It was remorse.
"Helen!" said Walter Jerrold, calmly, "have you any grief or mystery
hidden from me, my wife? I am like a helpless child, now in your
hands; you may deceive me, and triumph in your concealment--but do
not--do not, Helen, for God's sake, do it. Open your whole heart to
me. I love you well enough to lift the burden, if there be one, from
it, to my strong shoulders; and if--if--if--you have ever erred, let me
hear it from no lips but your own."
Helen would have cast herself at his feet and told him all, but she
feared he would spurn her--she longed to deserve the love of his manly
and honest heart, but too weak, too much a coward, she shrunk from the
agony and peril of a confession of her guilt. And Jerrold! was he not
mad to expect to find a true and loving spouse in one who had cast off
her allegiance to God?
"You are mistaken, Walter. Really, you have made quite a scene! I
fear that you are romantic! For, really except when my nervous moods
come over me, I am not aware that there is any thing unusual in my
conduct. I am excessively nervous and excitable. I was dancing all
night. I went with your mother to Mrs. Woodland's ball, which was a
most brilliant affair. It was after two o'clock when I came home. You
may be sure I was tired. Then I concluded to give you a little
surprise by waiting up for you; and, as I looked very haggard, took out
that precious cosmetic to tint my cheeks--all, dear Walter, to welcome
you; but I was too much fagged, and went off into a sound, vulgar
sleep!" said Helen, going to her toilette-table to adjust her hair,
while she laughed as if the whole thing had been an amusing adventure.
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