“He is quite right,” she said quickly.
“Do you think so?” asked William; “but what if I only lose myself yonder in the crowd, and remain as unknown as I am now?”
“I know you will not,” said Helen. Then she recollected herself. “I mean—yes, William Oswald, I mean you will not—you will do better than that.”
He was still in the shadow, and while he could observe every change of her features, she could scarcely see the dark glow of pleasure which covered his face.
“But, Helen, you think of fame—and I will never win fame; hundreds fail every year of acquiring the mere standing ground. Is it worth hazarding quietness and peace, and giving up home as I shall do, think you, for the chance of such distinction—only small distinction, Helen—as I can ever reach?”
Her pulse began to beat more quickly—strong in those young warm veins of hers ran the tide of her ambition.
“I do not mean distinction—that is,” said the truthful Helen, who felt that in some degree she did mean it; “I mean things graver and nobler before distinction. I think the old chivalry will never die out of the world, William; to be a knight—to carry arms against all the powers of evil—to win new lands to acknowledge our king—whatever we have to work at for our bread, that remains the real work to live for, as it seems to me, and I know nothing so precious but one might peril it—nothing so dear but one would give it up for such a cause as that.”
Her voice shook a little with the excitement that made it strong—the stooping head was quite erect—the eyes shining like stars.
Mrs Buchanan sat a little apart looking at them—observing with quiet, smiling wonder how the grave face of the silent, uncommunicative William began to speak and grow eloquent too, as it bent towards the other countenance, whose thoughts were “legible i’ the eie.”
But he seemed more inclined to listen than to speak.