CHAPTER XL.
ONCE MORE AT GREENHURST.
It was a large chamber, full of rich, massive furniture. The windows were all muffled with waves of crimson silk, and I found myself in the hazy twilight they created, dizzy and blinded by a rush of emotions that it seemed impossible for me to control. After a little, the haze cleared from my vision, and I saw before me a tall man, attenuated almost to a shadow, sitting in a great easy-chair with his eyes closed, as if asleep.
I looked at him with a strained and eager gaze. His head rested on a cushion of purple silk, and a quantity of soft, fair locks, so lightly threaded with silver, that, in the rich twilight of the room, all traces of it were lost, lay scattered over it, with the purple glowing through. The face was like marble, pure and as white, but with dusky shadows all around the eyes, and a burning red in the cheeks that made me shudder. A Turkish dressing-gown of Damascus silk, spotted with gold and lined with emerald green, lay wrapped around his wasted figure. His hands were folded in the long Oriental sleeves, and I could see the crimson waves over his chest rise and fall rapidly with his sharp and frequent respiration.
I stood beside him unnoticed, for my footsteps had fallen upon the richly piled carpet lightly as an autumn leaf. The basket shook in my hands, for my limbs knocked together, and the perspiration started upon my arms and forehead. But I made no sound, forced back the tears that struggled in my heart, and stood waiting for what might befall.
Lord Clare turned feebly on his cushion, and let one pale hand fall down from his bosom.
“Turner,” he said, in a faint, low voice, “did I not ask for something?”
“Yes, my lord—some fruit. It is here.”
I approached. Lord Clare opened his eyes—those wild, blue eyes, and turned them full upon me.
I could no longer bear my weight, my limbs gave way, and I fell upon one knee, holding up the basket between my shaking hands.
Turner drew close to my side, holding his breath and trembling.