Part 104 (1/2)
It would be in vain to describe the rapid, varying, indefinable emotions that pa.s.sed through the inexperienced heart of the youthful listener as Harley thus spoke. He so moved all the springs of amaze, compa.s.sion, tender respect, sympathy, child-like grat.i.tude, that when he paused and gently took her hand, she remained bewildered, speechless, overpowered.
Harley smiled as he gazed upon her blus.h.i.+ng, downcast, expressive face.
He conjectured at once that the idea of such proposals had never crossed her mind; that she had never contemplated him in the character of wooer; never even sounded her heart as to the nature of such feelings as his image had aroused.
”My Helen,” he resumed, with a calm pathos of voice, ”there is some disparity of years between us, and perhaps I may not hope henceforth for that love which youth gives to the young. Permit me simply to ask, what you will frankly answer, Can you have seen in our quiet life abroad, or under the roof of your Italian friends, any one you prefer to me?”
”No, indeed, no!” murmured Helen. ”How could I; who is like you?” Then, with a sudden effort--for her innate truthfulness took alarm, and her very affection for Harley, childlike and reverent, made her tremble lest she should deceive him--she drew a little aside, and spoke thus,
”Oh, my dear guardian, n.o.blest of all human beings, at least in my eyes, forgive, forgive me, if I seem ungrateful, hesitating; but I cannot, cannot think of myself as worthy of you. I never so lifted my eyes. Your rank, your position--”
”Why should they be eternally my curse? Forget them, and go on.”
”It is not only they,” said Helen, almost sobbing, ”though they are much; but I your type, your ideal!--I?--impossible! Oh, how can I ever be anything even of use, of aid, of comfort to one like you!”
”You can, Helen--you can,” cried Harley, charmed by such ingenuous modesty. ”May I not keep this hand?” And Helen left her hand in Harley's, and turned away her face, fairly weeping.
A stately step pa.s.sed under the wintry trees.
”My mother,” said Harley L'Estrange, looking up, ”I present to you my future wife.”
CHAPTER IX.
With a slow step and an abstracted air, Harley L'Estrange bent his way towards Egerton's house, after his eventful interview with Helen. He had just entered one of the streets leading into Grosvenor Square, when a young man, walking quickly from the opposite direction, came full against him, and drawing back with a brief apology, recognized him, and exclaimed, ”What! you in England, Lord L'Estrange! Accept my congratulations on your return. But you seem scarcely to remember me.”
”I beg your pardon, Mr. Leslie. I remember you now by your smile; but you are of an age in which it is permitted me to say that you look older than when I saw you last.”
”And yet, Lord L'Estrange, it seems to me that you look younger.”
Indeed, this reply was so far true that there appeared less difference of years than before between Leslie and L'Estrange; for the wrinkles in the schemer's mind were visible in his visage, while Harley's dreamy wors.h.i.+p of Truth and Beauty seemed to have preserved to the votary the enduring youth of the divinities.
Harley received the compliment with a supreme indifference, which might have been suitable to a Stoic, but which seemed scarcely natural to a gentleman who had just proposed to a lady many years younger than himself.
Leslie renewed: ”Perhaps you are on your way to Mr. Egerton's. If so, you will not find him at home; he is at his office.”
”Thank you. Then to his office I must re-direct my steps.”
”I am going to him myself,” said Randal, hesitatingly. L'Estrange had no prepossessions in favour of Leslie from the little he had seen of that young gentleman; but Randal's remark was an appeal to his habitual urbanity, and he replied, with well-bred readiness, ”Let us be companions so far.”
Randal accepted the arm proffered to him; and Lord L'Estrange, as is usual with one long absent from his native land, bore part as a questioner in the dialogue that ensued.
”Egerton is always the same man, I suppose,--too busy for illness, and too firm for sorrow?”
”If he ever feel either, he will never stoop to complain. But, indeed, my dear lord, I should like much to know what you think of his health.”
”How! You alarm me!”
”Nay, I did not mean to do that; and pray do not let him know that I went so far. But I have fancied that he looks a little worn and suffering.”
”Poor Audley!” said L'Estrange, in a tone of deep affection. ”I will sound him, and, be a.s.sured, without naming you; for I know well how little he likes to be supposed capable of human infirmity. I am obliged to you for your hint, obliged to you for your interest in one so dear to me.”