Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.
A Bird in a Cage.
Helen Perowne’s horror upon finding herself borne helplessly away was so great that she swooned, remaining insensible for some very considerable time, and when she did recover herself it was only to faint again and again, becoming afterwards so thoroughly prostrate that she took no note of either time or the direction in which she was being taken.
Hours must have elapsed before, in the total darkness caused by the stifling veil thrown over her head, she found that she was being carried in some kind of litter along a forest path, whose leaves and vines brushed her as she passed.
This seemed to last a long time, and to be very unreal and dreamy. In fact, more than once she felt that she must be in some terribly troubled dream, out of which she kept awaking to the reality of her position and calling for help.
It was in vain she knew, for her voice seemed to return upon her; and at last, wearied out and exhausted, she lay there passive, thinking of the past, and wondering what her future was to be.
She was too much prostrated to be able to think with clearness; but her thoughts kept turning to her career since she left England, and the dark, threatening face of Murad was constantly before her eyes. That he was connected with this outrage she felt no doubt, and as she thought of her weak vanity and the strait to which it had brought her, the tears filled her eyes and trickled slowly down her cheeks.
Then other faces rose before her in the darkness, as if upbraiding her for what she had done. She saw the Rev. Arthur Rosebury, calm, patient, and uncomplaining, satisfied if she only gave him a look or word; Chumbley, her very slave at first, but then a rebel, ready to look at her mockingly, as if laughing at his broken chain; Hilton, devoted and tender but exacting, as if he doubted her truth; Murad, again fierce and lurid in his love, so that she shuddered as she saw his dark eyes and white teeth; a dozen others with whom she had trifled; and lastly, the quiet, firm face of Neil Harley, half laughing, half angry with her, but full of determination, as if he were constantly telling her that he was but waiting till she had grown wiser, for she would yet be his.
As these faces seemed to rise before her out of the thick darkness, it was as though she were haunted, and it was in a wild, passionate way that she seemed in her dreamy state to be defying them, bidding them go—all but one, whose power was too great even for her angry words to repel. No; Neil Harley merely mocked and laughed, and seemed to say: “I can wait; I shall appeal no more, for some day I know, as I have often said, I shall have you humbled, a suppliant at my feet, begging me to take you, to protect you, to make you mine. Till then I can wait!”