could hear her breathing and the least sound of her dress
and movements--the scent too of her hands and hair seemed to envelop him,
and in the midst of all the acute discomfort of his fever, he felt the
band round his brain relax. He did not ask how long she had been there,
but lay quite still, trying to keep his eyes on her, for fear of that
face, which seemed lurking behind the air, ready to march on him again.
Then feeling suddenly that he could not hold it back, he beckoned, and
clutched at her, trying to cover himself with the protection of her
breast. This time his swoon was not so deep; it gave way to delirium,
with intervals when he knew that she was there, and by the shaded candle
light could see her in a white garment, floating close to him, or sitting
still with her hand on his; he could even feel the faint comfort of the
ice cap, and of the scent of eau de Cologne. Then he would lose all
consciousness of her presence, and pass through into the incoherent
world, where the crucifix above his bed seemed to bulge and hang out, as
if it must fall on him. He conceived a violent longing to tear it down,
which grew till he had struggled up in bed and wrenched it from off the
wall. Yet a mysterious consciousness of her presence permeated even his
darkest journeys into the strange land; and once she seemed to be with
him, where a strange light showed them fields and trees, a dark line of
moor, and a bright sea, all whitened, and flashing with sweet violence.

Soon after dawn he had a long interval of consciousness, and took in with
a sort of wonder her presence in the low chair by his bed. So still she
sat in a white loose gown, pale with watching, her eyes immovably fixed
on him, her lips pressed together, and quivering at his faintest motion.
He drank in desperately the sweetness of her face, which had so lost
remembrance of self.

CHAPTER X

Barbara gave the news of her brother's illness to no one else, common
sense telling her to run no risk of disturbance. Of her own initiative,
she brought a doctor, and went down twice a day to hear reports of
Miltoun's progress.

As a fact, her father and mother had gone to Lord Dennis, for Goodwood,
and the chief difficulty had been to excuse her own neglect of that
favourite Meeting. She had fallen back on the half-truth that Eustace
wanted her in Town; and, since Lord and Lady Valleys had neither of them
shaken off a certain uneasiness about their son, the