She waited for a few minutes, but no reply came. Then, noticing that the moon had risen above arch and wall, and, pouring its light full upon the open arena, had sent the shadows back to their hiding-places, she said gently:
“Mr. Carlisle, it is getting late. Shall we go home?”
He started from his moody silence, and, taking in his the hand that rested on the cross, he said:
“Assunta, you are a noble girl; but,” he added with a faint smile, “this conclusion does not make your words easier to bear. But you are shivering. Is it so cold? Come, we will go at once.” And as he led the way towards the carriage, he wrapped her shawl closer about her, saying, “My poor child, how thoughtless I have been!”
Once seated, there was again silence until they reached the entrance of the villa. As they ascended the long stair-case, Mr. Carlisle paused. His old tenderness of manner had all returned, and he was her guardian, and nothing more, as he said:
“Assunta, I have not been generous. I have taken an unfair advantage of my position, and have told you what I had not intended you should know until you were released from all obligation to me. My child, will you trust your friend and guardian to be only that until next August shall make you free? I cannot promise to give up all hope, but I will not repeat what I have said to-night. Can you forgive me so far as to go back to our old relations? Will you trust me?”
“Most gladly,” said Assunta. “I feel as if my friend, whom I had mourned as lost, has been restored to me. And, Mr. Carlisle, the day will come when we will both look back without regret upon the decision which was made to-night under the shadow of the cross.”
“I hope so, even while I doubt, fair prophetess.”
But his thought was of the time when he might even yet win that stern conscience to his views, and then indeed he could afford to think without regret of a past disappointment; while she was thinking of that sweet providence of God which, in compensation for sacrifice, always lets us see in the end that all things are for the best to those who can wait and trust.
Mr. Carlisle opened the drawing-room door, and entered an apartment which had the rare combination of elegance and comfort, of art and home. Mrs. Grey, his pretty, widowed sister, was fond of what she called the “dim religious,” and therefore the candles were not lighted; but a blazing wood-fire contributed light as well as warmth, [pg 773] while the silver urn upon the side table hissed out an impatient welcome.