'It is a curious chance which at last brings us together, under this
covering in which you have wrapped me,' said the visitor after a
pause;'for do you know, I think I have been looking for you some time.'
'Looking for me?' 'I believe I have a little note here, which I was to give to you
whenever I found you. This is it. Unless I greatly mistake, it is
addressed to you? Is it not?' The lady took it, and said yes, and read it. Her visitor watched her as
she did so. It was very short. She flushed a little as she put her lips
to her visitor's cheek, and pressed her hand.
'The dear young friend to whom he presents me, may be a comfort to me
at some time, he says. She is truly a comfort to me the first time I see
her.' 'Perhaps you don't,' said the visitor, hesitating--'perhaps you don't
know my story? Perhaps he never told you my story?'
'No.' 'Oh no, why should he! I have scarcely the right to tell it myself at
present, because I have been entreated not to do so. There is not much
in it, but it might account to you for my asking you not to say anything
about the letter here. You saw my family with me, perhaps? Some of
them--I only say this to you--are a little proud, a little prejudiced.' 'You shall take it back again,' said the other; 'and then my husband is
sure not to see it. He might see it and speak of it, otherwise, by some
accident. Will you put it in your bosom again, to be certain?' She did so with great care. Her small, slight hand was still upon the
letter, when they heard some one in the gallery outside.
'I promised,' said the visitor, rising, 'that I would write to him after
seeing you (I could hardly fail to see you sooner or later), and tell
him if you were well and happy. I had better say you were well and
happy.' 'Yes, yes, yes! Say I was very well and very happy. And that I thanked
him affectionately, and would never forget him.'
'I shall see you in the morning. After that we are sure to meet again
before very long. Good night!' 'Good night. Thank you, thank you. Good night, my dear!'
Both of them were hurried and fluttered as they exchanged this parting,
and as the visitor came out of the door. She had expected to meet the
lady's husband approaching it; but the person in the gallery was not
he: it was the traveller who had wiped the wine-drops from his moustache
with the piece of bread. When he heard the step behind him, he turned
round--for he was walking away in the dark. His politeness, which
was extreme, would not allow of the young lady's lighting herself
down-stairs, or going down alone. He took her lamp, held it so as to
throw the best light on the stone steps, and followed her all the way
to the supper-room.