The last words of Peschiera were still ringing in Violante’s ears when Harley appeared in sight, and the sound of his voice dispelled the vague and dreamy stupor which had crept over her senses. At that voice there returned the consciousness of a mighty loss, the sting of an intolerable anguish. To meet Harley there, and thus, seemed impossible. She turned abruptly away, and hurried towards the horse. Harley called to her by name, but she would not answer, and only quickened her steps. He paused a moment in surprise, and then hastened after her.
“Under what strange taboo am I placed?” said he, gayly, as he laid his hand on her shrinking arm. “I inquire for Helen,—she is ill, and cannot see me. I come to sun myself in your presence, and you fly me as if gods and men had set their mark on my brow. Child! child! what is this? You are weeping?”
“Do not stay me now,—do not speak to me,” answered Violante, through her stifling sobs, as she broke from his hand and made towards the house.
“Have you a grief, and under the shelter of my father’s roof,—a grief that you will not tell to me? Cruel!” cried Harley, with inexpressible tenderness of reproach in his soft tones.
Violante could not trust herself to reply. Ashamed of her self-betrayal, softened yet more by his pleading voice, she could have prayed to the earth to swallow her. At length, checking her tears by an heroic effort, she said, almost calmly, “Noble friend, forgive me. I have no grief, believe me, which—which I can tell to you. I was but thinking of my poor father when you came up; alarming myself about him, it may be, with vain, superstitious fears; and so—even a slight surprise—your abrupt appearance has sufficed to make me thus weak and foolish; but I wish to see my father!—to go home—home!”
“Your father is well, believe me, and pleased that you are here. No danger threatens him; and you, here, are safe.”
“I safe—and from what?”
Harley mused irresolute. He inclined to confide to her the danger which her father had concealed; but had he the right to do so against her father’s will?
“Give me,” he said, “time to reflect, and to obtain permission to intrust you with a secret which, in my judgment, you should know. Meanwhile, this much I may say, that rather than you should incur the danger that I believe he exaggerates, your father would have given you a protector—even in Randal Leslie.”
Violante started.
“But,” resumed Harley, with a calm, in which a certain deep mournfulness was apparent, unconsciously to himself, “but I trust you are reserved for a fairer fate, and a nobler spouse. I have vowed to live henceforth in the common workday world. But for you, bright child, for you, I am a dreamer still!”
Violante turned her eyes for one instant towards the melancholy speaker. The look thrilled to his heart. He bowed his face involuntarily. When he looked up, she had left his side. He did not this time attempt to follow her, but moved away and plunged amidst the leafless trees.
An hour afterwards he re-entered the house, and again sought to see Helen. She had now recovered sufficiently to give him the interview he requested.
He approached her with a grave and serious gentleness. “My dear Helen,” said he, “you have consented to be my wife, my life’s mild companion; let it be soon—soon—for I need you. I need all the strength of that holy tie. Helen, let me press you to fix the time.”
“I owe you too much,” answered Helen, looking down, “to have any will but yours. But your mother,” she added, perhaps clinging to the idea of some reprieve,—“your mother has not yet—”
“My mother—true. I will speak first to her. You shall receive from my family all honour due to your gentle virtues. Helen, by the way, have you mentioned to Violante the bond between us?”
“No; that is, I fear I may have unguardedly betrayed it, against Lady Lansmere’s commands too—but—but—”
“So, Lady Lansmere forbade you to name it to Violante? This should not be. I will answer for her permission to revoke that interdict. It is due to Violante and to you. Tell your young friend all. Ah, Helen, if I am at times cold or wayward, bear with me—bear with me; for you love me, do you not?”
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