She perceived that he meant something; but for a long time past Mr. Brand had constantly meant something, and she had almost got used to it. She felt, however, that what he meant had now a renewed power to disturb her, to perplex and agitate her.
He walked beside her in silence for a moment, and then he added, "I have had no trouble in seeing that you are beginning to avoid me.
But perhaps," he went on, "one need n't have had very good eyes to see that."
"I have not avoided you," said Gertrude, without looking at him.
"I think you have been unconscious that you were avoiding me,"
Mr. Brand replied. "You have not even known that I was there."
"Well, you are here now, Mr. Brand!" said Gertrude, with a little laugh.
"I know that very well."
He made no rejoinder. He simply walked beside her slowly, as they were obliged to walk over the soft grass.
Presently they came to another gate, which was closed.
Mr. Brand laid his hand upon it, but he made no movement to open it; he stood and looked at his companion.
"You are very much interested--very much absorbed," he said.
Gertrude glanced at him; she saw that he was pale and that he looked excited. She had never seen Mr. Brand excited before, and she felt that the spectacle, if fully carried out, would be impressive, almost painful. "Absorbed in what?" she asked. Then she looked away at the illuminated sky.
She felt guilty and uncomfortable, and yet she was vexed with herself for feeling so. But Mr. Brand, as he stood there looking at her with his small, kind, persistent eyes, represented an immense body of half-obliterated obligations, that were rising again into a certain distinctness.
"You have new interests, new occupations," he went on.
"I don't know that I can say that you have new duties.
We have always old ones, Gertrude," he added.
"Please open the gate, Mr. Brand," she said; and she felt as if, in saying so, she were cowardly and petulant. But he opened the gate, and allowed her to pass; then he closed it behind himself.
Before she had time to turn away he put out his hand and held her an instant by the wrist.
"I want to say something to you," he said.
"I know what you want to say," she answered. And she was on the point of adding, "And I know just how you will say it;" but these words she kept back.
"I love you, Gertrude," he said. "I love you very much;
I love you more than ever."
He said the words just as she had known he would; she had heard them before. They had no charm for her; she had said to herself before that it was very strange.
It was supposed to be delightful for a woman to listen to such words; but these seemed to her flat and mechanical.
"I wish you would forget that," she declared.
"How can I--why should I?" he asked.
"I have made you no promise--given you no pledge," she said, looking at him, with her voice trembling a little.
"You have let me feel that I have an influence over you.
You have opened your mind to me."
"I never opened my mind to you, Mr. Brand!" Gertrude cried, with some vehemence.
"Then you were not so frank as I thought--as we all thought."
"I don't see what any one else had to do with it!" cried the girl.
"I mean your father and your sister. You know it makes them happy to think you will listen to me."
She gave a little laugh. "It does n't make them happy," she said.
"Nothing makes them happy. No one is happy here."
"I think your cousin is very happy--Mr. Young," rejoined Mr. Brand, in a soft, almost timid tone.
"So much the better for him!" And Gertrude gave her little laugh again.
The young man looked at her a moment. "You are very much changed," he said.
"I am glad to hear it," Gertrude declared.
"I am not. I have known you a long time, and I have loved you as you were."
"I am much obliged to you," said Gertrude. "I must be going home. "
He on his side, gave a little laugh.
"You certainly do avoid me--you see!"
"Avoid me, then," said the girl.
He looked at her again; and then, very gently, "No I will not avoid you," he replied; "but I will leave you, for the present, to yourself. I think you will remember--after a while--some of the things you have forgotten.
I think you will come back to me; I have great faith in that."
This time his voice was very touching; there was a strong, reproachful force in what he said, and Gertrude could answer nothing. He turned away and stood there, leaning his elbows on the gate and looking at the beautiful sunset.
Gertrude left him and took her way home again; but when she reached the middle of the next field she suddenly burst into tears.
Her tears seemed to her to have been a long time gathering, and for some moments it was a kind of glee to shed them.
But they presently passed away. There was something a little hard about Gertrude; and she never wept again.
