She held the long train in one hand, and in the other a candle above her head, and stood with a grave smile upon her beautiful face, waiting. He looked up, then with a sudden cry threw out his arms.
“Lucy, Lucy, I did it for the best, for the best!”
“Jeffrey!” exclaimed Doris, “Jeffrey!” and she hastened toward him in alarm; but the sound of her voice had recalled him to himself, and, passing his hand across his forehead he rose and looked at her.
“Yes, yes!” he said, still in a half-dazed manner. “Yes, it will do. Doris, you are very beautiful.”
She colored and shook her head.
“What a wicked thing to say, you flatterer! But, Jeffrey, why did you call me Lucy?” she asked, bending over him, her brows drawn together anxiously.
“Did I?” he replied, evasively. “I—I must have been dreaming. There—ask me no more questions. The dress is perfect. Perfect!” he repeated, emphatically, but looking at her face and not the dress. “Walk across the room.” She did so. “Now, stand as I showed you. So! Yes, yes,” he murmured with a sigh of satisfaction; “perfect! You look the part, Doris; not one of them could look it better—no! And to-morrow”—he stopped and regarded her with an earnestness that was almost fierce. “Child, if you fail to-morrow, you will kill me! Go now; go to bed and rest. Go!” he repeated, still looking at her, but waving her away with his hand as if she recalled some memory too painful to be borne; and Doris, stooping and kissing him, went up to her own room again. There she stood before the glass and looked at herself with a scrutiny that she had never used before.
Jeffrey had called her beautiful. Was she really beautiful? Did others think her so?—did he? She took up the handkerchief and looked at it dreamily; then, still in her Juliet dress, she joined her hands together as she had done when she had made a cup for him; and as she did so, the warm blood rushed to her face, for she could almost fancy that even now she could feel the touch of his lips and the golden moustache upon the soft, pink palms.
Rest! If to lie awake until the clock struck midnight, and then to fall asleep and dream that she was still bending over the handsome face, all pale but for the thin streak of red; to hear in her sleep the strong, musical voice murmuring, “Will you forgive me?” was rest—then Doris was resting, indeed!