CHAPTER XV--THE LIMIT OF TRUST
Not until Jane was finishing an account of his disposal of the"grave-diggers" did Pape feel sure that the splendid old man was blind.Suspicion had come from the uncertainty with which he had veered towardthe chair placed for him, from his indirect gaze toward the girl, fromthe hand outstretched for the touch of her hand. Conclusion surprisedfrom the Westerner a low, sympathetic exclamation which Jane heard,evidently understood and chose to answer openly.
"Yes," said she, "my father has been unable to see since the war.France, you know, and mustard gas."
"Do you suppose--" Curtis Lauderdale himself put the question--"thatotherwise I'd permit my dear girl to conduct this search against ourenemies?"
"But the war--at your age, sir?" murmured Pape. "Weren't there enough ofus who were young and free of family responsibilities to go intoservice?"
Again that rarely beautiful smile from eyes which appeared somehow tosee more than was visible to those blessed with sight. "I was willingfor you youngsters to do the actual fighting. But I felt called upon totake some part. What are two eyes compared with the inner knowledge thatyou did your bit? I only helped to make trench life easier, along withmany other K-C's and wearers of the 'Y.'"
"And how did they--get you?"
"Enemy gas bombs didn't respect non-combative insignia or uniforms. Oneof them blinded me and the gray horde got--well, one more Americanprisoner. I was later than most getting back home."
There was a vitality in his manner--a throb of pure joy in hisvoice--which eased the poignancy of the younger man's pity and remindedhim that one mercy amid the heartbreaks of the big fight would seem tobe the compensation seen by those whose gaze has been focused foreverinward.
Pape turned from father to daughter. "But your aunt, Mrs. Sturgis, toldme that your father was----"
"Yes." Again Jane divined his perplexity. "Aunt Helene thinks that dad'went West,' as they say, in the war. She was very much against hisgoing. And when he came back so late and so--so much the worse for wear,he and I decided that she and the rest should continue to believe thereport which had preceded him across the Atlantic, at least until afterwe forced----"
She did not hesitate; just stopped, having said what she evidentlyconsidered enough. As she showed no curiosity over the when, where orwhyfore of auntie's confidence, Pape forced upon her no report, eitherof that interview or the canter through conversational and Central Parkby-paths with Cousin Irene. Rather, he gave to the charm of personalityin the older man--a magnet toward which he had turned willingly sinceJane's justification in that quiet "my father."
"But since you are freed, sir--now that you are back----"
Jane's eyes stopped him, so dark with suspicion was their blue.
"I don't know just what is back of your interest, Why-Not Pape. But itwill do no harm, whichever side you are on, to admit a truth about myfather known to both his friends and foes. He is under a shadow--anundeserved disgrace which culminated in an indictment. Until that shadowis dissipated it is better that none should know he has come back. WhatI decided to trust you with before you found it out for yourself, wasthe identity of the man with whom you thought that I----"
"I am too grateful--" in his turn Pape interrupted--"ever to let youregret that trust."
He spoke as he felt, with revealing sincerity. His look held hers; thethrill of his voice the moment.
The blind man lightened the pause. "The only thing I had to thank ourenemies for was the loss of my identity. We thought advisable that itstay lost to all but Jane. My sister-in-law, kind as she has been to mygirl-child, must have been more relieved than grieved over the allegedfinish of one supposed to have disgraced the name. Why my daughter hasseen fit to let you, a comparative stranger, into the secret which wehave guarded so carefully----"
Why? Judging by Jane's set look at the implied criticism, she eithercould not or would not explain. The interloper's eyes, still fixed onhers, reiterated the counter-demand, why not--_why not_?
Her father, as though sensing much more than he could see, reached outand stroked her soft, parted, night-black hair.
"Never mind, Jen-Jen," he said. "The fact that you do a thing makes itright enough for me."
With sudden penitent fervor, she seized and kissed his hand. "I don'tknow, daddy dear. It is hard to be sure about forced, snap judgments. Ihope this Westerner is what I've told you he looks. I am glad to havebrought him here to have you help me decide. And I haven't exactly lethim into anything. Of his own force--curiosity, superfluous energy orwhatever it is that animates him--he has sort of dashed into my life. Heknows about the theft of grandfather's cryptogram and that I'm trying tofollow it from memory in my park hunt. But, of course, the enemy knowsthat or they wouldn't be watching me or-- _Oh_, I do hope that it's allright--that he's all right! Now that he has trailed me here, that heknows who and where you are, so much depends upon his integrity. If heis against us and is clever, wouldn't he pretend just the same to bewith us?"
Had she forgotten his presence in their midst or was she super-acutelyremembering it? Pape wondered. He felt as nearly futile as wasconstitutional about further attempts to convince her of his fealty. Onthe part of the Self-Selected, if not on his, that slow-but-sure methodwould have to do. Time and acts would tell--time and acts and thishigh-priest of hers, for love of whom she had lit into a devotionaltaper.
He--her father--proceeded at once to fulfill her prayer--to "help herdecide."
"Dear," he proposed, "would it be too much to ask you to serve us tea?If it is, just forget my bad habit. But that last Orange Pekoe you gotis delicious. And there are a few fig-cakes left in the box. I'll try toentertain this latest acquisition of yours while you're bringing thewater to a boil."
He did try--and succeeded. As soon as the girl had left the room, hebegan in a lowered tone:
"I was glad to do what I could for my country, even at the cost. Mymisfortune I have learned to look on as the _fortune_ of war. My keenestregret--" he gave a sightless glance toward the closed door--"is theloss of seeing Jane's face. From her babyhood up, I have so enjoyedJane's face. I keep wondering and wondering whether it has changed oraged from the years and the suffering I've caused her--whether it isless or more lovely than when I last saw it that day I kissed itgood-by."
