Disappointment were far too weak a word to express the pang that shoots through the heart of Helen Armstrong, on discovering the mistake she has made. It is bitter vexation, commingled with a sense of shame. I or her speeches, in feigned reproach, have terribly compromised her.
She does not drop to the earth, nor show any sign of it. She is not a woman of the weak fainting sort. No cry comes from her lips—nothing to betray surprise, or even the most ordinary emotion.
As Darke stands before her with arms upraised, she simply says,—
“Well, sir; if you are Richard Darke, what then? Your being so matters not to me; and certainly gives you no right thus to intrude upon me. I wish to be alone, and must beg of you to leave me so.”
The cool firm tone causes him to quail. He had hoped that the surprise of his unexpected appearance—coupled with his knowledge of her clandestine appointment—would do something to subdue, perhaps make her submissive.
On the contrary, the thought of the last but stings her to resentment, as he soon perceives.
His raised arms drop down, and he is about to step aside, leaving her free to pass. Though not before making an attempt to justify himself; instinct supplying a reason, with hope appended. He does so, saying,—
“If I’ve intruded, Miss Armstrong, permit me to apologise for it. I assure you it’s been altogether an accident. Having heard you are about to leave the neighbourhood—indeed, that you start to-morrow morning—I was on the way to your father’s house to say farewell. I’m sorry my coming along here, and chancing to meet you, should lay me open to the charge of intrusion. I shall still more regret, if my presence has spoiled any plans, or interfered with an appointment. Some one else expected, I presume?”
For a time she is silent—abashed, while angered, by the impudent interrogatory.
Recovering herself, she rejoins,—