A LULL
Peridot lived on the Toulifot, a steep and rocky road that once upon a
time was Pont Aven's main avenue to the interior of France. On the way
he was consumed with maudlin sorrow that his beloved patron, Monsieur
Ingersoll, should have forbidden him to take further part in the feast.
"Tell me, then, what was my fault," he protested to Tollemache. "Name of
a pipe! can't a fellow take a thimbleful of cognac to keep the cold
out?"
"Thimbleful!" laughed Tollemache. "The sort of thimble you used would
make a hat for any ordinary head."
"The skipper of the Stella is a _bon garçon_, and showed his gratitude,"
said Peridot. "I could have carried the liquor like a drum major if I
hadn't fasted at Le Pouldu so as to keep a good appetite for supper."
"Ah! That's it, is it? Well, I'll make matters straight with Monsieur
Ingersoll in the morning."
Tollemache had every reason to believe that the fisherman was speaking
the truth. He had not seen Peridot intoxicated during five years of
fairly close acquaintance.
"The worst thing is that Madeleine will be holding her nose in the air
every time she meets me for a month," came the dejected whine.
"I'll tell her too how the accident happened. You'll be joking about it
yourself tomorrow, old fellow."
"_Tiens!_ I've got it," and Peridot stood stock still in an attitude of
oracular gravity. "Monsieur Ingersoll was angry, not because I was a
trifle elevated, but on account of what I said about Ma'mselle Yvonne.
Queer thing if that lady should really be her mother!"
"Now I know for certain that you're drunk as an owl."
"Not me! _Gars!_ Funny things occur. I could say lots if I chose. Why
does Monsieur Ingersoll encourage Ma'mselle to dress _en Bretonne_? Why
won't he allow her to be photographed? Who has ever heard what became of
Madame Ingersoll? And aren't those two the image of each other?"
"Peridot," said Tollemache, "it would be a sad finish to a glorious day
if I were to knock you down."
"It would, Monsieur."
"But that is just what I'll do, as sure as Fate, if you utter another
word concerning Mademoiselle Yvonne or her father."
"Mad!" declared the other. "All you Americans are mad! A man never knows
how to take you."
"Would you stand by and hear anyone running down Madeleine Demoret or
her people?"
"Monsieur, I'd chew his ear!"
"Exactly. I'll spread your nose flat if you utter any more stupidities
with regard to Mademoiselle Yvonne."
The Breton whistled softly, and staggered on up the hill. Each few yards
thereafter he halted, and whistled, evidently expressing unbounded and
inarticulate surprise. All this was intensely annoying to the young
American; but it had to be endured. Even more trying was the
leave-taking at the door of the Larraidou cottage. The Breton caught
Tollemache's hand, and was moved to tears.
"Monsieur," he gurgled, "you have my regrets--a thousand regrets! I
understand perfectly. A Frenchman comprehends these things quicker than
any other man in the world, even when he has filled the lamp. _Gars!_ If
I chew ears and you flatten noses, between us we'll spoil the beauty of
any rascal who dares open his mouth against either Mademoiselle Yvonne
or Madeleine."
* * * * *
With difficulty Tollemache got rid of him, and strode back down the
hill. He had blundered into that foolish comparison of the two girls
without giving a thought to its possible significance. The one
consolation was that Peridot would be tongue-tied with shame next day,
and would probably remember only that he had made a fool of himself.
Passing the Hotel Julia, he ran into Yvonne hurrying down the steps of
the annex. Then, of course, he flung care to the winds.
"Well met!" he cried. "Socrates told me you were not coming home till
much later."
"But where have you been?" she asked. "I imagined you were at Madame
Pitou's ages ago."
"As though you couldn't tell by my swollen appearance that I had supped
on white wheat and fatted fowl," he rejoined. "Of course I was there.
I've been escorting Peridot home. He took an extra appetizer on an empty
stomach, and it upset him. How are the patients?"
"Dr. Garnier has set the broken arm and bandaged the sprain. He gave
Mrs. Carmac a stiff dose of bromide, and she is asleep. She will recover
if her nervous system withstands the shock."
"It was an extraordinary misfortune that the owner of the yacht should
be the one to have his head battered in. His wife realizes now that he
is dead, I suppose?"
"Yes, she knows."
