That day was rainy like its
predecessor; but towards evening
it began to clear up a little,
and the next morning was fair
and promising. I was out on the
hill with the reapers. A light
wind swept over the corn, and
all nature laughed in the sunshine.
The lark was rejoicing among
the silvery floating clouds.
The late rain had so sweetly
freshened and cleared the air,
and washed the sky, and left
such glittering gems on branch
and blade, that not even the
farmers could have the heart
to blame it. But no ray of sunshine
could reach my heart, no breeze
could freshen it; nothing could
fill the void my faith, and hope,
and joy in Helen Graham had left,
or drive away the keen regrets
and bitter dregs of lingering
love that still oppressed it.
While I stood with folded arms
abstractedly gazing on the undulating
swell of the corn, not yet disturbed
by the reapers, something gently
pulled my skirts, and a small
voice, no longer welcome to my
ears, aroused me with the startling
words, - 'Mr. Markham, mamma
wants you.'
'Wants me, Arthur?'
'Yes. Why do you look so queer?'
said he, half laughing, half
frightened at the unexpected
aspect of my face in suddenly
turning towards him, - 'and why
have you kept so long away? Come!
Won't you come?'
'I'm busy just now,' I replied,
scarce knowing what to answer.
He looked up in childish bewilderment;
but before I could speak again
the lady herself was at my side.
'Gilbert, I must speak with
you!' said she, in a tone of
suppressed vehemence.
I looked at her pale cheek
and glittering eye, but answered
nothing.
'Only for a moment,' pleaded
she. 'Just step aside into this
other field.' She glanced at
the reapers, some of whom were
directing looks of impertinent
curiosity towards her. 'I won't
keep you a minute.'
I accompanied her through the
gap.
'Arthur, darling, run and gather
those bluebells,' said she, pointing
to some that were gleaming at
some distance under the hedge
along which we walked. The child
hesitated, as if unwilling to
quit my side. 'Go, love!' repeated
she more urgently, and in a tone
which, though not unkind, demanded
prompt obedience, and obtained
it.
'Well, Mrs. Graham?' said I,
calmly and coldly; for, though
I saw she was miserable, and
pitied her, I felt glad to have
it in my power to torment her.
She fixed her eyes upon me
with a look that pierced me to
the heart; and yet it made me
smile.
'I don't ask the reason of
this change, Gilbert,' said she,
with bitter calmness: 'I know
it too well; but though I could
see myself suspected and condemned
by every one else, and bear it
with calmness, I cannot endure
it from you. - Why did you not
come to hear my explanation on
the day I appointed to give it?'
'Because I happened, in the
interim, to learn all you would
have told me - and a trifle more,
I imagine.'
'Impossible, for I would have
told you all!' cried she, passionately
- 'but I won't now, for I see
you are not worthy of it!'
And her pale lips quivered
with agitation.
'Why not, may I ask?'
She repelled my mocking smile
with a glance of scornful indignation.
'Because you never understood
me, or you would not soon have
listened to my traducers - my
confidence would be misplaced
in you - you are not the man
I thought you. Go! I won't care
what you think of me.'
She turned away, and I went;
for I thought that would torment
her as much as anything; and
I believe I was right; for, looking
back a minute after, I saw her
turn half round, as if hoping
or expecting to find me still
beside her; and then she stood
still, and cast one look behind.
It was a look less expressive
of anger than of bitter anguish
and despair; but I immediately
assumed an aspect of indifference,
and affected to be gazing carelessly
around me, and I suppose she
went on; for after lingering
awhile to see if she would come
back or call, I ventured one
more glance, and saw her a good
way off, moving rapidly up the
field, with little Arthur running
by her side and apparently talking
as he went; but she kept her
face averted from him, as if
to hide some uncontrollable emotion.
And I returned to my business.
But I soon began to regret
my precipitancy in leaving her
so soon. It was evident she loved
me - probably she was tired of
Mr. Lawrence, and wished to exchange
him for me; and if I had loved
and reverenced her less to begin
with, the preference might have
gratified and amused me; but
now the contrast between her
outward seeming and her inward
mind, as I supposed, - between
my former and my present opinion
of her, was so harrowing - so
distressing to my feelings, that
it swallowed up every lighter
consideration.
But still I was curious to
know what sort of an explanation
she would have given me - or
would give now, if I pressed
her for it - how much she would
confess, and how she would endeavour
to excuse herself. I longed to
know what to despise, and what
to admire in her; how much to
pity, and how much to hate; -
and, what was more, I would know.
