And John, with his coat down to his heels—a costume in which nothing would have induced him voluntarily to take a promenade—was forced to walk home, comforting himself with the assurance that it was the last order he should have to obey from that source. Perhaps, indeed, he would not have obeyed it now, had they not driven away and left him no choice.
The sun was declining toward the west, and touching everything with the tender glory of early spring, when they drew up at the cottage gate, the sound of their wheels bringing Mrs. Gerald and Honora to the window, and then to the door.
“We can't stop to come in, Mamma Gerald,” Annette called out. “We are going off on a little visit, and only come to say good-by. Isn't it beautiful this afternoon? The trees will soon begin to bud, if this weather continues.”
The two ladies came out to the carriage, and Mrs. Gerald caught sight of her son's face, which had been turned away. It had grown suddenly white. She exclaimed: “Why, Lawrence! what is the matter?”
“Oh! another of those faint turns,” interposed his wife quickly, laying her hand on his arm. “He has no appetite, and is really fainting from lack of nourishment. The journey will do him good, mamma. We are going entirely on his account.”
“Oh! yes, it's nothing but a turn that will soon pass away,” he added, and seemed, indeed, already better.
“Do come in and take something warm,” his mother said anxiously, her beautiful blue eyes fixed on his face. “There is some chocolate just made.”
“We have no time,” Annette began; but her husband immediately opened the carriage-door.
“Yes, mother,” he said. “I won't keep you waiting but a minute, Ninon.”
The mother put her hand in his arm, and still turned her anxious face toward him. “You mustn't go to-night, if you feel sick, my son,” she said. “You know what happened to you before.”