While standing thus, absorbed in my gloomy reverie, a gentleman'scarriage came round the corner of the road. I did not look at it;and had it rolled quietly by me, I should not have remembered thefact of its appearance at all; but a tiny voice from within itroused me by exclaiming, 'Mamma, mamma, here's Mr. Markham!'

I did not hear the reply, but presently the same voice answered,'It is indeed, mamma - look for yourself.'

I did not raise my eyes, but I suppose mamma looked, for a clearmelodious voice, whose tones thrilled through my nerves, exclaimed,'Oh, aunt! here's Mr. Markham, Arthur's friend! Stop, Richard!'

There was such evidence of joyous though suppressed excitement inthe utterance of those few words - especially that tremulous, 'Oh,aunt' - that it threw me almost off my guard. The carriage stoppedimmediately, and I looked up and met the eye of a pale, grave,elderly lady surveying me from the open window. She bowed, and sodid I, and then she withdrew her head, while Arthur screamed to thefootman to let him out; but before that functionary could descendfrom his box a hand was silently put forth from the carriagewindow. I knew that hand, though a black glove concealed itsdelicate whiteness and half its fair proportions, and quicklyseizing it, I pressed it in my own - ardently for a moment, butinstantly recollecting myself, I dropped it, and it was immediatelywithdrawn.

'Were you coming to see us, or only passing by?' asked the lowvoice of its owner, who, I felt, was attentively surveying mycountenance from behind the thick black veil which, with theshadowing panels, entirely concealed her own from me.

'I - I came to see the place,' faltered I.

'The place,' repeated she, in a tone which betokened moredispleasure or disappointment than surprise.

'Will you not enter it, then?'

'If you wish it.'

'Can you doubt?'

'Yes, yes! he must enter,' cried Arthur, running round from theother door; and seizing my hand in both his, he shook it heartily.

'Do you remember me, sir?' said he.

'Yes, full well, my little man, altered though you are,' replied I,surveying the comparatively tall, slim young gentleman, with hismother's image visibly stamped upon his fair, intelligent features,in spite of the blue eyes beaming with gladness, and the brightlocks clustering beneath his cap.

'Am I not grown?' said he, stretching himself up to his fullheight.

'Grown! three inches, upon my word!'

'I was seven last birthday,' was the proud rejoinder. 'In sevenyears more I shall be as tall as you nearly.'

'Arthur,' said his mother, 'tell him to come in. Go on, Richard.'

There was a touch of sadness as well as coldness in her voice, butI knew not to what to ascribe it. The carriage drove on andentered the gates before us. My little companion led me up thepark, discoursing merrily all the way. Arrived at the hall-door, Ipaused on the steps and looked round me, waiting to recover mycomposure, if possible - or, at any rate, to remember my new-formedresolutions and the principles on which they were founded; and itwas not till Arthur had been for some time gently pulling my coat,and repeating his invitations to enter, that I at length consentedto accompany him into the apartment where the ladies awaited us.

Helen eyed me as I entered with a kind of gentle, serious scrutiny,and politely asked after Mrs. Markham and Rose. I respectfullyanswered her inquiries. Mrs. Maxwell begged me to be seated,observing it was rather cold, but she supposed I had not travelledfar that morning.

'Not quite twenty miles,' I answered.

'Not on foot!'

'No, Madam, by coach.'

'Here's Rachel, sir,' said Arthur, the only truly happy one amongstus, directing my attention to that worthy individual, who had justentered to take her mistress's things. She vouchsafed me an almostfriendly smile of recognition - a favour that demanded, at least, acivil salutation on my part, which was accordingly given andrespectfully returned - she had seen the error of her formerestimation of my character.

When Helen was divested of her lugubrious bonnet and veil, herheavy winter cloak, &c., she looked so like herself that I knew nothow to bear it. I was particularly glad to see her beautiful blackhair, unstinted still, and unconcealed in its glossy luxuriance.

