“Good-morning, Lady Hermione,” he said, gravely. “I did not expect the pleasure of seeing you.”
“We waited half an hour for you,” said Mr. Eyrle. “Did you not promise to join us in an excursion to the Holy Well?”
“I do not remember making such a promise,” he said; and then he could not control his longing desire to look at her. He raised his eyes to her face, and was astonished at what he saw there. Some great change had come over that brilliant beauty. Her face was pale and grave—stern as one who is nerved to go through a disagreeable duty. The smiles that had been wont to play round her sweet, proud lips had died away. There was no light in the eyes that met his so coldly.
She bowed coolly in reply to his greeting, but spoke no word. He saw her draw her slender figure to its full height; then she said something to a lady near her. Sir Ronald felt as though a sharp sword had pierced his heart.
“She hates me,” he thought; “she is trying to show me how utterly indifferent she is to me. Ah! Hermione, there was no need to be cruel to me. I know now that you will not love me. I shall not ask you again, sweet; I shall dree my weird alone.”
She was so still. The bright, gay words that charmed him were no longer heard. He looked at her again, and saw an expression of weariness on her face, as though she were tired and not happy.
Bitter thoughts crowded upon him. He loved her so that he could have flung himself under her horse’s feet, yet he felt that she had ruined his life, and, deep in his heart, he cursed the coquetry that had been his blight.
He bade her good-morning in the coolest of words. She barely responded; yet, to his surprise, he saw she had grown white to the very lips.
“How she must dislike me,” he thought, “that the sight of me is so distasteful to her. How utterly false she was when she offered to be my friend for life, yet my only crime has been to love her.”
It was Lord Lorriston who rode up to him next, with a hearty greeting.