“I feel such a pity for you,” he repeated, “a pity such as I have never yet felt for any one before.”
“That is the only thing left you that you can do for me, pity me,” she exclaimed passionately; “pity me, that does me good. For have you not told me that you knew me already before you saw me, that I was to you like an unknown little sister?”
He had risen from his seat, he laid his hands on her shoulders, and looked at her.
“Certainly,” he replied cordially. And she could have died for [[283]]him, so intensely grateful did she feel. “And now you are no longer unknown to me, and anything I can do for you I will do. You must tell me all about yourself, and if you will leave it to me, I will make you forget your miseries.”
He just tapped her on the shoulder like an old friend. In her heart there arose a great regret that they had not known each other sooner. What a happiness it had been to her but a little while ago when she humbled herself before him, when she begged him for his pardon.
A week elapsed, during which the Veres saw neither Vincent nor St. Clare, as they were away a few days in Holland. There was a talk of a masquerade ball to be given by the count. Uncle Daniel would not go in fancy costume, but Elise would go in Eastern dress; and Eline, whose fancy did not soar very high just now, would accompany her, also in Eastern dress.
A day before the ball the two young men came back. Eline thought she could see a frown pass over St. Clare’s features when he heard that they were going to that ball. He said nothing, however; but the following evening, about half-past eight, he came in with Vincent. They had also been invited. Vincent had accepted the invitation. St. Clare had not. He asked to see Eline for a moment, but she had just commenced her toilette; but St. Clare was importunate, and Eline sent her maid down to ask him to wait.
In the big salon there was no one. Vincent, in evening dress, was lying on the couch, and had taken up L’Indépendance. St. Clare stood on the balcony thinking, and he stared at the snow which glistened in the evening light. A servant came and asked whether they would have tea.
“I must say I admire your pluck, Lawrence,” said Vincent in English, as he slowly stirred his cup of tea. “But are you certain that all would go well?”
“Well, I can’t help myself. I will have it so,” answered St. Clare determinedly.