She colored and bent her head.

"You remembered me all that time?... But why didn't you--didn't you--" She laughed nervously. "Why didn't we know each other in those years? Truly, Monsieur Scarlett, I needed a friend then, if ever;... a friend who thought first of me and last of himself."

I did not answer.

"Fancy," she continued, "your pa.s.sing me so long ago,... and I totally unconscious, sitting there in my carriage,... never dreaming of this friendship which I ... care for so much!... Do you remember at La Trappe what I told you, there on the staircase?--how sometimes the impulse used to come to me when I saw a kindly face in the street to cry out, 'Be friends with me!' Do you remember?... It is strange that I did not feel that impulse when you pa.s.sed me that day in Paris--feel it even though I did not see you--for I sorely needed kindness then, kindness and wisdom; and both pa.s.sed by, at my elbow,... and I did not know." She bent her head, smiling with an effort. "You should have thrown yourself astride the horse and galloped away with me.... They did those things once, Monsieur Scarlett--on this very spot, too, in the days of the Saxon pirates."

The whirring monotone of the spinning-wheel suddenly filled the house; Sylvia was singing at her wheel:

"Woe to the maids of Paradise!

Yvonne!

Twice have the Saxons landed; twice!

Yvonne!

Yet shall Paradise see them thrice, Yvonne! Yvonne! Marivonik!"

"The prophecy of that Breton spinning song is being fulfilled," I said. "For the third time we Saxons have come to Paradise, you see."

"But this time our Saxons are not very formidable," she said, raising her beautiful gray eyes; "and the gwerz says, 'Woe to the maids of Paradise!' Do you intend to bring woe upon us maids of Paradise--do you come to carry us off, monsieur?"

"If you will go with--me," I said, smiling.

"All of us?"

"Only one, madame."

She started to speak, then her eyes fell. She laughed uncertainly.

"Which one among us, if you please--mizilour skler ha brillant deuz ar fidelite?"

"Met na varwin Ket Kontant, ma na varwan fidel," I said, slowly, as the words of the song came back to me. "I shall choose only the fairest and loveliest, madame. You know it is always that way in the story." My voice was not perfectly steady, nor was hers when she smiled and wished me happiness and a long life with the maid of Paradise I had chosen, even though I took her by force.

Then constraint crept in between us, and I was grimly weighing the friendship this woman had given me--weighing it in the balance against a single hope.

Once she looked across at me with questioning eyes in which I thought I read dawning disappointment. It almost terrified me.... I could not lose her confidence,... I could not, and go through life without it.... But I could live a hopeless life to its end with that confidence.... And I must do so,... and be content.

"I suppose," said I, thinking aloud, "that I had better go to England."

"When?" she asked, without raising her head.

"In a day or two. I can find employment there, I think."

"Is it necessary that you find employment ... so soon?"

"Yes," I said, with a meaningless laugh, "I fear it is."

"What will you do?"

"Oh, the army--horses--something of that kind. Riding-master, perhaps--perhaps Scotland Yard. I may not be able to pick and choose.... If I ever save enough money for the voyage, perhaps you would let me come, once in a long while, to pay my respects, madame?"

"Yes,... come, if you wish."

She said no more, nor did I. Presently Sylvia appeared with a peasant woman, and the young countess went away, followed by the housekeeper with her keys at her girdle.

I rose and walked to the window; then, nerveless and depressed, I went out into the garden again to smoke a cigar.

The cat had disappeared; I traversed the garden, pa.s.sed through the side wicket, and found myself on the cliffs. Almost immediately I was aware of a young girl, a child, seated on the rocks, her chin propped on her hands, the sea-wind blowing her curly elf-locks across her cheeks and eyes. A bundle tied in a handkerchief lay beside her; a cat dozed in her lap, its sleek fur stirring in the wind.

"Jacqueline!" I said, gently.

She raised her head; the movement awakened the cat, who stood up in her lap, stretching and yawning vigorously.

"I thought you were to sail from Lorient to-day?"

The cat stopped purring from her knees; the child rose, pushing back her hair from her eyes with both hands.

"Where is Speed?" she asked, drowsily.

"Did you want to see him, Jacqueline?"

"That is why I returned."

"To see Speed?"

"Parbleu."

"And you are going to let the others sail without you?"

"Yes."

"And give up the circus forever, Jacqueline?"

"Y-es."

"Just because you want to see Speed?"

"Only for that."

She stood rubbing her eyes with her small fists, as though just awakened.

"Oui," she said, without emotion, "c'est comme ca, m'sieu. Where the heart is, happiness lies. I left the others at the city gate; I said, 'Voyons, let us be reasonable, gentlemen. I am happy in your circus; I am happy with Speed; I can be contented without your circus, but I cannot be contented without Speed. Voila!'... and then I went."

"You walked back all the way from Lorient?"

"Bien sur! I have no carriage--I, Jacqueline." She stretched her slim figure, raised her arms slowly, and yawned. "Pardon," she murmured, "I have slept in the gorse--badly."

"Come into the garden," I said; "we can talk while you rest."

She thanked me tranquilly, picked up her bundle, and followed me with a slight limp. The cat, tail up, came behind.