The Pagan Madonna Part 41

"That's no fault of mine. But no man can play this sort of game with me, and show a clean pair of heels. The rug and the paintings are gone for good. I swore to him that I would have his hide, and have it I will! I never break my word."

"Denny," said Jane, "for my sake you will not touch the wireless."

"I'm giving the orders!" roared Cleigh.

"Wait a moment!" said Jane. "You spoke of your word. That first night you promised me any reparation I should demand."

"I made that promise. Well?"

"Give him his eight months."

She gestured toward the sea, toward the spot where they had last seen the _Haarlem_.

"You demand that?"

"No, I only ask it. I understand the workings of that twisted soul, and you don't. Let him have his queer dream--his boyhood adventure. Are you any better than he? Were those treasures honourably yours? Fie! No, I won't demand that you let him go; I'll only ask it. Because you will not deny to me what you gave to those little children--generosity."

Cleigh did not speak.

"I want to love you," she continued, "but I couldn't if there was no mercy in your sense of justice. Be merciful to that unhappy outcast, who probably never had any childhood, or if he had, a miserable one. Children are heartless; they don't know any better. They pointed the finger of ridicule and contempt at him--his playmates. Imagine starting life like that! And he told me that the first woman he loved--laughed in his face! I feel--I don't know why--that he was always without care, from his childhood up. He looked so forlorn! Eight months! We need never tell him.

I'd rather he shouldn't know that I tried to intercede for him. But for him we three would not be here together, with understanding. I only ask it."

Cleigh turned and went down the ladder. Twenty times he circled the deck; then he paused under the bridge and sent up a hail.

"Dinner is ready!"

The moment Jane reached the deck Cleigh put an arm round her.

"No other human being could have done it. It is a cup of gall and wormwood, but I'll take it. Why? Because I am old and lonely and want a little love. I have no faith in Cunningham's word, but he shall go free."

"How long since you kissed any one?" she asked.

"Many years." And he stooped to her cheek. To press back the old brooding thought he said with cheerful brusqueness: "Suppose we celebrate? I'll have Togo ice a bottle of that vintage those infernal ruffians broke over your head last night."

Dennison laughed.

October.

The Cleigh library was long and wide. There was a fine old blue Ispahan on the floor. The chairs were neither historical nor uncomfortable. One came in here to read. The library was on the second floor. When you reached this room you left the affairs of state and world behind.

A wood fire crackled and shifted in the fireplace, the marble hood of which had been taken from a famous Italian palace. The irons stood ready as of yore for the cups of mulled wine. Before this fire sat a little old woman knitting. Her feet were on a ha.s.sock. From time to time her bird-like glance swept the thinker in the adjacent chair. She wondered what he could see in the fire there to hold his gaze so steadily. The little old lady had something of the att.i.tude of a bird that had been given its liberty suddenly, and having always lived in a cage knew not what to make of all these vast s.p.a.ces.

She was Jane's mother, and sitting in the chair beside her was Anthony Cleigh.

"There are said to be only five portable authentic paintings by Leonardo da Vinci," said Cleigh, "and I had one of them, Mother. Illegally, perhaps, but still I had it. It is a copy that hangs in the European gallery. There's a point. Gallery officials announce a theft only when some expert had discovered the subst.i.tution. There are a number of so-called Da Vincis, but those are the works of Boltraffio, Da Vinci's pupil. I'll always be wondering, even in my grave, where that crook, Eisenfeldt, had disposed of it."

Mrs. Norman went on with her knitting. What she heard was as instructive and illuminating to her as Chinese would have been.

From the far end of the room came piano music; gentle, dreamy, broken occasionally by some fine, thrilling chord. Dennison played well, but he had the habit of all amateurs of idling, of starting something, and running away into improvisations. Seated beside him on the bench was Jane, her head inclined against his shoulder. Perhaps that was a good reason why he began a composition and did not carry it through to its conclusion.

"That was a trick of his mother's," said Cleigh, still addressing the fire. "All the fine things in him he got from her. I gave him his shoulders, but I guess that's about all."

Mrs. Norman did not turn her head. She had already learned that she wasn't expected to reply unless Cleigh looked at her directly.

"There's a high wind outside. More rain, probably. But that's October in these parts. You'll like it in Hawaii. Never any of this brand of weather.

I may be able to put the yacht into commission."

"The sea!" she said in a little frightened whisper.

"Doorbells!" said Dennison with gentle mockery. "Jane, you're always starting up when you hear one. Still hanging on? It isn't Cunningham's willingness to fulfill his promise; it's his ability I doubt. A thousand and one things may upset his plans."

"I know. But, win or lose, he was to let me know."

"The poor devil! I never dared say so to Father, but when I learned that Cunningham meant no harm to you I began to boost for him. I like to see a man win against huge odds, and that's what he has been up against."

"Denny, I've never asked before; I've been a little afraid to, but did you see Flint when the crew left?"

"I honestly didn't notice; I was so interested in the disreputable old hooker that was to take them off."

She sighed. Fragments of that night were always recurring in her dreams.

The door opened and the ancient butler entered. His glance roved until it caught the little tuft of iron-gray hair that protruded above the rim of the chair by the fire. Noiselessly he crossed the room.

"Beg pardon, sir," he said, "but a van arrived a few minutes ago with a number of packing cases. The men said they were for you, sir. The cases are in the lower hall. Any orders, sir?"

Cleigh rose.

"Cases? Benson, did you say--cases?"

"Yes, sir. I fancy some paintings you've ordered, sir."

Cleigh stood perfectly still. The butler eyed him with mild perturbation.

Rarely he saw bewilderment on his master's countenance.

"Cases?"

"Yes, sir. Fourteen or fifteen of them, sir."

Cleigh felt oddly numb. For days now he had denied to himself the reason for his agitation whenever the telephone or doorbell rang. Hope! It had not served to crush it down, to buffet it aside by ironical commentaries on the weakness of human nature; the thing was uncrushable, insistent.

Packing cases!

"Denny! Jane!" he cried, and bolted for the door.

The call needed no interpretation. The two understood, and followed him downstairs precipitately, with the startled Benson the tail to the kite.