CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Conclusion

While I was standing outside the gate, a carriage stopped at the house. I did not look at it, but soon I heard a child's voice—

"Mamma, Mamma, here's Mr Markham!"

Mrs Huntingdon stepped out of the carriage and greeted me calmly, "Were you coming to see us, or only passing by?"

"I—I came to see the place," I whispered.

"Well, please do come in."

"Yes, yes, you must come in," cried Arthur.

We walked into the house, and sat down.

"Now, tell me how everyone is. What news is there? Nobody dead? Nobody married?" she paused, "or expecting to marry? No old friendships forgotten?" she asked as she looked at me.

"I believe not. Certainly not for me."

"Aunt, this man is my brother's close friend, and was my own dear friend for a few short months."

"If I had known," I said, "that you would have remembered me as a dear friend, I would have come to visit earlier, but I thought you had forgotten me long ago."

"You were certainly mistaken."

Little Arthur left the room to help his grandma, and there was silence for a short time. She looked quite anxious, walking around the room, then sitting, then opening a book. She seemed nervously excited.

"Gilbert, what is the matter with you? Why are you so changed?"

"I am not changed, Helen—Mrs Huntingdon, but the situation has changed."

"What situation? Do tell me!" she exclaimed.

"I'll tell you," I said. "I came here to see you, although I feared seeing you, as perhaps you had forgotten me. I did not want to disturb you, so I thought I should not see you."

She was quiet, but soon spoke, "And if my aunt and I had not been returning, I would never have heard from you again?"

"I thought it would be better for both that we should not meet, but I am now glad to see you once more, and to know that you have not forgotten me."

"Why did you not write to me?"

"I did not know your address, and did not want to ask your brother, because I thought he would not want me to write. He never mentioned that you asked about me, so I thought you had forgotten me."

"I did ask about you, frequently."

"Your brother never told me that you mentioned my name."

"Did you ever ask him?"

"No, Mrs Huntingdon, I believed he did not wish me to speak of you," I said quietly.

After a short silence, she spoke again. "You have changed, and why 'Mrs Huntingdon,' and not Helen?"

"Helen, then—dear Helen!"

"I thought of you often, and frequently asked my brother about you, but you never spoke of me. I cared about you deeply."

"If you still love me, would you not refuse me if I asked you to marry me?"

"You know I would accept," she said smiling.

"My dear Helen—my own Helen!"

"My aunt must not know of it yet. She would think I was being careless. She must know you herself. You must leave us now, and come again in the spring, and I know you will like each other."

"And then, you will be mine," I said as I kissed her hand.

"No—in another year," she replied.

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

"I will write every day. I must first tell my friends and family. We must not marry in the winter, in December, as I was last married in December. Next spring, perhaps."

"Next spring!"

"No, no—next autumn perhaps."

"Summer, then."

"Well, the end of summer," she said.

At that moment, little Arthur came into the room. From that moment, I regarded that dear boy as my own son. That pretty child is a fine gentleman, living at Grassdale Manor with his young wife, little Helen Hattersley, daughter of Ralph and Milicent Hattersley.

But now, I must end this letter, as perhaps it is too long already. I did come again in the spring, and her aunt grew to love me, as I love her, as well. She did request that after we married, we would continue to live with her at Staningley. I happily agreed.

We have lived in perfect happiness together. We are expecting you and Rose very soon for a visit, and hope to see you both.

Till then, goodbye,

GILBERT MARKHAM.

Staningley,

June 10th, 1847.

(end of section)