It was the first long sleep she had had for weeks, and the refreshment came at the time of her direst need, for at daybreak the summons roused her. She waked with a beating heart; wheels stopped in the street, her gate clicked, there were footsteps coming up her path—bold, hurried steps; they reached the veranda—the bell pealed.
She sprang from her bed, huddling her dressing gown round her as she ran, and, slipping back the heavy, old-fashioned bolts of the front door, she stood face to face with Stephen.
If she were pale, he was paler; his blood seemed turned to ice that summer morning.
“The yacht is at Wolfshead,” he said. “How soon can you be ready? We must go by rail—I have a special waiting for you.”
A glow from the first blush of day caught her as she stood in the frame of the doorway. She was like a mediæval saint, with her hair wound in a crown about her head, her blue gown falling in stately fold, and her bare feet showing under the hem of her nightgown. In spite of her seeming calm, her eyes blazed with excitement.
To French she seemed something holy and apart—as if those bare feet rested on a crescent, and the shadows of the old hall were floating clouds. He had schooled himself during his hurried journey, in order to meet her without emotion, but she was her own protection; to have touched her would have seemed sacrilege. Her lips tried to frame the question that consumed her with its terrors.
“Simeon——” she began, but her voice failed.
Stephen’s haggard eyes softened.
“He is dying,” he said. “But there is time—perhaps to-day—perhaps to-morrow. His force of will has kept him alive to see you—he has cared more than you knew.”
She gave a little sob, and turned toward the staircase. Halfway up she stopped.