Volume II Part 61 (1/2)
”I never was, in feeling. I never was in an embarra.s.sment of riches, either. I can't help you!”
”But these are yours, Rowland. What are you talking of?”
”Are you going to make me a present of the whole?” said Mr. Rhys, stooping down for a grape.
”No, Mr. Esthwaite has done that. The embarra.s.sment is yours.”
”I am in no embarra.s.sment; you are mistaken. By what right do you say that Mr. Esthwaite has sent these to me?”
”Because he sent them to me,” said Eleanor. ”It is the same thing.”
”That is dutiful, and loyal, and all that sort of thing,” said Mr.
Rhys, helping himself to another grape, and looking with his keen eyes and imperturbable gravity at Eleanor. Perhaps _he_ liked to see the scarlet bloom he could so easily call up in her cheeks, which was now accompanied with a little impatient glance at him. ”Nevertheless, I do not consider myself to be within the scope of the gift. The disposition of it remains with you. I do not like the responsibilities of other people's wealth to rest on my shoulders.”
”But this fruit is different from what we have on the island; is there not something you would like to have done with it?”
”I should like you to give me one bunch of grapes--to be chosen by yourself.”
He looked on, with a satisfied expression of face, while Eleanor's fingers separated and overhauled the fruit till she had got a bunch to her mind; and stood still in his place to let her bring it to him. Then took possession of her and the grapes at once, neglecting the latter however entirely, to consider her.
”What would you like to have done with the rest, Rowland?” said Eleanor, while her face glowed under his caresses and examination.
”This is a very becoming dress you have on!”
”I did not know you noticed ladies' dresses.”
”I always notice my own.”
Eleanor's head drooped a little, to hide the rush of pleasure and shame.
”But, Rowland,” she said with gentle persistence, ”what _would_ you like to have done with that basket? Isn't there some meaning behind your words about it?”
”What makes you think so?” said he, curling the corners of his mouth in an amused way.
”I thought so. Please tell it me! You have something to tell me.”
”The fruit is yours, Eleanor.”
”And what am I?”
The tears came into her eyes with a little vexed earnestness, for she fancied that Mr. Rhys would not speak _because_ the fruit was hers. His manner changed again, to the deep tenderness which he had shewn so frequently; holding her close and looking down into her face; not answering at once; half enjoying, half soothing, the feeling he had raised.
”Eleanor,” he said, ”I do not want that fruit.”
”Tell me what to do with it.”
”If you like to send some of those grapes to sister Balliol, at the other house, I think they would do a great deal of good.”
”I will just take out a few for you, and I will send the whole basket over there just as it is. Is there anybody to take it?”