“Don’t be angry with me!” he cried; “I did not know what I was doing—I did not mean—forgive me!—you were crying, and I could not bear it; how could I stand still and see you cry?”
“I am not angry,” said Sara, softly. Never in her life had she spoken so softly before. “I know you did not mean it; I am in such terrible trouble; and they never told me it was you.”
Then Powys crept closer once more, poor young fellow, knowing he ought not, but too far gone for reason. “But it is I,” he said, softly touching the hand with which she leaned on the mantle piece,—“to serve you—to do any thing—any thing! only tell me what there is that I can do?”
Then she looked up with her big lucid eyes, and two big tears in them, and smiled at him though her heart felt like to burst, and put out her hands again, knowing this time what she was doing; and he took them, half-crazed with the joy and the wickedness. “I came up with some papers,” he said; “I came against my will; I never thought, I never hoped to see you; and your father will think I have done it dishonorably on purpose; tell me, oh, tell me, what I can do.”
“I don’t think you can do any thing,” said Sara, “nor any body else. I should not speak to you, but I can’t help it. We are in great trouble. And then you are the only one I could speak to,” said the girl, with unconscious self-betrayal. “I think we have lost every thing we have in the world.”
“Lost every thing!” said Powys; his eyes began to dance, and his cheek to burn—“lost every thing!” It was he now who trembled with eagerness, and surprise, and joy. “I don’t want to be glad,” he cried, “but I could work for you, slave for you—I shouldn’t mind what I did—”
“Oh, hush!” cried Sara, interrupting him, “I think I hear papa: it might not matter for us, but it is him we ought to think of. We have got people coming, and I don’t know what to do—I must go to papa.”
Then the young man stood and looked at her wistfully. “I can’t help you with that,” he said, “I can’t be any good to you—the only thing I can do is to go away; but, Sara! you have only to tell me; you know—”
“Yes,” she said, lifting her eyes to him once more, and the two big tears fell, and her lips quivered as she tried to smile; she was not angry—“yes,” she said, “I know;” and then there were sounds outside, and in a moment this strange, wild, sweet surprise was over. Sara rushed out to the library without another word, and Powys, tingling to the very points of his fingers, gave his bundle of papers to Willis to be given to Mr. Brownlow, and said he would come back, and rushed out into the glare of Lady Motherwell’s lamps as her carriage came sweeping up the avenue. He did not know who the little old lady was, nor who the tall figure with the black mustache might be in the corner of the carriage; but they both remarked him as he came down the steps at a bound. It gave them their first impression of something unusual about the house. “It is seven now,” Lady Motherwell said, “and dinner ought to be in half an hour—what an odd moment to go away.” She was still more surprised to see no one but servants when she entered, and to be shown into the deserted drawing-room where there was not a sign of any one about. “I don’t know what they mean by it, Charley,” Lady Motherwell said; “Mr. Brownlow or somebody was always here to receive us before.” Sir Charles did not say any thing, but he pulled his mustache, and he, too, thought it was rather queer.
When Sara rushed into the library not five minutes before Lady Motherwell’s arrival, the consultation there had been broken up. Jack, notwithstanding his many preoccupations, had yet presence of mind enough to remember that it was time to dress, as well as to perceive that all had been said that could be said. Mr. Brownlow was alone. He had stolen to the sofa for which he had been longing all the afternoon, and had laid himself down on it. The room was very dimly lighted by a pair of candles on the mantle-piece. It was a large room, and the faint twinkle of those distant lights made it look ghostly, and it was a very strange sight to see Mr. Brownlow lying on a sofa. He roused himself when Sara came in, but it was with an effort, and he was very reluctant to be disturbed. “Seven o’clock!” he said—“is it seven o’clock? but leave me a little longer, my darling; ten minutes is enough for dress.”