I had one last brief tête-à-tête with my dear girl while I took the tracing from the old Bible. She sat watching me, and distracting me more or less while I worked; and despite the shadow of doubt that has fallen upon me, I could not be otherwise than happy in her sweet company.
When I came to the record of Susan Meynell's death, my Charlotte's manner changed all at once from her accustomed joyousness to a pensive gravity.
"I was very sorry you spoke of Susan Meynell to uncle Joseph," she said, thoughtfully.
"But why sorry, my dear?"
I had some vague notion as to the cause of this sorrow; but the instincts of the chase impelled me to press the subject. Was I not bound to know every secret in the lives of Matthew Haygarth's descendants?
"There is a very sad story connected with my aunt Susan—she was my great-aunt, you know," said Charlotte, with a grave earnest face. "She went away from home, and there was great sorrow. I cannot talk of the story, even to you, Valentine, for there seems something sacred in these painful family secrets. My poor aunt Susan left all her friends, and died many years afterwards in London."
"She was known to have died unmarried?" I asked. This would be an important question from George Sheldon's point of sight.
"Yes," Charlotte replied, blushing crimson.
That blush told me a great deal.
"There was some one concerned in this poor lady's sorrow," I said; "some one to blame for all her unhappiness."