"It is," said Pape with conviction, "more lovely. It must be. You or anyman would need to be a patriot, sir, to love and leave such a face. Itreminds me of one I didn't have to leave--one that led me over that longroad Over There to and through hell."
"And whose face was that?"
"My mother's."
The old man looked arrested and pleased. He nodded, as though inrealization of a hope.
"Tell me," he bade the younger, "what Jane looks like to you."
Well it was, perhaps, that he could not see the embarrassment he hadcaused. Indeed, Pape didn't feel up to the sudden demand upon his sparsesupply of fine language. He couldn't have felt less adequate, he wassure, had he been called upon for an extemporaneous critique upon theSistine Madonna in the presence of its creator.
And yet there were reasons and reasons in this case why he should try tosatisfy the eagerness of the fine old face bent his way in a listeningattitude. The pathos of eyes from which the soul of sight had gone, theworthiness of the subject and a certain longing within himself toexpress to the next most interested person the appreciation which so farhe had been unable to confide even in her who had inspired it--all urgedhim to make an effort.
He drew a deep breath; wondered how far away she was; hoped, then fearedthat possibly she would overhear. He feared, lest he fall short of theflattery which must have been poured, her life long, into her ears. Hehoped that she might the sooner get an idea of his reverentialadmiration.
"Ever been to the Yellowstone?"
At his abrupt question the old man chuckled.
"Boy," said he, "I knew our West before you were born. I was one of thefirst whites into the Park, then a wilderness. Jane tells me you're f
romHellroaring. I was one of the party that named the region."
"You don't tell me that you are--Why, of course! I should have known. Wehave a peak named after you. Your hand, old scout!"
The grip that answered was one of the sort Pape understood, a strong,firm, promising pact to the West that had come East. Surer at least ofhis visible audience, he roweled into the subject of the moment.
"In terms of our Yellowstone, then, your daughter's eyes remind me ofMorning Glory Geyser. Could I say more for their color, sir?"
"No. The same sun that whitened the Glory's spray seemed to make thedeeps of its pool a stronger blue. And her hair, young man, is it----?"
"Black as the jade of Obsidian Cliffs," Pape supplied, then correctedhimself. "Yet that don't seem an altogether proper simile, it is sosoft. Of course, I've never touched it, sir, but I've an idea that themountain moss, where we find the giant violets, would feel harsh to thehand that had smoothed your daughter's hair."
"It would that. Thank God they didn't blind my sense of touch! Myfingers never tire of seeing Jane's soft hair."
"Then your fingers must be able to see her lips, too, for they are asdefinitely dented as those of an antelope doe. And they're as healthy ared as ever they could have been in her childhood--red as the sun whenit gets over into Idaho. And the Teton Range itself can't beat her forclean, strong lines. I've never seen a woman who was such a blend ofdelicacy and power as your Jane. Still or in movement, I admire to watchher."
Lauderdale leaned back into his chair with a sigh of satisfaction. "Iused to call her 'Little Lynx.' There never was such a child forsinuousness. Ah, what a treat you're giving me, Mr. Pape, to help me seeagain the beauties of my beautiful girl! Tell me--" The father's voicelowered without loss of eagerness. His hands quavered forward, as thoughto supply the lack in his misted, striving eyes. "I want to knowparticularly about the expression of her face. Has the trouble I'vebrought upon her shadowed its brilliant paleness? Has it still that rarerepose, with only a lift of the eyelid, a twitch of a corner of her lipsor a quiver of her chin, to show the emotions beneath?"
Pape drew back from the he-man habit of hiding his heart; then, after athought, leaned forward again. Why hide from this one man who could beher true lover, yet no rival to himself? Why not show what he felt? Heclosed his eyes, the better and more companionably to picture Jane. Hefelt that they two, both sightless now, saw the same vision as he spoke.
"I ain't what you'd call up in art, sir. But I saw in Paris the fineststatues in the world, or so they told me. The quiet of those still,white people sort of got on my imagination. Their suppression seemed tospoil me for the awful animation of the average face. Likely that's whyyour Jane's got me at first sight, although I hadn't thought it out upto now. Hers is the first female face I ever was glad to watch in vainfor a smile. There couldn't be a marble paler or purer or with featuresfiner lined. Just as I used to thank Heaven, looking at those statuedladies, that they couldn't relax from their perfection, I feel likepraying that Jane never will relax into a smile--until she smiles onme."
A crowded silence fell between, but did not separate them. Its mostvital question the Westerner next answered bluntly, after his way.
"It ain't impudence, my calling her by her first name, Mr. Lauderdale. Ihaven't had a real good opportunity as yet to ask your daughter to marryme. You see, we haven't met any too often--this is time the fourth andonly a shade less perturbed than the former three. But rest assured thatI'll take advantage of the first chance. Our 'happily-ever-afterward' isall settled so far as I am concerned."
"I see."
Although in one way the blind man's quiet statement wasn't true, inanother he looked as though it was.
At a call from the rear room, Pape sprang to open the door and relieveJane of her laden tea-tray. On turning, he noticed that the father's onehand gripped the other in his strong, firm, Westernwise clasp, as thoughin self-congratulation. He looked as though he now felt sincere in thewelcome extended earlier for form's sake to one Peter Stansbury Pape.Just why? Well, why not?