“But I must see her, Rachel,” said I, placing my hand on the door to prevent its being shut against me.
“Indeed, sir, you can’t,” replied she, settling her countenance in still more iron frigidity than before.
“Be so good as to announce me.”
“It’s no manner of use, Mr. Markham; she’s poorly, I tell you.”
Just in time to prevent me from committing the impropriety of taking the citadel by storm, and pushing forward unannounced, an inner door opened, and little Arthur appeared with his frolicsome playfellow, the dog. He seized my hand between both his, and smilingly drew me forward.
“Mamma says you’re to come in, Mr. Markham,” said he, “and I am to go out and play with Rover.”
Rachel retired with a sigh, and I stepped into the parlour and shut the door. There, before the fire-place, stood the tall, graceful figure, wasted with many sorrows. I cast the manuscript on the table, and looked in her face. Anxious and pale, it was turned towards me; her clear, dark eyes were fixed on mine with a gaze so intensely earnest that they bound me like a spell.
“Have you looked it over?” she murmured. The spell was broken.
“I’ve read it through,” said I, advancing into the room,—“and I want to know if you’ll forgive me—if you can forgive me?”
She did not answer, but her eyes glistened, and a faint red mantled on her lip and cheek. As I approached, she abruptly turned away, and went to the window. It was not in anger, I was well assured, but only to conceal or control her emotion. I therefore ventured to follow and stand beside her there,—but not to speak. She gave me her hand, without turning her head, and murmured in a voice she strove in vain to steady,—