The Moonlit Way Part 73

"Nothing definite." He looked at the lovely, slender-limbed girl there in the starry dusk. "I knew nothing definite," he repeated, "but there was no mistaking the metal from which you had been made--or the mould, either. And as for Soane----" he smiled.

She said:

"If my name is really Fane, there can be only one conclusion; some kinsman of that name must have married my mother."

He said:

"Of course," very gravely.

"Then who was he? My mother never mentioned him in her letters. What became of him? He must have been my father. Is he living?"

"Did you ask Mr. Skeel?"

"Yes. He seemed too deeply affected to answer me. He must have loved my mother very dearly to show such emotion before me."

"What did you ask him, Dulcie?"

"After we left the piano?"

"Yes."

"I asked him that. I had only a few more moments alone with him before he left. I asked him about my mother--to tell me how she looked--so I could think of her more clearly. He has a picture of her on ivory. He is to bring it to me and tell me more about her. That is why I must see him to-morrow--so I may ask him again about my father."

"Yes, dear...." He sat very silent for a while, then rose, came over, and seated himself on the padded arm of Dulcie's chair, and took both her hands into his:

"Listen, Sweetness. You are what you are to me--my dear comrade, my faithful partner sharing our pretty partnership in art; and, more than these, Dulcie, you are my friend.... Never doubt that. Never forget it. Nothing can alter it--nothing you learn about your origin can exalt that friendship.... Nothing lessen it. Do you understand?

_Nothing_ can _lessen_ it, save only if you prove untrue to what you are--your real self."

She had rested her cheek against his arm while he was speaking. It lay there now, pressed closer.

"As for Murtagh Skeel," he said, "he is a charming, cultivated, fascinating man. But if he attempts to carry out his agitator's schemes and his revolutionary propaganda in this country, he is headed for most serious trouble."

"Why does he?"

"Don't ask me why men of his education and character do such things.

They do; that's all I know. Sir Roger Cas.e.m.e.nt is another man not unlike Skeel. There are many, hot-hearted, generous, brave, irrational. There is no use blaming them--no justice in it, either.

The history of British rule in Ireland is a matter of record.

"But, Dulcie, he who strikes at England to-day strikes at civilisation, at liberty, at G.o.d! This is no time to settle old grievances. And to attempt to do it by violence, by propaganda--to attempt a reckoning of ancient wrongs in any way, to-day, is a crime--the crime of treachery against Christ's teachings--of treason against Lord Christ Himself!"

After a long interval:

"You are going to this war quite soon. Mr. Westmore said so."

"I am going--with my country or without it."

"When?"

"When I finally lose patience and self-respect.... I don't know exactly when, but it will be pretty soon."

"Could I go with you?"

"Do you wish to?"

She pressed her cheek against his arm in silence.

He said:

"That has troubled me a lot, Dulcie. Of course you could stay here; I can arrange--I had come to a conclusion in regard to financial matters----"

"I can't," she whispered.

"Can't what?"

"Stay here--take anything from you--accept without service in return."

"What would you do?"

"I wouldn't care--if you--leave me here alone."

"But, Dulcie----"

"I know. You said it this evening. There will come a time when you would not find it convenient to have me--around----"

"Dear, it's only because a man and a woman in this world cannot continue anything of enduring intimacy without business as an excuse.

And even then, the pleasant informality existing now could not be continued with anything except very serious disadvantage to you."

"You will grow tired of painting me," she said under her breath.

"No. But your life is all before you, Dulcie. Girls usually marry sooner or later."

"Men do too."

"That's not what I meant----"

"You will marry," she whispered.

Again, at her words, the same odd uneasiness began to possess him as though something obscure, unformulated as yet, must some day be cleared up by him and decided.

"Don't leave me--yet," she said.

"I couldn't take you with me to France."

"Let me enlist for service. Could you be patient for a few months so that I might learn something--anything!--I don't care what, if only I can go with you? Don't they require women to scrub and do unpleasant things--humble, unclean, necessary things?"

"You couldn't--with your slender youth and delicate beauty----"

"Oh," she whispered, "you don't know what I could do to be near you!

That is all I want--all I want in the world!--just to be somewhere not too far away. I couldn't stand it, now, if you left me.... I couldn't live----"