The girandole candelabra on the mantel looked like a brooding ghoul in
the evening gloom which shrouded the living-room of Otis Rockland's
house. The French windows at the front extended completely to the
floor, double-hung sashes forming the upper half, paneled gates of
unpolished oak being the lower section. The damask hangings had been
pulled across during the afternoon to shut out the sun, but the windows
themselves were partly ajar, allowing the sounds from the corrals to
enter the room. Someone was playing a guitar over there where they were
still roasting the bulls that had been killed. A woman's laugh came
dimly.
Crawford raised his head a moment where he sat in a willow chair by the
window; then he lowered it once more into his hands. His face was bleak
and empty. He did not know how long it was since he had come here,
unable to face them out there.
When the creak of the porch came mutedly to him, he gave no sign. Then
there was more sound, louder, more recognizable. His head lifted as the
noise terminated with a muffled crash.
"Crawford!"
Just once like that, shrill and cracked. He got to his feet and ran to
the door, tearing it open. It was the side table in the entrance hall
which had made the crash. Merida must have pulled it over, falling. The
marble top had smashed, and a piece of it lay on the floor beside her.
The front door stood open wide.
"Merida?" he said, dropping to one knee. "You fell?"
"No." She stirred feebly, rising to one elbow with his help, hanging
her head over against his knee a moment. The kitchen door opened, and
her maid padded down the hall in bare feet, a small, wizened Indian, so
dark she looked negroid, dressed in nothing more than a white cotton
shift.
"It's all right, Nexpa," Merida told her. "A little accident. Crawford
will help me to my room."
She allowed him to help her up the stairs, leaning heavily on his arm.
The warmth of her body flowed through Crawford, and when they reached
the second floor he was breathing heavily. Beyond the last step, Merida
pulled away from him, her eyes meeting his in a swift, unreadable way.
She turned and moved toward her room, halting a moment outside Huerta's
closed door, as if listening. Then she opened the door of her bedroom.
He had kept from asking by an effort, but now he followed her in
hesitantly, speaking.
"Huerta came up?"