CHAPTER XVI
On the morrow Chérie awoke early. She could not say what had startled her out of a deep restful slumber, but suddenly she was wide awake, every nerve tense in a kind of strained expectancy, waiting she knew not for what. Something had occurred, something had awakened her; and she was waiting for it to repeat itself; waiting to hear or feel it again. But whatever it was, sound or sensation, it was not repeated.
Chérie rose quickly, slid her feet into her slippers, and went across the room to the window. She leaned out with her bare elbows on the window-sill and looked at the garden—at the glistening lawn, at the stripped trees, dark and clear-cut against the early sky. It was a rose-grey dawn, as softly luminous as if it were the month of February instead of November. There seemed to be a promise of spring in the pale radiance of the morning.
She knew she could not sleep any more; so she dressed quietly and quickly, wrapped a scarf round her slim shoulders, and went down into the garden.
George Whitaker also had awakened early. These were his last few days at home before leaving for the front, and his spirit was full of feverish restlessness. His sister Eva was expected back from Hastings that morning and they would spend two or three happy days together before he left for the wonderful, and awful adventure of war. He had obeyed his mother's desire, and had not seen or spoken to their Belgian guests for many days. Indeed, it was easy—too easy, thought George with a sigh—to avoid them, for they seemed day by day to grow more shy of strangers and of friends. George only caught fleeting glimpses of them as they passed their windows; sometimes he saw a gleam of auburn hair where Chérie sat with bent head near the schoolroom balcony, reading or at work.
This morning, as he stood vigorously plying his brushes on his bright hair and gazing absent-mindedly at the garden, he caught sight of Chérie, with a scarf round her shoulders and a book in her hand, walking down the gravel pathway towards the summer-house. He flung down his brushes, finished dressing very quickly, and ran downstairs. After all, he was leaving in forty-eight hours or so—leaving to go who knows where, to return who knows when. He might never have such another chance of seeing her and saying good-bye. True, it was rather soon to say good-bye. He would probably be meeting her every moment during the next two days. Eva was coming back, and would be sure to want her little foreign friend always beside her. Eva had a way of slipping her arm through Chérie's and drawing her along, saying: "Allons, Chérie!" which was very pleasant in George's recollection. He also would have liked to slip his arm through the slim white arm of the girl and say, "Allons, Chérie!" He could imagine the flush, or the frown, or the fleeting marvel of her smile....
In a few moments he was downstairs, out of the house, and running towards the summer-house. But she was not there.
He found her walking slowly beside the little artificial lake in the shrubbery, reading her book.
"Good-morning," he said in tones exaggerately casual, as she looked up in surprise.
"Good-morning, Monsieur George," she said, and the softness of the "g's" in her French accent was sweet to his ear.