We stood together by the table; we looked at each other in a momentary silence.
"How can I thank you?" she murmured, softly.
"Oh, sir, I will indeed be worthy of the confidence that you have shown in me!"
Her eyes moistened; her variable color came and went; her dress heaved softly over the lovely outline of her bosom.
I don't believe the man lives who could have resisted her at that moment.
I lost all power of restraint; I caught her in my arms; I whispered,
"I love you!"
I kissed her passionately.
For a moment she lay helpless and trembling on my breast; for a moment her fragrant lips softly returned the kiss.
In an instant more it was over.
She tore herself away with a shudder that shook her from head to foot, and threw the letter that I had given to her indignantly at my feet.
"How dare you take advantage of me!
How dare you touch me!" she said.
"Take your letter back, sir; I refuse to receive it; I will never speak to you again.
You don't know what you have done. You don't know how deeply you have wounded me.
Oh!" she cried, throwing herself in despair on a sofa that stood near her, "shall I ever recover my self-respect? shall I ever forgive myself for what I have done to-night?"
I implored her pardon; I assured her of my repentance and regret in words which did really come from my heart.
The violence of her agitation more than distressed me—I was really alarmed by it. She composed herself after a while. She rose to her feet with modest dignity, and silently held out her hand in token that my repentance was accepted.
"You will give me time for atonement?" I pleaded.
"You will not lose all confidence in me?
Let me see you again, if it is only to show that I am not quite unworthy of your pardon—at your own time; in the presence of another person, if you like."
"I will write to you," she said.
"To-morrow?"
"To-morrow."
I took up the letter of recommendation from the floor.
"Make your goodness to me complete," I said.
"Don't mortify me by refusing to take my letter."
"I will take your letter," she answered, quietly.
"Thank you for writing it.
Leave me now, please.
Good-night."
I left her, pale and sad, with my letter in her hand.
I left her, with my mind in a tumult of contending emotions, which gradually resolved themselves into two master-feelings as I walked on: Love, that adored her more fervently than ever; and Hope, that set the prospect before me of seeing her again on the next day.
CHAPTER XII. THE DISASTERS OF MRS. VAN BRANDT.
A MAN who passes his evening as I had passed mine, may go to bed afterward if he has nothing better to do.
But he must not rank among the number of his reasonable anticipations the expectation of getting a night's rest.
The morning was well advanced, and the hotel was astir, before I at last closed my eyes in slumber.
When I awoke, my watch informed me that it was close on noon.
I rang the bell.
My servant appeared with a letter in his hand.
It had been left for me, three hours since, by a lady who had driven to the hotel door in a carriage, and had then driven away again.
The man had found me sleeping when he entered my bed-chamber, and, having received no orders to wake me overnight, had left the letter on the sitting-room table until he heard my bell.
Easily guessing who my correspondent was, I opened the letter.
An inclosure fell out of it—to which, for the moment, I paid no attention.
I turned eagerly to the first lines.
They announced that the writer had escaped me for the second time: early that morning she had left Edinburgh.
The paper inclosed proved to be my letter of introduction to the dressmaker returned to me.
I was more than angry with her—I felt her second flight from me as a downright outrage.
In five minutes I had hurried on my clothes and was on my way to the inn in the Canongate as fast as a horse could draw me.
The servants could give me no information.