lady.
‘Yes; I should like to see your improvements in the garden.’
‘And how your sister’s roots have prospered in my charge,’ added she, as she opened the gate.
And we sauntered through the garden, and talked of the flowers, the trees, and the book, and then of other things. The evening was kind and genial, and so was my companion. By degrees I waxed more warm and tender than, perhaps, I had ever been before; but still I said nothing tangible, and she attempted no repulse, until, in passing a moss rose-tree that I had brought her some weeks since, in my sister’s name, she plucked a beautiful half-open bud and bade me give it to Rose.
‘May I not keep it myself?’ I asked.
‘No; but here is another for you.’
Instead of taking it quietly, I likewise took the hand that offered it, and looked into her face. She let me hold it for a moment, and I saw a flash of ecstatic brilliance in her eye, a glow of glad excitement on her face — I thought my hour of victory was come — but instantly a painful recollection seemed to flash upon her; a cloud of anguish darkened her brow, a marble paleness blanched her cheek and lip; there seemed a moment of inward conflict, and, with a sudden effort, she withdrew her hand, and retreated a step or two back.
‘Now, Mr. Markham,’ said she, with a kind of desperate calmness, ‘I must tell you plainly that I cannot do with this. I like your company, because I am alone here, and your conversation pleases me more than that of any other person; but if you cannot be content to regard me as a friend — a plain, cold, motherly, or sisterly friend — I must beg you to leave me now, and let me alone hereafter: in fact, we must be strangers for the future.’
‘I will, then — be your friend, or brother, or anything you wish, if you will only let me continue to see you; but tell me why I cannot be anything more?’
There was a perplexed and thoughtful pause.
‘Is it in consequence of some rash vow?’
‘It is something of the kind,’ she answered. ‘Some day I may tell you, but at present you had better leave me; and never, Gilbert, put me to the painful necessity of repeating what I have just now said to you,’ she earnestly added, giving me her hand in serious kindness. How sweet, how musical my own name sounded in her mouth!
‘I will not,’ I replied. ‘But you pardon this offence?’
‘On condition that you never repeat it.’
‘And may I come to see you now and then?’
‘Perhaps — occasionally; provided you never abuse the privilege.’
‘I make no empty promises, but you shall see.’
‘The moment you do our intimacy is at an end, that’s all.’
‘And will you always call me Gilbert? It sounds more sisterly, and it will serve to remind me of our contract.’
She smiled, and once more bid me go; and at length I judged it prudent to obey, and she re-entered the house and I went down the hill. But as I went the tramp of horses’ hoofs fell on my ear, and broke the stillness of the dewy evening; and, looking towards the lane, I saw a solitary equestrian coming up. Inclining to dusk as it was, I knew him at a glance: it was Mr. Lawrence on his grey pony. I flew across the field, leaped the stone fence, and then walked down the lane to meet him. On seeing me, he suddenly drew in his little steed, and seemed inclined to turn back, but on second thought apparently judged it better to continue his course as before. He accosted me with a slight bow, and, edging close to the wall, endeavoured to pass on; but I was not so minded. Seizing his horse by the bridle, I exclaimed, — ‘Now, Lawrence, I will have this mystery explained! Tell me where you are going, and what you mean to do — at once, and distinctly!’
‘Will you take your hand off the bridle?’ said he, quietly — ‘you’re hurting my pony’s mouth.’
‘You and your pony be — ’
‘What makes you so coarse and brutal, Markham? I’m quite ashamed of you.’
‘You answer my questions — before you leave this spot I will know what you mean by this perfidious duplicity!’
‘I shall answer no questions till you let go the bridle, — if you stand till morning.’
‘Now then,’ said I, unclosing my hand, but still standing before him.
‘Ask me some other time, when you can speak like a gentleman,’ returned he, and he made an effort to pass me again; but I quickly recaptured the pony, scarce less astonished than its master at such uncivil usage.
‘Really, Mr. Markham, this is too much!’ said the latter. ‘Can I not go to see my tenant on matters of business, without being assaulted in this manner by — ?’
‘This is no time for business, sir! — I’ll tell you, now, what I think of your conduct.’
‘You’d better defer your opinion to a more convenient season,’ interrupted he in a low tone — ‘here’s the vicar.’ And, in truth, the vicar was just behind me, plodding homeward from some remote corner of his parish. I immediately released the squire; and he went on his way, saluting Mr. Millward as he passed.
‘What! quarrelling, Markham?’ cried the latter, addressing himself to me, — ‘and about that young widow, I doubt?’ he added, reproachfully shaking his head. ‘But let me tell you, young man’ (here he put his face into mine with an important, confidential air), ‘she’s not worth it!’ and he confirmed the assertion by a solemn nod.
‘Mr. Millward,’ I exclaimed, in a tone of wrathful menace that made the reverend gentleman look round — aghast — astounded at such unwonted insolence, and stare me in the face, with a look that plainly said, ‘What, this to me!’ But I was too indignant to apologise, or to speak another word to him: I turned away, and hastened homewards, descending with rapid strides the steep, rough lane, and leaving him to follow as he pleased.
CHAPTER XI
You must suppose about three weeks passed over. Mrs. Graham and I were now established friends — or brother and sister, as we rather chose to consider ourselves. She called me Gilbert, by my express desire, and I called her Helen, for I had seen that name written in her books. I seldom attempted to see her above twice a week; and still I made our meetings appear the result of accident as often as I could — for I found it necessary to be extremely careful — and, altogether, I behaved with such exceeding propriety that she never had occasion to reprove me once. Yet I could not but perceive that she was at times unhappy and dissatisfied with herself or her position, and truly I myself was not quite contented with the latter: this assumption of brotherly nonchalance was very hard to sustain, and I often felt myself a most confounded hypocrite with it all; I saw too, or rather I felt, that, in spite of herself, ‘I was not indifferent to her,’ as the novel heroes modestly express it, and while I thankfully enjoyed my present good fortune, I could not fail to wish and hope for something better in future; but, of course, I kept such dreams entirely to myself.
‘Where are you going, Gilbert?’
