Part 18 (1/2)
”But,” I responded, ”you put it on for a better reason than you could tell me then or can tell me now, though now I know your story.”
”Please don't forget,” she murmured, ”that you know too much.” ”No, no! I don't know half enough; I know only what Miss Camilla and--and--Gholson could tell me,” was my tricky reply, and I tried to look straight into her eyes, but they took that faint introspective contraction of which I have spoken, and gazed through me like sunlight through gla.s.s. Then again she bent her glance upon her steps, saying--
”Ah, Richard, you have found out all you could, and I am glad of it, except of what I, myself, have had to betray to you; for that was more than one would want to tell her twin brother. But I had to create you my scout, and I had only two or three hours for my whole work of creation.”
”Well, you completed it.” We went on some steps, and then she said--
”You tell me I risked my life to save yours; I risked more than life, and I risked it for more than to save yours. Yet I did not save your life; you saved it, yourself, and--” here her low tone thrilled like a harp-string--”you risked it--frightfully--at that bridge--merely to save the promise you made me that you need not have made at all--oh, you needn't shake your head; I know.”
”Ah, how you gild my base metal!”
”No, no, I have the story exactly, and from one who has no mind to praise you.”
”From Gholson?”
”Gholson! no! I have it from Lucius Oliver, who had it from his son. He told me carefully, quietly and entirely, in pure spleen, so that I might know that they know--think they know, that is,--why you and--he in front of us yonder--would not shoot his son when--”
”When as soldiers it was our simple du'--”
”Yes; and also that I may understand that he--the son--has sworn by that right hand you mutilated that the 'pair of you' shall die before he does.”
”I ought not to have shown him that envelope addressed to you.”
”Ah, but if it saved your life!”
”And this is what you don't want me to tell? Ah, I see; for me to know it is enough; I can put it to him as a theory. I can say Oliver is not a man to be put upon the defensive, and that he is more than likely to be hunting 'the pair of us'--” All at once I thought of something.
”What made you give that sudden start?” she asked as we faced about in the driveway to make our walk a moment longer; ”that's a bad habit you've got; why do you do it?”
I fancied the thrilling freshness of the question I was about to put would be explanation enough. ”Do you believe Jewett has gone back into his own lines?”
”I don't know; hasn't he?”
”Oh, I don't know, either, but--well, I don't believe there's a braver man in Grant's army than that one a-straddle of my horse to-day! Why, just the way he got him, night before last,--you've heard that, have you not?”
”Yes, I've heard it; he is a very daring man; what of it?”
”Why, I can't help thinking he's out here to make a new record for himself, at whatever cost!”
A note of distress hung on my hearer's stifled voice; her head went lower and she laid her fingers pensively to her lips. ”It would be like him,” I heard her murmur, and when I asked if she meant Jewett she shook her head.
”No,” I said, ”you mean it would be like Oliver to join him,” and with that the sudden start was hers. ”He wouldn't have to touch Ned Ferry or me,” I went on, heartlessly, ”nor to come near us, to make us rue the hour we let ourselves forget this wasn't our private war.”
She whispered something to herself in horrified dismay; but then she looked at me with her eyes very blue and said ”You'll see him about it, won't you? You must help unravel this tangle, Richard; and if you do I'll--I'll dance at your wedding; yours and--somebody's we know!” Her eyes began forewith.
A light footfall sounded behind us, and Camille gave both her hands to my companion. ”I was in the hall,” she said, ”telling Cecile she was like a white star that had come out by day, when I saw you here looking like a great red one; and you're still more like a red, red rose, and I've come to get some of your fragrance.”
”I'd exchange for yours any day, and thank you, dear,” responded Charlotte; ”you're a bunch of sweet-peas. Isn't she, Mr. Smith?”