— VII —

WHERE GLORY AWAITS

His back to the cliff, and leaning against the gunwale of his boat, which on landing a little while ago he had drawn up on the beach, Jean dug abstractedly at the sand with the toe of his boot. He had helped Jules, the chauffeur, to carry the baggage into the house, where Myrna Bliss, her maid and Marie-Louise were now busily engaged within—occasionally he could hear one or other of their voices—and he was waiting. What for? He did not know. He had promised her that he would wait. Her father wanted to see him because he made poupées out of clay, and because he had made that little statue which, somehow, had so delighted her. It was very curious—very curious that a little thing like that should have taken their fancy!

His hand passed nervously across his forehead. But that was of no account, the statue! There were other things. He was living in a dream—no, not a dream—something much more vital than a dream. From a dream one awoke, and the dream was dispelled. He was awake now and the spell was still upon him. In her presence he lost his reason, his being seemed to become a seething furnace of passion that consumed him; away from her, some strange, magnetic power kept bidding him return, kept his mind picturing her, kept his thoughts upon her. It was but half an hour ago that, alone with her in the cottage, he had almost utterly lost control of himself.

A hot flush was on his cheeks. It was bad, that! Some day he would lose control of himself completely; some day the impulse to crush that ravishing form in his arms, to look deep into those laughing, self-possessed grey eyes until the laughter and the self-possession were gone and he was master, would prove too strong for him. And then—what?

His hands clenched at his sides, the broad shoulders sloped a little forward. Well—what then? His brain would not answer him, save only with that persistent "she was a woman and he was a man." He laughed shortly aloud. Was that true? How true was it? He glanced mockingly at his clothes; his hands unclenched, and, feeling in a sort of tentative way, slid along the gunwale of the boat. Yes; it was quite evident that he was what he had always been, what he always would be—a fisherman. It was quite evident too that he was mad. It was only last night that he had seen her for the first time, only since last night that this enchantment had fallen upon him—and now it possessed him, mind, soul and body. One could not credit that! He laughed out again—and suddenly the laugh died on his lips.

He had heard no step upon the sand, but a hand now touched his arm. He turned quickly. It was Marie-Louise. He had forgotten all about Marie-Louise—since yesterday evening. He had seen her of course since then, had walked home with her after that meeting on the bridge, had called out for her when he had landed here on the beach a little while ago, but for all that Marie-Louise had been forgotten.

"Jean"—she was speaking in a low, anxious voice—"it's—it's not true, is it, Jean?"

The dark eyes were trying to smile through a troubled mist; the lips, that he remembered he had likened yesterday to the divinely modelled lips of that dream statue, were quivering now.

Jean stared at her. What would she be like if she were dressed in clothes, marvellous, dainty things, such as Myrna Bliss wore, with little shoes and silken ankles? She was pretty of course, Marie-Louise had always been pretty; but there was not the physical thrill, the witchery in the eyes that turned his head. She was more sober—yes, that was it—more sober. Marie-Louise took things more seriously, and—

"Jean!" She seemed almost frightened now in her appeal. "Did you not hear me? Jean—it isn't true, is it?"

"True?" Jean roused himself with a little start. "What is not true? I do not know what you are talking about."

"The beacon, Jean"—she spoke hurriedly, breathlessly now. "A few minutes ago mademoiselle told me to put it in the room she has chosen for herself, and to be very careful of it because—because"—her voice broke suddenly—"because she said that you had given it to her. Jean—it's not true, is it?"

For a moment Jean did not speak. There were tears in her eyes! A twinge of guilty confusion seized him. Yes, it was so—Marie-Louise had been forgotten. Yesterday he had given it to Marie-Louise. But who would have thought it would make any difference to her—a thing like that! She was perhaps angry for the moment, but it would be only for the moment.

"Mais, sacré nom!" he exclaimed, and forced a laugh. "And what of it? It is nothing! I will make you another."

