"Yes, yes," he said; "we shall see. Perhaps some lemonade."
"Yes, yes; go at once and order it." She was imperative, and her voice had lost its sweetness for a time. "I must not be made to wait."
"Very well, maman." As he went out, the gray figure passed in, saying, "She is better this morning, and I am so grieved for thee."
"Thank you," he murmured, and went down-stairs, seeing no one, and out to a seat in the garden, to think what he should do. Yes, there must be a doctor. And Carteaux—what a fool he had been to tell her his name! The name and the cropped hair of the Jacobin, the regular features, by no means vulgar, the blood-red eyes of greed for murder, he saw again as in that fatal hour. Whenever any new calamity had fallen upon him, the shrill murder-counseling voice was with him, heard at times like a note of discord even in later days of relief from anxiety, or in some gay moment of mirth. "He was wise," he murmured, remembering the German's counsel, and resolutely put aside the disturbing thought. At last Nanny, the black maid, called him to breakfast. He was alone with Schmidt and Mrs. Swanwick. They discussed quietly what doctor they should call; not their friend, Dr. Redman, as neither he nor Dr. Rush spoke French. Schmidt said: "I have sent a note to Mr. Wynne not to expect you. Set your mind at ease."
There was need of the advice. De Courval felt the helplessness of a young man in the presence of a woman's illness. He sat still in his chair at breakfast, hardly hearing the German's efforts to reassure him.
It was near to eight. Nanny had gone up to relieve Margaret, who presently came in, saying, "Aunt Gainor is without, back from her morning ride."
There was a heavy footfall in the hall and a clear, resonant voice, "Mary Swanwick, where are you?"
In the doorway, kept open for the summer air to sweep through, the large figure of Gainor Wynne appeared in riding skirt and low beaver hat, a heavy whip in her hand. The years had dealt lightly with the woman, now far past middle life. There was a mass of hair time had powdered, the florid face, the high nose of her race, the tall, erect, massive build, giving to the observant a sense of masculine vigor. On rare occasions there was also a perplexing realization of infinite feminine tenderness, and, when she pleased, the ways and manners of an unmistakable gentlewoman.
As the two men rose, Mrs. Swanwick said quietly, "Aunt Gainor, Madame de Courval is ill."