"Must I?" she said feebly.
"We have been hard upon you, child, I daresay. I have been thinking, God knows——"
Her father's tone, almost more than his words, touched the girl's generous heart.
"It is I who am bad—wicked," she whispered, throwing her arms round his neck. "Forgive me, dear."
This whispered conversation occupied but a few seconds. Before many minutes had passed Helen and her father, seated hand in hand, were driving homewards. The sound of wheels brought Mrs. Desmond to the head of the stairs. Her face bore signs of genuine emotion, but her expression hardened when she saw her husband cross the hall leading Helen, who hung back a little.
"Oh! John," she cried, "I am thankful to see you back safely. Going out without a coat, too! No one knows the anxiety I have endured."
Colonel Desmond made no reply, but he put his arm round Helen and half-forced her upstairs.
"Wife," he said, "come here;" and they all three went into the drawing-room.
"Margaret," he went on, and as he took her unresponsive hand and forced her to approach Helen, there was an appeal in his voice that must have touched a less self-absorbed woman, "Margaret, we have all something to forgive. I think we have been a little hard on the child. I have realized that through these fearful hours—hours that I shall never forget. God has given her back to us. Let us take her as from Him, and let this night be as if it had never been except for the lesson it has taught us."
"I do not understand heroics," said Mrs. Desmond coldly, moving away a little. "Helen has behaved shamefully, but if you wish her fault to be condoned, I have no more to say."
As she spoke she seated herself in her low chair, leaning her head wearily upon her hand.
"Have you no kind word to say to her, Margaret?" pleaded the colonel, unwilling to let slip the opportunity of bringing these two together, and, manlike, making bad worse. "You are sorry, Helen? Tell your mother so."
"Yes, I am sorry," said Helen. She spoke passively, like a child saying a lesson.
She was not sullen as her stepmother, smiling ironically, fancied; but she was cold, tired, and hungry, and the painful emotions of the last few hours had temporarily exhausted her power of feeling acutely.
But Colonel Desmond heard the words, and was satisfied; the little by-play was beyond him.
"You hear her, Margaret? Forgive her freely. Think if we had lost her. Think——"
But the idea of his little girl wandering homeless and unprotected in our great London through the long night hours, was too much for the colonel. Ill and over-wrought, he turned white, staggered, and, throwing himself into the nearest chair, sobbed like a child.
Mrs. Desmond's maid sympathized too deeply with her injured mistress to find it possible to wait on Helen that night. But Helen's cause having been adjudicated a rightful one by the kitchen tribunal, where rough justice is meted out with impartiality as a rule, the poor wornout child had no lack of practical sympathy and help. She was soon in bed and asleep, and although she woke up with a curious stiff feeling all over her, she was by no means seriously the worse for her rash adventure.
She awoke in a very humble frame of mind, thoroughly ashamed of her flight, and half afraid to venture upon any more good resolutions. She knew with unerring instinct that her stepmother had not forgiven her, never would forgive her, and her heart sank as she thought of the sharp reproofs, the never-ending tasks that would most certainly be her portion for some time to come, until, perhaps, the memory of this fault was lost through the commission of another of still greater enormity.
"But I can never do anything so dreadful again, never!" said Helen to herself as she rose and dressed; "and I must be patient. Perhaps if I am she will even get to like me a little"—Mrs. Desmond was always inelegantlyshein Helen's thoughts. "I don't know that I should care for that, though. But for father's sake, dear father! I had no idea he cared so much. I must never hurt him again."
After this she went down-stairs to practise her scales as usual, only very quietly and carefully, with no unnecessary faults. Things soon fell into their old channel, and, as she had anticipated, Helen had a good many small persecutions to endure, although Mrs. Desmond carefully avoided any open conflict with her stepdaughter. And in one way things were never so bad with Helen again after that memorable evening, for she never again doubted her father's love, and, as Cousin Mary had said, love makes so many things easy.
Spring did not fulfil its early promise that year. Those few warm days were followed by long weeks of bitter east wind, during which the tender green leaves grew dark and shrivelled, whilst even the daffodils and primroses that were hawked about the streets had a pinched, careworn look, as though their whole existence had been a struggle.
It almost seemed as though the east wind had penetrated inside the comfortable house in Bloomsbury Square, and had poisoned that tranquil atmosphere. Helen was no longer the only discordant element there. Mrs. Desmond, whose calm boast it had always hitherto been that she never allowed herself to be influenced by weather, suddenly developed mysterious pains in her head which her doctor declared to be neuralgia.
"The result of worry, I suppose?" suggested Mrs. Desmond with a mental reference to Helen.
"No doubt, no doubt," he returned indifferently, for he could not imagine that this patient's worries were very serious ones; "no doubt. Ladies will worry, you know. You want tone, plenty of strong nourishment, and a change in the wind, that will soon set you up."
The good doctor sighed a little as he walked down-stairs. It was so easy to order good nourishment for the mistress of this luxurious house where there was such absolute certainty that he would be obeyed. There were other houses distant not five minutes' walk, where the very words were a mockery. Suddenly he stopped. An idea had occurred to him, and he ran back.
"By the way," he said, re-opening the drawing-room door, "I am just going on to see a poor woman who is suffering much in the same way as yourself. She keeps herself and six children by her needle, poor soul. A few glasses of port wine—"
"Really, doctor," interrupted Mrs. Desmond, "I am sick of giving. It is nothing but give, give nowadays. Why do these poor people have so many children? And, besides, there is always the workhouse. Really I have nothing to give just now."
The doctor turned away shrugging his shoulders, and nearly tumbled over Helen, who, on her way down-stairs, had stopped and overheard the foregoing conversation.
"Hullo! young lady," he cried, "what is the matter with you? Has the east wind been upsetting you too?"
"Oh, no!" returned Helen, "I only—"
"Only what?"
"Dolet me come down into the hall with you."
"Run on, I'm coming."
"Oh!" cried Helen as they reached the hall, drawing the doctor out of earshot of the waiting servant, "I have been watching for you all the morning. Do you know that my father is ill?"
"He hasn't sent for me."
"No, because he doesn't want to worry—mamma"—Helen jerked the word out—"now that she is ill herself. But all the same he is very bad. He was in the school-room with me last evening, and he nearly fainted. You must, please, see him."
"Is he in the house now?"
Helen nodded. "I can't stop a moment, Miss Walker is waiting for me. But"—turning very red and fumbling in her pocket—"father gave me a new half-crown last evening. It is no good to me; they won't let me spend it. Please give it to that poor woman."
"That I will, child, and see your father too, and—"
But the doctor's further words were lost. Helen had already disappeared, and before he had time to discover Colonel Desmond's whereabouts she had meekly submitted to Miss Walker's sharp reproof for her lengthened absence, and was deep in the intricacies of a long division sum.
