Jason: A Romance

by Justus Miles Forman

  XXIX

  THE SCALES OF INJUSTICE

  Ste. Marie slept soundly until mid-morning--that it to say, about teno'clock--and then awoke with a dull pain in his head and a sensation ofextreme giddiness which became something like vertigo when he attemptedto rise. However, with the aid of the old Michel he got somehowup-stairs to his room and made a rather sketchy toilet.

  Coira came to him there, and while he lay still across the bed told himabout the happenings of the night after he had received his injury. Shetold him also that the motor was waiting for him outside the wall, andthat Richard Hartley had sent a message by the chauffeur to say that hewas very busy in Paris making arrangements about Stewart, who had comeout of his strange state of half-insensibility only to rave in adelirium.

  "So," she said, "you can go now whenever you are ready. Arthur is withhis family, Captain Stewart is under guard, and your work is done. Youought to be glad--even though you are suffering pain."

  Ste. Marie looked up at her. "Do I seem glad, Coira?" said he.

  And she said: "You will be glad to-morrow--and always, I hope and pray.Always! Always!"

  The man held one hand over his aching eyes.

  "I have," he said, "queer half-memories. I wish I could rememberdistinctly."

  He looked up at her again.

  "I dropped down by the gate in the wall. When I awoke I was in a room inthe house. How did that happen?"

  "Oh," she said, turning her face away, "we got you up to the housealmost at once."

  But Ste. Marie frowned thoughtfully.

  "'We'? Who do you mean by 'we'?"

  "Well, then, I," the girl said. "It was not difficult."

  "Coira," cried the man, "do you mean that you carried me bodily all thatlong distance? _You_?"

  "Carried or dragged," she said. "As much one as the other. It was notvery difficult. I'm strong for a woman."

  "Oh, child! child!" he cried. And he said: "I remember more. It was youwho held Stewart and kept him from shooting me. I heard the shot and Iheard you scream. The last thought I had was that you had been killed insaving me. That's what I went out into the blank thinking."

  He covered his eyes again as if the memory were intolerable. But afterawhile he said:

  "You saved my life, you know."

  And the girl answered him:

  "I had nearly taken it once before. It was I who called Michel that dayyou came over the wall, the day you were shot. I nearly murdered youonce. I owed you something. Perhaps we're even now."

  She saw that he did not at all remember that hour in the littleroom--her hour of bitterness--and she was glad. She had felt sure thatit would be so. For the present she did not greatly suffer, she had cometo a state beyond active suffering--a chill state of dulledsensibilities.

  The old Justine knocked at the door to ask if Monsieur was going intothe city soon or if she should give the chauffeur his dejeuner and tellhim to wait.

  "Are you fit to go?" Coira asked.

  And he said, "I suppose as fit as I shall be."

  He got to his feet, and the things about him swam dangerously, but hecould walk by using great care. The girl stood white and still, and sheavoided his eyes.

  "It is not good-bye," said he. "I shall see you soon again--and I hope,often--often, Coira."

  The words had a flat and foolish sound, but he could find no others. Itwas not easy to speak.

  "I suppose I must not ask to see your father?" said he.

  And she told him that her father had locked himself in his own room andwould see no one--would not even open his door to take in food.

  Ste. Marie went to the stairs leaning upon the shoulder of the stout oldJustine, but before he had gone Coira checked him for an instant. Shesaid:

  "Tell Arthur, if he speaks to you about me, that what I said in the noteI gave him last night I meant quite seriously. I gave him a note to readafter he reached home. Tell him for me that it was final. Will you dothat?"

  "Yes, of course," said Ste. Marie.

  He looked at her with some wonder, because her words had been veryemphatic.

  "Yes," he said, "I will tell him. Is that all?"

  "All but good-bye," said she. "Good-bye, Bayard!"

  She stood at the head of the stairs while he went down them. And shecame after him to the landing, half-way, where the stairs turned in theopposite direction for their lower flight. When he went out of the frontdoor he looked back, and she was standing there above him, a straight,still figure, dark against the light of the windows behind her.

