Ian Belward had painted them and their van in the hills of Auvergne, and had persuaded her to sit for a picture. He had treated her courteously at first. Her father was taken ill suddenly, and died. She was alone for a few days afterwards. Ian Belward came to her. Of that miserable, heart-rending, cruel time,—the life-sorrow of a defenceless girl,—Gaston heard with a hard sort of coldness. The promised marriage was a matter for the man’s mirth a week later. They came across three young artists from Paris—Bagshot, Fancourt, and another—who camped one night beside them. It was then she fully realised the deep shame of her position. The next night she ran away and joined a travelling menagerie. The rest he knew. When she had ended there was silence for a time, broken only by one quick gasping sob from Gaston. The girl sat still as death, her eyes on him intently.
“Poor Andree! Poor girl!” he said at last. She sighed pitifully.
“What shall we do?” she asked. He scarcely spoke above a whisper:
“There must be time to think. I will go to London.”
“You will come back?”
“Yes—in five days, if I live.”
“I believe you,” she said quietly. “You never lied to me. When you return we will know what to do.” Her manner was strangely quiet. “A little trading schooner goes from Douarnenez to England to-morrow morning,” she went on. “There is a notice of it in the market-place. That would save the journey to Paris.’”
“Yes, that will do very well. I will start for Douarnenez at once.”
“Will Jacques go too?”
“No.”