Jo raised herself and faced Longville. Her hair was hanging limply, her eyes were terror-filled.
"Langley married and gone?" she gasped. Then: "My God!"
That was all, but Longville watching her drew his own evil conclusions and laughed good-naturedly.
"It's all in the day's work, Mam'selle," he said, and wondered silently if the slave before him would be able to finish out the summer.
Jo finished out the summer efficiently and silently. In September Cecile simply stopped babbling and playing with rags and became wholly dead. After the burial Jo, with her dog at her heels, went away. No one but Longville noticed. Her work at his house was over; the last boarder had departed.
Often Jo's home was unvisited for weeks at a time, so her absence, now, caused no surprise. Two weeks elapsed, then she reappeared, draggled and worn, the dog closely following.
That was all, and the endless work of weaving and spinning was resumed. Jo invented three marvellously beautiful designs that winter.
But now, this glorious autumn day, she stood victoriously reviewing the past. Suddenly she turned. As if playing an appointed part in the grim drama, Longville again stood by the gate looking a bit keener and grayer, but little older. In his hands, signed and properly executed, were all the papers that set Jo free from him forever unless he could, by some other method, draw her within his power. That money of hers in the bank lay heavy on his sense of propriety.
"Unless she's paying and paying me," he pondered, "what need has she of money? Too much money is bad for a woman—I'll give her interest."
And just then Jo hailed him in the tone and manner of a free creature.