  He went straight to the rue d'Assas. He found that while he sat still inthe comfortable tonneau of the motor his head was fairly normal, and theworld did not swing and whirl about in that sickening fashion. But whenthe car lurched or bumped over an obstruction it made him giddy, and hewould have fallen had he been standing.

  The familiar streets of the Montparnasse and Luxembourg quarters had forhis eyes all the charm and delight of home things to the returnedtraveller. He felt as if he had been away for months, and he caughthimself looking for changes, and it made him laugh. He was much relievedwhen he found that his concierge was not on watch, and that he couldslip unobserved up the stairs and into his rooms. The rooms were freshand clean, for they had been aired and tended daily.

  Arrived there, he wrote a little note to a friend of his who was adoctor and lived in the rue Notre Dame des Champs, asking this man tocall as soon as it might be convenient. He sent the note by thechauffeur and then lay down, dressed as he was, to wait, for he couldnot stand or move about without a painful dizziness. The doctor camewithin a half-hour, examined Ste. Marie's bruised head, and bound it up.He gave him a dose of something with a vile taste which he said wouldtake away the worst of the pain in a few hours, and he also gave him asleeping-potion, and made him go to bed.

  "You'll be fairly fit by evening," he said. "But don't stir until then.I'll leave word below that you're not to be disturbed."

  So it happened that when Richard Hartley came dashing up an hour or twolater he was not allowed to see his friend, and Ste. Marie slept adreamless sleep until dark.

  He awoke then, refreshed but ravenous with hunger, and found that therewas only a dull ache in his battered head. The dizziness and the vertigowere almost completely gone. He made lights and dressed with care. Hefelt like a little girl making ready for a party, it was so long--orseemed so long;--since he had put on evening clothes. Then he went out,leaving at the loge of the concierge a note for Hartley, to say where hemight be found. He went to Lavenue's and dined in solitary pomp, for itwas after nine o'clock. Again it seemed to him that it was months sincehe had done the like--sat down to a real table for a real dinner. At tenhe got into a fiacre and drove to the rue de l'Universite.

  The man who admitted him said that Mademoiselle was alone in thedrawing-room, and he went there at once. He was dully conscious thatsomething was very wrong, but he had suffered too much within the pastfew hours to be analytical, and he did not know what it was that waswrong. He should have entered that room with a swift and eager step,with shining eyes, with a high-beating heart. He went into it slowly,wrapped in a mantle of strange apathy.

  Helen Benham came forward to meet him, and took both his hands in hers.Ste. Marie was amazed to see that she seemed not to have altered atall--in spite of this enormous lapse of time, in spite of all that hadhappened in it. And yet, unaltered, she seemed to him a stranger, acharming and gracious stranger with an icily beautiful face. He wonderedat her and at himself, and he was a little alarmed because he thoughtthat he must be ill. That blow upon the head must, after all, have donesomething terrible to him.

  "Ah, Ste. Marie!" she said, in her well-remembered voice--and again hewondered that the voice should be so high-pitched and so without coloror feeling. "How glad I am," she said, "that you are safely out of itall! How you have suffered for us, Ste. Marie! You look white and ill.Sit down, please! Don't stand!"

  She drew him to a comfortable chair, and he sat down in it obediently.
He could not think of anything to say, though he was not, as a rule,tongue-tied; but the girl did not seem to expect any answer, for shewent on at once with a rather odd air of haste:

  "Arthur is here with us, safe and sound. Richard Hartley brought himback from that dreadful place, and he has talked everything over with mygrandfather, and it's all right. They both understand now, and there'llbe no more trouble. We have had to be careful, very careful, and we havehad to--well, to rearrange the facts a little so as to leave--myuncle--to leave Captain Stewart's name out of it. It would not do toshock my grandfather by telling him the truth. Perhaps later; I don'tknow. That will have to be thought of. For the present we have left myuncle out of it, and put the blame entirely upon this other man. Iforget his name."

  "The blame cannot rest there," said Ste. Marie, sharply. "It is notdeserved, and I shall not allow it to be left so. Captain Stewart liedto O'Hara throughout. You cannot leave the blame with an innocent man."