I would see her once more, and
fairly satisfy myself in what
light to regard her, before we
parted. Lost to me she was, for
ever, of course; but still I
could not bear to think that
we had parted, for the last time,
with so much unkindness and misery
on both sides. That last look
of hers had sunk into my heart;
I could not forget it. But what
a fool I was! Had she not deceived
me, injured me - blighted my
happiness for life? 'Well, I'll
see her, however,' was my concluding
resolve, 'but not to-day: to-day
and to-night she may think upon
her sins, and be as miserable
as she will: to-morrow I will
see her once again, and know
something more about her. The
interview may be serviceable
to her, or it may not. At any
rate, it will give a breath of
excitement to the life she has
doomed to stagnation, and may
calm with certainty some agitating
thoughts.'
I did go on the morrow, but
not till towards evening, after
the business of the day was concluded,
that is, between six and seven;
and the westering sun was gleaming
redly on the old Hall, and flaming
in the latticed windows, as I
reached it, imparting to the
place a cheerfulness not its
own. I need not dilate upon the
feelings with which I approached
the shrine of my former divinity
- that spot teeming with a thousand
delightful recollections and
glorious dreams - all darkened
now by one disastrous truth
Rachel admitted me into the
parlour, and went to call her
mistress, for she was not there:
but there was her desk left open
on the little round table beside
the high-backed chair, with a
book laid upon it. Her limited
but choice collection of books
was almost as familiar to me
as my own; but this volume I
had not seen before. I took it
up. It was Sir Humphry Davy's
'Last Days of a Philosopher,'
and on the first leaf was written,
'Frederick Lawrence.' I closed
the book, but kept it in my hand,
and stood facing the door, with
my back to the fire-place, calmly
waiting her arrival; for I did
not doubt she would come. And
soon I heard her step in the
hall. My heart was beginning
to throb, but I checked it with
an internal rebuke, and maintained
my composure - outwardly at least.
She entered, calm, pale, collected.
'To what am I indebted for
this favour, Mr. Markham?' said
she, with such severe but quiet
dignity as almost disconcerted
me; but I answered with a smile,
and impudently enough, -
'Well, I am come to hear your
explanation.'
'I told you I would not give
it,' said she. 'I said you were
unworthy of my confidence.'
'Oh, very well,' replied I,
moving to the door.
'Stay a moment,' said she.
'This is the last time I shall
see you: don't go just yet.'
I remained, awaiting her further
commands.
'Tell me,' resumed she, 'on
what grounds you believe these
things against me; who told you;
and what did they say?'
I paused a moment. She met
my eye as unflinchingly as if
her bosom had been steeled with
conscious innocence. She was
resolved to know the worst, and
determined to dare it too. 'I
can crush that bold spirit,'
thought I. But while I secretly
exulted in my power, I felt disposed
to dally with my victim like
a cat. Showing her the book that
I still held, in my hand, and
pointing to the name on the fly-leaf,
but fixing my eye upon her face,
I asked, - 'Do you know that
gentleman?'
'Of course I do,' replied she;
and a sudden flush suffused her
features - whether of shame or
anger I could not tell: it rather
resembled the latter. 'What next,
sir?'
'How long is it since you saw
him?'
'Who gave you the right to
catechize me on this or any other
subject?'
'Oh, no one! - it's quite at
your option whether to answer
or not. And now, let me ask -
have you heard what has lately
befallen this friend of yours?
- because, if you have not -
'
'I will not be insulted, Mr.
Markham!' cried she, almost infuriated
at my manner. 'So you had better
leave the house at once, if you
came only for that.'
'I did not come to insult you:
I came to hear your explanation.'
'And I tell you I won't give
it!' retorted she, pacing the
room in a state of strong excitement,
with her hands clasped tightly
together, breathing short, and
flashing fires of indignation
from her eyes. 'I will not condescend
to explain myself to one that
can make a jest of such horrible
suspicions, and be so easily
led to entertain them.'
'I do not make a jest of them,
Mrs. Graham,' returned I, dropping
at once my tone of taunting sarcasm.
'I heartily wish I could find
them a jesting matter. And as
to being easily led to suspect,
God only knows what a blind,
incredulous fool I have hitherto
been, perseveringly shutting
my eyes and stopping my ears
against everything that threatened
to shake my confidence in you,
till proof itself confounded
my infatuation!'
'What proof, sir?'
'Well, I'll tell you. You remember
that evening when I was here
last?'
'I do.'
'Even then you dropped some
hints that might have opened
the eyes of a wiser man; but
they had no such effect upon
me: I went on trusting and believing,
hoping against hope, and adoring
where I could not comprehend.
It so happened, however, that
after I left you I turned back
- drawn by pure depth of sympathy
and ardour of affection - not
daring to intrude my presence
openly upon you, but unable to
resist the temptation of catching
one glimpse through the window,
just to see how you were: for
I had left you apparently in
great affliction, and I partly
blamed my own want of forbearance
and discretion as the cause of
it. If I did wrong, love alone
was my incentive, and the punishment
was severe enough; for it was
just as I had reached that tree,
that you came out into the garden
with your friend. Not choosing
to show myself, under the circumstances,
I stood still, in the shadow,
till you had both passed by.'