'Mamma has left off her widow's cap in honour of uncle's marriage,'observed Arthur, reading my looks with a child's mingled simplicityand quickness of observation. Mamma looked grave and Mrs. Maxwellshook her head. 'And aunt Maxwell is never going to leave offhers,' persisted the naughty boy; but when he saw that his pertnesswas seriously displeasing and painful to his aunt, he went andsilently put his arm round her neck, kissed her cheek, and withdrewto the recess of one of the great bay-windows, where he quietlyamused himself with his dog, while Mrs. Maxwell gravely discussedwith me the interesting topics of the weather, the season, and theroads. I considered her presence very useful as a check upon mynatural impulses - an antidote to those emotions of tumultuousexcitement which would otherwise have carried me away against myreason and my will; but just then I felt the restraint almostintolerable, and I had the greatest difficulty in forcing myself toattend to her remarks and answer them with ordinary politeness; forI was sensible that Helen was standing within a few feet of mebeside the fire. I dared not look at her, but I felt her eye wasupon me, and from one hasty, furtive glance, I thought her cheekwas slightly flushed, and that her fingers, as she played with herwatch-chain, were agitated with that restless, trembling motionwhich betokens high excitement.

'Tell me,' said she, availing herself of the first pause in theattempted conversation between her aunt and me, and speaking fastand low, with her eyes bent on the gold chain - for I now venturedanother glance - 'Tell me how you all are at Linden-hope - hasnothing happened since I left you?'

'I believe not.'

'Nobody dead? nobody married?'

'No.'

'Or - or expecting to marry? - No old ties dissolved or new onesformed? no old friends forgotten or supplanted?'

She dropped her voice so low in the last sentence that no one couldhave caught the concluding words but myself, and at the same timeturned her eyes upon me with a dawning smile, most sweetlymelancholy, and a look of timid though keen inquiry that made mycheeks tingle with inexpressible emotions.

'I believe not,' I answered. 'Certainly not, if others are aslittle changed as I.' Her face glowed in sympathy with mine.

'And you really did not mean to call?' she exclaimed.

'I feared to intrude.'

'To intrude!' cried she, with an impatient gesture. 'What - ' butas if suddenly recollecting her aunt's presence, she checkedherself, and, turning to that lady, continued - 'Why, aunt, thisman is my brother's close friend, and was my own intimateacquaintance (for a few short months at least), and professed agreat attachment to my boy - and when he passes the house, so manyscores of miles from his home, he declines to look in for fear ofintruding!'

'Mr. Markham is over-modest,' observed Mrs. Maxwell.

'Over-ceremonious rather,' said her niece - 'over - well, it's nomatter.' And turning from me, she seated herself in a chair besidethe table, and pulling a book to her by the cover, began to turnover the leaves in an energetic kind of abstraction.

'If I had known,' said I, 'that you would have honoured me byremembering me as an intimate acquaintance, I most likely shouldnot have denied myself the pleasure of calling upon you, but Ithought you had forgotten me long ago.'

'You judged of others by yourself,' muttered she without raisingher eyes from the book, but reddening as she spoke, and hastilyturning over a dozen leaves at once.

There was a pause, of which Arthur thought he might venture toavail himself to introduce his handsome young setter, and show mehow wonderfully it was grown and improved, and to ask after thewelfare of its father Sancho. Mrs. Maxwell then withdrew to takeoff her things. Helen immediately pushed the book from her, andafter silently surveying her son, his friend, and his dog for a fewmoments, she dismissed the former from the room under pretence ofwishing him to fetch his last new book to show me. The childobeyed with alacrity; but I continued caressing the dog. Thesilence might have lasted till its master's return, had it dependedon me to break it; but, in half a minute or less, my hostessimpatiently rose, and, taking her former station on the rug betweenme and the chimney corner, earnestly exclaimed -

'Gilbert, what is the matter with you? - why are you so changed?It is a very indiscreet question, I know,' she hastened to add:'perhaps a very rude one - don't answer it if you think so - but Ihate mysteries and concealments.'

