`But this is too much happiness,' said I, embracing her again; `I have not deserved it Helen--I dare not believe in such felicity: and the longer I have to wait, the greater will be my dread that something will intervene to snatch you from me--and think, a thousand things may happen in a year!--I shall be in one long fever of restless terror and impatience all the time. And besides, winter is such a dreary season.'
`I thought so too,' replied she gravely: `I would not be married in winter--in December, at least,' she added with a shudder--for in that month had occurred both the ill-starred marriage that had bound her to her former husband and the terrible death that released her--`and therefore, I said another year in spring.'
`Next spring.'
`No, no--next autumn, perhaps.'
`Summer, then.'
`Well, the close of summer. There now! be satisfied.'
While she was speaking, Arthur re-entered the room--good boy for keeping out so long.
`Mamma, I couldn't find the book in either of the places you told me to look for it' (there was a conscious something in mamma's smile that seemed to say, `No, dear, I knew you could not'), `but Rachel got it for me at last. Look, Mr. Markham, a natural history with all kinds of birds and beasts in it, and the reading as nice as the pictures!'
In great good humour, I sat down to examine the book and drew the little fellow between my knees. Had he come a minute before, I should have received him less graciously, but now I affectionately stroked his curling locks, and even kissed his ivory forehead: he was my own Helen's son, and therefore mine; and as such I have ever since regarded him. That pretty child is now a fine young man: he has realized his mother's brightest expectations, and is at present residing in Grassdale Manor with his young wife, the merry little Helen Hattersley, of yore.
I had not looked through half the book, before Mrs. Maxwell appeared to invite me into the other room to lunch. That lady's cool, distant manners rather chilled me at first; but I did my best to propitiate her, and not entirely without success I think, even in that first short visit; for when I talked cheerfully to her, she gradually became more kind and cordial, and when I departed she bade me a gracious adieu, hoping erelong to have the pleasure of seeing me again.
`But you must not go till you have seen the conservatory, my aunt's winter garden,' said Helen, as I advanced to take leave of her, with as much philosophy and self-command as I could summon to my aid.
I gladly availed myself of such a respite, and followed her into a large and beautiful conservatory, plentifully furnished with flowers considering the season--but of course, I had little attention to spare for them. It was not however for any tender colloquy that my companion had brought me there:--
`My aunt is particularly fond of flowers,' she observed, `and she is fond of Staningley too: I brought you here to offer a petition in her behalf that this may be her home as long as she lives, and--if it be not our home likewise--that I may often see her and be with her; for I fear she will be sorry to lose me; and, though she leads a retired and contemplative life, she is apt to get low-spirited if left too much alone.'
`By all means, dearest Helen!--do what you will with your own. I should not dream of wishing your aunt to leave the place under any circumstances; and we will live either here or elsewhere as you and she may determine, and you shall see her as often as you like. I know she must be pained to part with you, and I am willing to make any reparation in my power. I love her for your sake, and her happiness shall be as dear to me as that of my own mother.'