Arthur, at this unexpected mention (a very mal à propos one in his opinion) of an absent husband’s name, rose abruptly from his place by Honor’s side. He was very young, very little conversant in the ways and means of defence of such women as Honor, or he would have seen through this simple ruse. He would have understood that this beautiful and defenceless creature, with an instinctive dread of her pursuer, had thrown up this rampart against attack, and would have drawn, through that very alarm, good augury for eventual success.
It was fortunate for Honor that no such ideas as these entered at that moment the mind of the man who was gradually coming near enough to be—there is no medium course, let women believe in its existence if they will—either accepted or denied. It was well, too, that Arthur, roused by his own movement from the dream of passion in which he had been indulging, once more began to have some thought and memory for outward things, and especially for the lapse of time since he had left his home.
Looking hastily at his watch, he perceived to his dismay that it was four o’clock, so swiftly had time passed—is it not ever so?—while he had been occupied by talking about himself, and been busied with his own sentimental interests.
“Four o’clock already!” he exclaimed, “and I have so much to do for you, Honor! It is impossible for you to remain here. I could not answer for the consequences. I only wish that I had met you at the Waterloo station, and prevented your coming here at all. However, I am off now to see about old Schmidt, and directly I have settled anything, I will return. In the mean time, do not leave the house, and if you can, avoid seeing the woman that it belongs to.”
“I can hardly help seeing her,” Honor said with a smile; for she was both amused and flattered by his solicitude on her behalf. “She will bring in the few things that I want herself, and—”
“Your poor little dinner solitary among the rest, I suppose?” said Arthur pityingly. “O Honor!” he continued—and how at that moment he longed for the hundredth time to take her in his arms and whisper to her his love, the object of that love was happily never destined to know—“O Honor!” he said, “my love, my darling! how unfitted you are to do battle for yourself in this rough, wicked world! It is so hard to leave you, so hard to think of you, in this sordid miserable place, alone, unprotected, and—God help both you and me!—so very, very beautiful!”
He drew a long, almost a gasping breath, as the last passionate words burst from his white quivering lips, and, almost before Honor could even look her surprise at the utterly unexpected outburst, the door had closed upon his retreating figure, and Honor once more found herself alone.
CHAPTER XX.
POOR SOPHY!
“I am so glad they have let me see you, though I am only to speak in a whisper, and to stay just one half-hour and no more. You darling thing! How pretty you look in that dear little cap!” And Katie Vavasour, who had been allowed, as a great favour, to visit her much-loved sister-in-law, pressed her fresh young lips to the invalid’s forehead, and took her seat beside the bed preparatory to a “quiet talk.”
“I am glad you came too, dear,” Sophy rejoined. “It is so dull without Arthur, and he has been gone away so long—many hours, I am sure. What o’clock is it now? Three, I am sure; and he left me long before twelve. Where do you think he is?”