Part 45 (2/2)

”Just so.”

During the few minutes she took to collect her thoughts he could see sweep over her features one of those swift, light changes--as delicate as the ripple of summer wind on water--which transformed her in an instant from the woman of the world to the forest maid, the spirit of the indigenous.

The mystery of the nomadic ages was in her eyes again as she began her narrative, wistfully, and reminiscently.

”You see, I'd been thinking a good deal of my father and mother. I hadn't known about them very long, and I lived with their memory. The Mother Superior had told me a few things--all she knew, I suppose--before I left the convent at Quebec; and Mr. and Mrs. Wayne--especially Mrs. Wayne--had added the rest. That was the chief reason why I wanted the studio--so that I could get away from the house, which was so oppressive to me, and--so it seemed to me--live with them, with nothing but the woods and the hills and the sky about me. I could be very happy then--painting thinge I fancied they might have done, and pinning them up on the wall. I dare say it was foolish, but----”

”It was very natural. Go on.”

”And then came up all this excitement about Norrie Ford. For months the whole region talked of nothing else. Nearly every one believed he had shot his uncle, but, except in the villages, the sympathy with him was tremendous. Some people--especially the hotel-keepers and those who depended on the tourist travel--were for law and order; but others said that old Chris Ford had got no more than he deserved. That was the way they used to talk. Mr. Wayne was on the side of law and order, too--naturally--till the trial came on; and then he began----”

”I know all about that. Go on.”

”My own sympathy was with the man in prison. I used to dream about him. I remembered what Mrs. Wayne had told me my mother had done for my father. I was proud of that. Though I knew only vaguely what it was, I was sure it was what I should have done, too. So when there was talk of breaking into the jail and helping Norrie to escape, I used to think how easily I could keep any one hidden in my studio. I don't mean I thought of it as a practical thing; it was just a dream.”

”But a dream that came true.”

”Yes; it came true. It was wonderful. It was the day Mr. Wayne sentenced him. I knew what he was suffering--Mr. Wayne, I mean. We were all suffering; even Mrs. Wayne, who in her gentle way was generally so hard.

Some people thought Mr. Wayne needn't have done it; and I suppose it was just his conscientiousness--because he had such a horror of the thing--that drove him on to it. He thought he mustn't s.h.i.+rk his duty. But that night at the house was awful. We dressed for dinner, and tried to act as if nothing frightful had happened--but it was as if the hangman was sitting with us at the table. At last I couldn't endure it. I went out into the garden--you remember it was one of those gardens with clipped yews. Out there, in the air, I stopped thinking of Mr. Wayne and his distress to think of Norrie Ford. It seemed to me as if, in some strange way, he belonged to me--that I ought to do something--as my mother had done for my father. And then--all of a sudden--I saw him creep in.”

”How did you know it was he?”

”I thought it must be, though I was only sure of it when I was on the terrace and saw his face. He crept along and crept along--Oh, such a forlorn, hopeless, outcast figure! My heart ached at the sight of him. I didn't know what he meant to do, and at first I had no intention of attempting anything. It was by degrees that my own thought about the studio came back to me. By that time he was on the veranda of the house, and I was afraid he meant to kill Mr. Wayne. I went after him. I thought I would entice him away and hide him. But the minute he heard my footstep he leaped into the house. The next I saw, he was talking to Mr. and Mrs.

Wayne--and something told me he wouldn't hurt them. After that I watched my chance till he looked outward, and then I beckoned to him. That's how it happened.”

”And then?”

”After that everything was easy. He must have told you. I kept him in the studio for three weeks, and brought him food--and clothing of my father's.

It seemed to me that my father was doing everything--not I. That's what made it so simple. I know my father would have wanted me to do it. I was only the agent in carrying out his will.”

”That's one way of looking at it,” Conquest said, grimly.

”It's the only way I've ever looked at it; the only way I ever shall.”

”It was a romantic situation,” he observed, when she had given him the outlines of the rest of the story. ”I wonder you didn't fall in love with him.”

He smoothed the colorless line of his mustache, as though concealing a smile. He had recaptured the teasing tone he liked to employ toward her, though its nervous sharpness would have betrayed him had she suspected his real thoughts. While she said nothing in response, the tilt of her head was that which he a.s.sociated with her moods of indignation or pride.

”Perhaps you did,” he persisted. Then, as she remained silent, ”Did you?”

She resolved on a bold step--the audacity of that perfect candor she had always taken as a guide.

”I don't know that one could call it that,” she said, quietly.

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