“Did you?” she cried, with a voice of joy that seemed to mock at me. “You saw James More? You will have spoken with him, then?”
“I did even that,” said I.
Then I think things went the worst way for me that was humanly possible. She gave me a look of mere gratitude. “Ah, thank you for that!” says she.
“You thank me for very little,” said I, and then stopped. But it seemed when I was holding back so much, something at least had to come out. “I spoke rather ill to him,” said I; “I did not like him very much; I spoke him rather ill, and he was angry.”
“I think you had little to do then, and less to tell it to his daughter!” she cried out. “But those that do not love and cherish him I will not know.”
“I will take the freedom of a word yet,” said I, beginning to tremble. “Perhaps neither your father nor I are in the best of good spirits at Prestongrange’s. I daresay we both have anxious business there, for it’s a dangerous house. I was sorry for him too, and spoke to him the first, if I could but have spoken the wiser. And for one thing, in my opinion, you will soon find that his affairs are mending.”
“It will not be through your friendship, I am thinking,” said she; “and he is much made up to you for your sorrow.”
“Miss Drummond,” cried I, “I am alone in this world....”
“And I am not wondering at that,” said she.
“O, let me speak!” said I. “I will speak but the once, and then leave you, if you will, for ever. I came this day in the hopes of a kind word that I am sore in want of. I know that what I said must hurt you, and I knew it then. It would have been easy to have spoken smooth, easy to lie to you; can you not think how I was tempted to the same? Cannot you see the truth of my heart shine out?”