Not until Jane was finishing an account of his disposal of the
"grave-diggers" did Pape feel sure that the splendid old man was blind.
Suspicion had come from the uncertainty with which he had veered toward
the chair placed for him, from his indirect gaze toward the girl, from
the hand outstretched for the touch of her hand. Conclusion surprised
from the Westerner a low, sympathetic exclamation which Jane heard,
evidently understood and chose to answer openly.
"Yes," said she, "my father has been unable to see since the war.
France, you know, and mustard gas."
"Do you suppose--" Curtis Lauderdale himself put the question--"that
otherwise I'd permit my dear girl to conduct this search against our
enemies?"
"But the war--at your age, sir?" murmured Pape. "Weren't there enough of
us who were young and free of family responsibilities to go into
service?"
Again that rarely beautiful smile from eyes which appeared somehow to
see more than was visible to those blessed with sight. "I was willing
for you youngsters to do the actual fighting. But I felt called upon to
take some part. What are two eyes compared with the inner knowledge that
you did your bit? I only helped to make trench life easier, along with
many other K-C's and wearers of the 'Y.'"
"And how did they--get you?"
"Enemy gas bombs didn't respect non-combative insignia or uniforms. One
of them blinded me and the gray horde got--well, one more American
prisoner. I was later than most getting back home."
There was a vitality in his manner--a throb of pure joy in his
voice--which eased the poignancy of the younger man's pity and reminded
him that one mercy amid the heartbreaks of the big fight would seem to
be the compensation seen by those whose gaze has been focused forever
inward.
Pape turned from father to daughter. "But your aunt, Mrs. Sturgis, told
me that your father was----"
"Yes." Again Jane divined his perplexity. "Aunt Helene thinks that dad
'went West,' as they say, in the war. She was very much against his
going. And when he came back so late and so--so much the worse for wear,
he and I decided that she and the rest should continue to believe the
report which had preceded him across the Atlantic, at least until after
we forced----"
She did not hesitate; just stopped, having said what she evidently
considered enough. As she showed no curiosity over the when, where or
whyfore of auntie's confidence, Pape forced upon her no report, either
of that interview or the canter through conversational and Central Park
by-paths with Cousin Irene. Rather, he gave to the charm of personality
in the older man--a magnet toward which he had turned willingly since
Jane's justification in that quiet "my father."
"But since you are freed, sir--now that you are back----"
Jane's eyes stopped him, so dark with suspicion was their blue.
"I don't know just what is back of your interest, Why-Not Pape. But it
will do no harm, whichever side you are on, to admit a truth about my
father known to both his friends and foes. He is under a shadow--an
undeserved disgrace which culminated in an indictment. Until that shadow
is dissipated it is better that none should know he has come back. What
I decided to trust you with before you found it out for yourself, was
the identity of the man with whom you thought that I----"
"I am too grateful--" in his turn Pape interrupted--"ever to let you
regret that trust."
He spoke as he felt, with revealing sincerity. His look held hers; the
thrill of his voice the moment.
The blind man lightened the pause. "The only thing I had to thank our
enemies for was the loss of my identity. We thought advisable that it
stay lost to all but Jane. My sister-in-law, kind as she has been to my
girl-child, must have been more relieved than grieved over the alleged
finish of one supposed to have disgraced the name. Why my daughter has
seen fit to let you, a comparative stranger, into the secret which we
have guarded so carefully----"
Why? Judging by Jane's set look at the implied criticism, she either
could not or would not explain. The interloper's eyes, still fixed on
hers, reiterated the counter-demand, why not--_why not_?
Her father, as though sensing much more than he could see, reached out
and stroked her soft, parted, night-black hair.
"Never mind, Jen-Jen," he said. "The fact that you do a thing makes it
right enough for me."
With sudden penitent fervor, she seized and kissed his hand. "I don't
know, daddy dear. It is hard to be sure about forced, snap judgments. I
hope this Westerner is what I've told you he looks. I am glad to have
brought him here to have you help me decide. And I haven't exactly let
him into anything. Of his own force--curiosity, superfluous energy or
whatever it is that animates him--he has sort of dashed into my life. He
knows about the theft of grandfather's cryptogram and that I'm trying to
follow it from memory in my park hunt. But, of course, the enemy knows
that or they wouldn't be watching me or-- _Oh_, I do hope that it's all
right--that he's all right! Now that he has trailed me here, that he
knows who and where you are, so much depends upon his integrity. If he
is against us and is clever, wouldn't he pretend just the same to be
with us?"
Had she forgotten his presence in their midst or was she super-acutely
remembering it? Pape wondered. He felt as nearly futile as was
constitutional about further attempts to convince her of his fealty. On
the part of the Self-Selected, if not on his, that slow-but-sure method
would have to do. Time and acts would tell--time and acts and this
high-priest of hers, for love of whom she had lit into a devotional
taper.
He--her father--proceeded at once to fulfill her prayer--to "help her
decide."
"Dear," he proposed, "would it be too much to ask you to serve us tea?
If it is, just forget my bad habit. But that last Orange Pekoe you got
is delicious. And there are a few fig-cakes left in the box. I'll try to
entertain this latest acquisition of yours while you're bringing the
water to a boil."
He did try--and succeeded. As soon as the girl had left the room, he
began in a lowered tone:
"I was glad to do what I could for my country, even at the cost. My
misfortune I have learned to look on as the _fortune_ of war. My keenest
regret--" he gave a sightless glance toward the closed door--"is the
loss of seeing Jane's face. From her babyhood up, I have so enjoyed
Jane's face. I keep wondering and wondering whether it has changed or
aged from the years and the suffering I've caused her--whether it is
less or more lovely than when I last saw it that day I kissed it
good-by."
