“Read these letters first,” he said, and he put the letters found on Zoe in Jean Jacques’ eager hands.
A half-hour later, at the horse-breeding ranch, the Young Doctor introduced Jean Jacques to Norah Doyle, and instantly left the house. He had no wish to hear the interview which must take place between the two. Nolan Doyle was not at home, but in the room where they were shown to Norah was a cradle. Norah was rocking it with one foot while, standing by the table, she busied herself with sewing.
The introduction was of the briefest. “Monsieur Barbille wishes a word with you, Mrs. Doyle,” said the Young Doctor. “It’s a matter that doesn’t need me. Monsieur has been in my care, as you know.... Well, there, I hope Nolan is all right. Tell him I’d like to see him to-morrow about the bay stallion and the roans. I’ve had an offer for them. Good-bye—good-bye, Mrs. Doyle”—he was at the door—“I hope you and Monsieur Barbille will decide what’s best for the child without difficulty.”
The door opened quickly and shut again, and Jean Jacques was alone with the woman and the child. “What’s best for the child!”
That was what the Young Doctor had said. Norah stopped rocking the cradle and stared at the closed door. What had this man before her, this tramp habitant of whom she had heard, of course, to do with little Zoe in the cradle—her little Zoe who had come just when she was most needed; who had brought her man and herself close together again after an estrangement which neither had seemed able to prevent.
“What’s best for the child!” How did the child in the cradle concern this man? Then suddenly his name almost shrieked in her brain. Barbille—that was the name on the letter found on the body of the woman who died and left Zoe behind—M. Jean Jacques Barbille.
Yes, that was the name. What was going to happen? Did the man intend to try and take Zoe from her?
“What is your name—all of it?” she asked sharply. She had a very fine set of teeth, as Jean Jacques saw mechanically; and subconsciously he said to himself that they seemed cruel, they were so white and regular—and cruel. The cruelty was evident to him as she bit in two the thread for the waistcoat she was mending, and then plied her needle again. Also the needle in her fingers might have been intended to sew up his shroud, so angry did it appear at the moment. But her teeth had something almost savage about them. If he had seen them when she was smiling, he would have thought them merely beautiful and rare, atoning for her plain face and flat breast—not so flat as it had been; for since the child had come into her life, her figure, strangely enough, had rounded out, and lines never before seen in her contour appeared.
He braced himself for the contest he knew was at hand, and replied to her. “My name is Jean Jacques Barbille. I was of the Manor Cartier, in St. Saviour’s parish, Quebec. The mother of the child Zoe, there, was born at the Manor Cartier. I was her father. I am the grandfather of this Zoe.” He motioned towards the cradle.
Then, with an impulse he could not check and did not seek to check—why should he? was not the child his own by every right?—he went to the cradle and looked down at the tiny face on its white pillow. There could be no mistake about it; here was the face of his lost Zoe, with something, too, of Carmen, and also the forehead of the Barbilles. As though the child knew, it opened its eyes wide-big, brown eyes like those of Carmen Dolores.