It would be in vain to describe the rapid, varying, indefinable emotions that passed through the inexperienced heart of the youthful listener, as Harley thus spoke. He so moved all the springs of amaze, compassion, tender respect, sympathy, childlike gratitude, that when he paused, and gently took her hand, she remained bewildered, speechless, overpowered. Harley smiled as he gazed upon her blushing, 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, child-like and reverent, made her tremble, lest she should deceive him—she drew a little aside, and spoke thus:
“Oh, my dear guardian, noblest of all human beings, at least in my eyes, forgive, forgive me if I seem ungrateful, hesitating; but I can not, can not 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 any thing 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 passed under the wintry trees.
“My mother,” said Harley L’Estrange, looking up, “I present to you my future wife.”
It was Christmas Eve—and lonely, By a garret window high, Where the city chimneys barely Spared a hand’s-breadth of the sky, Sat a child, in age—but weeping, With a face so small and thin, That it seem’d too scant a record To have eight years traced therein.