She did not answer; but into the brown eyes came a miserable hurt, and into the face a sudden whiteness. It was only the day before that he had given it to her, and had said it was a beacon, and that the beacon was herself with arms outstretched to welcome him always. It had meant so much to her—and now it seemed to have meant so little to Jean.

Jean shifted uneasily, as she did not speak.

"I will make you another, Marie-Louise," he blurted out appeasingly. "To-day—to-morrow—whenever you like, I will make you another. Then it will be all right, eh, petite?"

She shook her head—and the words came very slowly.

"You can never make another beacon, Jean."

"How—not another?" he cried impetuously. "I can make a thousand! Did I not tell you that it was you—has it not those lips that I could fashion even in the dark, even if you were far away from me! Tiens, do you not see—I could make a thousand! And to-morrow you shall have another."

The dark eyes were full.

"Was it yours to give, Jean?" she asked.

It was true! He had nothing to say to that. She was crying. He was angry now because he could say nothing, because there was no excuse for what he had done—and yet he would do it again. But he could not tell Marie-Louise that though, pardieu! She would only cry the harder. And because she was right and he had nothing to say, he groped, angry with himself, for some defence.

"Ah!" he burst out sharply. "So that is it! Yesterday you would have thought nothing of it, but now you have been listening to what they say, and you believe it all—that it is worth a great deal of money, maybe a hundred francs, eh? Well, it is not—it is worth nothing! You have nothing to cry over."

Wide-eyed, as though a whip-lash had curled across her face, she drew back, her small hands shut tightly at her sides, as she looked at him. And then somehow that little prayer that she had prayed to the bon Dieu last night came back to her—"make me that, mon Père; make me that—Jean's beacon all through my life"—and the bitter words that were on her lips were crowded back, and she turned slowly away.

But now Jean caught her arm.

"No, no, Marie-Louise, I did not mean that!" he cried penitently. "See, I did not mean that!"

She made no answer. Her head was averted; her eyes fixed far out over the water.

Jean bit his lips. Certainly he had had no right to give it away, but it was a small matter to make such a fuss over, and he had already promised her another. Was it possible that she had sensed anything of the wild passion that had come upon him for this beautiful American! Was she already jealous? Well, it was easily knocked out of her head, that—if one took the bull by the horns! And if he were mad it was no reason that hurt should come to Marie-Louise because of it. Some day it would be all over this madness, and was it not Marie-Louise and he who were to make their little home together? He forced a laugh again, and caught her shoulders and drew her closer.

"Confess, Marie-Louise," he said teasingly, "that it is because I gave it to another woman. Is it not so, eh? That you are—oh, là, là!—that little Marie-Louise is jealous of mademoiselle."

Her head lifted, a new light suddenly in her eyes—one of incredulous amazement.

"Jealous of mademoiselle!" she repeated wonderingly. "Of mademoiselle who is of the grand monde and so far above us and not of our world at all—and you who are a fisherman! How could I be jealous? How could such a thing be possible? Oh, Jean, don't you understand, it is not that you gave it to her—it is that you gave it at all."

"But what does it matter, then," demanded Jean, inwardly relieved, "since I will make you as many more as you please? To-morrow you shall have another much better than this one."

Footsteps sounded from the gravel walk on the cliff above; and Marie-Louise, glancing around, lifted Jean's hands from her shoulders.

"I have told you, Jean, that you can never make another," she said, with a little catch in her voice; then hurriedly: "It is mademoiselle and her father coming to see you. I must go."

"And I have told you," declared Jean, with sudden, fierce assertion, "that I can make a thousand, and all better than this one!"

She bent her head to hide the blinding tears that were filling her eyes again. It meant nothing to him, that which had been so great a pledge to her. It was only a poupée, a clay doll, one of dozens that he had given to the children to amuse them. And the things he had said about it meant nothing—they had only been words—only words, but she could not forget them. A little sob rose in her throat, and was choked bravely back. They were coming down the path now, mademoiselle and her father, and she must go.

"You do not understand," she said brokenly—and, turning, ran quickly along the beach.

