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Page 26
The thought of flight from a peril of sweetness he banished instantly.
To run away was to deny himself the fullness of life men said he needed
as an artist. It was unthinkable. Nay, it was unscrupulous, for the
greatness of his gift Kenny regarded as an obligation. Besides, Kenny
denied himself nothing that he wanted, having considered his wants in
detail and found them human, complex and delightful, and sufficiently
harmless.
Passionately at war with the new complication in his quest for Brian,
Kenny in frantic excitement blamed everything but himself. He blamed
the girl. A girl with a face like that had absolutely no right to be
loitering in a spot of such enchantment. He blamed the mystery of her
gown. Mystery always did for him. He blamed the river and the sylvan
wildness all around him and went on staring.
"Please say something!" The girl's laughter had changed to shyness,
then to mystification.
Kenny brushed his hair back with a sigh. No fault of his if Fate grew
prankish and set the stage with gold brocade and an ancient boat and
such a ferryman. He had evoked romance and mystery with the battered
horn and he could not escape. All of it had fairly leaped at him and
caught him unawares.
"I--I beg your pardon," he said.
"For sleeping?" The girl smiled a little.
"For staring! First," he said, his Irish eyes laughing back at her
with the frank charm of a boy begging her to like him, "first I thought
you had stepped from a tapestry into my dream--"
The rich hint of rose in her skin deepened. She glanced at her gown.
"Don't tell me about it!" begged Kenny impetuously. And long afterward
she was to recognize in that eager gallantry the finest of tact. "It's
a delight just to be wonderin'! You called me Mr. O'Neill!" he added
blankly.
"Some letters had tumbled from your pocket."
Kenny's brow cleared.
"Besides, whenever the horn blew lately I thought it might be you."
This was too amazing. But the girl's eyes were beautiful, ingenuous
and wholly sincere. Dumfounded, Kenny turned away and gathered up his
letters.
"Mystery," he said, shaking his head, "is the spice of delight. But I
like it diffused. A bit more and I'll be knowing for sure that I'm
dreamin'."
"It's as simple as the letters," said the girl, smiling. She drew a
letter from the pocket of her gown and held it out to him. He read the
address with frank curiosity. Well, thank Heaven, that was settled.
Her name was Joan West.
The handwriting was Garry's.
"For the love of Mike!" said Kenny, staring.
"Please read it," said Joan. "It makes everything so simple."
Kenny obeyed.
"Dear Miss West:
"It was like Brian to write so splendidly of his father in an effort to
guarantee his own respectability as a suitable friend for your truant
brother and fix his identity for the sake of your peace of mind. And
I'm glad he told you to write to me.
"Though at this particular minute I would like best to thrash Kennicott
O'Neill into work and sanity, I might just as well admit the fact that
I'm merely in the chronic state of all men who love him and pass on
cheerfully to a pleasant task. All that Brian has said of his father
is true. As for Brian himself, he's a lovable, hot-headed chap with a
head and a heart and too much of both for his own peace of mind. And
he's so darned level-headed and unaffected he needs a Boswell. I hope
I've made good.
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