Wild Heather by L.T. Meade

While Aunt Penelope talked my heart beat very hard. From time to time I could not help glancing at Vernon. Was he guessing my thoughts -- was he understanding?

He stood with his back to us, looking out of the window. Once or twice he whistled a little, he whistled a bar of a popular melody; then he thrust his hands into his pockets, turned swiftly round, took up a newspaper, flung himself into a chair, and pretended to read. I might have felt vexed with him, I might even have accused him of want of sympathy, if I had not suddenly noticed that he was holding the paper upside down -- he was not reading at all. He was in reality as excited and troubled as I was myself. My heart warmed to him with a great glow when I observed this. I felt what good, what splendid friends we would be in the future, how like nobody else in all the world he was, and what a lucky, very lucky, girl I was to have won him. But no -- even at the risk of losing my own happiness I would not leave my father to the mercies of Lady Helen. Unless that matter could be put right, I would not marry my darling Vernon. The thought brought a great soreness into my heart, and I felt the tears pricking my eyes from behind, and I was glad when our time of suspense was over, for the same flunkey who had opened the door for us now appeared, standing on the threshold of the little room where we had taken refuge, and said: