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Page 125
"No," said Kenny. "No, he must not."
She stared at him in wonder.
"Mavourneen," he pleaded wistfully, "may I--not do that at least for
someone who is yours? Don needs it."
He could not know that his kindness was to her more poignant torment
than his bitterest reproach. He thought as the color fled from her
lips and left her gray and trembling, that she was fainting. He held
her closely in his arms.
She slipped away from him and sat down weakly in a chair. Dusk lay
beyond the windows. Joan covered her face with her hands.
"The Gray Man," she whispered. "He's peeping in."
Pain flared intolerably in Kenny's throat and stabbed into his heart.
He drew the shades with a shudder and lighted the lamp.
In the supreme moment of his agony, came inspiration. He must save
them all with a lie! Queer that, queer and contradictory! Yes, after
practicing the truth, he must save them all from shipwreck with a lie.
"Girleen," he said, "there is something now that I must tell you. I
thought never to say it. You came into my dream that day beneath the
willow in gold brocade, with afterglow behind you and an ancient boat.
I am an Irishman--and a painter. 'Twas a spot of rare enchantment and
I said to myself, I am falling in love--again."
"Again!" echoed Joan a little blankly.
"Again!" said Kenny inexorably. "You see, Joan, dear, I was used to
falling in love. There are men like that. You and Brian would never
understand."
"No," said the girl, shocked. "No."
"You made a mistake, the sort of mistake that drives half the lifeboats
on the rocks. I mean, dear, falling in love with love. But you're
over that. It was--a different sort of love with me. I knew as we
crossed the river that first day in the punt that the madness could not
last. You see--it never had."
"Kenny!"
If Joan in that moment had remembered the Irishman tearing bricks from
the fireplace in a spasm of histrionic zeal, she might have distrusted
the steadiness of his level, kindly glance. She might have guessed
that again he was reckless and on his mettle. But she did not remember.
"Romance and mystery," said Kenny, lighting a cigarette and smiling at
her through a cloud of smoke, "were always the death of me. My fancy's
wayward and romantic. Afterward your will-of-the-wisp charm held me
oddly. You kept yourself apart and precious. And I was always
pursuing. It was provocative--and unfamiliar. And then came Samhain,
the--the summer-ending." There was an odd note in his voice. "I faced
a new experience. I had gone over the usual duration of my madness and
I thought," he smiled, "I thought I was loving you for good. But--"
Her dark eyes stared at him, wistful and yet in the moment of her hope
a shade reproachful.
"And--your love--did not last, Kenny?" It was a forlorn little voice,
for all its unmistakable note of rejoicing. How very young she
was--and childlike!
"It--did--not--last!" said Kenny deliberately. "It never does with me.
I should have known it. I love you sincerely, girleen. I always
shall. But I love you as I would have loved--my daughter."
"Your daughter! Kenny, why then did you speak so of the flood of
Killarney?"
"I was testing you. You can see for yourself. I could not honorably
tell you this, dear, if you still cared."
"But I do care," cried Joan, flinging out her hands with a gesture of
appeal. "I love you so much, Kenny, that it hurts."
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