“I can’t, Helen.”
“Then we must say good-night here.”
Emory took the outstretched hand in his. For a moment their eyes met firmly. Then he raised her fingers to his lips.
“It is not good-night, Helen,” he said, his voice breaking as he spoke; “do you understand, it is not good-night—it is good-bye.”
Her glance did not falter, though a new sensation of pain passed through her heart. “Good-bye,” she replied, faintly, as she gently withdrew her hand.
Armstrong watched Emory’s hasty departure and Helen’s slow return to the house from his unintentional place of concealment behind the oleanders, where his footsteps had been arrested by the sound of voices. The contessa’s remarks had recalled with vivid intensity his conversation with Helen about Inez. She regarded his relations with Miss Thayer to be at least questionable, and he impatiently awaited the departure of the guests to tell Helen what had happened and to set himself right in her eyes. Now he had just heard Emory express himself even more pointedly upon the same subject.
The consciousness that he had been an eavesdropper, even though unwittingly, prevented him from carrying out his purpose. As he saw Helen drag herself rather than walk along the paths, he longed to fold her to his heart and brush away her doubts for all time; but to do this he must disclose his uncomfortable position, and this he could not do. His resentment against Emory faded away in the face of Helen’s splendid loyalty. “My heart contains no thought except of him,” he had heard her say; and he thanked God that his awakening had not come too late.
After a few moments he returned to the house from the opposite side of the garden.
“Where is Helen?” he asked Uncle Peabody, whom he met at the door.
“She has gone to her room, Jack,” Mr. Cartwright replied, without meeting his eyes. “She said she was very tired, and asked particularly not to be disturbed.”