When it ceased, I longed for nothing so much as to be out of the room. The sofa was not far from the door, but I did not dare to raise my head, for I knew Mr. Huntingdon was standing near me, and I knew by the sound of his voice, as he spoke in answer to some remark of Lord Lowborough’s, that his face was turned towards me. Perhaps a half-suppressed sob had caught his ear, and caused him to look round—heaven forbid! But with a violent effort, I checked all further signs of weakness, dried my tears, and, when I thought he had turned away again, rose, and instantly left the apartment, taking refuge in my favourite resort, the library.
There was no light there but the faint red glow of the neglected fire;—but I did not want a light; I only wanted to indulge my thoughts, unnoticed and undisturbed; and sitting down on a low stool before the easy-chair, I sunk my head upon its cushioned seat, and thought, and thought, until the tears gushed out again, and I wept like any child. Presently, however, the door was gently opened and someone entered the room. I trusted it was only a servant, and did not stir. The door was closed again—but I was not alone; a hand gently touched my shoulder, and a voice said, softly,—“Helen, what is the matter?”
I could not answer at the moment.
“You must, and shall tell me,” was added, more vehemently, and the speaker threw himself on his knees beside me on the rug, and forcibly possessed himself of my hand; but I hastily caught it away, and replied,—“It is nothing to you, Mr. Huntingdon.”
“Are you sure it is nothing to me?” he returned; “can you swear that you were not thinking of me while you wept?” This was unendurable. I made an effort to rise, but he was kneeling on my dress.
“Tell me,” continued he—“I want to know,—because if you were, I have something to say to you,—and if not, I’ll go.”
“Go then!” I cried; but, fearing he would obey too well, and never come again, I hastily added—“Or say what you have to say, and have done with it!”
“But which?” said he—“for I shall only say it if you really were thinking of me. So tell me, Helen.”
“You’re excessively impertinent, Mr. Huntingdon!”
“Not at all—too pertinent, you mean. So you won’t tell me?—Well, I’ll spare your woman’s pride, and, construing your silence into ‘Yes,’ I’ll take it for granted that I was the subject of your thoughts, and the cause of your affliction—”