PAGE 13
A Question Of Trust
by
There was no denying the fact that, however inexplicable Pierre’s treatment might be, she was completely and irretrievably his prisoner.
There was no one to deliver her from him; no one to know or care what became of her. Her importance had crumbled to nothing so far as the world was concerned. She had simply ceased to count. What did he mean to do with her? Why had he refused to discuss the future?
Gradually, with a certain reluctance, her thoughts came down to her recent interview with him, and again the feeling that he had been trying to convey something that she had failed to grasp possessed her. Why had he warned her against attempting to define her position? What had those last words of his meant?
One thing at least was certain. Though he had done little to reassure her, she must make a determined effort to overcome her fear of the man. She must not again shrink openly in his presence. She must feign confidence, though she felt it not. Something that he had said a week before on the occasion of his extraordinary proposal of marriage recurred to her at this point with curious force.
“It is all a question of trust,” he had said, and she recalled the faint, derisive smile with which he had spoken. “Whatever you expect, that you will receive.” The words dwelt in her memory with a strange persistence. She had a feeling that they meant a good deal. It was possible–surely it was possible–that if she trusted him, he might prove himself to be trustworthy. If only her nerves were equal to the task! If only the terrible memory of his kiss could be blotted for ever and ever from her mind!
She rose at last and began to move about the little state cabin. It was furnished luxuriously in every detail–almost, she told herself with a shiver, as though for a bride. Catching sight of her reflection in a mirror, she stared aghast, scarcely recognising herself in the wild-eyed, haggard woman who met her gaze. Small wonder that she had deemed him repressive, she told herself, for she looked like a demented creature.
That astounding glimpse did more for her than any mental effort. Quite calmly she set to work to render her appearance more normal, and, crippled though she was, she succeeded at length in attaining a fairly satisfactory result. At least she did not think that a masculine eye would detect anything amiss.
This achieved, she finally drew her travelling cloak about her and went to the door. It resisted her effort to open, but in a moment she heard a step on the other side and the withdrawal of a bolt.
Pierre opened the door for her, and stood back for her to pass. But she remained on the threshold.
“Monsieur Dumaresq, why did you lock me in?” she asked him, with something of her old stateliness of demeanour, which had made men deem her proud.
His grey eyes comprehended her in a single glance. He made her his curt, British bow.
“You were overwrought, Mademoiselle Stephanie,” he said. “I was not sure of your intentions. But I see that the precaution was unnecessary.”
She understood him, and a faint flush rose in her pale face.
“Quite,” she responded. “I have come to my senses, monsieur, and I know how to value your protection. I shall not seek that means of escape so long as you are safeguarding me.”
She smiled with the words, a brave and steadfast smile, and extended her hand to him.
The gesture was queenly, but the instant his fingers closed upon it she quivered uncontrollably from head to foot. A sudden mist descended before her eyes, and she groped out blindly for support. Her overtaxed nerves had betrayed her again.
“Come and sit down, mademoiselle,” a quiet voice said; and a steady arm impelled her forward. “There is something of a swell to-night. I am afraid you feel it.”