“Only for a time, love; a very short while.”
“But why any time? Charles; you are surely jesting with me?”
“No, indeed. I am in earnest. Never more in my life, and never more wishing I were not. Alas! it is inevitable!”
“Inevitable! I do not understand. What do you mean?”
With her eyes fixed oh his, in earnest gaze, she anxiously awaits his answer.
“Helen Armstrong!” he says, speaking in a tone of solemnity that sounds strange, almost harsh despite its gentleness; “you are to me the dearest thing on earth. I need not tell you that, for surely you know it. Without you I should not value life, nor care to live one hour longer. To say I love you, with all my heart and soul, were but to repeat the assurance I’ve already given you. Ah! now more than ever, if that were possible; now that I know how true you’ve been, and what you’ve suffered for my sake. But there’s another—one far away from here, who claims a share of my affections—”
She makes a movement interrupting him, her eyes kindling up with an indescribable light, her bosom rising and falling as though stirred by some terrible emotion.
Perceiving her agitation, though without suspecting its cause, he continues:
“If this night more than ever I love you, this night greater than ever is my affection for her. The sight of that man, with the thought I’ve again permitted him to escape, is fresh cause of reproach—a new cry from the ground, commanding me to avenge my murdered mother.”
Helen Armstrong, relieved, again breathes freely. Strange, but natural; in consonance with human passions. For it was jealousy that for the moment held sway in her thoughts. Ashamed of the suspicion, now known to be unworthy, she makes an effort to conceal it, saying in calm tone—