For a space Jean watched her as she sped over the sand, until, ignoring the path, she climbed lithely up the rocks at the far end of the beach, and disappeared in the direction of the house. His hand, a knotted lump, drawn back for a smashing blow on the gunwale of the boat, a blow that should relieve his feelings, opened hesitantly instead and passed a little dazedly across his eyes.

"Sacré maudit!" he muttered in slow earnestness under his breath.

Since last night the world was upside-down! Since last night he did not know himself! He knew nothing! Only that all Bernay-sur-Mer was changed. That everything was changed. That he had made Marie-Louise cry. That they had talked about that accursed piece of clay that had made Marie-Louise cry, as though it were worth talking about!

"Sacré maudit!" muttered Jean again. "What does it all mean?"

And then he was watching her, this glorious American, coming now along the beach toward him with the man who Marie-Louise had said was mademoiselle's father.

"Jean!"—she was calling out to him. "Here is father at last! Did you think we were never coming?"

Two hands fell upon his shoulders, holding him off at arms' length; and the man, with frank eagerness, was staring into his face. Over her father's shoulder, Myrna was laughing roguishly.

"So you are Jean Laparde?" Henry Bliss exclaimed heartily. "Well, well! My daughter told me I would lose half my surprise when I had a good look at you, and I am free to admit she was right." One hand fell from Jean's shoulder, caught Jean's hand and wrung it in a genial grip. "Well, Jean, my boy, I want to say to you that if you will listen to me, this will be a day that you will remember as long as you live."

From one to the other Jean stared bewilderedly.

"It is to the clay figure that monsieur refers, I know," he said slowly; "but I do not understand. Mademoiselle was kind enough to praise it, but—" He shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly.

"But—nothing!" laughed Henry Bliss impulsively. "Here—sit down!" He sat down himself on the boat's gunwale, and turned to his daughter. "Myrna, we're going to talk business—are you going to stay?"

"Of course, I'm going to stay!" she declared merrily, perching herself beside her father and smiling up at Jean, who still remained standing. "It will take both of us to convince him. Jean, father wants to take you to Paris."

"To Paris!"—the words came from Jean with a sort of startled jerk. His eyes searched the two faces for an instant uncertainly, and then he smiled incredulously. "Mademoiselle is pleased to have a little joke with me—yes?" he said quietly.

It was Henry Bliss who answered.

"Indeed, she is not!" he asserted, with brisk emphasis. "That is exactly what I have to propose, my boy. My daughter tells me she cannot make you believe that the superb little statue you have made amounts to anything more than a gouged-out piece of mud. I'm not so much surprised that you have not sensed its actual worth, for I think that almost invariably the really big men in art, the men of real genius, are the last to appreciate themselves; but the astounding thing is that you have seen nothing in it at all. As a matter of fact, I can't believe it. It is impossible! It is simply that you have given it no thought. Think a little about it, Jean. How did you come to make it? How did you conceive it? Where did you get your model?"

"But I do not know," said Jean a little absently—something, the fire, the enthusiasm, the earnestness in the other's voice was kindling a strange response within him. "I do not know. I think it was the bronze statue in the great square of the city."

"The—what?" demanded Henry Bliss quickly. "What city? I know them all—and I do not recall anything that could have served as a model for you."

"And you told me, Jean," Myrna added, wagging her finger at him in pretty reproach, "that you had never been away from Bernay-sur-Mer."

Jean laughed uncomfortably, self-consciously.

"It is nothing!" he said. "You do not understand. It is foolish! The statue and the square and the city are only in the dream that comes sometimes."

"Ah—a dream!" ejaculated Henry Bliss, with a quick nod of his head.

"Oh, Jean!" Myrna clapped her hands delightedly. "Tell us about it."

"There is nothing to tell, mademoiselle," he replied, colouring. "It is just a dream that comes sometimes when I am fishing, when I lie awake at night, when I am not thinking of it. That is all, mademoiselle. It means nothing."

