A shudder seemed to pass over the frame of the young farmer, who was evidently deeply moved at this declaration.
“Oh, Nell,” he murmured, “it is I who have been to blame.”
“I do not reproach you,” she answered. “I meant to have kept it all from you, that I might suffer for it; but I tell ye of it now that I may ask ye by that which is your’n, and your’n alone, not to go further to-night, but to turn back and put up at Brickett’s house. I implore ye to do this kindness by that which will soon mek’ me love or hate ye more. Oh, Philip Jamblin, for the love of mercy hearken unto me. I ask ye by the memory of the happy hours we have spent together, by the remembrance of the past and hope for the future, not to return to Stoke Ferry Farm this night. I’ve watched and waited for ye, that I might give thee timely warning.”
“But, my dear Nell, you seem to be full of fancies to-night. No harm will come to me. I will see ye to-morrow, lass. I shall have good news for you then.”
The girl shook her head and looked mournfully at her companion, who did not fail to note that her eyes were filled with tears.
His limbs trembled with emotion—he was greatly troubled; but, even at this time, he was under the full impression that her forebodings were conjured up by the agency of an over-heated imagination.
He drew her towards him, and covered her face with burning and passionate kisses.
Then he bade her a hasty good-night, and urged on his horse.
Half stupefied and numbed the girl stood as immovable and passionless as a statue.
No. 27.