"I hurried you away——" he began; but, greatly to his surprise, Yvonne interrupted the labored explanation he had in mind.
"I think I understand, Dad," she said. "Wouldn't it be better for both of us if you left unsaid what you were going to say—at any rate, till the morning? We are—how shall I put it?—somewhat unhinged by today's events. You are weary and heartsick. I know I am. Let me go and see that Mrs. Carmac is being cared for. I'll not remain long, and we can retire soon after supper. Then, when we have slept perhaps, we shall wake into a new world with nerves not so exhausted, or strained, as at this moment."
Ingersoll, brooding on his own troubles, and feverishly eager to snatch his daughter from a soul-racking ordeal, was wholly unaware of the passionate tumult vibrating in every syllable of that appeal. He caught the sound, not the significance, of the words that irritated him.
"Now you are talking nonsense!" he cried. "You cannot possibly know what course I have decided on. It is this: I loathe the sensational element attached to such an event as the rescue we have taken part in. You hardly realize what it implies to you and me personally. Not only the French but the English and American newspapers will send here a horde of special correspondents and photographers. If we remain in Pont Aven, we cannot escape them. They will take the cottage by storm, or, if we bolt our door against intruders, we shall have to withstand a siege. To avoid this, you and I are going to Paris by the early train tomorrow. Lorry is coming too. He agrees with me—or, if I shouldn't say that—he is delighted at the prospect of the outing."
"Poor Lorry!" said Yvonne.
"Why 'poor Lorry'? He is only too pleased at being invited."
"But, Dad, he doesn't know what you and I know."
A sudden terror fell on Ingersoll. "What do you mean?" he murmured hoarsely, stopping short as though he had been struck by an invisible hand.
During a few fateful seconds father and daughter stood in the center of the four ways that meet as soon as the road from Paris crosses the Aven. No one was near. The eternal plaint of the river was drowned by the fierce wind whistling under the eaves of the old houses with high-pitched roofs, and singing an anthem of its own around the pierced spire of the neighboring church. Yvonne placed her hands on her father's shoulders, and her sweet lips quivered in an irresistible rush of agonized emotion.
"Dad," she said, striving vainly to keep her utterance under control, "if you—wish—to go to Paris tomorrow—I--shall not try—to dissuade you. But I—cannot come with you. I dare not! You see—I have just found my mother—and—she may be dead tomorrow. Oh, Dad, Dad! No matter how my mother may have erred—or what wrong she may have done you in the past—I cannot abandon her now!"