"But," resumed Harley, with a calm, in which a certain deep mournfulness was apparent, unconsciously to himself—"but I trust you are reserved for a fairer fate, and a nobler spouse. I have vowed to live henceforth in the common workday world. But for you, bright child, for you, I am a dreamer still!"
Violante turned her eyes for one instant toward the melancholy speaker. The look thrilled to his heart. He bowed his face involuntarily. When he looked up, she had left his side. He did not this time attempt to follow her, but moved away and plunged amidst the leafless trees.
An hour afterward he re-entered the house, and again sought to see Helen. She had now recovered sufficiently to give him the interview he requested.
He approached her with a grave and serious gentleness,
"My dear Helen," said he, "you have consented to be my wife, my life's mild companion; let it be soon—soon—for I need you. I need all the strength of that holy tie. Helen, let me press you to fix the time."
"I owe you too much," answered Helen, looking down, "to have a will but yours. But your mother," she added, perhaps clinging to the idea of some reprieve—"your mother has not yet—"
"My mother—true. I will speak first to her. You shall receive from my family all honor due to your gentle virtues. Helen, by the way, have you mentioned to Violante the bond between us?"
"No—that is, I fear I may have unguardedly betrayed it, against Lady Lansmere's commands too—but—but—"
"So, Lady Lansmere forbade you to name it to Violante. This should not be. I will answer for her permission to revoke that interdict. It is due to Violante and to you. Tell your young friend all. Ah, Helen, if I am at times cold or wayward, bear with me—bear with me; for you love me, do you not?"