“No,” she said. “I could not have done it; I should have tried and perhaps been drowned, too. But it is not I who have talked, it is Aunt Sophy. She is very grateful to you.”
“She has no occasion,” he said. “Whatever I could do for you, Miss Trevanion—” and then he stopped, somewhat breathlessly. “It was curious, was it not? that the boat on the pond should have been so much the same thing, though everything else was so different. And that is years ago.”
“Nearly two years.”
“Then you remember?” he said, in a tone of delighted surprise.
“I have much occasion to remember. It was at a very sad moment. I remember everything that happened.”
“To be sure,” said the young man. “No, I did not forget. It was only that in the pleasure of seeing you everything else went out of my mind. But I have never forgotten, Miss Trevanion, all your anxiety. I saw you, you may remember, the day you were leaving home.”
Rosalind raised her eyes to him with a look of pain. “It is not a happy recollection,” she said.
“Oh, Miss Rosalind. I hope you will forgive me for recalling to you what is so painful.”
“The sight of you recalls it,” she said; “it is not your fault, Mr. Everard, you had relations near Highcourt.”
“Only one, but nobody now—nobody. It was a sort of chance that took me there at all. I was in a little trouble, and then I left suddenly, as it happened, the same day as you did, Miss Trevanion. How well I remember it all! You were carrying the same little boy who was in the boat to-day—was it the same?—and you would not let me help you. I almost think if you had seen it was me you would not have allowed me to help you to-day.”