CHAPTER XVI
SANTOINE'S "EYES" FAIL HIM
Eaton, coming down rather late the next morning, found the breakfastroom empty. He chose his breakfast from the dishes on the sideboard,and while the servant set them before him and waited on him, heinquired after the members of the household. Miss Santoine, theservant said, had breakfasted some time before and was now with herfather; Mr. Avery also had breakfasted; Mr. Blatchford was not yetdown. As Eaton lingered over his breakfast, Miss Davis passed throughthe hall, accompanied by a maid. The maid admitted her into the studyand closed the door; afterward, the maid remained in the hall busy withsome morning duty, and her presence and that of the servant in thebreakfast room made it impossible for Eaton to attempt to go to thestudy or to risk speaking to Miss Davis. A few minutes later, he heardHarriet Santoine descending the stairs; rising, he went out into thehall to meet her.
"I don't ask you to commit yourself for longer than to-day, MissSantoine," he said, when they had exchanged greetings, "but--forto-day--what are the limits of my leash?"
"Mr. Avery is going to the country-club for lunch; I believe he intendsto ask you if you care to go with him."
He started and looked at her in surprise. "That's rather longerextension of the leash than I expected," he replied.
He stood an instant thoughtful. Did the invitation imply merely thathe was to have greater freedom now?
"Do you wish me to go?" he asked.
Her glance wavered and did not meet his. "You may go if you please."
"And if I do not?"
"Mr. Blatchford will lunch with you here."
"And you?"
"Yes, I shall lunch here too, probably. This morning I am going to bebusy with Miss Davis on some work for my father; what I do depends onhow I get along with that."
"Thank you," Eaton acknowledged.
She turned away and went into the study, closing the door behind her.Eaton, although he had finished his breakfast, went back into thebreakfast room. He did not know whether he would refuse or acceptAvery's invitation; suddenly he decided. After waiting for some fiveminutes there over a second cup of coffee, he got up and crossed to thestudy door and knocked. The door was opened by Miss Davis; lookingpast her, he could see Harriet Santoine seated at one of the desks.
"I beg pardon, Miss Santoine," he explained his interruption, "but youdid not tell me what time Mr. Avery is likely to want me to be ready togo to the country club."
"About half-past twelve, I think."
"And what time shall we be coming back?"
"Probably about five."
He thanked her and withdrew. As Miss Davis stood holding open thedoor, he had not looked to her, and he did not look back now as sheclosed the door behind him; their eyes had not met; but he understoodthat she had comprehended him fully. To-day he would be away from theSantoine house, and away from the guards who watched him, for at leastfour hours, under no closer espionage than that of Avery; this offeredopportunity--the first opportunity he had had--for communicationbetween him and his friends outside the house.
He went to his room and made some slight changes in his dress; he camedown then to the library, found a book and settled himself to read.Toward noon Avery looked in on him there and rather constrainedlyproffered his invitation; Eaton accepted, and after Avery had gone toget ready, Eaton put away his book. Fifteen minutes later, hearingAvery's motor purring outside, Eaton went into the hall; a servantbrought his coat and hat, and taking them, he went out to the motor.Avery appeared a moment later, with Harriet Santoine.
She stood looking after them as they spun down the curving drive andonto the pike outside the grounds; then she went back to the study.The digest Harriet had been working on that morning and the afternoonbefore was finished; Miss Davis, she found, was typewriting its lastpage. She dismissed Miss Davis for the day, and taking the typewrittensheets and some other papers her father had asked to have read to him,she went up to her father.
Basil Santoine was alone and awake; he was lying motionless, with thecord and electric button in his hand which served to start and stop thephonograph, with its recording cylinder, beside his bed. His mind,even in his present physical weakness, was always working, and he keptthis apparatus beside him to record his directions as they occurred tohim. As she entered the room, he pressed the button and started thephonograph, speaking into it; then, as he recognized his daughter'spresence, the cylinder halted; he put down the cord and motioned her toseat herself beside the bed.
"What have you, Harriet?" he asked.
She sat down and glancing through the papers in her hand, gave him thesubject of each; then at his direction she began to read them aloud.She read slowly, careful not to demand straining of his attention; andthis slowness leaving her own mind free in part to follow other things,her thoughts followed Eaton and Avery. As she finished the third page,he interrupted her.
"Where is it you want to go, Harriet?"
"Go? Why, nowhere, Father!"
