“That’s one thing I like in you, Hobart.
You are so perfectly willing that others should be
happy.”
“Helen, I agree with your father. Your
laugh was music, the sweetest I ever heard.
I’m more than willing that you should be happy.
Why should you not be? I have always felt that
what he said was true—what he said about
the right to laugh after sorrow—but it
never seemed so true before. Who could wish to
leave blighting sorrow after him? Who could sing
in heaven if he knew that he had left tears which
could not be dried on earth?”
“You couldn’t,” she replied with
bowed head.
“Nor you, either; nor the brave man who died,
to whom I only do justice in believing that he would
only be happier could he hear your laugh. Your
father’s wholesome, hearty nature should teach
us to banish every morbid tendency. Let your
heart grow as light as it will, my friend. Your
natural impulses will not lead you astray. Good-night.”
“You feel sure of that?” she asked, giving
him a hand that fluttered in his, and looking at him
with a soft fire in her eyes.
“Oh, Helen, how distractingly beautiful you
are! You are blooming again like your Jack-roses
when the second growth pushes them into flower.
There; I must go. If I had a stone in my breast
instead of a heart—Good-night. I won’t
be weak again.”
MORE THAN REWARD
Helen Kemble’s character was simple and direct
She was one who lived vividly in the passing hour,
and had a greater capacity for deep emotions than
for retaining them. The reputation for constancy
is sometimes won by those incapable of strong convictions.
A scratch upon a rock remains in all its sharpness,
while the furrow that has gone deep into the heart
of a field is eventually almost hidden by a new flowering
growth. The truth was fully exemplified in Helen’s
case; and a willingness to marry her lifelong lover,
prompted at first by a spirit of self-sacrifice, had
become, under the influence of daily companionship,
more than mere assent. While gratitude and the
wish to see the light of a great, unexpected joy come
into his eyes remained her chief motives, she had
learned that she could attain a happiness herself,
not hoped for once, in making him happy.
He was true to his word, after the interview described
in the preceding chapter. He did not consciously
reveal the unappeased hunger of his heart, but her
intuition was never at fault a moment.
One Indian-summer-like morning, about the middle of
October, he went over to her home and said, “Helen,
what do you say to a long day’s outing?
The foliage is at its brightest, the air soft as that
of June. Why not store up a lot of this sunshine
for winter use?”
“Yes, Helen, go,” urged her mother.
“I can attend to everything.”
“A long day, did you stipulate?” said
the girl in ready assent; “that means we should
take a lunch. I don’t believe you ever
thought of that.”
