'Jerry! this to me!' she exclaimed, her eyes expressive now of sad reproach. 'Think of me as you will, I can explain no more.'
Her eyes closed, her little white hands were clenched and pressed upon her bosom, and again, as yesterday in the oriel, she seemed on the point of sinking. She had suddenly become bewildered and confused, and this bewilderment and confusion were but too painfully apparent to the sorrowing and exasperated Vane.
Was she thinking it possible that that of which she had spoken in a moment of confidence to Trevor Chute—the thing or being unseen, but which she felt conscious of being near her—could have been by her side in that dark arbour then, or what caused her emotion? Did a memory of the icy and irrepressible shudder she felt at times, when that dread pang occurred to her, come over her then?
Perhaps so, for the nameless dread that paralysed her tongue made her more tolerant to Jerry. Anon she recovered herself, and pride of heart, dignity of position, and a sense of insult came to her rescue and restored her strength, and she looked Vane steadily, even haughtily, in the face.
'You put my faith to a hard test, Ida,' said he; 'God alone knows how hard.'
'If I could spare you a pang, Mr. Vane, He knows I would,' she replied; 'but when last you spoke to me about a strange gentleman being with me in the arbour, I thought your manner odd and unwarrantable, and now I think it more so. I trust this is the last time the subject will be referred to—and, and—now I wish you good-morning.'
And bowing with gravity and grace, not unmingled with hauteur, she swept away towards the house and left him. Great was the shock this event, and this most unanticipated interview or explanation, gave the heart of Vane, who made not the slightest attempt to detain her, or soothe the indignation he had apparently kindled; but he stood rooted to the spot, motionless as the marble Psyche on its pedestal close by.
If perfidy rendered her unworthy of him, why regret her? Yet it was so hard, so bitter, and so unnatural to deem her so. With all his pride, we have said that Jerry had none with Ida, and the moment the accusation against her escaped him, he repented of it. With all her tenderness and gentleness, he knew how dignified and resolute Ida could be. He recalled all the varying expressions he had seen in her sweet face, great amazement, pain, alarm, and sorrow, culminating in indignation and pride; and though she left him in undisguised anger, he still seemed to hear the pathos of her voice, which seemed filled with unshed tears.
Was he yielding her up in anger now, and not in sorrow as before, to another who would revel in all the spells of her beauty and sweetness, and thus ruining all for himself again?
Then he said through his clenched teeth: