The dress, not improbably, had something to do with the vividness of the impression. Little as he was given to observing such matters, it could not fail to strike him, both from its beauty and extreme unsuitability to the girl’s present occupation. It was of velvet of the richest and loveliest shade of damask red; there was exquisite lace round the throat and wrists, and there was something quaint and peculiar in the shape of the bodice. And to add to the effect, Miss Methvyn wore a thick gold chain round her neck, from which hung a very beautiful, very large, and evidently antique gold cross, which shone out with a rich, dull lustre from its crimson background.
Mr. Guildford stood with his eyes fixed upon her for a moment in absolute amazement. Afterwards he tried to define to himself his exact impression of the young girl. Was she “pretty?” The word seemed utterly unsuited to her. Was she beautiful? Hardly. He could describe her by no words that satisfied his sense of correctness.
She was tall and fair—and then he stopped. She was neither graceful nor dignified, or rather perhaps she was, strictly speaking, both. Only the words did not seem to suit her, for they implied a suspicion of self-consciousness, from which her bearing, her expression—everything about her, was utterly and unmistakably free.
But just now he had hardly time to realise anything but surprise before she came forward and spoke. She spoke rather slowly; it was evidently her habit to do so, her voice was low but clear, and perfectly calm.
“I am so very, very glad you have come,” she said. “It is exceedingly kind of you to have come so quickly. Charlie—it is Charlie that is so ill, did you know?” Mr. Guildford made a slight gesture of assent. “He is in the next room. Will you come in and see him? He is asleep.”
Mr. Guildford hesitated for a moment.
“Shall I not see Dr. Farmer first?” he said. “Is he here?”
“Oh! I was forgetting to tell you,” she said. “No, Dr. Farmer has gone home. I made him go, and promised to send for him if you did not come. He lives only a mile away. He was so knocked up, I really begged him to go. He left this note for you, and he said he was sure I could tell you everything.”
She drew a letter out of her pocket as she spoke and gave it to Mr. Guildford. As he read it, his face grew graver. She, watching him, observed this.
“I think Charlie is better than when Dr. Farmer left,” she said. “He is less restless. I asked him how he was just before he went go to sleep, and he answered me quite distinctly, and his voice sounded much more like itself.”