Helen's sharp eyes had not deceived her with regard to her father's condition. He believed himself that he had never recovered from the effects of a chill contracted during that sad search for his little daughter. Anxious to spare her as much as possible, he had said little of his own sensations at the time. His wife's growing irritability and her evident suffering had kept him silent later, and he was sitting alone in his smoking-room planning a flight to a warmer climate whenever he could summon sufficient energy for the journey, when Dr. Russell found him and ordered him off to bed at once. Mrs. Desmond, dozing comfortably on her sofa, was considerably surprised to see the doctor re-enter the drawing-room a second time unbidden.
"Why, dear me!" she exclaimed anxiously, "I thought that you had gone long ago. Am I worse? Are you keeping anything from me? Don't be afraid to tell me my real state. I—"
"Don't be alarmed. It is nothing about yourself that I have to say. It regards your husband."
"My husband!"
The doctor, a little irritated, had spoken abruptly. Mrs. Desmond was really frightened. She forgot that she was an invalid, and started up.
"Yes, he is very ill. I have ordered him to go to bed. You had better send for a trained nurse. In the meanwhile, give me pen and ink and I will write a prescription, which you had better have made up at once."
"Oh, doctor!" cried Mrs. Desmond, trying to calm herself, "tell me at once what is the matter. I had no idea he was ill."
"No; but your little girl had. I met her on the stairs and she begged me to see her father."
"Helen!"
The word escaped from Mrs. Desmond almost involuntarily. She turned very white, and rose immediately to find pen and ink as desired. "What a cold, impassive woman!" thought the doctor as he watched her deliberate movements. How could he guess the storm that was raging in her heart, the bitterness against Helen that was poisoning her whole nature. And yet here Helen had been right and she had been wrong. It had seemed sometimes to her lately in her distorted mind as though her hitherto tranquil existence were resolving itself into an ignoble struggle between this insignificant child and herself for Colonel Desmond's affection, a love that, as husband and father, she failed to understand could have been given to them both in full measure. Since the night when she had realized how deep a hold Helen had on her father's affections, her own feelings towards her husband had suffered a change. Accustomed for many years, by reason of her wealth and a certain charm which she possessed, to be treated as a person of the first consideration in her own circle, she could not brook the idea that a chit like Helen should, as she chose to phrase it, rival her in her husband's love.
And now Helen's quick eyes had caught what hers had failed to see. Were they both going to lose him? Was it a judgment?
Not a hint of what was passing in her mind betrayed itself in Mrs. Desmond's face as she waited until the doctor had finished writing, and then said:
"You have not yet told me what it is that is the matter with my husband?"
"My dear madam, it is extremely difficult to say off-hand. He is in a high state of fever. Looks like rheumatic fever at present. Has he had a sudden chill?"
"A chill?"
"Yes; a sudden exposure of any kind?"
"Would that account for his illness?"
"I don't know about accounting for it entirely. He is thoroughly out of health, I believe. Of course a chill might have finished him off."
"He did have a chill, a very severe chill, about a fortnight ago," said Mrs. Desmond slowly, whilst an almost cruel expression flitted over her face.
"Well, then, I ought to have been sent for at once," returned the doctor, taking up his hat and gloves; and adding a few directions and promising to call again that evening, he departed.
It was quite true. Colonel Desmond was very ill indeed. The weeks went on; spring, real spring, came at last, but it brought no gladness to the anxious watchers in Bloomsbury Square, for whose eyes the overshadowing of the dark angel's wing blotted out the sunshine.
No comfort that love could devise or that money could purchase was lacking to ease the colonel's sufferings. His nurses were the most skilful that could be procured, and his wife was scarcely ever absent from his side, and always eager to anticipate his wishes—all his wishes, indeed, with one exception. Often in his hours of unconsciousness Helen's name would pass his lips; often when he lay conscious, but too weak to speak, his eyes would wander round the room wistfully as if in search of something. But if Mrs. Desmond understood his meaning she made no sign of doing so, and Helen's aching heart was left without even such consolation as she might have derived from this knowledge. Poor Helen! she had a hard time to go through. Her daily routine was in no way altered because of this awful sorrow that was hanging over her. Mrs. Desmond, who had not spoken to her stepdaughter since the day of the colonel's seizure, had sent the girl a message to say that lessons and the ordinary school-room routine were to go on as usual. If Helen desired to testify her sorrow for her part in this terrible affair, her only possible means of doing so was by the most absolute obedience. The last part of this message might have been enigmatical to Helen had she sat down to think it over. As a matter of fact she did not. She only realized that these days of sorrow and anxiety were to be lightened by no happiness of service rendered, that submission to the daily round of irksome lessons was the only token she could give of her longing desire to help her father. Helen did not submit to this at once. With passionate words of entreaty on her lips she went to seek her stepmother. Mrs. Desmond was resting; but something in her maid's manner warned Helen that entreaty would be useless. After this the girl had a hard battle with herself. First she determined to rebel, to force her way into her father's room and refuse to leave his side. She even remained for a few minutes outside his door, watching for an opportunity to enter. It opened and some one came out. Helen pressed forward, but the sound of a low moan arrested her step. That sound touched her generous heart and changed the current of her thoughts. Her father was ill and suffering, and to witness a scene between herself and his wife would distress him, would be bad for him. The very idea made Helen ashamed of herself. She turned resolutely away, her mind made up. She would obey. It was all she could do for him. Like a little heroine this girl kept the pledge she had made to herself. During the long, weary days that followed not one word of repining escaped her lips. Even Miss Walker could find nothing to complain of when the imperfect lessons were relearned so patiently, and the pale face, with its large anxious eyes, fixed itself so intently upon the allotted tasks. It was only at night, when everyone excepting those who watched in the sick-room was in bed and all was still, that Helen, looking like a little ghost, would steal down-stairs, and stationing herself on the mat outside her father's room, with her ear pressed against the door, would wait for hours listening for every sound that could be heard from within. Thus she would often remain feeling amply rewarded if she did but catch a sound of her father's voice, until pale dawn and a faint movement overhead warned her that she must return to her room or risk discovery.
At last there came a day—a languid spring day—when a more than ordinary sense of gloom seemed to oppress the now cheerless house. Martha, the maid, said but little in answer to Helen's eager inquiries; but she sighed incessantly during breakfast, and when the young lady pushed away her plate of porridge untasted, spoke of chastisements which might not improbably befall her in the near future. To these remarks Helen paid but little heed, although she was conscious that Martha's sighs were re-echoed by the other servants as they went about their work languidly, making observations to one another in penetrating whispers, throwing looks of pitiful meaning at Helen herself as, a wan, dejected little figure, she passed up and down stairs.
All this the girl saw and noted; but she said nothing, dreading, perhaps, what she might hear. Miss Walker arrived as usual, but even she seemed in no great hurry to begin lessons; and she made no remarks about her pupil's imperfectly-mastered tasks, but put the lesson-books down quickly with a sigh of relief. It was the day for French verbs, too. "J'ai, Tu as, Il—. How does it go?" thought Helen in despair. Was she going to be stupid just on this day when Miss Walker's forbearance left her no excuse? She must remember. How does it go? "J'ai, Tu—." Worse and worse. And, yes, that was Dr. Russell's footstep in the hall.
