DR. VERMONT AND HIS GUESTS UPON THE ISLAND
IT wanted three days to the end of the year. The afternoon had been so exceptionally mild, that Mademoiselle Lenormant and her foreign friend were still sitting out on the gallery enjoying the sunset. The air was very clear, and the heavens beautifully coloured, though the winter dusk was beginning to drop. But it was as yet a mere suggestion of dimness that did not hide, while it accentuated, the edge of bleak and empty road along the sky-line. It sharpened the outlines of the bridge and its castellated points below. The river was smooth like dark glass, and rosy clouds made a blood-red margin along its outer bank. No wind blew among the trees of the melancholy garden, visible from the other side of the gallery, and so still was it, that the farthest sounds sent back their travelling echoes. The footfall of a solitary peasant crossing the bridge made a martial clatter, so clear and strong and self-assertive was it upon the pavements that seemed to sleep since feudal times.
Little Gabrielle sat in a corner of the gallery in jacket and hood, hugging Minette, who bore the discomfort bravely, while she spelled out a story from a large picture-book on her knee. It was satisfactory to see that the kitten took as much interest in the story as the reader, and enlivened the study by occasional lunges at the brown finger following each line. The child’s pretty voice hardly interrupted the low conversation of the two ladies, who faced the view of Beaufort, and watched the road, while they discoursed upon the philosophy of life. Mademoiselle Lenormant always watched that road, whether she sat in the gallery or upstairs in her own room. It was the rival of Gabrielle and her books, for she would willingly leave either at any moment to look at it.
Joséphine came down to carry Gabrielle inside, out of the chill air, and the child was still protesting loudly, and calling imperiously on her aunt to rescue her from private tyranny, when Mademoiselle bent forward with an excited gesture, her eyes riveted upon the point where the road seemed to issue from the sky.
‘Do you not see something down there—something dark that moves?’ she breathed, without looking at her companion.
‘Effectively. It appears to be a group of men on horseback. Yes, Mademoiselle, it is a party of riders, and they are coming straight towards the bridge.’
Mademoiselle shook from head to foot, and went and caught the balustrade to steady herself, while she continued to examine the blot of moving shadow upon the landscape, that increased with each wink of eyelid, until soon it was a visible invasion of males on horseback. A dull thud of hoofs was borne upon the air, and near the bridge, one of the party, apparently the leader, drew up, and seemed to address the others. These at once fell behind, three in number, and the foremost turned his face to the island, and galloped ahead.
‘Joséphine, viens, viens vite,’ shrieked Mademoiselle, her whole face dyed pink, and her grey eyes dark and luminous with emotion.
Joséphine hurried out, cap-strings flying, all in a state of wild concern. What was it, but what on earth was it? What did Mademoiselle see?
Mademoiselle began in a thick voice—