“Emma, my dear, why will you ask what pains me to tell and you to hear? I entreat you to keep silence on that point. You ask if I am satisfied. I am satisfied even to adoration. To have you with me, to surround you with all in my power to give you, is to me a heaven on earth.”
“You are good, you are dear. Then why shall I not love you?” she murmured, pressing closer against his side. “But Greville? I beseech you tell me what you hear of him. My mind would be more settled. I could bear it better. Tell me the truth.” Her breath caressed him.
He hesitated, then resolved.
“Emma, is mine the hand that ought to wound you? You force it on me. But since you will have it, I hear of his attentions to a young lady of fortune in London.”
Dead silence. Only a trembling against his side. He tried to see her face but could not, for it was buried upon his shoulder. She had turned into his arms to meet the blow. That touched him to delight. A minute went by slowly. Then, in a choked whisper:
“But he is coming in October. If I see him again—”
“Coming in October?” Sir William’s voice had the ring of genuine astonishment. “He has never said so to me. There was some light talk in April of his coming out later, but I never heard a word more. Do you know that for certain? Has he said so?”
Dead silence again. Then, at long last, a muttered “No.”
“Then what do you build on, my child?”
“Nothing.” The one word had the ring of despair. The air was hot and heavy, the hidden sun burning behind leaden clouds that promised thunder. They sat silent, he holding her and seeing nothing but her bowed bright head.