It might seem as if there was nothing more to be told. But the necessity of having to comfort her father, and repeat what was already known, would of itself be sufficiently painful.
Besides, there was her after-action—in the surreptitious penning of that little note. She had done it in haste, yielding to the instinct of love, and while its frenzy was upon her.
Now in the calm quiet of her chamber, when the spasmodic courage of passion had departed, she felt doubtful of what she had done.
It was less repentance of the act, than fear for the consequences. What if her father should also learn that? If he should have a suspicion and ask her?
She knew she must confess. She was as yet too young, too guileless, to think of subterfuge. She had just practised one; but it was altogether different from the telling of an untruth. It was a falsehood even prudery itself might deem pardonable.
But her father would not, and she knew it. Angry at what he already knew, it would add to his indignation—perhaps strengthen it to a storm. How would she withstand it?
She lay reflecting in fear.
“Dear Sabby!” she said, “do you think he will suspect it?”
The question was to the coloured attendant, who, having a tiny couch in the adjoining ante-chamber, sate up late by her young mistress, to converse with and comfort her.
“’Speck what? And who am to hab de saspicion?”