It was an electric shock she gave me, not more by the words than by the tone.
I struggled for a moment before I regained my mental balance.
“Don't you think we could get on safer ground?” I suggested.
“No,” said Luella. “There isn't any safe ground for us otherwise.”
The sudden heart-sickness at the reminder of my mission with which these words overwhelmed me, tied my tongue and mastered my spirits. It was this girl's father that I was pursuing. It was to bring him to the halter that I must keep up my masquerade. It was to bring her to sorrow and disgrace that I was bound by the dead hand of my murdered friend. Oh, why was this burden laid upon me? Why was I to be torn on the rack between inclination and duty?
Luella watched my face narrowly through the conflict in my mind, and I felt as though her spirit struggled with mine to win me to the course of open, honest dealing. But it was impossible. She must be the last of all to know.
Her eyes sank as though she knew which had won the victory, and a proud, scornful look took the place of the grave good humor that had been there a moment before. Then, on a sudden, she began to speak of the theaters, rides, drives and what-not of the pleasures of the day. To an observer it would have seemed that we were deep in friendly discourse; but I, who felt her tone and manner, knew that she was miles away from me and talking but for the appearance of courtesy. Suddenly she stopped with a weary look.
“There's Aunt Julia waiting for you,” she said with a gleam of malicious pleasure. “Come along. I deliver you over a prisoner of war.”
“Wait a minute,” I pleaded.
“No,” she said, imperiously motioning me. “Come along.” And with a sigh I was given, a helpless, but silently protesting, captive, to the mercies of Mrs. Bowser.