"Has Avery taken Eaton to the country-club as I ordered?"
"Yes."
"I shall want you to go out there later in the afternoon; I would trustyour observation more than Avery's to determine whether Eaton has beenused to such surroundings. They are probably at luncheon now; will youlunch with me here, dear?"
"I'll be very glad to, Father."
He reached for the house telephone and gave directions for the luncheonin his room.
"Go on until they bring it," he directed.
She read another page, then broke off suddenly.
"Has Donald asked you anything to-day, Father?"
"In regard to what?"
"I thought last night he seemed disturbed about my relieving him ofpart of his work."
"Disturbed? In what way?"
She hesitated, unable to define even to herself the impression Avery'smanner had made on her. "I understood he was going to ask you to leaveit still in his hands."
"He has not done so yet."
"Then probably I was mistaken."
She began to read again, and she continued now until the luncheon wasserved. At meal-time Basil Santoine made it a rule never to discusstopics relating to his occupation in working hours, and in his presentweakness, the rule was rigidly enforced; father and daughter talked ofgardening and the new developments in aviation. She read again forhalf an hour after luncheon, finishing the pages she had brought.
"Now you'd better go to the club," the blind man directed.
She put the reports and letters away in the safe in the room below, andgoing to her own apartments, she dressed carefully for the afternoon.The day was a warm, sunny, early spring day, with the ground fairlyfirm. She ordered her horse and trap, and leaving the groom, she droveto the country-club beyond the rise of ground back from the lake. Herpleasure in the drive and the day was diminished by her errand. Itmade her grow uncomfortable and flush warmly as she recollectedthat--if Eaton's secrecy regarding himself was accounted for by theunknown injury he had suffered--she was the one sent to "spy" upon him.
As she drove down the road, she passed the scene of the attempt by themen in the motor to run Eaton down. The indefiniteness of herknowledge by whom or why the attack had been made only made it seemmore terrible to her. Unquestionably, he was in constant danger of itsrepetition, and especially when--as to-day--he was outside her father'sgrounds. Instinctively she hurried her horse. The great whiteclub-house stood above the gentle slope of the valley to the west;beyond it, the golf-course was spotted by a few figures of men andgirls out for early-season play. And further off and to one side ofthe course, she saw mounted men scurrying up and down the polo field inpractice. A number of people were standing watching, and a few motorsand traps were halted beside the barriers. Harriet stopped at theclub-house only to make certain that Mr. Avery and his guest were notthere; then she drove on to the polo field.
As she approached, she recognized Avery's lithe, alert figure on one ofthe ponies; with a deft, qu
ick stroke he cleared the ball from beforethe feet of an opponent's pony, then he looked up and nodded to her.Harriet drove up and stopped beside the barrier; people hailed her fromall sides, and for a moment the practice was stopped as the playerstrotted over to speak to her. Then play began again, and she hadopportunity to look for Eaton. Her father, she knew, had instructedAvery that Eaton was to be introduced as his guest; but Avery evidentlyhad either carried out these instructions in a purely mechanical manneror had not wished Eaton to be with others unless he himself was by; forHarriet discovered Eaton standing off by himself. She waited till helooked toward her, then signaled him to come over. She got down, andthey stood together following the play.
"You know polo?" she questioned him, as she saw the expression ofappreciation in his face as a player daringly "rode-off" an antagonistand saved a "cross." She put the question without thought before sherecognized that she was obeying her father's instructions.
"I understand the game somewhat," Eaton replied.
"Have you ever played?"
"It seems to deserve its reputation as the summit of sport," he replied.
He answered so easily that she could not decide whether he was evadingor not; and somehow, just then, she found it impossible to put thesimple question direct again.
"Good! Good, Don!" she cried enthusiastically and clapped her hands asAvery suddenly raced before them, caught the ball with a swinging,back-handed stroke and drove it directly toward his opponent's goal.Instantly whirling his mount, Avery raced away after the ball, and withanother clean stroke scored a goal. Every one about cried out inapprobation.
"He's very quick and clever, isn't he?" Harriet said to Eaton.
Eaton nodded. "Yes; he's by all odds the most skillful man on thefield, I should say."
The generosity of the praise impelled the girl, somehow, to qualify it."But only two others really have played much--that man and that."
"Yes, I picked them as the experienced ones," Eaton said quietly.
"The others--two of them, at least--are out for the first time, Ithink."