"It is," said Pape with conviction, "more lovely. It must be. You or any
man would need to be a patriot, sir, to love and leave such a face. It
reminds me of one I didn't have to leave--one that led me over that long
road Over There to and through hell."
"And whose face was that?"
"My mother's."
The old man looked arrested and pleased. He nodded, as though in
realization of a hope.
"Tell me," he bade the younger, "what Jane looks like to you."
Well it was, perhaps, that he could not see the embarrassment he had
caused. Indeed, Pape didn't feel up to the sudden demand upon his sparse
supply of fine language. He couldn't have felt less adequate, he was
sure, had he been called upon for an extemporaneous critique upon the
Sistine Madonna in the presence of its creator.
And yet there were reasons and reasons in this case why he should try to
satisfy the eagerness of the fine old face bent his way in a listening
attitude. The pathos of eyes from which the soul of sight had gone, the
worthiness of the subject and a certain longing within himself to
express to the next most interested person the appreciation which so far
he had been unable to confide even in her who had inspired it--all urged
him to make an effort.
He drew a deep breath; wondered how far away she was; hoped, then feared
that possibly she would overhear. He feared, lest he fall short of the
flattery which must have been poured, her life long, into her ears. He
hoped that she might the sooner get an idea of his reverential
admiration.
"Ever been to the Yellowstone?"
At his abrupt question the old man chuckled.
"Boy," said he, "I knew our West before you were born. I was one of the
first whites into the Park, then a wilderness. Jane tells me you're from
Hellroaring. I was one of the party that named the region."
"You don't tell me that you are--Why, of course! I should have known. We
have a peak named after you. Your hand, old scout!"
The grip that answered was one of the sort Pape understood, a strong,
firm, promising pact to the West that had come East. Surer at least of
his visible audience, he roweled into the subject of the moment.
"In terms of our Yellowstone, then, your daughter's eyes remind me of
Morning Glory Geyser. Could I say more for their color, sir?"
"No. The same sun that whitened the Glory's spray seemed to make the
deeps of its pool a stronger blue. And her hair, young man, is it----?"
"Black as the jade of Obsidian Cliffs," Pape supplied, then corrected
himself. "Yet that don't seem an altogether proper simile, it is so
soft. Of course, I've never touched it, sir, but I've an idea that the
mountain moss, where we find the giant violets, would feel harsh to the
hand that had smoothed your daughter's hair."
"It would that. Thank God they didn't blind my sense of touch! My
fingers never tire of seeing Jane's soft hair."
"Then your fingers must be able to see her lips, too, for they are as
definitely dented as those of an antelope doe. And they're as healthy a
red as ever they could have been in her childhood--red as the sun when
it gets over into Idaho. And the Teton Range itself can't beat her for
clean, strong lines. I've never seen a woman who was such a blend of
delicacy and power as your Jane. Still or in movement, I admire to watch
her."
Lauderdale leaned back into his chair with a sigh of satisfaction. "I
used to call her 'Little Lynx.' There never was such a child for
sinuousness. Ah, what a treat you're giving me, Mr. Pape, to help me see
again the beauties of my beautiful girl! Tell me--" The father's voice
lowered without loss of eagerness. His hands quavered forward, as though
to supply the lack in his misted, striving eyes. "I want to know
particularly about the expression of her face. Has the trouble I've
brought upon her shadowed its brilliant paleness? Has it still that rare
repose, with only a lift of the eyelid, a twitch of a corner of her lips
or a quiver of her chin, to show the emotions beneath?"
Pape drew back from the he-man habit of hiding his heart; then, after a
thought, leaned forward again. Why hide from this one man who could be
her true lover, yet no rival to himself? Why not show what he felt? He
closed his eyes, the better and more companionably to picture Jane. He
felt that they two, both sightless now, saw the same vision as he spoke.
"I ain't what you'd call up in art, sir. But I saw in Paris the finest
statues in the world, or so they told me. The quiet of those still,
white people sort of got on my imagination. Their suppression seemed to
spoil me for the awful animation of the average face. Likely that's why
your Jane's got me at first sight, although I hadn't thought it out up
to now. Hers is the first female face I ever was glad to watch in vain
for a smile. There couldn't be a marble paler or purer or with features
finer lined. Just as I used to thank Heaven, looking at those statued
ladies, that they couldn't relax from their perfection, I feel like
praying that Jane never will relax into a smile--until she smiles on
me."
A crowded silence fell between, but did not separate them. Its most
vital question the Westerner next answered bluntly, after his way.
"It ain't impudence, my calling her by her first name, Mr. Lauderdale. I
haven't had a real good opportunity as yet to ask your daughter to marry
me. You see, we haven't met any too often--this is time the fourth and
only a shade less perturbed than the former three. But rest assured that
I'll take advantage of the first chance. Our 'happily-ever-afterward' is
all settled so far as I am concerned."
"I see."
Although in one way the blind man's quiet statement wasn't true, in
another he looked as though it was.
At a call from the rear room, Pape sprang to open the door and relieve
Jane of her laden tea-tray. On turning, he noticed that the father's one
hand gripped the other in his strong, firm, Westernwise clasp, as though
in self-congratulation. He looked as though he now felt sincere in the
welcome extended earlier for form's sake to one Peter Stansbury Pape.
Just why? Well, why not?