“And yet methinks I see it in thy face,
What them shouldst be: th' occasion speaks thee; and
My strong imagination sees a crown
Dropping upon thy head.”
When Helen awoke upon the following morning, the resolution to
withstand her aunt's urging was still strong within her; as she
strove to bring back the swift events of the night before, the first
discovery she made was a headache and a feeling of weariness and
dissatisfaction that was new to her. She arose and looked in the
glass, and seeing that she was pale, vowed again, “They shall not
torment me in this way! I do not even mean that he shall propose to
me; I must have time to realize it!”
And so firm was she in her own mind that she rang the bell and sent
the maid to call her aunt. It was then only nine o'clock in the
morning, and Helen presumed that neither Mrs. Roberts nor any of the
other guests would be awake, they not being fresh from boarding
school as she was; but the girl was so nervous and restless, and so
weighed upon by her urgent resolution, that she felt she could do
nothing else until she had declared it and gotten rid of the matter.
“I'm going to tell her once for all,” she vowed; “they shall not
torment me any more.”
It turned out, however, that Mrs. Roberts had been up and dressed a
considerable time,--for a reason which, when Helen learned it,
prevented her delivering so quickly the speech she had upon her
mind; she noticed a worried expression upon her aunt's face as soon
as the latter came into the room.
“What is the matter?” she asked, in some surprise.
“A very dreadful misfortune, my dear,” said Mrs. Roberts; “I don't
know how to tell you, you'll be so put out.”
Helen was quite alarmed as she saw her aunt sink down into a chair;
but then it flashed over her that Mr. Harrison might have for some
reason been called away.
“What is it? Tell me!” she asked eagerly.
“It's Mr. Howard, my dear,” said the other; and Helen frowned.
“Oh, bother!” she cried; “what about him?”
“He's been ill during the night,” replied Aunt Polly.
“Ill!” exclaimed Helen. “Dear me, what a nuisance!”
“Poor man,” said the other, deprecatingly; “he cannot help it.”
“Yes,” exclaimed Helen, “but he ought not to be here. What is the
matter with him?”
“I don't know,” was the reply, “but he has been suffering so all
night that the doctor has had to give him an opiate.”
The wan countenance of Mr. Howard rose up before Helen just then,
and she shuddered inwardly.
“Dear me, what a state of affairs!” she exclaimed. “It seems to me
as if I were to have nothing but fright and worry. Why should there
be such things in the world?”
“I don't know, Helen,” said the other, “but it is certainly
inopportune for you. Of course the company will all have to leave.”
“To leave!” echoed Helen; she had never once thought of that.
“Why, of course,” said her aunt. “It would not be possible to enjoy
ourselves under such very dreadful circumstances.”
“But, Aunt Polly, that is a shame!” cried the girl. “The idea of so
many people being inconvenienced for such a cause. Can't he be
moved?”
“The doctor declares it would be impossible at present, Helen, and
it would not look right anyway, you know. He will certainly have to
remain until he is better.”
“And how long will that be?”
“A week, or perhaps more,” was the reply.
And Helen saw that her promised holiday was ruined; her emotions,
however, were not all of disappointment, for though she was vexed at
the interruptions, she recollected with sudden relief that she could
thus obtain, and without so much effort of her own, the time to
debate the problem of Mr. Harrison. Also there was in her mind, if
not exactly pity for the invalid, at any rate the nearest to it that
Helen had ever learned to feel, an uncomfortable fright at the idea
of such suffering.
“I promise you,” said Aunt Polly, who had been watching her face and
trying to read her emotions, “that we shall only postpone the good
time I meant to give you. You cannot possibly be more vexed about it
than I, for I was rejoicing in your triumph with Mr. Harrison.”
“I'm not worrying on that account,” said Helen, angrily.
“Helen, dear,” said Mrs. Roberts, pleadingly, “what can be the
matter with you? I think anyone who was watching you and me would
get the idea that I was the one to whom the fortune is coming. I
suppose that was only one of your jokes, my dear, but I truly don't
think you show a realization of what a tremendous opportunity you
have. You show much more lack of experience than I had any idea
could be possible.”
“It isn't that, Aunt Polly,” protested Helen; “I realize it, but I
want time to think.”
“To think, Helen! But what is there to think? It seems to be madness
to trifle with such a chance.”
“Will it be trifling to keep him waiting a while?” asked Helen,
laughing in spite of her vexation.
“Maybe not, my dear; but you ought to know that every other girl in
this house would snap him up at one second's notice. If you'd only
seen them watching you last night as I did.”
