Part 41 (2/2)

”Complete oblivion of all that has distressed you during the last forty-eight hours. Put me entirely out of your thoughts, and remember that now you can be happy with your father.”

He emptied his gla.s.s and replaced it on the salver.

”No. I would not forget it if I could. I pray G.o.d that you may escape every danger; that you will come back in safety to your home; and while I may never see you again, I hope to hear you are far happier than I could ever have made you.”

She sipped the wine, put it aside, and continued:

”You can not understand the utter ruin of hopes, ambitions, beliefs, that heretofore made my life worth living. In the awful wreck one thing survives--my faith in you, who walk always in the light of 'the high white star of Truth.' I honor and I trust you now as I never did before the ordeal of the last few hours. The fault was mine, not yours; and as I deserve, I wish I could bear all the pain, all the consequences, of my desperate rashness. You do not understand what I suffer.”

She stood with her hands folded on her breast, so close to him that he noted how wan and drawn the young face had grown, how measureless the misery in eyes peering hopelessly into futurity.

”At least I fully and sorrowfully understand one thing--you know no more about love than that baby you nursed on the train.”

In avoidance of his cold scrutiny, her strained gaze had wandered to the frieze of silver lilies on the wall, but now she looked at him.

”Mr. Herriott, you may be sure that when you go away and leave me forever, I shall never learn.”

There was a sudden glint in his eyes, like a blue blade flash, but after a moment he listened to the clock, and turned away.

”Good-night. Get all the sleep you can. You will need it for your journey South to-morrow.”

He closed the door, and she heard his quick step ring down the long stairway; then the joyful bark of the dogs told he had left the house.

She was an unusually healthy woman, and, impatient of the teasing pain in her temples, shook out her heavy coil of hair. She walked from door to fireplace, from bed to bathroom, up and down, around and around, too restless to lie down, dominated by a strange feeling she made no attempt to a.n.a.lyze. As the clock struck four, she still walked to and fro, never suspecting that Mr. Herriott stood in the hall, close to her door, listening to the slow sound of her feet on the polished oak floor, fighting down his longing to enter and take her in his arms.

The ”blue room” looked out on the sickle-shaped beach and upon the lake, and when the sun rose above cliffs at the rear of the house, the racing waves leaped, crooned, flashed in golden light.

Looping back the lace draperies at the window, Eglah stood watching the flight of a loon, the quivering, silver flicker of ducks' wings against the pale pink sky-line, the gliding of a sloop with sails bending like a huge white b.u.t.terfly balancing over some vast blue flower.

Walking slowly up the beach, Mr. Herriott was approaching the stile, and with him the collie Pilot, the Polish wolfhound Tzar, one on each side, and the wiry black-and-white Skye terrier Snap wriggling in front. At the stile Amos Lea sat waiting, and master and gardener talked for some minutes.

After a little the latter rose, put one hand on Mr. Herriott's shoulder, raised the other, and turned his rugged face toward heaven.

Eglah knew he was praying for the man now hurrying away to mult.i.tudinous dangers, and her eyes grew strangely humid. When the mist cleared, she saw they were shaking hands, and Amos disappeared behind the garden wall. As the master neared the terrace steps he glanced up at her window, took off his cap, and saluted her. He had never looked so commanding, so n.o.bly built, so superior to all other men. Something stirred, quivered, woke up in her heart, and a swift spasm of pain seized her.

A half hour later Mr. Herriott knocked at her door. She opened it, and one quick glance at the ivory bed and its lace hangings told him she had not lain down.

”Good morning. Will you come down and give me my coffee, or shall I send breakfast to you here?”

”I prefer to come down.”

He held up a bouquet of heliotrope, daintily arranged.

”Amos Lea's 'compliments to the madam,' and he hopes she will wear these flowers, as he always cut heliotrope for her when she visited here.”

Afraid to trust her voice, she took the bouquet, inhaled its fragrance, and slipped the stems into the girdle of her silk morning gown.

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