The Blind Goddess. Arthur Cheney Train

“I’m like that. If I want anything I can’t wait. I have to do it right off!”

      “You’ve come to the right place! You can do whatever you want here right now this minute.”

      “You’re not angry with me—are you?”

      “Angry!” he answered. “I’m a rather impatient person myself. I should have been angry if you hadn’t come.”

      “I want to see everything! You say we girls from uptown don’t know enough to be of any help. Well, I want to know enough. Let me be your assistant. You attend to the law, I to the philanthropy.”

      “A partnership?”

      “Sure. Let’s begin right now. Dillon and Devens.”

      “‘Devens and Dillon,’ you mean!”

      She gave her characteristic little laugh.

      “So you’ve discovered that already! You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

      He took hold of her arm, just above the elbow.

      “Do you think I am?” he demanded.

      “I thought so last night!”

      There was only a bunch of orchids between Moira and Hugh. Her eyes challenged his again.

      “I’m part Irish like yourself!” he explained. “Let’s go over to court and start work. Our clients are waiting.”

      The little Renault had already collected a crowd. Motors did not pause in Franklin Street even if they passed through it.

      “What shall I do with the car?” she asked.

      “It depends on how long you expect to stay.”

      “That,” she retorted, “depends on you.”

      “In that case I wouldn’t order him back before seven o’clock,” he declared.

      That she should find herself in court for the second time within twenty-four hours was no greater a surprise to Moira herself than to the attendants about the building, who recognized her as the “Old Man’s” daughter. In coming to the Criminal Trial Term the afternoon before she had acted purely upon impulse, and as a result of that impulse she already had erected an elaborate dream castle, inhabited by herself and a passionate, black-haired young man, the physical counterpart of the defender of Paul Renig, and so desperately in love with her that he did everything she wished, even before she asked him to. Her whole life had been such as to develop her self-will. Richard Devens had been almost criminally indulgent, and her willfulness had been fostered by loneliness. Moira could not remember ever having a mother. One of her earliest recollections was of standing dressed all in black, with her hand in that of her father, and looking up at the coldly beautiful face of the portrait over the fireplace in the dining-room—her “picture mamma,” as she called it.

      Even the nuns at the convent had made overmuch of her, and later on she had gone merely as a day scholar to a smart finishing school, where, after one o’clock, she was her own mistress. Already at sixteen she was acting as chatelaine of the big marzipan house opposite Central Park, presiding, to her father’s intense pride, at the dinners given to his political and business associates, flattered and encouraged to show off by a lot of old boys who, even if they had not all kissed the Blarney Stone, would have spoiled her out of real affection.

      The wonder was that under these conditions Moira had remained the frank, generous girl that she was, for in spite of her willfulness there was nothing selfish about her, and she was constantly indulging in acts of philanthropic Quixoticism which put a heavy strain on Richard Devens’ personal bank account. She had fancied herself in love a hundred times, but never, save to the staccato knock of that “Object!” in court the afternoon before, had the door of her heart really swung outward. It had opened of its own accord, before she was aware of the fact, and already a totally unexpected stranger had his foot firmly planted inside.

      Hugh did not know what to make of her. No other girl had ever before so piqued his interest or aroused his emotions. The Hudson Valley beauties whom he had half-heartedly wooed had been soft, simpering damsels, who surreptitiously chewed gum and craned away giggling when he had jestingly tried to embrace them. But this tempestuous girl——!

      All that morning she sat among the spectators in the court-room listening so attentively to the proceedings that when the hour for adjournment came she was tired out. Instead, therefore, of going to Pontin’s crowded, smoky lunch-room, Hugh took her for a bowl of chop suey and a reviving cup of tea to a quiet little Chinese restaurant in Doyers Street, where they were, fortunately, the only customers, and afterward led her afoot through the mazes of Chatham Square and Mulberry Bend, showed her where the “Tea Water” pump had stood, the old “Kissing Bridge” on the Boston Turnpike, and the former boundaries of the “Collect Pond.” She was quite different that afternoon, interested but passive, for what she had seen in the court-rooms within the past twenty-four hours had been a severe strain upon her sensibilities. Those poor, poor people! And, naturally enough, her interest was far keener in Hugh himself than in what he showed her. What a boy! How eager he was! He got almost as excited over the precise location of the “Tea Water” as he had over Renig!

      It was nearly four o’clock before they found themselves in front of the office of Hoyle & O’Hara again. Her motor had been waiting there since three. Quirk was on the steps, looking anxiously up and down Franklin Street, and as Hugh opened the door of the motor he hastily descended.

      “Mr. Hoyle wants to see you at once!” he said. “I’ve been everywhere for you.”

      Moira, on the point of getting in, turned.

      “But I thought you were coming home to have tea with me!”

      “I wish I could, but duty calls!” Hugh answered, his mind reverting to the episode of the evening before.

      “But I want you!” she cried. “Send word to Mr. Hoyle that you’re engaged!”

      “Seriously, I mustn’t. It’s been a wonderful day for me! Promise to come again!”

      He looked very handsome, very compelling, as he stood there in the dusk, hat in hand.

      “I want you—now!” She drew him toward her with her eyes as she had that morning in his office. Then her lips parted in an unasked question as she shifted her glance over his shoulder. A woman was coming down the steps behind—a woman in a bedraggled picture hat, with a soiled chinchilla boa about her narrow shoulders. Hugh instinctively stepped back. Eileen Clayton stood face to face with her daughter. Every drop of blood in her body was crying out to the girl in an agony of yearning. For an instant she hesitated, then with a supreme effort turned up the street. Moira looked after her compassionately.

      “That is the same woman I saw yesterday afternoon. Poor creature! Do you know who she is?”

      Hugh shook his head. The haunted expression on the woman’s face had depressed him. Moira got into the motor without referring again to tea. The electric current which all day had flowed between her and Hugh had been broken by the interposition of another and, for the time being, more powerful one.

      “Good night!” he said. “Don’t forget to come soon!”

      “Good night!” she replied, but the look on her face had nothing to do with him.

      There were two persons in Hoyle’s office—the lawyer, who sat with his back to the light between the windows, and the wolfish-looking man in a grey suit, opposite him. The blaze of glory reflected from Mulcahy’s fence made the room seem dark. A grey cat was picking her way between the barbs on the top of the fence. Hoyle gave him a grey cat-like smile.

      “Mr. Kranich—Mr. Dillon,” he said, but it was as though he had not spoken.

      The wolfish man stretched his mouth into an exaggerated grin and immediately let it snap back again. Hugh swung his chair so that the light should not hit him in the eyes. A discoloured paper bag had caught on the bare branches of Mulcahy’s