Bridget drew her dressing-jacket on to her shoulders again, in surprise, and softly crossed the room and opened it.
Madame Leroux, in wrapper and bedroom slippers, was standing outside. There was an envelope in her hand.
“For Madame,” she explained—“a telegram. There had been an error, a wrong address. It had gone to Veules; but a telegram perhaps was important? Monsieur Grouet’s Alphonse, who slept at St. Marguerite’s, had brought it therefore, at this late hour.”
Bridget took it from her outstretched hand, and slowly shut the door, her eyes fixed on the envelope. She crossed to the bed, and sat down. Her heart began to beat violently, and then stood still with nameless fear.
“If Larry—” she opened it slowly. A moment later, the paper fluttered out of her hand to the floor. For a long time she sat motionless, looking straight in front of her towards the open window. Then she rose noiselessly. She crossed the room to the chair she had left beside it. She was careful not to let her dress make the slightest rustle as she sat down. (When people were dead, you were always quiet.) She rested her elbows on the sill presently, still holding her breath lest she should make the smallest sound. There was a stunned, dazed look in her eyes. She noticed that all but a thin streak of silver was gone from the sea. Heavy clouds were drifting over the sky, and the air was close and oppressive.
Bridget wondered idly whether the storm would come in the night, or next day. “To-morrow, I should think,” she murmured vaguely; “to-morrow, perhaps.”
CHAPTER XVI
Carey walked across the wide, sunny fields next day in the direction of the Café des Sapins. He had driven as far as the village next to St. Marguerite, and had decided to walk the rest of the way. Now he was so near his journey’s end, he dreaded to find himself actually at the threshold. He would delay a little longer. The rattle of the trap, and the cheerful attempts of the driver at conversation, had become insupportable. He wanted intensely to be alone.
It was noon, when, following the direction of the blue bloused village children, he came at last in sight of the café. A midday stillness brooded over the hot fields, where amongst the poppies and the white foam of daisies, a solitary tethered cow was grazing.
Involuntarily he slackened his pace. His eyes were fixed on the streak of blue sea, and the fringe of pine-trees that bordered the cliff. In a few moments he stood at the door of the inn.