She shivered; the look of agony in his eyes was too horrible to be borne. She wrenched her right hand from his and brought it sharply down on his shoulder.
“Look here!” she said earnestly, “you are torturing yourself without cause; I am sure of it. I am a woman, and I can feel what a woman would do. Nouna is sharp and bright, and even cunning upon occasion. She would not be ten minutes in that man’s society without knowing that she must be on her guard; I suppose he promised to take her to her mother; then depend upon it she would never let him rest until he had done so.”
“Ah, but you don’t know all, Ella. Her mother hates me——”
“—— quarrelled with you, and threatened all sorts of awful things, I know; uncle Horace told me. But George, you silly old George, don’t you know that after all she’s her mother, and do you really believe that when Nouna came to her, flinging her arms about her, worshipping her, and looking upon her as her refuge, her safety—remember that!—that she would, or could undo all the work of her life, and use now to make her daughter miserable means which she would not use before to make her, according to her notions, happy?”
George’s face grew lighter; he looked up out of the window and then turned again to the girl.
“Certainly—as you put it—it seems possible—”
“Of course it is possible, probable, and I will stake my word—true. You men are good creatures, but you can’t reason. Now I will write direct to the mother——”
“My dear Ella, I don’t think you must do that. Ask Lady Mill——”
“Nonsense. Don’t be old-maidish. To-morrow you shall hear something—something good, I earnestly believe.”
“Ella, you are killing me,” said George in a stifled voice. “If you knew—what it is—after these awful days—and nights—to hear——”