Part 64 (2/2)
”There is no occasion for all this--nervousness,” he says, half savagely, as she lays her head against his shoulder and cries as though her heart would break. At this supreme moment she scarcely remembers Guy's presence, and would have cried just as comfortably with her head upon old Parkins's shoulder. Perhaps he understands this, and therefore fails to realize the rapture he should know at having her so unresistingly within his arms. As it is, his expression is bored to the last degree: his eyebrows are drawn upward until all his forehead lies in little wrinkles. With a determination worthy of a better cause he has fixed his eyes upon the wall opposite, and refuses to notice the lovely golden head of her who is weeping so confidingly upon his breast.
It is a touching scene, but fails to impress Guy, who cannot blind himself to (what he believes to be) the fact that all these pearly tears are flowing for another,--and that a rival. With his tall figure drawn to its fullest height, so as to preclude all idea of tenderness, he says, sharply:
”One would imagine I had brought you bad news. You could not possibly appear more inconsolable if you had heard of his death. Do try to rouse yourself, and be reasonable: he is all right, and as likely to live as you are.”
At this he gives her a mild but undeniable shake, that has the desired effect of reducing her to calmness. She checks her sobs, and, moving away from him, prepares to wipe away all remaining signs of her agitation.
”You certainly are not very sympathetic,” she says, with a last faint sob, casting a reproachful glance at him out of two drowned but still beautiful eyes.
”I certainly am not,” stiffly: ”I can't 'weep my spirit from my eyes'
because I hear a fellow is better, if you mean that.”
”You seem to be absolutely grieved at his chance of recovery,”
viciously.
”I have no doubt I seem to you all that is vilest and worst. I learned your opinion of me long ago.”
”Well,”--scornfully--”I think you need scarcely choose either this time, or place, for one of your stand-up fights. When you remember what you have just said,--that you are actually _sorry_ poor dear Archie is alive,--I think you ought to go away and feel very much ashamed of yourself.”
”Did I say that?” indignantly.
”Oh, I don't know,” indifferently,--as though his denial now cannot possibly alter the original fact; ”something very like it, at all events.”
”How can you so malign me, Lilian?” angrily. ”No one can be more heartily sorry for poor Chesney than I am, or more pleased at his escape from death. You willfully misunderstand every word I utter. For the future,--as all I say seems to annoy,--I beg you will not trouble yourself to address me at all.”
”I shall speak to you just whenever I choose,” replies Miss Chesney, with superb defiance.
At this thrilling instant Chesney's door is again opened wide, and Dr.
Bland comes out, treading softly, and looking all importance.
”You, my dear Miss Chesney!” he says, approaching her lightly; ”the very young lady of all others I most wished to see. Not that there is anything very curious about that fact,” with his cozy chuckle; ”but your cousin is asking for you, and really, you know, upon my word, he is so very excitable, I think perhaps--eh?--under the circ.u.mstances, you know, it would be well to gratify his pardonable desire to see you--eh?”
”The circ.u.mstances” refer to the rooted conviction, that for weeks has been planted in the doctor's breast, of Miss Chesney's engagement to her cousin.
”To see me?” says Lilian, shrinking away involuntarily, and turning very red. Both the tone and the blush are ”confirmation strong” of the doctor's opinion. And Guy, watching her silently, feels, if possible, even more certain than before of her affection for Chesney.
”To be sure, my dear; and why not?” says the kindly little doctor, patting her encouragingly on the shoulder. He deals in pats and smiles.
They are both part of his medicine. So,--under the circ.u.mstances,-- through force of habit, would he have patted the Queen of England or a lowly milkmaid alike,--with perhaps an additional pat to the milkmaid, should she chance to be pretty. Lilian, being rich in nature's charms, is a special favorite of his.
”But--” says Lilian, still hesitating. To tell the truth, she is hardly ambitious of entering Archibald's room, considering their last stormy parting; and, besides, she is feeling sadly nervous and out of sorts.
The ready tears spring again to her eyes; once more the tell-tale blood springs hotly to her cheeks. Guy's fixed gaze--he is watching her with a half sneer upon his face--disconcerts her still further. Good Dr. Bland entirely mistakes the meaning of her confusion.
”Now, my dear child, if I give you leave to see this reckless cousin, we must be cautious, _very_ cautious, and quiet, _extremely_ quiet, eh?
That is essential, you know. And mind, no tears. There is nothing so injurious on these occasions as tears! Reminds one invariably of last farewells and funeral services, and coffins, and all such uncomfortable matters. I don't half like granting these interviews myself, but he appears bent on seeing you, and, as I have said before, he is impetuous,--_very_ impetuous.”
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