And the little Marie's love for Stewart,
grown to be a part of her, was largely maternal. She held him by
mothering him, by keeping him comfortable, not by a great
reciprocal passion that might in time have brought him to her in
chains.
And now he was uncomfortable. He chafed against the confinement;
he resented the food, the weather. Even Marie's content at her
unusual leisure irked him. He accused her of purring like a cat
by the fire, and stamped out more than once, only to be driven in
by the curious thunderstorms of early Alpine winter.
On the night of the second day the weather changed. Marie,
awakening early, stepped out on to the balcony and closed the
door carefully behind her. A new world lay beneath her, a marvel
of glittering branches, of white plain far below; the snowy mane
of the Raxalpe was become a garment. And from behind the villa
came the cheerful sound of sleigh-bells, of horses' feet on crisp
snow, of runners sliding easily along frozen roads. Even the
barking of the dog in the next yard had ceased rumbling and
become sharp staccato.
The balcony extended round the corner of the house. Marie,
eagerly discovering her new world, peered about, and seeing no
one near ventured so far. The road was in view, and a small girl
on ski was struggling to prevent a collision between two plump
feet. Even as Marie saw her the inevitable happened and she went
headlong into a drift. A governess who had been kneeling before a
shrine by the road hastily crossed herself and ran to the rescue.
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