“I saw a little,” was the reply. “But, Aunt Polly, is Mr. Harrison
the only man whom I can find?”
“My husband and I have been over the list of our acquaintances, and
not found anyone that can be compared with him for an instant,
Helen. We know of no one that would do for you that has half as much
money.”
“I never said _he'd_ do for me,” said Helen, again laughing.
“Understand me, Auntie,” she added; “it isn't that I'd not like the
fortune! If I could get it without its attachment--”
“But, my dear, you know you can never get any wealth except by
marriage; what is the use of talking such nonsense, even in fun?”
“But, listen,” objected Helen in turn; “suppose I don't want such a
great fortune--suppose I should marry one of these other men?”
“Helen, if you only could know as much as I know about these
things,” said Mrs. Roberts, “if you only could know the difference
between being in the middle and at the top of the social ladder!
Dear, why will you choose anything but the best when you can have
the best if you want it? I tell you once for all I do not care how
clever you are, or how beautiful you are, the great people will look
down on you for an upstart if you cannot match them and make just as
much of a show. And why can you not discover what your own tastes
are? I watched you last night, child; anyone could have seen that
you were in your element! You outshone everyone, Helen, and you
should do just the same all your life. Can you not see just what
that means to you?”
“Yes, Auntie,” said Helen, “but then--”
“Were you not perfectly happy last night?” interrupted the other.
“No,” protested the other, “that's just what I was going to say.”
“The only reason in the world why you are not, my dear, is that you
were tormenting yourself with foolish scruples. Can you not see that
if you once had the courage to rid yourself of them it would be all
that you need. Why are you so weak, Helen?”
“It is not weak!” exclaimed the other.
“Yes,” asserted Mrs. Roberts, “I say it is weak. It is weak of you
not to comprehend what your life is to be, and what you need for
your happiness. It is a shame for you to make no use of the glorious
gifts that are yours, and to cramp and hinder all your own progress.
I want you to have room to show your true powers, Helen!”
Helen had been leaning over the foot of the bed listening to her
aunt, stirred again by all her old emotion, and angry with herself
for being stirred; her unspoken resolution was not quite so steady
as it had been, tho like all good resolutions it remained in her
mind to torment her.
She sprang up suddenly with a very nervous and forced laugh. “I'm
glad I don't have to argue with you, Auntie,” she said, “and that
I'm saved the trouble of worrying myself ill. You see the Fates are
on my side,--I must have time to think, whether I want to or not.”
It was that comfort which saved her from further struggle with
herself upon the subject. (Helen much preferred being happy to
struggling.) She set hurriedly to work to dress, for her aunt told
her that the guests were nearly ready for breakfast.
“Nobody could sleep since all the excitement,” she said. “I wonder
it did not wake you.”
“I was tired,” said Helen; “I guess that was it.”
“You'll find the breakfast rather a sombre repast,” added Mrs.
Roberts, pathetically. “I've been up nearly three hours myself, so
frightened about poor Mr. Howard; I had neveer seen anyone so
dreadfully ill, and I was quite certain he was in his death agony.”
“Aunt Polly!” cried Helen with a sudden wild start, “why do you talk
like that?”
“I won't say any more about it,” was the reply, “only hurry up. And
put on your best looks, my dear, for Mr. Harrison to carry away in
his memory.”
“I'll do that much with pleasure,” was the answer; “and please have
the maid come up to pack my trunks again; for you won't want me to
stay now, of course.”
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Roberts, “not unless you want to. Our house
won't be a very cheerful place, I fear.”
“I'll come back in a week or two, when you are ready for me,” Helen
added; “in the meantime I can be thinking about Mr. Harrison.”
Helen was soon on her way downstairs, for it was terrifying to her
to be alone and in the neighborhood of Mr. Howard. She found a
sombre gathering indeed, for the guests spoke to each other only in
half-whispers, and there were few smiles to be seen. Helen found
herself placed opposite Mr. Harrison at the table, and she had a
chance to study him by glances through the meal. “He's well dressed,
anyway,” she mused, “and he isn't altogether bad. I wonder if I'd
_dare_ to marry him.”
After breakfast Helen strolled out upon the piazza, perhaps with
some purpose in her mind; for it is not unpleasant to toy with a
temptation, even when one means to resist it. At any rate, she was a
little excited when she heard Mr. Harrison coming out to join her
there.
“Rather a sad ending of our little party, wasn't it, Miss Davis?” he
said.
“Yes,” answered the girl, “I feel so sorry for poor Mr. Howard.”