They crossed the square together. To reach the Rue Mathias they had to
go round by the bridge and return by the right bank of the Aven. The
hour was not late, and many of the inhabitants were astir; but none gave
heed to the unusual spectacle of a Breton girl and a young man walking
in company, because both were recognized instantly, and in such matters
the American and English residents were a law unto themselves. Had they
been bred and born in the place, such a thing simply could not have
happened.
Somehow Tollemache felt a restraint that night that was both novel and
unpleasing. A barrier of some sort had been erected between Yvonne and
himself. He cudgeled his wits to find words that would break down the
obstacle, whatsoever it might be.
"We've had a lively evening at Madame's thus far," he said. "Riec and
Nevez shared the honors in the gavotte; but everybody agreed that Pont
Aven would have scored if you had been there."
"I couldn't have danced tonight, Lorry, on any account."
"I don't see why. Your father took a very sensible view. 'Why shouldn't
twenty hop because one has hooked it?' he said."
"Did he really say that?"
"Well, something to that effect."
"Poor old dad! He has had to sacrifice himself all his life."
"Don't you think you're making too much of the death of one man? Suppose
we hadn't taken Peridot with us? We couldn't possibly have approached
the reef, and twelve people would have gone under."
"Ten were strangers, and one cannot grieve for all the people who die
around us. But father knew Mr. and Mrs. Carmac years ago. Didn't he tell
you that?"
"Yes."
"Then you may be sure he is greatly upset. Now, Lorry, if there is any
talk of dancing when I appear, help my excuses by saying that I ought to
rest. In one sense I'm not really tired; in another I could fling myself
down in a dark corner and weep my eyes out."
"Your eyes are too pretty to spoil in that way," said Tollemache. "I'll
give Mère Pitou the tip, and she'll fix things, I have no doubt."
* * * * *
But Yvonne was not pressed to dance. She was so pale, the eyes that
Tollemache deemed too attractive that they should be marred by weeping
were so dilated and luminous with unshed tears, that these big-hearted
Bretons sympathized with her, and she was soon permitted to escape to
her own room.
Father and daughter exchanged few words. She supplied a brief account of
the doctor's view of the injured, and he only said:
"Thus far things are progressing well. Tomorrow morning I'm going to
Forbes's place, at Concarneau, for a few days. Tollemache and you can
help Mr. Raymond in his negotiations with the authorities. Mr. Carmac
was an American, by birth, if not by domicile; so it is probable that
his relatives will wish the body to be embalmed and taken to the United
States. I would advise Mr. Raymond to consult a notary, because French
procedure differs essentially from American methods. I've told Lorry
about our altered plans. Perhaps we three can take a combined trip to
Paris after Christmas. Goodnight, Sweetheart. Sleep well, and don't meet
tomorrow's cares halfway."
Tollemache heard all that passed. Why, he knew not, but he found himself
regretting that they were not leaving Pont Aven by the first train in
accord with Ingersoll's original intent. He was more than ever conscious
of that invisible wall which was now casting its shadow on their cheery
intimacy. Yvonne would never again be a demure Breton maid or
straight-legged, long-haired American schoolgirl. She had become a woman
in an hour. Life had flung wide its portals, and the prospect thus
unfolded had saddened her inexpressibly.
What sinister influence had brought about this change? Could there be
any actual foundation for Peridot's vaporings? As he walked back to the
hotel through darkened streets he recalled certain vague rumors that had
reached his ears in early days. Ingersoll had always posed as a widower;
but someone had said that his married life was rather mysterious, since
there was no record of his wife's death or place of interment. It would
indeed be passing strange if the wreck of the Stella had brought to Pont
Aven the woman who was at once Yvonne's mother and the wife of a
complete stranger.
Tollemache buttoned the deep collar of an overcoat round his ears as he
crossed the river, because the wind was still bitingly cold. He caught a
glimpse of Mère Pitou's cottage on the opposite bank of the Aven. There
was a light in Yvonne's bedroom. Frankly in love, he threw her a kiss
with his fingers.
The action did him, in his own phrase, "a heap of good." After all, such
displays of emotion come naturally in France.
"I don't give a red cent who her mother was, or is, or what she has
been, or turns out to be," he communed. "It's Yvonne I want. If Yvonne
marries me some day, I'll be the happiest man who ever lived, and the
most miserable if she doesn't. So there you are, Lorry, my boy! You must
make the best of it, whichever way the flag falls."
