Part 27 (1/2)

”Pardon! Ah no, mamma, impossible.”

”It is true. The other night, as you guessed, I sent you away that I might discuss your future with your father and his family. That very absurd person, Cousin Joseph de la Mariniere, chose to give his opinion without being asked for it, and took upon himself to suggest a marriage between you and that little nephew of his. Take your hand away. I dislike being touched, as you know.”

The girl's pale face was full of life and colour now, her melancholy eyes of light. She s.n.a.t.c.hed away her hand and rose quickly to her feet, stepping back to her old place near the window.

”Dear Uncle Joseph!” she murmured under her breath.

”The young man was not grateful. He said in plain words that he did not wish to marry you. Yes, look as bewildered as you please. Ask your father, ask either of his cousins. I will say for young Ange that he has more wits than you have; he does not waste his time craving for the impossible. If it were not so, I should send you away to a convent. As it is, I shall stop this little flirtation by taking care that you do not meet him, except under supervision.”

The girl looked stricken. She leaned against the wall, once more white as a statue, once more terrified.

”Angelot said--but it is not possible!” she whispered very low.

”Angelot very sensibly said that he did not care for you. Under those circ.u.mstances I think you are punished enough; and I will not insist on knowing how you came to deceive yourself so far. But I advise you not to spend any more time staring at that line of poplars,” said Madame de Sainfoy. ”Learn not to take in earnest what other people mean in play; your country cousin admires you, no doubt, but he knows more of the world than you do, most idiotic and ill-behaved girl!”

As she said the last words she rose and crossed the room to the door, throwing them scornfully over her shoulder. Then she pa.s.sed out, and Helene, planted there, heard the key grind in the lock.

She was a prisoner in her room; but this did not greatly trouble her.

She went back to the window, leaned her arms on the sill, gazed once more at La Mariniere, its trees motionless in the afternoon sunlight, thought of the old room as she had first seen it that moonlit evening with its sweet air of peace and home, thought of the n.o.ble, delicate face of Angelot's mother, thought of Angelot himself as the candle-light fell upon him, of the first wonderful look, the electric current which changed the world for herself and him. And then all that had happened since, all that her mother did not and never must know. Was it really possible, could it be believed that he meant nothing, that he did not love her after all? No, it could not be believed. And yet how to be sure, without seeing him again?

Ah, well, for some people life must be all sadness, and Helene had long believed herself one of these. Angelot's love seemed to have proved her wrong, but now the leaf in her book was turned back again, and she found herself at the old place. Not quite that either, for the old deadness had been waked into an agony of pain. Angelot false! h.e.l.l must certainly be worse to bear after a taste of Paradise.

She laid her fair head down on her arms at the open window, high in the bare wall. An hour pa.s.sed by, and still she sat there in a kind of hopeless lethargy. She did not hear a gentle tapping at the door, nor the trying of the latch by some one who could not get in. But a minute later she started and exclaimed when a dark head was suddenly nestled against hers, her cheek kissed by rosy lips, her name whispered lovingly.

”Oh, little Riette!” she cried. ”Where did you come from, child? Was the key in the door?”

”No, there was no key,” Riette whispered. ”You are locked in, ma belle; but never mind. I know my way about Lancilly. I am going home now, and I wanted to see you. They will ask me how you are looking.”

Helene blushed and almost laughed. She looked eagerly into the child's face.

”Who will ask you?”

”Papa, of course.”

”Ah, yes, he is very kind. What will you say to him?”

Riette looked hard at her and shrugged her slight shoulders.

”I must go,” she said. ”Kiss me again, ma belle.”

”Stop!” Helene held her tight, with her hands on her shoulders. ”Do you often see--your cousin--Angelot?”

Riette's face rippled with laughter. ”Every day--nearly every hour.”

”Why do you laugh?”

”How can I tell? It is my fault, my own wickedness,” said Riette, penitently. ”Why indeed should I laugh, when you look sad and ill? Can I say any little word to Angelot, ma cousine?”