"When?" I said; oh, so carelessly.
"To-morrow."
"Where?" as I caught at the little throb in my voice.
"To Canada--they've got an opening for me there. I'm going to take a
mission field."
I made no response. But I knew for the first time, in all this life of
mine, what it really meant to have a heart on fire. He was not
looking, so he could not see the quick rise and fall of my bosom as I
looked out through the deepening darkness towards the twinkling shore.
I could see the dim outline of a few tall elms on the bank; and muffled
sounds floated towards us across the darkling water. But what I
remember most was the wonderful stillness that reigned without, while
the first real heart-storm I had ever known raged deep within.
One hand was in the water, troubling the unconscious element; in the
other I still held the letter I had written Charlie. And I leaned far
out over the edge of the boat, withdrawing my gaze from the shore; but
the silent river gave back nothing except murky blankness. Life had
the selfsame colour to me then, poor child and changeling that I was.
Suddenly I felt that his eyes were on me, though the gloom was
deepening--and I trembled, actually trembled; if I had been alone with
him in mid-ocean I could not have trembled more. Perhaps I glanced
down the sullen river and remembered that its home was the far waiting
sea.
Then he moved--and towards me. If there had been a mile between us,
instead of a few paltry feet, I could not have been more conscious of
his coming. For he never spoke, and I neither spoke nor stirred. In a
moment he was beside me, or at my feet, or both. And such a
transformation I had never seen. His voice was low and unsteady,
choking almost, and I could catch the wonderful fire of his eyes as
they were fastened on me in the gloom.
"Don't," I said faintly, "please don't--let us row in--we'll miss the
mail."
But he made no movement, never even glancing at one of the oars which
had been lifted from its socket and slipped with a little splash into
the stream. The other sulked alone in the darkly dimpling water.
"Oh! Helen," he said in an altered voice, such a voice as I had never
heard before, "you know--you know all I want to say."
He had hold of my hand, the one that held the letter. And still I did
not move or speak. But a swift thought flashed through my mind; it was
of another day, when another man had thus laid siege to me--and I knew
now what life's real passion meant. Yes, I will tell it--and they may
smile who will--my whole soul leaped in silent ecstasy, and triumph,
and hope. But the greatest of these was hope. I knew, at long last,
what it meant to love and to be loved--and no queen ever gloried in the
hour of her coronation as I silently rejoiced in mine. I forgot that
he was stronger than I, and greater, and nobler; forgot all about the
strength of intellect that I had felt as a gulf between us; all the
difference, too, of life's aim and purpose was sunk and forgotten now.
I even forgot that he was a minister at all, set apart for life to
duties and sacrifices for which I had neither gift nor inclination. I
only knew I loved him, and that we were alone together--and that he was
at my feet.
"Helen," he began again, "I'm going away--and you'll forget all about
me, won't you, Helen?"
It was sweet to hear him speak my name. And his words would mean, of
course, that he wanted me to forget--but I knew what they really meant,
and I held every tone sacred to my heart.