‘Yes—yes,’ she said. ‘Ah! how well you understand, dear Mr. Brownlow! Keep the letter. It is better out of my possession. And I feel less unhappy now that I have spoken to you. I longed for, yet dreaded, your coming. I knew that I should want to tell you of this—to speak freely to you; and yet I doubted if it were possible to talk on such a subject without seeming wanting in modesty. But you have made it easy by your sympathy—which I feel. It is wonderful. And I am very grateful—more grateful than I can express.’
For the first time her eyes had tears in them, and her brave lips quivered. I could bear no more. I turned and walked away a few steps, the sunshine gay among the pear blossom above my head, warm upon the turf at my feet. Ah, dear God, what a beautiful world—and I to go through it lonely all the days of my life!
Nellie picked up her bowl and came after me, a wistfulness in her sweet face.
‘What is the matter, dear Mr. Brownlow? I have not offended you?’ she said.
‘No—ten thousand times, no,’ I answered. ‘But the times are somewhat out of joint, and—well—would to heaven I were a better, abler man to set them right!’
Just then Braithwaite hailed us from the doorway. We joined him and, with him, went back to the house.
(To be continued.)
LAMENT BEFITTING THESE ‘TIMES OF NIGHT.’
BY CHARLOTTE BRONTË.