“Well, now leave me,” continued her father, waving her off. “Leave me alone a space. Go! I am heart-sick.”
For well-nigh a week Sir Henry remained inconsolable; even Don Quixote’s adventures failed to entertain him, nor his daughter’s cheeriest music and blithest songs move him to mirth. The workmen, too, whom he was fond of superintending and thus whiling away some hours each day, did not come any more to labor at the castle walls; for Sir Henry’s funds were running low and he had not wherewithal to pay their wages.
His favorite haunt was a small island christened the Island of Tranquil Delight. It was named after a pretty isle in a lovely stream which flowed hard by Sir Henry’s old home in England. But in several respects the two islands differed greatly: one was shaded by the wide-spreading branches of an oak—an oak planted in the days of William the Conqueror—and at the foot of this venerable tree lay the ruins of what once had been a hermit’s cell. The other island had a persimmon-tree growing in the middle of it, and every time Sir Henry approached this retired corner of his domain he espied an opossum waddling off; and the name of both tree and animal sounded exceedingly vulgar to his ears. But, as we have remarked, this was his favorite spot. Here he loved to come and listen to the murmuring brook, to see the trout jump up, and watch some beautiful lilies, the bulbs of which he had brought over from his native land.
One day Helen determined to go down to the Island of Tranquil Delight and make another attempt to soften her father’s heart towards her future husband. “And then,” she said to herself, “I’ll tell him that I am William’s betrothed; and oh! what a weight will be lifted off my heart.”
Accordingly, she repaired thither. But Sir Henry quickly checked her, saying: “Why, child, one might think from the interest you take in Berkeley that you were fast in love with him. Good God! child, I hope not. I—”
What else he might have spoken we cannot tell, for just at this critical moment who should be seen advancing towards them but one of Sir Henry’s oldest and best friends, a boon companion of his youth, who had just arrived from England; and in the hearty greeting and long talk that followed all thought of Berkeley was happily driven out of the old gentleman’s mind.
We may imagine what a Godsend this proved to be for Helen. And, moreover, her father’s friend was invited to make the castle his home as long as he remained at St. Mary’s, so that his visit afforded the girl not a little spare time; for Sir Henry did not oblige her to read to him a couple of hours daily nor sing and play for him on the harpsichord. Indeed, he took his watchful eye off her movements entirely; neither asked whither she was going when she went out, nor where she had been when she returned home; and language can but faintly express the blessings which Helen breathed on her father’s guest for thus unwittingly procuring her so much liberty.
Every day she spent some time in Evelyn’s company, whose newborn energy gave her as much wonder as delight. Nothing he had ever painted before was so instinct with life, showed such marks of genius, as the painting he was now engaged upon. And seeing her there so often, and hearing them converse together so familiarly, caused more than one gossip to say: “There will be a wedding ere long at the Tower.”
But Sir Charles did something else besides ply his crayon and brush: he was up every morning as early as the oriole whose nest hung close by his window, studying and otherwise preparing himself for his new life; and the stars were long twinkling in the heavens when he retired to rest at night. And if sometimes in the still hours a vision of what might have been passed before him—a vision of home, of a hearthstone of his own, of wife and children gathered around him—the sweet vision vanished, nor left a pang behind, as soon as he opened his eyes and murmured a prayer.
Thus passed away August, September, October, and Sir Henry began to hope that Evelyn had got over his folly—for such he called the notion of becoming a priest; and this hope, together with the companionship of his friend (who Helen prayed might never go away, and who had brought over from London a pipe of Canary, which he insisted on sharing with his host), caused Sir Henry’s spirits to revive greatly; and one morning he kissed Helen, and said in what for him was a very mild voice: “Child, when will you bring me the glad tidings I am yearning to hear?”