A silence, she trying to keep her gaze off the lake.
"I like him," the boy went on. "At least, some better than I did. He knows a lot about fishing. When papa blows himself up and never comes down any more, as Jimmie says he will some day, I think I'll let Mr. Gallatin stay on with us."
Courtney scarcely heard. She was grinding her palms together and muttering incoherently when at last she saw his boat pushing leisurely in the direction of Wenona. She drew a long breath. But as the boat glided farther and farther away, her sick heart failed her. She felt abandoned—and afraid. For, she had not told the truth when she said she knew Richard would not kill her.
Winchie stayed on, talking incessantly and no more disturbed by her inattention than babbling brook or trilling bird by lack of audience. His chatter fretted her like the rapping of a branch on the window of an invalid. But she would not send him away. If Richard should come, Winchie's being there would halt him—perhaps, just long enough. After an hour Winchie grew tired of talking and ran off to play. She did not detain him—why, she did not know—probably, because to detain him would have been to encourage a fear that must be defied if the coming battle for Winchie and reputation and life was not to be lost before it began. She must not seem to be afraid. That would be fatal. And the sure way to seem unafraid was to be unafraid.
She paced the floor. She watched the distant boat with its single occupant. She sat and tried to finish her letter. She roamed through the house. "I'll meet him in the grounds," decided she—and, compelling herself to walk slowly, she paced the road between gates and house—up and down, up and down. Back to the house again, to her room. "Yes, we'll not wait supper," she said, in answer to Lizzie's inquiry. At supper, the sound of Helen's and Winchie's voices rasped on her nerves. "Will he never come?" she muttered. And without explanation, she left the table, went again to her sitting room.
"Are you ill, dear?" asked Helen, putting her head in at the door.
"No," replied she, curtly.
Helen went, but Winchie came. "You must hear my prayer, mamma."
"Helen taught it to you. Let her hear it."
"No. She's busy downstairs, and I'm in a hurry to go to sleep."