“He seemed to be rather ill last night,” said the other. He was
going to add that the fact perhaps accounted for the invalid's
severity, but he was afraid of shocking Helen by his levity,--a not
entirely necessary precaution, unfortunately.
“You are going back to town this morning, with the others?” Helen
asked.
“No,” said Mr. Harrison, somewhat to her surprise; “I have a
different plan.”
“Good Heavens, does he suppose he's going to stay here with me?”
thought the girl.
“I received your aunt's permission to ask you,” continued Mr.
Harrison, “and so I need only yours.”
“For what?” Helen inquired, with varied emotions.
“To drive you over to Oakdale with my rig,” said the other. “I had
it brought down, you know, because I thought there might be a chance
to use it.”
Helen had turned slightly paler, and was staring in front of her.
“Are you not fond of driving, then, Miss Davis?” asked the other, as
she hesitated.
“Yes,” said Helen, “but I don't like to trouble you--”
“I assure you it will be the greatest pleasure in the world,” said
Mr. Harrison; “I only regret that I shall not be able to see more of
you, Miss Davis; it is only for the present, I hope.”
“Thank you,” said Helen, still very faintly.
“And I have a pair of horses that I am rather proud of,” added Mr.
Harrison, laughing; “I should like you to tell me what you think of
them. Will you give me the pleasure?”
And Helen could not hesitate very much longer without being rude.
“If you really wish it, Mr. Harrison,” she said, “very well.” And
then someone else came out on the piazza and cut short the
conversation; Helen had no time to think any more about the matter,
but she had a disagreeable consciousness that her blood was flowing
faster again, and that her old agitation was back in all its
strength. Soon afterwards Mrs. Roberts came out and joined the two.
“Miss Davis has granted me the very great favor,” said Mr. Harrison;
“I fear I shall be happier than I ought to be, considering what
suffering I leave behind.”
“It will do no good to worry about it,” said Mrs. Roberts, a
reflection which often keeps the world from wasting its sympathy. “I
shall have your carriage brought round.”
“Isn't it rather early to start?” asked Helen.
“I don't know,” said her aunt; “is it?”
“We can take a little drive if it is,” said Mr. Harrison; “I mean
that Miss Davis shall think a great deal of my horses.”
Helen said nothing, but stood gazing in front of her across the
lawns, her mind in a tempest of emotions. She could not put away
from her the excitement that Mr. Harrison's presence brought; the
visions of wealth and power which gleamed before her almost
overwhelmed her with their vastness. But she had also the memory of
her morning resolve to trouble her conscience; the result was the
same confused helplessness, the dazed and frightened feeling which
she so rebelled against.
“I do not _want_ to be troubled in this way,” she muttered angrily
to herself, again and again; “I wish to be let alone, so that I can
be happy!”
Yet there was no chance just then for her to find an instant's
peace, or time for further thought; there were half a dozen people
about her, and she was compelled to listen to and answer commonplace
remarks about the beauty of the country in front of her, and about
her singing on the previous evening.
She had to stifle her agitation as best she could, and almost before
she realized it her aunt had come to summon her to get ready for the
drive.
Helen hoped to have a moment's quiet then; but there was nothing to
be done but put on her hat and gloves, and Mrs. Roberts was with her
all the time. “Helen,” she said pleadingly, as she watched the girl
surveying herself in the glass, “I do hope you will not forget all
that I told you.”
“I wish you would let me alone about it!” cried Helen, very
peevishly.
“If you only knew, my dear girl, how much I have done for you,”
replied the other, “and how I've planned and looked forward to this
time, I don't think you'd answer me in that way.”
“It isn't that, Aunt Polly,” exclaimed Helen, “but I am so confused
and I don't know what to think.”
“I am trying my poor, humble best to show you what to think. And you
could not possibly feel more worried than I just now; Helen, you
could be rid of all these doubts and struggles in one instant, if
you chose. Ask yourself if it is not true; you have only to give
yourself into the arms of the happiness that calls you. And you
never will get rid of the matter in any other way,--indeed you will
not! If you should fling away this chance, the memory of it would
never leave you all your life; after you knew it was too late, you
would torment yourself a thousand times more than ever you can now.”
“Oh, dear, dear!” cried Helen, half hysterically; “I can't stand
that, Aunt Polly. I'll do anything, only let me alone! My head is
aching to split, and I don't know where I am.”
“And you will never find another chance like it, Helen,” went on the
other, with sledge-hammer remorselessness. “For if you behave in
this perfectly insane way and lose this opportunity, I shall simply
give you up in despair at your perversity.”
