The Trial [230]
her. But if there is any way of freeing her from this unfortunate speculation without a dead loss, I will make father tell me.' This--from Cora's pretty mouth--though only honest and prudent, rather jarred upon Tom in the midst of his present fears; and he began to prepare for his departure to the inn, after having sent up Ella to ask for her sister, and hearing that she still slept soundly under the influence of the opiate. When Averil awoke it was already morning, and Cora was standing by her bed, with her eyes smiling with congratulation, like veronicas on a sunny day. 'Cora, is it true?' she said, looking up. Cora bent down and kissed her, and whispered, 'I wish you joy, my dear.' 'Then it is,' she said; 'it is not all a dream?' 'No dream, dearest.' 'Who said it?' she asked. '0, Cora, that could not be true!' and the colour rose in her cheek. 'That! yes, Averil, if you mean that we had a visitor last evening. I took him for Leonard, do you know! Only I thought his eyes and hair did not quite answer the description.' 'He is a very gentleman-like person. Did you not think so?' said Averil. 'Ah! Ave, I've heard a great deal. Don't you think you had better tell me some more?' 'No, no!' exclaimed Averil; 'you are not to think of folly,' as coughing cut her short. 'I'll not think of any more than I can help, except what you tell me.' 'Never think at all, Cora. Oh! what has brought him here? I don't know how I can dare to see him again; and yet he is not gone, is he?' 'Oh no, he is only at the inn. He is coming back again.' 'I must be up. Let me get up,' said Averil, raising herself, but pausing from weakness and breathlessness. And when they had forced some food upon her, she carried out her resolution, though twice absolutely fainting in the course of dressing; and at length crept softly, leaning on Cora's arm, into the parlour. Though Tom was waiting there, he neither spoke nor came forward till she was safely placed upon the sofa, and then gathering breath, she sought him with her eager eyes, shining, large, lustrous, and wistful, as they looked out of the white thin face, where the once glowing colour had dwindled to two burning carnation spots. It was so piteous a change that as he took her hand he was silent, from sheer inability to speak calmly. 'You have come to tell me,' she said. 'I am afraid I could not thank you last night.' How different that soft pleading languid voice from the old half defiant tone! 'I did not know you had been so unwell,' he forced himself to say, 'or I would not have come so suddenly.' 'I am grown so silly' she said, trying to smile. 'I hardly even understood last night;' and the voice died away in the intense desire to hear. 'I--I was coming on business, and I thought you would not turn from the good tidings, though I was the bearer,' he said, in a broken, agitated, apologetic way. 'Only let me hear it again,' she said. 'Did you say he was free?' 'Yes, free as you are, or I. At home. My father was gone to fetch him.' She put her hands over her face, and looked up with the sweetest smile he had ever seen, and whispered, 'Now I can sing my Nunc dimittis.' He could not at once speak; and before he had done more than make one deprecatory gesture, she asked, 'You have seen him?' 'Not since this--not since September.' 'I know. You have been very good; and he is at home--ah! not home-- but Dr. May's. Was he well? Was he very glad?' 'I have not seen him; I have not heard; you will hear soon. I came at once with the tidings.' 'Thank you;' and she clasped her hands together. 'Have you seen Henry? does he know?' 'Could I? Had not you the first right?' 'Leonard! Oh, dear Leonard!' She lay back for a few moments, panting under the gust of exceeding joy; while he was silent, and tried not to seem to observe her with his anxious eyes. Then she recovered a little and said, 'The truth come out! Did you say so? What was the truth?' 'He paused a moment, afraid of the shock, and remembering that the suspicion had been all unknown to her. She recalled probabilities, and said, 'Was