In the meantime Mr. Gibson was sitting by Arabella’s bedside, while Mrs. French was trying to make herself busy in her own chamber, next door. There had been a reading of some chapter of the Bible—or of some portion of a chapter. And Mr. Gibson, as he read, and Arabella, as she listened, had endeavoured to take to their hearts and to make use of the word which they heard. The poor young woman, when she begged her mother to send to her the man who was so dear to her, did so with some half-formed condition that it would be good for her to hear a clergyman read to her. But now the chapter had been read, and the book was back in Mr. Gibson’s pocket, and he was sitting with his hand on the bed. “She is so very arrogant,” said Bella—“and so domineering.” To this Mr. Gibson made no reply. “I’m sure I have endeavoured to bear it well, though you must have known what I have suffered, Thomas. Nobody can understand it so well as you do.”
“I wish I had never been born,” said Mr. Gibson, tragically.
“Don’t say that, Thomas—because it’s wicked.”
“But I do. See all the harm I have done;—and yet I did not mean it.”
“You must try and do the best you can now. I am not saying what that should be. I am not dictating to you. You are a man, and, of course, you must judge for yourself. But I will say this. You shouldn’t do anything just because it is the easiest. I don’t suppose I should live after it. I don’t indeed. But that should not signify to you.”
“I don’t suppose that any man was ever before in such a terrible position since the world began.”
“It is difficult;—I am sure of that, Thomas.”
“And I have meant to be so true. I fancy sometimes that some mysterious agency interferes with the affairs of a man, and drives him on—and on—and on—almost—till he doesn’t know where it drives him.” As he said this in a voice that was quite sepulchral in its tone, he felt some consolation in the conviction that this mysterious agency could not affect a man without embuing him with a certain amount of grandeur—very uncomfortable, indeed, in its nature, but still having considerable value as a counterpoise. Pride must bear pain;—but pain is recompensed by pride.
“She is so strong, Thomas, that she can put up with anything,” said Arabella, in a whisper.
“Strong;—yes,” said he, with a shudder;—“she is strong enough.”
“And as for love—”
“Don’t talk about it,” said he, getting up from his chair. “Don’t talk about it. You will drive me frantic.”
“You know what my feelings are, Thomas; you have always known them. There has been no change since I was the young thing you first knew me.” As she spoke, she just touched his hand with hers; but he did not seem to notice this, sitting with his elbow on the arm of his chair and his forehead on his hand. In reply to what she said to him, he merely shook his head—not intending to imply thereby any doubt of the truth of her assertion. “You have now to make up your mind and to be bold, Thomas,” continued Arabella. “She says that you are a coward; but I know that you are no coward. I told her so, and she said that I was interfering. Oh—that she should be able to tell me that I interfere when I defend you!”
“I must go,” said Mr. Gibson, jumping up from his chair. “I must go. Bella, I cannot stand this any longer. It is too much for me. I will pray that I may decide aright. God bless you!” Then he kissed her brow as she lay in bed, and hurried out of the room.
He had hoped to go from the house without further converse with any of its inmates; for his mind was disturbed, and he longed to be at rest. But he was not allowed to escape so easily. Camilla met him at the dining-room door, and accosted him with a smile. There had been time for much meditation during the last half hour, and Camilla had meditated. “How do you find her, Thomas?” she asked.
“She seems weak, but I believe she is better. I have been reading to her.”
“Come in, Thomas;—will you not? It is bad for us to stand talking on the stairs. Dear Thomas, don’t let us be so cold to each other.” He had no alternative but to put his arm round her waist and kiss her, thinking, as he did so, of the mysterious agency which afflicted him. “Tell me that you love me, Thomas,” she said.
“Of course I love you.” The question is not a pleasant one when put by a lady to a gentleman whose affections towards her are not strong, and it requires a very good actor to produce an efficient answer.
“I hope you do, Thomas. It would be sad, indeed, if you did not. You are not weary of your Camilla—are you?”
For a moment there came upon him an idea that he would confess that he was weary of her, but he found at once that such an effort was beyond his powers. “How can you ask such a question?” he said.
“Because you do not—come to me.” Camilla, as she spoke, laid her head upon his shoulder, and wept. “And now you have been five minutes with me and nearly an hour with Bella.”
“She wanted me to read to her,” said Mr. Gibson;—and he hated himself thoroughly as he said it.
“And now you want to get away as fast as you can,” continued Camilla.
“Because of the morning service,” said Mr. Gibson. This was quite true, and yet he hated himself again for saying it. As Camilla knew the truth of the last plea, she was obliged to let him go; but