  "Still," she said, "such a man!"

  Ste. Marie looked at her, frowning, and the girl turned her eyes away.She may have had the grace to be a little ashamed.

  "Think of the difficulty we were in!" she urged. "Captain Stewart is mygrandfather's own son. We cannot tell him now, in his weak state, thathis own son is--what he is."

  There was reason if not justice in that, and Ste. Marie was forced toadmit it. He said:

  "Ah, well, for the present, then. That can be arranged later. The mainpoint is that I've found your brother for you. I've brought him back."

  Miss Benham looked up at him and away again, and she drew a quickbreath. He saw her hands move restlessly in her lap, and he was awarethat for some odd reason she was very ill at ease. At last she said:

  "Ah, but--but have you, dear Ste. Marie? Have you?"

  After a brief silence she stole another swift glance at the man, and hewas staring in open and frank bewilderment. She rushed into rapidspeech.

  "Ah," she cried, "don't misunderstand me! Don't think that I'm brutal orungrateful for all you've--you've suffered in trying to help us! Don'tthink that! I can--we can never be grateful enough--never! But stop andthink! Yes, I know this all sounds hideous, but it's so terriblyimportant. I shouldn't dream of saying a word of it if it weren't soimportant, if so much didn't depend upon it. But stop and think! Was it,dear Ste. Marie, was it, after all, you? Was it you who brought Arthurto us?"

  The man fairly blinked at her, owl-like. He was beyond speech.

  "Wasn't it Richard?" she hurried on. "Wasn't it Richard Hartley? Ah, ifI could only say it without seeming so contemptibly heartless! If only Ineedn't say it at all! But it must be said because of what depends uponit. Think! Go back to the beginning! Wasn't it Richard who first beganto suspect my uncle? Didn't he tell you or write to you what he haddiscovered, and so set you upon the right track? And after youhad--well, just fallen into their hands, with no hope of ever escapingyourself--to say nothing of bringing Arthur back--wasn't it Richard whocame to your rescue and brought it all to victory? Oh, Ste. Marie, Imust be just to him as well as to you! Don't you see that? Howevergrateful I may be to you for what you have done--suffered--I cannot, injustice, give you what I was to have given you, since it is, after all,Richard who has saved my brother. I cannot, can I? Surely you must seeit. And you must see how it hurts me to have to say it. I had hopedthat--you would understand--without my speaking."

  Still the man sat in his trance of astonishment, speechless. For thefirst time in his life he was brought face to face with the amazing, theappalling injustice of which a woman is capable when her heart isconcerned. This girl wished to believe that to Richard Hartley belongedthe credit of rescuing her brother, and lo! she believed it. A score ofjuries might have decided against her, a hundred proofs controverted herdecision, but she would have been deaf and blind. It is only women whoaccomplish miracles of reasoning like that.

  Ste. Marie took a long breath and he started to speak, but in the endshook his head and remained silent. Through the whirl and din of fallingskies he was yet able to see the utter futility of words. He could haveadduced a hundred arguments to prove her absurdity. He could have shownher that before he ever read Hartley's note he had decided uponStewart's guilt--and for much better reasons than Hartley had. He couldhave pointed out to her that it was he, not Hartley, who discoveredyoung Benham's whereabouts, that it was he who summoned Hartley there,and that, as a matter of fact, Hartley need not have come at all, sincethe boy had been persuaded to go home in any case.

  He thought of all these things and more, and in a moment of sheer angerat her injustice he was on the point of stating them, but he shook hishead and remained silent. After all, of what use was speech? He knewthat it could make no impression upon her, and he knew why. For somereason, in some way, she had turned during his absence to RichardHartley, and there was nothing more to be said. There was no treacheryon Hartley's part. He knew that, and it never even occurred to him toblame his friend. Hartley was as faithful as any one who ever lived. Itseemed to be nobody's fault. It had just happened.

