He was always morbidly affected by sickness. If he had a servant ill, nothing could equal his kindness and attention; and, therefore, it was not surprising that he should show so much solicitude to Aveline's comforts.
In the course of the afternoon, she began to feel very chilly. One shawl after another was wrapped round her without effect. Mr. Haveloc was alarmed, but Mrs. Fitzpatrick said it was always so about that time, and that it would pass away. But when it did pass away, Aveline was in such a state of exhaustion that she could scarcely move into the boat, which was lowered to take her to the shore. A fresh breeze had risen; it was rather rough landing. The boat could not be got close enough to the jetty. Mr. Haveloc, after exchanging a few whispered words with Mrs. Fitzpatrick, sprang out, knee-deep in the water, took Aveline in his arms, and carried her not only to land, but across the shingles, and up the rocky pathway to their cottage, and placed her in safety on the sofa in the drawing-room window, as Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who had been assisted, by the steward, came in at the glass-doors.
Aveline was very much shocked, but what could have been done? She was unable to walk, and the choice rested between Mr. Haveloc and the steward.
Mr. Haveloc began to make his apologies, but they both laughed before he had concluded them. He was earnest in pressing his further services upon the ladies—he wished to be made of use in fetching their medical man.
Aveline laughed, and assured him that she was no worse than usual. She hardly knew what Mr. Lindsay would say to her if she summoned him for nothing. He was very merciless to imaginary ailments.
He could scarcely conceal the mournful interest she inspired. So attenuated, so brilliant with feverish excitement. But assuming a gay air, he took up his hat, told Mrs. Fitzpatrick he should wait on her the next morning, to learn whether she had forgiven him for tiring out her daughter, and begged Aveline to put the best face she could upon the matter, lest Mrs. Fitzpatrick should put a stop to all excursions for the future.
CHAPTER VII.
He that would flee from suffering must die,
For life is suffering, and life's cure is death.
The earth, the sea, the radiant orb of day,
The star-bespangled sky, the moon's soft lustre,
These are all beautiful—the rest is fear
And sorrow; and if aught of good may seem
To bless thy lot, count it not happiness.
ÆSOP.
The next morning, as early as he could well hope to be admitted, Mr. Haveloc made his way to Mrs. Fitzpatrick's, carrying with him a cluster of beautiful passion flowers. As he came up to the porch, a gentleman was mounting his horse to ride away, who looked like a medical man, and was, in fact, no other than Mr. Lindsay. The good doctor cast a keen glance at Mr. Haveloc as he passed him, accompanied by a slight shake of the head, which might be supposed to mean, that if he came there as a suitor, his errand was in vain.