"Oh, Miss Walker! dear Miss Walker! let me go for one moment and speak to the doctor."
Before Helen knew what she was doing she had burst into tears, and Miss Walker was actually holding her hand and trying to comfort her, and telling her that her father was indeed very, very ill, but that there was no need to despair.
How that day went by Helen, looking back afterwards, never quite knew. There were no more lessons, and Miss Walker appeared in quite a new light, never once finding fault with her pupil, but actually trying to amuse her and to draw her from her sad thoughts. Helen tried to feel grateful, although not very successfully. In the first place, it was difficult to dissociate Miss Walker from perpetual fault-finding, and in the second place, although the girl dreaded being left alone, she was in no mood to be amused. She was in fact entirely preoccupied with one question—how to see her father; for see him she must, she told herself.
The day wore on. Miss Walker lingered an hour longer than her accustomed time, and then, secretly attributing her pupil's irresponsiveness and reserve to want of feeling, she took her departure. On the door-steps she met Dr. Russell.
"Well, doctor, what news?" she asked.
The doctor shook his head.
"I cannot tell," he answered. "If his strength holds out twenty-four hours longer he may pull through yet. But—"
"Poor Mrs. Desmond!" sighed Miss Walker. "How terrible for her if she is left with that unruly child!"
Dr. Russell looked sharply at his companion, and opened his lips to speak, but feeling probably in no mood for conversation, he changed his mind and, lifting his hat, walked into the house.
Helen, meanwhile, had learnt that her stepmother was resting, and, pacing up and down outside her door, was waiting until she heard Mrs. Desmond moving within, to enter and make a passionate appeal to be allowed to see her father. Terrible temptations assailed the poor child as she walked up and down the landing, all her senses on the alert to catch every sound. She heard Dr. Russell enter the sick-room and leave it. Surely he would not refuse her permission to creep in and take one look at that dear face. The doctor's footsteps died away, and silence followed. Again she thought how easy it would be to walk in. Once inside the sick-room the rest would be simple enough, for no one would dare to make a disturbance there. But Helen had her own code of honour. She had declared to herself that she would obey her stepmother implicitly during this sad time, and she would not break her word even to herself.
At last, just as the long spring twilight was fading into darkness, Helen distinctly heard Mrs. Desmond moving. Impulsive as ever, and forgetting that people when just aroused from sleep are not particularly approachable, she flew to the door, at which she knocked vigorously.
"Come in," cried Mrs. Desmond, and Helen entered.
Strange as it may appear these two had never met since the very commencement of the colonel's illness. This separation had by no means mitigated the peculiar bitterness of feeling that existed in Mrs. Desmond's heart against her stepdaughter. In her eyes Helen was the author of this terrible calamity that threatened her, and the girl's offence was heightened in her eyes by the fact that she, and not Mrs. Desmond, had first discovered the colonel's illness. Worn out with the long strain of nursing, her state of mind with regard to Helen had become more than ever morbid, and she shrank from even a passing allusion to her. As for Helen, the efforts she had made over herself during the past weeks, the sincere sorrow she had experienced for the pain that her waywardness had caused her father, had softened her whole nature. She no longer regarded Mrs. Desmond as an antagonist against whom she was justified in waging perpetual warfare, and she had told herself that, if her father was restored to her, her stepmother should have her loyal obedience. Thus determined, and relieved from the daily fret of Mrs. Desmond's constant rebukes, the bitterness had died out of Helen's heart; and now something in the elder woman's worn, aged appearance touched the girl's generous nature. Moved by a sort of pity, and by a sudden realization of their common anxiety, she forgot even her desire to see her father in a longing to help this sad-looking lady who, dressed in a white wrapper scarcely whiter than her face, which bore a half-frightened, half-bewildered expression, stood in the middle of the room with upraised hands as though dreading some sudden shock. Her eyes fell upon Helen. Her hands dropped and her face darkened. There was a second's silence, while the girl looked appealingly at her stepmother, her fingers twitching nervously.
"What do you want, Helen?" asked Mrs. Desmond at last, commanding her voice with difficulty, for not only had the sudden knocking really alarmed her, but she particularly disliked being found in dishabille.
"I'm so sorry, I do so wish I could help you!" broke from the impulsive girl.
"Sorry! did you come to tell me this?"
"No, not exactly—but—"
"I am glad of that. Sorrow is shown by acts, not words. I did not send for you, and you have chosen to break upon the rest I so sorely need, at a time, too, when—" Mrs. Desmond's voice shook, and once more pity quenched Helen's rising resentment.
"Oh! you don't know how sorry I am for you," she cried, as, running forward, she seized her stepmother's hand, and looked imploringly into her face.
For a moment Mrs. Desmond allowed her hand to remain passively in Helen's. There was something pleasant after all in the touch of those warm strong young fingers; something that spoke of warmth, of comfort, almost of support to this cold-natured woman who was feeling all her hopes crumbling about her, who was face to face with mortal sorrow and pain for the first time in her smooth easy life. One gentle hand-pressure, one caressing movement, and the chasm that divided these two might have been bridged over. But it was not to be. The remembrance of Helen's past waywardness, and of the terrible results of the poor child's foolish escapade, swept over her, obliterating more kindly feelings. She withdrew her hand coldly, and moved away a few paces. Helen, thrown back upon herself, felt her better feelings die within her, and grew half-ashamed of her uncalled-for exhibition of tenderness.
"I only came to ask you to allow me to see my father," she said, speaking unconsciously in those sullen tones that she had cultivated in old days, because she knew that they annoyed her stepmother. "I am sorry if I disturbed you, but I thought I heard you moving before I knocked."
"That I can scarcely believe, Helen," returned Mrs. Desmond, now completely master of herself. "However, whether you did or not matters little. As to your father, he is too ill to see anybody."
"He can't be too ill to see me," returned Helen desperately, her wrath rising at the notion that she, her father's child, should be classed with "anybody" as though she were a stranger. "I should not disturb him. When he had fever in India—"
Poor Helen! as usual, she had struck the wrong chord, for Mrs. Desmond could not endure any allusion to those old Indian days in which she had had no part.
"Spare me these discussions, Helen," she interrupted sharply. "It is all very well to profess so much affection for your father. Remember that but for you he would not be lying as he is now."
"But for me!"
"Yes. Dr. Russell says that he contracted his illness that evening when, distressed as he was by your disgraceful behaviour, he followed you and brought you home."
"Dr. Russell says so?"
"Yes."
"And if—if—"
"If we lose him, do you mean? In that case, Helen, you will need no words of mine, I should think, to point out the terrible consequences of giving way to temper."
To do Mrs. Desmond justice, she scarcely realized the full meaning of her words. She was not deliberately cruel, but even upon an occasion such as this she could not forget her creed with regard to young people, or let slip the opportunity of pointing a moral. Helen heard her, but said nothing. The girl stood quite still, her hands clasped, her face white and rigid, and her eyes unnaturally distended. She was trying to think; trying to take in the awful fact that it was her deed that had brought this illness upon her father. Was it true, or was she dreaming? she asked herself as all sorts of curious fancies, fancies quite distinct from this absorbing sorrow, rushed through her brain, and the pattern of the wallpaper took fantastic shapes, and the china ornaments on the chimney-piece stood out with curious distinctness, whilst a small ivory figure on the dressing-table seemed suddenly to take life and to force itself upon her attention.
