“You know,” said she, tremulously: “the new tower—St. Cuthbert’s tower—”
Ned Mitchell stopped short, and made her turn face to face with him.
“It seems to me, young lady,” said he, “that you haven’t much faith in your lover.”
“Mr. Vernon Brander is not my lover,” said she, blushing.
“Not to the extent of having asked you to name the happy day, perhaps. But whether you confess it or not, I know that if Vernon Brander were free to marry, he might have you for the asking.”
“Well, yes, he might,” said poor Olivia, raising her head proudly one moment, and the next letting it fall in confusion and shame. “And I confess I don’t feel sure whether he has done this dreadful thing or not; and—and that it wouldn’t make any difference if he had. And it’s because I don’t feel sure that I’m come to beg you not to have St. Cuthbert’s tower touched. And I’ve just heard that he’s ill, and I’m very miserable about it. There, there—now I think I’ve humiliated myself enough to you.”
They were in the open field, with young men and maidens on either side making more or less shallow pretences at haymaking. Olivia could not indulge the inclination that prompted her to burst into a rage of passionate tears. But she was almost blinded by the effort to keep them back; and Ned Mitchell had to guide her steps between the haycocks, which he did gently enough.
“Look here,” he said, in a tone which could only express feeling by jerks; “I don’t want to hurt you. There’s nobody I wouldn’t sooner hurt, I think. You’re a brave girl. I like you. I approve of you. Hold your tongue, and I’ll promise you something.”
The last admonition was unnecessary: she was quiet enough.
“I give you my word. Now, mind, you’re not to shout out!” She shook her head. “I give you my word no harm shall come to—somebody.”