There came the sound of a voice through the willow trees, across the
other side of the stream. It was a sturdy voice, high and ringing with
encouragement.
"Bear up--be brave," it said. "We're coming to the ford. Once the
river's crossed there are only a few more miles to go before we're
safe."
The smile that rose into Mary's eyes found no place to linger there.
She turned with Liddiard at the sound to see, a faun no longer, a faun
transformed to stalwart man, bearing a distressed maiden in his arms--a
knight errant shouldering the precious burden of outraged womanhood and
bringing her to safety.
Again the smile crept back into Mary's eyes. Again it crept away.
"Has Lucy hurt herself?" she asked. "What's the matter with her?"
"There were two terrible robbers in the wood," said he as he strode with
his burden into the stream. "They had tied her to a tree. She was all
naked when I found her. I've killed them both--she's--" Then seeing
Liddiard for the first time, he stopped. Astonishment leapt into his
eyes. He set his Lucy down and stood staring.
"John," said Mary, "this is a friend of mine, a Mr. Liddiard." She
turned to Liddiard. "This is my John," she said.
They met and solemnly shook hands. With eyes that sought for subtlest
meanings and hidden things, Mary watched them, the touching of their
hands, the look of the eyes. So surely she knew, across the unmeasured
distance between them, Liddiard was casting the javelin of his soul to
pierce John's heart. In that silence as he stood holding John's hand,
she knew he was eagerly, determinedly, poignantly conscious of being
father of her child and in that silence was straining to project his
consciousness into the very soul of John. Would he respond? She watched
them both, but closest by far, her John. Was there some voice in life
between father and child which all the years and all their silence could
not still? With almost a jealous dread she stood before that moment
swift in her mind to see the faintest sign. Would he respond?
For a while John's hand lay in Liddiard's, then of himself he took it
away.
"Can we go on playing, Mummy?" he asked. When she knew there had been no
answer to Liddiard's call; when, sure in her heart he know none but her,
she knelt down on the grass at his side and took his cool cheeks in her
hands.
"If you'll kiss me," said she, "if you'll kiss me first."
He framed his lips and kissed her eyes and stood back laughing. He
framed his lips again and kissed her mouth, then laughed again and
lastly, flinging his arms about her neck, he poured his kisses like a
song into her ears, then, shouting to his Lucy, ran away.
In a long silence, Liddiard turned and watched them, faun and dryad once
more, spirits of that sunshine and those deep green shades of the trees.
He looked back at Mary.
"You've made a sturdy, splendid thing of him, Mary," he said
emotionally. "You've made him fit for the very best."
She closed her eyes.
"Who's the little girl?" he asked presently.
"Lucy--Lucy Kemp. She's the daughter of a farmer who lives over there.
They're great friends." She half smiled. "I was jealous at first. I
know now these things must be. Boy and girl, why shouldn't they begin
that way? It's grown to be the sweetest of wooings to me. They're
becoming like two young shoots together. One day their roots will
twine."
He put on his hat.
"You can't be sure of that," said he. "One day perhaps he'll need his
own. I know you think, living here, that class means nothing. You rule
out heredity altogether. But it comes out. He might be content. Do you
think a girl like that could ever make him realize the fullness of
life?"
Fear sprang back into her heart again.
"Oh, why did you ever come?" she said. "We were all so happy here!"