I heard him dash into conversation again, into talk upon general subjects, vague and uninteresting. I listened to it all with the most absorbing interest to find something more on this one point, if I could. Then, by and bye, the stranger went away. I bade him good-night mechanically, and sat still, hearing the wood crackling in the stove, and Harry’s footsteps as he returned from the door. He came in, and sat down beside me on the sofa. He took my cold hand and clasped it between his. He said “Hester—Hester—Hester!” every time more tenderly, till I could bear it no longer, and burst into tears.
“Oh, Harry! you might have told me,” I exclaimed passionately, “you might have said that you cared for some one else before you cared for me!”
“It would have been false, if I had said so, Hester,” he answered me, in a very low earnest tone.
“Oh, Harry, Harry! do not deceive me now,” I said, making a great effort to keep down a sob.
He drew me close to him, and made me lean upon his shoulder. “In this I never have, nor ever will, deceive you,” he said, bending over me—“I never knew what love was till I knew you, Hester. What I say is true. See—I have no fear that you can find me out in a moment’s inconstancy. My thoughts have never wandered from you since I saw you first—and before I saw you, I was desolate and loved no one. You believe me?”
Could I refuse to believe him? I clung to him and cried, but my tears were not bitter any more. I could believe him surely better than a hundred strangers; but still I lifted my head and said, “What did the Professor mean?”
“I knew he would make mischief, this meddling fellow,” said Harry. “Hester! do not distrust me, at least on this point, when I say I cannot tell you yet what he means. I have a confession to make, and a story to tell—it is so, indeed, I cannot deny it. But wait till we get to England—wait till we are at home—you will trust me for a few days longer—say you will?”
“I have trusted you implicitly, everything you have done and said until now,” said I almost with a groan.
He kissed my hand with touching humility. “You have, Hester, I know you have,” he said under his breath, but he said no more—not a word of explanation—not a single regret—not a hint of what I was to look for when he told me his story—his story! what could it be?
For some time we sat in silence side by side, listening to the wind without, and to the roaring and crackling of the wood in the stove. We did not look at each other. For the first time, we were embarrassed and uneasy. We had no quarrel—no disagreement, but there was something between us—something—one of those shadowy barriers that struck a sense of individual existence and separateness for the first time to our hearts. We were checked upon our course of cordial and perfect unity. We began an anxious endeavor to make conversation for each other—it did not flow freely as it had done, nor was this the charmed silence in which only last night we had been delighted to sit. The wind whistled drearily about the house, and rattled at the windows. “I hope we will have calm weather to cross the channel,” said Harry, and then we began to discuss how and when we were to go home.