* * * * *
Memories of peaceful and contented years flitted through Ingersoll's
mind while the steam tram lumbered next morning through tiny fields and
across rambling lanes to the quay of Concarneau. Other memories, vivid
and piercing, came of the period of love and dreams in Paris. Lithe and
graceful and divinely beautiful as her daughter was now, Stella Fordyce
had been then. An artist to her fingertips, she came to the studio where
Ingersoll was working, turning readily to the palette after some slight
defect in the vocal cords had put difficulties in the way of an operatic
career.
It seemed to be a genuine instance of love at first sight, and they were
married within three months of what was practically their first meeting;
though Ingersoll had seen her as a girl of fourteen several years
earlier. This step was not so foolish as it might have been in the case
of two young people without means. Ingersoll had an income of three
thousand dollars a year, and complete devotion to art in his student
days had enabled him to save a small capital, which he spent on an
establishment, and particularly on adorning an exceptionally handsome
and attractive wife.
It had been far better were they poverty-stricken. Mutual privations and
combined effort to improve their lot would have bound them by insoluble
ties. As it was the taste for pleasure and excitement crept into Stella
Ingersoll's blood. The first tiff between the two was the outcome of
some mild protest on Ingersoll's part when his wife wished to increase
rather than diminish her personal expenditure after Yvonne's birth.
There were tears, and of course the man yielded: only to raise the point
again more determinedly when an absurdly expensive dress was ordered for
a ball at the opera.
Thenceforth the road to the precipice became ever smoother and steeper;
though Ingersoll did not begin to suspect the crash that lay ahead until
his wife left him and fled to her relatives in America. Her callous
abandonment of the baby girl not yet a year old crushed to the dust the
man who loved her. She told him plainly why she had gone. She was "sick
to death" of petty economies. Indeed, her letter of farewell was
brutally frank.
"I think I have qualities that equip me for a society that you and I
together could never enter," she wrote. "Why, then, should I deny myself
while I am young, so that I may console vain regrets with copybook
maxims when I am old? I see clearly that I would only embitter your life
and spoil your career. Be wise, and take time to reflect, and you will
come to believe that I am really serving you well by seeking my own
liberty. Meanwhile I shall do nothing to bring discredit on your name. I
promise that, on my honor!"
Her honor! All his life John Ingersoll had hated cant, either in dogma
or phrase, and this ill-judged appeal stung him to the quick. He threw
the letter into the fire, left Paris next day, and his wife's strenuous
efforts to discover his whereabouts during the subsequent year failed
completely.
Then he heard by chance that she had divorced him, and married Walter H.
Carmac in her maiden name, and the tragic romance of his life closed
with a sigh of relief, because, as he fancied, the curtain had fallen on
its last act. He little dreamed that an epilogue would be staged nearly
nineteen years later.
He was in such a state of mental distress that at Concarneau he sat a
whole hour in a café opposite the station, meaning to return to Pont
Aven by the next train. But the man's natural clarity of reasoning came
to his aid. He forced himself to think dispassionately. Two vital
principles served as rallying points in that time of silent
battle,--Yvonne must not be reft with crude violence from the
grief-stricken and physically broken woman who claimed a daughter's
sympathy, and he himself must avoid meeting this wife risen from the
tomb. He had acted right, after all, in seeking refuge with his friend.
* * * * *
Yvonne that same morning found her mother sitting up in bed, sipping a
cup of chocolate. The nurse, a woman from the village, hailed the girl's
presence gleefully.
"Will you be remaining a few minutes, Mademoiselle she inquired, seeing
that invalid and visitor were on terms of intimacy.
"Yes, as long as you like, or will permit, Madame Bertrand," said
Yvonne.
"That is well, then. I can go to my house for a little half-hour. There
only two instructions. Madame must remain quiet. If she shows any signs
of faintness, send at once for Dr. Garnier."
"I shall be strict and watchful," smiled the girl, and the two were left
alone.
Her mother's first question threatened to disobey at least one of the
doctor's instructions. "Does your father know you have come here?" she
asked, and her voice trembled with foreboding.
"Yes, Dear. Now if you excite yourself in that way, I shall be expelled
by the doctor," for the graceful head collapsed to the pillow in sheer
gratitude, and the chocolate was nearly spilled.
"But you must tell me, Yvonne! Will he permit us to meet?"
