Part 7 (2/2)
”How did you know I had so long a vigil?” he asked, and the cold, strained tone, the half-averted eyes, the pallor of his face, all struck her at once. Instantly her manner changed:
”Oh, forgive me, captain. I see you are all worn out; and I'm keeping you here at the gate. Come to the piazza and sit down. I'll tell papa you are here, for I know you want to see him.” And she tripped lightly away before he could reply, and rustled up the stairs. He could hear her light tap at the colonel's door, and her soft, clear, flute-like voice: ”Papa, Captain Chester is here to see you.”
Papa indeed! She spoke to him and of him as though he were her own. He treated her as though she were his flesh and blood,--as though he loved her devotedly. Even before she came had not they been prepared for this?
Did not Mrs. Maynard tell them that Alice had become enthusiastically devoted to her step-father and considered him the most knightly and chivalric hero she had ever seen? He could hear the colonel's hearty and loving tone in reply, and then she came fluttering down again:
”Papa will be with you in five minutes, captain. But won't you let me give you some coffee? It's all ready, and you look so tired,--even ill.”
”I have had a bad night,” he answered, ”but I'm growing old, and cannot stand sleeplessness as you young people seem to.”
Was she faltering? He watched her eagerly, narrowly, almost wonderingly.
Not a trace of confusion, not a sign of fear; and yet had he not _seen_ her, and that other figure?
”I wish you could sleep as I do,” was the prompt reply. ”I was in the land of dreams ten minutes after my head touched the pillow, and mamma made me come home early last night because of our journey to-day. You know we are going down to visit Aunt Grace, Colonel Maynard's sister, at Lake Sablon, and mamma wanted me to be looking my freshest and best,”
she said, ”and I never heard a thing till reveille.”
His eyes, sad, penetrating, doubting,--yet self-doubting, too,--searched her very soul. Unflinchingly the dark orbs looked into his,--even pityingly; for she quickly spoke again:
”Captain, _do_ come into the breakfast-room and have some coffee. You have not breakfasted, I'm sure.”
He raised his hand as though to repel her offer,--even to put her aside.
He _must_ understand her. He _could_ not be hoodwinked in this way.
”Pardon me, Miss Renwick, but did you hear nothing strange last night or early this morning? Were you not disturbed at all?”
”I? No, indeed!” True, her face had changed now, but there was no fear in her eyes. It was a look of apprehension, perhaps, of concern and curiosity mingled, for his tone betrayed that something had happened which caused him agitation.
”And you heard no shots fired?”
”Shots! No! Oh, Captain Chester! what does it mean? _Who_ was shot? Tell me!”
And now, with paling face and wild apprehension in her eyes, she turned and gazed beyond him, past the vines and the shady veranda, across the suns.h.i.+ne of the parade and under the old piazza, searching that still closed and darkened window.
”Who?” she implored, her hands clasping nervously, her eyes returning eagerly to his face.
”It was not Mr. Jerrold,” he answered, coldly. ”He is unhurt, so far as shot is concerned.”
”Then how is he hurt? Is he hurt at all?” she persisted; and then as she met his gaze her eyes fell, and the burning blush of maiden shame surged up to her forehead. She sank upon a seat and covered her face with her hands.
”I thought of Mr. Jerrold, naturally. He said he would be over early this morning,” was all she could find to say.
”I have seen him, and presume he will come. To all appearances, he is the last man to suffer from last night's affair,” he went on, relentlessly,--almost brutally,--but she never winced. ”It is odd you did not hear the shots. I thought yours was the northwest room,--this one?” he indicated, pointing overhead.
”So it is, and I slept there all last night and heard nothing,--not a thing. _Do_ tell me what the trouble was.”
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