“Do not speak so!” said Valencia, with her Irish impetuous generosity; “you are unjust to yourself.  We have watched you, felt for you, honoured you, even when we differed from you”—­What more she would have said, I know not, but at that moment Elsley’s peevish voice was heard calling over the stairs, “Lucia!  Lucia?”

“Oh dear!  He will wake the children!” cried Lucia, looking at her sister, as much as to say, “How can I leave you!”

“Run, run, my dear creature!” said Valencia, with a self-confident smile:  and the two were left alone.

The moment that Mrs. Vavasour left the room, there vanished from Frank’s face that intense look of admiration which had made even Valencia uneasy.  He dropped his eyes, and his voice faltered as he spoke again.  He acknowledged the change in their position, and Valencia saw that he did so, and liked him the better for it.

“I shall not repeat, Miss St. Just, now that we are alone, what I said just now of the pleasure which I have had during the last month.  I am not poetical, or given to string metaphors together; and I could only go over the same dull words once more.  But I could ask, if I were not asking too much, leave to prolong at least a shadow of that pleasure to the last moment.  That I shall die shortly, and of this cholera, is with me a fixed idea, which nothing can remove.  No, madam—­it is useless to combat it!  But had I anything, by which to the last moment I could bring back to my fancy what has been its sunlight for so long; even if it were a scrap of the hem of your garment, aye, a grain of dust off your feet—­ God forgive me!  He and His mercy ought to be enough to keep me up:  but one’s weakness may be excused for clinging to such slight floating straws of comfort.”

Valencia paused, startled, and yet affected.  How she had played with this deep pure heart!  And yet, was it pure?  Did he wish, by exciting her pity, to trick her into giving him what he might choose to consider a token of affection?

And she answered coldly enough—­

“I should be sorry, after what you have just said, to chance hurting you by refusing.  I put it to your own good feeling—­have you not asked somewhat too much?”

“Certainly too much, madam, in any common case,” said he, quite unmoved.  “Certainly too much, if I asked you for it, as I do not, as the token of an affection which I know well you do not, cannot feel.  But—­take my words as they stand—­were you to—­It would be returned if I die, in a few weeks; and returned still sooner if I live.  And, madam,” said he lowering his voice, “I vow to you, before Him who sees us both, that, as far as I am concerned, no human being shall ever know of the fact.”

Frank had at last touched the wrong chord.

“What, Mr. Headley?  Can you think that I am to have secrets in common with you, or with any other man?  No, sir!  If I granted your request, I should avow it as openly as I shall refuse it.”