He led her to the sofa, and she seated herself, wondering.
“My Betsy,” he said, “I hoped that I would never be led to do you a wrong, and I hope that I did not wrong you when I asked you for the promise which you gave me; but at that time, and before it, all my love was given to another—another even younger than yourself.”
A little coldness had come to her eyes. She drew back an inch from him. He recognised how womanly was the movement.
“You will see her—one day; but I cannot show her to you now. I can only show you her likeness.”
He took out of an inner pocket a miniature enclosed in a plain red gold case. It was attached to a black watered silk riband which he wore round his neck. He looked at the picture for a long time before handing it to her, which he did with a sigh.
She took the case in her hands, and saw that the picture was of a girl’s face, lovely in its spirituality, pathetic in its innocence. The eyes were of the softest grey, and their expression had a certain indefinable sadness in it, in spite of the smile that illuminated the face.
“She is beautiful,” said Betsy gently.
“Ah, she is more beautiful than that picture now,” said he. “It was painted forty years ago. She is more beautiful now.”
“Only an angel could be more beautiful,” said Betsy.
“That is true—only an angel. She is among the angels,” said he. “Dear child, it was Mr. Jackson, the organist of Exeter, who told me that when you sang your face was like the face of one who is looking at an angel. I wondered if I should think so when I saw you. I found that he spoke the truth: I have seen you when you seemed to be looking into her face. It was for her sake, my dear, that I wished to do something to help you. I hoped that this privilege might be granted to me.”