'I am not changed, Helen - unfortunately I am as keen andpassionate as ever - it is not I, it is circumstances that arechanged.'

'What circumstances? Do tell me!' Her cheek was blanched with thevery anguish of anxiety - could it be with the fear that I hadrashly pledged my faith to another?

'I'll tell you at once,' said I. 'I will confess that I came herefor the purpose of seeing you (not without some monitory misgivingsat my own presumption, and fears that I should be as little welcomeas expected when I came), but I did not know that this estate wasyours until enlightened on the subject of your inheritance by theconversation of two fellow-passengers in the last stage of myjourney; and then I saw at once the folly of the hopes I hadcherished, and the madness of retaining them a moment longer; andthough I alighted at your gates, I determined not to enter withinthem; I lingered a few minutes to see the place, but was fullyresolved to return to M- without seeing its mistress.'

'And if my aunt and I had not been just returning from our morningdrive, I should have seen and heard no more of you?'

'I thought it would be better for both that we should not meet,'replied I, as calmly as I could, but not daring to speak above mybreath, from conscious inability to steady my voice, and not daringto look in her face lest my firmness should forsake me altogether.'I thought an interview would only disturb your peace and maddenme. But I am glad, now, of this opportunity of seeing you oncemore and knowing that you have not forgotten me, and of assuringyou that I shall never cease to remember you.'

There was a moment's pause. Mrs. Huntingdon moved away, and stoodin the recess of the window. Did she regard this as an intimationthat modesty alone prevented me from asking her hand? and was sheconsidering how to repulse me with the smallest injury to myfeelings? Before I could speak to relieve her from such aperplexity, she broke the silence herself by suddenly turningtowards me and observing -

'You might have had such an opportunity before - as far, I mean, asregards assuring me of your kindly recollections, and yourself ofmine, if you had written to me.'

'I would have done so, but I did not know your address, and did notlike to ask your brother, because I thought he would object to mywriting; but this would not have deterred me for a moment, if Icould have ventured to believe that you expected to hear from me,or even wasted a thought upon your unhappy friend; but your silencenaturally led me to conclude myself forgotten.'

'Did you expect me to write to you, then?'

'No, Helen - Mrs. Huntingdon,' said I, blushing at the impliedimputation, 'certainly not; but if you had sent me a messagethrough your brother, or even asked him about me now and then - '

'I did ask about you frequently. I was not going to do more,'continued she, smiling, 'so long as you continued to restrictyourself to a few polite inquiries about my health.'

'Your brother never told me that you had mentioned my name.'

'Did you ever ask him?'

'No; for I saw he did not wish to be questioned about you, or toafford the slightest encouragement or assistance to my tooobstinate attachment.' Helen did not reply. 'And he was perfectlyright,' added I. But she remained in silence, looking out upon thesnowy lawn. 'Oh, I will relieve her of my presence,' thought I;and immediately I rose and advanced to take leave, with a mostheroic resolution - but pride was at the bottom of it, or it couldnot have carried me through.

'Are you going already?' said she, taking the hand I offered, andnot immediately letting it go.

'Why should I stay any longer?'

'Wait till Arthur comes, at least.'

Only too glad to obey, I stood and leant against the opposite sideof the window.

'You told me you were not changed,' said my companion: 'you are -very much so.'

'No, Mrs. Huntingdon, I only ought to be.'

'Do you mean to maintain that you have the same regard for me thatyou had when last we met?'

'I have; but it would be wrong to talk of it now.'

'It was wrong to talk of it then, Gilbert; it would not now -unless to do so would be to violate the truth.'

