Part 42 (2/2)

He drew her rain-cloak around her, b.u.t.toned the cape and high collar, and settled the hood on her head. She looked up under her pointed hood.

”Do you care so much for me?” she asked, listlessly.

”Will you give me the right--always--forever?”

”Do you mean that--that you love me?”

”I have always loved you.”

Still she looked up at him from the shadow of her hood.

”I love you, Lorraine.”

One arm was around her now, and with the other hand he held both of hers.

She spoke, her eyes on his.

”I loved you once. I did not know it then. It was the first night there on the terrace--when they were dancing. I loved you again--after our quarrel, when you found me by the river. Again I loved you, when we were alone in the Chateau and you came to see me in the library.”

He drew her to him, but she resisted.

”Now it is different,” she said. ”I do not love you--like that. I do not know what I feel; I do not care for that--for that love. I need something warmer, stronger, more kindly--something I never have had. My childhood is gone, Jack, and yet I am tortured with the craving for it; I want to be little again--I want to play with children--with young girls; I want to be tired with pleasure and go to bed with a mother bending over me. It is that--it is that that I need, Jack--a mother to hold me as you do. Oh, if you knew--if you knew! Beside my bed I feel about in the dark, half asleep, reaching out for the mother I never knew--the mother I need. I picture her; she is like my father, only she is always with me. I lie back and close my eyes and try to think that she is there in the dark--close--close. Her cheeks and hands are warm; I can never see her eyes, but I know they are like mine. I know, too, that she has always been with me--from the years that I have forgotten--always with me, watching me that I come to no harm--anxious for me, worrying because my head is hot or my hands cold. In my half-sleep I tell her things--little intimate things that she must know. We talk of everything--of papa, of the house, of my pony, of the woods and the Lisse. With her I have spoken of you often, Jack. And now all is said; I am glad you let me tell you, Jack. I can never love you like--like that, but I need you, and you will be near me, always, won't you? I need your love. Be gentle, be firm in little things. Let me come to you and fret.

You are all I have.”

The intense grief in her face, the wide, childish eyes, the cold little hands tightening in his, all these touched the manhood in him, and he answered manfully, putting away from himself all that was weak or selfish, all that touched on love of man for woman:

”Let me be all you ask,” he said. ”My love is of that kind, also.”

”My darling Jack,” she murmured, putting both arms around his neck.

He kissed her peacefully.

”Come,” he said. ”Your shoes are soaking. I am going to take charge of you now.”

When they entered the house he took her straight to her room, drew up an arm-chair, lighted the fire, filled a foot-bath with hot water, and, calmly opening the wardrobe, pulled out a warm bath-robe. Then, without the slightest hesitation, he knelt and unb.u.t.toned her shoes.

”Now,” he said, ”I'll be back in five minutes. Let me find you sitting here, with your feet in that hot water.”

Before she could answer, he went out. A thrill of comfort pa.s.sed through her; she drew the wet stockings over her feet, s.h.i.+vered, slipped out of skirt and waist, put on the warm, soft bath-robe, and, sinking back in the chair, placed both little white feet in the foot-bath.

”I am ready, Jack,” she called, softly.

He came in with a tray of tea and toast and a bit of cold chicken. She followed his movement with tired, shy eyes, wondering at his knowledge of little things. They ate their luncheon together by the fire. Twice he gravely refilled the foot-bath with hotter water, and she settled back in her soft, warm chair, sighing contentment.

After a while he lighted a cigarette and read to her--fairy tales from Perrault--legends that all children know--all children who have known mothers. Lorraine did not know them. At first she frowned a little, watching him dubiously, but little by little the music of the words and the fragrance of the sweet, vague tales crept into her heart, and she listened breathless to the stories, older than Egypt--stories that will outlast the last pyramid.

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