Helen Darley is this lady's name,--twenty two or three years old, I
should think,--a very sweet, pale woman,--daughter of the usual
country-clergyman,--thrown on her own resources from an early age, and
the rest: a common story, but an uncommon person,--very. All conscience
and sensibility, I should say,--a cruel worker,--no kind of regard for
herself, seems as fragile and supple as a young willow-shoot, but try her
and you find she has the spring in her of a steel cross-bow. I am glad I
happened to come to this place, if it were only for her sake. I have
saved that girl's life; I am as sure of it as if I had pulled her out of
the fire or water.
Of course I'm in love with her, you say,--we always love those whom we
have benefited; "saved her life,--her love was the reward of his
devotion," etc., etc., as in a regular set novel. In love, Philip? Well,
about that,--I love Helen Darley--very much: there is hardly anybody I
love so well. What a noble creature she is! One of those that just go
right on, do their own work and everybody else's, killing themselves inch
by inch without ever thinking about it,--singing and dancing at their
toil when they begin, worn and saddened after a while, but pressing
steadily on, tottering by and by, and catching at the rail by the
way-side to help them lift one foot before the other, and at last
falling, face down, arms stretched forward.
Pages:
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341