“How early you have come!” she said half complainingly.
He paid no attention to her tone, but deliberately shut the door, and advanced towards her.
“I have come,” he said, “to stay; that is—if you will let me, Helen.”
“Apparently,” answered Helen, taking up the pitcher, “I am not allowed a choice in the matter.”
But he saw that the silver pitcher shook in her hand.
“No,” he said firmly, “I do not mean to give you any choice. I mean to take you. I do not mean to wait one hour more.”
He held out his arms, but suspended them, not touching her. The very air which he imprisoned around her seemed to clasp her. She trembled in that intangible embrace.
“It will be a poor man’s home, Helen—but you will not suffer. I can give you common comforts. I cabled to you the very hour that I knew.... Oh, I have trusted your trust!” he said.
“And you may trust it,” whispered Helen, suddenly lifting her eyes.