Helen was now wrought up to a pitch of excitement and terror that was perfectly uncontrollable. Every word uttered by Clinton seemed burned in—on her brain, not her heart, and she pressed both hands on her forehead, as if to put out the flame.
“Oh! that Arthur Hazleton were here,” she exclaimed, “he would protect me.”
“No danger shall reach you while I am near you, Helen,” cried Clinton, again endeavoring to take her hand in his—but Helen darted into a side path and ran as fleetly and wildly as when she believed the glittering, fiery-eyed viper was pursuing her. Sometimes she caught hold of the slender trunk of a tree to give her a quicker momentum, and sometimes she sprang over brooklets, which, in a calmer moment, she would have deemed impossible. She felt that Clinton had slackened his pursuit as she drew near her home, but she never paused till she found herself in her own chamber, where, sinking into a chair, she burst into a passion of tears such as she had never wept before. Shame, dread, resentment, fear—all pressed so crushingly upon her, her soul was bowed even to the dust. The future lowered so darkly before her. Mittie—she could not help looking upon her as a kind of avenging spirit—that would forever haunt her.
While she was in this state of ungovernable emotion, Mittie came in, with a face as white and rigid as marble, and stood directly in front of her.
“Why have you fled from Clinton so?” she cried, in a strange, harsh tone. “Tell me, for I will know. Tell me, for I have a right to know.”
Helen tried to speak, but her breathless lips sought in vain to utter a sound. There was a bright, red spot in the centre of both cheeks, but the rest of her face was as colorless as Mittie’s.
“Speak,” cried Mittie, stamping her foot, with an imperious gesture, “and tell me the truth, or you had better never have been born.”
“Ask me nothing,” she said at length, recovering breath to answer, “for the truth will only make you wretched.”
“What has he said to you?” repeated Mittie, seizing the arm of Helen with a force of which she was not aware. “Have you dared to let him talk to you about love?”
“Alas! I want not his love. I believe him not,” cried Helen; “and, oh! Mittie, trust him not. Think of him no more. He does not love you—is not worthy of you.”