CHAPTER XXIV

THE BLIND SEE

Day by day Peter's eyes grew stronger, because day by day he was thinking less about himself and more about Marjory.

"He needs to get away from himself," the doctors had told Beatrice. "If you can find something that will occupy his thoughts, so that he will quit thinking about his eyes, you 'll double his chances." Beatrice had done that when she found Marjory, and now she was more than satisfied with the result and with herself. Every morning she saw Peter safely entrusted to Marjory's care, and this left her free the rest of the day to walk a little, read her favorite books, and nibble chocolates. She was getting a much-needed rest, secure in the belief that everything was working out in quite an ideal way.

The only thing that seemed to her at all strange was a sudden reluctance on Peter's part to talk to her of Marjory. At the end of the day the three had dinner together at the Hotel d'Angleterre,--Marjory could never be persuaded to dine at the Roses,--and when by eight Peter and his sister returned to their own hotel, he gave her only the barest details of his excursion, and retired early to his room. But he seemed cheerful enough, so that, after all, this might be only another favorable symptom of his progress. Peter always had been more or less secretive, and until his illness neither she nor his parents knew more than an outline of his life in New York. Periodically they came on to visit him for a few days, and periodically he went home for a few days. He was making a name for himself, and they were very proud of him, and the details did not matter.

Knowing Peter as they did, it was easy enough to fill them in.

Even with Marjory, Peter talked less and less about himself. From his own ambitions, hopes, and dreams he turned more and more to hers. Now that he had succeeded in making her a prisoner, however slender the thread by which he held her, he seemed intent upon filling in all the past as fully as possible. Up to a certain point that was easy enough.

She was willing to talk of her girlhood; of her father, whom she adored; and even of Aunt Kitty, who had claimed her young womanhood. She was even eager. It afforded her a safe topic in which she found relief. It gave her an opportunity also to justify, in a fashion, or at least to explain, both to herself and Peter, the frame of mind that led her up to later events.

"I ran away from you, Peter," she admitted.

"I know," he answered.

"Only it was not so much from you as from what you stood for," she hurried on. "I was thinking of myself alone, and of the present alone.

I had been a prisoner so long, I wanted to be free a little."

"Free?" he broke in quickly, with a frown. "I don't like to hear you use that word. That's the way Covington's wife talked, is n't it?"

"Yes," she murmured.

"It's the way so many women are talking to-day--and so many men, too.

Freedom is such a big word that a lot of people seem to think it will cloak anything they care to do. They lose sight of the fact that the freer a man or a woman is, the more responsibility he a.s.sumes. The free are put upon their honor to fulfill the obligations that are exacted by force from the irresponsible. So those who abuse this privilege are doubly treacherous--treacherous to themselves, and treacherous to society, which trusted them."

Marjory turned aside her head, so that he might not even look upon her with his blind eyes.

"I--I didn't mean any harm, Peter," she said.

"Of course you did n't. I don't suppose Mrs. Covington did, either; did she?"

"No, Peter, I'm sure she didn't. She--she was selfish."

"Besides, if you only come through safe, and learn--"

"At least, I've learned," she answered.

"Since you went away from me?"

"Yes."

"You have n't told me very much about that."

She caught her breath.

"Is--is it dishonest to keep to one's self how one learns?" she asked.

"No, little woman; only, I feel as though I'd like to know you as I know myself. I'd like to feel that there was n't a nook or cranny in your mind that was n't open to me."

"Peter!"

"Is that asking too much?"

"Some day you must know, but not now."

"If Mrs. Covington--"

"Must we talk any more about her?" she exclaimed.

"I did n't know it hurt you."

"It does--more than you realize."

"I'm sorry," he said quickly.

He fumbled about for her hand. She allowed him to take it.

"Have you heard from Covington since he left?"

He felt her fingers twitch.

"Does it hurt, too, to talk about him?" he asked.

"It's impossible to talk about Monte without talking about his--his--about Mrs. Covington," Marjory explained feebly.

"They ought to be one," he admitted. "But you said they are about to separate."

"Yes, Peter; only I keep thinking of what ought to be."

She withdrew her hand and leaned back on the seat a little away from him.

Sensitive to every movement of hers, he glanced up at this.

"Somehow,"--he said, with a strained expression,--"somehow I feel the need of seeing your eyes to-day. There's something I 'm missing.

There's something here I don't understand."

"Don't try to understand, Peter," she cried. "It's better that you should n't."

"It's best always to know the truth," he said.

"Not always."

"Always," he insisted.

"Sometimes it does n't do any good to know the truth. It only hurts."

"Even then, it's best. When I get my eyes--"