“So long as you consent, I'll agree to anything,” Festing declared. “I can't repay you for your trust, but I'll try to deserve it.”
Mrs. Dalton told him where Helen had gone, and setting off to meet her, he presently saw her come round a bend in a lane. The sun had set and tall oaks, growing along the hedgerows, darkened the lane, but a faint crimson glow from the west shone between the trunks. To the east, the quiet countryside rolled back into deepening shadow. For a moment Festing hesitated as he watched the girl advance. It was rash to uproot this fair bloom of the sheltered English garden and transplant it in virgin soil, swept by the rushing winds. Then he went forward resolutely.
Helen gave him her hand and moved on with disturbed feelings, for there was something different in his look.
“If you don't mind, we'll stop a minute; I have something to say. To begin with, I'm going back to Canada.”
She looked up sharply and then waited with forced calm until he resumed: “That precipitates matters, because I must learn if I've hoped for too much before I go. I was a stranger when I came here, and you were kind—”
“You were not a stranger,” Helen said quietly. “George told us about you, and for his sake—”
“I don't want you to be kind for George's sake, but my own. I'd sooner you liked me for what I am, with all my faults.”
“If it's any comfort, I think I really do like you,” Helen admitted with a strained smile.
“Well enough to marry me?”
Helen colored, but gave him a level glance. “Ah,” she said, “aren't you rash? You hardly know me yet.”