"It is curious how this spring weather seems to wake up all sorts of associations and longings in us; just as it wakes the stirring life in the flowers! Years ago, a blight—the result of a great trouble—seemed to come over my life. But it has gradually worn off, and of late I have been cherishing a hope that my life might yet blossom anew."
Nora's heart beat fast with affright. Her instinct warned her of what was coming. It must not come! That would be too horrible! She had no time to delay, so she rushed into the subject without daring to pause to think.
"Do you know," she said, surprising him by what seemed the utter irrelevancy of her remark,—"we have always been much interested in the history of little Cecilia's mother. And now it turns out that she is the wife of a man who still supposes her to have been lost at sea!"
The pallor of her face, the suppressed agitation of her manner in forcing in this interruption, must of themselves have explained much more than her words. Well—she had dealt the blow, she hardly knew how; but she would not look to see its effect. She was conscious of a deadly stillness in the room. The faint ticking of the marble clock on the mantel, the occasional fall of a cinder from the fire in the grate, the distant note of a robin, were the only sounds, unless the beating of her heart were audible, as she fancied it must be. The only other sensation she was conscious of was the floating fragrance of the hyacinths, which she ever afterwards associated with this scene.
He spoke at last—but it was only to ask, in a scarcely audible tone:
"What was her name?"
"Her maiden name was—Celia Travers," she replied, in a tone as low as his own.
It seemed a long time—it could not have been many minutes—before Mr. Chillingworth rose, and in a hoarse, low tone that he vainly tried to steady, said 'he must go now, as he had many things to think of.' She gave him her hand timidly, without raising her eyes to his face. He held it for a moment, with a pressure that hurt it,—raised it for a moment to his lips—and was gone. She knew it was a silent farewell.