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Page 26
Slowly he drew himself away from her, knowing that for this night at
least his back was to the wall. She was smiling at him from out of the
big chair, and in spite of himself he smiled back at her.
"I must send you to bed now, Mary Josephine, and tomorrow we will talk
everything over," he said. "You're so tired you're ready to fall asleep
in a minute."
Tiny, puckery lines came into her pretty forehead. It was a trick he
loved at first sight.
"Do you know, Derry, I almost believe you've changed a lot. You used to
call me 'Juddy.' But now that I'm grown up, I think I like Mary
Josephine better, though you oughtn't to be quite so stiff about it.
Derry, tell me honest--are you AFRAID of me?"
"Afraid of you!"
"Yes, because I'm grown up. Don't you like me as well as you did one,
two, three, seven years ago? If you did, you wouldn't tell me to go to
bed just a few minutes after you've seen me for the first time in all
those--those--Derry, I'm going to cry! I AM!"
"Don't," he pleaded. "Please don't!"
He felt like a hundred-horned bull in a very small china shop. Mary
Josephine herself saved the day for him by jumping suddenly from the
big chair, forcing him into it, and snuggling herself on his knees.
"There!" She looked at a tiny watch on her wrist. "We're going to bed
in two hours. We've got a lot to talk about that won't wait until
tomorrow, Derry. You understand what I mean. I couldn't sleep until
you've told me. And you must tell me the truth. I'll love you just the
same, no matter what it is. Derry, Derry, WHY DID YOU DO IT?"
"Do what?" he asked stupidly.
The delicious softness went out of the slim little body on his knees.
It grew rigid. He looked hopelessly into the fire, but he could feel
the burning inquiry in the girl's eyes. He sensed a swift change
passing through her. She seemed scarcely to breathe, and he knew that
his answer had been more than inadequate. It either confessed or
feigned an ignorance of something which it would have been impossible
for him to forget had he been Conniston. He looked up at her at last.
The joyous flush had gone out of her face. It was a little drawn. Her
hand, which had been snuggling his neck caressingly, slipped down from
his shoulder.
"I guess--you'd rather I hadn't come, Derry," she said, fighting to
keep a break out of her voice. "And I'll go back, if you want to send
me. But I've always dreamed of your promise, that some day you'd send
for me or come and get me, and I'd like to know WHY before you tell me
to go. Why have you hidden away from me all these years, leaving me
among those who you knew hated me as they hated you? Was it because you
didn't care? Or was it because--because--" She bent her head and
whispered strangely, "Was it because you were afraid?"
"Afraid?" he repeated slowly, staring again into the fire. "Afraid--"
He was going to add "Of what?" but caught the words and held them back.
The birch fire leaped up with a sudden roar into the chimney, and from
the heart of the flame he caught again that strange and all-pervading
thrill, the sensation of Derwent Conniston's presence very near to him.
It seemed to him that for an instant he caught a flash of Conniston's
face, and somewhere within him was a whispering which was Conniston's
voice. He was possessed by a weird and masterful force that swept over
him and conquered him, a thing that was more than intuition and greater
than physical desire. It was inspiration. He knew that the Englishman
would have him play the game as he was about to play it now.
The girl was waiting for him to answer. Her lips had grown a little
more tense. His hesitation, the restraint in his welcome of her, and
his apparent desire to evade that mysterious something which seemed to
mean so much to her had brought a shining pain into her eyes. He had
seen such a look in the eyes of creatures physically hurt. He reached
out with his hands and brushed back the thick, soft hair from about her
face. His fingers buried themselves in the silken disarray, and he
looked for a moment straight into her eyes before he spoke.
"Little girl, will you tell me the truth?" he asked. "Do I look like
the old Derwent Conniston, YOUR Derwent Conniston? Do I?"
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