“No,” he said; “none. Hilton is quite honest. His was but a changing love for the bright, handsome face and deep, dreamy eyes. He does not care for her now. What man would?”
There was a pause here, and he sat dreamily gazing through the open window at the silver shimmering of the river.
“What man would love Helen Perowne now?” he said, softly; “now that she comes back with such a social stigma upon her, just rescued from the hands of this Eastern sensualist—changed! ah! how changed! Poor girl—poor girl! What English gentleman would hold out his hand to her now, and say to her, ‘Helen, love! my own! Will you not be my wife?’”
Another pause, broken only by the loud insect-hum from the blossom-laden trees outside the window.
What man would say this to her now?
“I would!” he cried aloud; “for is mine so mean and paltry a love that it is to be checked and turned aside by her misfortune? No; let her but ask me—as I said she some day would ask me—with look or lip, to come, and I should be at her side—for I so love her, in spite of all, and with my whole heart!”
For a moment the abject, frightened face that he had for a few moments seen shrinking from him before its owner concealed it with her trembling brown fingers, when she was transferred from the Sultan’s to his own boat, was there before him; when Helen had uttered a loud, piteous cry as she recognised one of her deliverers. The next moment that scene upon the river, vividly as it was impressed upon his mind, with the swarthy Malays, the prostrate prince, the brilliant sunshine flashing from the river, even as he could see it now, and the dark shadows of the drooping trees, all had passed away, and in place he saw only Helen—the Helen of his love—prostrate upon her bed of sickness, dull of eye, shrunken and thin with fever, suffering and helpless. And as he asked himself, “Did he love her still?” he rested his elbows upon his table, his face went down upon his hands, and with a low moan he felt that he was cruel and wanting in his love for being away from her at a time like this, when he ought to be showing her how true and fervent was his feeling—that it was no light fancy of the young and thoughtless youth, but a strong man’s true and lasting love.
He did not hear the matting-screen drawn aside, nor heed the light step of his Chinese servant, as he softly entered the room, and then stopped short, as if afraid to interrupt his master as he slept.
It was an important message, though, that he had to give, and he went up to the table.
“Master,” he said, softly; but the Resident did not move.