Not yet quite convinced that her slumber is real, Guy lays his hand gently upon hers, but at the touch she makes no movement: no smallest ripple of consciousness crosses her face. In the faint light of the lamp he regards her curiously, and wonders, with a pang, how the little fury of a few hours ago can look so angelic now. At this moment, as he watches her, all the anger that has lain in his heart for her melts, vanishes, never to return.
Then he sees her attitude is uncomfortable: her face is very pale, her head is thrown too much back, a little troubled sigh escapes her. He thinks, or at least tries to think,—let not me be the one to judge him,—she will have unhappy dreams if she continues much longer in her present position. Poor child! she is quite worn out. Perhaps he could manage to raise her in a degree, without disturbing her reviving repose.
Slipping his arm gently round her, he lifts her a little, and draws her somewhat nearer to him. So gently does he move her, that Lilian, who is indeed fatigued, and absolutely tired out with her exertions of the evening, never awakes, but lets her heavy, sleepy little head drop over to the other side, down upon Chetwoode's shoulder.
Guy does not stir. After all, what does it matter? she is easier so, and it can hurt neither of them; she never has been, she never will be, anything to him; in all probability she will marry her cousin. At this point he stops and thinks about her treatment of that handsome guardsman, and meditates deeply thereon. To him she is a mystery, a lovely riddle yet unsolved; but with his arm round her, and her face so near his own, he is conscious of feeling an irrepressible gladness. A thrill of happiness, the only touch of it he has known for many days, fills his heart, while with it is a bitter regret that chills it at its birth.
The carriage rattles over some unusually large stone, and Lilian awakes. At first an excessive sense of drowsiness dulls her perception, and then, all at once, it flashes across her mind that she has been asleep, and that now she is encircled, supported by Guy's arm. Even in the friendly darkness a warm flush suffuses her face, born half of quick indignation, half of shame. Raising herself hastily, she draws back from his embrace, and glances up at him with open surprise.
"You are awake?" says Guy, quietly; he has relaxed his hold, but still has not altogether withdrawn his support. As their eyes meet in the uncertain flickering light that comes to them from outside, she sees so much sadness, so much tenderness in his, that her anger is instantly disarmed. Still, she moves yet a little farther from him, while forgetting to make any reply.
"Are you uncomfortable?" asks he, slowly, as though there is nothing out of the common in his sitting thus with his arm round her, and as though a mere sense of discomfort can be the only reason for her objection to it. He does not make the slightest effort to detain her, but still lets her feel his nearness.
"No," replies Miss Chesney, somewhat troubled; "it is not that, only——"
"Then I think you had better stay as you are. You are very tired, I can see, and this carriage is not the easiest in the world."
With gentle boldness he replaces the offending arm in its old position, and wisely refrains from further speech.