“Ay, Harry, her cheeks are rosier, and she is every way prettier, than when she left us.”
The winter that followed this glorious Indian Summer was a very happy winter indeed. Almost every evening Evelyn visited the tower and passed an hour in the queen’s room, where Helen played merry airs and sang joyous songs; and so pleased was Sir Henry at the way she behaved towards the baronet that he laid aside his gruff manner entirely, and addressed her always in the kindest voice; for which, we may be sure, Helen felt extremely grateful to generous Evelyn, who was playing his part to perfection. And once when the old gentleman kissed her and asked when the happy day was to be—“For, child, I am growing old; don’t put it off much longer”—Helen answered: “I promise, father, that I will yet make you the happiest man in the colony.”
At which he gave her another kiss, then, walking up to the ancient suit of armor, he began talking to it in an undertone, to the no small amusement of his friend Dick, who had heard him say that this armor was haunted by the ghost of one of his forefathers.
But nothing contributed so much to Helen’s peace of mind as a certain resolution which her father came to towards Christmastide. Sir Henry had resolved to make a visit to his native land in the company of his friend Dick, who would be obliged to return in spring. The Ark, the same vessel that had brought him to Maryland, would sail for England early in March, and the temptation to see his birth-place once more ere he died was too strong to be resisted. Sir Henry announced his intention to Helen with a tear in his eye. “But I’ll not be long gone, child. I’ll be back again before autumn.” Which when Helen heard, instead of looking pensive, as her father thought she would, she sat down to her harpsichord and played the most gleeful air he had ever heard in his life—an air which Helen herself had composed during her honeymoon at St. Joseph’s. Many times that winter did she repeat this happy air, and more than once, too, when she finished playing it, she burst into a merry laugh; and whenever Sir Henry begged to be told what pleasant thought was amusing her, she only laughed on, then ended by twining her arms about his neck and saying:
“Dear, dear father! don’t be longer away than the last day of summer.”
As for Evelyn, during those months he was happy too. Yes, he truly was, and often said to himself: “Thank God! I am awakened from the listless and supine life I was leading.” And he inwardly confessed that Helen’s refusal of him had kindled him into a man. Father McElroy, to whom he made known his resolve to enter the priesthood, was delighted, and lent him several books which it was needful that he should read; and having already taken his degree at Oxford, Sir Charles was not ill prepared for his glorious vocation.
Yes, those days were days of peace and sunshine for the young wife, and when by and by March arrived and her father bade her adieu, she did not feel lonesome for being left all alone in the tower. The Ark, she knew, was a stanch craft, and would carry Sir Henry safe across the ocean, helped by her prayers; then back in a few months he would come, to meet a joyful surprise.
Of Helen’s life during this spring and summer naught need be said. Time flew swiftly by; every opportunity brought a letter from her dear William; and now we find ourselves verging towards September, and Helen is gazing anxiously from the highest window of her home to catch sight of The Ark, which may any hour be expected. At length, on the very last day of August, The Ark appeared; and was ever ship so beautiful in Helen’s eyes?
Happy indeed was the meeting between father and daughter.
“But you look a little pale, child—a little pale,” spoke Sir Henry, as he clasped her in his arms. “Worrying, no doubt, about me. Well, we had a tempestuous voyage last spring, and coming back the sea was not much smoother; I once thought we might never reach land. But, nevertheless, here I am safe and sound, and now your cheeks must bloom again.”