Domestic fiction; Education -- Fiction; England -- Fiction; Political fiction; Social problems -- Fiction; Utilitarianism -- Fiction
Giving the waiter to the personage before mentioned, as a block-head duly
qualified for that consignment, Mr. Harthouse hurried into the gallery.
A young woman whom he had never seen stood there. Plainly dressed, very
quiet, very pretty. As he conducted her into the room and placed a chair
for her, he observed, by the light of the candles, that she was even
prettier than he had at first believed. Her face was innocent and
youthful, and its expression remarkably pleasant. She was not afraid of
him, or in any way disconcerted; she seemed to have her mind entirely
preoccupied with the occasion of her visit, and to have substituted that
consideration for herself.
‘I speak to Mr. Harthouse?’ she said, when they were alone.
‘To Mr. Harthouse.’ He added in his mind, ‘And you speak to him with the
most confiding eyes I ever saw, and the most earnest voice (though so
quiet) I ever heard.’
‘If I do not understand—and I do not, sir’—said Sissy, ‘what your honour
as a gentleman binds you to, in other matters:’ the blood really rose in
his face as she began in these words: ‘I am sure I may rely upon it to
keep my visit secret, and to keep secret what I am going to say. I will
rely upon it, if you will tell me I may so far trust—’
‘You may, I assure you.’
‘I am young, as you see; I am alone, as you see. In coming to you, sir,
I have no advice or encouragement beyond my own hope.’ He thought, ‘But
that is very strong,’ as he followed the momentary upward glance of her
eyes. He thought besides, ‘This is a very odd beginning. I don’t see
where we are going.’
‘I think,’ said Sissy, ‘you have already guessed whom I left just now!’
‘I have been in the greatest concern and uneasiness during the last
four-and-twenty hours (which have appeared as many years),’ he returned,
‘on a lady’s account. The hopes I have been encouraged to form that you
come from that lady, do not deceive me, I trust.’
‘I left her within an hour.’
‘At—!’
‘At her father’s.’
Mr. Harthouse’s face lengthened in spite of his coolness, and his
perplexity increased. ‘Then I certainly,’ he thought, ‘do _not_ see
where we are going.’
‘She hurried there last night. She arrived there in great agitation, and
was insensible all through the night. I live at her father’s, and was
with her. You may be sure, sir, you will never see her again as long as
you live.’
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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