“But I haven't said I was going to lose it,” the girl exclaimed. “He
won't be any the less in love with me if I make him wait, Aunt
Polly!--”
“Mr. Harrison was going back to Cincinnati in a day or two,” put in
Mrs. Roberts, swiftly.
“He will stay if I wish him to,” was the girl's reply. “There is no
need for so much worry; one would think I was getting old.”
“Old!” laughed the other. “You are so beautiful this morning, Helen,
that I could fall in love with you myself.” She turned the girl
towards her, seeing that her toilet was finished. “I haven't a
thought in the world, dear, but to keep you so beautiful,” she said;
“I hate to see you tormenting yourself and making yourself so pale;
why will you not take my advice and fling all these worries aside
and let yourself be happy? That is all I want you to do, and it is
so easy! Why is it that you do not want to be happy? I like to see
you smile, Helen!” And Helen, who was tired of struggling, made a
wry attempt to oblige her, and then broke into a laugh at herself.
Meanwhile the other picked a rose from a great bunch of them that
lay upon the bureau, and pinned it upon her dress.
“There, child,” she, said, “he can never resist you now, I know!”
Helen kissed her excitedly upon the cheek, and darted quickly out of
the door, singing, in a brave attempt to bring back her old, merry
self:--
“The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la-la, Have nothing to do
with the case.”
A moment later, however, she recollected Mr. Howard and his
misfortune, and her heart sank; she ran quickly down the steps to
get the thought of him from her mind.
It was easy enough to forget him and all other troubles as well when
she was once outside upon the piazza; for there were plenty of happy
people, and everyone crowded about her to bid her good-by. There too
was Mr. Harrison standing upon the steps waiting for her, and there
was his driving-cart with two magnificent black horses, alert and
eager for the sport. Helen was not much of a judge of horses, having
never had one of her own to drive, but she had the eye of a person
of aristocratic tastes for what was in good form, and she saw that
Mr. Harrison's turnout was all of that, with another attraction for
her, that it was daring; for the horses were lithe, restless
creatures, thoroughbreds, both of them; and it looked as if they had
not been out of the stable in a week. They were giving the groom who
held them all that he could do.
Mr. Harrison held out his hand to the girl as she came down the
steps, and eyed her keenly to see if her flushed cheeks would betray
any sign of fear. But Helen's emotions were surging too strongly for
such thoughts, and she had, besides, a little of the thoroughbred
nature herself. She laughed gaily as she gave her hand to her
companion and sprang into the wagon; he followed her, and as he took
the reins the groom sprang aside and the two horses bounded away
down the broad avenue. Helen turned once to wave her hand in answer
to the chorus of good-bys that sounded from the porch, and then she
faced about and sank back into the seat and drank in with delight
the fresh morning breeze that blew in her face.
“Oh, I think this is fine!” she cried.
“You like driving, then?” asked the other.
“Yes indeed,” was the reply. “I like this kind ever so much.”
“Wait until we get out on the high-road,” said Mr. Harrison, “and
then we will see what we can do. I came from the West, you know,
Miss Davis, so I think I am wise on the subject of horses.”
The woods on either side sped by them, and Helen's emotions soon
began to flow faster. It was always easy for her to forget
everything and lose herself in feelings of joy and power, and it was
especially easy when she was as much wrought up as she was just
then. It was again her ride with the thunderstorm, and soon she felt
as if she were being swept out into the rejoicing and the victory
once more. She might have realized, if she had thought, that her joy
was coming only because she was following her aunt's advice, and
yielding herself into the arms of her temptation; but Helen was
thoroughly tired of thinking; she wanted to feel, and again and
again she drank in deep breaths of the breeze.
It was only a minute or so before they passed the gates of the
Roberts place, and swept out of the woods and into the open country.
It was really inspiring then, for Mr. Harrison gave his horses the
reins, and Helen was compelled to hold on to her hat. He saw delight
and laughter glowing in her countenance as she watched the landscape
that fled by them, with its hillsides clad in their brightest green
and with its fresh-plowed farm-lands and snowy orchards; the
clattering of the horses' hoofs and the whirring of the wheels in
the sandy road were music and inspiration such as Helen longed for,
and she would have sung with all her heart had she been alone.
As was her way, she talked instead, with the same animation and glow
that had fascinated her companion upon the previous evening. She
talked of the sights that were about them, and when they came to the
top of the hill and paused to gaze around at the view, she told
about her trip through the Alps, and pictured the scenery to him,
and narrated some of her mountain-climbing adventures; and then Mr.