  He looked at the girl before him with a new expression, an expression ofsheer curiosity. It seemed to him well-nigh incredible that any humanbeing could be so unjust and so blind. Yet he knew her to be, in othermatters, one of the fairest of all women, just and tender and thoughtfuland true. He knew that she prided herself upon her cool impartiality ofjudgment. He shook his head with a little sigh and ceased to wonder anymore. It was beyond him. He became aware that he ought to say something,and he said:

  "Yes. Yes, I--see. I see what you mean. Yes, Hartley did all you say. Ihadn't meant to rob Hartley of the credit he deserves. I suppose you'reright."

  He was possessed of a sudden longing to get away out of that room, andhe rose to his feet.

  "If you don't mind," he said, "I think I'd better go. This is--well,it's a bit of a facer, you see. I want to think it over. Perhapsto-morrow--you don't mind?"

  He saw a swift relief flash into Miss Benham's eyes, but she murmured afew words of protest that had a rather perfunctory sound. Ste. Marieshook his head.

  "Thanks! I won't stay," said he. "Not just now. I--think I'd better go."

  He had a confused realization of platitudinous adieus, of a sillyformality of speech, and he found himself in the hall. Once he glancedback and Miss Benham was standing where he had left her, looking afterhim with a calm and unimpassioned face. He thought that she lookedrather like a very beautiful statue.

  The butler came to him to say that Mr. Stewart would be glad if he wouldlook in before leaving the house, and so he went up-stairs and knockedat old David's door. He moved like a man in a dream, and the thingsabout him seemed to be curiously unreal and rather far away, as theyseem sometimes in a fever.

  He was admitted at once, and he found the old man sitting up in bed,clad in one of his incredibly gorgeous mandarin's jackets--plum-coloredsatin this time, with peonies--overflowing with spirits and good-humor.His grandson sat in a chair near at hand. The old man gave a shout ofwelcome:

  "Ah, here's Jason at last, back from Colchis! Welcome home to--whateverthe name of the place was! Welcome home!"

  He shook Ste. Marie's hand with hospitable violence, and Ste. Marie wasastonished to see upon what a new lease of life and strength the old manseemed to have entered. There was no ingratitude or misconception here,certainly. Old David quite overwhelmed his visitor with thanks and withexpressions of affection.

  "You've saved my life among other things!" he said, in his gruff roar."I was ready to go, but, by the Lord, I'm going to stay awhile longernow! This world's a better place than I thought--a much better place."He shook a heavily waggish head. "If I didn't know," said he, "what yourreward is to be for what you've done, I should be in despair over itall, because there is nothing else in the world that would be anythinglike adequate. You've been making sure of the reward down-stairs, I daresay? Eh, what? Yes?"

  "You mean--?" asked the younger man.

  And old David said: "I mean Helen, of course. Wh
at else?"

  Ste. Marie was not quite himself. At another time he might have got outof the room with an evasive answer, but he spoke without thinking. Hesaid:

  "Oh--yes! I suppose--I suppose I ought to tell you that MissBenham--well, she has changed her mind. That is to say--"

  "What!" shouted old David Stewart, in his great voice. "What is that?"

  "Why, it seems," said Ste. Marie--"it seems that I only blundered. Itseems that Hartley rescued your grandson, not I. And I suppose he did,you know. When you come to think of it, I suppose he did."

  David Stewart's great white beard seemed to bristle like the ruff of anangry dog, and his eyes flashed fiercely under their shaggy brows. "Doyou mean to tell me that after all you've done and--and gone through,Helen has thrown you over? Do you mean to tell me that?"

  "Well," argued Ste. Marie, uncomfortably--"well, you see, she seems tobe right. I did bungle it, didn't I? It was Hartley who came and pulledus out of the hole."

  "Hartley be damned!" cried the old man, in a towering rage. And he beganto pour out the most extraordinary flood of furious invective upon hisgranddaughter and upon Richard Hartley, whom he quite unjustly termed asnake-in-the-grass, and finally upon all women, past, contemporary, orstill to be born.

  Ste. Marie, in fear for old David's health, tried to calm him, and thefaithful valet came running from the room beyond with prayers andprotestations, but nothing would check that astonishing flow of furyuntil it had run its full course. Then the man fell back upon hispillows, crimson, panting, and exhausted, but the fierce eyes glitteredstill, and they boded no good for Miss Helen Benham.

