“It’ll be warm when we get back—not this diabolical heat, but just soft and sunny. The hills will be all brown. Presently there’ll be a smell of eucalyptus in the air, but that won’t be till later, when the evenings are short. Oh, I’m so glad we’re going back! It’s like getting out of prison.”
He was suddenly silent, and Viola heard him making a slight rustling movement in his chair. Then the room was very quiet, for Corinne had stopped beating with her toes. For a space Viola struggled with herself, biting her lips, and surreptitiously taking out her handkerchief and pressing it against her face. She was more afraid of the piercing eyes of Corinne than of her father, and when she had controlled herself sufficiently to be presentable, she looked in the mirror to see if Corinne had been observing her. Instead, she saw the child standing up some few steps away from the colonel, regarding him with an expression of keen, suspended intentness that was at once curious and fearful.
As Viola’s eyes encountered the reflection, and read in it terror and alarm, Corinne spoke in a quick, frightened voice:
“Look at the colonel, Viola. He looks so queer. I don’t like him.”
Viola was at his side before the child had ceased speaking.
The colonel’s head had dropped forward on his breast. A yellowish, waxen hue had spread over his face, and his eyes, cold and brooding, were staring straight before him.
“Father!” she said, touching his hand with a strange fearfulness she had never felt before.
The word sounded portentously loud in the deep, mysterious stillness that had settled on the room. Awe of something majestic and terrible clutched Viola’s heart. As she stood staring, she heard the child screaming down the hall:
“Mommer! Mommer! the colonel’s sick again, and his eyes are open. Oh, come quick—come quick!”