The Attic Guest: A Novel

by Robert E. Knowles

He had hold of my hand, the one that held the letter. And still I did not move or speak. But a swift thought flashed through my mind; it was of another day, when another man had thus laid siege to me—and I knew now what life's real passion meant. Yes, I will tell it—and they may smile who will—my whole soul leaped in silent ecstasy, and triumph, and hope. But the greatest of these was hope. I knew, at long last, what it meant to love and to be loved—and no queen ever gloried in the hour of her coronation as I silently rejoiced in mine. I forgot that he was stronger than I, and greater, and nobler; forgot all about the strength of intellect that I had felt as a gulf between us; all the difference, too, of life's aim and purpose was sunk and forgotten now. I even forgot that he was a minister at all, set apart for life to duties and sacrifices for which I had neither gift nor inclination. I only knew I loved him, and that we were alone together—and that he was at my feet.

"Helen," he began again, "I'm going away—and you'll forget all about me, won't you, Helen?"

It was sweet to hear him speak my name. And his words would mean, of course, that he wanted me to forget—but I knew what they really meant, and I held every tone sacred to my heart.

Then I said, and the words were soft as the breeze about us: "I won't."

I knew it was wrong—for Charlie's letter was still in the hand he held. But it was glorious. Oh, how I revelled in the words I spoke! They were simple and insignificant, I know,—but the wild breath of a new-born love pulsed through them, and I could see by the kindled face, though the dark was round about us, how his heart had leaped to recognize their meaning. And then his own soul poured itself out in a great gust of passion, pure and holy and resistless and triumphant; all the strength and silentness and self-control that had provoked my wonder through the days seemed now to be turned to leaping flame as he told me—oh, so eloquently and yet so brokenly—of such a love as I had never dreamed could be offered any maiden's heart.

"Can you see that steeple there?" he said, his voice hoarse with feeling as he pointed to the distant town; "no, it's too dark—but I can see it. I see it even in my dreams. It was under its shadow I met you first, when your uncle and I were coming from the train. And I knew then, Helen—in that instant I knew, and have known ever since, that there was only one love for me—and it was you, my darling. And I knew, I knew, who put the roses in that attic room of mine—and they made the place like heaven to me ever since. And give me this, Helen—surrender it to me," he went on passionately, his fingers closing stealthily around the letter in my hand.

"I cannot," I cried, protesting, summoning what strength I might. "Oh, I cannot—that's my letter to Charlie."

His clasp relaxed a little. "I know," he said; "that's why I want it—and you cannot, you must not, send it now."

"But you told me, you told me more than once," I pleaded; "you said how true I ought to be—you know you did," and I trembled lest his own counsel should prevail.

He seemed to sink back a little—and awful silence reigned a moment. "But I didn't know," he soon began, new earnestness in his voice, "I only knew then that I loved you—and I could have given you up, I really could—but I didn't know then that you belonged to me—to me, my darling," his voice rising to the masterful with the words; "I didn't know then that God meant you for me, and that that was why He led my steps across the sea. I could have given you up—I swear I could," he cried almost fiercely, "if it had meant nothing but a wounded life for me—but when it's you—oh, when it's you, my darling, when your life would be wounded and broken too. For you love me, my own," and his voice had the tenderest strain that ever filled woman's heart with rapture; "don't you, Helen?" he went pleadingly on; "oh, say you do—or tell me, tell me, Helen, if you don't."