“Here, boys, scoot,” he said to the two boys who were attempting to open the trunks with the clock key. “You’ve got no business hanging round here. Go down and study your lessons.”
They obediently left the room. Mariposa heard their jubilantly clamorous descent of the stairs. She made no attempt to leave the window, or to speak to the man, who still remained moving about as if looking for something. The light was growing dim in the dark wintry day, but the girl still stood with her face to the pane. She knew that if the tears against which she fought should come there would be a deluge of them. Biting her lips and clenching her hands, she stood peering out, speechless, overwhelmed by her wretchedness.
Presently the man said, as if speaking to himself:
“Where the devil are the matches? Elsie’s too careless for anything.”
She heard him feeling about on shelves and tables, and after a moment he said:
“Did you see where the matches were? I want to light the gas.”
“There aren’t any,” she answered without turning.
He gave a suppressed exclamation, and, opening the door, left the room.
With the withdrawal of his restraining presence the tension snapped. Mariposa sank down in the chair near the window and the tears poured from her eyes, tears in torrential volume, such as her mother had shed twenty-five years before in front of Dan Moreau’s cabin.
Her grief seized her and swept her away. She shook with it. Why could she not die and escape from this hideous world? It bowed her like a reed before a wind, and she bent her face on the chair arm and trembled and throbbed.