He was silent. They stopped before the door, over which burned a light. Eleanor’s hands dropped on her lap, as she sat still and tired out. Michael dismounted and came to her to lift her from her horse.
‘Won’t you ring?’ said she; ‘then they will send the men round, and save you any more trouble.’
‘Let me do my own way,’ said he, lifting her down. For a moment, just one moment, he held her in his arms, and as the light fell upon her, he thought he had never seen so sad and proud an expression on any woman’s face. Something rose in his throat for a moment. Then, just as he turned to put his hand on the bell, she said—
‘Stop one moment. I am very tired, and cannot talk to-night; but there is something that I must speak to you about. Yes, I must,’ she added, almost vehemently. ‘All the way I have been thinking of it; I can never rest till I have asked you about it. Will you call to-morrow afternoon? Would you very much mind? I will not keep you long.’
‘I will call,’ said he, after a very brief pause. ‘At what hour?’
‘Shall we say four? I think you are exceedingly good. I—I cannot thank you.’
‘No, you have nothing to thank me for,’ said Michael drily, as he pulled the bell. ‘But since you are pleased to feel grateful to me for something or other, prove it by not thinking or fretting too much about—what we were speaking of,’ and he looked meaningly at her. He could not speak so indifferently as he would have wished to. He knew, with unerring certainty, that she had not a careless nature, but a deep one—not a nature that lives on the surface. He had pained her; that thought, though unreasonable, was persistently present in his mind. She smiled rather wanly in answer to his exhortation.
‘I will do what I can,’ she said.
‘I wish you had never asked me that question,’ said Michael, and his voice betrayed his disturbance.
‘Let me repeat your own advice—do not think too much about it,’ said she, turning as the door was opened.