"Only for a moment—only one word," besought Cleve.
"Well," laughed Miss Fanshawe, though he thought a little uneasily, for she glanced toward the house, and he fancied was thinking of Sir Booth. "If you will, I can't help it, only you must remember there are dogs in the yard, and," she added, more gravely, "papa has so many notices up to keep people away, I think he'd be vexed."
"Here I'm almost on neutral ground. It is only a step, and I'm gone. I want to tell you—you must forgive me—but it was I who ventured to send that little boy with those squirrels there. I knew how lonely you were, and I was selfish enough to wish to give you even so small an evidence of the sincerity of my professions—my anxiety to be employed."
"That little boy promised to return, but has never come back," said Miss Fanshawe, throwing back her head a little, and pushing back her rich tresses. He thought there was a brighter colour in her cheeks, and that she looked a little haughty.
"He could not help it, poor little fellow. He lives at Pendillion, nine miles across the water, and nearly thirty by the road. You must lay the whole blame upon me—you must, indeed. It's all my fault."
Miss Fanshawe was looking down upon the unconscious squirrels. There was something of disdain in this glance that fell from under her long silken lashes askance upon them, hopping and frisking within their wires, as if she meditated sending them away in disgrace.
"You must not be vexed with them either, it is all my doing, my fault, let me confess. I ran down in my boat to Pendillion, and looked up that little fellow who always has half-a-dozen squirrels. I had to go twice to find him, and then brought him here, and he met a lady in the wood. There was no mistaking the description, and so these little creatures are your happy captives—and—I hope you are not very angry with me."
The colour was brilliant in her cheeks, and gave a corresponding brilliancy to her great eyes; how were they so mysterious and yet so frank? She looked on him gravely in silence for a moment, and then down upon the little prisoners in the cage. Was she angry—was she embarrassed—was she secretly pleased? That odd, beautiful girl—he could not quite understand her.
But Mr. Cleve Verney was an impetuous orator; when he took fire upon a theme he ran on daringly—
"And I've done more—I'm even more guilty; I'll hide nothing—I've taken a great reward—I've got a talisman that I prize above anything—this little coin;" and there was a bright shilling fixed like a "charm" to his watch-guard. "It is mine—you only can guess; no one shall ever know why I wore it next my heart, and you may blame, but you won't quite condemn me; and won't you make it up with these poor little squirrels, and tell me it's all forgiven, and—by Jove, here's Miss Sheckleton."