The latter has watched, with a deep, dumb indignation, the one-sided scuffle over his helpless form; and her eyes now meet his with as profound and acute a disappointment legible in them as she reads in his own. Féodorovna, with a truer estimate than before of the side on which the balance would swing, is to-day not going to give her prey the choice of escaping her for half an hour. Féodorovna is not going to leave them for one minute alone.
And yet, did they but know it, no speech could have so quickly driven them into intimacy, as this dumb meeting on the ground of their “most mutual” vexation. At first it seems as if silence were to reign unbroken, and when a subject is at length chosen, it is Féodorovna who starts it.
“Captain Binning has had so many visitors,” she says, transgressing the most elementary rule of nursing, by discussing a patient in his own presence. “Sir George, Mrs. Darcy, Mr. Campion.”
The enumeration sounds like a reproach, and the words of self-vindication, “I was asked to come,” all but spring to Lavinia’s lips; all but, not quite. It is better that he should think her pushing and intrusive, than that his already wearied body and spirit should have the fatigue and vexation of an explanation, whose only end would be to salve her own wounded self-esteem.
“And though he enjoys it at the time,” pursues the arbiter of poor Captain Binning’s destinies, “he feels the ill effects afterwards!”
“You take more trouble about me than I deserve!” says the invalid, rather faintly, and in a voice under whose admirably patient politeness Miss Carew divines an intense nervous irritation. “You know I cannot be kept in cotton wool all my life!”
“It will not be my fault if you are not!” returns Féo, in a tone of enthusiasm as intense and overt as that with which she had formerly proclaimed her life-dedication to General ——.
There is a silence, each of the hearers probably feeling that it would be impossible to “go one better” than the last utterance. Lavinia steals a shocked glance at the object of it; but the air of civil tired endurance, untempered by either fear or surprise, with which he receives it, shows her that it is merely one of many such declarations. He only throws his head a little further back, and shuts his eyes—to reopen them, however, hastily. Lavinia follows the track of his thought. If he shows any sign of weakness, their common overseer will dismiss Miss Carew, and thrust something down his own throat.
When they reopen they reopen upon Lavinia’s; although, thanks to the seat assigned to the latter by Féodorovna, it is only by turning his head at an awkward angle, that he can get a tolerable view of her; reopen with an appeal so direct and piteous as to be impossible to misread. Can she—she with the free use of her limbs, her wits, do nothing for them? Them! She has time for a spear-thrust of conscience at the plural pronoun, followed by an equally rapid dart of self-justification. The use of it was his, not hers. She only read off his thought as a message is read off from the tape. He, in turn, must read off a negative from hers, since the appeal dies out of his eyes with disappointed revolt. It is only because a knock at the door has for an instant freed them from supervision, that they are able to exchange even these mute signals.
“I shall not be away more than a minute or two,” says Miss Prince, undulating back to the bedside, and speaking in a voice whose exasperation at the interruption and unnecessarily emphatic reassurance contend for the upper hand. “My father has chosen this not very happy moment to send for me; but I shall insist upon his not detaining me long.”