I had forbidden Pendarves to come near me, because the sight of his distress prevented my recovery, and perfect quiet was enjoined.
But, when I was asleep he would not be kept from the bedside; and he betrayed so much deep feeling, and exhibited so much affection for me, that when I woke, and desired to rise and dress, as I was quite recovered, my aunt was lavish in his praise, and declared she was now convinced he was the best of husbands.
Pendarves would fain have staid at home with me that day; but I insisted on his going out, as I thought it would be better for us both; and I told him with truth I preferred his aunt's company to his. Our next meeting alone was truly painful; for we could neither of us advert to my excessive emotion. He could not explain away its cause, nor could I name it: but he, though silent, was affectionate and attentive, and I tried to force my too busy fancy to dwell only on what I knew and saw, and not to fly off to sources of disquiet, which spite of appearances might really not exist.
The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, we drove to the banker's, resumed the whole of the deposit, and I insisted that Pendarves should accept it all. This he was very unwilling to do—but I was firm, and my mind was tranquillized by his consenting at last to my desire. Yet, I think I was not foolish enough to suppose I could buy his constancy.
One thing which I said to him I instantly repented. I asked him whether Mrs. Saunders was likely to remove to London. He said, he did not know: "But if she does, what then? O Helen! can you suppose I will ever see her now?" he added.
"And why not?" thought I, when he quitted me—"If it was ever proper to see her, why not now? And why should I seem to be accusing him, by appearing solicitous to know whether he would see her or not?"
Alas! his reply only served to make me more wretched; but, fortunately I may say, my mother's continued silence made a sort of diversion to my thoughts, and substituted tender for bitter anxiety.
That very day the demand was made on my husband by the creditor of Saunders, and while he was gone out with this man on business in bustled my kind but mischievous aunt.
"How are you to-day," said she, "my poor child? but I see how you are—sitting like patience on a monument, smiling with grief!"
"With grief! dear aunt?"