Braithwaite, I remember, had driven over to Thetford upon business; and, at Nellie’s request, I walked with her to the village, so that she might show me the fine old monuments and brasses in the parish church.
Coming back across the fields, we lingered a little, watching the loveliness of the early May sunset. For, looking westward, all the land lay drenched in golden haze, which—obliterating the horizon line—faded upward into a faint golden-green sky, across which long webs were drawn of rose and grey. Out of the sunset a soft wind blew; full, as it seemed, of memory and wistful invitation to—well—I know not what. But either that wind or consciousness of our parting on the morrow moved Nellie to open her heart to me more freely than ever before.
‘Dear Mr. Brownlow,’ she said, her eyes still fixed on that loveliness of sunset—‘I want to thank you now, while we are still alone, for all you have done for me. You have, indeed, been a good physician, and I want you to know how much better I am since you came—stronger, and more at peace. I promise you I will do my utmost to keep the ground I have gained, and not fall back into the unworthy state of mind out of which you have brought me. I do not say I am cured.’
She looked up at me, smiling.
‘I do not think you would ask that of me. I have no wish to be—I should, I think, be ashamed to be cured of—of my love. For it would make what was most beautiful seem unreal and untrue. But I am resigned to all—almost all—which has happened. I no longer kick against the pricks, or ask to have things otherwise. I shall not let it make me sour or envious—thanks to you.’
And as she spoke I read in her dear eyes a depth of innocent and trustful affection, which was almost more than I could endure.
‘I have come to a better frame of mind,’ she said. ‘It will last. It shall last, I promise you.’
‘Then all is well,’ I answered, haltingly.
But as I spoke her expression changed. She walked forward along the field path, looking upon the ground.
‘Yes, all—I suppose—is well,’ she repeated. ‘All except one thing—that hurts still.’