Pleasure at regaining made me forget merited reproach for the teasing torment; my joy was great; it could not be concealed: yet I think it broke out more in countenance than language. I said little.
"Are you satisfied now?" asked Dr. John.
I replied that I was--satisfied and happy.
"Well then," he proceeded, "how do you feel physically? Are you growing calmer? Not much: for you tremble like a leaf still."
It seemed to me, however, that I was sufficiently calm: at least I felt no longer terrified. I expressed myself composed.
"You are able, consequently, to tell me what you saw? Your account was quite vague, do you know? You looked white as the wall; but you only spoke of 'something,' not defining what. Was it a man? Was it an animal? What was it?"
"I never will tell exactly what I saw," said I, "unless some one else sees it too, and then I will give corroborative testimony; but otherwise, I shall be discredited and accused of dreaming."
"Tell me," said Dr. Bretton; "I will hear it in my professional character: I look on you now from a professional point of view, and I read, perhaps, all you would conceal--in your eye, which is curiously vivid and restless: in your cheek, which the blood has forsaken; in your hand, which you cannot steady. Come, Lucy, speak and tell me."
"You would laugh--?"
"If you don't tell me you shall have no more letters."
"You are laughing now."
"I will again take away that single epistle: being mine, I think I have a right to reclaim it."
I felt raillery in his words: it made me grave and quiet; but I folded up the letter and covered it from sight.
"You may hide it, but I can possess it any moment I choose. You don't know my skill in sleight of hand; I might practise as a conjuror if I liked. Mamma says sometimes, too, that I have a harmonizing property of tongue and eye; but you never saw that in me--did you, Lucy?"
"Indeed--indeed--when you were a mere boy I used to see both: far more then than now--for now you are strong, and strength dispenses with subtlety. But still,--Dr. John, you have what they call in this country 'un air fin,' that nobody can, mistake. Madame Beck saw it, and---"
"And liked it," said he, laughing, "because she has it herself. But, Lucy, give me that letter--you don't really care for it"
To this provocative speech I made no answer. Graham in mirthful mood must not be humoured too far. Just now there was a new sort of smile playing about his lips--very sweet, but it grieved me somehow--a new sort of light sparkling in his eyes: not hostile, but not reassuring. I rose to go--I bid him good-night a little sadly.