“Eloise, you have been crying.”
“I cry easily, I do everything easily.”
Maurice turned away and gazed from the window. The rain was so fine it seemed to be a rising mist; the trees were hidden, like plants in the bottom of the sea; somewhere the sun was shining, for there was a silver bar in the mist.
Pierre was not slow in coming again; but, instead of seeing Eloise, he had a note thrust into his hand by the little serving-maid. It ran: “I cannot see you. He forbids it. Who could have told that our last word was ‘good-by.’ If I could have spoken again I would have thanked you. How can I ever do so now? Adieu.” Reading this on the step, he scrawled hurriedly on a leaf of his note-book: “I would not have you thank me, but I must see you again. Your risk is great, but I will be here to-morrow night; we will have the darkness, and all I ask is ten minutes. Is it too much?”
He gave the note to the maid, who shut the door. The house looked absolutely sphinx-like as he walked away from it.
The next night was moist with a touch of frost. A little smoke from burning leaves hung in the air with a pungent odor. The scent of the lilacs fell with the wind when it moved. Eloise was muffled picturesquely in a cloak. Pierre was holding her hand, which she had not reclaimed. “I have dared everything to come,” she said softly.
“You are brave, braver than I was to ask you.”
“You know my story. You are the only one.”
“That binds us.”
“How can I thank you?”