At last, however, Herbert so spoke, or so looked, that both Isa and her mother that his heart was touched. He still declared to himself that he had made no sign, and that he was an oaf, an ass, a coward, in that he had not done so. But he had made some sign, and the sign had been read. There was no secret,—no necessity for a secret on the subject between the mother and daughter, but yet it was not spoken of all at once. There was some little increase of caution between them as Herbert’s name was mentioned, so that gradually each knew what the other thought; but for weeks, that was all. Then at last the mother spoke out.
“Isa,” she said, “I think that Herbert Onslow is becoming attached to you.”
“He has never said so, mamma.”
“No; I am sure he has not. Had he done so, you would have told me. Nevertheless, is it not true?”
“Well, mamma, I cannot say. It may be so. Such an idea has occurred to me, but I have abandoned it as needless. If he has anything to say he will say it.”
“And if he were to speak, how should you answer him?”
“I should take time to think. I do not at all know what means he has for a separate establishment.” Then the subject was dropped between them for that time, and Isa, in her communications with her cousin, was somewhat more reserved than she had been.
“Isa, are you in love with Herbert?” Agnes asked her, as they were together in their room one night.
“In love with him? No; why should I be in love with him?”
“I think he is in love with you,” said Agnes.