Since the old days, the old days of all, since the days to which Reginald had referred when he asked her to pass over the bridge with him, she had never yet walked about the Bragton grounds. She had often been to the house, visiting Lady Ushant; but she had simply gone thither and returned. And indeed, when the house had been empty, the walk from Dillsborough to the bridge and back had been sufficient exercise for herself and her sisters. But now she could go whither she listed and bring her memory to all the old spots. With the tenacity as to household matters which characterised the ladies of the country some years since, Lady Ushant employed all her mornings and those of her young friend in making inventories of everything that was found in the house; but her afternoons were her own, and she wandered about with a freedom she had never known before. At this time Reginald Morton was up in London and had been away nearly a week. He had gone intending to be absent for some undefined time, so that Lady Ushant and Mrs. Hopkins were free from all interruption. It was as yet only the middle of March and the lion had not altogether disappeared; but still Mary could get out. She did not care much for the wind; and she roamed about among the leafless shrubberies, thinking—probably not of many things—meaning always to think of the past, but unable to keep her mind from the future, the future which would so soon be the present. How long would it be before the coming of that stately dame? Was he in quest of her now? Had he perhaps postponed his demand upon her till fortune had made him rich? Of course she had no right to be sorry that he had inherited the property which had been his almost of right;—but yet, had it been otherwise, might she not have had some chance? But, oh, if he had said a word to her, only a word more than he had spoken already—a word that might have sounded like encouragement to others beside herself, and then have been obliged to draw back because of the duty which he owed to the property—how much worse would that have been! She did own to herself that the squire of Bragton should not look for his wife in the house of a Dillsborough attorney. As she thought of this a tear ran down her cheek and trickled down on to the wooden rail of the little bridge.
“There’s no one to give you an excuse now, and you must come and walk round with me,” said a voice, close to her ear.
“Oh, Mr. Morton, how you have startled me!”
“Is there anything the matter, Mary?” said he, looking up into her face.
“Only you have startled me so.”
“Has that brought tears into your eyes?”
“Well—I suppose so,” she said trying to smile. “You were so very quiet and I thought you were in London.”
“So I was this morning, and now I am here. But something else has made you unhappy.”
“No; nothing.”
“I wish we could be friends, Mary. I wish I could know your secret. You have a secret.”
“No,” she said boldly.
“Is there nothing?”
“What should there be, Mr. Morton!”
“Tell me why you were crying.”
“I was not crying. Just a tear is not crying. Sometimes one does get melancholy. One can’t cry when there is anyone to look, and so one does it alone. I’d have been laughing if I knew that you were coming.”
“Come round by the kennels. You can get over the wall;—can’t you?”
“Oh yes.”
“And we’ll go down the old orchard, and get out by the corner of the park fence.” Then he walked and she followed him, hardly keeping close by his side, and thinking as she went how foolish she had been not to have avoided the perils and fresh troubles of such a walk. When he was helping her over the wall he held her hands for a moment and she was aware of unusual pressure. It was the pressure of love—or of that pretence of love which young men, and perhaps old men, sometimes permit themselves to affect. In an ordinary way Mary would have thought as little of it as another girl. She might feel dislike to the man, but the affair would be too light for resentment. With this man it was different. He certainly was not justified in making the slightest expression of factitious affection. He at any rate should have felt himself bound to abstain from any touch of peculiar tenderness. She would not say a word. She would not even look at him with angry eyes. But she twitched both her hands away from him as she sprang to the ground. Then there was a passage across the orchard—not more than a hundred yards, and after that a stile. At the stile she insisted on using her own hand for the custody of her dress. She would not even touch his outstretched arm. “You are very independent,” he said.
“I have to be so.”
“I cannot make you out, Mary. I wonder whether there is still anything rankling in your bosom against me.”
“Oh dear no. What should rankle with me?”
“What indeed;—unless you resent my—regard.”
“I am not so rich in friends as to do that, Mr. Morton.”
“I don’t suppose there can be many people who have the same sort of feeling for you that I have.”
“There are not many who have known me so long, certainly.”
“You have some friend, I know,” he said.
“More than one I hope.”
“Some special friend. Who is he, Mary?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Morton.” She then
