“But tell me,” I went on, “what can you mean by saying I am not to come and see you? Surely you are not going to be so cruel, when I’ve been away so long.”
“No, Jacques,” she said, with a decisive shake of her pretty head, “you cannot come. Father is very bitter against you, and there would be a scene.”
I began to feel that I had rights which were being trampled upon.
“But what do you suppose I came to Cheticamp for?” I pleaded.
“Not merely to see me—that I know, Jacques,” came the decided answer. “You could never get leave of absence just for that. You cold-blooded English could never make a woman’s wishes so important.”
“Couldn’t we, indeed?” I protested. In my eagerness I leaned forward into the glimmer, seeking closer proximity to the fair enshadowed face that seemed to waver off alluringly just beyond my reach. Then, in a panic lest I had revealed myself and displayed to her the error which I was finding so agreeable, I drew myself back hastily into the gloom. To cover my alarm I reproached her plaintively.
“Why do you keep so far away, sweet one? Surely you are glad to see me again!”
She laughed softly, deliciously, under her hood.
“I haven’t seen you yet, really, you know, Jacques. Perhaps you have changed, and I might not like you so well. Men do change, especially Englishmen and soldiers, they say. But tell me, why have you come to Cheticamp; what reason beside to see me?”
This was a poser. I feared the game was up. But experience has taught me that when one has no good lie ready to hand it is safest to throw oneself on the mercy of Truth and trust to her good nature. She has so many sides that one of them can generally be found to serve any occasion. I told the truth, yet with an air that would permit her to doubt, should the game require it.