Daniel waited impatiently, walking up and down the hall. He had never been able to form a clear idea of Fanchon. He could not even conjecture what she would do. He had never believed in her, he did not believe in her now, and he felt the deepest resentment toward her for having brought his young brother to this.
He was still walking up and down the hall when Emily called to him from the staircase in a watery stage whisper:
“She says, come up to her room.”
Reluctantly Daniel went up-stairs. Emily was hanging over the banisters at the top.
“She’s in the little front room over the door,” she whispered, sniffing. “I think she’s going away; I saw her trunks open.”
Daniel nodded and made his way to the small room over the front door, which his mother had hastily converted into a boudoir for the bride. He remembered the night when Leigh had helped her put a fresh polish on the floor before they laid the new rug. These little things seemed to crowd into his mind, bringing back Leigh’s boyish face in the dim cell, his terror of the dead Corwin.
He knocked gently at the closed door.
“Come in,” said Fanchon’s voice.
Daniel entered and stood still.
The little room, finished in pink and white, was in wild disorder. A small hat-box trunk stood open, a traveling-bag gaped, half-packed, and innumerable articles, large and small, were scattered on the chairs and on the floor. Stretched on a lounge, in front of the window, lay Fanchon. Her head was on her arms, and her soft hair, falling loose over her shoulders, hid her face. She wore some loose black robe which made her small figure look even smaller and more childish than usual. There was something in her very attitude broken and forlorn, and Daniel felt his first touch of actual pity for her as she rose on her elbow and lifted her haggard face from her arm. Her eyes were hollow, and even her lips were white. No touch of rouge concealed the havoc of a sleepless night and a day of anguish.