‘Well?’ he echoed, looking down into her upturned face, which seemed to blaze with emotion, and feeling a spasm contract his own heart.
‘Will you not follow them, Gilbert, dear Gilbert? For my sake, if it is not too selfish of me to ask it. If you will not go, I must. I cannot tell why I feel this agony of fear, but I do, and it masters me. To please me, Gilbert; and I will do what I can to please you, afterwards.’
She had pressed more closely to him, her eyes strainingly fixed upon his face, her whole frame trembling. Her agitation communicated itself to Gilbert, like some subtle electric thrill. Over his blue-gray eyes there was a kind of film, and a tremor in his voice, as he said—
‘For your sake, my sister ... but ... if anything hinders me from seeing you again to-day, Eleanor, good-bye.’
He stooped his head, and his lips rested for a second, no more, upon her brow. And then she was alone again.
* * * * *
Michael and Ada walked slowly down the sloping square, where they saw scarcely any one. Then, turning a corner, they emerged in the main street of the old town, which also sloped steeply downhill. The sunlight was streaming gaily upon this street; the shops were open, and many people were moving to and fro. In it were situated the house of Ada’s father, her former home; the schoolroom in which the concert had taken place, and several other public buildings—all clustering together, in homely vicinity, as they do in towns of this size. As they proceeded down this street they, of course, attracted notice. It was not a usual thing to see Michael walking in a leisurely manner down the town at that hour of the day. And it was more than a year since his companion had been seen in the places where her figure had once been familiar. People looked at them—came to their doors in curiosity, and gazed at and after them, and Michael knew that his companion was trembling from head to foot. Her face was deadly pale; her eyes were fixed upon the ground. But she neither hurried, nor faltered in her step, walking straight onwards, down the hill, and towards the mills. When they were nearly there, and the number of people who were about had sensibly diminished, he spoke to her, for the first time, quietly and tranquilly—
‘Now, Ada, shall we return? I think you have walked far enough.’
‘Not that way,’ she replied, in a fluttering voice. ‘I can’t face it again. We’ll cross the footbridge, and go round the other side, where it’s quieter.’
He humoured her, and they went through the dark passage, and emerged on the bridge.