I was too much agitated to speak; but, without waiting for ananswer, she turned away her glistening eye and crimson cheek, andthrew up the window and looked out, whether to calm her own,excited feelings, or to relieve her embarrassment, or only to pluckthat beautiful half-blown Christmas-rose that grew upon the littleshrub without, just peeping from the snow that had hitherto, nodoubt, defended it from the frost, and was now melting away in thesun. Pluck it, however, she did, and having gently dashed theglittering powder from its leaves, approached it to her lips andsaid:

'This rose is not so fragrant as a summer flower, but it has stoodthrough hardships none of them could bear: the cold rain of winterhas sufficed to nourish it, and its faint sun to warm it; the bleakwinds have not blanched it, or broken its stem, and the keen frosthas not blighted it. Look, Gilbert, it is still fresh and bloomingas a flower can be, with the cold snow even now on its petals. -Will you have it?'

I held out my hand: I dared not speak lest my emotion shouldovermaster me. She laid the rose across my palm, but I scarcelyclosed my fingers upon it, so deeply was I absorbed in thinkingwhat might be the meaning of her words, and what I ought to do orsay upon the occasion; whether to give way to my feelings orrestrain them still. Misconstruing this hesitation intoindifference - or reluctance even - to accept her gift, Helensuddenly snatched it from my hand, threw it out on to the snow,shut down the window with an emphasis, and withdrew to the fire.

'Helen, what means this?' I cried, electrified at this startlingchange in her demeanour.

'You did not understand my gift,' said she - 'or, what is worse,you despised it. I'm sorry I gave it you; but since I did makesuch a mistake, the only remedy I could think of was to take itaway.'

'You misunderstood me cruelly,' I replied, and in a minute I hadopened the window again, leaped out, picked up the flower, broughtit in, and presented it to her, imploring her to give it me again,and I would keep it for ever for her sake, and prize it more highlythan anything in the world I possessed.

'And will this content you?' said she, as she took it in her hand.

'It shall,' I answered.

'There, then; take it.'

I pressed it earnestly to my lips, and put it in my bosom, Mrs.Huntingdon looking on with a half-sarcastic smile.

'Now, are you going?' said she.

'I will if - if I must.'

'You are changed,' persisted she - 'you are grown either very proudor very indifferent.'

'I am neither, Helen - Mrs. Huntingdon. If you could see my heart- '

'You must be one, - if not both. And why Mrs. Huntingdon? - whynot Helen, as before?'

'Helen, then - dear Helen!' I murmured. I was in an agony ofmingled love, hope, delight, uncertainty, and suspense.

'The rose I gave you was an emblem of my heart,' said she; 'wouldyou take it away and leave me here alone?'

'Would you give me your hand too, if I asked it?'

'Have I not said enough?' she answered, with a most enchantingsmile. I snatched her hand, and would have fervently kissed it,but suddenly checked myself, and said, -

'But have you considered the consequences?'

'Hardly, I think, or I should not have offered myself to one tooproud to take me, or too indifferent to make his affection outweighmy worldly goods.'

Stupid blockhead that I was! - I trembled to clasp her in my arms,but dared not believe in so much joy, and yet restrained myself tosay, -

'But if you should repent!'

'It would be your fault,' she replied: 'I never shall, unless youbitterly disappoint me. If you have not sufficient confidence inmy affection to believe this, let me alone.'

'My darling angel - my own Helen,' cried I, now passionatelykissing the hand I still retained, and throwing my left arm aroundher, 'you never shall repent, if it depend on me alone. But haveyou thought of your aunt?' I trembled for the answer, and claspedher closer to my heart in the instinctive dread of losing my new-found treasure.

'My aunt must not know of it yet,' said she. 'She would think it arash, wild step, because she could not imagine how well I know you;but she must know you herself, and learn to like you. You mustleave us now, after lunch, and come again in spring, and make alonger stay, and cultivate her acquaintance, and I know you willlike each other.'

'And then you will be mine,' said I, printing a kiss upon her lips,and another, and another; for I was as daring and impetuous now asI had been backward and constrained before.

