“Norham,” she faltered faintly.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Elverton; I hope I have not prematurely interrupted a pleasant tête-a-tête,” he replied, sarcastically, his black eyes flashing and his proud lip curling.
Alma understood all now. He had seen her father walking with her in the wood, and had mistaken Hollis Elverton for a favored suitor. And Alma, bound by her promise, dared not explain the circumstance, and under such conditions could not hope to reassure her jealous lover. A consciousness of her false position bowed her fair head upon her bosom, dyed her delicate cheek with blushes, and invested her whole manner with the appearance of conscious guilt. Her heart sank within her bosom, and she could not reply.
He looked at her for a moment in scorn and anger—the fierce scorn and anger of wounded love and jealousy, and then saying—“I will no longer intrude upon your privacy, Miss Elverton; good evening,” he lifted his hat, turned upon his heel, and strode away.
“Stay, stay, Norham; do not leave me in a fatal error!” cried Alma, breaking the spell that had bound her faculties, and springing forward.
He paused and looked wistfully towards her for a moment, then strode back to her side, and answered, still very haughtily:
“I beg your pardon, Miss Elverton, if I have wronged you even in my thoughts, but our mutual relations assuredly warrant me in feeling some surprise and displeasure at finding you in these woods, walking with a strange man as you have so often walked with me, and certainly justify me in demanding some explanation of so strange a proceeding on your part.”
“And because I have been so indiscreet as to wander here with you, do you really suppose that I could be so faultless as to walk here with another?” said Alma, in a mournful voice.
“I have assuredly very good reason to think so,” replied Norham, sarcastically.
“Yes, it is true; by coming here to meet you I have given you good reason for thinking me capable of any degree of indiscretion,” said Alma, with sorrowful self-humiliation.