Chapter 24 - Page 2

might be received. She might
droop, and flush, and flutter to his arms, as to her natural home
and resting-place. One moment, he glowed with impatience at the
thought that she might do this, the next, he feared a passionate
rejection, the very idea of which withered up his future with so
deadly a blight that he refused to think of it. He was startled
by the sense of the presence of some one else in the room. He
turned round. She had come in so gently, that he had never heard
her; the street noises had been more distinct to his inattentive
ear than her slow movements, in her soft muslin gown.

She stood by the table, not offering to sit down. Her eyelids
were dropped half over her eyes; her teeth were shut, not
compressed; her lips were just parted over them, allowing the
white line to be seen between their curve. Her slow deep
breathings dilated her thin and beautiful nostrils; it was the
only motion visible on her countenance. The fine-grained skin,
the oval cheek, the rich outline of her mouth, its corners deep
set in dimples,--were all wan and pale to-day; the loss of their
usual natural healthy colour being made more evident by the heavy
shadow of the dark hair, brought down upon the temples, to hide
all sign of the blow she had received. Her head, for all its
drooping eyes, was thrown a little back, in the old proud
attitude. Her long arms hung motion-less by her sides. Altogether
she looked like some prisoner, falsely accused of a crime that
she loathed and despised, and from which she was too indignant to
justify herself

Mr. Thornton made a hasty step or two forwards; recovered
himself, and went with quiet firmness to the door (which she had
left open), and shut it. Then he came back, and stood opposite to
her for a moment, receiving the general impression of her
beautiful presence, before he dared to disturb it, perhaps to
repel it, by what he had to say.

'Miss Hale, I was very ungrateful yesterday--'

'You had nothing to be grateful for,' said she, raising her eyes,
and looking full and straight at him. 'You mean, I suppose, that
you believe you ought to thank me for what I did.' In spite of
herself--in defiance of her anger--the thick blushes came all
over her face, and burnt into her very eyes; which fell not
nevertheless from their grave and steady look. 'It was only a
natural instinct; any woman would have done just the same. We all
feel the sanctity of our sex as a high privilege when we see
danger. I ought rather,' said she, hastily, 'to apologise to you,
for having said thoughtless words which sent you down into the
danger.'

'It was not your words; it was the truth they conveyed,
pun-gently as it was expressed. But you shall not drive me off