“Yes, I know it,” she said. “It is too far for you to go alone. When you are rested—but there is no hurry, we will stay as long as you like—I will go with you.”
“You are very kind, my dear,” he said, looking at her with a gentleness which assuredly was an unfamiliar expression on that cold, haughty face. “Very! I will rest a little longer, if I may.”
He sat silent for a short time, and Doris heard him murmuring her name several times, and then he looked up and sighed.
“No, I don’t remember, and yet——” he passed his hand over his forehead with a wistful, puzzled look in his keen eyes. “I am ready now, my dear young lady,” he said, presently. “You see, I accept your kind offer,” as he placed his hand upon the arm Doris offered him. “Not so long ago, fair ladies were wont to rest upon my arm; now the order is changed. One gets old suddenly!” he added, with a grim smile. “And I have been ill. I think I told you. Yes, very ill. They thought I was dead; but”—with a gesture of defiance—“my race die hard—-die hard! And you have no father or mother? That is sad! Did I tell you I had a little girl once? She died! Yes, she died!” His head drooped for a moment. “If she had lived and stayed with me, I should have had her arm to lean upon. By Heaven, I never thought of that before!” he exclaimed, in a suppressed voice, and his head sank lower.
They crossed the bridge in silence, and reached the Via Grandia, where Doris saw a man, whom she took for a servant, hurriedly cross the road and approach them.
“I am afraid you are ill, my lord,” he said, touching his hat. “I missed you on leaving the chemist’s——”
The old gentleman drew his hand slowly from Doris’ arm, and took the servant’s.
“This is my man, Miss Marlowe,” he said, “and I shall not need to tax your kindness and patience any longer. How deeply grateful I am for that kindness and patience I cannot tell you. But for you——” He stopped expressively. “Will you tell Lady Despard that I shall have the honor of calling upon her to-morrow, to congratulate her upon having so sweet and beautiful a friend?”
“Yes,” replied Doris, allowing her soft, warm hand to remain in his, which seemed to cling to it confidingly. “But you have not told me your name yet?” she added, with a smile.
“Have I not?” he said; “I am the Marquis of Stoyle, my dear.”