“I was always your slave—I ask nothing better than to be so still,” he whispered in her ear.
“And you will stay?”
“Yes, till you bid me go,” he whispered again; “but remember, too, that, when I ask a favour I can just as little brook refusal.”
“We’ll talk of that another time. Give me your arm now, and help me back to the house, for I feel very weak and faint. Is Milly angry with you?” she asked, as they walked along, side by side.
“I don’t know; perhaps so,” said he, carelessly.
“You used to be such good friends. I hope you have not fallen out?”
“I hope not,” said he, in his former easy tone; “or that if we have, we may make it up again. Bear in mind, Florence,” added he with more gravity of manner, “that I am a good deal changed from what you knew me. I have less pride, cherish fewer resentments, scarcely any hopes, and no affections—I mean, strong affections. The heart you refused is now cold; the only sentiment left me, is a sense of gratitude, I can be very grateful; I am already so.” She made no answer to this speech, and they re-entered the house in silence.
CHAPTER XXII. A LETTER OF CONFESSIONS.
THE following letter from Calvert to Drayton was written about three weeks after the event of our last chapter.