'And how much of our conversation
did you hear?'
'I heard quite enough, Helen.
And it was well for me that I
did hear it; for nothing less
could have cured my infatuation.
I always said and thought, that
I would never believe a word
against you, unless I heard it
from your own lips. All the hints
and affirmations of others I
treated as malignant, baseless
slanders; your own self-accusations
I believed to be overstrained;
and all that seemed unaccountable
in your position I trusted that
you could account for if you
chose.'
Mrs. Graham had discontinued
her walk. She leant against one
end of the chimney-piece, opposite
that near which I was standing,
with her chin resting on her
closed hand, her eyes - no longer
burning with anger, but gleaming
with restless excitement - sometimes
glancing at me while I spoke,
then coursing the opposite wall,
or fixed upon the carpet.
'You should have come to me
after all,' said she, 'and heard
what I had to say in my own justification.
It was ungenerous and wrong to
withdraw yourself so secretly
and suddenly, immediately after
such ardent protestations of
attachment, without ever assigning
a reason for the change. You
should have told me all-no matter
how bitterly. It would have been
better than this silence.'
'To what end should I have
done so? You could not have enlightened
me further, on the subject which
alone concerned me; nor could
you have made me discredit the
evidence of my senses. I desired
our intimacy to be discontinued
at once, as you yourself had
acknowledged would probably be
the case if I knew all; but I
did not wish to upbraid you,
- though (as you also acknowledged)
you had deeply wronged me. Yes,
you have done me an injury you
can never repair - or any other
either - you have blighted the
freshness and promise of youth,
and made my life a wilderness!
I might live a hundred years,
but I could never recover from
the effects of this withering
blow - and never forget it! Hereafter
- You smile, Mrs. Graham,' said
I, suddenly stopping short, checked
in my passionate declamation
by unutterable feelings to behold
her actually smiling at the picture
of the ruin she had wrought.
'Did I?' replied she, looking
seriously up; 'I was not aware
of it. If I did, it was not for
pleasure at the thoughts of the
harm I had done you. Heaven knows
I have had torment enough at
the bare possibility of that;
it was for joy to find that you
had some depth of soul and feeling
after all, and to hope that I
had not been utterly mistaken
in your worth. But smiles and
tears are so alike with me, they
are neither of them confined
to any particular feelings: I
often cry when I am happy, and
smile when I am sad.'
She looked at me again, and
seemed to expect a reply; but
I continued silent.
'Would you be very glad,' resumed
she, 'to find that you were mistaken
in your conclusions?'
'How can you ask it, Helen?'
'I don't say I can clear myself
altogether,' said she, speaking
low and fast, while her heart
beat visibly and her bosom heaved
with excitement, - 'but would
you be glad to discover I was
better than you think me?'
'Anything that could in the
least degree tend to restore
my former opinion of you, to
excuse the regard I still feel
for you, and alleviate the pangs
of unutterable regret that accompany
it, would be only too gladly,
too eagerly received!' Her cheeks
burned, and her whole frame trembled,
now, with excess of agitation.
She did not speak, but flew to
her desk, and snatching thence
what seemed a thick album or
manuscript volume, hastily tore
away a few leaves from the end,
and thrust the rest into my hand,
saying, 'You needn't read it
all; but take it home with you,'
and hurried from the room. But
when I had left the house, and
was proceeding down the walk,
she opened the window and called
me back. It was only to say,
- 'Bring it back when you have
read it; and don't breathe a
word of what it tells you to
any living being. I trust to
your honour.'
Before I could answer she had
closed the casement and turned
away. I saw her cast herself
back in the old oak chair, and
cover her face with her hands.
Her feelings had been wrought
to a pitch that rendered it necessary
to seek relief in tears.
Panting with eagerness, and
struggling to suppress my hopes,
I hurried home, and rushed up-stairs
to my room, having first provided
myself with a candle, though
it was scarcely twilight yet
- then, shut and bolted the door,
determined to tolerate no interruption;
and sitting down before the table,
opened out my prize and delivered
myself up to its perusal - first
hastily turning over the leaves
and snatching a sentence here
and there, and then setting myself
steadily to read it through.
I have it now before me; and
though you could not, of course,
peruse it with half the interest
that I did, I know you would
not be satisfied with an abbreviation
of its contents, and you shall
have the whole, save, perhaps,
a few passages here and there
of merely temporary interest
to the writer, or such as would
serve to encumber the story rather
than elucidate it. It begins
somewhat abruptly, thus - but
we will reserve its commencement
for another chapter.
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