‘What did I say to you, Captain Norton?’ she repeated firmly.
I began to mumble something about the words of sleep-walkers being always unintelligible, but she brought me back to the point.
‘You must have heard me; in fact, I can see by your face that you did hear. What was it that I said?’
‘I was so sleepy, Margaret,’ I commenced, but I felt my voice shaking audibly,—‘so sleepy, and altogether so confused, and my memory not being of the best, that I—I—really I—’
She gazed at me for a minute earnestly, almost hungeringly—I could feel it, though I did not see it—but I kept my eyes fixed over the sea, and a dead silence ensued between us. A dead silence, until it was broken by the living sound of tears; and I turned to see her dear head bent to her saddle-bow, and her slight figure shaken with her grief.
‘Margaret, dear Margaret!’ I exclaimed, forgetting everything but herself, ‘it was nothing—indeed it was nothing; a few words spoken at random, of which no one in his senses would think twice, or be so presumptuous as to understand as the interpretation of your true feelings towards him.’
But in my anxiety and ardour I had blurted out far more than I intended.
‘Be silent!’ she cried, as she lifted an indignant burning face to mine—‘be silent, Captain Norton! if you do not wish to insult me, or make me hate myself and you.’ And with that she dashed her hand impetuously across her eyes, and gathering up her reins, turned her horse’s head away from the sea-beach and began to canter towards home. I followed her, of course; but we did not exchange another word, and she would not even condescend to meet the imploring glance which, as I took her from the saddle, I lifted towards her face, mutely entreating for forgiveness.
She behaved much the same as usual during the remainder of the evening; only that I saw she studiously avoided coming in contact with myself. What a fool I was to say as much as I did! I, who almost registered a vow this morning that nothing should tear the secret from my lips. And now I have betrayed her to herself. I see she shuns me; I know she fears me; I almost believe I have made her hate me. Well, I have brought it on myself, and I must bear it as best I may; it only proves how little we know when we think—as I did this morning—that the world cannot hold a greater misfortune for us than the one we then endure.