The Divine Fire Part 108

"Because it would have been so very like you."

"Then I must be lying abominably. Is that so very like me?"

"I have heard you do it before--once--twice--magnificently."

"When?"

"About this time nine years ago."

He remembered. The wonder was that she should have remembered too.

"I daresay. But what possible motive could I have for lying now?"

He had scored heavily this time. Far too heavily. There was a flame in Lucia's face which did not come from the glow of the fire, a flame that ran over her neck and forehead to the fine tips of her ears. For she thought, supposing all the time he had been telling her the simple truth? Why should she have raised that question? Why should she have taken for granted that any personal interest should have led him to do this thing? And in wondering she was ashamed. He saw her confusion, and attributed it to another cause.

"I'm only asking you to keep the two things distinct, as I do--as I must do," he said gently.

"I'll think about it, and let you know to-morrow."

"But I'm going to-night."

"Oh no, I can't let you do that. You must stay over the night. Your room is ready for you."

He protested; she insisted; and in the end she had her way, as he meant to have his way to-morrow.

He stayed, and all that evening they were very kind to him. Kitty talked gaily throughout dinner; and afterwards Lucia played to him while he rested, propped up with great cus.h.i.+ons (she had insisted on the cus.h.i.+ons) in her chair. Kitty, his hostess, drew back, and seemed to leave these things to Lucia as her right. He knew it was Lucia, and not Kitty, who ran up to his room to see that all was comfortable and that his fire burnt well. In everything she said and did there was a peculiar gentleness and care. It was on the same lines as Kitty's compa.s.sion, only more poignant and intense. It was, he thought, as if she knew that it was for the last time, that of all these pleasant things to-morrow would see the end. Was it kind of her to let him know what her tenderness could be when to-morrow must end it all? For he had no notion of the fear evoked by his appearance, the fear that was in both their hearts. He did not know why they looked at him with those kind glances, nor why Lucia told him that Robert was close at hand if he should want anything in the night. He slept in the room that had once been Lucia's, the room above the library, looking to the western hills. He did not know that they had given it him because it was a good room to be ill and to get well in.

Lucia and Kitty sat up late that night over the fire, and they talked of him.

Kitty began it. "_Do_ you remember," said she, "the things we used to say about him?"

"Oh don't, Kitty; I do."

"You needn't mind; it was only I who said them."

"Yes, you said them; but I thought them."

Then she told Kitty what had brought him there and the story that he had told her. "And, Kitty, all the time I knew he lied."

"Probably. You must take it, Lucy, all the same."

"How can I take it, when I know it comes out of his own poor little waistcoat pocket?"

"You would, if you cared enough about him."

"No. It's just _because_ I care that I can't."

"You do care, then?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"But not in the same way as _he_ cares, Lucy."

Kitty's words sounded like a statement rather than a question, so they pa.s.sed unanswered.

"It's all right, Kitty. It's all over, at last. He doesn't care a bit now, not a bit."

"Oh doesn't he! How can you be so idiotic? All over? I a.s.sure you it's only just begun."

Lucia turned her head away.

"Lucy--what are you going to do with him?"

Lucia smiled sadly. That was the question she had asked Horace ten years ago, making him responsible. And now the responsibility had been laid on her. "Kitty--did you notice how thin he is? He looks as if he'd just come through some awful illness. But I can't ask him about it."

"Rather not. You don't know whether he's had it, or whether he's going to have it."

"I wonder if you'd mind asking him to stay a week or two? It might help him to get strong."

"I doubt it."

"I don't. I think it's just what he wants. Oh, Kitty, could you--would you, if I wanted it, too?"

"You needn't ask. But what earthly good can it do?"

"If he got strong here it would be so nice to think we sent him away well. And if he's going to be ill I could look after him--"

Her use of "we" and "I" did not pa.s.s unnoticed by the observant Kitty.

"And then?"

Lucia's face, which had been overcast with care, was now radiant.

"Then I should have done something for him besides making him miserable. Will you ask him, Kitty?"

"You're a fool, Lucy, and I'm another. But I'll ask him. To-morrow, though; not to-day."

She waited to see what to-morrow would bring forth, for she was certain it would bring forth something.

It brought forth glorious weather after the east wind, a warm languid day, half spring, half summer. Lucia and Kitty seemed bent on putting all idea of business out of their guest's head. In the morning they drove about the country. In the afternoon they all sat out in the south square under the windows of the morning-room, while Lucia talked to him about his tragedies. Kitty still held her invitation in reserve.

At last she left them to themselves. It was Lucia who first returned to the subject of dispute. She had some sewing in her lap which gave her the advantage of being able to talk in a calm, detached manner and without looking up. He sat near her, watching with delight the quiet movements of her hands.

"I've been thinking over what you said yesterday," said she. "I can't do what you want; but I can suggest a compromise. You seem determined on rest.i.tution. Have you forgotten that you once offered it me in another form?"

"You refused it in that form--then."

"I wouldn't refuse it now. If you could be content with that."