“‘O, whither hast thou led me, Egypt?’
“‘O, whither hast thou led me, Egypt?’
“‘O, whither hast thou led me, Egypt?’
“And when she weeps for pardon, how he tells her
“‘Fall not a tear, I say: one of them ratesAll that is won and lost. Give me a kiss,Even this repays me.’
“‘Fall not a tear, I say: one of them ratesAll that is won and lost. Give me a kiss,Even this repays me.’
“‘Fall not a tear, I say: one of them ratesAll that is won and lost. Give me a kiss,Even this repays me.’
“Though she has ruined him utterly—though he sees it and cries aloud
“‘O this false soul of Egypt! this grave charm,—Whose eye becked forth my wars, and called them home,Like a right gipsy hath at false and looseBeguiled me to the very heart of loss.’
“‘O this false soul of Egypt! this grave charm,—Whose eye becked forth my wars, and called them home,Like a right gipsy hath at false and looseBeguiled me to the very heart of loss.’
“‘O this false soul of Egypt! this grave charm,—Whose eye becked forth my wars, and called them home,Like a right gipsy hath at false and looseBeguiled me to the very heart of loss.’
“Still, still his last thought is to reach her arms.
‘I am dying, Egypt, dying, onlyI here importune death awhile, untilOf many thousand kisses the poor lastI lay upon thy lips.’”
‘I am dying, Egypt, dying, onlyI here importune death awhile, untilOf many thousand kisses the poor lastI lay upon thy lips.’”
‘I am dying, Egypt, dying, onlyI here importune death awhile, untilOf many thousand kisses the poor lastI lay upon thy lips.’”
“Why, he was well repaid,” said that strange, humble voice.
“I am glad that you feel that,” Delilah told him, and she rose swiftly. “Would you like to kiss me? You see, I have ruined you.”
O’Hara stumbled to his feet.
“What are you saying?” he whispered, a dreadful incredulity driving the words through his stiffened lips.
“That I have ruined you. I have sent your notes on the Irish situation to the other party.”
“You are mad.”
“No, no.” She shook her head reassuringly. “Quite sane. I didn’t address them in my own handwriting, naturally. The envelope is typewritten, but the notes are in long-hand; yours. The English Government will be forced to believe that for once it has misplaced its trust—but Ireland should pay you well—if she lives through civil war.”
“By God——” His voice failed him for a moment. “This is some filthy dream.”
“No dream, believe me.” She came closer to him, radiant and serene. “Did you think that I was a yellow-headed doll, that you could insult me beyond belief, mock me to my friends, slander me to the Committee of which I was a member? Monsieur De Nemours was good enough to warn me against you, also. I am no doll, you see; I happen to be a woman. We have not yet mastered that curiously devised code that you are pleased to term Honour—a code which permits you to betray a woman but not a secret—to cheat a man out of millions in business but not out of a cent at cards. It’s a little artificial, and we’re ridiculously primitive. We use lynch-law still; swift justice with the nearest weapon at hand.”
O’Hara was shaking like a man in a chill, his voice hardly above a whisper. “What have you done? What have you done, Delilah?”
“Don’t you understand?” She spoke with pretty patience, as though to some backward child. “I have ruined you—you and your Ireland, too. Isent——”
And suddenly, shaken and breathless, she was in his arms.
“Oh, Ireland—Ireland and I!” But even at that strange cry she never stirred. “It’s you—you who are ruined, my Magic—and it’s I who have done it, driving you to this ugly madness.” He held her as though he would never let her go, sheltering the bowed golden head with his hand. “Though I forgive you a thousand thousand times, how will you forgive yourself, my little Love? You who would not hurt a flower, where will you turn when you see what you have done?”
He could feel her tears on his hand; she was weeping piteously, like a terrified child.
“Oh, you do love me, you do love me! I was so frightened—I thought that you would never love me.”
He held her closer, infinitely careful of that shining fragility.
“I love nothing else.”
“Not Ireland?”
He closed his hunted eyes, shutting out Memory.
“I hated Ireland,” wept the small voice fiercely, “because you loved her so.”
“Hush, hush, my Heart.”
“But you do—you do love me best?”
“God forgive me, will you make me say so?”
There was a moment’s silence, then something brushed his hand, light as a flower, and Delilah raised her head.
“No, no, wait.” She was laughing, tremulous and exquisite. “Did you think—did you think that I had really sent your notes?”
O’Hara felt madness touching him; he stared down at her, voiceless.
“But of course, of course, I never sent them. They are upstairs; wait, I’ll get them for you—wait!”
She slipped from his arms and was half way to the door before his voice arrested her.
“Lilah!”
“Yes?”
“You say—that you have not sent the notes?”
“Darling idiot, how could you have thought that I would send them? This is Life, not melodrama!”
“You never—you never thought of sending them?”
“Never, never.” Her laughter rippled about him. “I wanted tosee——”
But he was groping for the mantel, sick and dizzy now that there was no need of courage. Delilah was at his side in a flash, her arms about him.
“Oh, my dear!” He had found the chair but she still clung to him. “What is it? You’re ill—you’re ill!”
Someone was coming down the stairs; she straightened to rigidity, and was at the door in a flash.
“Captain Lawrence!”
The young Englishman halted abruptly—wheeled.
“Captain Lawrence, Mr. O’Hara is here; he had to see me about some papers, and he has been taken ill. He’s been overworking hideously lately. Will you get me some brandy for him?”
“Oh, I say, what rotten luck!” He lingered, concern touching his pleasant boyish face. “Where do I get the brandy, Mrs. Lindsay?”
