"Something has happened, Mr. Arbuthnot?" she said quickly; and then, as I made no answer, she placed her hand in my arm, and led me away from the people down towards the seat on which we had sat the first evening of our meeting there.
It was a night which mocks description. The sweet, subtle perfumes with which the soft night breeze was laden, the dark boughs of the cypress-trees over our heads, the glittering, sparkling sea stretching away before us to the horizon, the picturesque town with its white villas and rows of houses standing out clear and distinct in the brilliant moonlight—all these had a softening effect upon me. I looked into Lady Olive's dark expressive eyes, and I felt as though I must weep.
I do not believe that there lives a man who has not, at some time or other of his existence, felt a longing for a woman's sympathy. There is an art and a tact in its bestowal which only a woman properly understands. A man may speak words of comfort in a rough, hearty sort of way; but the chances are that he will strike the wrong vein and leave unsaid the words which would have been most efficient. He has not the keen, fine perceptions which a woman has in such matters, and which have made it her peculiar province to play the part of comforter.
I was not then, or at any other time, in love with Lady Olive. But as I looked into her dark, eager eyes as we sat side by side on the seat under the cypress-trees, I could not help thinking that it would be very pleasant to win from her a few kind words and the sympathy which I knew was there waiting to be kindled, and so, when she asked me again what was the matter, I hesitated only for a moment and then told her.
She knew most of my history; why should she not know all? And so I told her, and she listened with all the gaiety gone from her face, and her eyes growing sadder and sadder. When I had finished there were great tears in them.
"What can I say to comfort you?" she whispered, softly. "Tell me, and I will say it—anything!"
My sorrow had blunted my senses, or I must have seen whither we were drifting; but I was blind, blind with the selfishness of a great grief, and I caught at her sympathy like a drowning man at a straw.
"I am alone in the world, Lady Olive, or I shall be in a week or two's time," I said. "Tell me what to do with myself."
"How can I tell you?" she answered with streaming eyes. "But you must not say that you are alone in the world. My father would be your friend if you would let him—and so would I."
I took her hand, which yielded itself readily to mine, and raised it to my lips. I felt just then as though I dare not speak, lest my voice should be unsteady. I looked instead into her face gratefully, and it seemed to me that a change had come over it, a change which puzzled me. The lips were quivering, and out of her soft, tender eyes the laughing sparkle seemed to have gone. It was another Lady Olive, surely, this grave, sweet-faced, tremulous woman, with her eyes cast down, and a faint pink glow in her cheeks! Nothing of the gay, light-hearted, chattering little flirt, with her arch looks and piquant attitude, seemed left. I was puzzled. Was she indeed so tender-hearted?