Yvonne was momentarily tongue-tied with surprise. The last thing she expected was any interference by this plausible-spoken little man in the affairs of the two people he had named. She knew that her mother disliked him,—that fear was now added to her dislike,—but she could not guess that Raymond was actually counting on her knowledge as a successful factor in the campaign he opened that night during the short stroll between the Hotel Julia and the bridge.
"Pray believe that I have intervened in this matter with the best of motives," he added hurriedly. "It is often the fate of meddlers to be misunderstood—I have been an innocent victim in that respect once already in this very place. But I felt it was due to you that I should explain the action I have taken today. You may be angry with me. I cannot help that. My own sense of right and wrong tells me that I am justified; so I may only put the circumstances before you, and leave you to decide whether you approve or condemn. In a sentence, then, I have ventured to remonstrate most openly and emphatically with Mr. Fosdyke. You may not be aware of it, but he is tempting your friend Madeleine to meet him secretly. Of course she is your friend because of the simple conditions of life which obtain in Pont Aven. In America or England you and she would fall naturally into widely different social strata. But here—in Arcady, if I may so express myself—close intimacy between you and a peasant girl is permissible, even advantageous. The case of Rupert Fosdyke is wholly outside this small local circle. His association with Madeleine must inevitably lead to a grave scandal. I have tried to put a stop to it: not without success. He assures me that he has seen her tonight for the last time. Now, Miss Ingersoll, I want you to tell me candidly, first if I have done right, and in the second place if you commend my action."
"Mr. Raymond," cried Yvonne impulsively, "I thank you from my heart. I cannot find words to express my relief at your news. You have accomplished something wonderful. Really, I am more than grateful."
"That is good to know," he said, stopping in the roadway, and bowing as humbly as his tightly strapped arm would permit. "You have said all I wished to hear, and more."
"But won't you come with me to our cottage?" she said, aware only of deep joy because of Madeleine's salvation, since it was nothing less that this queer-mannered stranger had brought about. "I have not dared to speak of this matter to my father and Mr. Tollemache. I can tell them now, and make light of it, while giving you some of the credit that is your due. Do come!"
"Not tonight, if you will excuse me. I am yet far from strong, and today's experiences have been somewhat exhausting. If you will ask me to meet Mr. Ingersoll tomorrow, or next day, I shall feel honored."
For a rascal—which he undoubtedly was—Harvey Raymond exhibited a restraint that marked a rare capacity for intrigue. He had not anticipated such a long stride in advance as an invitation by Yvonne to make her father's acquaintance then and there. But a lightning flash of clear judgment had shown that he would gain immensely by a display of modest reticence. The story would not suffer in its telling because he was not present to receive congratulations from the artist and what would be tantamount to an apology from Tollemache.
So he bowed again, with a murmured "Goodnight!" and, involuntarily as it were, stretched out his left hand, which Yvonne seized and wrung warmly. Then, apparently shocked by his own boldness, he turned abruptly, and hurried back to the annex.
During a few seconds Yvonne stared after him.