reassuringly at her, and said, “Now, if you will come upstairs with me, Miss Rochdale, if you please!” She said nothing. Mr. Presteign got up from his chair and asked nervously, “My lord, am I to infer that Mr. Cheviot is willing to have this ceremony performed?”
“Very willing.”
“Lord Carlyon!” said Miss Rochdale faintly.
“Yes, Miss Rochdale, in a little while. There is nothing to alarm you. Come!” She rose and laid her hand on his proffered arm. He patted it briefly and led her to the door. She whispered, “Oh, pray do not—I am sure—”
“No, just trust me!” he said.
She could think of no reason why she should, but it did not seem possible to say so. She went with him up the stairs and into the sickroom.
Eustace Cheviot’s eyes were open, his head turned toward the door. Miss Rochdale gazed at him almost fearfully, but he was not looking at her. His eyes remained riveted to his cousin’s face, searching it in suspicion and a kind of avid eagerness which gave him something of the look of as bird of prey. Miss Rochdale’s clutch tightened on Carlyon’s arm instinctively.
He did not seem to notice it, but led her forward. “Are you of the same mind as ever, Eustace?” he asked, in his cool way.
“Yes, I tell you!”
The doctor was looking curiously at Miss Rochdale. She felt the color mount to her cheeks, and was glad to stand at the bed head, out of the direct light of the candles. It did not occur to her until some time afterward that neither then nor at any time during the unreal ceremony did her bridegroom look at her. She felt stupid, as though she had been drugged, or hypnotized into acting without her own volition. She watched the doctor, the parson, Carlyon, seeing how they conferred together, but without comprehending what they said; observing their movements, but so divorced from them that she could never afterward remember quite what had happened in that grim room hung with dimity curtains. All that imprinted itself on her memory was the pattern of the wallpaper, the gay lozenges of color which made up the patchwork quilt covering the bed, and the way one lock of Cheviot’s hair clung dankly to his brow. When her hand was put into his she started, and looked round wildly. The laboring voice from among the tumbled pillows was whispering after the parson words which he had to bend his head to catch.
“Repeat after me ...”
“I, Elinor Mary ...” she said obediently.
There was a pause; the parson was looking flustered, raising anguished brows at Carlyon, standing on the other side of the bed. Carlyon moved, dragging the signet ring from his finger and putting it into his cousin’s hand. But it was he who pushed the ring over Elinor’s knuckle, guiding Cheviot’s weak hand. She remained entirely passive, not moving until presently her arm was taken in a firm hold and she was led to the table which stood against the wall and required to sign her name. She did so, and was rather surprised to find that her hand did not shake. The paper was taken from her, and to the bed. She watched the doctor support Cheviot while he slowly traced his signature. Then Carlyon came back to her and again took her arm and led her to the door.
“There, that is all,” he said. “Go down to the parlor. I shall not be very long in coming to you.” He shut the door upon her, casting a frowning glance toward the bed. The doctor had measured out a cordial and was holding it to Cheviot’s parted lips. He met Carlyon’s glance with a significant look. Mr. Presteign said, “Indeed, I trust I have done right! I do trust I have! I am sure I have never—”
Cheviot’s eyes opened. “Right? Ay! The best day’s work of your life, Parson!” he uttered. “But I won’t die till I’ve made my will! Paper—ink, you damned sawbones! Where’s my cousin? He’d cheat me if he could, but I’ll live long enough to spite him, see if I don’t!” “Mr. Cheviot, Mr. Cheviot, will you not make
“Very willing.”
“Lord Carlyon!” said Miss Rochdale faintly.
“Yes, Miss Rochdale, in a little while. There is nothing to alarm you. Come!” She rose and laid her hand on his proffered arm. He patted it briefly and led her to the door. She whispered, “Oh, pray do not—I am sure—”
“No, just trust me!” he said.
She could think of no reason why she should, but it did not seem possible to say so. She went with him up the stairs and into the sickroom.
Eustace Cheviot’s eyes were open, his head turned toward the door. Miss Rochdale gazed at him almost fearfully, but he was not looking at her. His eyes remained riveted to his cousin’s face, searching it in suspicion and a kind of avid eagerness which gave him something of the look of as bird of prey. Miss Rochdale’s clutch tightened on Carlyon’s arm instinctively.
He did not seem to notice it, but led her forward. “Are you of the same mind as ever, Eustace?” he asked, in his cool way.
“Yes, I tell you!”
The doctor was looking curiously at Miss Rochdale. She felt the color mount to her cheeks, and was glad to stand at the bed head, out of the direct light of the candles. It did not occur to her until some time afterward that neither then nor at any time during the unreal ceremony did her bridegroom look at her. She felt stupid, as though she had been drugged, or hypnotized into acting without her own volition. She watched the doctor, the parson, Carlyon, seeing how they conferred together, but without comprehending what they said; observing their movements, but so divorced from them that she could never afterward remember quite what had happened in that grim room hung with dimity curtains. All that imprinted itself on her memory was the pattern of the wallpaper, the gay lozenges of color which made up the patchwork quilt covering the bed, and the way one lock of Cheviot’s hair clung dankly to his brow. When her hand was put into his she started, and looked round wildly. The laboring voice from among the tumbled pillows was whispering after the parson words which he had to bend his head to catch.
“Repeat after me ...”
“I, Elinor Mary ...” she said obediently.
There was a pause; the parson was looking flustered, raising anguished brows at Carlyon, standing on the other side of the bed. Carlyon moved, dragging the signet ring from his finger and putting it into his cousin’s hand. But it was he who pushed the ring over Elinor’s knuckle, guiding Cheviot’s weak hand. She remained entirely passive, not moving until presently her arm was taken in a firm hold and she was led to the table which stood against the wall and required to sign her name. She did so, and was rather surprised to find that her hand did not shake. The paper was taken from her, and to the bed. She watched the doctor support Cheviot while he slowly traced his signature. Then Carlyon came back to her and again took her arm and led her to the door.
“There, that is all,” he said. “Go down to the parlor. I shall not be very long in coming to you.” He shut the door upon her, casting a frowning glance toward the bed. The doctor had measured out a cordial and was holding it to Cheviot’s parted lips. He met Carlyon’s glance with a significant look. Mr. Presteign said, “Indeed, I trust I have done right! I do trust I have! I am sure I have never—”
Cheviot’s eyes opened. “Right? Ay! The best day’s work of your life, Parson!” he uttered. “But I won’t die till I’ve made my will! Paper—ink, you damned sawbones! Where’s my cousin? He’d cheat me if he could, but I’ll live long enough to spite him, see if I don’t!” “Mr. Cheviot, Mr. Cheviot, will you not make
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