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'What is it, then? You promised I should know some time, and--'
'You shall know some time--but not now--my head aches terribly,' she said, pressing her hand to her forehead, 'and I must have some repose--and surely I have had misery enough to-day!' she added, almost wildly.
'But it could not harm you to tell it,' I persisted: 'it would ease your mind; and I should then know how to comfort you.'
She shook her head despondingly. 'If you knew all, you, too, would blame me--perhaps even more than I deserve--though I have cruelly wronged you,' she added in a low murmur, as if she mused aloud.
'You, Helen? Impossible?'
'Yes, not willingly; for I did not know the strength and depth of your attachment. I thought--at least I endeavoured to think your regard for me was as cold and fraternal as you professed it to be.'
'Or as yours?'
'Or as mine--ought to have been--of such a light and selfish, superficial nature, that--'
'There, indeed, you wronged me.'
'I know I did; and, sometimes, I suspected it then; but I thought, upon the whole, there could be no great harm in leaving your fancies and your hopes to dream themselves to nothing--or flutter away to some more fitting object, while your friendly sympathies remained with me; but if I had known the depth of your regard, the generous, disinterested affection you seem to feel--'
'Seem, Helen?'
'That you do feel, then, I would have acted differently.'
'How? You could not have given me less encouragement, or treated me with greater severity than you did! And if you think you have wronged me by giving me your friendship, and occasionally admitting me to the enjoyment of your company and conversation, when all hopes of closer intimacy were vain--as indeed you always gave me to understand--if you think you have wronged me by this, you are mistaken; for such favours, in themselves alone, are not only delightful to my heart, but purifying, exalting, ennobling to my soul; and I would rather have your friendship than the love of any other woman in the world!'
Little comforted by this, she clasped her hands upon her knee, and glancing upward, seemed, in silent anguish, to implore divine assistance; then, turning to me, she calmly said,--'Tomorrow, if you meet me on the moor about mid-day, I will tell you all you seek to know; and perhaps you will then see the necessity of discontinuing our intimacy--if, indeed, you do not willingly resign me as one no longer worthy of regard.'
'I can safely answer no to that: you cannot have such grave confessions to make--you must be trying my faith, Helen.'
'No, no, no,' she earnestly repeated--'I wish it were so! Thank heaven!' she added, 'I have no great crime to confess; but I have more than you will like to hear, or, perhaps, can readily excuse,--and more than I can tell you now; so let me entreat you to leave me!'
'I will; but answer me this one question first;--do you love me?'
'I will not answer it!'
'Then I will conclude you do; and so good-night.'
She turned from me to hide the emotion she could not quite control; but I took her hand and fervently kissed it.
'Gilbert, do leave me!' she cried, in a tone of such thrilling anguish that I felt it would be cruel to disobey.
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But I gave one look back before I closed the door, and saw her leaning forward on the table, with her hands pressed against her eyes, sobbing convulsively; yet I withdrew in silence. I felt that to obtrude my consolations on her then would only serve to aggravate her sufferings.
To tell you all the questionings and conjectures--the fears, and hopes, and wild emotions that jostled and chased each other through my mind as I descended the hill, would almost fill a volume in itself. But before I was half-way down, a sentiment of strong sympathy for her I had left behind me had displaced all other feelings, and seemed imperatively to draw me back: I began to think, 'Why am I hurrying so fast in this direction? Can I find comfort or consolation--peace, certainty, contentment, all--or anything that I want at home? and can I leave all perturbation, sorrow, and anxiety behind me there?'
And I turned round to look at the old Hall. There was little besides the chimneys visible above my contracted horizon. I walked back to get a better view of it. When it rose in sight, I stood still a moment to look, and then continued moving towards the gloomy object of attraction. Something called me nearer--nearer still--and why not, pray? Might I not find more benefit in the contemplation of that venerable pile with the full moon in the cloudless heaven shining so calmly above it--with that warm yellow lustre peculiar to an August night--and the mistress of my soul within, than in returning to my home, where all comparatively was light, and life, and cheerfulness, and therefore inimical to me in my present frame of mind,--and the more so that its inmates all were more or less imbued with that detestable belief, the very thought of which made my blood boil in my veins--and how could I endure to hear it openly declared, or cautiously insinuated--which was worse?--I had had trouble enough already, with some babbling fiend that would keep whispering in my ear, 'It may be true,' till I had shouted aloud, 'It is false! I defy you to make me suppose it!'
I could see the red firelight dimly gleaming from her parlour window. I went up to the garden wall, and stood leaning over it, with my eyes fixed upon the lattice, wondering what she was doing, thinking, or suffering now, and wishing I could speak to her but one word, or even catch one glimpse of her, before I went.
I had not thus looked, and wished, and wondered long, before I vaulted over the barrier, unable to resist the temptation of tak-
ing one glance through the window, just to see if she were more composed than when we parted;--and if I found her still in deep distress, perhaps I might venture attempt a word of comfort--to utter one of the many things I should have said before, instead of aggravating her sufferings by my stupid impetuosity. I looked. Her chair was vacant: so was the room. But at that moment some one opened the outer door, and a voice--her voice--said,--'Come out--I want to see the moon, and breathe the evening air: they will do me good--if anything will.'
Here, then, were she and Rachel coming to take a walk in the garden. I wished myself safe back over the wall. I stood, however, in the shadow of the tall holly-bush, which, standing between the window and the porch, at present screened me from observation, but did not prevent me from seeing two figures come forth into the moonlight: Mrs. Graham followed by another--not Rachel, but a young man, slender and rather tall. O heavens, how my temples throbbed! Intense anxiety darkened my sight; but I thought--yes, and the voice confirmed it--it was Mr. Lawrence!
'You should not let it worry you so much, Helen,' said he; 'I will be more cautious in future; and in time--'
I did not hear the rest of the sentence; for he walked close beside her and spoke so gently that I could not catch the words. My heart was splitting with hatred; but I listened intently for her reply. I heard it plainly enough.
'But I must leave this place, Frederick,' she said--'I never can be happy here,--nor anywhere else, indeed,' she added, with a mirth-less laugh,--'but I cannot rest here.'
'But where could you find a better place?' replied he, 'so secluded--so near me, if you think anything of that.'
'Yes,' interrupted she, 'it is all I could wish, if they could only have left me alone.'
'But wherever you go, Helen, there will be the same sources of annoyance. I cannot consent to lose you: I must go with you, or come to you; and there are meddling fools elsewhere, as well as here.'
While thus conversing they had sauntered slowly past me, down the walk, and I heard no more of their discourse; but I saw him put his arm round her waist, while she lovingly rested her hand on his shoulder;--and then, a tremulous darkness obscured my sight,
my heart sickened and my head burned like fire: I half rushed, half staggered from the spot, where horror had kept me rooted, and leaped