The Meadows of the Moon

2Fifteen minutes later Mr. Cordeiro was standing in the library of Sky Peals, with his back to the huge empty fire-grate and his eyes employed in quiet, methodical observation. The girl was lying curled up in one of the leather-backed armchairs, fast asleep. All around the long and spacious room were shelves of volumes—several thousands of them, and more than half in a uniform binding of dark brown leather. In a further corner browsed a sleek grand piano, and in another there stood a vast mahogany pedestal-desk littered with papers. There were no pictures in the room except one over the fire-place of a fierce-looking side-whiskered man with black and sparkling eyes. A gilt tablet proclaimed him to be “John Savage.” A door opened at the far end of the room, and a woman entered, dressed as for dinner. She was, Mr. Cordeiro estimated, in her early thirties, and he was surprised, for he had expected somebody rather older. As she came beneath the sombre glow of the chandelier he noticed that she was very beautiful, with the hard clear English beauty that was so different from the types more familiar to him. “Mrs. Savage?” he exclaimed. She nodded. “And you are Mr. Cordeiro?” She offered her hand, and with a courtly gesture he bent over it and touched the tips of her fingers with his lips. She had expected him to shake hands merely, and the unlooked-for gallantry surprised her. “I was wondering what time you would arrive,” she said quietly, conquering her slight confusion. Then she saw the child. She stepped towards the chair, and then, observing the child to be asleep, checked herself. “Fran, I suppose?” she whispered, softly. Mr. Cordeiro nodded. “Yes. . . . She is very tired after the journey. We landed in Glasgow early this morning and have been travelling all the while since.” Mrs. Savage stepped to the wall by the side of the fire-place and touched a bell. “If she is so tired she shall go to bed immediately. It will be best for her. Michael is already in bed, but my elder son—John—stays up to dinner now—he is just ten years old. . . . By the way, you will join us at dinner?” “If you will excuse my clothes, I will be delighted.” “Oh, there will only be the three of us. We have very little company. It is a pity you cannot stay for a few days, but I suppose you are far too busy, as you said in your letter.” “I am afraid so. I am due in Paris to-morrow evening.” “Yes . . . yes. . . .” She seemed hardly to be listening to him; her eyes were on the sleeping child. And at that moment the child stirred and moved her face so that the light fell upon it. “She is pretty,” said Mr. Cordeiro, softly. Not till the child turned her head sleepily back again did Mrs. Savage answer. Then she said slowly, and with curious intensity of utterance: “I—I—had no idea—she could be—so—so—like her father.”