Part 41 (1/2)

”And you will allow a natural curiosity in me to demand why you should harry my friend like this--browbeat her for a girlish folly entered into mutually by two girls and ending in tragedy through no fault of April's?” The painter's eyes burned with a blue fire bleak as her own mountain tops. It was as though Joan of Arc had come to the rescue and was sweeping the room with valiant sword. Even Kenna was partially intimidated.

”That is her story,” he muttered.

”You fool, Ronald Kenna,” she said gently. ”Can't you look in her face and see there is no touch of treachery or darkness there? Thank G.o.d, Kerry is not so blind.”

There was a deep silence. Then she said:

”Listen, then, to my story,” and repeated the facts April had told her, but as April could never have told them, so profound was her understanding of the motives of the two girls in exchanging ident.i.ties, so tender her treatment of the wayward Diana. Truly this ”unfulfilled woman” was greater in the width and depth of her soul than many of those to whom life has given fulfilment of their dreams.

Daylight faded, and shadows stole through the open windows. In the large, low-ceiled room cl.u.s.tered with saddles and harness and exquisite pictures, everything grew dim, except their white faces, and the glistening of tears as they dripped from April's lids.

”I must ask to be forgiven,” said Kenna very humbly, at last. ”My only plea is that my friends.h.i.+p for Kerry blinded me. And . . .” he halted an instant before the confession of his trouble. ”I once loved that little wayward girl.”

So it was Diana Vernilands who had proved false and sent him into the wilds! Somehow that explained much to them all: much for forgiveness, but very much more for pity and sympathy.

Suddenly the peace of eventide was rudely shattered by the jarring clank of a motor being geared-up for starting. Evidently Ghostie's friends were departing in the same aloof spirit with which they had held apart all the afternoon. No one in the studio stirred to speed the parting guests. It did not seem fitting to obtrude upon the pride of the great. A woman's voice bade good-bye, and Ghostie was heard warning them of a large rock fifty yards up the lane. A man called good-night, and they were off.

”By Jove! I know that fellow's voice,” puzzled Sarle. April thought she did too, but she was in a kind of happy trance where voices did not matter. The next episode was Ghostie at the studio window blotting out the evening skies.

”They have gone,” she timidly announced.

”Ah! Joy go with them,” remarked Clive, more in relief than regret.

”But there is still one of them in my room.”

”_What?_”

”She has been waiting to speak to you all the afternoon; they all have, but they could not face the crowd.”

”Pore fellers,” said Clive, with cutting irony.

”The one in my room's--a girl,” said Ghostie--”a friend of yours.”

”She has strange ways,” commented Clive glumly. ”But ask her to come in. These also are my friends.”

Ghostie disappeared. Simultaneously the two men arose; remarking that they must be going--they had stayed too late, and it was getting dark.

Clive easily shut them up.

”Of course you can't go. Stay to supper and go back by the light of the moon. We've got to have some music and sit on the Counsel Rock, and eat--apricots and all sorts of things yet. And afterwards we'll come a bit of the way with you.”

They did not need much persuasion to settle down again. Clive handed round smokes.