He thanked her for her note in a formal punctilious manner which she scarcely recognized. He thanked her for the card she had sent over to the house at the time of the funeral. He appreciated her kindness in offering to see him, but it was difficult for him to talk to his friends. He had left Reddington forever. He never wanted to see Reddington again. He was going away—very far away, to Australia, possibly, where he was unknown. He was thankful that Helen’s and his friendship was still in its infancy. He was thankful he had formed no business alliances. He was thankful that his father’s act cast no shadow of shame on anyone outside his own immediate household.

Helen read Stephen’s letter until every word of it was graven on her heart. Then she put it away and faced the world without him. There was no recalling him. One cannot recall that which one has never had. One cannot pursue that which does not exist. Stephen was aware of no special bond, of no insolubility. That which to her had been one of those rare relationships that occur once in a long, long while in various groups and communities, had been to him but a “friendship in its infancy.” He classed it with a dozen others. She was just a girl he had fancied for a season.

6

THERE WAS ONLY one small light to relieve the darkness of Helen’s solitude that winter. She had always loved children. One of her aunts had a little girl—a baby barely three, who took a fancy to Helen. The baby would clamber up into her arms, and cuddle down contented like a kitten in the sun. When Helen told Cornelius Morrison that she would marry him, it was with the distinct image of a little girl of her own, clambering up into her arms and cuddling down contented.

When he asked her when she would like to be married (he waited a whole week before he broached the question: not for anything would he frighten Helen, would he seem to hasten her), she replied, “I would like to be married soon, within a few weeks.”

Her voice did not waver. The pallor of her cheeks was as steady as that of a petal of a white rose. It was Cornelius Morrison who was trembling. He could scarcely trust himself to speak. A few weeks! Did she know what marriage meant? He didn’t think so. Well, he would never teach her. It would be more than he had even hoped for, just to have her to be kind to, to take care of for a little while.

“I’ll do my very best to make you happy, Helen,” he said quietly.