Part 36 (1/2)
”No, no, my love, not yet,” I said, and she lay still again, only she looked more eager than before.
”I am afraid I have tired out you and Mr. Percivale, papa,” she said.
Percivale laughed so amusedly, that she rejoined roguishly--
”O yes! I know every gentleman is a Hercules--at least, he chooses to be considered one! But, notwithstanding my firm faith in the fact, I have a little womanly conscience left that is hard to hoodwink.”
There was a speech for my wee Connie to make! The best answer and the best revenge was to lift her and go on. This we did, trying as well as we might to prevent the difference of level between us from tilting the litter too much for her comfort.
”Where _are_ you going, papa?” she said once, but without a sign of fear in her voice, as a little slip I made lowered my end of the litter suddenly. ”You must be going up a steep place. Don't hurt yourself, dear papa.”
We had changed our positions, and were now carrying her, head foremost, up the hill. Percivale led, and I followed. Now I could see every change on her lovely face, and it made me strong to endure; for I did find it hard work, I confess, to get to the top. It lay like a little sunny pool, on which all the cloudy thoughts that moved in some unseen heaven cast exquisitely delicate changes of light and shade as they floated over it. Percivale strode on as if he bore a feather behind him. I did wish we were at the top, for my arms began to feel like iron-cables, stiff and stark--only I was afraid of my fingers giving way. My heart was beating uncomfortably too. But Percivale, I felt almost inclined to quarrel with him before it was over, he strode on so unconcernedly, turning every corner of the zigzag where I expected him to propose a halt, and striding on again, as if there could be no pretence for any change of procedure. But I held out, strengthened by the play on my daughter's face, delicate as the play on an opal--one that inclines more to the milk than the fire.
When at length we turned in through the gothic door in the battlemented wall, and set our lovely burden down upon the gra.s.s--
”Percivale,” I said, forgetting the proprieties in the affected humour of being angry with him, so glad was I that we had her at length on the mount of glory, ”why did you go on walking like a castle, and pay no heed to me?”
”You didn't speak, did you, Mr. Walton,” he returned, with just a shadow of solicitude in the question.
”No. Of course not,” I rejoined.
”O, then,” he returned, in a tone of relief, ”how could I? You were my captain: how could I give in so long as you were holding on?”
I am afraid the _Percivale_, without the _Mister_, came again and again after this, though I pulled myself up for it as often as I caught myself.
”Now, papa!” said Connie from the gra.s.s.
”Not yet, my dear. Wait till your mamma and Wynnie come. Let us go and meet them, Mr. Percivale.”
”O yes, do, papa. Leave me alone here without knowing where I am or what kind of a place I am in. I should like to know how it feels. I have never been alone in all my life.”
”Very well, my dear,” I said; and Percivale and I left her alone in the ruins.
We found Ethelwyn toiling up with Wynnie helping her all she could.
”Dear Harry,” she said, ”how could you think of bringing Connie up such an awful place? I wonder you dared to do it.”
”It's done you see, wife,” I answered, ”thanks to Mr. Percivale, who has nearly torn the breath out of me. But now we must get you up, and you will say that to see Connie's delight, not to mention your own, is quite wages for the labour.”
”Isn't she afraid to find herself so high up?”
”She knows nothing about it yet.”
”You do not mean you have left the child there with her eyes tied up.”
”To be sure. We could not uncover them before you came. It would spoil half the pleasure.”
”Do let us make haste then. It is surely dangerous to leave her so.”
”Not in the least; but she must be getting tired of the darkness. Take my arm now.”