Miss Clode did not appear as if she heard him, but went to the back of the shop to hurry her niece away, to that young lady’s great disgust, for she wanted to stare at Richard, whom she greatly admired, and hear what was said. Consequently, he was left turning over the books for a few minutes before Miss Clode returned, and, to his surprise, stood gazing up at him wistfully.
“Well, Miss Clode,” he said with forced gaiety, “suppose somebody were waiting for me to join in a sonata?”
“I—I beg your pardon,” she cried, flushing, and turning her back, she obtained the tin case that held the transparent rings, and placed it before him with a deep sigh.
“Not well, Miss Clode?” said Richard cheerfully.
To his astonishment she caught his hand in hers, and burst into tears.
“No, no, no,” she cried, sobbing violently, “I am ill—heart-sick. Mr Linnell, please, pray come in, I want to speak to you.”
“Why, Miss Clode!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, you are surprised,” she exclaimed, “greatly surprised. You, so young and handsome, an independent gentleman, are astonished that a poor insignificant woman in my humble position should be always anxious about you—should—should—there, I can keep it back no longer,” she cried passionately, as she held with both hands tightly that which he tried to withdraw. “I must speak—I must tell you, or you will wreck and ruin your dear life. Mr Linnell—Richard—I love you. I love you so that I cannot bear to see and hear what I do—you are breaking my heart.”
“Miss Clode!” cried Richard Linnell, amazed, filled with contempt, sorrow, pity, all in one. “Think of what you are saying. Why, what madness is this?”
“The madness of a wretched, unhappy woman, who has known you so long, and whose love for you is a hundred times stronger than you can believe. But hush! Come in here. Some one may call at any moment, and I could not bear for them to see.”