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Page 32
There was a change since last night. She was older. He could see it
now, the utter impropriety of his cuddling her up like a baby in the
big chair--the impossibility, almost.
Mary Josephine settled his doubt. With a happy little cry she ran to
him, and Keith found her arms about him again and her lovely mouth held
up to be kissed. He hesitated for perhaps the tenth part of a second,
if hesitation could be counted in that space. Then his arms closed
about her, and he kissed her. He felt the snuggle of her face against
his breast again, the crush and sweetness of her hair against his lips
and cheek. He kissed her again uninvited. Before he could stop the
habit, he had kissed her a third time.
Then her hands were at his face, and he saw again that look in her
eyes, a deep and anxious questioning behind the shimmer of love in
them, something mute and understanding and wonderfully sympathetic, a
mothering soul looking at him and praying as it looked. If his life had
paid the forfeit the next instant, he could not have helped kissing her
a fourth time.
If Mary Josephine had gone to bed with a doubt of his brotherly
interest last night, the doubt was removed now. Her cheeks flushed. Her
eyes shone. She was palpitantly, excitedly happy. "It's YOU, Derry,"
she cried. "Oh, it's you as you used to be!"
She seized his hand and drew him toward the table. Wallie thrust in his
head from the kitchenette, grinning, and Mary Josephine flashed him
back a meaning smile. Keith saw in an instant that Wallie had turned
from his heathen gods to the worship of something infinitely more
beautiful. He no longer looked to Keith for instructions.
Mary Josephine sat down opposite Keith at the table. She was telling
him, with that warm laughter and happiness in her eyes, how the sun had
wakened her, and how she had helped Wallie get breakfast. For the first
time Keith was looking at her from a point of vantage; there was just
so much distance between them, no more and no less, and the light was
right. She was, to him, exquisite. The little puckery lines came into
her smooth forehead when he apologized for his tardiness by explaining
that he had not gone to bed until one o'clock. Her concern was
delightful. She scolded him while Wallie brought in the breakfast, and
inwardly he swelled with the irrepressible exultation of a great
possessor. He had never had anyone to scold him like that before. It
was a scolding which expressed Mary Josephine's immediate
proprietorship of him, and he wondered if the pleasure of it made him
look as silly as Wallie. His plans were all gone. He had intended to
play the idiotic part of one who had partly lost his memory, but
throughout the breakfast he exhibited no sign that he was anything but
healthfully normal. Mary Josephine's delight at the improvement of his
condition since last night shone in her face and eyes, and he could see
that she was strictly, but with apparent unconsciousness, guarding
herself against saying anything that might bring up the dread shadow
between them. She had already begun to fight her own fight for him, and
the thing was so beautiful that he wanted to go round to her, and get
down on his knees, and put his head in her lap, and tell her the truth.
It was in the moment of that thought that the look came into his face
which brought the questioning little lines into her forehead again. In
that instant she caught a glimpse of the hunted man, of the soul that
had traded itself, of desire beaten into helplessness by a thing she
would never understand. It was gone swiftly, but she had caught it. And
for her the scar just under his hair stood for its meaning. The
responsive throb in her breast was electric. He felt it, saw it, sensed
it to the depth of his soul, and his faith in himself stood challenged.
She believed. And he--was a liar. Yet what a wonderful thing to lie for!
"--He called me up over the telephone, and when I told him to be quiet,
that you were still asleep, I think he must have sworn--it sounded like
it, but I couldn't hear distinctly--and then he fairly roared at me to
wake you up and tell you that you didn't half deserve such a lovely
little sister as I am. Wasn't that nice, Derry?"
"You--you're talking about McDowell?"
"To be sure I am talking about Mr. McDowell! And when I told him your
injury troubled you more than usual, and that I was glad you were
resting, I think I heard him swallow hard. He thinks a lot of you,
Derry. And then he asked me WHICH injury it was that hurt you, and I
told him the one in the head. What did he mean? Were you hurt somewhere
else, Derry?"
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