Harrison, who must have been a dull man indeed not to have felt the
contagion of Helen's happiness, told her about his own experiences
in the Rockies, to which the girl listened with genuine interest.
Mr. Harrison's father, so he told her, had been a station-agent of a
little town in one of the wildest portions of the mountains; he
himself had begun as a railroad surveyor, and had risen step by step
by constant exertion and watchfulness. It was a story of a self-made
man, such as Helen had vowed to her aunt she could not bear to
listen to; yet she did not find it disagreeable just then. There was
an exciting story of a race with a rival road, to secure the right
to the best route across the mountains; Helen found it quite as
exciting as music, and said so.
“Perhaps it is a kind of music,” said Mr. Harrison, laughing; “it is
the only kind I have cared anything about, excepting yours.”
“I had no idea people had to work so hard in the world,” said Helen,
dodging the compliment.
“They do, unless they have someone else to do it for them,” said the
other. “It is a fierce race, nowadays, and a man has to watch and
think every minute of the time. But it is glorious to triumph.”
Helen found herself already a little more in a position to realize
what ten million dollars amounted to, and very much more respectful
and awe-stricken in her relation to them. She was sufficiently
oblivious to the flight of time to be quite surprised when she gazed
about her, and discovered that they were within a couple of miles of
home. “I had no idea of how quickly we were going,” she said.
“You are not tired, then?” asked the other.
“No indeed,” Helen answered, “I enjoyed it ever so much.”
“We might drive farther,” said Mr. Harrison; “these horses are
hardly waked up.”
He reined them in a little and glanced at his watch. “It's just
eleven,” he said, “I think there'd be time,” and he turned to her
with a smile. “Would you like to have an adventure?” he asked.
“I generally do,” replied the girl. “What is it?”
“I was thinking of a drive,” said the other; “one that we could just
about take and return by lunch-time; it is about ten miles from
here.”
“What is it?” asked Helen.
“I have just bought a country place near here,” said Mr. Harrison.
“I thought perhaps you would like to see it.”
“My aunt spoke of it,” Helen answered; “the Eversons' old home.”
“Yes,” said the other; “you know it, then?”
“I only saw it once in my life, when I was a very little girl,”
Helen replied, “and so I have only a dim recollection of its
magnificence; the old man who lived there never saw any company.”
“It had to be sold because he failed in business,” said Mr.
Harrison. “Would you like to drive over?”
“Very much,” said Helen, and a minute later, when they came to a
fork in the road, they took the one which led them to “Fairview,” as
the place was called.
“I think it a tremendously fine property myself,” said Mr. Harrison;
“I made up my mind to have it the first time I saw it. I haven't
seen anything around here to equal it, and I hope to make a real
English country-seat out of it. I'll tell you about what I want to
do when we get there, and you can give me your advice; a man never
has good taste, you know.”
“I should like to see it,” answered Helen, smiling; “I have a
passion for fixing up things.”
“We had an exciting time at the sale,” went on Mr. Harrison
reminiscently. “You know Mr. Everson's family wanted to keep the
place themselves, and the three or four branches of the family had
clubbed together to buy it; when the bidding got near the end, there
was no one left but the family and myself.”
“And you got it?” said Helen. “How cruel!”
“The strongest wins,” laughed the other. “I had made up my mind to
have it. The Eversons are a very aristocratic family, aren't they?”
“Yes,” said Helen, “very, indeed; they have lived in this part of
the country since the Revolution.” As Mr. Harrison went on to tell
her the story of the sale she found herself vividly reminded of what
her aunt had told her of the difference between having a good deal
of money and all the money one wanted. Perhaps, also, her companion
was not without some such vaguely felt purpose in the telling. At
any rate, the girl was trembling inwardly more and more at the
prospect which was unfolding itself before her; as excitement always
acted upon her as a stimulant, she was at her very best during the
rest of the drive. She and her companion were conversing very
merrily indeed when Fairview was reached.
The very beginning of the place was imposing, for there was a high
wall along the roadway for perhaps a quarter of a mile, and then two
massive iron gates set in great stone pillars; they were opened by
the gate-keeper in response to Mr. Harrison's call. Once inside the
two had a drive of some distance through what had once been a
handsome park, though it was a semi-wilderness then. The road
ascended somewhat all the way, until the end of the forest was
reached, and the first view of the house was gained; Helen could
scarcely restrain a cry of pleasure as she saw it, for it was really
a magnificent old mansion, built of weather-beaten gray stone, and
standing upon a high plateau, surrounded by a lawn and shaded by
half a dozen great oaks; below it the lawn sloped in a broad
terrace, and in the valley thus formed gleamed a little trout-pond,
set off at the back by a thickly-wooded hillside.
