair to his shoulders, and held her
lips to him.
"Good-night, Philip!"
He caught her to him. Her arms tightened about his shoulders. For
a moment he felt the thrill of her warm lips. Then she drew back,
whispering again:
"Good-night, Philip!"
The door closed softly, and he returned to his room. Again the
song of life, of love, of hope that pictured but one glorious end
filled his soul to overflowing. A little later and he knew that
Adare's wife had gone with Josephine to her room. He went to bed.
And sleep came to him now, filled with dreams in which he lived
with Josephine always at his side, laughing and singing with him,
and giving him her lips to kiss in their joyous paradise.