“But, Helen, you have attained the stature of womanhood. You are looked upon as a candidate for admiration—as the rival of your beautiful sister. You will be flattered and courted, not as a child, but as a woman. The young man who has become, as it were, domesticated in your family, has extraordinary personal attractions, and every member of the household appears to have yielded to his influence. Were I as sure of his moral worth as of his outward graces, I would not say what I have done. But, with one doubt on my mind, as your early friend, as the self-elected guardian of your happiness, I cannot forbear to caution, to admonish, perhaps to displease, by my too watchful, too officious friendship.”
Arthur paused. His voice had become agitated and his manner excited.
“You cannot believe me capable of the meanness of envy,” he added. “Were Bryant Clinton less handsome, less fascinating, his sincerity and truth might be a question of less moment.”
“How could you envy any one,” cried Helen, earnestly, unconscious how much her words and manner expressed. “Displeased! Oh! I thank you so much. But indeed I do not admire Mr. Bryant Clinton at all. He is entirely too handsome and dazzling. I do not like that long, curling, shining hair of his. The first time I saw him, it reminded me of the undulations of that terrible snake in the strawberry patch, and I cannot get over the association. Then he does not admire me at all, only as the sister of Mittie.”
“He has paid Mittie very great and peculiar attention, and people look upon them as betrothed lovers. Were you to become an object of jealousy to her, you would be very, very unhappy. The pleasure of gratified vanity would be faint to the stings exasperated and wounded love could inflict.”
“For all the universe could offer I would not be my sister’s rival,” cried Helen, rising impetuously, and looking round her with a wild startled expression. “I will go and tell her so at once. I will ask her to confide in me and trust me. I will go away if she wishes it. If my father is willing, I will live with Miss Thusa in the wild woods.”
“Wait awhile,” said Arthur, smiling at her vehemence, “wait Helen, patiently, firmly. When temptations arise, it is time to resist. I fear I have done wrong in giving premature warning, but the impulse was irresistible, in the silence of these twilight woods.”
Helen looked up through the soft shadows to thank him again for his counsels, and promise that they should be the guide of her life, but the words died on her lips. There was something so darkly penetrating in the expression of his countenance, so earnest, yet troubled, so opposite to its usual serene gravity, that it infected her. Her heart beat violently, and for the first time in her life she felt embarrassed in his presence.
That night Helen pressed a wakeful pillow. She felt many years older than when she rose in the morning, for the experience of the day had been so oppressive. She could not realize that she had thought and felt and learned so much in twelve short hours.