“Helen,” he exclaimed, passionately, “in spite of all you have suffered, you are a thousand times handsomer than ever.”
As her first surprise at seeing him passed away, the sight of his face, the sound of his voice, brought vividly back to her the memory of her father.
Her eyes filled with tears and her voice trembled.
“I have suffered,” she said; “when I lost him the world seemed very dark, and I longed for nothing but to share his grave.”
“If I could only have known it,” exclaimed Francis, “nothing should have kept me from you; and this slavery at least,” looking round him, “this degradation might have been spared you.”
“I have not felt it slavery,” said Helen, “for I worked with a willing mind, and there is no degradation in doing whatever work Heaven sends.”
“You were always a little philosopher, Helen, and something of a democrat, too, but I hoped your experience of the practical part of such doctrines would cure you of the theoretical; but, thank God, you won't have to try it any longer. You got my mother's letter, I suppose?”
“Yes, but you could not have got my answer before you left?”
“Oh, no, I waited for no answer, I was too anxious to get to you. My mother proposed sending Vincent to bring you to us, but I could not let you take such a journey without better protection. I should have been here much sooner. but that tiresome woman delayed me. She is at a tavern in the village, tired to death, she says, However, I'm here at last. But you are not a bit glad to see me, Helen, are you?”
“Indeed, Francis, I am very much obliged to you and my aunt; you are, indeed, very kind—but I cannot go with you.”
“You cannot—what can you mean, Helen?”
“I must stay here; I cannot leave Long Arrow.”
The natural reluctance she felt to speak of Keefe, and her engagement to him, gave a conscious embarrassment to her look and manner, which Francis, not unnaturally, was pleased to attribute to emotions connected with himself.
“Helen,” he said, taking courage from her blushes and timidity, “if you knew all I have suffered since you left me, you would not, I think, turn away from me so coldly now. Did you ever once think of me during those long weary months? Did your heart never reproach you with the cruel indifference with which you have treated me? Hasn’t absence softened it the least bit, and taught it a little pity.”
Vexed and confused, Helen did not know what to say, but she tried to answer him, as if he had only spoken in jest.
“I wonder who could think of the accomplished Francis Coryton as an object of pity,” she said.
“How can you jest so, Helen? It is deep earnest with me. But you never did me justice; you thought me too light and frivolous to love you as you deserve to be loved, but may not I say now that I have proved the truth and constancy of my affection; may I not hope for a little love in return?”
“I always liked you as a cousin, Francis,” said Helen, gravely, “but I could not love you in any other way.”
“But why not, Helen? If you knew how long I have loved you. When you were gone I tried to forget you, for your indifference had wounded me to the quick, but it was a vain attempt; your image was too deeply rooted in my heart. Every hour I live, I feel your value more, and love you better. Then will you not try to love me in return, and make me happy?”
He spoke so rapidly that Helen could not interrupt him, but when he paused, she said steadily.
“I have no love to give, Francis; I am going to be married.”
“Married! Good God!” exclaimed Francis; “have I come too late, after all,” and setting his teeth hard, he walked across the room. Then a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he came back to Helen.
“It must have been the madness of despair drove you to this step,” he said; “whom could you see here, but rude ignorant boors, only fit to be your ploughmen? I little knew what reason I had to think every minute an hour till I reached you. Thank God! I am in time to prevent the sacrifice. Let me release you; leave it all to me.”
“It is no sacrifice, Francis; do you know me so little as to think I would marry any one I did not love.”
“Helen! Helen!” exclaimed her cousin passionately, “you will drive me mad; who in these woods could deserve love from you?”
At this instant the door opened and Keefe entered. He looked very much surprised when he saw Francis, who turned towards him with his most haughty and contemptuous aspect.
“I thought you were waiting for me,” said Keefe, as Helen came to meet him; “but if you are engaged, I can come back again.”
“Oh, no,” said Helen; “this is my cousin, Mr. Coryton. Francis, let me—let me introduce you to Mr. Dillon.”
It was needless for Francis to ask any questions, the look with which Helen had seen Keefe enter told all; he saw at once that He1en’s betrothed stood before him.
“Mr. Dillon! and who is Mr. Dillon?” said he, superciliously.
Keefe met his contemptuous gaze with a firm and steady look; and at that moment the slight and worthless nature of all superficial and conventional advantages, when weighed against genuine power of intellect and strength of character, might have been clearly seen, as the polished, high-bred elegance, graceful dress, and finished manners of Francis, beneath which lay the vain, egotistical, trivial man of the artificial world, were contrasted with the rough attire, simple air, and natural demeanour of Keefe, through which his truth, sensibility, and vigorous mind, made themselves felt and seen.
Both the young men were handsome. Though the beauty of Francis would have struck everyone at first sight, being that of features, complexion, and high animal spirits; while Keefe’s depended more on that expression which a fine intellect and