Most people have experienced, at one time or another, the curious power that inanimate objects acquire over a brain half-paralysed by some sudden shock. To Helen the sensation was entirely a new one, and her voice sounded strange and far-away in her own ears when, hearing Martha's step on the landing outside, she said:
"If my father asks for me will you send for me?"
"Yes," returned Mrs. Desmond more gently. She had been touched, almost in spite of herself, at the girl's silence, and by the strained look on her face, and she half-repented of having gone so far.
But the softening came too late, and was lost on Helen, who turned away, and who did not even see Martha's indignant look when she discovered that her mistress had been disturbed.
"Go to bed quietly, Helen, and you shall have news of your father in the morning," called out Mrs. Desmond, still relenting.
But Helen paid no heed. To-morrow, that was hours and hours hence. What might not happen between now and then? This had been her doing and she might not even go to her father; might not even hold his hand or look into his face. Perhaps it was right. She deserved it all, and more, far more than that or any other punishment that could be inflicted upon her. Locking herself into her little dark room, she flung herself upon the bed and tried to think. Hours went by, and still she lay there, while all her short life passed in review before her. The happy Indian days, the return to England, her first parting with her father, and then his marriage. Poor Helen! the enormity of her anger and resentment, of her whole behaviour, in fact, since that fatal day, appeared now to her in an even exaggerated light. And then that last crowning sin that had borne such bitter consequences. That Mrs. Desmond's statement had been exaggerated never once occurred to Helen. She fully believed that she, and she only, was answerable for her father's illness, that if he died she it was who would have killed him. Many things, unnoticed at the time, recurred to her now in confirmation of this belief; whisperings and averted looks amongst the servants, subtle inuendoes of Martha's, and Mrs. Desmond's undisguised aversion. Yes, it was true. Oh, to think that her sin could have brought such terrible retribution! What would Cousin Mary say? And yet, although Helen fancied she could almost see Cousin Mary's grave, pained look, that kind friend was the only human being for whose companionship the girl craved through the long hours of that terrible night. Very long the hours were, and very slowly they went by as the poor child lay between sleeping and waking, always with the one idea present with her; listening for every sound, but feeling unworthy even to creep down and lie outside the sick-room door.
Pale dawn came at last. Helen lay and watched its coming until gradually a numbness crept over her, and presently, worn out with her long vigil, her eyes closed, and she slept. Ten minutes later a light tap came at the door. The girl started up. Had she overslept herself? No; the room was still nearly dark. What could the summons mean?
Still dressed, just as she had first thrown herself on the bed, pale and heavy-eyed, with trembling fingers she opened the door. One of the night nurses stood outside. Helen caught her breath, while the nurse started a little at this sad-faced apparition.
"Don't be frightened, child," said the latter kindly, putting her hand on the girl's arm. "Your father is better. He has slept for three hours, and is now conscious, and he has asked for you."
It was lucky that the nurse had hold of Helen's arm, for, strung up as she was, the good news almost overcame her, and she staggered forward. But the necessity for self-command soon restored her to herself. A few minutes later she was kneeling by her father's side—such a changed father!—with her cheek pressed against his hand. On the other side stood Mrs. Desmond, bending over him. He opened his eyes, and they rested tenderly, lingeringly on Helen; then feebly taking his wife's hand he placed it in Helen's. After this, exhausted by the effort, he closed his eyes again, while an expression of contentment flitted over his face. He had given these two to one another. Whatever happened to him, surely Helen would be cared for now; his wife would learn to understand her for his sake.
Dimly Helen understood her father, and inwardly she registered a passionate vow of loyalty to his wishes. For the second time her clinging fingers closed round her stepmother's irresponsive hand. Mrs. Desmond made no movement. She accepted the charge, but she obstinately withheld the love that might have made that charge an easy one. The little wan figure creeping into the darkened room had had no power to move her. But the meeting between father and daughter, the quiet content that had come to her husband with Helen's presence and that all her tenderness had failed to produce, these things she noted with jealous eyes, and they gave a fresh impulse to her morbid feelings with regard to her stepdaughter. Even here, by the sick-bed, Helen was first. Colonel Desmond's first conscious request had been to see his child. The scene did not last long. Mrs. Desmond quickly, almost impatiently, motioned to Helen to go, and Helen obeyed unhesitatingly. Henceforward she told herself, as in the glad morning light she knelt in prayer for her father, there must be no more disobedience. If this awful shadow might pass away, if the consequences of her sin might be averted, her whole life should be spent in trying to redeem her fault. Pledges we often make, how lightly! But our little Helen was made of sterner stuff. Wilful and wayward as she was, there was a strain of that fibre in her, possibly an inheritance from some martyred Irish ancestor, from which saints and martyrs have been made. That, and the few following days of alternating hope and fear, were an ordeal which left a mark upon her never to be afterwards effaced. When, one morning, Dr. Russell himself came to her and told her that her father was out of danger, she received the news gravely, almost solemnly, for in the midst of her joy and thankfulness she could not forget that she had been, in a certain sense, taken at her word, and that her life was henceforth consecrated to the fulfilment of the promises she had made in her hour of distress.
An old orchard, its trees gnarled and moss-grown, their blossoms lying thick upon the grass beneath. A little to the left the embowered gables and red chimneys of an old house. On the right, and stretching away towards the horizon, a wide expanse of quiet meadows starred with buttercups, and intersected by tall hawthorn hedges. Over all the delicate blue sky of an English summer day.
It was a typical midland landscape, a landscape that possesses a quiet charm peculiarly its own; and Helen, swinging herself gently to and fro in a hammock under the bright sunshine, felt as much at home as though Longford Grange had been her habitation for as many years as it had been days.
