Part 53 (1/2)
Yocomb, please excuse me. I'm selfish enough to prefer the cool piazza.”
”But thee hasn't eaten anything.”
”Oh, yes, I have, and I made a huge dinner,” I replied carelessly, and sauntered out and lighted a cigar. Instead of coming out on the piazza, as I hoped, Miss Warren bade Mr. Hearn good-night in the hall, and, pleading fatigue, went to her room.
She was down to see him off in the morning, and at his request accompanied him to the depot. I was reading on the piazza when she returned, and I hastened to a.s.sist her from the rockaway.
”Miss Warren,” I exclaimed, in deep solicitude, ”this long, hot ride has been too much for you.”
”Perhaps it has,” she replied briefly, without meeting my eyes. ”I'll go and rest.”
She pleaded a headache, and did not come down to dinner. Mrs. Yocomb returned from her room with a troubled face.
I had resolved that I would not seek to see her alone while Mr. Hearn was away, and so resumed my long rambles. When I returned, about supper time, she was sitting on the piazza watching Adela and Zillah playing with their dolls. She did not look up as I took a seat on the steps not far away.
At last I began, ”Can I tell you that I am very sorry you have been ill to-day?”
”I wasn't dangerous, as country people say,” she replied, a little brusquely.
”You look as if Dapple might run over you now.”
”A kitten might run over me,” she replied briefly, still keeping her eyes on the children.
By and by she asked, ”Why do you look at me so intently, Mr. Morton?”
”I beg your pardon.”
”That's not answering my question.”
”Suppose I deny that I was looking at you. You have not condescended to glance at me yet.”
”You had better not deny it.”
”Well, then, to tell you the truth, as I find I always must, I was looking for some trace of mercy. I was thinking whether I could venture to ask forgiveness for being more of a brute than Dapple yesterday.”
”Have your words troubled you very much?”
”They have indeed.”
”Well, they've troubled me too. You think I'm heartless, Mr. Morton;”
and she arose and went to her piano.
I followed her instantly. ”Won't you forgive me?” I asked; ”I've repented.”
”Oh, nonsense, Mr. Morton. You know as well as I do that I'm the one to ask forgiveness.”
”No, I don't,” I said, in a low, pa.s.sionate tone. ”I fear you are grieving about what you can't help.”
”Can't help?” she repeated, flus.h.i.+ng.