"I understand."
They sit and watch him, Grandon holding the feeble wrist. It will not be safe to leave him alone to-night, to leave them. There is a duty here he cannot evade.
"I will take my little girl home," he says, presently, "and then I will come back and remain all night. Was the doctor here to-day?"
"Yes. He seemed better then. He was better until—You are a very good friend," she goes on, abruptly. "It is a trusty face—an honest voice——"
"You can trust me," he says, much moved. He goes softly down the stairs, and with a few words to Cecil persuades her to leave this enchanted realm. Violet kisses her fondly and clings to her; they have had such a happy day, there has not been a lonely moment in it. The wistful face haunts Grandon through the homeward ride, and he hardly hears Cecil's prattle.
He makes a brief explanation to his mother and leaves excuses for madame, who is lying down in order to be fresh and enchanting for evening. His orders for Jane are rather more lengthy, and she is to comfort Cecil if he should not be home for breakfast.
He has a simple supper in the little nest among the cliffs. Violet pours the tea with a serene unconsciousness. She is nothing but a child. Her life and education have been so by rule, emotions repressed, bits of character trimmed and trained, though they have not taken all out, he is sure. She is very proper and precise now, a little afraid she shall blunder somewhere, and with a rare delicacy will not mention the child, lest its father should think she has coaxed it from some duty or love. He almost smiles to himself as he speculates upon her. Once there was just such another,—no, the other was unlike her in all but youth and beauty, with a hundred coquettish ways where this one is honest, simple, and sincere. Could she have served a table gravely like this, and made no vain use of lovely eyes or dimpled mouth?
He goes up-stairs and takes his place as a watcher. There is nothing to do but administer a few drops of medicine every half-hour. The evening is warm and he sits by the open window, trying not to think, telling himself that in honor he has no right to for the next forty hours, and then the decision must come. He could fight her battle so much better if—if he had the one right, but does he want it? He has counted on many other things in his life. For his dead father's sake he is willing to make some sacrifice, but why should this come to him?
The stars shine out in the wide blue heavens, the wind whispers softly among the leaves, the water ripples in the distance. The mysterious noises of night grow shriller for a while, then fainter, until at midnight there is scarcely a sound. How strangely solemn to sit here by this lapsing soul, that but a little while ago was the veriest stranger to him! He has sent Denise to bed, Violet is sleeping with childhood's ease and unconsciousness. A week hence and everything will be changed for her; she will never be a child again.
There is a pale bit of moon towards morning, then faint streaks raying up in the east, and sounds of life once more. A sacred Sunday morning. He feels unusually reverent and grave, and breathes a prayer. He wants guidance so much, and yet—does one pray about secular affairs? he wonders.