As he read the fatal figures, a mist swam before his eyes,—a sort of faintness came over him. It seemed for a moment as if his very life was sinking down through his boots into the carpet. He threw down the book hastily, and, turning, stepped through an open window into the garden, and walked quickly off.
“Where in the world is John going?” said Lillie, running to the door, and calling after him in imperative tones.
“John, John, come back. I haven’t done with you yet;” but John never turned his head.
“How very odd! what in the world is the matter with him?” she said to herself.
John was gone all the afternoon. He took a long, long walk, all by himself, and thought the matter over. He remembered that fresh, childlike, almost infantine face, that looked up into his with such a bewitching air of frankness and candor, as she professed to be telling all about herself and her history; and now which or what of it was true? It seemed as if he loathed her; and yet he couldn’t help loving her, while he despised himself for doing it.
When he came home to supper, he was silent and morose. Lillie came running to meet him; but he threw her off, saying he was tired. She was frightened; she had never seen him look like that.
“John, what is the matter with you?” said Grace at the tea-table. “You are upsetting every thing, and don’t drink your tea.”
“Nothing—only—I have some troublesome business to settle,” he said, getting up to go out again. “You needn’t wait for me; I shall be out late.”
“What can be the matter?”
Lillie, indeed, had not the remotest idea. Yet she remembered his jumping up suddenly, and throwing down the Bible; and mechanically she went to it, and opened it. She turned it over; and the record met her eye.