“My darling, what is it? Your father says you are in the pouts, and jealous, and I don’t know what. Ha! ha! ha! as if there were any rival to you, except vegetable nature, in this home of recluses! We know better.”
“Jealous; oh no, it is not so,” said she, gravely. “That’s a mistake of his and yours, sir. I spoke to him so closely about the question of marriage with you that he did not apprehend my state of mind.”
“But there’s something wrong—eh?” he asked, eying her narrowly, and bending to kiss her. She shrank away, and his purposed kiss miscarried.
“What is it?” he said, more seriously for this little defeat.
She made no answer beyond, “Mr. Fitzpiers, I have had no breakfast, I must go in.”
“Come,” he insisted, fixing his eyes upon her. “Tell me at once, I say.”
It was the greater strength against the smaller; but she was mastered less by his manner than by her own sense of the unfairness of silence. “I looked out of the window,” she said, with hesitation. “I’ll tell you by-and-by. I must go in-doors. I have had no breakfast.”
By a sort of divination his conjecture went straight to the fact. “Nor I,” said he, lightly. “Indeed, I rose late to-day. I have had a broken night, or rather morning. A girl of the village—I don’t know her name—came and rang at my bell as soon as it was light—between four and five, I should think it was—perfectly maddened with an aching tooth. As no-body heard her ring, she threw some gravel at my window, till at last I heard her and slipped on my dressing-gown and went down. The poor thing begged me with tears in her eyes to take out her tormentor, if I dragged her head off. Down she sat and out it came—a lovely molar, not a speck upon it; and off she went with it in her handkerchief, much contented, though it would have done good work for her for fifty years to come.”
It was all so plausible—so completely explained. Knowing nothing of the incident in the wood on old Midsummer-eve, Grace felt that her suspicions were unworthy and absurd, and with the readiness of an honest heart she jumped at the opportunity of honoring his word. At the moment of her mental liberation the bushes about the garden had moved, and her father emerged into the shady glade. “Well, I hope it is made up?” he said, cheerily.
“Oh yes,” said Fitzpiers, with his eyes fixed on Grace, whose eyes were shyly bent downward.