FullReads

In another second she heard the click of the latch, and his step upon the threshold. Softly the door closed. Softly he went away.

VI

And Stephanie slept. From her paroxysm of weeping she passed into deep, untroubled slumber, and hour after hour slipped over her unconscious head while she lay at rest.

When she awoke at last the evening sun was streaming in through the tiny porthole by the head of her couch, and she knew that she must have slept throughout the day. She was very drowsy still, and for a while she lay motionless, listening to the monotonous beat of the yacht’s engines, and watching the white spray as it tossed past.

Very gradually she began to remember what had happened to her. She glanced at her wounded hand, swathed in bandages and resting upon a cushion. Who had arranged it so, she wondered? How had it been done without her waking?

At the back of her mind hovered the answers to both these questions, but she could not bring herself to face them–not yet. She was loth to withdraw herself from the haze of sleep that still hung about her. She shrank intuitively from a full awakening.

And then, while she still loitered on the way to consciousness, there came a soft movement near her, and in a moment all her repose was shattered.

Pierre, his dark face grimly inscrutable, bent over her with a cup of something steaming in his hand.

She shrank at the sight of him. Her whole body seemed to contract. Involuntarily almost she shut her eyes. Her heart leapt and palpitated within her like a chained thing seeking to escape.

Then suddenly it stood still. He was speaking.

“Mademoiselle Stephanie,” he said, “I beg you will not agitate yourself. You have no cause for agitation. It is not by my own wish that I intrude upon you. I have no choice.”

It was curtly uttered. It sounded rigidly uncompromising. Yet, for some reason wholly inexplicable to herself, she was conscious of relief. She opened her eyes, though she did not dare to raise them.

“How is that, monsieur?” she said faintly.

He was silent for a moment; then:

“There is no woman on board besides yourself,” he told her briefly. “Your own people deserted you. I had no time to search for others.”

She felt as if his eyes were drawing her own. Against her will she looked up and met them. They told her nothing, but at least they did not frighten her afresh.

“Where are you going to take me?” she asked.

“We will speak of that later,” he said. “Will you drink this now? You need it.”

“What is it, monsieur?”

For an instant she saw his faint, hard smile.

“It is broth, mademoiselle, nothing more.”

“Nothing?” she said, still hesitating. “You–I think you gave me a narcotic before!”

“I did,” said Pierre. “And it did you good.”

She did not attempt to contradict him. The repression of his manner held her silent. Without further demur she sought to raise herself.

But her head swam the moment she lifted it from the pillow, and she sank down again with closed eyes and drawn brows.

“In a moment,” she whispered.

“Permit me,” said Pierre quietly; and slipped his arm under her pillow.

She looked up sharply to protest, but the words died on her lips. She saw that he would not be denied.

He supported her with absolute steadiness while she drank, not uttering a word. Finally, he lowered her again, and spoke:

“It is time that your wound was attended to. With your permission I will proceed with it at once.”

“Is it serious, monsieur?” she asked.

“I can tell you better when I have seen it,” he rejoined, beginning to loosen the bandage. “Does it pain you?” as she winced.

“A little,” she acknowledged, with quivering lips.

He glanced at her, and for the first time in all her experience of him he spoke with a hint of kindness.

“It will not take long, Mademoiselle Stephanie. Shut your eyes till it is over.”