She looked startled when she saw that he was there alone, and paused just inside the door as though half inclined to retreat. It hurt Stacey keenly that she should be afraid of him—and with reason. He had risen and stood facing her, but across the room from her.
“Won’t you—come in?” he asked. “Or would you rather go somewhere else—the dining-room? There’s luncheon ready for you in there.”
She shook her head. “No,” she answered, “and I’m not hungry.” But she did not come farther into the room, and, though she smiled waveringly, Stacey saw the expression of pain—or perhaps fear—in her eyes.
“Catherine,” he began in a low voice, after a moment, “why is it so hard—and dangerous—to be frank?”
“Ought it to be either?” she replied gently. She looked at him steadily as she spoke, but the expression on her face was odd and troubled. There was compassion in it, though; he felt that strongly. Of course! A generous emotion would always be dominant in Catherine.
He came a little nearer to her. “Catherine,” he said, “I have not meant ever to—” then broke off. It was worse to say things than to leave them unspoken, and she would understand them anyway. He tried desperately to call the whole subject off. “Oh,” he remarked, with a positively sepulchral gaiety, “Christmas is too emotional! We’re good friends, aren’t we? and that’s all that matters.”
But she continued to gaze at him in that same odd manner. The very pose of her body made her seem like a creature at bay.
And suddenly Stacey’s thoughts were swept away like so much rubbish by a wave of sure emotion. He took a step toward Catherine, stretching out his hands impulsively, and all at once she was in his arms, trembling and weeping, her lips raised to his.
“Ah, Stacey, didn’t you know I loved you?” she murmured presently. “Your father knew.”
“Wh-when?”
“Since the evening you quarreled.”
“Oh,” Stacey cried, “was it—for love that you defended me?”
“You—might call it that.”
She drew a little away from him now and made him sit down beside her on the divan.
“I think,” she said gently, holding his hand against her cheek, “that men can hardly ever think in facts; they must think in patterns; and anything that will not fit into a pattern they find wrong. But I want to tell you the truth. I have always loved you, Stacey, always! It was not disloyalty. I am sure Phil knew. I loved you and him. It was different. I can’t make you understand.”
Stacey, very shaken and confused, and not understanding anything save (humbly) that this was giving on a scale beyond what was credible, drew her to him and kissed her hot face.
“Oh, Stacey,” she murmured, “I feel so—immodest!”
“Aha!” he interrupted, laughing unsteadily, “now who’s thinking not like an individual but like the whole female sex?” And at this she, too, laughed a little.
They sat there, close together, scarcely speaking. But it came over Stacey in a rush that in his love for Catherine there was a touch of what he had felt for Marian and something more—far more! Truth, fact. It was complete. This was reality. There was nothing left out.
“Catherine,” he cried, “you are not only a grown woman; you are a little girl, too. And so I’m not afraid of you any longer—I always was, a little, you know. Now I’m not.”
“That’s odd,” she said shyly, “because I—have also been afraid of you, a little.”
“But really? On account of my temper, I suppose. You’re right. I’ve a rotten temper,” he said remorsefully.
She smiled. “No, not on account of your temper. I think,” she explained, grave now, “it was the—the serenity you have achieved, Stacey dear.”
He drew away to stare at her, but before he could speak the door of the room opened and Mr. Carroll entered, then paused abruptly.
Catherine saw him first and hurried to his side, clasping his hand in both of hers and laying her head against his shoulder.
Mr. Carroll reached out his other hand to grasp Stacey’s and gazed at his son with shining eyes.
“Oh, Mr. Carroll, do you mind?” Catherine cried softly.
“Mind, my dear!” he replied. “Isn’t it exactly what I’ve hoped for?” And he bent over and kissed her cheek, then made her sit down beside him on the divan, while Stacey stood a little way off, looking at them.
“Er—where are you thinking of living?” Mr. Carroll asked presently in a carefully matter-of-fact voice, while he slowly clipped off the end of a cigar.
Stacey flashed a swift questioning glance at Catherine. “Why,” he remarked then deliberately, “what with the scarcity of houses and all, we were rather thinking of staying on here.”
“Well,” said Mr. Carroll, “if you will, you will, I suppose.” But he had paused to light his cigar before speaking, and it had taken him rather longer than usual.
THE END.
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Transcriber’s Notes:
Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. A few obvious typesetting and punctuation errors have been corrected without note.
[End of The Lonely Warrior by Claude C. Washburn]