Claire Part 35

Lawrence turned a little toward her, his fingers gripping the gra.s.s in front of him.

"Claire," he said slowly, "I--I want to say them, think them, believe them about and with you."

She did not move. Over her there swept a great joy, and her thinking stopped. She was feeling all the dear things she had just condemned, and she looked at her lover. He was blind. He could not see what was in her face, and he was not sure that he interpreted her silence correctly. He was waiting, anguishing, for her answer. She realized then what it was he needed more than he himself knew.

"Lawrence," she cried joyfully, slipping into his arms, "I know what you need, beloved!"

He laughed exultantly as he showered kisses upon her eagerly upturned face.

"I guess you do, sweetheart," he consented. "What is it?"

She settled down with a sigh of content, her head against his shoulder, and announced, very much like a child saying what it knows to be wisely true: "You need a woman who is keen enough to think with you and be eyes for you, natural and unspoiled by conventional sham enough to be your heart's answer, self-willed enough to be herself and deny you and your selfishness, and, above all, mother enough to care for you as she would a child. I believe I am that woman, dearest boy!"

He held her tight in his arms and smiled.

"I not only think, I know you are."

For a long time they sat in silence, dreaming, loving, enjoying, and caring nothing for all the rest of the world. At last Claire raised her head from his shoulder and whispered, "Lawrence, before I would be separated from you, I am afraid I would kill!"

He chuckled merrily. "Good!" he said. "That sounds proper. So would I.

We are alive because our ancestors killed to live, they fought to mate, so shall we, if need be."

She remembered Philip and shuddered slightly.

"What is the matter, Claire?" Lawrence drew her closer.

She did not answer. She was wondering how to tell him about Philip, and afraid.

"Are you filled with terror at the mere thought of murder!" he asked.

She moved uneasily in his arms. "No, but I can't say I like to even think of such a possibility."

"Don't, then. It isn't very likely to happen," he comforted.

She remained silent, but her pleasure was not untroubled. Her whole impulse was to wait, but her brain kept demanding that she tell him now, and she gathered herself for the effort.

"Lawrence"--she hesitated--"I--I have something I must tell you."

"All right. Go ahead; but confessions never do much good."

She drew away from him tenderly.

"Because my whole being wants to be in your arms, I will not--not while I tell you," she said, sitting beside him. "I want you to hear and think without my body in your arms as a determining factor in your answer."

"Very well. Go ahead. I promise to be an emotionless judge."

"Can you?" she asked quickly.

"No," he said, "but I will."

They both laughed, and she nerved herself to talk.

"It's about Philip," she said timidly.

He started.

"Don't tell me about him, Claire," he said. "It can't do any good, and it's hard for you, I see. Whatever you are or were to Philip doesn't matter to me in the least. The Claire of this morning wasn't my mate. It is only Claire from now on that counts, and she is not in any way bound to Philip for whatever may have occurred in the past."

"Oh, I wish that were true!" she moaned.

"It is true," he a.s.serted.

"But you don't understand. Let me go on, please."

"Surely," he answered. "Say as much or as little as you wish."

She told him then, falteringly, sometimes wondering at his calm, expressionless face as she talked. She was filled with dread, for he sat as still as death, without a word, without a change of expression to show her what he was thinking. She made many corrections to her explanation, and supplied bits of comment in an effort to discover herself how it all had happened. There was nothing of apology in her att.i.tude, however, and she finally concluded with an account of that afternoon in her bedroom, and what she had said to Philip since that day.

"Now," she said at last, "you know all about it. You can do as you please, of course. If you choose to go on, we will have to find some solution together. Philip will not take it easily. Of that I am sure. He is more than likely to become desperate."

She waited. Lawrence did not move. His face was seriously thoughtful, and she was filled with a growing fear that made it harder and harder to wait for him to speak.

When she could stand it no longer, she shook his arm.

"Lawrence, why don't you say something?" she cried.

He read the fear in her voice, and laughed caressingly, as he took her in his arms.

"I thought you knew it wouldn't alter our futures," he said. "I was only trying to think out a just solution unpersuaded by your body in my arms."

"Oh!" She laughed comfortably. He was making fun of her, and she was not averse to it.

"It certainly looks as if Philip were up against a bad future," he went on, amusedly.

"Philip!" she cried, startled. "Are you pitying him all this time?"

"Whom else?" Lawrence demanded. "We don't need pity, do we?"

"Oh, you selfish lover!" she chided. "I have been needing and do need it. Philip worries me."

"I see," he mused. "Well, accept my condolences, and prepare to pa.s.s them on to Philip. Poor devil! When you and I are back in our world, he will indeed need pity."

"Suppose he takes steps to see that I don't go back?" she chanced.

"He can scarcely compel you to live with him."

"He can, and he will. He isn't as civilized as he appears. If need be, he would keep me locked up here and make me his by force, or kill me.

He told me so."