They watched the rapid course of the ball up and down the field, thescurry and scamper of the ponies after it, then the clash of a meleeagain.
Two ponies went down, and their riders were flung. When they arose,one of the least experienced boys limped apologetically from the field.Avery rode to the barrier.
"I say, any of you fellows, don't you want to try it? We're justgetting warmed up."
Harriet glanced at the group Avery had addressed; she knew nearly allof them--she knew too that none of them were likely to accept theinvitation, and that Avery must be as well aware of that as she was.Avery, indeed, scarcely glanced at them, but looked over to Eaton andgave the challenge direct.
"Care to take a chance?"
Harriet Santoine watched her companion; a sudden flush had come to hisface which vanished, as she turned, and left him almost pale; but hiseyes glowed. Avery's manner in challenging him, as though he mustrefuse from fear of such a fall as he just had witnessed, was notenough to explain Eaton's start.
"How can I?" he returned.
"If you want to play, you can," Avery dared him. "Furden"--that wasthe boy who had just been hurt--"will lend you some things; his'll justabout fit you; and you can have his mounts."
Harriet continued to watch Eaton; the challenge had been put so as togive him no ground for refusal but timidity.
"You don't care to?" Avery taunted him deftly.
"Why don't you try it?" Harriet found herself saying to him.
He hesitated. She realized it was not timidity he was feeling; it wassomething deeper and stronger than that. It was fear; but so plainlyit was not fear of bodily hurt that she moved instinctively toward himin sympathy. He looked swiftly at Avery, then at her, then away. Heseemed to fear alike accepting or refusing to play; suddenly he madehis decision.
"I'll play."
He started instantly away to the dressing-rooms; a few minutes later,when he rode onto the field, Harriet was conscious that, in some way,Eaton was playing a part as he listened to Avery's directions. Thenthe ball was thrown in for a scrimmage, and she felt her pulses quickenas Avery and Eaton raced side by side for the ball. Eaton might nothave played polo before, but he was at home on horseback; he beat Averyto the ball but, clumsy with his mallet, he missed and overrode; Averystroked the ball smartly, and cleverly followed through. But the nextinstant, as Eaton passed her, shifting his mallet in his hand, Harrietwatched him more wonderingly.
"He could have hit that ball if he'd wanted to," she declared almostaudibly to herself; and the impression that Eaton was pretending to aclumsiness which was not real grew on her. Donald Avery appointedhimself to oppose Eaton wherever possible, besting him in every contestfor the ball; but she saw that Donald now, though he took it uponhimself to show all the other players where they made their mistakes,did not offer any more instruction to Eaton. One of the players drovethe ball close to the barrier directly before Harriet; Eaton and Averyraced for it, neck by neck. As before, Eaton by better riding gained alittle; as they came up, she saw Donald's attention was not upon theball or the play; instead, he was watching Eaton closely. And sherealized suddenly that Donald had appreciated as fully as herself thatEaton's clumsiness was a pretense. It was no longer merely polo thetwo were playing; Donald, suspecting or perhaps even certain that Eatonknew the game, was trying to make him show it, and Eaton was watchfullyavoiding this. Just in front of her, Donald, leaning forward, sweptthe ball from in front of Eaton's pony's feet.
For a few moments the play was all at the further edge of the field;then once more the ball crossed with a long curving shot and camehopping and rolling along the ground close to where she stood. AgainDonald and Eaton raced for it.
"Stedman!" Avery called to a teammate to prepare to receive the ballafter he had struck it; and he lifted his mallet to drive the ball awayfrom in front of Eaton. But as Avery's club was coming down, Eaton,like a flash and apparently without lifting his mallet at all, caughtthe ball a sharp, smacking stroke. It leaped like a bullet, straightand true, toward the goal, and before Avery could turn, Eaton was afterit and upon it, but he did not have to strike again; it bounded on andon between the goal-posts, while together with the applause for thestranger arose a laugh at the expense of Avery. But as Donald haltedbefore her, Harriet saw that he was not angry or discomfited, but wassmiling triumphantly to himself; and as she called in praise to Eatonwhen he came close again, she discovered in him only dismay at what hehad done.
The practice ended, and the players rode away. She waited in theclubhouse till Avery and Eaton came up from the dressing-rooms.Donald's triumphant satisfaction seemed to have increased; Eaton wassilent and preoccupied. Avery, hailed by a group of men, started away;as he did so, he saluted Eaton almost derisively. Eaton's return ofthe salute was openly hostile. She looked up at him keenly, tryingunavailingly to determine whether more had taken place between the twomen than she herself had witnessed.
