As Harley quitted the room, Helen’s pale sweet face looked forth from a door in the same corridor. She advanced towards him timidly.
“May I speak with you?” she said, in almost inaudible accents; “I have been listening for your footstep.”
Harley looked at her steadfastly. Then, without a word, he followed her into the room she had left, and closed the door.
“I, too,” said he, “meant to seek an interview with yourself—but later. You would speak to me, Helen,—say on. Ah, child, what mean you? Why this?”—for Helen was kneeling at his feet.
“Let me kneel,” she said, resisting the hand that sought to raise her. “Let me kneel till I have explained all, and perhaps won your pardon. You said something the other evening. It has weighed on my heart and my conscience ever since. You said ‘that I should have no secret from you; for that, in our relation to each other, would be deceit.’ I have had a secret; but oh, believe me! it was long ere it was clearly visible to myself. You honoured me with a suit so far beyond my birth, my merits. You said that I might console and comfort you. At those words, what answer could I give,—I, who owe you so much more than a daughter’s duty? And I thought that my affections were free,—that they would obey that duty. But—but—but—” continued Helen, bowing her head still lowlier, and in a voice far fainter—“I deceived myself. I again saw him who had been all in the world to me, when the world was so terrible, and then—and then—I trembled. I was terrified at my own memories, my own thoughts. Still I struggled to banish the past, resolutely, firmly. Oh, you believe me, do you not? And I hoped to conquer. Yet ever since those words of yours, I felt that I ought to tell you even of the struggle. This is the first time we have met since you spoke them. And now—now—I have seen him again, and—and—though not by a word could she you had deigned to woo as your bride encourage hope in another; though there—there where you now stand—he bade me farewell, and we parted as if forever,—yet—yet O Lord L’Estrange! in return for your rank, wealth, your still nobler gifts of nature, what should I bring?—Something more than gratitude, esteem; reverence,—at least an undivided heart, filled with your image, and yours alone. And this I cannot give. Pardon me,—not for what I say now, but for not saying it before. Pardon me, O my benefactor, pardon me!”
“Rise, Helen,” said Harley, with relaxing brow, though still unwilling to yield to one softer and holier emotion. “Rise!” And he lifted her up, and drew her towards the light. “Let me look at your face. There seems no guile here. These tears are surely honest. If I cannot be loved, it is my fate, and not your crime. Now, listen to me. If you grant me nothing else, will you give me the obedience which the ward owes to the guardian, the child to the parent?”
“Yes, oh, yes!” murmured Helen.
“Then while I release you from all troth to me, I claim the right to refuse, if I so please it, my assent to the suit of—of the person you prefer. I acquit you of deceit, but I reserve to myself the judgment I shall pass on him. Until I myself sanction that suit, will you promise not to recall in any way the rejection which, if I understand you rightly, you have given to it?”
“I promise.”
“And if I say to you, ‘Helen, this man is not worthy of you ‘”
“No, no! do not say that,—I could not believe you.” Harley frowned, but resumed calmly, “If, then, I say, ‘Ask me not wherefore, but I forbid you to be the wife of Leonard Fairfield, I what would be your answer?’”
“Ah, my Lord, if you can but comfort him, do with me as you will! but do not command me to break his heart.”
“Oh, silly child,” cried Harley, laughing scornfully, “hearts are not found in the race from which that man sprang. But I take your promise, with its credulous condition. Helen, I pity you. I have been as weak as you, bearded man though I be. Some day or other, you and I may live to laugh at the follies at which you weep now. I can give you no other comfort, for I know of none.”
He moved to the door, and paused at the threshold: “I shall not see you again for some days, Helen. Perhaps I may request my mother to join me at Lansmere; if so, I shall pray you to accompany her. For the present, let all believe that our position is unchanged. The time will soon come when I may—”
Helen looked up wistfully through her tears.
“I may release you from all duties to me,” continued Harley, with grave and severe coldness; “or I may claim your promise in spite of the condition; for your lover’s heart will not be broken. Adieu!”
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg