Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v108.djvu/582

548 of ivied elms, had she had loved to see him come—why, she could not tell at first. And when she knew the reason, too late, she wished herself dead, like the Earl.

Her memories, chasing one another in a mad circle, brought her back to the present. She went half-way down the broad flight of rounded stone steps to meet her guest, her bare neck with its pearls unsheltered from the wind, her cheeks white, and all her body dry and burning.

The steward had set the wine on the table and removed the last course, and many untasted dishes before it. He seemed, Otway thought, to be possessed by a sense of ceremonial that touched insanity, for half his tripping journeys between sideboard and table, and table and door, appeared to be for no reason but to remove clean silver and replace it with fresh. Never for a moment did the hostess and her guest appear to be alone. He chafed under it for an hour. And yet, even so, the hunger of his eyes was beginning to be appeased. When at last the door closed and the two sat at the table, she in her high chair—the Earl always liked to see his sister so enthroned—and Otway sitting, a little sideways, with his arm on the table, so that he could command her face without appearing to stare too closely—when the two so sat together he wondered why he had longed for this moment, so painfully did he fear lest she should lapse into sorrow and anger or shrink icily if he boldly put his own business first. In his pouch was a trifle or two, gifts he had brought her, a rosary of Irish beads, a soft tippet of Irish lace. He told her little anecdotes of the way he chose them; he asked her to wear them, some day.

She smiled and looked at the beads. Then she took up the tiny silver crucifix they carried and examined it.

"They say that this Man suffered for all the sins of the world," she said, bitterly, "but it is an old tale which does not help me. Men like Deb are falsely done to death hour after hour. And still the whole world sins and goes free, because some men are cowards and others are dolts and are afraid for their own skins. Tell me, is it not true?"

"It is true that half the world sins and the other half must pay," he answered, gently; "but we cannot read the end of the tale, my Lady Clemency. And it is often well we cannot read it."

Her fingers twined themselves absently in the delicate lace tippet, and she looked away from him. But her silence gave him courage.

"Will you not wear it now, that I may see how it becomes you? For, if not, we will give it to the nearest almswoman and I will bring you another scarf," he said. His tone rallied her, his eyes besought. He did not see the hard look in her eyes, for she looked down; he only saw the quiver of her fine lips, and took it as a sign of gentleness towards him. He rose and courteously hung the lace upon her shoulders, never once daring to touch even her sleeve as he did so. He waited, standing with a little nervous smile, to see if her cheek would color, or her lips find a word or two which might tell him how he stood with her. She pushed back her big chair and rose. It seemed as with an effort that she looked at him then and said:

"I must see the lace in a mirror. Come; there is one up-stairs. Give me your arm, Major Romilly."

His heart misgave him as they mounted the stairs. Just so—to the eye—might a betrothed pair have passed to the joyous shelter of the fires in the parlors above, he reflected. But she never looked at him, nor leant on his arm. They might have been ghosts, so impersonal, so unreal seemed the link.

"You know these rooms," she said, in a low tone, as she took her arm suddenly from his and led the way.

"Yes, yes," he answered. He feared this mood of hers yet; he knew that the subject which filled both their minds could no longer be avoided.

"Come and see how well I have tended Deb's favorite toys," she said. Her tone was lighter—and yet he hated that cold, hard look of the eyes, so new in her, so strange.

She beckoned, and he followed. She rested now and again in a seat, then would start up to pass on and point to some familiar relic.

Otway moved as she moved, but always remained standing.

"Here is his library," she said. "You