And, as I walked along, fancying what I should
do and say if Sir Edward were to appear, I
was startled by the well-known canter of his
horse. My heart beat wildly. I thought it
would have burst. The hoofs struck louder
and louder on the grass, as the horse bounded
towards me, but I did not turn round again.
I longed to see if it really were Sir Edward,
or whether I was mistaken; but I felt that
I was scarlet, and I bent my head under my
hat, and tried to hide my blushes. Sir
Edward sprang from his horse, and stopped
me. I do not know now exactly what he
said. Even then I caught at its meaning
from his face rather than heard his words;
for my brain reeled—the trees seemed to
rock, and the light to quiver and fade before
my eyes. Faint and dizzy, I thought I must
have fallen to the ground at his feet; but
Sir Edward saw how white I grew, and
passed his strong arm round me. I think
he did not dislike my weakness; for as we
stood there, he told me how, from his first
look at my face he had liked me, and cared
to see me again, and that he now loved
me dearly, and wanted me to promise to
be his wife. It was strange to me, and
yet very sweet, to be spoken to with such
loving tenderness. It brought back to
my mind the days when I had my father
and Lawrence to caress me; and, mistily,
there uprose a dim remembrance of one,
holding me tight in her dying grasp, pressing
long, soft kisses on the little cheek she had
wetted with her tears; for, with such gentle
words and ways as a mother might use to a
frightened child, did Sir Edward strive to
soothe me, till my faintiiess passed, and he
had gained my answer.

The church bells stopped.

"I must go, Sir Edward, or Paul will be
so vexed?"

"You shall neither go to church, nor call
me Sir Edward," he said, smiling; and detaining
me with playful force, he made me
sit down on a low ledge of rock that
pierced the grass close by, cushioned with
soft, purple thyme, and golden-starred money-
wort. "Helena," he continued, his eyes
pleading more earnestly than his words,
"can you forgive the wild, wicked youth
that I have spent? Will you strive to forget
what I have been, and learn to think of me
only as I now am: pardoning all that I have
done wrong for the sake of my true, deep
love?"

I did not answer. I hardly heard his last
words. A sudden doubt had filled my mind,
that cast a dark shadow across the sunshine
of my happiness.

"When you ask me to be your wife, Sir
Edward," I said, trying not to dread his
answer, "do you remember the shame that
Paul says attaches to our name? Do you
remember that my youngest brother died in
a duel?"

Sir Edward started.

"Those are your brother's rigid notions,
Helena very—orthodox no doubt—
but they are not mine. In this peaceful place,
perhaps, duelling seems a terrible thing; but
it is nonsense, of Mr. Mathewson to talk of
it so. No stain inflated on your name from
that—though if it did—still I would marry
you."

"I have always thought Paul judged Lawrie
too harshly," I said, "and I am glad you
think the same. Did you first like my face
because it reminded you of Lawrence's, Sir
Edward?"

Sir Edward answered me with a gay laugh;
but his voice trembled.

I wished the church bells to ring again,
with their peaceful, booming sound. There
seemed something half unholy in the light,
careless way in which he had spoken of duelling;
although intended to quiet my
doubts. It felt to me—yes! I am sure that
it is not my present fancy—it felt to me at
that moment, as if Lawrence stood unseen
between me and Sir Edward. The wind,
chill and damp, rustled through the trees,
with a dreary, shuddering sound. Sir Edward
rose, and walked apart for a few minutes.

"Go home, dear little Helena," he said, at
length; "I shall come and see your brother
to-morrow."

I got home quickly, and sat in the twilight
waiting for Paul.

CHAPTER THE FIFTH.

I HAD half feared that Paul might refuse
his consent to our engagement; but I was
mistaken. His opinion of Sir Edward had
that very day been greatly improved by
something he had heard in the town—some kind
or honourable deed, I forget exactly what;
and, with many admonitions as to my future
conduct, and not a few reproofs for past
misdemeanours, he gave a slow, solemn consent.

The few weeks of my engagement were
perfect happiness to me. Before, I had had
no one to sympathise with me in all my daily
joys and sorrows, or in my deeper feelings;
but, now, Edward would listen with
untiring patience and ready sympathy to
anything that came into my head. Only about
Lawrence I never talked to him. Paul's
opinions—although I could not accept them—had
yet sufficient power, by their firm persistency,
to shake my confidence in my own; and I
dreaded lest Edward's pride should ever
turn and rebel at the remembrance of what
Paul called our tarnished name, and felt glad
that Sir Edward himself never alluded to the
subject, of which I feared to remind him.
Paul's grave, sullen manners hardly vexed
me now; for I knew it was but to bear with
them for an hour or so, and that in the next
Edward would be at my side. He awoke my
interest in a thousand new things. To be
his fit companion, I felt I must read books
which I had never even seen, and these he
gladly lent me from the library at the Hall.