That very evening young Bosworth came to the house, looking almost well, and so animated. It was not quite dark, and he saw me walking on the terrace; for I had need of air and solitude. He took my hand with the old cordiality, and would not let it go.
"Lawrence has been at our house," he said. "You know what has happened. She rejected him—she does not love him. This he told me with his own lips. It was generous; but he is a noble fellow. Indeed, I pity him."
I pressed the hand which grasped mine, and, reading the question that spoke from his face, told him to go in, that Jessie was in the drawing-room—and alone.
He listened for a moment to the music which came stealing through the windows, holding his breath in sweet suspense; then he lifted my hand to his lips and went into the house. The roses were bright on Jessie's cheek when I entered the drawing-room an hour after, and, for one night, we had something like a dream of happiness in that gloomy dwelling.
The next day Mrs. Dennison kept her word, and came out from her solitude. She must have suffered terribly; for I have never seen a face so altered. All her bloom was gone in one night; her eyes had grown larger with hidden anguish, which left dusky circles around them. Both Jessie and Mr. Lee were struck visibly by the change.
We were all in the library when she came in, grave, sad, and with that look of deep sorrow in her face. Mr. Lee was greatly disturbed and went forward to meet her, inquiring anxiously about her health.
The woman let her hand rest in his clasp a moment, and drew it away with a sorrowful glance from beneath her drooping lashes. Advancing up the room, she leaned one hand on a table for support, trembling visibly from agitation or weakness.
"Mr. Lee!"
The voice faltered with his name, and once more she lifted those mournful eyes to his.
"Are you ill, or has some trouble come upon you?" inquired Mr. Lee, greatly agitated.