"I must make him comprehend that Mabel Aylett at twenty, wilful,
romantic, and undisciplined, was a different being from the woman
who has called him 'husband,' without a blush, for fourteen years!"
It was these recollections that softened her kindly tones to
tenderness; made the pressure of her hand upon his temples a caress,
rather than a manual appliance for deadening pain; while she
combated his intention of appearing at the breakfast-table.
"Lie down upon the sofa!" she entreated. "Let me bring up a cup of
strong coffee for you; then darken the room, and chafe your head
until you fall asleep, since you turn a deaf ear to all proposals of
mustard foot-baths and Dr. Van Orden's panacea pills."
"No!" stubbornly. "Aylett and Clara would think it strange. They do
not understand how a slight irregularity of diet or habit can
produce such a result. They would attribute it to other causes. I
may feel better when I have taken something nourishing."
The dreaded critics received the tidings of his indisposition
without cavil at its imputed origin, treated the whole subject with
comparative indifference, which would have mortified him a week ago,
but seemed now to assuage his unrest. The breakfast hour was a quiet
one. Herbert could not attempt the form of eating, despite his
expressed hope of the curative effects of nourishment, and sipped
his black coffee at tedious intervals of pain, looking more ill
after each. Mabel was silent, and regardful of his suffering, while
Mrs. Aylett toyed with the tea-cup, broke her biscuit into small
heaps of crumbs upon her plate, and under her visor of ennui and
indolent musing, kept her eye upon her vis-a-vis, whose face was
opaque ice; and his intonations, when he deigned to speak, meant
nothing save that he was controller of his own meditations, and
would not be meddled with.
"You are not well enough to ride over to the Courthouse with me,
Dorrance?" he said, interrogatively, his meal despatched. "It is
court-day, you know?"
"What do you say, Mabel?" was Herbert's clumsy reference to his
nurse. "Don't you think I might venture?"
"I would not, if I were in your place," she replied, cautiously
dissuasive. "The day is raw, and there will be rain before evening.
Dampness always aggravates neuralgia."
"It is neuralgia, then, is it?" queried Winston, shortly, drawing on
his boots.
His sister looked up surprised.
"What else should it be?"
"Nothing--unless the symptoms indicate softening of the brain!" he
rejoined, with his slight, dissonant laugh. "In either case, your
decision is wise. He is better off in your custody than he would be
abroad. I hope I shall find you convalescent when I return. Good
morning!"