"You had played polo before--and played it well," she charged. "Whydid you want to pretend you hadn't?"
He made no reply. As she began to talk of other things, she discoveredwith surprise that his manner toward her had taken on even greaterformality and constraint than it had had since his talk with her fatherthe day before.
The afternoon was not warm enough to sit outside; in the club-housewere gathered groups of men and girls who had come in from thegolf-course or from watching the polo practice. She found herself nowfacing one of these groups composed of some of her own friends, whowere taking tea and wafers in the recess before some windows. Theymotioned to her to join them, and she could not well refuse, especiallyas this had been a part of her father's instructions. The men rose, asshe moved toward them, Eaton with her; she introduced Eaton; a chairwas pushed forward for her, and two of the girls made a place for Eatonon the window-seat between them.
As they seated themselves and were served, Eaton's particip
ation in thepolo practice was the subject of conversation. She found, as she triedto talk with her nearer neighbors, that she was listening instead tothis more general conversation which Eaton had joined. She saw thatthese people had accepted him as one of their own sort to the point ofjesting with him about his "lucky" polo stroke for a beginner; hismanner toward them was very different from what it had been just now toherself; he seemed at ease and unembarrassed with them. One or two ofthe girls appeared to have been eager--even anxious--to meet him; andshe found herself oddly resenting the attitude of these girls. Herfeeling was indefinite, vague; it made her flush and grow uncomfortableto recognize dimly that there was in it some sense of a proprietorshipof her own in him which took alarm at seeing other girls attracted byhim; but underneath it was her uneasiness at his new manner to herself,which hurt because she could not explain it. As the party finishedtheir tea, she looked across to him.
"Are you ready to go, Mr. Eaton?" she asked.
"Whenever Mr. Avery is ready."
"You needn't wait for him unless you wish; I'll drive you back," sheoffered.
"Of course I'd prefer that, Miss Santoine."
They went out to her trap, leaving Donald to motor back alone. As soonas she had driven out of the club grounds, she let the horse take itsown gait, and she turned and faced him.
"Will you tell me," she demanded, "what I have done this afternoon tomake you class me among those who oppose you?"
"What have you done? Nothing, Miss Santoine."
"But you are classing me so now."
"Oh, no," he denied so unconvincingly that she felt he was only puttingher off.
Harriet Santoine knew that what had attracted her friends to Eaton wastheir recognition of his likeness to themselves; but what had impressedher in seeing him with them was his difference. Was it some memory ofhis former life that seeing these people had recalled to him, which hadaffected his manner toward her?
Again she looked at him.
"Were you sorry to leave the club?" she asked.
"I was quite ready to leave," he answered inattentively.
"It must have been pleasant to you, though, to--to be among the sort ofpeople again that you--you used to know. Miss Furden"--she mentionedone of the girls who had seemed most interested in him, the sister ofthe boy whose place he had taken in the polo practice--"is considered avery attractive person, Mr. Eaton. I have heard it said that aman--any man--not to be attracted by her must be forearmed against herby thought--or memory of some other woman whom he holds dear."
"She seemed very pleasant," he answered automatically.
"Only pleasant? You were forearmed, then," she said.
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand."
The mechanicalness of his answer reassured her. "I mean, Mr.Eaton,"--she forced her tone to be light,--"Miss Furden was not asattractive to you as she might have been, because there has been someother woman in your life--whose memory--or--or the expectation ofseeing whom again--protected you."
"Has been? Oh, you mean before."
"Yes; of course," she answered hastily.
"No--none," he replied simply. "It's rather ungallant, Miss Santoine,but I'm afraid I wasn't thinking much about Miss Furden."
She felt that his denial was the truth, for his words confirmed theimpression she had had when singing with him the night before. Shedrove on--or rather let the horse take them on--for a few momentsduring which neither spoke. They had come about a bend in the road,and the great house of her father loomed ahead. A motor whizzed pastthem, coming from behind. It was only Avery's car on the way home; butHarriet had jumped a little in memory of the day before, and hercompanion's head had turned quickly toward the car. She looked up athim swiftly; his lips were set and his eyes gazed steadily ahead afterAvery, and he drew a little away from her. A catch in herbreath--almost an audible gasp--surprised her, and she fought a warmimpulse which had all but placed her hand on his.