The sad days in Bloomsbury Square were things of the past. The dreary house was shut up; the precious china was carefully packed away, the chairs and tables were shrouded in their dust-sheets, and Mrs. Desmond's household gods were temporarily, at least, at peace. It had all been accomplished in far too great a hurry to please that lady; but Dr. Russell's orders that the colonel was to leave London directly he was well enough to be moved were peremptory, and Mrs. Desmond was forced to give way to necessity. The idea, too, of a country life was by no means pleasant to her, and she was wondering in a bewildered way what spot to fix upon as a temporary resting-place when a letter arrived from her half-sister, Mrs. Bayden, the wife of a country clergyman, saying that Longford Grange, a house within a quarter of a mile of the Rectory, was to let, and might suit her sister's purpose. The idea did not immediately approve itself to Mrs. Desmond, who disliked the too close neighbourhood of poor relations; but the colonel, hearing of the suggestion, expressed a desire to fall in with it, and the matter was settled. Helen's fate trembled in the balance for a few days, as Miss Walker found herself unable to leave town, and Mrs. Desmond seriously contemplated leaving her troublesome stepdaughter behind in the governess's charge. Upon the first suggestion of such a plan to the colonel, however, he spoke so decidedly of his determination not to be separated from Helen that Mrs. Desmond saw that, for the present at least, it was useless to argue the point. Dr. Russell, meeting his little friend upon the stairs one day clenched the matter by remarking upon her altered looks, and he went out of his way to urge upon her parents the necessity of change of scene and a life of freedom for their child after the evident strain she had undergone during her father's illness. Mrs. Desmond scarcely relished this advice; but even she looked a little anxiously at the girl, and wondered rather uncomfortably whether Helen's curiously changed manner could be due to physical causes. As for Colonel Desmond, he took fright at once. Helen must have a holiday, must run wild if necessary, he declared. He was very weak still, and in the full enjoyment of an invalid's privileges. Although his wife positively shuddered at the idea of Helen's running wild, she did not attempt to gainsay him, and after this there was no more discussion about the matter. Helen went to Longford Grange without a governess, and with a tacit understanding that, under certain restrictions, such as early rising and punctual attendance at meals, she was to be allowed to do pretty much as she pleased.
But in spite of her father's tenderness, of the charms of a country life, and the delights of freedom, Helen did not recover her health or her spirits directly. Perhaps she was by nature a little morbid, and, if so, the unnatural repression to which she had been subjected during the past year, and the want of wholesome sympathy and young companionship had tended to dangerously foster such a quality. She was always brooding over what was past, and exaggerating her own failings. Morbidly conscious that she was an object of dislike to her stepmother, she credited Mrs. Desmond with a depth of feeling of which that cold-natured woman was incapable. Anxious to show her true contrition for what was past, she was perpetually fidgeting her stepmother with small attentions which Mrs. Desmond not only failed to appreciate, but which she ascribed to motives of which Helen's generous, open nature was incapable. Colonel Desmond, indeed, looked on smiling. What an improvement in Helen! To be sure he missed the child's bright ways and frank outspoken talk. But for this, and for his little daughter's white, oldened face, he would have begun to believe that his Margaret's training had worked miracles. But to see these two beginning to understand one another was worth anything, even his illness. No doubt it was her stepmother's tender sympathy through that sad time that had brought Helen to this mind.
So reasoned the colonel, and was content. Meanwhile he and his wife became once more a good deal absorbed in each other's society, and Helen was left to her own devices. Lonely Helen, lying in her hammock on this bright summer's day thinking of many things about which young heads should not concern themselves, heard a step in the orchard, and starting up hastily, saw a young girl, apparently about her own age, coming towards her.
"One of those tiresome girls from the Rectory, I suppose," she said to herself discontentedly. Helen had as yet only seen her stepmother's relatives in church, Mrs. Desmond having hinted very strongly to her sister that, owing to the colonel's state of health and her own shattered nerves, intercourse between the Grange and Rectory would be necessarily restricted, especially as regarded the young people. Agatha, however, the eldest Rectory girl, had been presented to her aunt, in whose eyes she had found favour, as Helen knew to her cost, having smarted more than once under an unflattering comparison between herself and the young lady in question.
Helen took stock of her as she advanced, a prim little figure dressed with exceeding neatness. Her face was small and well-featured, and she had pretty dark eyes and smooth coils of brown hair, but her lips were thin and their expression unpleasing. She walked, too, with a short, ungraceful step, and there was an air of demure superiority about her which was scarcely calculated to impress favourably those of her own age at least. "I don't like her," said Helen to herself as Agatha approached and held out her hand with a patronizing air, observing:
"I suppose you are Helen Desmond?"
"I suppose I am," returned Helen a little mischievously, sitting up in her hammock, but still swinging herself slowly to and fro.
Agatha's thin lips tightened. She had been annoyed that Helen had not come forward to meet her; now she began to think her new acquaintance not only ill-mannered but impertinent. "I daresay you don't know who I am," she went on loftily.
"Oh, yes! I do. You are Agatha Bayden."
"How do you know that I am Agatha?"
"Because I saw you on Sunday boxing your little brother's ears behind the churchyard wall. One of the choir boys said, 'That's Miss Agatha.' I'm not sure he didn't say Agatha."
Agatha turned crimson.
"I have a message for you," she said, scorning a direct reply. "You are to come to lunch with us to-day, and to spend the afternoon with us."
"Who says so?" asked Helen not very courteously.
"My mother has invited you, and my aunt says that you may come," returned Agatha still loftily.
The mention of Mrs. Desmond recalled Helen to her better mind. She jumped out of the hammock.
"I must make myself tidy first," she said with a smile and a sudden change of tone that perplexed her companion. "I oughtn't to have kept you standing here. Will you come in and sit down while I get ready?"
"I have already spent half an hour with my aunt, and I think I had better not disturb her again," said Agatha primly.
"Oh, no! of course not," returned Helen. "We will go to my room by the backstairs, then we sha'n't disturb anybody."
The two girls went off together. Agatha, whose temper had been a good deal ruffled, and who considered herself vastly Helen's superior, was not disposed to be friendly, although Helen was already ashamed of her blunt speeches, and tried to make amends for them by chatting pleasantly as they went along. Her companion's frank and natural manner was not what Agatha had expected, and she remained stiffly silent. On the backstairs they encountered Martha, who was on her way to find Helen, and who did not improve Agatha's temper by sending her to wait in the library, while Helen was carried off to be tidied under Martha's own eye, after which process she was to speak with Mrs. Desmond before leaving the house.
"I hope, Helen, that you will behave properly," said that lady when Helen, a little shrinking and downcast, as she always was now in her stepmother's presence, appeared before her. "I scarcely like letting you go, my sister's children are so well brought up. Pray be careful, and avoid, if you can, doing anything dreadful. Don't loll in your chair at the table, and please only speak when you are spoken to."
"I—I will do my best," answered Helen, struggling with her rising temper. "Is that all?"
Mrs. Desmond looked at her sharply. "I hope you are not going to sulk, Helen. I should not have said this had I not recollected your forward behaviour when my cousin, Miss Macleod, was with us. Take example from Agatha. She is really a charming girl. So gentle and ready to please! so full of deference for her elders! With a little polish—"
"Agatha can get into a passion and box her little brother's ears when she thinks that no one is looking," burst out Helen.
"Helen, you shock and disgust me. How can you repeat such low gossip?"
"It isn't gossip," cried Helen. But she was already repentant. "I am sorry I said it, though; it was mean," she went on. "I will try to behave as you wish me to. But oh! IwishI might stop at home."
"Nonsense, Helen! Go at once. I have nothing more to say to you, and I hope you will keep your word and neither say nor do anything to shock my sister."
The girl looked at Mrs. Desmond for a moment and then turned away impatiently, half-choked with the indignant words that rose to her lips. The door closed rather noisily behind her as she rushed out into the large square hall, where her father stood sunning himself in the open doorway.
"Dear, dearest father!" she cried, running up to him and flinging her arms round his neck.
"Don't smother me, child," he returned, laughing and gently disengaging himself from her embrace.
