"If he knew, would he say he loves you?" And she hid her face, for she
knew that he would not--even if it were true.
"Coira!" whispered the man on the couch, and she raised her head. In
the half darkness he could not have seen how she was suffering. Her
face was only a warm blur to him, vague and sweet and beautiful, with
tender eyes. He said--
"I think--I'm falling asleep. My head is so very, very queer! What is
the matter with my head? Coira, do you think I might be kissed before I
go to sleep?"
She gave a little cry of intolerable anguish. It seemed to her that she
was being tortured beyond all reason or endurance. She felt suddenly
very weak and she was afraid that she was going to faint away. She laid
her face down upon the couch where Ste. Marie's head lay. Her cheek was
against his and her hair across his eyes.
The man gave a little contented sigh and fell asleep.
Later, she rose stiffly and wearily to her feet. She stood for a little
while looking down upon him. It was as if she looked upon the dead body
of a lover. She seemed to say a still and white and tearless farewell
to him. Her little hour was done, and it had been, instead of joy,
bitterness unspeakable: ashes in the mouth. Then she went out of the
room and closed the door.
In the hall outside she stood a moment considering, and finally mounted
the stairs and went to her father's door. She knocked and thought she
heard a slight stirring inside, but there was no answer. She knocked
twice again and called out her father's name, saying that she wished to
speak to him, but still he made no reply, and, after waiting a little
longer, she turned away. She went downstairs again and out upon the
terrace. The terrace and the lawn before it were still chequered with
silver and deep black, but the moon was an hour lower in the west. A
little cool breeze had sprung up and it was sweet and grateful to her.
She sat down upon one of the stone benches and leant her head back
against the trunk of a tree which stood beside, and she remained there
for a long time, still and relaxed in a sort of bodily and mental
languor--an exhaustion of flesh and spirit.
There came shambling footsteps upon the turf and the old Michel advanced
into the moonlight from the gloom of the trees, emitting mechanical and
not very realistic groans. He had been hard put to it to find any one
before whom he could pour out his tale of heroism and suffering. Coira
O'Hara looked upon him coldly, and the gnome groaned with renewed and
somewhat frightened energy.
"What is the matter with you?" she asked. "Why are you about at this
hour?" The old Michel told his piteous tale with tears and passion,
protesting that he had succumbed only before the combined attack of
twenty armed men, and exhibiting his wounds. But the girl gave a brief
and mirthless laugh.
"You were bribed to tell that, I suppose," said she. "By M. Ste. Marie?
Yes, probably. Well, tell it to my father to-morrow! You'd better go
to bed now." The old man stared at her with open mouth for a breathless
moment, and then shambled hastily away, looking over his shoulder, at
intervals, until he was out of sight.
But after that the girl still remained in her place from sheer weariness
and lack of impulse to move. She fell to wondering about Captain Stewart
and what had become of him, but she did not greatly care. She had a
feeling that her world had come to its end, and she was quite
indifferent about those who still peopled its ashes--or about all of
them save her father.
She heard the distant sound of a motor-car, and at that sat up quickly,
for it might be Ste. Marie's friend Mr. Hartley returning from Paris.
The sound came nearer and ceased, but she waited for ten minutes before
rapid steps approached from the east wall and Hartley was before her.