But there came into the girl's eyes that which gave him pause. They stood staring at each other; and slowly the wine-dark flush faded from his face and left him livid. Little dents came about his nose, and his lips puckered as if the devil had pinched them together.

"No?" said he thickly, and his jaw hardened, and his eyes narrowed under his square forehead. "No? You won't, eh? Too fine and proud? My lady, you'll learn to kiss me when I tell you to, and glad enough of the chance, before you and I finish with each other! Why, you--I--Oh, good G.o.d! Why do you rouse the devil in me, when I only want to be friends with you?"

But she, with a ghastly face, turned swiftly and with her head held high walked out of the room, pa.s.sed through the wide hall, and ascended the stairs, without even bidding him goodnight. Let him take his dismissal as he would--she could stand no more!

Once in her own room, Mary Virginia dismissed Nancy for the night. She had to be alone, and the colored woman was an irrepressible magpie.

Furiously she scrubbed her hands, as if to remove the taint of his touch. That he had dared! Her teeth chattered. She could barely save herself from screaming aloud. She bathed her face, dashed some toilet water over herself, and fell into a chair, limp and unnerved.

_One day!_

She was facing the end and she knew it. Because she had to say No. She had never for one minute admitted to herself the possibility of her own surrender. She could give up Laurence, since she had to; but she could not accept Inglesby. Anything rather than that! At the most, all she had hoped was to evade that final No until the last moment, in order to give Eustis what poor respite she could. Only her great love for him had enabled her to do that much. And it had not helped. When she thought of the wreck that must come, she beat her hands together, softly, in sheer misery. It was like standing by and watching some splendid ship being pounded to pieces on the rocks.

Only her innate bravery and her real and deep religious instinct saved her from altogether sinking into inertia and despair. She _had_ to arouse herself. Other women had faced situations equally as impossible and unbearable as hers, and the best of them had not allowed themselves to be whipped into tame and abject submission. Even at the worst they had s.n.a.t.c.hed the great chance to live their own lives in their own way. As for her, surely there must be some way out of this snarl, some immediate way that led to honorable freedom, even without hope. But how and where was she to find any way open to her, between now and to-morrow night?

On her dressing table, with a handful of trinkets upon it, lay the tray that the b.u.t.terfly Man had sent her when she was graduated. Chin in hands, Mary Virginia stared absently enough at the brightly colored b.u.t.terflies she had been told to remember were messengers bearing on their wings the love of the Parish House people. Why--why--of course!

The Parish House people! They had blamed her, because they hadn't understood. But if she were to ask the Parish House people for any help within their power, she could be sure of receiving it without stint.

If she could get to the Parish House without anybody knowing where she was, Inglesby and Hunter would be balked of that interview to-morrow night. The worst was going to happen anyhow, but if she couldn't save herself from anything else, at least she could save herself from facing them alone. To be able to do that, she would go now, in the middle of the night, and tell the Padre everything. Unnerved as she was, she couldn't face the hours between now and to-morrow morning here, by herself. She had to get to the Parish House.

It was then after eleven. Nancy having been dismissed for the night, she had no fear of being interrupted. She made her few preparations, switched off the light, and sat down to wait until she could be sure that all the servants were abed, and the streets deserted. She felt as if she were a forlorn castaway upon a pinpoint of land, with immeasurable dark depths upon either side.

The midnight express screeched and was gone. She switched on the light for a last look about her pretty, pleasant room. There was a snapshot of the Parish House people upon her mantel, and she nodded to it, gravely, before she once more plunged the room into darkness.

Noiselessly she slipped downstairs and let herself out. The midnight air was bitingly cold, but she did not feel it. With one handsatchel holding all she thought she could honestly lay claim to, Mary Virginia turned her back upon the home that had sheltered her all her life, but that wouldn't be able to shelter its own people much longer, because Inglesby was going to take it away from them. It made her wince to think of him as master under that roof. The old house deserved a happier fate.

At best the Parish House could be only a momentary stopping-place.

What lay beyond she didn't know. What her fate held further of evil she couldn't guess. But at least, she thought, it would be in her own hands. It wasn't. Unexpectedly and mercifully was it put into the abler and stronger hands of the b.u.t.terfly Man.

Now, that night Flint had found himself unable to work. He was unaccountably depressed. He couldn't read; even the Bible, opened at his favorite John, hadn't any comfort for him. He shoved the book aside, s.n.a.t.c.hed hat and overcoat, and fled to his refuge the healing out-of-doors.

He trudged the country roads for awhile, then turned toward town, intending to pa.s.s by the Eustis house. It wasn't the first time he had pa.s.sed the Eustis house at night of late, and just to see it asleep in the midst of its gardens steadied him and made him smile at the vague fears he entertained.

