IV
But the following morning he appeared to be really ill: his cheeks looked sunken, almost livid, his eyes dim and hollow. Nevertheless he would not hear of staying on another day or so.
"No, no," he declared emphatically, "I shall be better in Bath. It is more sheltered there, here the north winds would drive me to my bed very quickly. I shall take a course of baths at once. They did me a great deal of good before, you remember, Yvonne—in September, when I caught a chill ... they soon put me right. That is all that ails me now.... I've caught a chill."
He did his best to reassure his daughter, but she was far from satisfied: more especially as he hardly would touch the cup of chocolate which she had prepared for him with her own hands.
"I shall be quite myself again in Bath," he declared, "and in a day or two when you can spare the time—or when milor can spare you—perhaps you will drive over to see how the old father is getting on, eh?"
"Indeed," she said firmly, "I shall not allow you to go to Bath alone. If you will go, I shall accompany you."
"Nay!" he protested, "that is foolishness, my child. The barouche will take me back quite comfortably. It is less than two hours' drive and I shall be quite safe and comfortable."
"You will be quite safe and comfortable in my company," she retorted with a tender, anxious glance at his pale face and the nervous tremor of his hands. "I have consulted with my dear husband and he has given his consent that I should accompany you."
"But you can't leave milor like that, my child," he protested once more. "He will be lonely and miserable without you."
"Yes. I think he will," she said wistfully. "But he will be all the happier when you are well again, and I can return to Combwich satisfied."
Whereupon M. le duc yielded. He kissed and thanked his daughter and seemed even relieved at the prospect of her company. The barouche was ordered for eleven o'clock, and a quarter of an hour before that time Lord Tony had his young wife in his arms, bidding her a sad farewell.
"I hate your going from me, sweetheart," he said as he kissed her eyes, her hair, her lips. "I cannot bear you out of my sight even for an hour ... let alone a couple of days."
"Yet I must go, dear heart," she retorted, looking up with that sweet, grave smile of hers into his eager young face. "I could not let him travel alone ... could I?"
"No, no," he assented somewhat dubiously, "but remember, dear heart, that you are infinitely precious and that I shall scarce live for sheer anxiety until I have you here, safe, once more in my arms."
"I'll send you a courier this evening," she rejoined, as she extricated herself gently from his embrace, "and if I can come back to-morrow...."
"I'll ride over to Bath in any case in the morning so that I may escort you back if you really can come."
"I will come if I am reassured about father. Oh, my dear lord," she added with a wistful little sigh, "I knew yesterday morning that I was too happy, and that something would happen to mar the perfect felicity of these last few days."
"You are not seriously anxious about M. le duc's health, dear heart?"
"No, not seriously anxious. Farewell, milor. It is au revoir ... a few hours and we'll resume our dream."