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Page 124
He swung rebelliously to his feet. Why must the fullness of life come
through sacrifice? Why must all things good and permanent and true
come only out of suffering? Why must men pay for their dreams with
pain?
He moved mechanically toward the door. . . . Yes, he cared more for
Joan's happiness than for his own. And she was suffering. Why, the
tired truth of it was, he loved them both enough to want to see them
happy . . . And he would be a part of Don's erratic atonement.
He smiled wryly and realized with a start that he was already
out-of-doors, walking dazedly toward the cabin in the pines. The
fresh, sweet wind blew through his hair and into his face, but the blur
persisted, filled with voices and memories and promptings from God
alone knew where.
The odor of pine was sharply reminiscent. . . . And then with a shock
that stung him out of inhibition he was staring in at the cabin window.
Joan sat by the table, her head upon her arm, her shoulders heaving.
"Poor child!" he said heavily. "Poor child!" And savagely cursed the
summer pictures that flamed in his mind at the sight of her. The
cabin, the wistaria ladder, the punt, the girl by the willow in the
gold brocade--
Well, he must go hurriedly toward that door or not at all. His courage
was failing.
The sound of the door startled her. Joan leaped to her feet and stood,
shaking violently, by the table, one hand clutching at the edge of it
in terror.
In that tongue-tied minute, if he had but known, with his fingers
clenched in his hair and his face scarlet, he was like that turbulent
boy who such a little while ago had crashed into his life with a sob.
Joan's agonized eyes, wet with tears, brought home to him the need of a
steady head . . . and responsibility. Yes, he must keep his two feet
solidly on the ground and face a gigantic responsibility.
"Don't cry, dear, please!" he said gently. "It's just one of the
things that can't be helped. Don told me. He overheard."
Her low cry hurt--viciously. And she came flying wildly across the
room to his arms, sobbing out her grief and remorse.
"Oh, Kenny, Kenny." she sobbed. "I--want--you--both."
His shaking arms sheltered her. A heart-broken child! He must
remember that. And, as Don said, he could have been her father.
"Happiness with the least unhappiness to others, girleen," he reminded
with his cheek against her hair. "Remember?"
"Yes," she choked.
"You must go to Brian. Any foolish notion of sacrifice now will only
tangle the lives of all of us."
"But--I cannot forget! Kenny, if only you would hate me!"
"I didn't mean to love you, mavourneen. It was like the tale of
Killarney. I left a cover off in my heart and a spring gushed out and
flooded my life."
"I am blaming myself!"
"You must not do that. You were in love with love. You must now know
how different it--" But he could not say it, courageous as he felt.
"And the money!" choked Joan. "Oh, Kenny, Kenny, the ragged money!
And I gave it away. And you were so good--so good!"
He frowned, unable to understand at once the relevance of the ragged
money and realized that Joan was sobbing into his shoulder the tale of
an eavesdropping bartender and a doctor. He accepted it, dazedly,
thunderstruck at the alertness of his Nemesis who missed no single
chance to shoot an arrow.
"And Don must give that money back. I will tell him--"
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