Lonesome Town Part 20

"Enemy gas bombs didn't respect non-combative insignia or uniforms. One of them blinded me and the gray horde got-well, one more American prisoner. I was later than most getting back home."

There was a vitality in his manner-a throb of pure joy in his voice-which eased the poignancy of the younger man's pity and reminded him that one mercy amid the heartbreaks of the big fight would seem to be the compensation seen by those whose gaze has been focused forever inward.

Pape turned from father to daughter. "But your aunt, Mrs. Sturgis, told me 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 his going. 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 the report which had preceded him across the Atlantic, at least until after we forced--"

She did not hesitate; just stopped, having said what she evidently considered enough. As she showed no curiosity over the when, where or whyfore of auntie's confidence, Pape forced upon her no report, either of that interview or the canter through conversational and Central Park by-paths with Cousin Irene. Rather, he gave to the charm of personality in the older man-a magnet toward which he had turned willingly since Jane'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 it will do no harm, whichever side you are on, to admit a truth about my father known to both his friends and foes. He is under a shadow-an undeserved disgrace which culminated in an indictment. Until that shadow is dissipated it is better that none should know he has come back. What I decided to trust you with before you found it out for yourself, was the ident.i.ty of the man with whom you thought that I--"

"I am too grateful-" in his turn Pape interrupted-"ever to let you regret that trust."

He spoke as he felt, with revealing sincerity. His look held hers; the thrill of his voice the moment.

The blind man lightened the pause. "The only thing I had to thank our enemies for was the loss of my ident.i.ty. We thought advisable that it stay lost to all but Jane. My sister-in-law, kind as she has been to my girl-child, must have been more relieved than grieved over the alleged finish of one supposed to have disgraced the name. Why my daughter has seen fit to let you, a comparative stranger, into the secret which we have guarded so carefully--"

Why? Judging by Jane's set look at the implied criticism, she either could not or would not explain. The interloper's eyes, still fixed on hers, reiterated the counter-demand, why not-_why not_?

Her father, as though sensing much more than he could see, reached out and stroked her soft, parted, night-black hair.

"Never mind, Jen-Jen," he said. "The fact that you do a thing makes it right enough for me."

With sudden penitent fervor, she seized and kissed his hand. "I don't know, daddy dear. It is hard to be sure about forced, snap judgments. I hope this Westerner is what I've told you he looks. I am glad to have brought him here to have you help me decide. And I haven't exactly let him into anything. Of his own force-curiosity, superfluous energy or whatever it is that animates him-he has sort of dashed into my life. He knows about the theft of grandfather's cryptogram and that I'm trying to follow it from memory in my park hunt. But, of course, the enemy knows that or they wouldn't be watching me or- _Oh_, I do hope that it's all right-that he's all right! Now that he has trailed me here, that he knows who and where you are, so much depends upon his integrity. If he is against us and is clever, wouldn't he pretend just the same to be with us?"

Had she forgotten his presence in their midst or was she super-acutely remembering it? Pape wondered. He felt as nearly futile as was const.i.tutional about further attempts to convince her of his fealty. On the part of the Self-Selected, if not on his, that slow-but-sure method would have to do. Time and acts would tell-time and acts and this high-priest of hers, for love of whom she had lit into a devotional taper.

He-her father-proceeded at once to fulfill her prayer-to "help her decide."

"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 got is delicious. And there are a few fig-cakes left in the box. I'll try to entertain this latest acquisition of yours while you're bringing the water to a boil."

He did try-and succeeded. As soon as the girl had left the room, he began in a lowered tone:

"I was glad to do what I could for my country, even at the cost. My misfortune I have learned to look on as the _fortune_ of war. My keenest regret-" he gave a sightless glance toward the closed door-"is the loss of seeing Jane's face. From her babyhood up, I have so enjoyed Jane's face. I keep wondering and wondering whether it has changed or aged from the years and the suffering I've caused her-whether it is less or more lovely than when I last saw it that day I kissed it good-by."

"It is," said Pape with conviction, "more lovely. It must be. You or any man would need to be a patriot, sir, to love and leave such a face. It reminds me of one I didn't have to leave-one that led me over that long road Over There to and through h.e.l.l."

"And whose face was that?"

"My mother's."

