She made a hearty meal. Françoise, too, joined in the feast, her homely Norman face perceptibly relaxing its grim vigilance. Her mistress was safe now, for a month, two months, perchance six. The desire for food was the ultimate sign of complete recovery—for the time. Had Mrs. Saumarez dared ask for a glass of beer from the majestic cask in the corner, Françoise would have prevented her from taking it, using force if necessary. The sturdy peasant from Tinchebrai was of stronger moral fiber than the born aristocrat, and her mistress knew it.
Martin stood somewhat shyly near the broad ingle. Angèle approached. She caressed his lint-wrapped arms, saying sweetly:
“Do they pain you a great deal?”
“Of course not. They’re just a bit sore to the touch—that’s all.”
His manner was politely repellant. He wished she would not pat him with her nervous fingers. She pawed him like a playful cat. To-day she wore the beautiful muslin frock he had admired so greatly on the first day of the fair. The deep brim of her hat concealed her eyes from all but his.
“I am quite jealous of Elsie,” she murmured. “It must be simply lovely to be rescued in that way. Poor little me! At home nursing mamma, while you were fighting for another girl!”
“The thing was not worth so much talk. I did nothing that any other boy would not have done.”
“My wud,” cried Mrs. Summersgill suddenly, “it’d do your little lass a power o’ good te git some o’ that fat beäcan intiv her, Mrs. Saumarez.”
From the smoke-blackened rafters over the spacious fireplace were hanging a dozen sides of home-cured bacon, huge toothsome slabs suggesting mounds of luscious rashers. The sturdy boy beneath gave proof that there was good nutriment in such ample store, but the girl was so fragile, so fairy-like in her gossamer wings, that she might have been reared on the scent of flowers.
The attention thus drawn to the two caused Martin to flush again, but Angèle wheeled round.