"Why, Helen," he went on, "tears! What is the matter?"
"Nothing, nothing," cried the girl eagerly, dashing them away. "I am going to the Rectory to spend a long day. I must not keep Agatha waiting any longer. Good-bye!"
Just then the drawing-room door opened and Mrs. Desmond appeared. She misinterpreted the situation, of course, but she made no remark as Helen ran past her, although she threw an indignant glance at the girl.
"What is the matter with Helen?" asked the colonel rather sharply as his wife joined him.
She smiled disagreeably.
"Need you ask me? You have heard the child's story."
"I have heard no story. But I did hope that we should have no more of these painful scenes."
"So did I."
This was all that passed on the subject, but once more a shadow fell between husband and wife.
Meanwhile the girls quickly traversed the short distance that separated the Grange from the Rectory, where Helen was coldly greeted by Mrs. Bayden, a hard-featured woman, superficially not at all like her sister either in manner or appearance. Their respective lots in life, too, had been very different. Mrs. Desmond, the only daughter of their father's first wife, had been early adopted by her mother's relations, from whom she had inherited a considerable fortune. Mrs. Bayden was the eldest of a numerous second family, and had married a poor clergyman while still young. All her life had been spent in a struggle with what is perhaps harder than real poverty—the struggle to keep up appearances on a small income. Her husband was a quiet, well-meaning man, entirely wrapt up in his five children, and terribly oppressed by the sameness and monotony of his parish work. He was inclined to be fretful with his wife when things did not run smoothly; but he shifted even his natural responsibilities upon her shoulders, and although a little obstinate at times, like all weak people, he always in the end deferred to her judgment.
Mr. and Mrs. Bayden and their two youngest children, Grace and Harold, were in the drawing-room awaiting the girls' arrival, for the luncheon-gong had already sounded before they entered.
"I knew we should be late," said Agatha spitefully. "Helen took such a time to beautify herself."
"Well, go at once and take off your hats," returned Mrs. Bayden impatiently, "and then come straight to the dining-room."
The girls obeyed. Helen, who was suffering from an unusual access of shyness, was very glad to escape the gaze of so many pairs of curious eyes, although the relief was only temporary, for immediately she was seated at the luncheon-table she felt the scrutiny renewed.
"Agatha, my child, you look tired," said Mr. Bayden anxiously. The Baydens were always in a tremor over their children's health.
"I am tired," remarked Agatha fretfully.
There was a diversion while various restoratives were pressed upon Agatha by her parents, and then Mr. Bayden, who was kind-hearted, turned to Helen and asked her how she liked Longford.
"I think it is a lovely place," said Helen enthusiastically.
Agatha and Grace sniggered, while their elders smiled a little contemptuously.
"You don't call this flat country lovely, do you?" asked Mrs. Bayden.
"Is it flat?" returned Helen, colouring. "I never thought about that."
"Perhaps, mother, Helen will think Dane's End lovely, and will call the open ditch a stream," suggested Agatha.
"I only meant," began Helen, "that after London—"
"Yes, yes," interposed Mr. Bayden, "of course the country is refreshing after London, and the Grange is pretty. The church, too, is picturesque. You admire our fine old church, don't you?"
"Yes," said Helen faintly. She had no eye for architectural beauties, and the scantily-filled church had struck her on Sunday as cold and dreary.
"I suppose that our village singing sounded very poor to you after that in the London churches," went on Mr. Bayden, the faintest suspicion of a self-satisfied smile dawning in the corners of his mouth.
"Yes," said Helen again, but with more decision. Her musical ears had really been tortured by the discordant sounds produced by a choir of village boys habited in soiled surplices, and engaged apparently in a desperate attempt to outshout one another. Her frank assent was unfortunate, however. Mrs. Bayden was proud of her choir, which she managed, as she did everything else in the parish, but being entirely destitute of musical taste she was quite unaware that the results obtained by her efforts were not musically satisfactory, although a volume of sound was not lacking. Helen was dimly conscious that she had said something wrong, and her relief was considerable when Harold, a lad of about twelve, who was seated beside her, looked up into her face with his merry blue eyes and said:
"I think our boys make a horrid noise, especially Jim Hunt. I saw you looking at him. You can hear his voice over everybody's. I don't sing at all when I sit by him."
"Harold, how wicked of you!" said his mother. "You don't deserve the privilege of sitting in the choir. Jim Hunt is an excellent boy, and his voice is most useful."
Agatha, her mother's echo, murmured, "How wicked!" upon which Harold told her to "shut up."
"Mother, do you hear that?" cried Agatha in her high-pitched tones.
"Harold, Harold!" interposed Mr. Hayden nervously, "be good, pray. You don't want to be punished again, do you?"
"She has no business to interfere," persisted Harold. "Mother may say I'm wicked; she sha'n't."
"Harold!" cried Mrs. Bayden in a warning voice, after which there was an instant's pause while hands wore joined, and Mr. Bayden murmured a hasty and inaudible grace.
This over, Helen, accompanied by Grace and Harold, withdrew to the school-room, Agatha remaining with her parents.
"Well, Agatha, and how did you get on at the Grange this morning?" asked her father with some curiosity; while Mrs. Bayden, who for reasons of her own was particularly anxious that Agatha should produce a favourable impression on her aunt, looked up eagerly.
"I got on as well as possible, at least until I found Helen. Aunt Margaret kept me with her for ever so long, and she asked me to go and see her again."
"Did she? Well, perhaps she means to be kind after all," said Mr. Bayden. "What do you say, mother?"
Mrs. Bayden was knitting vigorously, and she only replied by an impatient movement. Agatha went on.
"As for Helen, I don't wonder that she annoys Aunt Margaret. She was quite rude and disagreeable to me at first. Do you like her, mother?"
"I can't say I do. Still I haven't much pity for my sister. Why did she marry at all at her time of life, and above all, why did she marry a man with a child? She ought to have considered her nephews and nieces before she took such a step."
Poor, over-anxious Mrs. Bayden, who had always looked forward to a time when her rich lonely sister would take a fancy to one, if not more, of her children, considered Helen as an interloper, and found it hard to tolerate the girl's very existence. In addition to this, quite enough about Helen's past misdeeds had been said to prejudice her in the Baydens' eyes. Under the circumstances it can scarcely be wondered at, perhaps, that her reception at the Rectory was not a very warm one. Agatha and her mother, indeed, considered that they had done all that was needed, but Mr. Bayden had some qualms of conscience with regard to the lonely young stranger within their gates.
"Poor child!" he said, as he rose from his chair preparatory to starting on his usual afternoon potter in his parish, "we must be kind to her, Agatha. I daresay she has had a rough bringing up."
"She has had every advantage with my sister," snapped Mrs. Bayden. "She was exceedingly brusque at luncheon, and she ought,at least, to have learnt better manners by this time. Our choir isn't good enough for her, indeed! I only hope that her example won't make Harold naughtier than ever."
"I don't see how anything could do that," observed Agatha.
