He paused, confronting her with a pale resolution.
"You didn't know that I had seen him?"
"Know!"
She turned away fiercely, choking with sobs she could hardly control, as the memory of that by-gone moment returned upon her.
"I thought as much," said Delafield, in a low voice. "You hoped never to hear of your promise again."
She made no answer; but she sank again upon the seat beside the lake, and supporting herself on one delicate hand, which clung to the coping of the wall, she turned her pale and tear-stained face to the lake and the evening sky. There was in her gesture an unconscious yearning, a mute and anguished appeal, as though from the oppressions of human character to the broad strength of nature, that was not lost on Delafield. His mind became the centre of a swift and fierce debate. One voice said: "Why are you persecuting her? Respect her weakness and her grief." And another replied: "It is because she is weak that she must yield--must allow herself to be guided and adored."
He came close to her again. Any passer-by might have supposed that they were both looking at the distant boat and listening to the pilgrimage chant.
"Do you think I don't understand why you made that promise?" he said, very gently, and the mere self-control of his voice and manner carried a spell with it for the woman beside him. "It was wrung out of you by kindness for a dying man. You thought I should never know, or I should never claim it. Well, I am selfish. I take advantage. I do claim it. I saw Lord Lackington only a few hours before his death. 'She mustn't be alone,' he said to me, several times. And then, almost at the last, 'Ask her again. She'll consider it--she promised.'"
Julie turned impetuously.
"Neither of us is bound by that--neither of us."