“I was obliged to come,” I murmured passionately. “I had to see you.”
“You should not have done it,” she said helplessly.—“you should not have done it.”
“I am very sorry.”
I took my cue and passed into the mood of the reckless, love-sick youth. I knew that to feel a passion is the only way to be convincing.
“It is dangerous, and most dangerous now.” She began to weep; she was evidently unstrung from watching. I drew her away into a sheltered corner of the battlements, where the moon made it almost as light as day.
I told her that I was only happy when I was with her, and that all my days in London were given up to thinking of her. The poor child believed me. It appeared that she had been attempting to make some expiation for what she considered the betrayal of Lady Gascoyne’s confidence by her devotion to Walter Chard during his illness.
I held her in my arms, and we remained perfectly happy and in silence for a long time. She certainly stirred my blood to an extraordinary degree.
She was terrified lest my visit should convey infection to the rest of the household. I reassured her. At the same time, her having seen me was very awkward. Hers was a character which, impelled by conscience, might be capable of all sorts of extraordinary things, great renunciations and burning sacrifices. I held out a vague promise of taking her to London and allowing her to a certain extent to share in my life. This filled her with a guilty delight, and she clung to me with a sigh. Love in its fierce, personal aspect meant more to her than to any woman I have ever met.
The poor little soul went back and procured some strong stuff with which she instructed me to disinfect my clothing.
I returned to my room almost laughing with glee at having the handkerchief from the sick boy’s bed with me.