“But Father Michel—” began the priest in protest, when she interposed and with a single gesture silenced him.
The incident gave her time to regain self-possession. Outwardly she grew calm, dignified, and almost cold, but her eyes were burning and in them I read the reproach I had so dreaded during my ride.
“Why have you come?” she asked, when I could not speak; and her voice was hard to my ears and accusing. I hung my head.
“I have no answer,” I murmured. “I am sorry; but I can go again.” I had hoped, like the fool I was, she would have been glad to see me; and chilled and beaten by this reception, I turned on my heel to leave.
Then Chris made a difficulty. He ran after me so that at the door I had to turn to send him back.
“Call him,” I said. If she could be hard, so could I; and my face was as cold and stern as she could have wished her own to be.
But at my look she winced and bent her head. Her interlocked fingers were strained tightly. It was as though she understood the pain she caused me and her own tender heart was wrung at the sight. Chris stood looking up wistfully into my face.
“Go back, Chris. Good-bye, old dog.” He whimpered in protest; for all the world as though he knew we were to part. “Go, Chris, good dog,” I said again; and then he went slowly to her and licked the hands which were straining in such emotion.
She did not look at me and I turned again and went out.
“Burgwan!”