confusion. There was no harm in the story, only I felt that he must be laughing at its sentimentality and love; and, weak and girlish, I could not endure ridicule.
But, to my relief and almost astonishment, he returned the book with a half-sad smile, and laid his wizened hand upon mine with such a gesture of tenderness as he had never before granted me in his life.
“Poor little Amyce!” he said, “so you’ve come to the age of romance already, have you? Well, never mind. But don’t be frightened of me, child; I don’t mind your reading a good novel or two, it is a natural outlet for young feeling that is better evaporated. Better reading of love than thinking of it. But I flatter myself I’ve guarded you from that danger hitherto—eh?”
And in the feeble smile that flickered over the old man’s face, I fancied I read self-complacency at having so sedulously protected me from dangerous acquaintance.
I returned the smile, for my heart was as clear as day, and unable to resist the impulse which his betrayal of affection had awakened, I bent down and gave him a far more hearty salute than was my customary Good-night kiss.
I suppose I took him by surprise. I scarcely knew whether or not I pleased him, for he drew himself hastily away, pushing me rather ungraciously to one side, and in his most gruff and uncompromising voice bade me summon Stephen to put out the lights.
I felt cruelly repulsed, and collected my newspapers with lowered eyes, feeling ashamed of the mortified tears which struggled behind the lashes. One drop of moisture fell down on the open sheet, and I angrily dashed it away.
But in repassing his chair I could not help facing my uncle, and then my feelings had a quick reaction. I saw that the old man’s eyelids were red with suppressed emotion, and that his thin blue lips were trembling like a little child’s. Oh! he did love me then after all, it was only his harsh manner which concealed his heart!
I knew his nature well enough to avoid noticing his softened mood, but with my novel under my arm stole quietly up to my own room.
My little maid—a protégée of Butterworth’s—was waiting to undress me. But I was glad to dismiss her, and sit down and think over the unusual occurrences of the evening. The prospect of a visitor at the Towers was equally exciting and alarming—if his entertainment devolved on me, what could I do? I had no idea how to amuse people, especially gentlemen. I wished I had had Rose Carmichael to help me; but that was quite hopeless when Uncle John disliked her so much. Then that unexpected betrayal of my uncle’s affection for me recurred to my memory, and I felt very much tempted to cry about it. It convicted me of so much past coldness and ingratitude. Why hadn’t I taken the initiatory step long ago? How much happier we might both have been had I done so.
Instead of getting into bed, I sat down on the hearthrug and went on reading my novel. By and by I was at the end of the first volume, and the story had reached a most interesting climax. I longed to continue it, but, alas! the second volume was not here. I remembered leaving it on the writing-table of a little up-stairs sitting-room, which had been given up to my use when the departure of Madame Defarge enabled me to do away with the school-room.
This sitting-room was removed from my bed-chamber only by the length of the passage, and in my extreme anxiety to continue the story I determined to venture there. My uncle’s apartment was next to mine, but he was so deaf he was not likely to hear my footsteps; and carefully shrouding my candle with my hand, I stole along the passage and gained the sitting-room—“my lady’s boudoir,” as Butterworth always called it, for she remembered it by the name it used to bear in the days of Uncle John’s mother—that was nobody knows how many years ago.
It was a pretty little room, with a large oriel window facing the flower-garden; the walls paneled, and with handsome, carved oak cornices and skirting-boards; quaint oak furniture, tapestry-seated chairs and stools, and a wide old fireplace in the corner, over which hung a small picture in an oval frame. This picture had long been my admiration. What its intrinsic value or excellence might be I know not, but there was something so touching and beautiful in the thorn-circled head which it represented—something which so fully realised my girlish conceptions of the Saviour who had been in one, a God of Love and a Man of Sorrows, that I could never gaze upon it without quickening pulses.
Once I had questioned my uncle on the subject, and he had said that the picture had belonged to his mother, and had been painted by some unknown French artist, and he called my attention to the black-lettered scroll which formed part of the oval frame, and bore this short inscription from the French Sainte Ecriture:—“Je t’ai aimé d’un amour eternel.”
I quickly found the volume of which I had come in quest, and was about to leave the room, when I heard a sound of the opening and shutting of my uncle’s door, and saw a stream of candle-light falling across the passage. In one moment’s nervous apprehension, I blew out my own candle and darted back into the boudoir.
I heard the steps coming nearer, the heavy pit-pat of Uncle John’s cane. He seemed advancing in this direction, and afraid of being caught novel-reading at such unorthodox hours, I crept behind the heavy curtains of the oriel window, hoping that he would pass the door and give me the opportunity of returning unobserved to my room
But no such thing. He came straight into the boudoir, closed the door, and through a crevice of the curtain I could not fail to mark the traces of stormy agitation on his wrinkled face. He was in a long, gaudy-patterned dressing-gown, and his slippers flapped noisily as he shuffled along. His thin, white hair was disarranged, and after he put down his silver candlestick on the writing-table, he drew out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. There was no one now to mark his weakness, and he was not afraid to indulge it. For some minutes he sobbed like a child, and my heart throbbed