Chapter 11

THE MAKING OF A KNIGHT ERRANT.

Silently, Lawrence rose and went to his work-chair. The zeal with which he began to cut his wood showed more clearly than any of them quite knew, the turbulent state of his mind. He was carried far into speculative possibilities that shook him with their power. He was absolutely in love with Claire, that was undoubted. He knew it, and he was determined to tell her so. To continue living in this uncertainty, with the memory of her pressed against him always compelling him to put out his arms and draw her again to himself, was intolerable. He would speak, and settle it once for all, nor would he take any compromising negative as a reply. That tone she had used could indicate but one thing, she loved him, and whether she knew it or not, whether she wanted to know it or not, should not matter. He would argue it out with her, showing her with the inexorable logic back of their whole experience how she was his, his in spite of her husband, in spite of blindness, in spite of everything. Without her, life was useless, barren, and dead. He must have her!

He carved viciously but accurately, while his mind and body yearned toward the hour when she would be in his arms, yielding, abandoned, loving.

Claire watched him from her place at the table in calmness of mind that, following her day of tumult, she could not understand. Peace, the peace that comes when one thinks he has settled something forever, was hers.

"Philip," she said, "our artist has buried himself in his work. Shall we go forth on a chance adventure?"

Lawrence choked back a whirl of jealous suspicion that swept to his lips, and said from his corner, "Do! I'll have a surprise for your return."

He wanted to say, "No, stay here, Claire. I wish to tell you something, to make you see that I love you, that this Philip is not for you, that he is outside our real lives," but his tongue refused to obey his will.

"It sounds inviting," said Philip, rising. "Suppose we do."

They were gone.

Lawrence worked savagely, his mind grasping at impossible thoughts which kept struggling for expression. He was afraid, afraid till it chilled him, lest, after all, she loved Philip. If her voice had sounded so intense that noon, it had been because she resented his holding her while her real lover looked on.

Meanwhile Claire and Philip tramped through the pines in silence. She was wondering why she had come. She hesitated before speaking to him as she had determined. Perhaps he would be hurt at her imagining he could think of making any advances to a married woman, he would feel that she had suspected and accused him of a thing of which he was incapable.

Speech was difficult, so she trudged along, feeling very uncomfortable. Her heart ached as she saw again the lonely look on Lawrence's face bending over his work back there in the cabin.

"The adventure is slow in coming," Philip said, genially.

"Perhaps we don't know how to find it," she answered, not heeding her words especially. "To find adventure, one must be awake to possibilities."

"True," he mused, looking at her. "So much depends on a man's experience, knowledge, and imagination."

"I suppose life itself may set us, even calmly walking here, in the heart of an adventure."

"I have no doubt it does," he said.

Claire looked at him in faint alarm.

"Why," she stammered, "I didn't imagine it was true when I spoke."

"To him who has faith, the wildest dreams are always possibilities."

"Do you believe that, Philip?"

"I have found it to be quite true. I often dreamed of good company here in my wilderness and a charming woman about my cabin. It has happened."

"But even that has its very strong drawbacks, hasn't it?"

"What, for example?" He looked at her, earnestly.

"Oh," she hesitated, laughed, and said, "the rapidly depleted food supply, your time for thought broken, and all the rest."

"One sometimes finds a relief from thought very agreeable."

She wanted to laugh at the force with which his words struck her. "I'm sure that depends on the thought, as Lawrence would say," she answered, smiling.

"It does. And there is nothing I would not give to escape from my present thoughts." His voice was pitched low.

Her heart failed her, but she said bravely, "Perhaps you need a confessor, Sir Philip."

"I do, a gracious one, who can listen well."

"Then a woman would never serve," Claire laughed. "She would want to talk, you know."

Philip stopped, and looked at her. As far as he could see, she was calm, indifferent, the lady making talk.

"Perhaps," he said, lightly. "They have that reputation, I know."

"Now, I"--she laughed--"I, also, need a confessor."

"You?" His look searched her, incredulously. "What in the name of all the saints have you to confess?"

"Oh! Many things. Misunderstandings, social follies, mistakes in character reading, mean thoughts, lots of things."

"Absurd!" His tone was amused. "Who of us is not a sinner in those things?"

"But suppose," she ventured, hesitant--"suppose I had misjudged you? Suppose I had suspected you of things you were not at all guilty of?"

"I should be sorry if you told me of them."

It was impossible, she thought, to go on. He would indeed be sorry, and how foolish she had been! But what had he meant a moment before?

"Is your confession worse?" she asked.

