"George!" she repeated to herself, stealing another look at me as the name passed her lips. " 'George Germaine.' I never heard of 'Germaine.' But 'George' reminds me of old times." She smiled sadly at some passing fancy or remembrance in which I was not permitted to share. "There is nothing very wonderful in your being called 'George,' " she went on, after a while. "The name is common enough: one meets with it everywhere as a man's name And yet--" Her eyes finished the sentence; her eyes said to me, "I am not so much afraid of you, now I know that you are called 'George.' " So she unconsciously led me to the brink of discovery! If I had only asked her what associations she connected with my Christian name--if I had only persuaded her to speak in the briefest and most guarded terms of her past life--the barrier between us, which the change in our names and the lapse of ten years had raised, must have been broken down; the recognition must have followed. But I never even thought of it; and for this ****** reason--I was in love with her. The purely selfish idea of winning my way to her favorable regard by taking instant advantage of the new interest that I had awakened in her was the one idea which occurred to my mind.
"Don't wait to write to me," I said. "Don't put it off till to-morrow. Who knows what may happen before to-morrow? Surely I deserve some little return for the sympathy that I feel with you? I don't ask for much. Make me happy by ****** me of some service to you before we part to-night." I took her hand, this time, before she was aware of me. The whole woman seemed to yield at my touch. Her hand lay unresistingly in mine; her charming figure came by soft gradations nearer and nearer to me; her head almost touched my shoulder. She murmured in faint accents, broken by sighs, "Don't take advantage of me. I am so friendless; I am so completely in your power." Before I could answer, before I could move, her hand closed on mine; her head sunk on my shoulder: she burst into tears. Any man, not an inbred and inborn villain, would have respected her at that moment. I put her hand on my arm and led her away gently past the ruined chapel, and down the slope of the hill.
"This lonely place is frightening you," I said. "Let us walk a little, and you will soon be yourself again." She smiled through her tears like a child.
"Yes," she said, eagerly. "But not that way." I had accidentally taken the direction which led away from the city; she begged me to turn toward the houses and the streets. We walked back toward Edinburgh. She eyed me, as we went on in the moonlight, with innocent, wondering looks. "What an unaccountable influence you have over me!" she exclaimed.
"Did you ever see me, did you ever hear my name, before we met that evening at the river?"
"Never."
"And I never heard _your_ name, and never saw _you_ before. Strange! very strange! Ah! I remember somebody--only an old woman, sir--who might once have explained it. Where shall I find the like of her now?" She sighed bitterly. The lost friend or relative had evidently been dear to her. "A relation of yours?" I inquired--more to keep her talking than because I felt any interest in any member of her family but herself. We were again on the brink of discovery. And again it was decreed that we were to advance no further.
"Don't ask me about my relations!" she broke out. "I daren't think of the dead and gone, in the trouble that is trying me now. If I speak of the old times at home, I shall only burst out crying again, and distress you. Talk of something else, sir--talk of something else." The mystery of the apparition in the summer-house was not cleared up yet. I took my opportunity of approaching the subject.
"You spoke a little while since of dreaming of me," I began.
"Tell me your dream."
"I hardly know whether it was a dream or whether it was something else," she answered. "I call it a dream for want of a better word."
"Did it happen at night?"
"No. In the daytime--in the afternoon."
"Late in the afternoon?"