“Isn't it splendid!” the girl exclaimed, gazing about her.
“I thought it was rather good,” said Mr. Harrison, deprecatingly.
“It can be made much finer, of course.”
“When you take your last year's hay crop from the lawn, for one
thing,” laughed she. “But I had no idea there was anything so
beautiful near our little Oakdale. Just look at that tremendous
entrance!”
“It's all built in royal style,” said Mr. Harrison. “The family must
have been wealthy in the old days.”
“Probably slave-dealers, or something of that kind,” observed Helen.
“Is the house all furnished inside?”
“Yes,” said the other, “but I expect to do most of it over. Wouldn't
you like to look?” He asked the question as he saw the gate-keeper
coming up the road, presumably with the keys.
The girl gazed about her dubiously; she would have liked to go in,
except that she was certain it would be improper. Helen had never
had much respect for the proprieties, however, being accustomed to
rely upon her own opinions of things; and in the present case,
besides, she reflected that no one would ever know anything about
it.
“We'd not have time to do more than glance around,” continued the
other, “but we might do that, if you like.”
“Yes,” said Helen, after a moment more of hesitation, “I think I
should.”
Her heart was beating very fast as the two ascended the great stone
steps and as the door opened before them; her mind could not but be
filled with the overwhelming thought that all that she saw might be
hers if she really wanted it. The mere imagining of Mr. Harrison's
wealth had been enough to make her thrill and burn, so it was to be
expected that the actual presence of some of it would not fail of
its effect. It is to be observed that the great Temptation took
place upon a high mountain, where the kingdoms of the earth could
really be seen; and Helen as she gazed around had the further
knowledge that the broad landscape and palatial house, which to her
were almost too splendid to be real, were after all but a slight
trifle to her companion.
The girl entered the great hallway, with its huge fireplace and its
winding stairway, and then strolled through the parlors of the vast
house; Helen had in all its fullness the woman's passion for
spending money for beautiful things, and it had been her chief woe
in all her travels that the furniture and pictures and tapestry
which she gazed at with such keen delight must be forever beyond her
thoughts. Just at present her fancy was turned loose and madly
reveling in these memories, while always above her wildest flights
was the intoxicating certainty that there was no reason why they
should not all be possible. She could not but recollect with a
wondering smile that only yesterday she had been happy at the
thought of arranging one dingy little parlor in her country
parsonage, and had been trying to persuade her father to the
extravagance of re-covering two chairs.
It would have been hard for Helen to keep her emotions from Mr.
Harrison, and he must have guessed the reason why she was so flushed
and excited. They were standing just then in the center of the great
dining-room, with its massive furniture of black mahogany, and she
was saying that it ought to be papered in dark red, and was
conjuring up the effect to herself. “Something rich, you know, to
set off the furniture,” she explained.
“And you must take that dreadful portrait from over the mantel,” she
added, laughing. (It was a picture of a Revolutionary warrior, on
horseback and in full uniform, the coloring looking like faded
oilcloth.)
“I had thought of that myself,” said Mr. Harrison. “It's the founder
of the Eversons; there's a picture gallery in a hall back of here,
with two whole rows of ancestors in it.”
“Why don't you adopt them?” asked Helen mischievously.
“One can buy all the ancestors one wants to, nowadays,” laughed Mr.
Harrison. “I thought I'd make something more interesting out of it.
I'm not much of a judge of art, you know, but I thought if I ever
went abroad I'd buy up some of the great paintings that one reads
about--some of the old masters, you know.”
“I'm afraid you'd find very few of them for sale,” said Helen,
smiling.
“I'm not accustomed to fail in buying things that I want,” was the
other's reply. “Are you fond of pictures?”
“Very much indeed,” answered the girl. As a matter of fact, the mere
mention of the subject opened a new kingdom to her, for she could
not count the number of times she had sat before beautiful pictures
and almost wept at the thought that she could never own one that was
really worth looking at. “I brought home a few myself,” she said to
her companion,--“just engravings, you know, half a dozen that I
thought would please me; I mean to hang them around my music-room.”
“Tell me about it,” said Mr. Harrison. “I have been thinking of
fixing up such a place myself, you know. I thought of extending the
house on the side that has the fine view of the valley, and making
part a piazza, and part a conservatory or music-room.”
