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 taking 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 mirthless 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 or tumbled over the wall — I hardly know which — but I know that, afterwards, like a passionate child, I dashed myself on the ground and lay there in a paroxysm of anger and despair — how long, I cannot undertake to say; but it must have been a considerable time; for when, having partially relieved myself by a torment of tears, and looked up at the moon, shining so calmly and carelessly on, as little influenced by my misery as I was by its peaceful radiance, and earnestly prayed for death or forgetfulness, I had risen and journeyed homewards — little regarding the way, but carried instinctively by my feet to the door, I found it bolted against me, and every one in bed except my mother, who hastened to answer my impatient knocking, and received me with a shower of questions and rebukes.
‘Oh, Gilbert! how could you do so? Where have you been? Do come in and take your supper. I’ve got it all ready, though you don’t deserve it, for keeping me in such a fright, after the strange manner you left the house this evening. Mr. Millward was quite — Bless the boy! how ill he looks. Oh, gracious! what is the matter?’
‘Nothing, nothing — give me a candle.’
‘But won’t you take some supper?’
‘No; I want to go to bed,’ said I, taking a candle and lighting it at the one she held in her hand.
‘Oh, Gilbert, how you tremble!’ exclaimed my anxious parent. ‘How white you look! Do tell me what it is? Has anything happened?’
‘It’s nothing,’ cried I, ready to stamp with vexation because the candle would not light. Then, suppressing my irritation, I added, ‘I’ve been walking too fast, that’s all. Goodnight,’ and marched off to bed, regardless of the ‘Walking too fast! where have you been?’ that was called after me from below.
My mother followed me to the very door of my room with her questionings and advice concerning my health and my conduct; but I implored her to let me alone till morning; and she withdrew, and at length I had the satisfaction to hear her close her own door. There was no sleep for me, however, that night as I thought; and instead of attempting to solicit it, I employed myself in rapidly pacing the chamber, having first removed my boots, lest my mother should hear me. But the boards creaked, and she was watchful. I had not walked above a quarter of an hour before she was at the door again.
‘Gilbert, why are you not in bed — you said you wanted to go?’
‘Confound it! I’m going,’ said I.
‘But why are you so long about it? You must have something on your mind — ’
‘For heaven’s sake, let me alone, and get to bed yourself.’
‘Can it be that Mrs. Graham that distresses you so?’
‘No, no, I tell you — it’s nothing.’
‘I wish to goodness it mayn’t,’ murmured she, with a sigh, as she returned to her own apartment, while I threw myself on the bed, feeling most undutifully disaffected towards her for having deprived me of what seemed the only shadow of a consolation that remained, and chained me to that wretched couch of thorns.
Never did I endure so long, so miserable a night as that. And yet it was not wholly sleepless. Towards morning my distracting thoughts began to lose all pretensions to coherency, and shape themselves into confused and feverish dreams, and, at length, there followed an interval of unconscious slumber. But then the dawn of bitter recollection that succeeded — the waking to find life a blank, and worse than a blank, teeming with torment and misery — not a mere barren wilderness, but full of thorns and briers — to find myself deceived, duped, hopeless, my affections trampled upon, my angel not an angel, and my friend a fiend incarnate — it was worse than if I had not slept at all.
It was a dull, gloomy morning; the weather had changed like my prospects, and the rain was pattering against the window. I rose, nevertheless, and went out; not to look after the farm, though that would serve as my excuse, but to cool my brain, and regain, if possible, a sufficient degree of composure to meet the family at the morning meal without exciting inconvenient remarks. If I got a wetting, that, in conjunction with a pretended over-exertion before breakfast, might excuse my sudden loss of appetite; and if a cold ensued, the severer the better — it would help to account for the sullen moods and moping melancholy likely to cloud my brow for long enough.
CHAPTER
