round on the gloomy apartment.
‘It is summer yet,’ she replied.
‘But we always have a fire in the evenings, if we can bear it; and you especially require one in this cold house and dreary room.’
‘You should have come a little sooner, and I would have had one lighted for you: but it is not worth while now—you won’t stay many minutes, you say, and Arthur is gone to bed.’
‘But I have a fancy for a fire, nevertheless. Will you order one, if I ring?’
‘Why, Gilbert, you don’t look cold!’ said she, smilingly regarding my face, which no doubt seemed warm enough.
‘No,’ replied I, ‘but I want to see you comfortable before I go.’
‘Me comfortable!’ repeated she, with a bitter laugh, as if there were something amusingly absurd in the idea. ‘It suits me better as it is,’ she added, in a tone of mournful resignation.
But determined to have my own way, I pulled the bell.
‘There now, Helen!’ I said, as the approaching steps of Rachel were heard in answer to the summons. There was nothing for it but to turn round and desire the maid to light the fire.
I owe Rachel a grudge to this day for the look she cast upon me ere she departed on her mission, the sour, suspicious, inquisitorial look that plainly demanded, ‘What are you here for, I wonder?’ Her mistress did not fail to notice it, and a shade of uneasiness darkened her brow.
‘You must not stay long, Gilbert,’ said she, when the door was closed upon us.
‘I’m not going to,’ said I, somewhat testily, though without a grain of anger in my heart against any one but the meddling old woman. ‘But, Helen, I’ve something to say to you before I go.’
‘What is it?’
‘No, not now—I don’t know yet precisely what it is, or how to say it,’ replied I, with more truth than wisdom; and then, fearing lest she should turn me out of the house, I began talking about indifferent matters in order to gain time. Meanwhile Rachel came in to kindle the fire, which was soon effected by thrusting a red-hot poker between the bars of the grate, where the fuel was already disposed for ignition. She honoured me with another of her hard, inhospitable looks in departing, but, little moved thereby, I went on talking; and setting a chair for Mrs. Graham on one side of the hearth, and one for myself on the other, I ventured to sit down, though half suspecting she would rather see me go.
In a little while we both relapsed into silence, and continued for several minutes gazing abstractedly into the fire—she intent upon her own sad thoughts, and I reflecting how delightful it would be to be seated thus beside her with no other presence to restrain our intercourse—not even that of Arthur, our mutual friend, without whom we had never met before—if only I could venture to speak my mind, and disburden my full heart of the feelings that had so long oppressed it, and which it now struggled to retain, with an effort that it seemed impossible to continue much longer,—and revolving the pros and cons for opening my heart to her there and then, and imploring a return of affection, the permission to regard her thenceforth as my own, and the right and the power to defend her from the calumnies of malicious tongues. On the one hand, I felt a new-born confidence in my powers of persuasion—a strong conviction that my own fervour of spirit would grant me eloquence—that my very determination—the absolute necessity for succeeding, that I felt must win me what I sought; while, on the other, I feared to lose the ground I had already gained with so much toil and skill, and destroy all future hope by one rash effort, when time and patience might have won success. It was like setting my life upon the cast of a die; and yet I was ready to resolve upon the attempt. At any rate, I would entreat the explanation she had half promised to give me before; I would demand the reason of this hateful barrier, this mysterious impediment to my happiness, and, as I trusted, to her own.
But while I considered in what manner I could best frame my request, my companion, wakened from her reverie with a scarcely audible sigh, and looking towards the window, where the blood-red harvest moon, just rising over one of the grim, fantastic evergreens, was shining in upon us, said,—‘Gilbert, it is getting late.’
‘I see,’ said I. ‘You want me to go, I suppose?’
‘I think you ought. If my kind neighbours get to know of this visit—as no doubt they will—they will not turn it much to my advantage.’ It was with what the vicar would doubtless have called a savage sort of smile that she said this.
‘Let them turn it as they will,’ said I. ‘What are their thoughts to you or me, so long as we are satisfied with ourselves—and each other. Let them go to the deuce with their vile constructions and their lying inventions!’
This outburst brought a flush of colour to her face.
‘You have heard, then, what they say of me?’
‘I heard some detestable falsehoods; but none but fools would credit them for a moment, Helen, so don’t let them trouble you.’
‘I did not think Mr. Millward a fool, and he believes it all; but however little you may value the opinions of those about you—however little you may esteem them as individuals, it is not pleasant to be looked upon as a liar and a hypocrite, to be thought to practise what you abhor, and to encourage the vices you would discountenance, to find your good intentions frustrated, and your hands crippled by your supposed unworthiness, and to bring disgrace on the principles you profess.’
‘True; and if I, by my thoughtlessness and selfish disregard to appearances, have at all assisted to expose you to these evils, let me entreat you not only to pardon me, but to enable me to make reparation; authorise me to clear your name from every imputation: give me the right to identify your honour with my own, and to defend your reputation as more precious than my life!’
‘Are you hero enough to unite yourself to one whom you know to be suspected and despised by all around you, and identify your interests and your honour with hers? Think! it is a serious thing.’
‘I should be proud to do it, Helen!—most happy—delighted beyond expression!—and if that be all the obstacle to our union, it is demolished, and you must—you shall be mine!’
And starting from my seat in a frenzy of ardour, I seized her hand and would have pressed it to my lips, but she as suddenly caught it away, exclaiming in the bitterness of intense affliction,—‘No, no, it is not all!’
‘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