"Well, Agatha," returned her mother persuasively, "I think you had better go upstairs to the others now. Your aunt doesn't care for Helen, I know, but still she mightn't be pleased if she thought that we had neglected her."
Agatha obeyed rather reluctantly. Mrs. Bayden's eyes followed her with admiring glances. Agatha was her mother's idol. Not disposed to be over gentle even with her children, to all of whom she was honestly devoted, Mrs. Bayden could never find it in her heart to speak a hasty word to Agatha. The girl was well aware of her mother's weakness, and although, to do her justice, she was an excellent and helpful daughter, she had imbibed so high an opinion of her own talents, and of herself generally from this circumstance, that to everyone, save her parents, she was often insufferably overbearing. Then, too, she had been made the sharer of all her mother's hopes and plans, and neither Mr. nor Mrs. Bayden had any secrets from her. Her opinion was a distinct factor in the family councils, and her sharp, often pert, remarks about their friends and neighbours were rather encouraged than checked. Even her two big brothers were not allowed to tease her with impunity when they were at home for their holidays, whilst her authority was upheld in the rigid obedience that she tried to exact from Grace and Harold.
Perhaps for all her faults and foibles Agatha was rather to be pitied than blamed, but Helen was scarcely likely to see them in that light, and she may be pardoned for experiencing a sensation of disgust on seeing Agatha enter the school-room and calmly sweep away some chips of wood and cardboard out of which Harold, with some wire and a few rough tools, was trying to construct what he called an organ. Harold had a taste for mechanics, and was always dreaming of inventions. He did not often find such a sympathetic listener as Helen, to whom he was explaining his plans, and who was deeply interested in the description of his designs for cardboard organ-pipes and other contrivances.
"I think tin would be better," she was saying gravely as Agatha walked in. "I will ask my father—"
"Harold, you know that you oughtn't to make such a mess in this room. Clear it away at once."
Harold, whose face had been glowing with enthusiasm, looked up and saw his sister. His whole expression altered.
"I sha'n't," he said.
"Sha'n't indeed! you'll have to," and Agatha raised the table-cloth whereon the litter lay, and swept Harold's treasures on to the floor.
"There, now, you have spoilt those pipes, and they took me hours to make," screamed Harold, rushing at his sister and pushing her backward. "I hate you. You are a horrid disagreeable thing. I will never forgive you."
"You bad, wicked boy!" cried Agatha, holding his hands; "this is the end of all those fine promises that you made last Sunday. Supposing you were to die in one of those dreadful passions, you would go to hell."
"It is you who are wicked to speak like that," interposed Helen, unable to witness the scene in silence any longer. "You provoked him, you know you did."
"Children, children, what is the matter?"
The combatants stopped their hostilities and turned round. Mrs. Bayden, on her way upstairs, had heard the noise of the scuffle and had appeared upon the scene.
"It is Harold, of course, as usual," said Agatha, recovering her self-possession at once. "He will do his silly carpentering here, and you know you have often told him he is only to do it in the barn. I was only trying to make him obedient, and he flew at me and pushed and kicked me."
"Oh, Harold!" sighed Mrs. Bayden, "how could you? Fancy if you had injured your sister seriously."
"It isn't true," began Harold, but his mother stopped him.
"I want to hear no more. I have heard too much already. That rubbish"—pointing to the wood and cardboard on the floor—"must be given to me. Pick it up."
Harold, his face dark and lowering, obeyed, and the "rubbish," tenderly placed in a wastepaper basket, was handed to his mother.
"You will take care of it, won't you?" he said, with a little break in his voice.
"No, Harold, I must do my duty. You must be punished for your conduct. I shall burn these things."
Harold could not guess all that her mistaken sternness cost his mother. With a cry like that of a wounded animal he rushed away, and Helen stepped forward.
"Please don't burn those things," she said, "Agatha really did provoke him. I should have been quite as angry, perhaps angrier, if anyone had treated me as she did Harold."
"I am quite ready to believe that, Helen," returned Mrs. Bayden with a curious smile. "When you remember the terrible consequences of your own conduct, you will not wonder that I am anxious to save Harold from the scourge of an ungoverned temper."
Helen shrank back as though she had received a blow. Mrs. Bayden was quite right, she thought. Her interference could never do any good. But she was still smarting under the sense of injustice, although she was not the sufferer upon this occasion.
"Why didn't you tell your mother that Harold wasn't to blame?" she asked Grace indignantly when Mrs. Bayden and Agatha had gone, and those two were left alone.
Grace shrugged her shoulders.
"It wouldn't have been any good," she said; "mother always takes Agatha's part. Besides, she and Harold are always quarrelling. It's just as often his fault as hers. I wish he was at school like the other boys. But come along out into the garden. We can take books with us and read."
Nothing loth, Helen agreed. They found a shady spot, and Grace, who liked nothing so much as reading, was soon deep in her book. But Helen was restless and ill at ease. Her attention wandered, and she could think of nothing but Harold.
"I think I will go for a stroll," she said presently. "You needn't come. I like wandering about by myself."
Grace was too comfortable to move. She merely nodded her assent, and went on with her book.
Thus left free to follow her own devices, Helen searched all over the garden for Harold, but without success. She was just giving up the search in despair when she heard a rustling noise inside the shrubbery. Pushing her way amongst the bushes with some difficulty, she came upon a spot that had been cleared, and there she found Harold digging away with might and main. He was so intent upon his work that he did not at first notice her approach, and she watched him with some amusement as he flung down each spadeful of earth, striking it sharply several times with his spade as he did so.
At length he became aware that he was no longer alone, and looked round sharply.
"However did you find me out?" he asked.
"I have been looking for you, and I heard a noise in the shrubbery and guessed that I might find you here."
"I'm glad you've come. I liked you directly I saw you; and you took my part."
Helen was silent. She had rather a wise little head on her shoulders, and an instinct warned her not to discuss his sister's behaviour with Harold.
"Don't you wonder what I'm doing?" he went on.
"You are digging, aren't you?"
"Yes; I come here when I am too angry to do anything else, and I slash away at the earth until I grow quite happy again."
Helen smiled.
"What a good idea! I can guess exactly how you feel."
"Can you? Well, don't tell anyone. If Agatha knew, she would be sure to say that I was in mischief, and then I should be forbidden to come here again."
"I won't say a word. Go on digging, and I will stop and watch you."
Harold threw down his spade.
"I don't want to dig any more. I say, shall we sit on the top of the wall and talk? There is a place just there overlooking the road from where one can see everything that goes by without being seen one's self."
Helen needed no persuasion. Assisted by Harold, who climbed like a cat, she easily scaled the wall, and, sheltered from observation by the leafy branches of an overhanging copper beech, they soon fell into pleasant talk. So deeply interesting were their mutual confidences, that it was not until a glimpse of Mrs. Desmond's victoria going by rapidly recalled Helen to a recollection of the impropriety of her present position that she remembered Grace, whom she had left so unceremoniously, and who would probably be seeking her, as the afternoon was wearing on.
"What's the matter?" asked Harold, seeing Helen's face fall.
