Not that she doubted she should be happy in becoming his wife, but then there was so much that went to make up the sum of perfect contentment, which she must forego upon quitting home, and which she could not hope to possess or enjoy after she had linked her fate with his. Trifles are they at best, but to have pleasure the rule, and retirement the exception to be flattered, admired, the cynosure of adoring eyes—are constituent parts of many a woman’s happiness, wanting only the love of one to make a perfect felicity. Helen was called upon to make her election. She could not, it appeared, have done both. If she flung away the pleasures of the world and the comforts of wealth, she would have to be compensated by Hugh’s passionate love and entire devotion. If she flung away his love—well, there was still her luxurious home, and—and if he was bent upon being so very, very obstinate in his selfish demands, and in the event of her not taking part in his wild scheme, were to sunder the connection between them—well, there were others moving in a higher sphere than his, who would kneel at her feet, and give to her entire and undisputed sway, so that she but bestowed her hand upon the suppliant.
“I will write to him,” she said, taking up his letter, and placing it in her desk, which she carefully locked. “Yes, I will write to him, and show to him the weakness and the folly of what he asks. Papa would be frenzied, and mamma would surely die of mortified pride if I were to take such a step. No, no; it must not be. You were not in your senses, Hugh, when you addressed that letter to me, and so thoughtless, too, to direct it here. Poor fellow!—poor dear fellow!—how he loves me!—how deeply, dearly, he truly loves me!—dear Hugh!—yes, I well remember that night of mutual confession—oh! I well remember the tumult of joy which swelled my bosom when your trembling voice, and nearly inarticulate words, told me that which I already instinctively knew, but which I so longed for you to confess, my dear, dear Hugh!”
To what result the train of reflection, now taking an opposite path to that which at first it pursued, might have led, we do not pretend to say. Helen was here interrupted by a knock at the door, followed by the voice of Chayter, who informed her young mistress that she was expected in the drawing-room, inquiries having been already made for her.
She gave a rapid glance at her face in the glass. It was pale as alabaster, but there was no further trace of the disorder her mind had suffered; and so assuming a calm demeanour, she admitted Chayter.
“I do believe I have been dozing,” she said to the sleek girl.
“I don’t believe anything of the kind,” thought Chayter; but, smiling, said—“Dear me, miss, what a thing it is to be lovely, and have a dozen noble and beautiful gentlemen grieving to death for you.”
“Chayter!”
“Ah, miss! it is as I say,” continued the girl. “I can see. There is his Grace talking of nothing but you, and the Honorable Mr. Vane hoping that you are not ill because you keep your own room, and you all the while so indifferent, dozing in your chair, and Miss Margaret looking—I beg your pardon, miss—as if she would give her ears to be taken notice of by either of them.”
“Dress me, Chayter!” exclaimed Helen, abruptly, “and, if you can, pray be silent; your volubility makes my head ache.”
Chayter understood a hint, though she did not quite comprehend whether volubility meant impertinence or overwhelming information. She gathered from Helen’s tone that she was in no humour to listen to her prattle, and she was shrewd enough to keep her tongue still when its rattle was likely to be unwelcome.