"I think so. A man is so apt to be a mad fool," he said, and lapsed into silence.

They walked some distance before either spoke. Then Claire laughed suddenly. "Philip," she said, "we all three need a change of scene."

He turned, and his face was crimson as he looked at her. "It will be here soon. We can go out in April."

He had answered her dully, with a heavy sadness in his voice. It was her golden opportunity; and she took it.

"Splendid!" she cried--"splendid! I so want to get back to my husband. I am scarcely able to wait at all."

"I suppose," he said, "it seems a long time that you have been separated."

"Oh, so long," she answered, softly. "And I do so want him."

He walked on, slowly. "I shall miss you very much."

Her manner and expression were those of a pleased, frank child when she answered. "Really, I was so afraid I had been stupid company, and I owe so much to you. My husband will want to come clear back here to thank you for your winter's hospitality."

"It would hardly be worth his while. The debt is more than paid."

"I shall be sorry--in a way," she went on. "We have become such good friends, such good comrades with not the least bit of unpleasantness to remember. I shall always be glad of that."

"Yes," he said. "I am glad, indeed, that you feel so."

"If any one had ever told me that I should find so rare a gentleman here"--she laughed--"I would have thought they were talking medieval gallantry."

"Thank you. A gentleman is always himself when a lady is a lady."

Claire flushed a little, and said nothing.

"I shall remember you with pleasure and regret," continued Philip, his head high.

Her eyes opened wide, like a child's. "Oh, with regret, too?"

"Yes. Regret that you did not come to my cabin sooner, freer, and to stay longer."

"You are a consummate flatterer, Philip," she chided.

"I suppose it seems artificial; one can scarcely imagine that I should be in earnest," he said, a little bitterly.

Her conscience hurt her, though she did not know why. She could have said those things before and thought nothing of them. Why did she feel sorry now?

"I didn't mean that," she said, earnestly. "Believe me, I did not."

"No," he replied, "you answered out of mere indifference."

"But I am not indifferent to you, Philip. I like you very much." She was afraid she had hurt his feelings, and she, herself, was so tense, so troubled, that she was uncertain of her emotional attitudes these days. She felt that somehow she had been cruel and very ungracious toward the man to whom she owed so much.

"I know," he said, "one is interested, of course, in a novel, foreign mountaineer."

She was beginning to feel achy, and tears were near the surface.

"Philip, why do you misunderstand me?" she cried. "It isn't that at all. I like you for the man you are."

He smiled sadly. "And did it ever occur to you that I might love you for the woman you are?" he said suddenly, his good resolutions all gone.

She stopped and her breath quickened. Over her rushed a tide of fear, regret, sorrow. Even then she wondered that it was pity and not anger which moved her.

"I do not believe that. How could you?" she said swiftly.

"You cannot even conceive of my loving you?"

"I--I can, Philip--it isn't that, I--I"--she was floundering among her own emotions--"I can under other circumstances, different conditions. Oh, don't you see--think of"--she had almost said "Lawrence," but hastily substituted--"my husband."

"I have thought of him. From the day you came, he has haunted my footsteps. But after all, he thinks you are dead."

"But I love him. Think of that, too."

"Oh, Claire, Claire, I have seen you when I felt perhaps you might--might learn to love me."

"Philip, it is impossible!" she cried. "Please don't let's spoil everything now. I so wanted to be just friends."

His faced kindled and his deep eyes glowed with a fire that both terrorized and fascinated her.

"We cannot be that, Claire." His voice vibrated with growing passion. They stood, facing each other, and she trembled like a reed in the wind.

"I saw you this morning in his arms," he was tense and speaking rapidly, "and I knew then that I loved you. Loved you with all the soul of me. I could have killed him, I tell you. Claire, Claire, I love you! You must not deny me love."

She did not, could not answer, her tongue refused to move, and her dry, hot mouth felt as if she would smother. She looked into his eyes and said nothing, while she shook violently.

"Claire!" he cried. "Claire! I love you!" His arms closed around her and he held her tightly. His eyes burned into her own with a flame that was contagious in its intensity. She gasped, trembled, and did not struggle, though in her mind she was crying, anguished, "Lawrence! Lawrence!"

He pressed her more tightly, and his body against her own stirred in her a passion beyond the control of will. Her eyes lighted warmly and then closed. She felt suffocated, weak, and her senses reeled. His head bent, and his lips were pressed fiercely against her own parted ones, stopping the cry that rose to her throat. He held her fast, keeping his lips against her own until she felt her strength giving. She half leaned against him, letting the weight of her body sink into his arms.

