Part 51 (2/2)
Now, Miss Chesney does not prefer the a.s.sistance of a footman; in fact, she would prefer solitude and a lonely dinner rather than trust herself to such a one; so she pockets her pride, and, seeing Sir Guy almost outside the door, raises herself on her elbow and says, pettishly, and with the most flagrant injustice:
”Of course I can stay here all by myself in the dark, if there is no one to take me down.”
”I wish I understood you,” says Guy, irritably, coming back into the room. ”Do you mean you wish me to carry you down? I am quite willing to do so, though I wish with all my heart your cousin were here to take my place. It would evidently be much pleasanter for all parties.
Nevertheless, if you deign to accept my aid,” proudly, ”I shall neither trip nor drop you, I promise.”
There is a superciliousness in his manner that vexes Lilian; but, having an innate horror of solitude, go down she will: so she says, cuttingly:
”You are graciousness itself! you give me plainly to understand how irksome is this duty to you. I too wish Archie were here, for many reasons, but as it is----” she pauses abruptly; and Guy, stooping, raises her quietly, tenderly, in his arms, and, with the angry scowl upon his face and the hauteur still within his usually kind blue eyes, begins his march down-stairs.
It is rather a long march to commence, with a young woman, however slender, in one's arms. First comes the corridor, which is of a goodly length, and after it the endless picture-gallery. Almost as they enter the latter, a little nail half hidden in the doorway catches in Lilian's gown, and, dragging it roughly, somehow hurts her foot. The pain she suffers causes her to give way to a sharp cry, whereupon Guy stops short, full of anxiety.
”You are in pain?” he says, gazing eagerly into the face so close to his own.
”My foot,” she answers, her eyes wet with tears; ”something dragged it: oh, how it hurts! And you promised me to be so careful, and now----but I dare say you are _glad_ I am punished,” she winds up, vehemently, and then bursts out crying, partly through pain, partly through nervousness and a good deal of self-torturing thought long suppressed, and hides her face childishly against his sleeve because she has nowhere else to hide it. ”Lay me down,” she says, faintly.
There is a lounging-chair close to the fire that always burns brightly in the long gallery: placing her in it, he stands a little aloof, cursing his own ill-luck, and wondering what he has done to make her hate him so bitterly. Her tears madden him. Every fresh sob tears his heart. At last, unable to bear the mental agony any longer, he kneels down beside her, and, with an aspect of the deepest respect, takes one of her hands in his.
”I am very unfortunate,” he says, humbly. ”Is it hurting you very much?”
”It is better now,” she whispers; but for all that she sobs on very successfully behind her handkerchief.
”You are not the only one in pain,”--speaking gently but earnestly: ”every sob of yours causes me absolute torture.”
This speech has no effect except to make her cry again harder than ever.
It is so sweet to a woman to know a man is suffering tortures for her sake.
A little soft lock of her hair has shaken itself loose, and has wandered across her forehead. Almost unconsciously but very lovingly, he moves it back into its proper place.
”What have I done, Lilian, that you should so soon have learned to hate me?” he whispers: ”we used to be good friends.”
”So long ago”--in stifled tones from behind the handkerchief--”that I have almost forgotten it.”
”Not so very long. A few weeks at the utmost,--before your cousin came.”
”Yes,”--with a sigh,--”before my cousin came.”
”That is only idle recrimination. I know I once erred deeply, but surely I have repented, and---- Tell me why you hate me.”
”I cannot.”
”Why?”
”Because I don't know myself.”
”What! you confess you hate me without cause?”
<script>