In the biggest house of that “Colony of Compromise” on the hill—the house nearest the chapel prison—a girl stood at a south window watching the flames in the village below. The flames, at least, she seemed to be watching. What she saw was the last little column of prisoners marching away from the chapel; and her teeth were set hard upon her under lip.
She was not thinking; she was simply clarifying a confused resolve.
White and thin, and with deep purple hollows under her great eyes, she was nevertheless not less beautiful than when, a few months before, joyous mirth had flashed from her every look and gesture, as colored lights from a fire-opal. She still wore on her small feet moccasins of Indian work; but now, in winter, they were of heavy, soft, white caribou-skin, laced high upon the ankles, and ornamented with quaint pattern of red and green porcupine quills. Her skirt and bodice were of creamy woollen cloth; and over her shoulders, crossed upon her breast and caught in her girdle, was spread a scarf of dark-yellow silk. The little black lace shawl was flung back from her head, and her hands, twisted tightly in the ends of it, were for a wonder quite still—tensely still, with an air of final decision. Close beside her, flung upon the back of a high wooden settee, lay a long, heavy, hooded cloak of grey homespun, such as the peasant women of Acadie were wont to wear in winter as an over-garment.
A door behind her opened, but Yvonne did not turn her head. George Anderson came in. He came to the window, and tried to look into her eyes. His face was grave with anxiety, but touched, too, with a curious mixture of impatience and relief. He spoke at once, in a voice both tender and tolerant.
“There go the last of them, poor chaps!” he said. “Captain Grande went some hours ago—quite early. I pray, dear, that now he is gone—to exile indeed, but in safety—you will recover your peace of mind, and throw off this morbid mood, and be just a little bit kinder to—some people!” And he tried, with an awkward timidity, to take her hand.
She turned upon him a sombre, compassionate gaze, but far-off, almost as if she saw him in a dream.
“Don’t touch me—just now,” she said gently, removing her hand. “I must go out into the pastures for air, I think. All this stifles me! No, alone, alone!” she added more quickly, in answer to an entreaty in his eyes. “But, oh, I am sorry, so sorry beyond words, that I cannot seem kind to—some people! Good-by.”
She left the room, and closed the door behind her. The door shut smartly. It sounded like a proclamation of her resolve. So—that was settled! In an instant her whole demeanour changed. A fire came back into her eyes, and she stepped with her old, soft-swaying lightness. In the room which she now entered sat her father and mother. The withered little reminiscence of Versailles watched at a window-side, her black eyes bright with interest, her thin lips slightly curved with an acerb and cynical compassion. But Giles de Lamourie sat with his back to the window, his face heavy and grey.
“This is too awful!” he said, as Yvonne came up to him, and, bending over, kissed him on the forehead and the lips.
“It is like a nightmare!” she answered. “But, would you believe it, papa, the very shock is doing me good? The suspense—that kills! But I feel more like myself than I have for weeks. I must go out, breathe, and walk hard in the open.”