But she interrupted me, speaking slowly, almost musingly: "The purpose I had, perhaps, but not the one I have. I did not know myself. I did not know. I doubt if any girl does. I don't want to marry any man."
"Is it because another man fills your heart?" I asked, speaking gently. "Tell me, my beautiful sister, tell me. I'll find no fault with you. I'll help you if I can."
I received a sigh for my answer, and another and another, as she walked by my side, hanging her head. But when I urged her to speak, she raised her eyes to mine, and there was a cold, angry glint in them as she asked:—
"Do you mean—?"
She did not mention Hamilton's name, but I knew whom she meant and answered:—
"Yes."
A long pause followed, during which I was unable to read the expression on her face, but presently she spoke, her voice trembling with anger or emotion, I knew not which:—
"I hate him! If he were to touch my hand, I believe I should want to cut it off! I hate him—that is, I try to hate him."
Her words and manner caused me uneasiness in two respects: first, it led me to fear that she loved Hamilton; and second, in view of the rumors I had heard connecting his name with Roger Wentworth's death, it flashed upon me that possibly he was the man she had recognized by the light of Noah's lanthorn. Either of these surmises, if true, was enough to mar my peace of mind, but together they brought me trouble indeed.
I had come to look for a speedy accomplishment of my cousin's good fortune, and also to regard Hamilton as my dearest friend among men. Still I was helpless to remedy these evils if they really existed. What I did at the time was to insist, first, that Frances regain her senses as soon as possible, and second, that she say nothing of her intention to leave Whitehall for at least ten days. To my first request she replied that she had never been so completely in possession of her senses as at that present moment, and my second, she positively refused to consider.