"Will you tell me something, Miss Santoine?" he asked suddenly.
"What?"
"I suppose, when I was with Mr. Avery this afternoon, that if I hadattempted to escape, he and the chauffeur would have combined to detainme. But on the way back here--did you assume that when you took me incharge you had my parole not to try to depart?"
"No," she said. "I don't believe Father depended entirely on that."
"You mean that he has made arrangements so that if I--exceeded thedirections given me, I would be picked up?"
"I don't know exactly what they are, but you may be sure that they aremade if they are necessary."
"Thank you," Eaton acknowledged.
She was silent for a moment, thoughtful. "Do you mean that you havebeen considering this afternoon the possibilities of escape?"
"It would be only natural for me to do that, would it not?" he parried.
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't mean that you might not try to exceed the limits Father hasset for you; you might try that, and of course you would be prevented.But you will not" (she hesitated, and when she went on she was quotingher father) "--sacrifice your position here."
"Why not?"
"Because you tried to gain it--or--or if not exactly that, at least youhad some object in wanting to be near Father which you have not yetgained." She hesitated once more, not looking at him. Her words wereunconvincing to herself; that morning, when her father had spoken them,they had been quite convincing, but since this afternoon she was nolonger sure of their truth. What it was that had happened during theafternoon she could not make out; instinctively, however, she felt thatit had so altered Eaton's relations with them that now he might attemptto escape.
They had reached the front of the house, and a groom sprang to take thehorse. She let Eaton help her down; as they entered the house,Avery--who had reached the house only a few moments before them--wasstill in the hall. And again she was startled in the meeting of thetwo men by Avery's triumph and the swift flare of defiance on Eaton'sface.
As she went up to her apartments, her maid met her at the door.
"Mr. Santoine wishes you to dine with him, Miss Santoine," the maidannounced.
"Very well," she answered.
She changed from her afternoon dress slowly. As she did so, shebrought swiftly in review the events of the day. Chiefly it was to thepolo practice and to Eaton's dismay at his one remarkable stroke thather mind went. Had Donald Avery seen something in that which was notplain to herself?
Harriet Santoine knew polo from watching many games, but she was awarethat--as with any one who knows a game merely as a spectator--she wasunacquainted with many of the finer points of play. Donald had playedalmost since a boy, he was a good, steady, though not a brilliantplayer. Had Donald recognized in Eaton something more than merely agood player trying to pretend ignorance of the game? The thoughtsuddenly checked and startled her. For how many great polo playerswere there in America? Were there a hundred? Fifty? Twenty-five?She did not know; but she did know that there were so few of them thattheir names and many of the particulars of their lives were known toevery follower of the sport.
She halted suddenly in her dressing, perplexed and troubled. Herfather had sent Eaton to the country club with Avery; there Avery,plainly, had forced Eaton into the polo game. By her father'sinstructions? Clearly there seemed to have been purpose in what hadbeen done, and purpose which had not been confided to herself either byher father or Avery. For how could they have suspected that Eatonwould betray himself in the game unless they had also suspected that hehad played polo before? To suspect that, they must at least have sometheory as to who Eaton was. But her father had no such theory; he hadbeen expending unavailingly, so far, every effort to ascertain Eaton'sconnections. So her thoughts led her only into deeper and greaterperplexity, but with them came sudden--and unaccountable--resentmentagainst Avery.
"Will you see what Mr. Avery is doing?" she said to the maid.
The girl went out and returne
d in a few moments. "He is with Mr.Santoine."
"Thank you."
At seven Harriet went in to dinner with her father. The blind man wasnow alone; he had been awaiting her, and they were served at once. Allthrough the dinner she was nervous and moody; for she knew she wasgoing to do something she had never done before: she was going toconceal something from her father. She told herself it was not reallyconcealment, for Donald must have already told him. It was no more,then, than that she herself would not inform upon Eaton, but wouldleave that to Avery. So she told of Eaton's reception at the countryclub, and of his taking part in the polo practice and playing badly;but of her own impression that Eaton knew the game and her presentconviction that Donald Avery had seen even more than that, she saidnothing. She watched her father's face, but she could see there noconsciousness that she was omitting anything in her account.
An hour later, when after reading aloud to him for a time, he dismissedher, she hesitated before going.
"You've seen Donald?" she asked.
"Yes."
"What did he tell you?"
"The same as you have told, though not quite so fully."