"It means a great deal!" said Henry Bliss, jumping excitedly to his feet. "And at least it should help you to understand that it is not so impossible after all when I tell you that, barring little crudities of technique that are a paltry consideration, there is no sculptor in France to-day could produce a piece of work comparable to that which you have done."

Jean's lips were slightly parted. Excitement was upon him too. A strange stirring was in his soul.

"But I cannot believe that," he said in a low voice.

Henry Bliss's hands were on Jean's shoulders once more, pressing them in a hard, earnest grip.

"Nevertheless, it is true!" he asserted forcibly, "You do not know me; but those who do could tell you that I am qualified to speak. And I tell you that it is true. I tell you that in Paris fame, wealth, the greatest name in France awaits you! You are through to-day with this life forever, my boy, if you will come with me to Paris."

Fame, wealth, the greatest name in France! Jean felt the blood leave his face. His brain seemed to whirl and to be afire. Yes, those were the words, and the man was not playing with him; but it was some wild hallucination, some bizarre mistake. To-day, to be through with the hard, penniless life of a fisherman forever—and to work hereafter only with what before had been his play! No, that was not true—it could not be true. He meant well, this man, the father of the girl whose eyes seemed to burn into his now and insist too that it was true, but the little statue had been too easily done to be anything more than perhaps a pretty little thing. Fame, a great name—that strange stirring of his soul again! God, why had this man aroused that thought within him, when it was not, could not be true?

"Monsieur," he said, and his voice in its hoarseness sounded strangely in his own ears; "monsieur, has made a mistake. It cannot be so."

"Think so!" returned Henry Bliss bluntly. "I do not make mistakes of that kind, my boy. But I will convince you. In a few days you will see. I have telegraphed for some of the famous critics of France, men of the Academy, men whose names are known all over Europe, and they will tell you what I have told you—and their despair that it is I, not they, who have discovered you will be so pitifully genuine that even you will understand. And to-morrow we will motor to Marseilles and get some modelling clay for you, and you will see for yourself what you can do with that. And then, Jean, you will go to Paris with me—and work."

"If it were true, if it should be true," said Jean numbly, "still I could not go. One does not make sous enough at the fishing to go to Paris."

"But, great heavens!" ejaculated Henry Bliss. "That is precisely what I am offering you, young man—money. I am rich. I will pay every expense. I will establish you."

Jean shook his head.

"I could not do that—take your money," he said simply.

"Couldn't take it!" exploded the American earnestly—and then he laughed—and then grew serious once more. "Listen, my boy! I do not want you to think for a moment that this is a purely charitable little scheme on my part—far from it! It is most of it, I am afraid, utter selfishness. I love art—for many years I have devoted myself to it. I cannot create myself—God knows the miserable attempts and the miserable failures that have been mine!—and so I have tried to help others to do what I could not do myself"—Henry Bliss was smiling now in a kindly, wistful way. "And now to discover the greatest sculptor of the age, to bring him out of obscurity into fame and power—can you not see, Jean, how selfish I am? And so why do you stand there hesitating?"

Into Myrna's face, for the girl had risen and was now standing beside them, into the man's face so close to his, Jean stared—and then his eyes swept about him, over his surroundings. It was magnificent, but it was not reality—for here was the beach, and here was the boat, and in the boat were his nets, and there was the nick in the handle of the oar where he had fended off that night from the Perigeau Reef, and out there, surf-splashed, was the reef itself, and his clothes were the same rough, coarse clothes that he always wore just like every other fisherman in Bernay-sur-Mer. It was magnificent, but it was not reality—and yet his heart was pounding with mighty hammer beats, and the blood was surging fiercely through his veins.

"And as for the money," Henry Bliss went on quietly. "You need have no qualms on that score, my boy. Pay it back by all means, if you'll feel the better for it. In a year, two years, you'll be a wealthy man. Why, Jean, don't you understand—there isn't one of the men who will be here shortly but would pay you any price you chose to ask for that little statue you gave to my daughter here? So, even on a basis of dollars and cents alone, as it stands now, you couldn't owe me anything, don't you see?"

