The Beloved Traitor Part 13

It seemed to come with a shock to Jean that s.n.a.t.c.h of conversation, as something cold, chilling the fire that but an instant gone had been raging within him. It was an arraignment of himself, a slap in the face, sharply, curtly given, a reminder that for all his temerity he was--a fisherman. Myrna had gone to the front door. He swept his hand in a dazed way across his eyes, then straightened suddenly--it was a spell that he had been under. Nor was the spell gone; but now, at least, he was in control of himself. He walked across the room to where Myrna stood.

"Mademoiselle," he offered quietly, "can I help with the baggage?"

She turned to him, smiling.

"Oh, if you will, Jean!" she cried gratefully. "Please help Jules with the trunks. And afterwards"--her hand was on his sleeve again--"though I must see about arranging things, you mustn't go away. Father will be back shortly, and you must wait."

"I will wait," said Jean.

-- VII --

WHERE GLORY AWAITS

His back to the cliff, and leaning against the gunwale of his boat, which on landing a little while ago he had drawn up on the beach, Jean dug abstractedly at the sand with the toe of his boot. He had helped Jules, the chauffeur, to carry the baggage into the house, where Myrna Bliss, her maid and Marie-Louise were now busily engaged within--occasionally he could hear one or other of their voices--and he was waiting. What for? He did not know. He had promised her that he would wait. Her father wanted to see him because he made _poupees_ out of clay, and because he had made that little statue which, somehow, had so delighted her. It was very curious--very curious that a little thing like that should have taken their fancy!

His hand pa.s.sed nervously across his forehead. But that was of no account, the statue! There were other things. He was living in a dream--no, not a dream--something much more vital than a dream. From a dream one awoke, and the dream was dispelled. He was awake now and the spell was still upon him. In her presence he lost his reason, his being seemed to become a seething furnace of pa.s.sion that consumed him; away from her, some strange, magnetic power kept bidding him return, kept his mind picturing her, kept his thoughts upon her. It was but half an hour ago that, alone with her in the cottage, he had almost utterly lost control of himself.

A hot flush was on his cheeks. It was bad, that! Some day he would lose control of himself completely; some day the impulse to crush that ravis.h.i.+ng form in his arms, to look deep into those laughing, self-possessed grey eyes until the laughter and the self-possession were gone and he was master, would prove too strong for him. And then--what?

His hands clenched at his sides, the broad shoulders sloped a little forward. Well--what then? His brain would not answer him, save only with that persistent "she was a woman and he was a man." He laughed shortly aloud. Was that true? How true was it? He glanced mockingly at his clothes; his hands unclenched, and, feeling in a sort of tentative way, slid along the gunwale of the boat. Yes; it was quite evident that he was what he had always been, what he always would be--a fisherman. It was quite evident too that he was mad. It was only last night that he had seen her for the first time, only since last night that this enchantment had fallen upon him--and now it possessed him, mind, soul and body. One could not credit that! He laughed out again--and suddenly the laugh died on his lips.

He had heard no step upon the sand, but a hand now touched his arm. He turned quickly. It was Marie-Louise. He had forgotten all about Marie-Louise--since yesterday evening. He had seen her of course since then, had walked home with her after that meeting on the bridge, had called out for her when he had landed here on the beach a little while ago, but for all that Marie-Louise had been forgotten.

"Jean"--she was speaking in a low, anxious voice--"it's--it's not true, is it, Jean?"

The dark eyes were trying to smile through a troubled mist; the lips, that he remembered he had likened yesterday to the divinely modelled lips of that dream statue, were quivering now.

Jean stared at her. What would she be like if she were dressed in clothes, marvellous, dainty things, such as Myrna Bliss wore, with little shoes and silken ankles? She was pretty of course, Marie-Louise had always been pretty; but there was not the physical thrill, the witchery in the eyes that turned his head. She was more sober--yes, that was it--more sober. Marie-Louise took things more seriously, and--

"Jean!" She seemed almost frightened now in her appeal. "Did you not hear me? Jean--it isn't true, is it?"

"True?" Jean roused himself with a little start. "What is not true? I do not know what you are talking about."

"The beacon, Jean"--she spoke hurriedly, breathlessly now. "A few minutes ago mademoiselle told me to put it in the room she has chosen for herself, and to be very careful of it because--because"--her voice broke suddenly--"because she said that you had given it to her.

Jean--it's not true, is it?"

For a moment Jean did not speak. There were tears in her eyes! A twinge of guilty confusion seized him. Yes, it was so--Marie-Louise had been forgotten. Yesterday he had given it to Marie-Louise. But who would have thought it would make any difference to her--a thing like that! She was perhaps angry for the moment, but it would be only for the moment.