The old man looked arrested and pleased. He nodded, as though in realization 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 embarra.s.sment he had caused. Indeed, Pape didn't feel up to the sudden demand upon his spa.r.s.e supply of fine language. He couldn't have felt less adequate, he was sure, had he been called upon for an extemporaneous critique upon the Sistine Madonna in the presence of its creator.

And yet there were reasons and reasons in this case why he should try to satisfy the eagerness of the fine old face bent his way in a listening att.i.tude. The pathos of eyes from which the soul of sight had gone, the worthiness of the subject and a certain longing within himself to express to the next most interested person the appreciation which so far he had been unable to confide even in her who had inspired it-all urged him to make an effort.

He drew a deep breath; wondered how far away she was; hoped, then feared that possibly she would overhear. He feared, lest he fall short of the flattery which must have been poured, her life long, into her ears. He hoped that she might the sooner get an idea of his reverential admiration.

"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 the first whites into the Park, then a wilderness. Jane tells me you're from h.e.l.lroaring. 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. We have 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 of his visible audience, he roweled into the subject of the moment.

"In terms of our Yellowstone, then, your daughter's eyes remind me of Morning Glory Geyser. Could I say more for their color, sir?"

"No. The same sun that whitened the Glory's spray seemed to make the deeps of its pool a stronger blue. And her hair, young man, is it--?"

"Black as the jade of Obsidian Cliffs," Pape supplied, then corrected himself. "Yet that don't seem an altogether proper simile, it is so soft. Of course, I've never touched it, sir, but I've an idea that the mountain moss, where we find the giant violets, would feel harsh to the hand that had smoothed your daughter's hair."

"It would that. Thank G.o.d they didn't blind my sense of touch! My fingers never tire of seeing Jane's soft hair."

"Then your fingers must be able to see her lips, too, for they are as definitely dented as those of an antelope doe. And they're as healthy a red as ever they could have been in her childhood-red as the sun when it gets over into Idaho. And the Teton Range itself can't beat her for clean, strong lines. I've never seen a woman who was such a blend of delicacy and power as your Jane. Still or in movement, I admire to watch her."

Lauderdale leaned back into his chair with a sigh of satisfaction. "I used to call her 'Little Lynx.' There never was such a child for sinuousness. Ah, what a treat you're giving me, Mr. Pape, to help me see again the beauties of my beautiful girl! Tell me-" The father's voice lowered without loss of eagerness. His hands quavered forward, as though to supply the lack in his misted, striving eyes. "I want to know particularly about the expression of her face. Has the trouble I've brought upon her shadowed its brilliant paleness? Has it still that rare repose, with only a lift of the eyelid, a twitch of a corner of her lips or a quiver of her chin, to show the emotions beneath?"

Pape drew back from the he-man habit of hiding his heart; then, after a thought, leaned forward again. Why hide from this one man who could be her true lover, yet no rival to himself? Why not show what he felt? He closed his eyes, the better and more companionably to picture Jane. He felt 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 finest statues in the world, or so they told me. The quiet of those still, white people sort of got on my imagination. Their suppression seemed to spoil me for the awful animation of the average face. Likely that's why your Jane's got me at first sight, although I hadn't thought it out up to now. Hers is the first female face I ever was glad to watch in vain for a smile. There couldn't be a marble paler or purer or with features finer lined. Just as I used to thank Heaven, looking at those statued ladies, that they couldn't relax from their perfection, I feel like praying that Jane never will relax into a smile-until she smiles on me."

A crowded silence fell between, but did not separate them. Its most vital question the Westerner next answered bluntly, after his way.

"It ain't impudence, my calling her by her first name, Mr. Lauderdale. I haven't had a real good opportunity as yet to ask your daughter to marry me. You see, we haven't met any too often-this is time the fourth and only a shade less perturbed than the former three. But rest a.s.sured that I'll take advantage of the first chance. Our 'happily-ever-afterward' is all settled so far as I am concerned."

"I see."

Although in one way the blind man's quiet statement wasn't true, in another he looked as though it was.

At a call from the rear room, Pape sprang to open the door and relieve Jane of her laden tea-tray. On turning, he noticed that the father's one hand gripped the other in his strong, firm, Westernwise clasp, as though in self-congratulation. He looked as though he now felt sincere in the welcome extended earlier for form's sake to one Peter Stansbury Pape.

Just why? Well, why not?

CHAPTER XVI-AN ACCEPTED ALLY