“I will speak to you about that presently, Alma,” said the lady, turning a leaf of her book, and relapsing into silence.
Alma fell into thought. She had private anxieties enough of her own to engage her mind. She was extremely desirous to keep her appointment with her unhappy father. She was extremely fearful, also, of a rencounter between her father and her betrothed. She therefore felt the urgent necessity of being herself early on the ground to meet the first comer, whether that should be her father or her betrothed. If it should be the former, she would draw him quickly off in some other direction to avoid a meeting with Captain Montrose. If the latter, she would merely greet him and dismiss him, to shun a rencounter with Mr. Elverton. All these plans were fraught with danger, but they were the best that she could improvise for the exigency. Meanwhile, how quickly the precious minutes flew while she sat waiting her mother’s leisure.
The elegant little ormolu clock on the chimney-piece struck six.
Alma started and looked up. The hour had come.
“Mamma, I wish to take an evening walk. If you will permit me, I will go, and return when you have leisure to attend to me,” said the young girl, desperately.
“Are you so impatient, Alma? Well, then, I will hear you now,” said the lady, closing her book and laying it down.
“No, mamma, I am not impatient. Indeed, I should prefer taking my usual walk first, and then come to you again,” replied the young girl, while a deep blush suffused her cheeks.
“You have had a long drive—enough of fresh air and exercise for one day. You may forego your walk; nay, you must do so.”
Alma’s color went and came rapidly.
The lady continued: