considering the different circumstances of the case. In returning home, I was troubled with sundry misgivings about the unfortunate Lawrence. The question, What if I should find him lying still on the damp earth, fairly dying of cold and exhaustion—or already stark and chill? thrust itself most unpleasantly upon my mind, and the appalling possibility pictured itself with painful vividness to my imagination as I approached the spot where I had left him. But no, thank heaven, both man and horse were gone, and nothing was left to witness against me but two objects—unpleasant enough in themselves to be sure, and presenting a very ugly, not to say murderous appearance—in one place, the hat saturated with rain and coated with mud, indented and broken above the brim by that villainous whip-handle; in another, the crimson handkerchief, soaking in a deeply tinctured pool of water—for much rain had fallen in the interim.
Bad news flies fast: it was hardly four o’clock when I got home, but my mother gravely accosted me with—‘Oh, Gilbert!—Such an accident! Rose has been shopping in the village, and she’s heard that Mr. Lawrence has been thrown from his horse and brought home dying!’
This shocked me a trifle, as you may suppose; but I was comforted to hear that he had frightfully fractured his skull and broken a leg; for, assured of the falsehood of this, I trusted the rest of the story was equally exaggerated; and when I heard my mother and sister so feelingly deploring his condition, I had considerable difficulty in preventing myself from telling them the real extent of the injuries, as far as I knew them.
‘You must go and see him to-morrow,’ said my mother.
‘Or to-day,’ suggested Rose: ‘there’s plenty of time; and you can have the pony, as your horse is tired. Won’t you, Gilbert—as soon as you’ve had something to eat?’
‘No, no—how can we tell that it isn’t all a false report? It’s highly im-’
‘Oh, I’m sure it isn’t; for the village is all alive about it; and I saw two people that had seen others that had seen the man that found him. That sounds far-fetched; but it isn’t so when you think of it.’
‘Well, but Lawrence is a good rider; it is not likely he would fall from his horse at all; and if he did, it is highly improbable he would break his bones in that way. It must be a gross exaggeration at least.’
‘No; but the horse kicked him—or something.’
‘What, his quiet little pony?’
‘How do you know it was that?’
‘He seldom rides any other.’
‘At any rate,’ said my mother, ‘you will call to-morrow. Whether it be true or false, exaggerated or otherwise, we shall like to know how he is.’
‘Fergus may go.’
‘Why not you?’
‘He has more time. I am busy just now.’
‘Oh! but, Gilbert, how can you be so composed about it? You won’t mind business for an hour or two in a case of this sort, when your friend is at the point of death.’
‘He is not, I tell you.’
‘For anything you know, he may be: you can’t tell till you have seen him. At all events, he must have met with some terrible accident, and you ought to see him: he’ll take it very unkind if you don’t.’
‘Confound it! I can’t. He and I have not been on good terms of late.’
‘Oh, my dear boy! Surely, surely you are not so unforgiving as to carry your little differences to such a length as—’
‘Little differences, indeed!’ I muttered.
‘Well, but only remember the occasion. Think how—’
‘Well, well, don’t bother me now—I’ll see about it,’ I replied.
And my seeing about it was to send Fergus next morning, with my mother’s compliments, to make the requisite inquiries; for, of course, my going was out of the question—or sending a message either. He brought back intelligence that the young squire was laid up with the complicated evils of a broken head and certain contusions (occasioned by a fall—of which he did not trouble himself to relate the particulars—and the subsequent misconduct of his horse), and a severe cold, the consequence of lying on the wet ground in the rain; but there were no broken bones, and no immediate prospects of dissolution.
It was evident, then, that for Mrs. Graham’s sake it was not his intention to criminate me.
CHAPTER XV
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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.