  "You're well rid of her!" said the old gentleman, when at last he wasonce more able to speak. "You're well rid of her! I congratulate you! Iam ashamed and humiliated, and a great burden of obligation is shiftedto me--though I assume it with pleasure--but I congratulate you. Youmight have found out too late what sort of a woman she is."

  Ste. Marie began to protest and to explain and to say that Miss Benhamhad been quite right in what she said, but the old gentleman only wavedan impatient arm to him, and presently, when he saw the valet makingsigns across the bed, and saw that his host was really in a state ofcomplete exhaustion after the outburst, he made his adieus and got away.

  Young Arthur Benham, who had been sitting almost silent during theinterview, followed him out of the room and closed the door behind them.For the first time Ste. Marie noted that the boy's face was white andstrained. He pulled a crumpled square of folded paper from his pocketand shook it at the other man. "Do you know what this is?" he cried. "Doyou know what's in this?"

  Ste. Marie shook his head, but a sudden recollection came to him.

  "Ah," said he, "that must be the note Mlle. O'Hara spoke of! She askedme to tell you that she meant it--whatever it may be--quite seriously;that it was final. She didn't explain. She just said that--that you wereto take it as final."

  The lad gave a sudden very bitter sob. "She has thrown me over!" hesaid. "She says I'm not to come back to her."

  Ste. Marie gave a wordless cry, and he began to tremble.

  "You can read it if you want to," the boy said. "Perhaps you can explainit. I can't. Do you want to read it?"

  The elder man stood staring at him whitely, and the boy repeated hiswords.

  He said, "You can read it if you want to," and at last Ste. Marie tookthe paper between stiff hands, and held it to the light.

  Coira O'Hara said, briefly, that too much was against their marriage.She mentioned his age, the certain hostility of his family, theirdifferent tastes, a number of other things. But in the end she said shehad begun to realize that she did not love him as she ought to do ifthey were to marry. And so, the note said, finally, she gave him up tohis family, she released him altogether, and she begged him not to comeback to her, or to urge her to change her mind. Also she made the tritebut very sensible observation that he would be glad of his freedombefore the year was out.

  Ste. Marie's unsteady fingers opened and the crumpled paper slippedthrough them to the floor. Over it the man and the boy looked at eachother in silence. Young Arthur Benham's face was white, and it wasstrained and contorted with its first grief. But first griefs do notlast very long. Coira O'Hara had told the truth--before the year was outthe lad would be glad of his freedom. But the man's face was white also,white and still, and his eyes held a strange expression which the boycould not understand and at which he wondered. The man was trembling alittle from head to foot. The boy wondered about that, too, but abruptlyhe cried out: "What's up? Where are you going?" for Ste. Marie hadturned all at once and was running down the stairs as fast as he couldrun.

  * * * * *

  XXX

  JASON SAILS BACK TO COLCHIS.--JOURNEY'S END

  In the hall below, Ste. Marie came violently into contact with andnearly overturned Richard Hartley, who was just giving his hat and stickto the man who had admitted him. Hartley seized upon him with anexclamation of pleasure, and wheeled him round to face the light. Hesaid:

  "I've been pursuing you all day. You're almost as difficult of accesshere in Paris as you were at La Lierre. How's the head?"

  Ste. Marie put up an experimental hand. He had forgotten his injury."Oh, that's all right," said he. "At least, I think so. Anderson fixedme up this afternoon. But I haven't time to talk to you. I'm in a hurry.To-morrow we'll have a long chin. Oh, how about Stewart?"

  He lowered his voice, and Hartley answered him in the same tone.

  "The man is in a delirium. Heaven knows how it'll end. He may die and hemay pull through. I hope he pulls through--except for the sake of thefamily--because then we can make him pay for what he's done. I don'twant him to go scot free by dying."

  "Nor I," said Ste. Marie, fiercely. "Nor I. I want him to pay, too--longand slowly and hard; and if he lives I shall see that he does it, familyor no family. Now I must be off."