A savage joy sprang into his eyes. She opened her own and saw. Throwing up her hands wildly, she struck his face, twisted her body free, and shoving him from her, stood, white, defiant, and determined.

She was not angry with Philip, only with herself, but the storm of self-reproach that swept over her burst into bitter, scorching words against him.

"You, you coward! You dare to touch me, to take me that way! If I had only known what sort of a thing you were, you, you viper! Oh, to be here with you!"

His dark eyes flashed with sudden rage, and he moved to seize her. She stood defiantly before him, her white face cold as outraged chastity itself, and his anger died. Into his face came the dejected, suffering look of a man whose passion ebbs before the compelling force of a woman's scorn.

"Forgive me, Claire," he moaned, "forgive me. I was mad, mad."

She knew he was sincere, and she smiled sadly.

"I know, Philip," she said. "I understand, but you must realize that it is impossible. Won't you see that? It was, perhaps, partly my fault. Forgive me if it was, and let us be friends. Philip, I want a friend," she continued. "I need one, a big, strong man whom I can trust, whom I know to be my loyal friend and my husband's friend."

He put out his hand, shame and love mingling in his face.

"I will be that friend, Claire," he said, earnestly.

She took his hand, her mind breaking with relief. She felt she was going to cry, and she leaned forward to hide her filling eyes.

"Oh, Philip, God bless you! You do not know what this means to me! You will never know. I thank you, I thank you!"

The tears rushed down her cheeks and dropped upon their clasped hands.

"Claire, don't, please--please don't," Philip pleaded, anguish in his tone.

She stopped, forced back her sobs, and smiled at him.

"Philip Ortez," she said, "I shall make you glad of this."

Deep in his heart, the words gave him hope. He grasped at them as a drowning man at a life-belt, but he did not voice the hope.

"I want to spend much of my time with you, Philip, in the out-of-doors. I must do it, and it is such a relief to know that I can do it without--without fear. You will be just my friend, won't you?"

"If it is in my power, I will." He spoke as a knight of old, taking a holy vow, and in his heart was the deep, sacred sense of the spirit that still moved in his idealistic soul.

Claire laughed joyously, almost hysterically, with the peace that came over her at the sound of his words. She was sure that all was well. If she had known that already he was building on the promise of frequent days alone, she would have been more afraid than ever. But she did not know that, neither did she know that in her very promise she was preparing a more difficult situation for her own struggle with herself than any she had ever faced in her life. She was only aware of the crisis passed and the peace that was now hers.

"Let us go back," she said gaily.

They found Lawrence smoothing his little carved child with a stone. Claire was effervescent with joy. Her great plan seemed sure of success, and she greeted him with a gaiety that was as abnormal as her despondency had been before.

"Lawrence," she cried, "we have had such a walk! And here you have finished for us this beautiful cherub as the symbol of our little home."

Her words stung him with savage pain, filling him with a great fear born of love and jealousy. For a minute he did not know what he was doing or saying, and he was scarcely aware of the words that fell from him.

"Cherubs are said to be symbols of the greatest love." He laughed tonelessly. "It belongs to you, Claire. Take it."

The child was carved standing upon a stump with wings outspread. In the form and face of the figure there was so much of benevolence, love, and charity that the imaginative power of this blind artist filled Claire with awe. She stood reverently before it, her heart singing with pride in the handiwork of the man she loved. She interpreted his words as a confession that he had carved it for her as a symbol of his love, and she was humbled before him, before his work. She wanted to throw herself in his arms and to tell him with the gift of her unreserved self how grateful she was for his gift, but she only said, very softly, taking both his hands: "Thank you, Lawrence."

The words struck his ear with a strangely mixed power in their sound. He wanted to laugh at the bitter mockery that swept into him. He had made the image for love of her, and he presented it to her as a symbol of her love for Philip. It was cruel, but he could endure it. Oh, yes, he was accustomed to life's little jokes. He did not answer her thanks, only gripped her hands in his own capable ones till he hurt her.

To Philip, the child brought still other suggestions. Moved by his present feeling of great, chivalrous guardianship of the woman who had said she needed him, he felt that it was a symbol of the great sacrificial love which he was privileged to know, and at the same time he felt that it was a symbol of hope.

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK. Don't forget this magazine is issued weekly, and that you will get the continuation of this story without waiting a month.

Claire

by Leslie Burton Blades

THE BLIND LOVE OF A BLIND HERO

_BY A BLIND AUTHOR_

This story began in the All-Story Weekly for October 5.