“It could be both!” exclaimed the girl, eagerly. “That would be the
very thing; there ought not to be anything in a music-room, you
know, except the piano and just a few chairs, and the rest all
flowers. The pictures ought all to be appropriate--pictures of
nature, of things that dance and are beautiful; oh, I could lose
myself in such a room as that!” and Helen ran on, completely carried
away by the fancy, and forgetting even Mr. Harrison for a moment.
“I have often dreamed of such a place,” she said, “where everything
would be sympathetic; it's a pity that one can't have a piano taken
out into the fields, the way I remember reading that Haydn used to
do with his harpsichord. If I were a violinist, that's the way I'd
do all my playing, because then one would not need to be afraid to
open his eyes; oh, it would be fine--”
Helen stopped; she was at the height of her excitement just then;
and the climax came a moment afterwards. “Miss Davis,” asked the
man, “would you really like to arrange such a music-room?”
The tone of his voice was so different that the girl comprehended
instantly; it was this moment to which she had been rushing with so
much exultation; but when it came her heart almost stopped beating,
and she gave a choking gasp.
“Would you really like it?” asked Mr. Harrison again, bending
towards her earnestly.
“Why, certainly,” said Helen, making one blind and desperate effort
to dodge the issue. “I'll tell you everything that is necessary.”
“That is not what I mean, Miss Davis!”
“Not?” echoed Helen, and she tried to look at him with her frank,
open eyes; but when she saw his burning look, she could not; she
dropped her eyes and turned scarlet.
“Miss Davis,” went on the man rapidly, “I have been waiting for a
chance to tell you this. Let me tell you now!”
Helen gazed wildly about her once, as if she would have fled; then
she stood with her arms lying helplessly at her sides, trembling in
every nerve.
“There is very little pleasure that one can get from such beautiful
things alone, Miss Davis, and especially when he is as dulled by the
world as myself. I thought that some day I might be able to share
them with some one who could enjoy them more than I, but I never
knew who that person was until last night. I know that I have not
much else to offer you, except what wealth and position I have
gained; and when I think of all your accomplishments, and all that
you have to place you so far beyond me, I almost fear to offer
myself to you. But I can only give what I have--my humble admiration
of your beauty and your powers; and the promise to worship you, to
give the rest of my life to seeing that you have everything in the
world that you want. I will put all that I own at your command, and
get as much more as I can, with no thought but of your happiness.”
Mr. Harrison could not have chosen words more fitted to win the
trembling girl beside him; that, he should recognize as well as she
did her superiority to him, removed half of his deficiency in her
eyes.
“Miss Davis,” the other went on, “I cannot know how you will feel
toward such a promise, but I cannot but feel that what I possess
could give you opportunities of much happiness. You should have all
the beauty about you that you wished, for there is nothing in the
world too beautiful for you; and you should have every luxury that
money can buy, to save you from all care. If this house seemed too
small for you, you should have another wherever you desired it, and
be mistress of it, and of everything in it; and if you cared for a
social career, you should have everything to help you, and it would
be my one happiness to see your triumph. I would give a thousand
times what I own to have you for my wife.”
So the man continued, pleading his cause, until at last he stopped,
waiting anxiously for a sign from the girl; he saw that she was
agitated, for her breast was heaving, and her forehead flushed, but
he could not tell the reason. “Perhaps, Miss Davis,” he said,
humbly, “you will scorn such things as I have to offer you; tell me,
is it that?”
Helen answered him, in a faint voice, “It is not that, Mr. Harrison;
it is,--it is,--”
“What, Miss Davis?”
“It has been but a day! I have had no time to know you--to love
you.”
And Helen stopped, afraid at the words she herself was using; for
she knew that for the first time in her life she had stooped to a
sham and a lie. Her whole soul was ablaze with longing just then,
with longing for the power and the happiness which this man held out
to her; and she meant to take him, she had no longer a thought of
resistance. It was all the world which offered itself to her, and
she meant to clasp it to her--to lose herself quite utterly and
forget herself in it, and she was already drunk with the thought.
Therefore she could not but shudder as she heard the word “love”
upon her lips, and knew that she had used it because she wished to
make a show of hesitation.
“I did not need but one day, Miss Davis,” went on the other
pleadingly, “to know that I loved you--to know that I no longer set
any value on the things that I had struggled all my life to win; for
you are perfect, Miss Davis. You are so far beyond me that I have
scarcely the courage to ask you what I do. But I _must_ ask you, and
know my fate.”
