The rest of the evening passed without a word or a look from her. She kept her place at the piano, and I kept mine at the card-table. She played unintermittingly -- played as if the music was her only refuge from herself. Sometimes her fingers touched the notes with a lingering fondness -- a soft, plaintive, dying tenderness, unutterably beautiful and mournful to hear; sometimes they faltered and failed her, or hurried over the instrument mechanically, as if their task was a burden to them. But still, change and waver as they might in the expression they imparted to the music, their resolution to play never faltered. She only rose from the piano when we all rose to say Good-night.
Mrs Vesey was the nearest to the door, and the first to shake hands with me.
`I shall not see you again, Mr Hartright,' said the old lady. `I am truly sorry you are going away. You have been very kind and attentive, and an old woman like me feels kindness and attention. I wish you happy, sir -- I wish you a kind good-bye.'
Mr Gilmore came next.
`I hope we shall have a future opportunity of bettering our acquaintance, Mr Hartright. You quite understand about that little matter of business being safe in my hands? Yes, yes, of course. Bless me, how cold it is! Don't let me keep you at the door. Bon voyage, my dear sir -- bon voyage, as the French say.'
I could add no more. My voice faltered, my eyes moistened in spite of me.
She caught me by both hands -- she pressed them with the strong, steady grasp of a man -- her dark eyes glittered -- her brown complexion flushed deep -- the force and energy of her face glowed and grew beautiful with the pure inner light of her generosity and her pity.
`I will trust you -- if ever the time comes I will trust you as my friend and her friend, as may brother and her brother.' She stopped, drew me nearer to her -- the fearless, noble creature -- touched my forehead, sister-like, with her lips, and called me by my Christian name. `God bless you, Walter!' she said. `Wait here alone and compose yourself -- I had better not stay for both our sakes -- I had better see you go from the balcony upstairs.'
She left the room. I turned away towards the window, where nothing faced me but the lonely autumn landscape -- I turned away to master myself, before I too left the room in my turn, and left it for ever.
A minute passed -- it could hardly have been more -- when I heard the door open again softly, and the rustling of a woman's dress on the carpet moved towards me. My heart beat violently as I turned round. Miss Fairlie was approaching me from the farther end of the room.
She stopped and hesitated when our eyes met, and when she saw that we were alone. Then, with that courage which women lose so often in the small emergency, and so seldom in the great, she came on nearer to me, strangely pale and strangely quiet, drawing one hand after her along the table by which she walked, and holding something at her side in the other, which was hidden by the folds of her dress.
`I only went into the drawing-room,' she said, `to look for this. It may remind you of your visit here, and of the friends you leave behind you. You told me I had improved very much when I did it, and I thought you might like --'
She turned her head away, and offered me a little sketch, drawn throughout by her own pencil, of the summer-house in which we had first met. The paper trembled in her hand as she held it out to me -- trembled in mine as I took it from her.
I was afraid to say what I felt -- I only answered, `It shall never leave me -- all my life long it shall be the treasure that I Prize most. I am very grateful for it -- very grateful to you, for not letting me go away without bidding you good-bye.'