“Oh, hush! don’t speak so loud.”
“Well, tell me then,” I answered in a lower tone, “what is it you mean? I hate enigmas.”
“Well, you know, I don’t vouch for the truth of it—indeed, far from it—but haven’t you heard—?”
“I’ve heard nothing, except from you.”
“You must be wilfully deaf then, for anyone will tell you that; but I shall only anger you by repeating it, I see, so I had better hold my tongue.”
She closed her lips and folded her hands before her, with an air of injured meekness.
“If you had wished not to anger me, you should have held your tongue from the beginning, or else spoken out plainly and honestly all you had to say.”
She turned aside her face, pulled out her handkerchief, rose, and went to the window, where she stood for some time, evidently dissolved in tears. I was astounded, provoked, ashamed—not so much of my harshness as for her childish weakness. However, no one seemed to notice her, and shortly after we were summoned to the tea-table: in those parts it was customary to sit to the table at tea-time on all occasions, and make a meal of it, for we dined early. On taking my seat, I had Rose on one side of me and an empty chair on the other.
“May I sit by you?” said a soft voice at my elbow.
“If you like,” was the reply; and Eliza slipped into the vacant chair; then, looking up in my face with a half-sad, half-playful smile, she whispered,—“You’re so stern, Gilbert.”