"No, indeed; your mamma is very much better," said I cheerfully. "I have taken a run down for the pleasure of seeing you, Annabel."
She still looked uneasy. I remembered the dreadful tidings I had brought the last time I came to Hastings. No doubt she was thinking of it, too, poor girl.
"Take a seat, Charles," she said. "Aunt Lucy will soon be down."
I drew a chair opposite to her, and talked for a little time on indifferent topics. The twilight shades grew deeper, passers-by more indistinct, the sea less bright and shimmering. Silence stole over us—a sweet silence all too conscious, all too fleeting. Annabel suddenly rose, stood at the window, and made some slight remark about a little boat that was nearing the pier.
"Annabel," I whispered, as I rose and stood by her, "you do not know what I have really come down for."
"No," she answered, with hesitation.
"When I last saw you at your own home, you may remember that you were in very great trouble. I asked you to share it with me, but you would not do so."
She began to tremble, and became agitated, and I passed my arm round her waist.
"My darling, I now know all."
Her heart beat violently as I held her. Her hand shook nervously in mine.