“And why should not this be the spirit in which I join the army?” said he, passionately; “the career has not for me those fascinations which others feel. Danger I like, for its stimulus, as other men like it; but I would rather confront it when and where and how I please, than at the dictate of a colonel and by the ritual of a despatch.”
“Rather be a letter of marque, in fact, than a ship-of-the-line,—more credit to your Lordship's love of danger than discipline.”
Forester smiled, but not without anger, at the quiet persiflage of her manner. It took him some seconds ere he could resume.
“I perceive,” said he, in a tone of deeper feeling, “that whatever my resolves, to discuss them must be an impertinence, when they excite no other emotion than ridicule—”
“Nay, my Lord,” interposed Helen, eagerly; “I beg you to forgive my levity. Nothing was further from my thoughts than to hurt one to whom we owe our deepest debt of gratitude. I can never forget you saved my father's life; pray do not let me seem so base, to my heart, as to undervalue this.”
“Oh, Miss Darcy,” said he, passionately, “it is I who need forgiveness,—I, whose temper, rendered irritable by illness, suspect reproach and sarcasm in every word of those who are kindest to me.”
“You are unjust to yourself,” said Helen, gently,—“unjust, because you expect the same powers of mind and judgment that you enjoyed in health. Think how much better you are than when you came here. Think what a few days more may do. How changed—”
“Has Miss Darcy changed since last I met her?” asked he, in a tone that sank into the very depth of her heart.
Helen tried to smile; but emotions of a sadder shade spread over her pale features, as she said,—
“I hope so, my Lord; I trust that altered fortunes have not lost their teaching. I fervently hope that sorrow and suffering have left something behind them better than unavailing regrets and heart-repinings.”