Then he saw her white puzzled face, and set himself to comfort her. She had little secrets to tell him. There was a cot hidden away which must be brought out, a delicate fairy thing of blue silk, and lace, and a casket fitted with tiny brushes and ivory boxes.
It made him feel clumsy and awkward—out of place. He knelt by her and took her hands.
“Do you remember, little Daphne, when we met in the woods, and I said I would paint you as a Madonna, and how shocked you were?”
She nodded gravely; it had been their first meeting, and the memory of that had always been with her.
“Perhaps I shall paint you as our Blessed Lady with the Bambino.”
She blushed deeply, and her eyes spoke her thoughts.
“It would be too much honour, but …” and the tears which came so easily now, started to her eyes.
He was very gentle with her in the days that followed, and the old unrest was quieted. They would walk in the rose garden, amid the flowers, and all that was best in the man shone out like a star in a cloud wrack, calm and strong. She leaned more on him as the time went on, and found him a rock of support. There was no painting now, only sweet companionship and expectancy.
An English doctor came post haste in answer to Hugh’s message, and while he was within Hugh stamped up and down the garden, cursing, angry with the futile wrath of a man who would gladly offer up his blood, his life, to save from pain one over whom the Dark Shadow was resting.
How unfair that he who could stand anything with a cold disdain, should be impotent, while this tender girl was suffering. It touched his pride as well; he had been used to sympathy and respect for his endurance. He would have preferred that she should watch how indifferent he was to pain and admire him. It was most unfair.