Part 18 (2/2)

”Wait: I never meant you did it intentionally. Can't you see how anxious he might be to please you? Can't you believe that if he did something he thought would please you greatly, and you called him a rascal for it, that the worst of him would likely come on top?”

”Yes,” she answered slowly; ”I can see that--_I_ should, I know.”

”Of course you would. Now listen. I have a story for you, that your love of kindness and n.o.bility will find pleasure in.”

Again I tried Saxton's method--there isn't a better one, if it's real stuff you have to tell. Very quietly I put it to her as he had to me.

She had less color when I finished.

”If that is the truth, it _was_ n.o.ble,” she said, when I finished. The breath fluttered in her throat.

”It _is_ the truth. Arthur isn't too good to lie, by any means, but he has too much pride and courage to lie about a thing like that.”

She nodded her head in a.s.sent. I got excited, seeing victory in sight, but had sense enough to keep cool. I knew, even at that early age, there's snags sometimes underneath the smoothest water.

She sighed as if the life of her went out.

”Impulse,” she said, ”a n.o.ble impulse--and then? an ign.o.ble one, followed with the same determination.”

That had too much truth in it. I didn't approve of his drinking himself to death, because he couldn't have what he wanted.

”Yes,” I answered smoothly, ”and what he needs is a strong excuse to make them all good--he has the strength to do it, you don't deny that?”

”He has strength to do anything--there is the pity of it. There never lived a man who so had his life in his own hand as Arthur Saxton. Would you have me marry him to reform him? Have I no right to feel proud, on my side?”

”No, to the first,” says I, ”and yes, to the second. He has waked up at last, I feel sure--if only you could believe in him a little more.”

”Oh, Will!” she said, ”that is what I fear the most. I don't care if he demands much, for so do I, but to be dependent that way--I cannot trust him, till he trusts himself.”

”Yes, Mary,” I agreed; ”but at the same time, he's lots more of a man than the average, handicap him with all his faults!”

She answered me with a curious smile. ”Mine is an unhappy nature in one way,” she said; ”half a loaf is worse than no bread to me. I'd rather never know of Paradise than see and lose it.” She threw her hands out suddenly, in a gesture that was little short of agony.

”Oh, I wish sometimes I had no moral sense at all--that I could just live and be happy--and I _can't_ be very good if I wish that--that's a comfort.” She turned to me. ”Now, Will, I have opened my heart to you as I could not have done to my own mother; will you believe me if I say I cannot talk about this any more?”

”Sure, sweetheart,” I said, and kissed her. She let her head stay on my shoulder.

”You are a great comfort, brother Will,” she said. The tone made something sting in my eyes. Poor little woman, fighting it out all alone, so unhappy under the smiles, so born to be happy!

I couldn't speak to save me. She looked up at my face. ”You are a brave and n.o.ble gentleman, brother mine,” she said. I think that would have finished me up--I am such a darned woman at times, but she changed quick as lightning.

”Let's play with the children,” she said. ”We've had enough of this.”

I was glad to scamper around. One thing was certain. I'd hurt Sax none, and proved the value of my plan. Another thing I wanted to know I learned on leaving.

”Mary,” I said, as if it was an understood thing between us, ”why did Mr. Belknap speak against Saxton?”

She fell into the trap, unthinking. ”Because he wished to warn me, of course. And in spite of all you say, Will--forgive me--he is a man of such insight, I cannot believe him altogether wrong.”

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