Part 62 (2/2)

She guided him to the supper-room. It was empty. ”Oblige me with a gla.s.s of water.”

He gave it her. She drank it.

”Mr. Dodd, the advice I gave you with my own lips I never retracted.

My aunt imposed upon you. It was done to mortify you. It has failed, as you may have observed. My head aches so, it is intolerable. When they ask you where I am, say I am unwell, and have retired to my room.

I shall not be at breakfast; directly after breakfast go to your sister, and tell her your friend Lucy declined you, though she knows your value, and would not let you be mortified by nullities and heartless fools. Good-by, Mr. Dodd; try and believe that none of us you leave in this house are worth remembering, far less regretting.”

She vanished haughtily; David crept back to the ball-room. It seemed dark by comparison now she who lent it l.u.s.ter was gone. He stayed a few minutes, then heavy-hearted to bed.

The next morning he shook hands with Mr. Bazalgette, the only one who was up, kissed the terrible infant, who, suddenly remembering his many virtues, formally forgave him his one piece of injustice, and, as he came, so he went away, his bag on his shoulder and his violin-case in his hand.

He went to Cousin Mary and asked for Eve. Cousin Mary's face turned red: ”You will find her at No. 80 in this street. She is gone into lodgings.” The fact is, the cousins had had a tiff, and Eve had left the house that moment.

Oh! my sweet, my beloved heroines--you young vipers, when will you learn to be faultless, like other people? You have turned my face into a peony, blus.h.i.+ng for you at every fourth page.

David came into her apartment. He smiled sweetly, but sadly. ”Well, it is all over. I have offered, and been declined.”

At seeing him so quiet and resigned, Eve burst out crying.

”Don't you cry, dear,” said David. ”It is best so. It is almost a relief. Anything before the suspense I was enduring.”

Then Eve, recovering her spirits by the help of anger, began to abuse Lucy for a cold-hearted, deceitful girl; but David stopped her sternly.

”Not a word against her--not a word. I should hate anyone that miscalled her. She speaks well of you, Eve; why need you speak ill of her? She and I parted friends, and friends let us be. There is no hate can lie alongside love in a true heart. No, let n.o.body speak of her at all to me. I shan't; my thoughts, they are my own. 'Go to your sister,' said she, and here I am; and I beg your pardon, Eve, for neglecting you as I have of late.”

”Oh, never mind _that,_ David; _our_ affection will outlast this folly many a long year.”

”Please G.o.d! Your hand in mine, Eve, my lamb, and let us talk of ourselves and mother: the time is short.”

They sat hand in hand, and never mentioned Lucy's name again; and, strange to say, it was David who consoled Eve; for, now the battle was lost, her spirit seemed to have all deserted her, and she kept bursting out crying every now and then irrelevantly.

It was three in the afternoon. David was sitting by the window, and Eve packing his chest in the same room, not to be out of his sight a minute, when suddenly he started up and cried, ”There she is,” and an instinctive unreasonable joy illumined his face; the next moment his countenance fell.

The carriage pa.s.sed down the street.

”I remember now,” muttered David, ”I heard she was to go sailing, and Mr. Talboys was to be skipper of the boat. Ah! well.”

”Well, let them sail, David. It is not your business.”

”That it is not, Eve--n.o.body's less than mine.

”Eve, there is plenty of wind blowing up from the nor'east.”

”Is there? I am afraid that will bring your s.h.i.+p down quick.”

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