I mention his strength of character here, speaking of it first of all in introducing him into my story, for the simple reason that when I saw him standing under the trees, I perceived by the expression of his face, that he was yielding to a most unusual emotion; he looked anxious, even unhappy. This I took in with a kind of side thought, to be recurred to by and by, but at present I was too much excited about myself. I walked with him nearly every evening when he smoked, and now I went to my usual place, and put my hand through his arm. I longed to ask him if the surmise, which was agitating my whole being, was correct, but by doing this I should betray Sybil, and I must not even mention that I had seen her.
“What bright cheeks, and what a happy face!” said David, looking at me affectionately, “are you very glad to come to the Messiah with me? little woman.”
“Yes,” I answered absently, for to-morrow’s treat had sunk into insignificance. Then out it came with a great irrepressible burst, “David, I am longing to see London.”
David, who knew nothing of my discontent, who imagined me to be, what I always appeared to him, a child without the shadow of a care, or a sorrow, without even the ghost of a longing outside my own peaceful existence, answered in the tone of surprise which men can throw into their voices when they are not quite comfortable.
“London, my dear Gwladys.”
“Yes, why not?”
“Well, we don’t live so very far away from London, you may see it some day.”
It was quite evident, by David’s indifferent tone, that he knew nothing of any immediate visit in store for me. I bit my lips hard, and tried to say nothing. I am sure I should not have spoken but for his next words.
“And in the meantime you can wait; you are very happy, are you not?”
“No, I am not. I’m not a bit happy, David,” and I burst into tears.