He was almost up to the gate when a girl emerged from it, and he stiffened in his tracks, for it was Mary Virginia. A second later, and they stood face to face.

"Don't be alarmed, it is I, Flint," he said in his quiet voice. And then he asked directly: "Why are you out alone at this hour? Where are you going?"

"To--to the Parish House," she stammered. She was greatly startled by his sudden appearance.

"Exactly," said the b.u.t.terfly Man, with meaning, and relieved her of her satchel. He asked no questions, offered no comments; but as quickly as he could he got her to his own rooms, put Kerry on guard, and ran for help.

CHAPTER XVIII

ST. STANISLAUS CROOKS HIS ELBOW

Mary Virginia's voice trailed into silence and she sank back into her chair, staring somberly at the fire. Her face marked with tears, the long braids of her hair over her shoulders, she looked so like a sad and chidden child that the piteousness of her would have moved and melted harder hearts than ours.

The b.u.t.terfly Man had listened without an interruption. He sat leaning slightly forward, knees crossed, the left arm folded to support the elbow of the right, and his chin in his cupped right hand. His eyes had the piercing clear directness of an eagle's; they burned with an unwavering pale flame. Shrewder far than I, he saw the great advantage of knowing the worst, of at last thoroughly understanding Hunter and Inglesby and the motives which moved them. He had, too, a certain tolerance. These two had merely acted according to their lights; he had not expected any more or less, therefore he was not surprised now into an undue condemnation.

But the fighting instinct rose rampant in me. My hands are De Rance hands, the hands of soldiers as well as of priests, and they itched for a weapon, preferably a sword. Horrified and astonished, suffocating with anger, I had no word at command to comfort this victim of abominable cunning. Indeed, what could I say; what could I do? I looked helplessly at the b.u.t.terfly Man, and the stronger man looked back at me, gravely and impa.s.sively.

"But what is to be done?" I groaned.

He seemed to know, for he said at once:

"Call Madame. Tell her to bring some extra wraps. I am going to take Mary Virginia home, and Madame will go with us."

"But why shouldn't she stay here?"

"Because she'd better be at home to-morrow morning, parson. We're not supposed to know anything of her affairs, and I'd rather she didn't appear at the Parish House. Also, she needs sleep right now more than she needs anything else, and one sleeps better in one's own bed.

Madame will see that she goes to hers and stays there."

I was perfectly willing to commit the affair into John Flint's hands.

But Mary Virginia demurred.

"No. I want to stay here! I don't want to go home, Padre."

Flint shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said mildly, "but I'm going to take you home." He looked so inexorable that Mary Virginia shrugged her shoulders.

"Oh, all right, Mr. Flint, I'll go," said she. "What difference does it make? I'll even go to bed--as I'm told." And she added in a tone of indescribable bitterness: "I have read that men lie down and sleep peacefully the night before they are hanged. Well, I suppose they could: they hadn't anything but death to face on the morrow, but I--"

and she caught her breath.

"Why not take it for granted to-night that you'll be looked after to-morrow?" suggested Flint. "Mary Virginia, nothing's ever so bad as it's going to be."

"Oh, yes, I'll be looked after to-morrow!" said she, bitingly. "Mr.

Inglesby will see to that!" She covered her face with her hands.

"Oh, I don't know!" The b.u.t.terfly Man shut his mouth on the words like a knife. "Inglesby may think he's going to, but somehow _I_ think he won't."

"Ah!" said she scornfully. "Perhaps _you'll_ be able to stop him?"

"Perhaps," he agreed. "If I don't, somebody or something else will.

It's very unlucky to be too lucky too long. You see, everybody's got to get what's coming to them, and it generally comes hardest when they've tied themselves up to the notion they're It. Somehow I fancy Mr. Inglesby's due to come considerable of a cropper around about now."

"Between now and to-morrow night?" she wondered, with sad contempt.

"Why not? Anything can happen between a night and a night." He looked at her with shrewd appreciation: "You have taken yourself so seriously," said he, "that you've pretty nearly muddled yourself into being tragic. Those fellows knew who they were dealing with when they tackled _you_. They could bet the limit you'd never tell. So long as you didn't tell, so long as they had n.o.body but you to deal with, they had you where they wanted you. But now maybe things might happen that haven't been printed in the program."

"What things?" she mocked somberly.

"I don't know, yet," he admitted, "But I do know there is always a way out of everything except the grave. The thing is to find the right way. That's up to the Padre and me. Parson, would you mind going after Madame now, please? The sooner we go the better."

Have I not said my mother is the most wonderful of women? I waked her in the small hours with the startling information that Mary Virginia was downstairs in John Flint's workroom, and that she herself must dress and accompany her home. And my mother, though she looked her stark bewilderment, plagued me with no questions.

"She is in great trouble, and she needs you. Hurry."