'No - in another year,' replied she, gently disengaging herselffrom my embrace, but still fondly clasping my hand.

'Another year! Oh, Helen, I could not wait so long!'

'Where is your fidelity?'

'I mean I could not endure the misery of so long a separation.'

'It would not be a separation: we will write every day: my spiritshall be always with you, and sometimes you shall see me with yourbodily eye. I will not be such a hypocrite as to pretend that Idesire to wait so long myself, but as my marriage is to pleasemyself, alone, I ought to consult my friends about the time of it.'

'Your friends will disapprove.'

'They will not greatly disapprove, dear Gilbert,' said she,earnestly kissing my hand; 'they cannot, when they know you, or, ifthey could, they would not be true friends - I should not care fortheir estrangement. Now are you satisfied?' She looked up in myface with a smile of ineffable tenderness.

'Can I be otherwise, with your love? And you do love me, Helen?'said I, not doubting the fact, but wishing to hear it confirmed byher own acknowledgment.

'If you loved as I do,' she earnestly replied, 'you would not haveso nearly lost me - these scruples of false delicacy and pridewould never thus have troubled you - you would have seen that thegreatest worldly distinctions and discrepancies of rank, birth, andfortune are as dust in the balance compared with the unity ofaccordant thoughts and feelings, and truly loving, sympathisinghearts and souls.'

'But this is too much happiness,' said I, embracing her again; 'Ihave not deserved it, Helen - I dare not believe in such felicity:and the longer I have to wait, the greater will be my dread thatsomething will intervene to snatch you from me - and think, athousand things may happen in a year! - I shall be in one longfever of restless terror and impatience all the time. And besides,winter is such a dreary season.'

'I thought so too,' replied she gravely: 'I would not be marriedin winter - in December, at least,' she added, with a shudder - forin that month had occurred both the ill-starred marriage that hadbound her to her former husband, and the terrible death thatreleased her - 'and therefore I said another year, in spring.'

'Next spring?'

'No, no - next autumn, perhaps.'

'Summer, then?'

'Well, the close of summer. There now! be satisfied.'

While she was speaking Arthur re-entered the room - good boy forkeeping out so long.

'Mamma, I couldn't find the book in either of the places you toldme to look for it' (there was a conscious something in mamma'ssmile that seemed to say, 'No, dear, I knew you could not'), 'butRachel got it for me at last. Look, Mr. Markham, a naturalhistory, with all kinds of birds and beasts in it, and the readingas nice as the pictures!'

In great good humour I sat down to examine the book, and drew thelittle fellow between my knees. Had he come a minute before Ishould have received him less graciously, but now I affectionatelystroked his curling looks, and even kissed his ivory forehead: hewas my own Helen's son, and therefore mine; and as such I have eversince regarded him. That pretty child is now a fine young man: hehas realised his mother's brightest expectations, and is at presentresiding in Grassdale Manor with his young wife - the merry littleHelen Hattersley of yore.

I had not looked through half the book before Mrs. Maxwell appearedto invite me into the other room to lunch. That lady's cool,distant manners rather chilled me at first; but I did my best topropitiate her, and not entirely without success, I think, even inthat first short visit; for when I talked cheerfully to her, shegradually became more kind and cordial, and when I departed shebade me a gracious adieu, hoping ere long to have the pleasure ofseeing me again.

'But you must not go till you have seen the conservatory, my aunt'swinter garden,' said Helen, as I advanced to take leave of her,with as much philosophy and self-command as I could summon to myaid.

I gladly availed myself of such a respite, and followed her into alarge and beautiful conservatory, plentifully furnished withflowers, considering the season - but, of course, I had littleattention to spare for them. It was not, however, for any tendercolloquy that my companion had brought me there:-

'My aunt is particularly fond of flowers,' she observed, 'and sheis fond of Staningley too: I brought you here to offer a petitionin her behalf, that this may be her home as long as she lives, and- if it be not our home likewise - that I may often see her and bewith her; for I fear she will be sorry to lose me; and though sheleads a retired and contemplative life, she is apt to get low-spirited if left too much alone.'

