Again a shiver ran all through the hardy frame, and for once Love was more powerful than Hate. He loosed his hold—slowly though, and reluctantly—and rose to his feet, passing his hand over his eyes in a strange, bewildered way; but in five seconds his wonderful self-command asserted itself, and he spoke as coolly as ever. “A thousand pardons. One does forget one’s self sometimes when the canaille are provoking, but I ought to have remembered what was due to you.”
Though she could not speak, she tried to smile; but strong reaction had come on. In the pale woman that trembled so painfully it was hard to recognize proud Cecil Tresilyan. Royston was watching her narrowly, and his tone softened till it made his simple words a caress. “Don’t make me more angry with myself than I deserve. Indeed, there is nothing more to alarm or distress you. If you would only forgive me!” He helped her into the saddle as he spoke, and she submitted passively. But the happy feeling of perfect trust in him was coming back fast.
Jean Duchesne had somewhat recovered from his stupor, and was leaning on one arm, panting heavily, still in great pain; but he was inured to all sorts of broils, and evidently he would soon recover from the effects of this one, though he had never been so roughly handled. It was sheer terror that made him lie so still: he dared move no more than a whipped hound while in the presence of his late opponent.
The others turned slowly homeward, for it is needless to say the wild-flowers and the rendezvous were forgotten. As they turned the corner which cut off the view of Duchesne’s ground, Royston looked back once, longingly. It was well for Cecil’s nerves, in their disturbed state, that she did not catch that Parthian glance. Ah, those ungovernable eyes! They were gleaming with the expression that Kirkpatrick’s may have worn when he turned into the chapel where the Red Comyn lay, growling, “I mak sicker.”
None of the party were much disposed for conversation; for even Mr. Fullarton did not feel equal to “improving the occasion” just then. Cecil broke the silence at last: it was where the road was so narrow that only two could walk abreast: Royston never left her bridle-rein. “You must fancy that I have thanked you; I can not do so properly now. It is strange, though, that you should have come up so very opportunely. Was it a presentiment that made you follow us?”
The answer was so low that she had almost to guess at it from the motion of his lips, “Have you forgotten Napoleon’s last rallying-cry, ‘Qui m’aime me suit?’” No wonder that his pulse would throb exultantly as he saw the bright, beautiful blush that swept over his companion’s cheek and brow! They had almost reached home when he spoke again, “You would have been liberal in your promises twenty minutes ago if I had not stopped you, Miss Tresilyan. I should like to have some memorial of to-day. Very childish, is it not? Will you give me this? I deserve something for saving that pretty parasol.” He touched the glove she had just drawn off—a light riding-gauntlet, fancifully cut, and embroidered with silk. Cecil hesitated, though she would have been loth to refuse him any thing just then. She felt, as most proud, sensitive women feel the first time they are asked for what may be interpreted into a gage d’amour. The tribute may be nominal, and the suzerain may be lenient indeed, but none the less does it establish vassalage.
Royston interpreted her reluctance aright, and went on with an earnestness very unusual with him: for once it was honest and true. “Pray trust me. The moment I cease to value that souvenir as it deserves, on my honor I will return it.”
He was fated to triumph all through that day. When Cecil was alone she put something away with a very unnecessary carefulness, for surely nothing can be more valueless than a glove that has lost its mate.
