He sighed, and put her gently away from him.
She turned up her flushed, tear-stained face to his.
"Will you kiss me, Harry?" she asked tremblingly. He met her eyes, and an exclamation that was almost a groan broke from his lips. A shudder passed through his frame.
"I can't, Clara! I can't—God forgive me!—Not yet!" And with that he bowed his head and left her.
She listened to the echo of his firm footsteps dying away, and creeping guiltily to a side-door she opened it, and watched yearningly his retreating figure till it had disappeared.
"Why did I never love him till now?" she murmured sobbingly. "Now, when he despises me—when he will not even kiss me?—" She leaned against the half-open door in an attitude of utter dejection, not caring to move, listening intently with a vague hope of hearing her husband's returning tread. A lighter step than his, however, came suddenly along from the other side of the passage and startled her a little—it was Ernest, looking the picture of boyish health and beauty. He was just going out for his usual ride—he lifted his cap with a pretty courtesy as he saw her, and said—
"Good-morning, mother!"
She looked at him with new interest,—how handsome the lad was!—how fresh his face!—how joyously clear those bright blue eyes of his! He, on his part, was moved by a novel sensation too—his mother,—his proud, beautiful, careless mother had been crying—he saw that at a glance, and his young heart beat faster when she laid her white hand, sparkling all over with rings, on his arm and drew him closer to her.
"Are you going to the Park?" she asked gently.
"Yes." Then recollecting his training in politeness and obedience he added instantly—"Unless you want me."