  Ste. Marie's face was shining and uplifted. The other man looked at itwith a little envious sigh.

  "I see everything is all right," said he, "and I congratulate you. Youdeserve it if ever any one did."

  Ste. Marie stared for an instant, uncomprehending. Then he saw.

  "Yes," he said, gently, "everything is all right."

  It was plain that the Englishman did not know of Miss Benham's decision.He was incapable of deceit. Ste. Marie threw an arm over his friend'sshoulder and went with him a little way toward the drawing-room.

  "Go in there," he said. "You'll find some one glad to see you, I think.And remember that I said everything is all right."

  He came back after he had turned away, and met Hartley's puzzled frownwith a smile.

  "If you've that motor here, may I use it?" he asked. "I want to gosomewhere in a hurry."

  "Of course," the other man said. "Of course. I'll go home in a cab."

  So they parted, and Ste. Marie went out to the waiting car.

  On the left bank the streets are nearly empty of traffic at night, andone can make excellent time over them. Ste. Marie reached the Porte deVersailles, at the city's limits, in twenty minutes and dashed throughIssy five minutes later. In less than half an hour from the time he hadleft the rue de l'Universite he was under the walls of La Lierre. Helooked at his watch, and it was not quite half-past eleven.

  He tried the little door in the wall, and it was unlocked, so he passedin and closed the door behind him. Inside he found that he was running,and he gave a little laugh, but of eagerness and excitement, not ofmirth. There were dim lights in one or two of the upper windows, butnone below, and there was no one about. He pulled at the door-bell, andafter a few impatient moments pulled again and still again. Then henoticed that the heavy door was ajar, and, since no one answered hisringing, he pushed the door open and went in.

  The lower hall was quite dark, but a very faint light came down fromabove through the well of the staircase. He heard dragging feet in theupper hall, and then upon one of the upper flights, for the stairs,broad below, di
vided at a half-way landing and continued upward in anopposite direction in two narrower flights. A voice, very faint andweary, called:

  "Who is there? Who is ringing, please?"

  And Coira O'Hara, holding a candle in her hand, came upon thestair-landing and stood gazing down into the darkness. She wore a sortof dressing-gown, a heavy white garment which hung in straight, longfolds to her feet and fell away from the arm that held the candle onhigh. The yellow beams of light struck down across her head and face,and even at the distance the man could see how white she was andhollow-eyed and worn--a pale wraith of the splendid beauty that hadwalked in the garden at La Lierre.

  "Who is there, please?" she asked again. "I can't see. What is it?"

  "It is I, Coira!" said Ste. Marie.

  And she gave a sharp cry. The arm which was holding the candle overheadshook and fell beside her as if the strength had gone out of it. Thecandle dropped to the floor, spluttered there for an instant and wentout, but there was still a little light from the hall above.

  Ste. Marie sprang up the stairs to where the girl stood, and caught herin his arms, for she was on the verge of faintness. Her head fell backaway from him, and he saw her eyes through half-closed lids, her whiteteeth through parted lips. She was trembling--but, for that matter, sowas he at the touch of her, the heavy and sweet burden in his arms. Shetried to speak, and he heard a whisper:

  "Why? Why? Why?"

  "Because it is my place, Coira!" said he. "Because I cannot live awayfrom you. Because we belong together."

  The girl struggled weakly and pushed against him. Once more he heardwhispering words and made out that she tried to say:

  "Go back to her! Go back to her! You belong there!"

  But at that he laughed aloud.

  "I thought so, too," said he, "but she thinks otherwise. She'll havenone of me, Coira. It's Richard Hartley now. Coira, can you love ajilted man? I've been jilted--thrown over--dismissed."

  Her head came up in a flash and she stared at him, suddenly rigid andtense in his arms.

  "Is that true?" she demanded.

  "Yes, my love!" said he.

  And she began to weep, with long, comfortable sobs, her face hidden inthe hollow of his shoulder. On one other occasion she had wept beforehim, and he had been horribly embarrassed, but he bore this presenttempest without, as it were, winking. He gloried in it. He tried to sayso. He tried to whisper to her, his lips pressed close to the ear thatwas nearest them, but he found that he had no speech. Words would notcome to his tongue; it trembled and faltered and was still for sheerinadequacy.