She was outside the door and in the hall before realization came to herthat her father's reply could mean only that Donald, like herself, hadconcealed his discovery of Eaton's ability to play polo. She turnedback suddenly to return to her father; then again she hesitated,stopped with her hand upon the blind man's door by her recollection ofDonald's enmity to Eaton. Why Donald had not told, she could notimagine; the only conclusion she could reach was that Donald's silencein some way menaced Eaton; for--suddenly now--it came to her what thismust mean to Eaton. All that Eaton had been so careful to hideregarding himself and his connections must be obtainable by Avery now.Why Eaton had played at all; why he had been afraid to refuse theinvitation to play, she could not know; but sympathy and fear for himswept over her, as she comprehended that it was to Avery the betrayalhad been made and that Avery, for some purpose of his own, waswithholding this betrayal to make use of it as he saw fit.
She moved once more to return to her father; again she stopped; then,swiftly, she turned and went downstairs.
As she descended, she saw in the lower hall the stenographer, MissDavis, sitting waiting. There was no adequate reason for the girl'sbeing there at that hour; she had come--she said, as she rose to greetHarriet--to learn whether she would be wanted the next day; she hadalready seen Mr. Avery, and he would not want her. Harriet, tellingher she would not need her, offered to send a servant home with her, asthe roads were dark. Miss Davis refused this and went out at once.Harriet, as the door was closed behind the girl, looked hurriedly aboutfor Avery. She did not find him, nor at first did she find Eatoneither. She discovered him presently in the music-room withBlatchford. Blatchford at once excused himself, tired evidently of histask of watching over Eaton.
Harriet caught herself together and controlled herself to her usualmanner.
"What shall it be this evening, Mr. Eaton?" she asked. "Music?Billiards?"
"Billiards, if you like," he responded.
They went up to the billiard room, and for an hour played steadily; buther mind was not upon the game--nor, she saw, was his. Several timeshe looked at his watch; he seemed to her to be waiting. Finally, asthey ended a game, he put his cue back in the rack and faced her.
"Miss Santoine," he said, "I want to ask a favor."
"What is it?"
"I want to go out--unaccompanied."
"Why?"
"I wish to speak to a friend who will be waiting for me."
"How do you know?"
"He got word to me at the country club to-day. Excuse me--I did notmean to inform on Mr. Avery; he was really most vigilant. I believe heonly made one slip."
"He was not the only one observing you."
"I suppose not. In fact, I was certain of it. However, I received amessage which was undoubtedly authentic and had not been overseen."
"But you were not able to make reply."
"I was not able to receive all that was necessary."
She considered for a moment. "What do you want me to do?"
"Either because of my presence or because of what has happened--orperhaps normally--you have at least four men about the grounds, two ofwhom seem to be constantly on duty to observe any one who may approach."
"Or try to leave."
"Precisely."
"There are more than two."
"I was stating the minimum."
"Well?"
"I wish you to order them to let me pass and go to a place perhaps tenminutes' walk from here. If you do so, I will return at the latestwithin half an hour" (he glanced at his watch) "--to be definite,before a quarter of eleven."
"Why should I do this?"
He came close to her and faced her. "What do you think of me now, MissSantoine?"
"Why--"
"You are quite certain now, are you not, that I had nothing to do withthe attack on your father--that is, in any other connection than thatthe attack might be meant for me. I denied yesterday that the men inthe automobile meant to run me down; you did not accept that denial. Imay as well admit to you that I know perfectly well they meant to killme; the man on the train also meant to kill me. They are likely to tryagain to kill me."
"We recognize that too," she answered. "The men on watch about thehouse are warned to protect you as well as watch you."
"I appreciate that."
"But are they all you have to fear, Mr. Eaton?" She was thinking ofDonald Avery.
He seemed to recognize what was in her mind; his eyes, as he gazedintently at her, clouded, then darkened still more with some succeedingthought. "No, not all."
"And it will aid you to--to protect yourself if you see your friendto-night?"
"Yes."
"But why should not one of Father's men be with you?"
"Unless I were alone, my friend would not appear."
"I see."
He moved away from her, then came back; the importance to him of whathe was asking was very plain to her--he was shaking nervously with it."Miss Santoine," he said intently, "you do not think badly of me now.I do not have to doubt that; I can see it; you have wanted me to seeit. I ask you to trust me for a few minutes to-night. I cannot tellyou whom I wish to see or why, except that the man comes to do me aservice and to endanger no one--except those trying to injure me."
