He detained me gently.
How specious he was--how blind was I! He had "been studying me for
weeks;" from the first moment we met, he "had been deeply interested in
me. He had perceived the shade that an early sorrow had cast round me,
and had come to ask Lady Amabel if there was no hope for _him_; he would
not press the question on me now, it would be unkind."
I believed that he felt for me from his soul; that he _would_ have
"given worlds for a _look_ which would bid him not quite despair; but
this was not the time to assail me. He knew I had pride; it was blinded
now, but the mist would clear away, the scales would fall from my eyes.
I should do him justice; he grieved that the world should have dared to
tamper with my name--." He quite frightened me as he said this. I was
oppressed with a sense of bitterness and wrong, against which I was
powerless; but here was one who seemed disposed to do me justice. I
wished to do right. Lady Amabel would have been all kindness had I
unburdened my full heart to her, but she would not have understood me;
she would have proposed a ride or a drive, or a fete, or might have sent
for Clarence, to scold him. Ah me! I had not a friend at hand who
could give me good advice; and here sat this clever experienced,
silver-tongued man, offering me his sympathy, and teaching me to believe
he was the only one near me who could feel for me--who had, in fact, any
real regard for me; and this regard was offered so humbly that I had not
a word to say against the expression of it. On the one hand was
Clarence Fairfax, reckless of my affection, ignoring it indeed, and, as
Lyle remarked, with indignation he protested he could not suppress,
"insulting me publicly, by doing homage before my face to a shameless
woman, whose triumph was the greater in that she had drawn this
infatuated young man from one so lovely and pure-hearted as myself."
My tears rained down upon the work-table on which he leaned,
contemplating me with an expression of compassion new to me, yet not
unpleasing.