“Don’t be cross, Helen,” said her mother. “Our destinies are not in our own hands.”
Helen bit her lip, laughed, and recovered her temper. She was like her father; apt to flash out a hot word, but never angry long.
“Now—please, Miss Deveen, why do you think I shall not be?” she asked playfully.
“Because, my dear, you have had three chances, so to say, of marriage, and each time it has been frustrated. In two of the instances by—if we may dare to say it—the interposition of Heaven. The young men died beforehand in an unexpected and unforeseen manner: Charles Leafchild and Mr. Temple——”
“I was never engaged to Mr. Temple,” interrupted Helen.
“No; but, by all I hear, you shortly would have been.”
Helen gave no answer. She knew perfectly well that she had expected an offer from Slingsby Temple; that his death, as she believed, alone prevented its being made. She would have said Yes to it, too. Miss Deveen went on.
“We will not give more than an allusion to Captain Foliott; he does not deserve it; but your marriage with him came nearest of all. It may be said, Helen, without exaggeration, that you have been on the point of marriage twice, and very nearly so a third time. Now, what does this prove?”
“That luck was against me,” said Helen, lightly.
“Ay, child: luck, as we call it in this world. I would rather say, Destiny. God knows best. Do you wonder that I have never married?” continued Miss Deveen in a less serious tone.