She herself was trembling with her desire to help him, but recollectionof her father held her back; then swiftly there came to her the thoughtof Gabriel Warden; because Warden had tried to help him--in some wayand for some reason which she did not know--Warden had been killed.And feeling that in helping him there might be danger to herself, shesuddenly and eagerly welcomed that danger, and made her decision."You'll promise, Mr. Eaton, not to try to--leave?"
"Yes."
"Let us go out," she said.
She led the way downstairs and, in the hall, picked up a cape; he threwit over her shoulders and brought his overcoat and cap. But in hisabsorption he forgot to put them on until, as they went out into thegarden together, she reminded him; then he put on the cap. The nightwas clear and cool, and no one but themselves seemed to be about thehouse.
"Which way do you want to go?" she asked.
He turned toward the forested acres of the grounds which ran down to aravine at the bottom of which a little stream trickled toward the lake.As they approached the side of this ravine, a man appeared andinvestigated them. He recognized the girl's figure and halted.
"It's all right, Willis," she said quietly.
"Yes, ma'am."
They passed the man and went down the path into the ravine and up thetiny valley. Eaton halted.
"Your man's just above there?" he asked her.
"Yes."
"He'll stay there?"
"Yes; or close by."
"Then you don't mind waiting here a few moments for me?"
"No," she said. "You will
return here?"
"Yes," he said; and with that permission, he left her.
Both had spoken so that the man above could not have heard; and Harrietnow noticed that, as her companion hurried ahead, he went almostnoiselessly. As he disappeared, the impulse to call him back almostcontrolled her; then she started to follow him; but she did not. Shestood still, shivering a little now in the cold; and as she listened,she no longer heard his footsteps. What she had done was done; thenjust as she was telling herself that it must be many moments before shewould know whether he was coming back, she heard him returning; at somelittle distance, he spoke her name so as not to frighten her. She knewat once it was he, but a change in the tone surprised her. She steppedforward to meet him.
"You found your friend?"
"Yes."
"What did he tell you?" Her hand caught his sleeve in an impulse ofconcern, but she tried to make it seem as though she grasped him toguide her through the trees of the ravine. "I mean what is wrong thatyou did not expect?"
She heard his breath come fast.
"Nothing," he denied.
"No; you must tell me!" Her hand was still on his arm.
"I cannot."
"Why can you not?"
"Why?"
"Can't you trust me?"
"Trust you!" he cried. He turned to her and seized her hands. "Youask me to--trust you!"
"Yes; I've trusted you. Can't you believe as much in me?"
"Believe in you, Miss Santoine!" He crushed her fingers in his grasp."Oh, my God, I wish I could!"
"You wish you could?" she echoed. The tone of it struck her like ablow, and she tore her hands away. "What do you mean by that?"
He made no reply but stood staring at her through the dark. "We mustgo back," he said queerly. "You're cold."
She did not answer but started back up the path to the house. Heseemed to have caught himself together against some impulse thatstirred him strongly. "The man out there who saw us? He will reportto your father, Miss Santoine?" he asked unsteadily.
"Reports for Father are first made to me."
"I see." He did not ask her what she was going to do; if he wasassuming that her permission to exceed his set limits bound her not toreport to her father, she did not accept that assumption, though shewould not report to the blind man to-night, for she knew he must now beasleep. But she felt that Eaton was no longer thinking of this. Asthey entered the house and he helped her lay off her cape, he suddenlyfaced her.
"We are in a strange relation to each other, Miss Santoine--strangerthan you know," he said unevenly.
She waited for him to go on.
"We have talked sometimes of the likeness of the everyday life to war,"he continued. "In war men and women sometimes do or countenance thingsthey know to be evil because they believe that by means of them thereis accomplished some greater good; in peace, in life, men--andwomen--sometimes do the same. When the time comes that you comprehendwhat our actual relation is, I--I want you to know that I understandthat whatever you have done was done because you believed it mightbring about the greater good. I--I have seen in you--in yourfather--only kindness, high honor, sympathy. If I did not know--"
She started, gazing at him; what he said had absolutely no meaning forher. "What is it that you know?" she demanded.
He did not reply; his hand went out to hers, seized it, crushed it, andhe started away. As he went up the stair--still, in his absorption,carrying cap and overcoat--she stood staring after him in perplexity.