Part 77 (1/2)
”No,” replies Miss Chesney, somewhat troubled; ”it is not that, only----”
”Then I think you had better stay as you are. You are very tired, I can see, and this carriage is not the easiest in the world.”
With gentle boldness he replaces the offending arm in its old position, and wisely refrains from further speech.
Lilian is confounded. She makes no effort to release herself, being filled with amazement at the extraordinary change in his manner, and, perhaps, wholly glad of it. Has he forgiven her? Has he repented him of his stern looks and cold avoidance? All night long he has shunned her persistently, has apparently been unaware of her presence; and now there is something in his tone, in his touch, that betrays to her what sets her heart beating treacherously.
Presently Guy becomes aware of this fact, and finding encouragement in the thought that she has not again repulsed him, says, softly:
”Were you frightened when you awoke?”
”Yes, a little.”
”You are not frightened now?”
”No, not now. At first, on waking, I started to find myself here.”
”Here,” may mean the carriage, or her resting-place, or anything.
After a short pause:
”Sir Guy,”--tremulously.
”Yes.”
”You remember all that happened the night before last?”
”I do,” slowly.
”I have wanted ever since to tell you how sorry I am for it all, to beg your pardon, to ask you to----” she stops, afraid to trust her voice further, because of some little troublesome thing that rises in her throat and threatens to make itself heard.
”I don't want you to beg my pardon,” says Guy, hastily, in a pained tone. ”If I had not provoked you, it would never have happened. Lilian, promise me you will think no more about it.”
”Think about it! I shall never cease thinking about it. It was horrible, it was shameful of me. I must have gone mad, I think. Even now, to remember it makes me blush afresh. I am glad it is dark,”--with a little nervous laugh,--”because you cannot see my face. It is burning.”
”Is it?” tenderly. With gentle fingers he touches her soft cheek, and finds it is indeed, as she has said, ”burning.” He discovers something else also,--tears quite wet upon it.
”You are crying, child,” he says, startled, distressed.
”Am I? No wonder. I _ought_ to suffer for my hateful conduct toward you.
I shall never forgive myself.”
”Nonsense!” angrily. ”Why should you cry about such a trifle? I won't have it. It makes me miserable to know any thought of me can cause you a tear.”
”I cry”--with a heavy sob--”because I fear you will never think well of me again. I have lost your good opinion, if indeed”--sadly--”I ever had it. You _must_ think badly of me.”
”I do not,” returns he, with an accent that is almost regret. ”I wish I could. It matters little what you do, I shall never think of you but as the dearest and sweetest girl I ever met. In that”--with a sigh--”lies my misfortune.”
”Not think badly of me! and yet you called me a flirt! Am I a flirt?”