"Do you think my father would forbid it? How you must have misunderstood
his real nature! He has even gone away from Pont Aven for a few days, so
that his presence in the village may not be irksome to you. Shall we try
and pretend to forget what has passed, Dear? It is useless to grieve now
over the mistakes of other years. And you will see, I am sure, that no
one in Pont Aven should be able even to guess at our true relationship.
I ask that for my father's sake. I love him dearly, and would not have
him suffer."
With a splendid effort the older woman raised herself in the bed and
summoned a wan smile. "Indeed, indeed," she cried, "I will do nothing
more to injure him! Is that a hand mirror on the dressing table? Please
give it me."
Yvonne hesitated, and her mother smiled again.
"I shall not grieve because of white and drawn cheeks," she said.
When she held, the mirror in a thin hand, and compared its reflection
with Yvonne herself with critical eyes, the girl grasped her true
intent. Her abundant hair, only a shade darker than Yvonne's own brown
tresses, framed the well poised head and slender neck. Distress and lack
of solid food had lent a pallor to cheeks and forehead which had the
curious effect of rendering the clear-cut features strikingly youthful.
Mouth and chin had a certain quality of hardness and obstinacy not
discernible in the girl's face. Otherwise they resembled sisters rather
than mother and daughter.
"Yvonne," she said wistfully, "if we say we are strangers, no one will
believe. I shall invent a twin sister. You are my niece. I quarreled
with my sister because she married an impoverished painter. Thin ice;
but it must carry us. Your father has done the wisest possible thing in
leaving Pont Aven today. He refuses to forgive my shabby treatment of a
sister; but Christian charity impels him not to forbid you from visiting
me. Don't volunteer this information. Let it be dragged from you
unwillingly. It is a cruel thing that my first advice to you should be a
lesson in duplicity; but I have earned that sort of scourge, and must
endure. Now you understand. We are aunt and niece. Don't be surprised if
I act a little when the nurse returns. By the way, write to your father
and tell him what I have said. I'm sure he will approve, and the fact
that I am eager to make this small atonement for the wrong I did him
will show that I still retain some sense of fair dealing."
"Yes, Dear, I'll write today. I don't think it is very wicked to adopt a
pretense that enables me to visit you without--without setting idle
tongues wagging."
"Without causing a village scandal, you might well have said," came the
bitter retort. "Very well, Yvonne, I will not say such things," for the
girl winced at the unerring judgment that supplied the words that had
nearly escaped her. "Now let us talk of other matters. Tell me something
of yourself. Where and how do you live? Why are you wearing that
costume? Do you dress like that habitually? And how wonderfully it
becomes you! Talk, Dear, and I'll listen, and if I fall asleep when you
are talking don't imagine that I am heedless and inattentive; for I have
been brought nearer happiness in this hour than I would have believed
possible yesterday. Do you realize that the wreck was directly due to my
folly? The captain wished to put into the Aven estuary when the storm
became very bad; but I refused to permit it. Wallie--that is Mr.
Carmac--always yielded to my whims, and he imagined I preferred Lorient
to Pont Aven. I didn't. I knew that your father lived here. His art
proved more enduring than a woman's faith. It has made him famous;
though I had the cruelty, the impertinence, to tell him once that he
would never emerge from the ruck. I never heard of you. For some reason
I thought you had died in infancy. Yvonne, Heaven forgive me, I may even
have wished it! But you see now why I wanted to avoid Pont Aven. As
though any of God's creatures can resist when He points the way!"
So it was the mother who did most of the talking, and the daughter who
listened, with never a word of reproach, and not even a hint that had a
wilful and conscience-tortured woman not imposed her imperious will on
the Stella's course the yacht would have ridden the gale in safety in a
roadstead five miles removed from the village of Pont Aven itself!
When Madame Bertrand bustled in her patient was asleep, and Yvonne's
cheeks were tear-stained.
"Poor lady!" murmured the Breton woman. "She's nothing but a bundle of
nerves. All night long, after the effect of the bromide had passed, she
kept crying out for her daughter--meaning you, Mademoiselle. What a
notion! Yet you are so alike!"
"With good reason, Madame," said the girl. "She is my mother's sister.
There was a family quarrel years ago. Please keep this to yourself;
though Madame Carmac will probably tell you of it later."
Yvonne was glad, when her father's letter arrived, to find that he
agreed with the little deception, which hurt none, and explained away
the seemingly inexplicable.
* * * * *
On the second day after the wreck Mrs. Carmac, outwardly at least, was
restored to good health, and assumed direction of her husband's affairs.
