Encouraged, the other rejoined: “May I leave one or two books for him to read--or for you to read to him?” Then added hastily, for she saw a curious look in Rosalie’s eyes: “We can have mutual friends in books, though we cannot be friends with each other. Books are the go-betweens of humanity.”
Rosalie’s heart leapt, she flushed, then grew slightly pale, for it was not tone or inflection alone that disturbed her now, but words themselves. A voice from over the hills seemed to say these things to her. A haunting voice from over the hills had said them to her--these very words.
“Friends need no go-betweens,” she said quietly, “and enemies should not use them.”
She heard a voice say, “By Jove!” in a tone of surprise, as though it were wonderful the girl from Chaudiere should have her wits about her. So Rosalie interpreted it.
“Have you many friends here?” asked the cold voice, meant to be kindly and pacific. It was schooled to composure, because it gave advantage in life’s intercourse, not from any inner urbanity.
“Some need many friends, some but a few. I come from a country where one only needs a few.”
“Where is your country, I wonder?” said the cold echo of another voice.
Charley had passed out of Kathleen’s life--he was dead to her, his memory scorned and buried. She loved the man to whom she supposed she was married; she was only too glad to let the dust of death and time cover every trace of Charley from her gaze; she would have rooted out every particle of association: yet his influence on her had been so great that she had unconsciously absorbed some of his idiosyncrasies--in the tone of his voice, in his manner of speaking. To-day she had even repeated phrases he had used.
“Beyond the hills,” said Rosalie, turning away.
“Is it not strange?” said the voice. “That is the title of one of the books I have just brought--‘Beyond the Hills’. It is by an English writer. This other book is French. May I leave them?”
Rosalie inclined her head. It would make her own position less dignified if she refused them. “Books are always welcome to my father,” she said.
There was an instant’s pause, as though the fashionable lady would offer her hand; but their eyes met, and they only bowed. The lady moved on with a smile, leaving a perfume of heliotrope behind her.