But Betsy did not speak a word. Tom was too full of himself and of setting his sorrow to rhythm to notice how often during every day her eyes filled with tears. But one of her sisters who occupied the same bedroom, had awakened once in the night hearing Betsy sob on her pillow, and had asked her what was the matter—was it toothache? “Ah, the ache! the ache!” Betsy had answered. The little girl had expressed her sympathy with her sister’s suffering, and had straightway fallen asleep, forgetting in the morning that she had ever been awakened.
But Mr. Long was not among those who were insensible of any change in Betsy. He did not fail to perceive that some trouble was upon her. He wondered if it was the family trouble in regard to Tom’s promise that oppressed her, or was it due to something more closely affecting herself?
After Tom had renounced the enchantress, and it might have been expected that Betsy would become herself again, Mr. Long noticed that she was more tristful than ever. He made up his mind that, failing to find out by chance the cause of the change, he would ask her concerning it. For some days, however, he had no chance of talking with her apart from the members of her family. But at the end of a week, he found her alone in the music-room. He had met Mr. Linley and his wife on their way to look at a house in the Circus, which their improving circumstances seemed to warrant their taking, and he perceived that there was a likelihood of Betsy’s being at home and alone. He knew that he was fortunate when he heard the sound of her voice while he rang the bell. She was singing, and he knew that now she rarely sang unless she was alone.
She sprang from the harpsichord when he entered the room, and turned away for a suspicious moment before greeting him.
“My dear child, why should you wipe the tears from your eyes?” he said, retaining her hand. “Do you fancy that I am one of those people who think tears a sign of weakness? Nay, you should know that I regard them as an indication of strength—of womanliness, which is the strongest influence that remains with us in the world.”
“Ah, no, no! with me they are a proof of weakness,” she cried quickly—“weakness—weakness! Oh, I am in great trouble, Mr. Long, because I am conscious daily of doing you a great wrong. But you will bear with me—you will forgive me when I confess it to you?”
“Before you confess—before,” he said. “But what can you have to confess?”
“It is terrible—terrible, for though I have given you my promise to marry you, I find that I cannot do it—I cannot do it.”
She remained standing before him, but put both her hands up to her face. The movement was ineffectual; her hands failed to conceal her tears.
“Why?” he asked, after a pause.