The unfortunate youth, after these meetings, would console himself with the thought that he could place himself opposite in church, and there dart appeal into her eyes; but the very first Sunday he went it was to find that Helen had changed her seat, so that it was her back and not her face at which he gazed.
A half-crown bestowed upon the pew-opener—young men at such times are generous—remedied this difficulty, and in the afternoon he had secured a seat opposite to Helen once again; but the next Sunday she had again changed her place, and no matter how he tried, Helen always avoided his gaze.
A month killed the tender passion, and the young gentleman disappeared from Mayleyfield for good—at least so it is to be hoped, for no ill was heard of the hapless youth, the first smitten down by Helen Perowne’s dark eyes.
“And I am very glad we never see him now,” said Helen one day when they were staying at the Rectory, and incidentally the troubles at Miss Twettenham’s were named.
“So am I,” said Grey, quietly. “It was such a pity that you should have noticed him at all.”
“Nonsense! He was only a silly overgrown boy; but oh, Grey, child,” cried Helen, in a burst of confidence, “isn’t the Reverend Arthur delicious?”
“Delicious?” replied Grey, gazing at her wonderingly. “I don’t understand you.”
“Oh, nonsense! He is so droll-looking, so tall and thin, and so attentive. I declare I feel sometimes as if I could make everyone my slave.”
“Oh! Helen, pray don’t talk like that!” cried Grey, in alarm.
“Why not? Is a woman to be always wearing a pinafore and eating bread and butter? I’m not a child now. Look, there comes Dr Bolter along the lane. Stand back from the window, or he’ll be blowing kisses at us, or some nonsense. I declare I hate that man!”