Helen glanced towards the figure reclining on the bed, whose length appeared almost supernatural, and whose appearance was rendered more gloomy by the dun-colored counterpane that enveloped it—and though her countenance changed, she answered, “Yes.”
“Have you no fears that the old superstitions of your childhood will resume their influence over your imagination, in the stillness of the midnight hour?”
“I wish to subject myself to the trial. I am not quite sure of myself. I know there is no real danger, and it is time that I should battle single-handed with all imaginary foes.”
“But supposing your parents should object?”
“You must tell them how very ill she is, and how much she wishes me to remain with her. I think they will rejoice in my determination—rejoice that their poor, weak Helen has any energy of purpose, any will or power to be useful.”
“If you knew half your strength, half your power, Helen, I fear you would abuse it.”
A bright flame flashed up from the dark, serene depths of his eyes, and played on Helen’s downcast face. She had seen its kindling, and now felt its warmth glowing in her cheek, and in her inmost heart. The large, old clock behind the door, struck the hour loudly, with its metallic hands. Arthur started and looked at his watch.
“I did not think it was so late,” he exclaimed, rising in haste. “I have a patient to visit, whom I promised to be with before this time. Do you know, Helen, we have been talking at least two hours by this fireside? Miss Thusa slumbers long.”
He went to the bedside, felt of the sleeper’s pulse, listened attentively to her deep, irregular breathing, and then returned to Helen.
“The opiate she has taken will probably keep her in a quiet state during the night—if not, you will recollect the directions I have given—and administer the proper remedies. Does not your courage fail, now I am about to leave you? Have you no misgivings now?”