  Rather oddly, in that his thoughts were chaos, swallowed up in the surgeof feeling, a memory struck through to him of that other exaltationwhich had swept him to the stars. He looked upon it and was amazedbecause now he saw it, in clear light, for the thing it had been. He sawit for a fantasy, a self-evoked wraith of the imagination, a dizzyflight of the spirit through spirit space. He saw that it had not beenlove at all, and he realized how little a part Helen Benham had everreally played in it. A cold and still-eyed figure for him to wrap theveil of his imagination round, that was what she had been. There weretimes when the sweep of his upward flight had stirred her a little,wakened in her some vague response, but for the most part she had stoodaside and looked on, wondering.

  The mist was rent away from that rainbow-painted cobweb, and at last theman saw and understood. He gave an exclamation of wonder, and the girlwho loved him raised her head once more, and the two looked each intothe other's eyes for a long time. They fell into hushed and brokenspeech.

  "I have loved you so long, so long," she said, "and so hopelessly! Inever thought--I never believed. To think that in the end you have cometo me! I cannot believe it!"

  "Wait and see!" cried the man. "Wait and see!"

  She shivered a little. "If it is not true I should like to die before Ifind out. I should like to die now, Bayard, with your arms holding me upand your eyes close, close."

  Ste. Marie's arms tightened round her with a sudden fierceness. He hurther, and she smiled up at him. Their two hearts beat one against theother, and they beat very fast.

  "Don't you understand," he cried, "that life's only justbeginning--day's just dawning, Coira? We've been lost in the dark. Day'scoming now. This is only the sunrise."

  "I can believe it at last," she said, "because you hold me close and youhurt me a little, and I'm glad to be hurt. And I can feel your heartbeating. Ah, never let me go, Bayard! I should be lost in the dark againif you let me go." A sudden thought came to her, and she bent back herhead to see the better. "Did you speak with Arthur?"

  And he said: "Yes. He asked me to read your note, so I read it. Thatpoor lad! I came straight to you then--straight and fast."

  "You knew why I did it?" she said, and Ste. Marie said:

  "Now I know."

  "I could not have married him," said she. "I could not. I never thoughtI should see you again, but I loved you and I could not have marriedhim. Ah, impossible! And he'll be glad later on. You know that. It willsave him any more trouble with his family, and besides--he's so veryyoung. Already, I think, he was beginning to chafe a little. I thoughtso more than once. Oh, I'm trying to justify myself!" she cried. "I'mtrying to find reasons; but you know the true reason. You know it."

  "I thank God for it," he said.

  So they stood clinging together in that dim place, and broken,whispering speech passed between them or long silences when speech wasdone. But at last they went down the stairs and out upon the openterrace, where the moonlight lay.

  "It Was in the open, sweet air," the girl said, "that we came to knoweach other. Let us walk in it now. The house smothers me." She looked upwhen they had passed the west corner of the facade and drew a littlesigh. "I am worried about my father," said she. "He will not answer mewhen I call to him, and he has eaten nothing all day long. Bayard, Ithink his heart is broken. Ah, but to-morrow we shall mend it again! Inthe morning I shall make him let me in, and I shall tell him--what Ihave to tell."

  They turned down under the trees, where the moonlight made silversplashes about their feet, and the sweet night air bore soft againsttheir faces. Coira went a half-step in advance, her head laid back uponthe shoulder of the man she loved, and his arm held her up from falling.

  So at last we leave them, walking there in the tender moonlight, withthe breath of roses about them and their eyes turned to the coming day.It is still night and there is yet one cloud of sorrow to shadow themsomewhat, for up-stairs in his locked room a man lies dead across thefloor, with an empty pistol beside him--heart-broken, as the girl hadfeared. But where a great love is, shadows cannot last very long, noteven such shadows as this. The morning must dawn--and joy cometh of amorning.

  So we leave them walking together in the moonlight, their faces turnedtoward the coming day.

  THE END