"It might be right—I do not mean that; but I could not do it. I seemed to have no title to trouble you. The mishap concerned me only. I wanted to keep it to myself, and people will not let me. I tell you, I hate to be an object of worrying attention, or a theme for village gossip. Besides, it may pass away without result—God knows!"
Moore, though tortured with suspense, did not demand a quick explanation. He suffered neither gesture, glance, nor word to betray impatience. His tranquillity tranquillized Shirley; his confidence reassured her.
"Great effects may spring from trivial causes," she remarked, as she loosened a bracelet from her wrist. Then, unfastening her sleeve, and partially turning it up, "Look here, Mr. Moore."
She showed a mark in her white arm—rather a deep though healed-up indentation—something between a burn and a cut.
"I would not show that to any one in Briarfield but you, because you can take it quietly."
"Certainly there is nothing in the little mark to shock. Its history will explain."
"Small as it is, it has taken my sleep away, and made me nervous, thin, and foolish; because, on account of that little mark, I am obliged to look forward to a possibility that has its terrors."
The sleeve was readjusted, the bracelet replaced.
"Do you know that you try me?" he said, smiling. "I am a patient sort of man, but my pulse is quickening."
"Whatever happens, you will befriend me, Mr. Moore? You will give me the benefit of your self-possession, and not leave me at the mercy of agitated cowards?"