Sending for Captain Popple, she asked if any effort had been made to
salve the large sum of money and store of jewelry on board the yacht.
The red-faced mariner had evidently been giving thought to the same
problem.
"No, Ma'am," he said. "When the vessel struck those on deck had no mind
to go below, and those below were hard put to it to get on deck. We all
lost everything except what we stood up in. It has been blowin' great
guns ever since, and a French gentleman who knows every inch of the
coast tells me that the reef may be ungetatable for a fortnight, or even
a month, unless there's a change in the weather."
"When you say you lost everything do you mean that you and some members
of the crew lost money as well as clothing?"
"No, Ma'am. If any swab has the howdacity to pretend that a sovereign or
two has slipped out of his pockets, I won't believe 'im; but it'll be
hard to prove the contrary."
"Are you in any special hurry to return home? Have you another yacht in
view?"
Some men might have hesitated, but Popple was bluntly honest, both in
nature and speech. "Bless your heart, Ma'am!" he said huskily, "I'll get
no more yachts unless I'm a luckier man after turnin' fifty than ever I
was afore. The Stella was my last seagoin' job, an' no mistake."
"Then you will not suffer professionally by remaining here?"
"I'll stop as long as you like, Ma'am."
"Very well. I have telegraphed to my London bankers for a supply of
money, which should reach me tomorrow. I want you to arrange for salvage
operations. Employ a diver, and hire such other assistance as may be
necessary. It is important that a jewelcase in one of my trunks should
be recovered, if possible, also five thousand pounds in French and
English bank-notes which is in a leather wallet locked in a steamer
trunk beneath my husband's bed. That trunk also contains a number of
important papers. I shall be glad if it is brought to me unopened, no
matter what the expense. Meanwhile make out a list of all that is
reasonably owing to the men, and tell them I shall arrange at once for
their return to Southampton."
"I've done that already, Ma'am. Mr. Raymond tole me to get busy."
"Ah! That was thoughtful of him. In future, however, take orders from no
one but me."
Captain Popple was evidently about to offer a comment, but checked
himself in time. "Right you are, Ma'am," he said.
Mrs. Carmac smiled quietly. This outspoken sailor's face was easy to
read. Yvonne was present, and he hardly knew what to say.
"You had something else on the tip of your tongue, Captain," she
prompted. "Out with it! I have no secrets from this young lady."
"I don't like contradict'ry sailin' orders, Ma'am, an' that's a fact,"
admitted the skipper. "Mr. Raymond axed me not to do a thing, no matter
who gev the word, without consultin' him."
"His arm is broken, I believe?"
"Yes, Ma'am; but he's able to get about today."
"That simplifies matters. Kindly send him here."
The sailor raised his hand in a clumsy salute, and went out.
* * * * *
"I am not an admirer of Mr. Raymond," said Mrs. Carmac to Yvonne. "He
was a useful sort of person to my husband; but he has a Uriah Heep
manner which I dislike intensely. Now I shall get rid of him."
For an instant the Breton shrewdness of judgment came uppermost in the
girl. "Don't make an unnecessary enemy," she ventured to suggest.
"I simply purpose dismissing him on very generous terms."
"But--have you--forgotten--perhaps you never knew--how wildly you spoke
that night in the cabin of the Hirondelle? Mr. Raymond was there too. He
may have overheard a good deal."
Mrs. Carmac was momentarily staggered. "Do you think so?" she cried
rather breathlessly.
"There was every opportunity. I saw the man, and he retained his senses,
though in great pain."
"Thanks for the warning, Dear. I'll handle him gently."
"Shall I go?"
"I prefer that you should remain."
"But it might be better if you were to see him alone. He has not met me
since we came ashore."
"Well--you may be right. I'll take your advice. Don't leave me too long
alone. I mope when you are away."
Yvonne slipped out. She passed Raymond on the stairs; but he gave her no
heed, regarding her as belonging to the establishment.
* * * * *
The secretary was a small, slightly built man, and, contrary to the rule
that renders undersized mortals rather aggressive in manner, carried
himself with a shrinking air, as though he wished to avoid observation.
He had an intelligent face; though its general expression was somewhat
marred by a heavy chin and eyes set too closely together. He looked pale
and ill; which was only natural, because his broken arm, the right one,
had not been attended to by a doctor until nearly three hours after the
accident. He was about thirty-five, but looked much older that morning,
and Yvonne wondered if he had any forewarning of trouble, so compressed
were his thin lips and so frowning his brows.
