“You remember me?” I said. “We met very late, and I helped you to find the way to London. Surely you have not forgotten that?”
Her features relaxed, and she drew a heavy breath of relief. I saw the new life of recognition stirring slowly under the deathlike stillness which fear had set on her face.
“Don’t attempt to speak to me just yet,” I went on. “Take time to recover yourself—take time to feel quite certain that I am a friend.”
“You are very kind to me,” she murmured. “As kind now as you were then.”
She stopped, and I kept silence on my side. I was not granting time for composure to her only, I was gaining time also for myself. Under the wan wild evening light, that woman and I were met together again, a grave between us, the dead about us, the lonesome hills closing us round on every side. The time, the place, the circumstances under which we now stood face to face in the evening stillness of that dreary valley—the lifelong interests which might hang suspended on the next chance words that passed between us—the sense that, for aught I knew to the contrary, the whole future of Laura Fairlie’s life might be determined, for good or for evil, by my winning or losing the confidence of the forlorn creature who stood trembling by her mother’s grave—all threatened to shake the steadiness and the self-control on which every inch of the progress I might yet make now depended. I tried hard, as I felt this, to possess myself of all my resources; I did my utmost to turn the few moments for reflection to the best account.
“Are you calmer now?” I said, as soon as I thought it time to speak again. “Can you talk to me without feeling frightened, and without forgetting that I am a friend?”