What were they saying to him! Fame, a great sculptor, wealth, a name, his name, the name of Jean Laparde to be known throughout all France! Why did it come back to him now, that night of the great storm when he had stood and watched the scene, rapt and awed, on his way to Marie-Louise? What strange blasphemy was that, that had been his, that had envied the bon Dieu the creation of that mighty picture?

"Jean"—Myrna had caught his arm, her head was between her father's now and his, the soft, bronzed hair for an instant brushed his forehead, her breath was on his cheek, the grey eyes were smiling into his—"Jean, wouldn't you like to go to Paris?"

To Paris! She lived in Paris—she was always in Paris—always there. A day, a week, two weeks, a month he would have seen her here—in Paris there would be neither days nor weeks nor months to count. The grey eyes were veiled suddenly, demurely, under the long lashes—but the little hand on his arm, with a quick, added pressure, remained. His head swam dizzily—there was an untamed, pulsing elation upon him, a greed for her that racked and tormented him, a greed to clasp her head between his hands and lift up her face and press kiss after kiss upon those eyelids, that mouth, until in the very insatiability of his passion she should fling her arms around his neck and return his embrace!

"Yes—yes!" he said tensely, fiercely. "Mon Dieu, yes—I would like to go to Paris!"

Her hand fell from his arm.

"Oh, Jean—I'm so glad!"—it seemed as though she were whispering softly to him.

"Good!" cried Henry Bliss enthusiastically, with a double slap on Jean's shoulder.

Jean did not speak. It was not easy in an instant to quench that fire that was devouring him, it was not easy to understand that to-day all his life was to be changed. He looked at Myrna—the grey eyes were gaily mocking him, as she nodded her head. He looked at her father—Henry Bliss was laughing ingenuously like a pleased school-boy.

"I know just how you feel!" said Henry Bliss genially. "All up in the air—eh? Well, I feel that way myself. It is the most amazing thing that ever happened! It seems as though there were a dozen questions I wanted to ask you all at once. And to begin with, those poupées now, how did you—no, hold on! Myrna, we'll motor over to Marseilles for the clay to-day, instead of waiting until to-morrow. We'll have something else to show old Bidelot by the time he gets here! You go up to the house and order an early luncheon. Jean will join us, and we'll have from now to Marseilles and back again to talk."

"Splendid!" agreed Myrna. "You will, won't you, Jean?"

"I?" said Jean, in sudden dismay. He, to eat with the grand monde! But perhaps he had not understood—they would give him lunch with Jules and Nanette and Marie-Louise. He had heard Nanette make that very plain to Marie-Louise a little while ago. "I—I have my dinner with me," he stammered, and pointed to a paper parcel in the stern of the boat. "I will be ready when mademoiselle and monsieur are ready."

"Oh, will you?" laughed Henry Bliss. "Well, I guess not! You'll come up and lunch with Myrna and me."

"No," said Jean, embarrassed, "I—"

"Yes, you will," insisted Henry Bliss.

"Why, Jean," expostulated Myrna, "of course you will, we—" she stopped abruptly. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I think I know! It's what that stupid Nanette said to Marie-Louise about sitting at table with us, isn't it?"

"What's that?" demanded Henry Bliss quickly. "What has Marie-Louise to do with—h'm—yes—I remember"—his face screwed up perplexedly. "Her fiancé, she said—h'm—yes—it is a bit awkward, isn't it?"

"It's nothing of the kind!" declared Myrna, and, with a laugh, possessed herself of the paper parcel from the boat. "It's quite a different matter. If only half of what father has said is true, Jean, it would be an honour for any one to have Jean Laparde as a guest. And anyway I've got your lunch now!" She waved it in the air, threatening him merrily with it; then turned, and ran toward the house. "You come when you're called, sir!" she flung back over her shoulder, laughing again.