“Of course there will be an explanation; and one that will satisfy you perfectly, I have no doubt,” interrupted Olivia, impatiently. “Mrs. Brander will be able to explain everything, and make you see how entirely right and natural it is that you should have no friends but those at the Vicarage.”
She saw by the change in his face that she had succeeded in sowing the seed of what she considered a wholesome suspicion in his mind; and rather afraid of trusting herself to further speak on a matter which lay nearer her heart than she cared to show, she held out her hand abruptly, saying with a break in her voice—
“Good-night, Mr. Brander.”
She knew he was grateful for her interest in him; she knew he had that day been happy in her society. But she was quite unprepared for the flash of passionate feeling which suddenly shone out of his dark, thin face at the touch of her hand. It was like the wild gratitude of a starving man for food, which he seizes ravenously, and for which he can utter no articulate thanks. Olivia was almost frightened by it, and her hand trembled as he clutched it in his.
“Good-night,” he said; “good-night. I had forgotten what such a thing was—as a friend—until, until you came. They are very good—my sister-in-law, and even my old housekeeper. But they are cold; at least, they are not like you. There is something in the very touch of your hand, in the kindness of your eyes, that warms one and makes one feel—human again. God bless you, Miss Denison!”
He had hurried out his words so fast, in such a low, hoarse voice, that Olivia scarcely heard more than half. But what she did hear touched, melted her, made her heart open with a yearning tenderness she had never felt before, even for her beloved father in his troubles. She let Mr. Brander hold her hands in the grip of a moment’s passionate happiness, and only sighed out a faint protest against his fervent words. It was he who first woke from the entrancing pleasure of that moment’s mutual sympathy. Letting the girl’s hand drop, he stepped back as abruptly as if they had been interrupted, leaving her confused and ashamed at her involuntary show of feeling.
Through long years of self-control on his side, through pride on hers, they both recovered their outward composure so quickly that a very keen observer, who happened to pass a moment later, could detect no sign of unusual emotion in either of them. This passer-by was Ned Mitchell, who touched his hat to Miss Denison with a significant air of being determined to remark nothing, and nodded to the clergyman with a side glance of no great favor. As she caught sight of him, Olivia drew a deep breath and shivered, as if some forgotten horror had become suddenly vivid. Instead of allowing Mr. Brander to take a formal farewell of her, as he was about to do, she detained him by a gesture until the colonist was out of hearing, and then made an impulsive step nearer to him, with a face full of deep anxiety and excitement.
“I had forgotten—quite forgotten,” she panted out. “That man—do you know who he is?”
“No.”
“Do you know why he is here?”