WHAT emotion had I thoughtlessly aroused in Miss Dunross? Had Ioffended or distressed her? Or had I, without meaning it, forcedon her inner knowledge some deeply seated feeling which she hadthus far resolutely ignored?

I looked back through the days of my sojourn in the house; Iquestioned my own feelings and impressions, on the chance thatthey might serve me as a means of solving the mystery of hersudden flight from the room.

What effect had she produced on me?

In plain truth, she had simply taken her place in my mind, to theexclusion of every other person and every other subject. In tendays she had taken a hold on my sympathies of which other womenwould have failed to possess themselves in so many years. Iremembered, to my shame, that my mother had but seldom occupiedmy thoughts. Even the image of Mrs. Van Brandt--except when theconversation had turned on her--had become a faint image in mymind! As to my friends at Lerwick, from Sir James downward, theyhad all kindly come to see me--and I had secretly andungratefully rejoiced when their departure left the scene freefor the return of my nurse. In two days more the Governmentvessel was to sail on the return voyage. My wrist was stillpainful when I tried to use it; but the far more serious injurypresented by the re-opened wound was no longer a subject ofanxiety to myself or to any one about me. I was sufficientlyrestored to be capable of making the journey to Lerwick, if Irested for one night at a farm half-way between the town and Mr.Dunross's house. Knowing this, I had nevertheless left thequestion of rejoining the vessel undecided to the very latestmoment. The motive which I pleaded to my friends was--uncertaintyas to the sufficient recovery of my strength. The motive which Inow confessed to myself was reluctance to leave Miss Dunross.

What was the secret of her power over me? What emotion, whatpassion, had she awakened in me? Was it love?

No: not love. The place which Mary had once held in my heart, theplace which Mrs. Van Brandt had taken in the after-time, was notthe place occupied by Miss Dunross. How could I (in the ordinarysense of the word) be in love with a woman whose face I had neverseen? whose beauty had faded, never to bloom again? whose wastedlife hung by a thread which the accident of a moment might snap?The senses have their share in all love between the sexes whichis worthy of the name. They had no share in the feeling withwhich I regarded Miss Dunross. What _was_ the feeling, then? Ican only answer the question in one way. The feeling lay too deepin me for my sounding.

What impression had I produced on her? What sensitive chord had Iignorantly touched, when my lips touched her hand?

I confess I recoiled from pursuing the inquiry which I haddeliberately set myself to make. I thought of her shatteredhealth; of her melancholy existence in shadow and solitude; ofthe rich treasures of such a heart and such a mind as hers,wasted with her wasting life; and I said to myself, Let hersecret be sacred! let me never again, by word or deed, bring thetrouble which tells of it to the surface! let her heart be veiledfrom me in the darkness which veils her face!

In this frame of mind toward her, I waited her return.

I had no doubt of seeing her again, sooner or later, on that day.The post to the south went out on the next day; and the earlyhour of the morning at which the messenger called for our lettersmade it a matter of ordinary convenience to write overnight. Inthe disabled state of my hand, Miss Dunross had been accustomedto write home for me, under my dictation: she knew that I owed aletter to my mother, and that I relied as usual on her help. Herreturn to me, under these circumstances, was simply a question oftime: any duty which she had once undertaken was an imperativeduty in her estimation, no matter how trifling it might be.

The hours wore on; the day drew to its end--and still she neverappeared.

I left my room to enjoy the last sunny gleam of the daylight inthe garden attached to the house; first telling Peter where Imight be found, if Miss Dunross wanted me. The garden was a wildplace, to my southern notions; but it extended for some distancealong the shore of the island, and it offered some pleasant viewsof the lake and the moorland country beyond. Slowly pursuing mywalk, I proposed to myself to occupy my mind to some usefulpurpose by arranging beforehand the composition of the letterwhich Miss Dunross was to write.

To my great surprise, I found it simply impossible to fix my mindon the subject. Try as I might, my thoughts persisted inwandering from the letter to my mother, and concentratedthemselves instead--on Miss Dunross? No. On the question of myreturning, or not returning, to Perthshire by the Governmentvessel? No. By some capricious revulsion of feeling which itseemed impossible to account for, my whole mind was now absorbedon the one subject which had been hitherto so strangely absentfrom it--the subject of Mrs. Van Brandt!

My memory went back, in defiance of all exercise of my own will,to my last interview with her. I saw her again; I heard heragain. I tasted once more the momentary rapture of our last kiss;I felt once more the pang of sorrow that wrung me when I hadparted with her and found myself alone in the street. Tears--ofwhich I was ashamed, though nobody was near to see them--filledmy eyes when I thought of the months that had passed since we hadlast looked on one another, and of all that she might havesuffered, must have suffered, in that time. Hundreds on hundredsof miles were between us--and yet she was now as near me as ifshe were walking in the garden by my side!

This strange condition of my mind was matched by an equallystrange condition of my body. A mysterious trembling shudderedover me faintly from head to foot. I walked without feeling theground as I trod on it; I looked about me with no distinctconsciousness of what the objects were on which my eyes rested.My hands were cold--and yet I hardly felt it. My head throbbedhotly--and yet I was not sensible of any pain. It seemed as if Iwere surrounded and enwrapped in some electric atmosphere whichaltered all the ordinary conditions of sensation. I looked up atthe clear, calm sky, and wondered if a thunderstorm was coming. Istopped, and buttoned my coat round me, and questioned myself ifI had caught a cold, or if I was going to have a fever. The sunsank below the moorland horizon; the gray twilight trembled overthe dark waters of the lake. I went back to the house; and thevivid memory of Mrs. Van Brandt, still in close companionship,went back with me.

The fire in my room had burned low in my absence. One of theclosed curtains had been drawn back a few inches, so as to admitthrough the window a ray of the dying light. On the boundarylimit where the light was crossed by the obscurity which filledthe rest of the room, I saw Miss Dunross seated, with her veildrawn and her writing-case on her knee, waiting my return.

I hastened to make my excuses. I assured her that I had beencareful to tell the servant where to find me. She gently checkedme before I could say more.

"It's not Peter's fault," she said. "I told him not to hurry yourreturn to the house. Have you enjoyed your walk?"

She spoke very quietly. The faint, sad voice was fainter andsadder than ever. She kept her head bent over her writing-case,instead of turning it toward me as usual while we were talking. Istill felt the mysterious trembling which had oppressed me in thegarden. Drawing a chair near the fire, I stirred the emberstogether, and tried to warm myself. Our positions in the roomleft some little distance between us. I could only see hersidewise, as she sat by the window in the sheltering darkness ofthe curtain which still remained drawn.

"I think I have been too long in the garden," I said. "I feelchilled by the cold evening air."

"Will you have some more wood put on the fire?" she asked. "Can Iget you anything?"

"No, thank you. I shall do very well here. I see you are kindlyready to write for me."

"Yes," she said, "at your own convenience. When you are ready, mypen is ready."

The unacknowledged reserve that had come between us since we hadlast spoken together, was, I believe, as painfully felt by her asby me. We were no doubt longing to break through it on eitherside--if we had only known how. The writing of the letter wouldoccupy us, at any rate. I made another effort to give my mind tothe subject--and once more it was an effort made in vain. Knowingwhat I wanted to say to my mother, my faculties seemed to beparalyzed when I tried to say it. I sat cowering by the fire--andshe sat waiting, with her writing-case on her lap.