She started. Surprise, confusion, doubt, succeeded each other in rapid changes on her mobile and delicate face. Still silent, she roused her courage, and looked at him.
If he had returned the look, he would have told the story of his first love without another word to help him. But his shattered nerves unmanned him, at the moment of all others when it was his interest to be bold. The fear that he might have allowed himself to speak too freely—a weakness which would never have misled him in his days of health and strength—kept his eyes on the ground. She looked away again with a quick flush of shame. When such a man as Ovid spoke of love at first sight, what an instance of her own vanity it was to have thought that his mind was dwelling on her! He had kindly lowered himself to the level of a girl’s intelligence, and had been trying to interest her by talking the language of romance. She was so dissatisfied with herself that she made a movement to turn back.
He was too bitterly disappointed, on his side, to attempt to prolong the interview. A deadly sense of weakness was beginning to overpower him. It was the inevitable result of his utter want of care for himself. After a sleepless night, he had taken a long walk before breakfast; and to these demands on his failing reserves of strength, he had now added the fatigue of dawdling about a garden. Physically and mentally he had no energy left.
“I didn’t mean it,” he said to Carmina sadly; “I am afraid I have offended you.”
“Oh, how little you know me,” she cried, “if you think that!”
This time their eyes met. The truth dawned on her—and he saw it.
He took her hand. The clammy coldness of his grasp startled her. “Do you still wonder why I followed you?” he asked. The words were so faintly uttered that she could barely hear them. Heavy drops of perspiration stood on his forehead; his face faded to a gray and ghastly whiteness—he staggered, and tried desperately to catch at the branch of a tree near them. She threw her arms round him. With all her little strength she tried to hold him up. Her utmost effort only availed to drag him to the grass plot by their side, and to soften his fall. Even as the cry for help passed her lips, she saw help coming. A tall man was approaching her—not running, even when he saw what had happened; only stalking with long strides. He was followed by one of the keepers of the gardens. Doctor Benjulia had his sick monkey to take care of. He kept the creature sheltered under his long frock-coat.
“Don’t do that, if you please,” was all the doctor said, as Carmina tried to lift Ovid’s head from the grass. He spoke with his customary composure, and laid his hand on the heart of the fainting man, as coolly as if it had been the heart of a stranger. “Which of you two can run the fastest?” he asked, looking backwards and forwards between Carmina and the keeper. “I want some brandy.”
The refreshment room was within sight. Before the keeper quite understood what was required of him, Carmina was speeding over the grass like Atalanta herself.
Benjulia looked after her, with his usual grave attention. “That wench can run,” he said to himself, and turned once more to Ovid. “In his state of health, he’s been fool enough to over-exert himself.” So he disposed of the case in his own mind. Having done that, he remembered the monkey, deposited for the time being on the grass. “Too cold for him,” he remarked, with more appearance of interest than he had shown yet. “Here, keeper! Pick up the monkey till I’m ready to take him again.” The man hesitated.