"On the lips of a moralist this would sound like a rebuke," he said,
half seriously; "but I won't suspect you of being one. Moralists and I
haven't been friends for many years."
She had listened with an air of attention.
"I understood you had no friends," she said. "I am pleased that there's
nobody to find fault with you for what you have done. I like to think
that I am in no one's way."
Heyst would have said something, but she did not give him time.
Unconscious of the movement he made she went on:
"What I was thinking to myself was, why are you here?"
Heyst let himself sink on his elbow again.
"If by 'you' you mean 'we'--well, you know why we are here."
She bent her gaze down at him.
"No, it isn't that. I meant before--all that time before you came across
me and guessed at once that I was in trouble, with no one to turn to.
And you know it was desperate trouble too."
Her voice fell on the last words, as if she would end there; but there
was something so expectant in Heyst's attitude as he sat at her feet,
looking up at her steadily, that she continued, after drawing a short,
quick breath:
"It was, really. I told you I had been worried before by bad fellows.
It made me unhappy, disturbed--angry, too. But oh, how I hated, hated,
_hated_ that man!"
"That man" was the florid Schomberg with the military bearing,
benefactor of white men ('decent food to eat in decent company')--mature
victim of belated passion.
Pages:
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240