Part 28 (2/2)

I so loved the word as he had spoken it that I must repeat it after him.

”_The_ Helen; there was never another--until you. She was terrible as an army with banners; fair as the sea or the sunset. Men fought for her; died for her. She had hair that meshed hearts and eyes that smote.

Sometimes I think--do you believe in soul transmigration?”

My heart beat until it choked me. Some voice far in the depths of my soul warned me that I must check him--we must wait until I--he--Milly--

”Sometimes; who does not? But Prof. Darmstetter would say that it was nonsense,” I whispered, and waited without power to say another word.

”It is true; Helen is alive again, and all men wors.h.i.+p her.”

His eyes were so tenderly regardful that--I could not help it. Once more I raised mine and we read each other's souls. And the music seized us and swept us away with its rapture and its mystery.

The rest of the evening comes to me like a dream, through which I floated in the breath of flowers and the far murmur of unheeded talk. I saw little, heard little, yet was faintly conscious that I was the lodestar of all glances and exulting in my triumph. It was marvellous!

I didn't dance much. People don't at New York b.a.l.l.s. But whether I danced or talked with tiresome men, my heart beat violently because he would see the admiration I won--he would know that I, who was Helen, a Queen to these others, lived only for him, was his slave.

There was supper, served at an endless number of little tables; there was a cotillon which I danced with Mr. Bellmer. John stayed in the parlours with Aunt, and Ned danced with Milly, but I was not jealous.

Jealous of Milly, with her thin shoulders rising out of her white dress, her colourless eyes and her dull hair dressed like mine with roses?

Jealous, when his glance ever sought me; when, as often as we approached in a figure, if I spoke, his eyes answered; if I turned away my face, his grew heavy with pain?

Once in the dance I gave a hand to each of them. His burned like my own; hers was cold.

”Tired, Milly?” I asked, and indeed I meant kindly.

”No,” she said sulkily, turning to the next dancer.

I couldn't even pity her, I was so happy.

I couldn't bear to have the beautiful evening end, and yet I was glad to go home--to be alone.

When John lifted me from the carriage, his clasp almost crushed my hand; poor John, how he will feel the blow! I didn't wait to say good-night to Aunt; I didn't look at Milly, but ran away to my room.

Oh, indeed, the child doesn't love him! Milly knows no more about Love than I did two months ago. She's bloodless, cold; I do not wrong her. Some day she will learn what Love is, as I have learned, and will thank me for saving her from a great mistake. I hope she will!

I have saved myself from the error of my life. I'm not the same woman I was yesterday. It makes me blush to think how I looked forward to the adulation of the n.o.bodies at that dance. I care for no praise but his.

Why, I'll go in rags, I'll work, slave--I'll hide myself from every eye but his, if that will make him love me better. Or I will be Empress of beautiful women, if that is his pleasure, and give him all an Empress's love.

I couldn't sleep last night. I know that he could not. I know that he has been watching, waiting, as I have, for to-day, when he must come to me.

CHAPTER VIII.

A LITTLE BELTED EARL.

Feb. 4.

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