“No,” she said, lifting her head, as if he had explained it all to her; “no. You could never do that. I would not have you do that for—for all that could happen—for—” she faltered.
“Great God!” thought Bayard, “and I cannot even ask her how much she cares—if she could ever learn or try to love me.”
He felt suddenly a strange weakness. He leaned against a boulder for support, coughing painfully. It seemed to him as if he were inwardly bleeding to death.
“Oh!” cried Helen, turning about swiftly and showing her own white face. “You are not well—you suffer. This will not—must not—I cannot bear it!” she said bravely, but with a quivering lip. “Give me your arm, Mr. Bayard, and let us get home.”
He obeyed her in silence. He felt, in truth, too spent to speak. They got back to the door of the cottage, and Helen led him in. Her father was not in the parlor, and her mother had gone to bed. The fire had fallen to embers. Helen motioned him to an easy-chair, and knelt, coaxing the blaze, and throwing on pine wood to start it. She looked so womanly, so gentle, so home-like, and love-like, on her knees in the firelight there, caring for the comfort of the exhausted man, that the sight was more than he could bear. He covered his eyes.
“The fire flares so, coming in from the dark,” he said.
She stepped softly about, and brought him wine and crackers, but he shook his head.
“My little tea-urn is packed,” she said, smiling, trying to look as if nothing had happened. “I would have made you such a cup of tea as you never tasted!”
“Spare me!” he pleaded. “Don’t you suppose I know that?”
He rose manfully, as soon as he could. She stood in the firelight, looking up. A quiver passed over her delicate chin. He held out his hand. She put her strong, warm clasp within it.