Does Lessie's unknown parentage present a barrier to the progress of my love? No. That does not worry nor concern me in the least. It is true she is—she must be, the fruit of a brief union unblessed by preacher or priest. That does not make her the less charming, the less human, the less lovable. She is as blameless, as natural, as inevitable, as any other pure and stainless growth arising from baser elements. The fact that Lessie would be unable to produce the marriage certificate of her parents proved not the slightest obstacle to the current of my affections. Indeed, when I dwelt upon this, I became aware of an added tenderness; a desire to spread over her sunny head the shielding strength of my arms. The world is so ready to mock at infirmities and to reproach frailties. But I must discover her father's name, and what became of him. I cannot present this subject to the two old people with whom she lives.
Perhaps Father John would know. How long has he held this parish, I wonder? Most likely for many years. In remote country places priests, especially old ones, do not often change their field of labor. To-morrow I shall go to the priest's house again, and ask him. I do not know that he will tell me, but he holds the secret. If it came to him under seal of the confessional, of course he will not reveal it. But I've a notion it was countryside gossip at the time it occurred, and I will not be asking Father John to betray any confidence when I seek him for this information. Then, too, I have waited longer than I should to go and inquire about Beryl Drane, the girl with a face of twenty and the experience of a lifetime. Perhaps it would be better to see her first, before accosting her uncle on the subject. I am not sure that I can do this without arousing suspicion, for I am convinced Beryl Drane has a mind capable of keen and clear deductions, and I have no desire that my love for Lessie should become generally known yet. But I will try.
My love for Lessie! I look at that sentence written down on this white paper with my own hand, and something goes radiating through every cranny of me. I am in love—in love with an untamed Dryad of the oak glade, the deep, clear pool, the sun-dappled spaces of the whispering wood. Why do I love her? I ask myself. Why fares the bee to the flower, the bird to his nest, the squirrel to his tree? I love her; let that suffice. Alone here in my lodge on the lap of Old Baldy, beside my table, I write these words in a mood which never before possessed me. I am recklessly happy. I have—shall I write it—I have stayed my pen just now long enough to sit dreamy eyed for a quarter of an hour; to imagine that warm young body tight in my arms; those Irish gray eyes looking long and deep into mine; those, red, red lips against my own, and the blinding shimmer of her hair around and about my face and neck. God! My pulses leap and thrum in my temples at the thought, and my throat feels full and thick. My brother, have you never felt this way? Then you are missing a large portion of your human heritage.
When shall I tell her? Not at once, I think. It will be better to school her some first. And—Buck! By some strange chance I have not reckoned with Buck to-day. Buck must be reckoned with. He will not efface himself, and I respect him the more that he will not. Diplomacy and arbitration and plain reason are all out of the question with Buck. When I come to reckon with him it will be by the might of my good right arm. It is the old, old method of medieval times of settling a difficulty where the favor of a lady is involved, but it is an honorable one, if conducted fairly, and I suspect as good as any. I must begin a system of physical training, so that I may be fit for the final bout. That will be some fight, my masters!
Eight weeks ago I dreaded the weary monotony which awaited me in this forsaken spot!
Well, events yet unborn are on the knees of the gods. I intend to go as straight to my destination as my judgment and will can carry me. I have but written that I shall not tell the Dryad of my love yet. Now I should like to modify that statement and say that I shall not tell her if I can help it. For a sudden sense that my passion is broadening and intensifying has come to me, and I shall make no promises—no, not one. Now, this moment, I quiver at the recollection of her cadenced laugh; I tremble as I see again the eyes which might craze a man of wood. Ah! Dryad, if you were here to-night—if you were here—if you were here—
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IN WHICH MUCH ADDED LIGHT IS SHED UPON MISS BERYL DRANE, BUT ONLY A GLIMMER UPON MY PROBLEM
"This is a beautiful day."