The girandole candelabra on the mantel looked like a brooding ghoul in the evening gloom which shrouded the living-room of Otis Rockland's house. The French windows at the front extended completely to the floor, double-hung sashes forming the upper half, paneled gates of unpolished oak being the lower section. The damask hangings had been pulled across during the afternoon to shut out the sun, but the windows themselves were partly ajar, allowing the sounds from the corrals to enter the room. Someone was playing a guitar over there where they were still roasting the bulls that had been killed. A woman's laugh came dimly.
Crawford raised his head a moment where he sat in a willow chair by the window; then he lowered it once more into his hands. His face was bleak and empty. He did not know how long it was since he had come here, unable to face them out there.
When the creak of the porch came mutedly to him, he gave no sign. Then there was more sound, louder, more recognizable. His head lifted as the noise terminated with a muffled crash.
"Crawford!"
Just once like that, shrill and cracked. He got to his feet and ran to the door, tearing it open. It was the side table in the entrance hall which had made the crash. Merida must have pulled it over, falling. The marble top had smashed, and a piece of it lay on the floor beside her. The front door stood open wide.
"Merida?" he said, dropping to one knee. "You fell?"
"No." She stirred feebly, rising to one elbow with his help, hanging her head over against his knee a moment. The kitchen door opened, and her maid padded down the hall in bare feet, a small, wizened Indian, so dark she looked negroid, dressed in nothing more than a white cotton shift.
"It's all right, Nexpa," Merida told her. "A little accident. Crawford will help me to my room."
She allowed him to help her up the stairs, leaning heavily on his arm. The warmth of her body flowed through Crawford, and when they reached the second floor he was breathing heavily. Beyond the last step, Merida pulled away from him, her eyes meeting his in a swift, unreadable way.
She turned and moved toward her room, halting a moment outside Huerta's closed door, as if listening. Then she opened the door of her bedroom. He had kept from asking by an effort, but now he followed her in hesitantly, speaking.