Your kindness, madam, said he, is unalterable. Could I?—Durst I—?
What?—
He paused—
Speak!—
He laid the song upon the music-desk, and looked——No no—I will not attempt to tell you how!
Words were needless; they could not petition with such eloquence—A barbarian could not have refused. I rambled over the keys, hemmed, and endeavoured to collect myself. At last a sense of propriety, of reason, of principle, came to my aid, and bade me be master of my mind. I began to sing, but no effort could enable me to give that expression of which I had before found the words so susceptible.
Could you think it, Louisa? Do you now foresee, do you forebode what happened?—Your brother came in!—
To have stopped, to have used evasion, to have had recourse to falsehood would have turned an act of virtue into contemptible vice. I continued. Clifton came and looked over my shoulder. The music was on one sheet of paper, the words were on another, in the writing of Frank. Your brother knew the hand.
When I had ended, Frank took both the papers, thanked me, and retired. I could perceive the eyes of Clifton sparkle with emotion; I might almost say rage. He would have spoken, but could not; and I knew not how safely to begin.
At length, a consciousness of not having done or at least intended to do wrong gave me courage. I determined not to wait to be questioned: I asked him how he liked the song.