He found his late employer's wife standing at the window, gazing down
into the little triangular Place, as Pont Aven calls its public square.
Yvonne was passing in front of the four sycamores. She had, in fact,
secured a mourning order for her friend, Le Sellin the tailor, and was
going to his shop on some errand connected therewith. Her mother noted
the girl's free and graceful walk, and approved the proud carriage of
her head, on which the white coif sat like a coronet. She sighed, and
did not turn until Yvonne had vanished. Then she faced the waiting
secretary.
"Ah, that you?" she said carelessly. "Pardon me if I seemed rude, Mr.
Raymond. My thoughts were wandering. My niece has just left me, and, as
I have not seen her for many years until she and her father saved our
lives the other evening, I was minded to watch her crossing the square."
"Your niece, did you say, Mrs. Carmac?"
Raymond's voice was pitched in the right key of hesitancy and interested
surprise; but this worldly wise woman was far too skilled a student of
human nature to miss the underlying note of skepticism.
"Usually I speak clearly," she said, with a touch of hauteur.
"Yes, of course. I caught the word quite accurately. But may I remind
you that you addressed her as your daughter in the cabin of the
Hirondelle?"
"Does it matter to you, Mr. Raymond, how I addressed her?"
"No, no. I was only anxious to correct my own false impression."
Mrs. Carmac suddenly bethought herself. "My wits are still wool
gathering," she cried. "Won't you sit down? I have a good many things to
discuss with you. Is your arm very painful? Happily I have never
suffered from a broken limb; but it sounds quite dreadful."
Raymond sank into a comfortable chair, steadying himself with his left
hand. "It's not so bad now," he said. "By comparison with the torture of
Thursday afternoon it is more than bearable. The chief misfortune lies
in the fact that my right arm is out of action. I had no idea how little
use I made of my left hand until I tried to write with it."
"The doctor seems to be a very clever man; but if you think it advisable
to have your injury seen to by an expert----"
"Oh, it's only a simple fracture. I have every reason to believe that it
is properly set. Indeed, all it needs now is efficient dressing--and
time."
"How did you come to break it?"
"I was flung down the companionway when the yacht turned on her beam
ends."
"But the last thing I remember, and very vividly too, is that you and I
were holding to a rail and looking out through the forward window of the
deck saloon. We felt a curious trembling of the hull, and the vessel
swung round from the wind. There was a strange lull, and Captain Popple
shouted something. I asked you what it was, and you said that the shaft
had broken, and we should be dashed against the rocks in ten minutes or
less. Then, I suppose, I fainted."
"I had not seen the reef. Even Captain Popple thought we should clear
it. As a matter of fact, we struck within a minute."
"And you were thrown over then? I must have fallen earlier."
"Yes. My recollection is hazy as to what actually occurred."
"The marvel is that either of us is living," she said lightly. "I gather
from Captain Popple that you have taken charge of affairs since we were
brought ashore. Will you kindly tell me what you have done?"
"In the first instance I telegraphed to Mr. Carmac's nephew Mr. Rupert
Fosdyke, his lawyer Mr. Bennett, his office, and his bankers. The text
of each message was practically identical. It ran, 'Yacht wrecked and
total loss off Finistère. Mr. Carmac unfortunately killed, but all
others rescued. Mrs. Carmac seriously ill, but may recover.' I'm sorry I
took an exaggerated view of your state; but the circumstances seemed to
warrant it. Then I sent to Paris for an embalmer. Did I do right?"
At that instant her daughter's parting words rang in her ears. "Don't
make an unnecessary enemy." Good advice! She must tread warily, or her
sky might fall and crush her.
"Yes. As I shall receive Mr. Fosdyke and Mr. Bennett when they arrive, I
think I shall rest now," she said faintly. "I am greatly beholden to
you, Mr. Raymond. You are so intimately acquainted with my husband's
affairs that I should be lost without your help."
She had meant to dismiss him forthwith, with a year's salary, and
Raymond himself was prepared for some such action on her part; otherwise
he would never have hinted at his possession of a secret so fraught with
possibilities as the existence of a grown-up daughter, a daughter too
whose father was living, and actually resident in Pont Aven. He was
taken aback now, and bowed as courteously as his bandaged arm would
permit.
"I shall be only too happy and proud to give you my best services, Mrs.
Carmac," he said.