I held it out. And for an instant she hesitated, her eyes fixed upon the writing, upon the paper, as though these actual and material things were precious in her sight. Then she put her hands behind her and shook her head.
‘No—better not. It is not necessary,’ she said with a childlike gravity. Her whole attitude just now was curiously simple and childlike. ‘I have every word of it by heart already, dear Mr. Brownlow. I shall remember every word—always.’
And for a while we walked on in silence, side by side, beneath the dying sunset. Upon the hump-backed bridge spanning the stream Nellie stopped.
‘One thing more, good physician,’ she said, very gently. ‘I am cut off from him for—for ever by his marriage. But you can watch over him and care for his welfare still. You will do so?’
‘Before God—yes,’ I answered.
‘And, sometimes, you will let me hear, you will come and tell me about him?’
‘Again—yes—before God.’
And I smiled to myself, bowing my head. Oh! the magnificent and relentless egoism of love!—But she should have this since she asked it; this and more than this. Plans began to form in my mind, a determination to make sure, whatever it might cost me, about this same marriage of Hartover’s. I would devote myself to an inquiry, pursue it carefully, prudently; but pursue it regardless of time, regardless of money—such money as, by economy and hard work, I could command. For was not such an inquiry part, and an integral one, of the pledge to watch over Hartover and care for his welfare which I had so recently and solemnly given her? Undoubtedly it was.
‘Thank you,’ she said. Then after a pause, ‘I wonder why you are so kind to me? Sometimes I am almost afraid of your kindness, lest it should make me selfish and conceited, make me think too highly of myself. Indeed I will try better to deserve it. I will read. I will improve my mind, so as to be more worthy of your society and teaching, when you come again.—But, Mr. Brownlow, I have never kept anything from my father until now. Is it deceitful of me not to tell him of these two letters? They would anger and vex him; and he has been so much happier and like his old self since you have been with us. I hate to disturb him and open up the past.’
‘I think you are, at least, justified in waiting for a time before telling him,’ I faltered.