“But you wrote to him?”
The cheek of Blanche Vernon, again pale, suddenly became flushed to the colour of carmine. It rose almost to the blue irides of her eyes, still glistening with tears.
Before, it had been a flush of indignation. Now it was the blush of shame. What her father had seen and heard under the deodara, if a sin, was not one for which she felt herself accountable. She had but followed the promptings of her innocent heart, benighted by the noblest passion of her nature.
What she had done since was an action she could have controlled. She was conscious of disobedience, and this was to be conscious of having committed crime. She did not attempt to deny it. She only hesitated through surprise at the question.
“You wrote a note to him?” said her father, repeating it with a slight alteration in the form.
“I did.”
“I will not insist on knowing what was in it. From your candour, my child, I’m sure you would tell me. I only ask you to promise that you will not write to him again.”
“O father!”
“That you will neither write to him, nor see him.”
“O father!”