“I am sorry for it,” I said, with a nervous sob—“very, very!”
“Sorry for what, that she is my mother—or that you have spoken disrespectfully of her?” he questioned, more gently than before.
“I am sorry for everything that has happened to-day, and for my own part in it most of all. It began in wicked disobedience, and will end—oh, how will it end? What will Mr. Turner think of me when he knows this?”
“Why, what great sin are you crying for?” he said, smiling once more. “Certainly you are a very free-spoken little person; but we must not let Turner quite kill you; so don’t be afraid!”
“He kill me? What, Turner? No—no, not that. Afraid, afraid? Yes, yes, I am afraid, for I have done wrong. Oh, what will become of me? I never was afraid before—never, never.”
“But what have you done?” he asked, still more kindly.
“Mr. Turner forbade me leaving the house. He told me how wrong it was when Lady Catherine’s company might come across me at any time; he tried—oh, so much—to keep me happy in-doors; but it was of no use, I could not endure it. It was as if I were a bird beating my wings against a cage. The wickedness was in me all the time. I thought it was nonsense staying in the house, because other people might be abroad. Then it was so tempting, Mr. Turner at Greenhurst—my bonne occupied—the pony neighing for me to come and take him out. Really, after all, it seemed as if I could not help it”——
George Irving laughed so gleefully that I could not go on, but began to laugh too.
“And so you just broke loose and ran away?” he said, patting Jupiter again and again.
“Yes, I stole the horse, saddled him myself, and was off like a bird,” I replied, reassured by his laughter, and feeling the consciousness of my disobedience borne away on his merry tones.