He made an effort to rise as she entered, but fell back with an apologetic wave of his emaciated hand.
“You see how helpless I am, my dear!” he said; “worse than when you so generously came to my aid the other day. And so you consented to gratify the sick fancy of an old man, and have come to see me!”
Doris drew near and took the hand he extended to her, and as she bent over him a strange, mysterious feeling of pity thrilled through her.
“I am so sorry to see you so weak, my lord,” she said, gently; “but you will be better when the weather is cooler.”
“Yes, yes,” he assented, eagerly. “Oh, yes; I shall get better! It is only a passing weakness! I have been very ill—I told you? Yes, I am very strong. We Stoyles have the constitution and”—with a grim smile—“the temper of Old Nick! Yes, I shall get better.”
“I have brought you some flowers,” said Doris.
The valet came forward with a vase, but the marquis waved him back.
“No,” he said. “Give them to me! Give them to me,” and he took them from her with a courtly eagerness. “Ah, beautiful; and you were so gracious as to think of them! They are almost as beautiful as yourself; but not more pure, not more innocent or pure,” he added to himself, with a strange, wistful gravity, as his eyes rested on her sweet face, “whose goodness lay open to all men’s eyes,” as the poet says.
The valet came forward again to arrange the pillows, which had slipped down, and the marquis’ face flashed angrily.
“Go, go!” he said, irritably.