Wanderfoot Part 40

Of some of us, when you 've said we are good lovers you 've said all. I hoped I was a good mother too--but it is plain that I am not, for Bran, even Bran on whom I had staked my last throw--even Bran leaves me--"

Strange that Haidee should choose this moment to launch forth into the first trembling plaintive notes of the 17th Sonata, that wonderful paean of terror and beauty under whose rushing spell seven and a half years agone Val had lain her face against her husband's and shared with him the greatest, sweetest secret that can ever lie between man and woman!

"Bran shall never leave you--if you will have me with him--or even if you will not."

"Garrett--what are you saying?"

"'The years teach much that the days never know.' Val, I have realised during the last seven days what I have been learning ever since you came into my life, that everything is worthless but the love and happiness of the woman you love."

"Oh, Joe!" she cried in great humility and wonder. "You with all your gifts of mind and brain; with all you have done for science, and still will do----!"

"It can all go to the devil," he said cheerfully. "I 'm coming to live with you in a waggon on the veldt, to see the wildebeeste, whatever they may be, grazing on the horizon, and hear the guinea-fowl calling from the bush. These things have got a hold on my imagination and will never let go. And if I can't do something for science, even out there on the veldt, I 'm a poor sort of fellow and will deserve to be forgotten."

"But the rewards you have already won--that are just within your grasp?--the chair at Columbia--the n.o.bel--the--" (She herself set no store by such things, but well she knew how men value them more than their immortal souls.)

"Too bad!" said Westenra, with an ironical smile. "Did you ever hear of what John L. Sullivan said the day after his defeat at New Orleans? A sympathiser came wheedling up to him, saying: 'It's too bad, Jawn! Too bad! What 'll you do now?' Sullivan, real man that he always was, even in defeat, growled back at him: 'What 'll I do now? Pugh! _Ain't I John L. Sullivan still?_' Pretty good philosophy for a pug, Val! I can only say in all humility--same here! Even in defeat I----"

His words were cut short by a very whirlwind of lace and tears and laughter. A pair of arms were thrown round Val's neck, and a sobbing, happy voice cried, loud enough for all who wished to hear:

"Oh, Val--I love you, and I beg your pardon. I am a pig from away back--and a cat and a beast--but oh! I am so happy! Rupert and I are going to get married to-morrow, and after we have been in Morocco a little we shall come out and join you in your waggon."

Westenra stood up big and grim in the moonlight.

"h.e.l.l's blood and blazes!--and is _this_ the way I am thrown down at the eleventh or any moment?--bring me the bridegroom, and I 'll eat him up at one mouthful. I 'll beat the gizzard out of him--I'll----"

"_M'voila, Monsieur le Docteur_! Here I am," said Rupert, not without dignity, and with great goodwill.

"Well, get out," said Westenra softly, "and take your bride to be with you. That's all that's required of you for the time being."

He cared not how they went nor where, so long as he was alone once more with this only woman of his life. He took her hand in his and drew her close until her cheek lay against his as on a long-ago night, driving up Broadway to 68th Street. Before them, through the trees, glimmered a silver expanse of water, with grim warships lying at rest and little red-sailed fishing boats rocking softly.

"Heart of my heart--does n't this seem to you a fair sea on which to launch a new ship of dreams."

"No. Not a new ship, Joe. The same old ship. I have never been out of it for an hour, or a moment."

THE END