It rained all through the night, and when the morning came it was
raining still.
Contrary to his ordinary habit, Midwinter was waiting in the
breakfast-room when Allan entered it. He looked worn and weary, but his smile was gentler and his manner more composed than usual. To Allan's surprise he approached the subject of the previous night's conversation of his own accord as soon as the servant was out of the room.
"I am afraid you thought me very impatient and very abrupt with
you last night," he said. "I will try to make amends for it this
morning. I will hear everything you wish to say to me on the
subject of Miss Gwilt."
"I hardly like to worry you," said Allan. "You look as if you had
had a bad night's rest."
"I have not slept well for some time past," replied Midwinter, quietly. "Something has been wrong with me. But I believe I have found out the way to put myself right again without troubling the doctors. Late in the morning I shall have something to say to you about this. Let us get back first to what you were talking of last night. You were speaking of some difficulty—" He hesitated, and finished the sentence in a tone so low that Allan failed to hear him. "Perhaps it would be better," he went on, "if, instead of speaking to me, you spoke to Mr. Brock?"
"I would rather speak to you," said Allan. "But tell me first, was I right or wrong last night in thinking you disapproved of my falling in love with Miss Gwilt?"
Midwinter's lean, nervous fingers began to crumble the bread in
his plate. His eyes looked away from Allan for the first time.
"If you have any objection," persisted Allan, "I should like to
hear it."
Midwinter suddenly looked up again, his cheeks turning ashy pale, and his glittering black eyes fixed full on Allan's face.
"You love her," he said. "Does she love you?"
"You won't think me vain?" returned Allan. "I told you yesterday
I had had private opportunities with her—"
Midwinter's eyes dropped again to the crumbs on his plate. "I
understand," he interposed, quickly. "You were wrong last night. I had no objections to make."
"Don't you congratulate me?" asked Allan, a little uneasily. "Such a beautiful woman! such a clever woman!"
Midwinter held out his hand. "I owe you more than mere
congratulations," he said. "In anything which is for your
happiness I owe you help." He took Allan's hand, and wrung it
hard. "Can I help you?" he asked, growing paler and paler as he
spoke.
"My dear fellow," exclaimed Allan, "what is the matter with you? Your hand is as cold as ice."
Midwinter smiled faintly. "I am always in extremes," he said; "my hand was as hot as fire the first time you took it at the old west-country inn. Come to that difficulty which you have not come to yet. You are young, rich, your own master—and she loves you. What difficulty can there be?"
Allan hesitated. "I hardly know how to put it," he replied. "As
you said just now, I love her, and she loves me; and yet there
is a sort of strangeness between us. One talks a good deal about
one's self when one is in love, at least I do. I've told her all
about myself and my mother, and how I came in for this place, and
the rest of it. Well—though it doesn't strike me when we are
together—it comes across me now and then, when I'm away from
her, that she doesn't say much on her side. In fact, I know no
more about her than you do."
"Do you mean that you know nothing about Miss Gwilt's family
and friends?"
"That's it, exactly."
"Have you never asked her about them?"
"I said something of the sort the other day," returned Allan: "and I'm afraid, as usual, I said it in the wrong way. She looked—I can't quite tell you how; not exactly displeased, but—oh, what things words are! I'd give the world, Midwinter, if I could only find the right word when I want it as well as you do."
"Did Miss Gwilt say anything to you in the way of a reply?"