“Yes, I know I am very ignorant,” said Sara, with humility. “Tell me about Canada. I should like to learn.”
These words shook Powys sadly. It did not occur to him that she was as glad as he was to plunge into a foreign subject. There sounded something soft and confiding in the tone, and his heart gave a leap, as it were, toward her. “And I should like to teach you,” he said, a little too warmly, and then stopped short, and then began hastily again. “Miss Brownlow, I think I will carry your basket home and leave you by yourself. I can not be near without remembering things, and saying things. Don’t despise me—I could nor bear to think you despised me.” He said this with growing agitation, but he did not quicken his steps or make any attempt to leave her; he only looked at her piteously, clasping the slender handle of her little basket in both his hands.
“Why should I despise you, Mr. Powys? I don’t like Americans,” said Sara, demurely; “but you are not American—you are English, like all the rest of us. Tell me about Niagara and the Indians, and the backwoods and the skating and the snow. You see I am not quite so ignorant. And then your little sisters and your mother, do they like being at home? Tell me their names and how old they are,” said Sara, herself becoming a little tremulous. “I am fond of little girls.”
And then there ensued a breathless, tremendous pause. He would have fled if he could, but there was no possibility of flight; and in a moment there flashed before him all the evidences of Mr. Brownlow’s favor. Would he refuse him this supreme gift and blessing? Why had he brought him here if he would refuse him? Thus Powys broke down again, and finally. He poured out his heart, giving up all attempt at self-control when the tide had set in. He told how he had been keeping out of the way—the way of temptation. He described to her how he had been trying to command himself. He told her the ground she trod on was fairy-land: the air she breathed musical and celestial; the place she lived in, paradise; that he hoped nothing, asked for nothing, but only to be allowed to tell her that she was—not an angel—for he was too much in earnest to think of hackneyed expressions—but the only creature in the world for whom he had either eyes or thoughts. All this poured upon Sara as she walked softly, with downcast eyes, along the grassy path. It poured upon her, a perfect flood of adulation, sweet flattery, folly, and delirium—insane and yet quite true. And she listened, and had not a word to say. Indeed he did not ask for a word; he made her no petition; he emptied out his heart before her like a libation poured to the gods; and then suddenly became silent, tremulous, and hoarse as his passion worked itself out.
It was all so sudden, and the passion was so real, that they were both rapt by it, and went on in the silence after he had ceased, without knowing, until the impetus and rush of the outburst had in a measure worn out. Then Sara woke up. She had been quite quiet, pale, half frightened, wholly entranced. When she woke up she grew scarlet with sudden blushes; and they both raised their eyes at the same moment and found that, unawares, they had come in sight of the house. Powys fell back at the sight with a pang of dismay and consternation; but it gave Sara courage. They were no longer entirely alone, and she regained her self-command.
“Mr. Powys,” she said, tremulously, “I don’t know what to say to you. I am not so good as that. I—I don’t know what to say. You have not asked me any thing. I—I have no answer to give.”
“It is because I want to ask every thing,” said poor Powys; “but I know—I know you can have nothing to say.”
“Not now,” said Sara, under her breath; and then she held out her hand suddenly, perhaps only for her basket. There was nobody at the windows, heaven be praised, as she afterward said to herself, but not until she had rushed up to her own room and pulled off that glove, and looked at it with scarlet cheeks, and put it stealthily away. No, thank heaven! even Angelique was at the other side of the house at a window which looked out upon the innocent shrubberies. Only the placid, silent house, blank and vacant, had been the witness. Was it a seal of any thing, a pledge of any thing, or only a vague touch, for which she was not responsible, that had fallen upon Sara’s glove?
Mr. Brownlow had gone away, his heart positively aching with expectation and anxiety. He did not know what might happen while he was gone. It might be more than life or death to him, as much more as honor or dishonor go beyond mere life and death; and yet he could not stay and watch. He had to nerve himself to that last heroism of letting every thing take its chance, and going on with his work whatever happened. He went to the office with his mind racked by this anxiety, and got through his work all the same, nobody being the wiser. As he returned, a little incident for the moment diverted him from his own thoughts. This was the sight of the carrier’s cart standing at Mrs. Swayne’s door, and Mrs. Swayne’s lodger in the act of mounting into it with the assistance of a chair. Mr. Brownlow, as he passed in the dog-cart, could not but notice this. He could not but observe how pale and ill she looked. He was interested in them partly with that displeased and repellent interest excited by Jack’s “entanglement,” partly because of Pamela’s face, which reminded him of something, and partly—he could not tell why. Mrs. Preston stumbled a little as she mounted up, and Mr. Brownlow, who was waiting for old Betty to open the gate, sprang down from the dog-cart, being still almost as active as ever, and went across the road to assist. He took off his hat to her with the courtesy which all his family possessed, and asked if she was going away. “You do not look well enough to be setting out on a journey,” he said, a little moved by the sight of the pale old woman mounting into that uneasy conveyance. “I hope you are not going alone.” This he said, although he could see she was going alone, and that poor little Pamela’s eyes were big with complaint and reproach and trouble. Somehow he felt as if he should like to take the little creature home with him, and pet and cherish her, though, of course, as the cause of Jack’s entanglement, nothing should have made him notice her at all.
But Mrs. Preston looked at him fiercely with her kindled eyes, and rejected his aid. “Thank you,” she said abruptly, “I don’t want any help—thank you. I am quite able to travel, and I prefer to be alone.”