'By all means, dearest Helen! - do what you will with your own. Ishould not dream of wishing your aunt to leave the place under anycircumstances; and we will live either here or elsewhere as you andshe may determine, and you shall see her as often as you like. Iknow she must be pained to part with you, and I am willing to makeany reparation in my power. I love her for your sake, and herhappiness shall be as dear to me as that of my own mother.'

'Thank you, darling! you shall have a kiss for that. Good-by.There now - there, Gilbert - let me go - here's Arthur; don'tastonish his infantile brain with your madness.'

* * * * *

But it is time to bring my narrative to a close. Any one but youwould say I had made it too long already. But for yoursatisfaction I will add a few words more; because I know you willhave a fellow-feeling for the old lady, and will wish to know thelast of her history. I did come again in spring, and, agreeably toHelen's injunctions, did my best to cultivate her acquaintance.She received me very kindly, having been, doubtless, alreadyprepared to think highly of my character by her niece's toofavourable report. I turned my best side out, of course, and wegot along marvellously well together. When my ambitious intentionswere made known to her, she took it more sensibly than I hadventured to hope. Her only remark on the subject, in my hearing,was -

'And so, Mr. Markham, you are going to rob me of my niece, Iunderstand. Well! I hope God will prosper your union, and make mydear girl happy at last. Could she have been contented to remainsingle, I own I should have been better satisfied; but if she mustmarry again, I know of no one, now living and of a suitable age, towhom I would more willingly resign her than yourself, or who wouldbe more likely to appreciate her worth and make, her truly happy,as far as I can tell.'

Of course I was delighted with the compliment, and hoped to showher that she was not mistaken in her favourable judgment.

'I have, however, one request to offer,' continued she. 'It seemsI am still to look on Staningley as my home: I wish you to make ityours likewise, for Helen is attached to the place and to me - as Iam to her. There are painful associations connected withGrassdale, which she cannot easily overcome; and I shall not molestyou with my company or interference here: I am a very quietperson, and shall keep my own apartments, and attend to my ownconcerns, and only see you now and then.'

Of course I most readily consented to this; and we lived in thegreatest harmony with our dear aunt until the day of her death,which melancholy event took place a few years after - melancholy,not to herself (for it came quietly upon her, and she was glad toreach her journey's end), but only to the few loving friends andgrateful dependents she left behind.

To return, however, to my own affairs: I was married in summer, ona glorious August morning. It took the whole eight months, and allHelen's kindness and goodness to boot, to overcome my mother'sprejudices against my bride-elect, and to reconcile her to the ideaof my leaving Linden Grange and living so far away. Yet she wasgratified at her son's good fortune after all, and proudlyattributed it all to his own superior merits and endowments. Ibequeathed the farm to Fergus, with better hopes of its prosperitythan I should have had a year ago under similar circumstances; forhe had lately fallen in love with the Vicar of L-'s eldest daughter- a lady whose superiority had roused his latent virtues, andstimulated him to the most surprising exertions, not only to gainher affection and esteem, and to obtain a fortune sufficient toaspire to her hand, but to render himself worthy of her, in his owneyes, as well as in those of her parents; and in the end he wassuccessful, as you already know. As for myself, I need not tellyou how happily my Helen and I have lived together, and how blessedwe still are in each other's society, and in the promising youngscions that are growing up about us. We are just now lookingforward to the advent of you and Rose, for the time of your annualvisit draws nigh, when you must leave your dusty, smoky, noisy,toiling, striving city for a season of invigorating relaxation andsocial retirement with us.

Till then, farewell,

GILBERT MARKHAM.

STANINGLEY: June 10TH, 1847.