"_Mais, sacre nom_!" he exclaimed, and forced a laugh. "And what of it? It is nothing! I will make you another."

She did not answer; but into the brown eyes came a miserable hurt, and into the face a sudden whiteness. It was only the day before that he had given it to her, and had said it was a beacon, and that the beacon was herself with arms outstretched to welcome him always. It had meant so much to her--and now it seemed to have meant so little to Jean.

Jean s.h.i.+fted uneasily, as she did not speak.

"I will make you another, Marie-Louise," he blurted out appeasingly.

"To-day--to-morrow--whenever you like, I will make you another. Then it will be all right, eh, _pet.i.te_?"

She shook her head--and the words came very slowly.

"You can never make another beacon, Jean."

"How--not another?" he cried impetuously. "I can make a thousand! Did I not tell you that it was you--has it not those lips that I could fas.h.i.+on even in the dark, even if you were far away from me! _Tiens_, do you not see--I could make a thousand! And to-morrow you shall have another."

The dark eyes were full.

"Was it yours to give, Jean?" she asked.

It was true! He had nothing to say to that. She was crying. He was angry now because he could say nothing, because there was no excuse for what he had done--and yet he would do it again. But he could not tell Marie-Louise that though, _pardieu_! She would only cry the harder.

And because she was right and he had nothing to say, he groped, angry with himself, for some defence.

"Ah!" he burst out sharply. "So that is it! Yesterday you would have thought nothing of it, but now you have been listening to what they say, and you believe it all--that it is worth a great deal of money, maybe a hundred francs, eh? Well, it is not--it is worth nothing! You have nothing to cry over."

Wide-eyed, as though a whip-lash had curled across her face, she drew back, her small hands shut tightly at her sides, as she looked at him.

And then somehow that little prayer that she had prayed to the _bon Dieu_ last night came back to her--"make me that, _mon Pere_; make me that--Jean's beacon all through my life"--and the bitter words that were on her lips were crowded back, and she turned slowly away.

But now Jean caught her arm.

"No, no, Marie-Louise, I did not mean that!" he cried penitently.

"See, I did not mean that!"

She made no answer. Her head was averted; her eyes fixed far out over the water.

Jean bit his lips. Certainly he had had no right to give it away, but it was a small matter to make such a fuss over, and he had already promised her another. Was it possible that she had sensed anything of the wild pa.s.sion that had come upon him for this beautiful American!

Was she already jealous? Well, it was easily knocked out of her head, that--if one took the bull by the horns! And if he were mad it was no reason that hurt should come to Marie-Louise because of it. Some day it would be all over this madness, and was it not Marie-Louise and he who were to make their little home together? He forced a laugh again, and caught her shoulders and drew her closer.

"Confess, Marie-Louise," he said teasingly, "that it is because I gave it to another woman. Is it not so, eh? That you are--oh, _la, la_!--that little Marie-Louise is jealous of mademoiselle."

Her head lifted, a new light suddenly in her eyes--one of incredulous amazement.

"Jealous of mademoiselle!" she repeated wonderingly. "Of mademoiselle who is of the _grand monde_ and so far above us and not of our world at all--and you who are a fisherman! How could I be jealous? How could such a thing be possible? Oh, Jean, don't you understand, it is not that you gave it to her--it is that you gave it at all."

"But what does it matter, then," demanded Jean, inwardly relieved, "since I will make you as many more as you please? To-morrow you shall have another much better than this one."

Footsteps sounded from the gravel walk on the cliff above; and Marie-Louise, glancing around, lifted Jean's hands from her shoulders.

"I have told you, Jean, that you can never make another," she said, with a little catch in her voice; then hurriedly: "It is mademoiselle and her father coming to see you. I must go."

"And I have told you," declared Jean, with sudden, fierce a.s.sertion, "that I can make a thousand, and all better than this one!"

She bent her head to hide the blinding tears that were filling her eyes again. It meant nothing to him, that which had been so great a pledge to her. It was only a _poupee_, a clay doll, one of dozens that he had given to the children to amuse them. And the things he had said about it meant nothing--they had only been words--only words, but she could not forget them. A little sob rose in her throat, and was choked bravely back. They were coming down the path now, mademoiselle and her father, and she must go.

"You do not understand," she said brokenly--and, turning, ran quickly along the beach.

For a s.p.a.ce Jean watched her as she sped over the sand, until, ignoring the path, she climbed lithely up the rocks at the far end of the beach, and disappeared in the direction of the house. His hand, a knotted lump, drawn back for a smas.h.i.+ng blow on the gunwale of the boat, a blow that should relieve his feelings, opened hesitantly instead and pa.s.sed a little dazedly across his eyes.

"_Sacre maudit_!" he muttered in slow earnestness under his breath.