He stopped again and gazed at her; and Helen looked at him wildly,
and then turned away once more, trembling. She wished that he would
only continue still longer, for the word was upon her lips, and yet
it was horror for her to utter it, because she felt she ought not to
yield so soon,--because she wanted some delay; she sought for some
word that would be an evasion, that would make him urge her more
strongly; she wished to be wooed and made to surrender, and yet she
could find no pretext.
“Answer me, Miss Davis!” exclaimed the other, passionately.
“What--what do you wish me to say?” asked Helen faintly.
“I wish you to tell me that you will be my wife; I wish you to take
me for what I can give you for your happiness and your glory. I ask
nothing else, I make no terms; if you will do it, it will make me
the happiest man in the world. There is nothing else that I care for
in life.”
And then as the girl still stood, flushed and shuddering, hovering
upon the verge, he took her hand in his and begged her to reply.
“You must not keep me in suspense!” he exclaimed. “You must tell
me,--tell me.”
And Helen, almost sinking, answered him “Yes!” It was such a faint
word that she scarcely heard it herself, but the other heard it, and
trembling with delight, he caught her in his arms and pressed a
burning kiss upon her cheek.
The effect surprised him; for the fire which had burned Helen and
inflamed her cheeks had been ambition, and ambition alone. It was
the man's money that she wanted and she was stirred with no less
horror than ever at the thought of the price to be paid; therefore
the touch of his rough mustache upon her cheek acted upon her as an
electric contact, and all the shame in her nature burst into flame.
She tore herself loose with almost a scream. “No, no!” she cried.
“Stop!”
Mr. Harrison gazed at her in astonishment for a moment, scarcely
able to find a word to say. “Miss Davis,” he protested, “Helen--what
is the matter?”
“You had no right to do that!” she cried, trembling with anger.
“Helen!” protested the other, “have you not just promised to be my
wife?” And the words made the girl turn white and drop her eyes in
fear.
“Yes, yes,” she panted helplessly, “but you should not--it is too
soon!” The other stood watching her, perhaps divining a little of
the cause of her agitation, and feeling, at any rate, that he could
be satisfied for the present with his success. He answered, very
humbly, “Perhaps you are right; I am very sorry for offending you,”
and stood silently waiting until the girl's emotions had subsided a
little, and she had looked at him again. “You will pardon me?” he
asked.
“Yes, yes,” she said, weakly, “only--”
“And you will not forget the promise you have made me?”
“No,” she answered, and then she gazed anxiously toward the door.
“Let us go,” she said imploringly; “it is all so hard for me to
realize, and I feel so very faint.”
The two went slowly down the hallway, Mr. Harrison not even
venturing to offer her his arm; outside they stood for a minute upon
the high steps, Helen leaning against a pillar and breathing very
hard. She dared not raise her eyes to the man beside her.
“You wish to go now?” he asked, gently.
“Yes, please,” she replied, “I think so; it is very late.”
Helen scarcely knew what happened during the drive home, for she
passed it in a half-dazed condition, almost overwhelmed by what she
had done. She answered mechanically to all Mr. Harrison's remarks
about his arrangements of the house and his plans elsewhere, but all
reference to his wealth seemed powerless to waken in her a trace of
the exultation that had swept her away before, while every allusion
to their personal relationship was like the touch of fire. Her
companion seemed to divine the fact, and again he begged her
anxiously not to forget the promise she had given. Helen answered
faintly that she would not; but the words were hard for her to say
and it was an infinite relief to her to see Oakdale again, and to
feel that the strain would soon be over, for the time at any rate.
“I shall stay somewhere in the neighborhood,” said Mr. Harrison.
“You will let me see you often, Helen, will you not?”
“Yes,” answered Helen, mechanically.
“I will come to-morrow,” said the other, “and take you driving if
you like; I promised to go back and lunch with your aunt to-day, as
I thought I was to return to the city.” In a moment more the
carriage stopped in front of Helen's home, and the girl, without
waiting for anyone to assist her, leaped out and with a hasty word
of parting, ran into the house. She heard the horses trotting away,
and then the door closed behind her, and she stood in the dark,
silent hallway. She saw no one, and after gazing about her for a
moment she stole into her little music-room and flung herself down
upon the couch, where she lay with her head buried in her hands.
It was a long time afterwards when she glanced up again; she was
trembling all over, and her face was white.
“In Heaven's name, how can I have done it?” she whispered hoarsely,
to herself. “How can I have done it? And what _am_ I to do now?”
Nur wer der Minne Macht ent-sagt, nur wer der Liebe Lust verjagt