“Ask Lucia Dane, she knows how to get hold of the maids. And hurry, will you?”
She was back at his side before the words had left; he could feel her fingers brushing his face like frightened butterflies, but he did not open his eyes. He was too mortally tired to lift his lids.
“Here you are, Mrs. Lindsay. Try this, old son. Steady does it.”
He swallowed, choked, felt the warm fire sweep through him, tried to smile, tried to rise.
“No, no, don’t move—don’t let him move, Captain Lawrence.”
“You stay where you are for a bit, young feller, my lad. Awfully sorry that I have to run, Mrs. Lindsay, but they telephoned for me from the Embassy. Some excitement about Turkey, the devil swallow them all. Good-night—take it easy, O’Hara!”
“Oh, Captain Lawrence!” He turned again. “Have you the letter that I asked you to mail?”
“Surely, right here. I’ll post it on my way over.”
“Thanks a lot, but I’ve decided not to send it, after all.” She stretched out her hand, smiling. “It’s an article on women in public life, and it’s going to need quite a few changes under the circumstances.”
“The circumstances?”
“Yes. You might tell them at the Embassy—if they’re interested. I’m handing in my resignation on the International Committee to-morrow.”
O’Hara gripped the arm of his chair until he felt it crack beneath his fingers. Captain Lawrence was staring at her in undisguised amazement.
“But I say! How in the world will they get along without you?”
“Oh, they’ll get along admirably.” She dismissed it as easily as though it were a luncheon engagement. “That young Lyons is the very man they need; he’s really brilliant and a perfect encyclopædia of information. I’ll see you at the Embassy on Friday, won’t I? Good-night.”
Her arms were about O’Hara before the hall door slammed.
“You’re better now? All right? Oh, you frightened me so! It wasn’t that foolish trick of mine that hurt you? Say no, say no—I couldn’t ever hurt you!”
“Never. I should be whipped for frightening you.” His arms were fast about her, but his eyes were straying. What had she done with that letter? He had caught a glimpse of it, quite a bulky letter, in a large envelope, with a typewritten address—typewritten.
“Have you noticed my hair?” The magic voice was touched with gayety again, and O’Hara brushed the silken mist with his lips, his eyes still seeking. “I remembered what you said, you see; it grows most awfully fast—one of these days it will be as long as Rappunzel’s or Melisande’s. Will you like it then?”
Ah, there it was, face down on the lacquer table. He drew a deep breath.
“Lilah, that letter—what did you say was in that letter?”
There was a sudden stillness in the room; he could hear the painted clock ticking clearly. Then she spoke quietly:
“It’s an article that I have written on women in public life. Didn’t you hear me telling Captain Lawrence?”
“Will you let me see it?”
Again that stillness; then, very gently, Delilah pushed away his arms and rose.
“No,” she said.
“You will not?”
“No.” The low voice was inflexible. “I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that those are the Irish notes; that I had fully intended to send them this evening; that it was only an impulse of mine that saved you, as it would have been an impulse that wrecked you. You are thinking that next time it may fall differently. And you are willing to believe me guilty until I am proved innocent. You have always been that—always.”
He bowed his head.
“I could hand you that envelope and prove that I am entirely innocent, but I’ll not purchase your confidence. It should be a gift—oh, it should be more. It is a debt that you owe me. Are you going to pay it?”
O’Hara raised haggard eyes to hers.
“How should I pay it?”
“If you insist on seeing this, I will show it to you; but I swear to you that I will never permit you to enter this house again; I swear it. Do you believe me?”
“Yes.”
“If you will trust me, I will give you your notes, love you for the rest of my life—marry you to-morrow.” She went to the table, picked up the envelope, and stood waiting. “What shall I do?”
He rose unsteadily, catching at the mantel. No use—he was beaten.
“Will you get me the notes?”
He saw her shake then, violently, from head to foot, but her eyes never wavered. She nodded, and was gone.
He stood leaning against the mantel, his dark head buried in his arms. Beaten! He would never know what was in that envelope—never, never. She could talk to all Eternity about faith and trust; he would go wondering all his life through. If he had stood his ground—if he had claimed the envelope and she had been proven innocent, he would have lost her but he would have found his faith. He had sold his soul to purchase her body. The painted clock struck once, and he raised hishead——
No, no, he was mad. She was right—entirely, absolutely right—she was just and merciful, she who might have scourged him from her sight for ever. What reason in heaven or earth had he to distrust her? Because her voice was silver and her hair was gold? Because violets scattered their fragrance when she stirred? Oh, his folly was thrice damned. If he had a thousand proofs against her, he should still trust her. What was it that that chap Browning said?
“What so false as truth isFalse to thee?”
“What so false as truth isFalse to thee?”
“What so false as truth isFalse to thee?”
That was what love should be—not this sick and falteringthing——
“Here are the notes,” said Delilah’s voice at his shoulder, and her eyes added, wistful and submissive: “And here am I.”
O’Hara took them in silence, his fingers folding them mechanically, measuring, weighing, appraising. The envelope could have held themeasily——
She turned from him with a little cry.
“Oh, you are cruel, cruel!”
He stood staring at her for a moment—at the small, desolate figure with its bowed head, one arm flung across her eyes like a stricken child—and suddenly his heart melted within him. She wasweeping, and he had made her weep. He took a swift step toward her, and halted. In the mirror at the far end of the room he could see her, dimly caught between firelight and candlelight, shadowy and lovely—in the mirror at the far end of the room she was smiling, mischievous and tragic and triumphant. He stared incredulously—and then swept her to him despairingly, burying his treacherous eyes in the bright hair in which clustered the invisible violets.