‘I was afraid you were ill, dear—you went so pale as you were preaching.’
‘No, I am not ill,’ he managed to reply.
‘I felt a little faint, that was all. I think I need rest; I have been overworking.’
‘You must take a holiday,’ she answered fondly. ‘You must go right away into the country, far from here; and I—I shall go with you, shall I not?’
He drew her to him, and looked long and lovingly into her face, till the sense of her infinite tenderness and devotion overcame him, and he almost wept.
‘If I could only go away for ever!’ he cried. ‘If I could put the world behind me, and see no face but yours, my darling, till my last hour came, and I died in your faithful arms. Here in London, my life seems a mockery, a daily weariness, an air too close and black to breathe in freedom. I hate it, Alma! I hate everything in the world but you!’
Alma smiled, and, smoothing back his hair with her white hand, kissed his forehead.
‘My Abelard must not talk like that! Every day you continue to fulfil your ministry, your fame and influence grow greater. How eloquent you were to-day! I heard the Prime Minister say that you were the most wonderful preacher he had ever heard, and that though he disagreed with your opinions——’
‘Do not speak of it!’ he cried, interrupting her eagerly. ‘I care for no one’s praise but yours. Oh! Alma what would it all be to me, if I were to lose your love, your good esteem!’
And he held her to him passionately, as if fearing some violent hand might snatch her away. At that moment he heard the sound of a door opening, and looking up saw, standing on the threshold of the vestry, Mrs. Montmorency.