There was a most winning archness in the way she said this, that thrilled through Cashel as he listened. “No, I will not,” added she, suddenly, and as if carried away by a passionate impulse; “you are too—”
“Too what?” cried he, impatiently.
“Too fickle,” said she; and then, as if terrified at her own boldness, she added, in a tremulous voice, “Oh, do forgive me!”
“There is really nothing to forgive,” said Roland, “unless you persist in keeping from me an avowal that I almost fancy I have a right to ask for. And now, of what were you thinking?”
“I 'll tell you,” said she, in a low, earnest accent, “though it may lose me your esteem. I was thinking”—her voice here fell so low that Cashel, to hear her words, was obliged to draw his chair closer, and bend down his head till it actually brushed against the leaves she wore in her hair—“I was thinking that, when we knew you first, before you had made acquaintance with others, when you sat and read to us, when we walked and rode together,—when, in short, the day was one bright dream of pleasure to us, who had never known a brother—”
Pardon us, dear reader, if, at so critical a moment, we occupy the pause which here ensued—and there was a pause—by referring to our Aunt Fanny, only premising that we do so advisedly. It was one of that excellent lady's firmest convictions that every one in the world required some discreet friend, who should, at eventful passages in life, be ready to aid, by presence of mind, a wavering resolve, or confirm a half-formed determination. Now, she had waited for two mortal hours on that day for Cashel's coming, in a state of impatience little short of fever. She opened and shut her window, looked up one avenue and down another; she had watched on the landing, and stood sentinel on the stairs; she had seen Mrs. Kenny-feck and her elder daughter pass out into the garden, weary of long waiting; when, at last, she heard Roland's hasty step as he traversed the hall, and, hurrying upstairs, entered the drawing-room.
Drawn by an attraction there is no explaining, she left her room, and took up her position in a small boudoir which adjoined the drawing-room. Here she sat, persuading herself she was at her work; but, in reality, in a state of suspense not very inferior to some prisoner while a jury is deliberating on his fate.
The conversation, at first conducted in an ordinary tone, had gradually subsided, till it dropped into the low, undistinguishable manner we have mentioned.
