Lane swerved to the left, and in the gloom of trees,
passed by noiselessly. Soon he encountered another
car—an open car with shields up—as
silent as if empty. But the very silence of it
was potent of life. It cried out to the night
and to Lane. But it was not the car he had followed.
Again he slipped by, stealthily, yet scornful of his
caution. Who cared? He might have shouted
his mission to the heavens. Lane passed on.
All he caught from the second car was a faint fragrance
of smoke, wafted on the gentle summer breeze.
Another black object loomed up—a larger
car—the sedan Lane recognized. He
did not bolt or hurry. His footsteps made no sound.
Crouching a little he slipped round the car to one
side. At the instant he reached for the handle
of the door, a pang shook him. Alas, that he
should be compelled to spy on Lorna! His little
sister! He saw her as a curly-headed child, adoring
him. Perhaps it might not be Lorna after all.
But it was for her sake that he was doing this.
The softer moment passed and the soldier intervened.
With one swift turn and jerk he opened the door—then
flashed his light. A scream rent the air.
In the glaring circle of light Lane saw red hair—green
eyes transfixed in fear—white shoulders—white
arms—white ringed hands suddenly flung upward.
Helen! The blood left his heart in a rush.
Swann blinked in the light, bewildered and startled.
“Swann, you’ll have to excuse me,”
said Lane, coolly. “I thought you had my
sister with you. I’ve spotted her twice
with you in this car.... It may not interest
you or your—your guest, but I’ll add
that you’re damned lucky not to have Lorna here
to-night.”
Then he snapped off his flash-light, and slamming
the car door, he wheeled away.
Lane left his room and went into the shady woods,
where he thought the July heat would be less unendurable,
where the fever in his blood might abate. But
though it was cool and pleasant there he experienced
no relief. Wherever he went he carried the burden
of his pangs. And his grim giant of unrest trod
in his shadow.
He could not stay long in the woods. He betook
himself to the hills and meadows. Action was
beneficial for him, though he soon exhausted himself.
He would have liked to fight out his battle that day.
Should he go on spending his days and nights in a
slowly increasing torment? The longer he fought
the less chance he had of victory. Victory!
There could be none. What victory could be won
over a strange ineradicable susceptibility to the
sweetness, charm, mystery of a woman? He plodded
the fragrant fields with bent head, in despair.
Loneliness hurt him as much as anything. And
a new pang, the fiercest and most insupportable, had
been added to his miseries. Jealousy! Thought
of the father of Mel Iden’s child haunted him,
flayed him, made him feel himself ignoble and base.
There was no help for that. And this fiend of
jealousy added fuel to his love. Only long passionate
iteration of his assurance of principle and generosity
subdued that frenzy and at length gave him composure.
Perhaps this had some semblance to victory.