"There is mamma going to the Rectory. She said that she might fetch me."
"Why don't you say mother? Mamma sounds so funny."
"Because she isn't mymother."
Both were silent for a moment. Harold's questioning blue eyes looked curiously into Helen's face, but it betrayed nothing. Helen was too deep-natured to wear her heart upon her sleeve. She knew quite well that Mrs. Desmond disliked the word mamma, considering it underbred; but the girl had told herself that she would call no stranger mother, and she kept her word.
"I suppose that I ought to have been with Grace all this time," she said, breaking silence. "Come along, Harold, and let us find her quickly."
"Never mind Grace. She never cares for anybody when she has a book, and she didn't want you to come at all. I expect it is about tea-time, and the best thing we can do is to go straight back to the school-room."
Unfortunately, in order to reach the house it was necessary to pass right under the drawing-room windows. Mrs. Desmond's victoria had deposited her at the Rectory some time before Harold and Helen could return thither, and she clearly discerned the two untidy little figures scudding across the lawn.
"Dear me! Is that Helen?" she asked. "I told her to be ready when I called for her."
Mrs. Bayden, who, with Agatha's assistance, was dispensing tea, looked up nervously.
"Helen! I hope not. I thought that the school-room tea had gone up some time ago. Agatha, would you—"
"It is Helen," broke in Agatha abruptly. "She ran away from Grace and left her alone all the afternoon. Of course she has been with Harold. Birds of a feather, you know. Shall I tell her to come to you at once, Aunt Margaret?"
"Do, my dear," said Mrs. Desmond. "I wish Helen were more like your girl, Susan," she went on as Agatha left the room.
"Agatha is one in a thousand," returned Mrs. Bayden, her sharp voice growing almost soft.
"Yes," observed Mr. Bayden plaintively. "If all our children were but like her! There's Harold now. Would you believe it, I met him in the garden early in the afternoon, and I spoke to him quite gently, and he rushed past me saying, 'I hate you all, I hate you all!' Such terrible language to use to a father."
"I'm afraid that it is all your own fault, Richard," returned Mrs. Desmond unsympathetically. "You spoil your children. I positively shudder to think of what the world will come to when—"
"But you yourself admit that Agatha is all that can be desired," interrupted Mrs. Bayden impatiently. She was by no means pleased that her husband should expose Harold's naughtiness to an outsider.
"Agatha seems a good girl," replied Mrs. Desmond coldly. "She needs forming, of course; but considering that she has spent all her life in a country village one must not blame her for that. As for Harold, why don't you send him to school?"
"Because, Margaret, I can't afford it at present," said Mrs. Bayden bluntly.
"An excellent reason, my dear Susan. It is a pity that you can't manage, though, to discipline him at home. Why don't you take him in hand, Richard?"
Mr. Bayden sighed deeply and looked imploringly at his sister-in-law.
"How can I?" he said. "My children are so dear to me. And then I have other cares. The parish—"
"Oh! by the way, talking of the parish," interrupted Mrs. Desmond, "things seem to be very badly managed here. Two different families have been at the Grange begging since we came. There can't be any poverty here, and besides—Why, Helen, what have you been doing to yourself?" This last was addressed to her stepdaughter, who had been marched down by Agatha, and who was now brought summarily into the drawing-room.
"I—I have only been in the garden," said Helen, painfully conscious of tumbled hair, soiled hands, and torn frock.
"Only in the garden! What are those green marks on your dress?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said Helen, beginning to brush herself vigorously and making bad worse.
"You don't know! It looks to me as if you had been climbingtrees."
"Oh, no! indeed I haven't," said Helen, thankful to be able to deny so terrible an accusation.
"What have you been doing, then?"
"I—I only climbed a wall."
"Climbed a wall! What for?"
"To sit there."
"This is the child for whom no expense has been spared," observed Mrs. Desmond tragically to her sister. "Dancing lessons, drilling lessons, deportment, this last especially, have been dinned into her from morning till night. And yet your Agatha knows how to behave herself better than she does."
There was a pause. Mrs. Desmond indulged in a deep sigh, and the Baydens, a little nettled at this half-contemptuous reference to Agatha, remained silent.
"Come," went on the injured lady presently, addressing Helen. "I am sorry that I ever allowed you to come here. I knew that you would disgrace me. Say good-bye to my sister."
"Good-bye!" said Helen, giving her hand awkwardly to Mrs. Bayden.
"Oh! you must let her come again," observed good-natured Mr. Bayden. "She didn't mean to do anything wrong, I'm sure. And I daresay it was quite as much Harold's fault as hers. Pray, don't be angry with the poor child."
Ejaculating a few conciliatory remarks of this kind, Mr. Bayden accompanied his sister-in-law to her carriage, standing bareheaded in the porch until she passed out of sight.
"Really," he observed fretfully as he re-entered the drawing-room and threw himself into an armchair, "really, my dear, you must shield me from your sister as much as possible. I shrink from no sacrifice for my dear children's sake, as you know; but pray don't let her attack me again. It was most unfeeling of her to speak as she did about the parish. Indeed, it was worse than unfeeling, it was positively disrespectful to speak in that way to a clergyman. I, too, who toil in my parish from one year's end to another! She positively spoke as if I didn't do my duty."
"Do you think, Richard, that it is pleasant for me to hear our children slightingly spoken of?" returned Mrs. Bayden. "But I bear it, and so must you. As for parish matters, Margaret knows no more about the management of a parish than she does about children. It won't do to quarrel with her, though."
"Well, spare me, spare me, that is all I ask," said Mr. Bayden. "Really I feel half sorry for that poor child Helen."
"I expect that she is quite able to take care of herself," answered the wife. "You mustn't forget that she nearly killed her father by her behaviour in London."
"That was very shocking, certainly," murmured Mr. Bayden. "Give me another cup of tea, my dear. By the way, Betty Smith has been attacking me again about her daughter. These people are never satisfied. They are a most ungrateful set. And Joseph Hall spoke to me about my new stole. Did you ever hear such impertinence? Just as if I were accountable to my people for anything I choose to do."
This, the waywardness of their flock in indulging in every Briton's birthright, the privilege of private judgment, was a congenial topic with the worthy couple. In its discussion they temporarily forgot their grievances against Mrs. Desmond, who, meanwhile, with Helen seated beside her, drove home in silence. The root of her increased bitterness against her stepdaughter lay in that little incident that had occurred in the morning. But of this Helen could not be aware, and the poor child, recalling all her good resolutions, began once more to exaggerate her own shortcomings, and to wonder miserably why it was that she was so hopelessly stupid and bad. And yet, in spite of everything, she did not regret her visit to the Rectory. Agatha and Grace might be cold and disagreeable, and sneer at her whenever she opened her lips, but Harold with his eager face and his odd fancies was quite different. If only she and Harold might meet sometimes, she felt that she could bear the snubs of his family with a good deal of equanimity. And in planning how she could help Harold, and how she could manage to interest her father in her new friend, Helen forgot her own wrongs, and forgot even to be angry when her stepmother told her that her company would not be required in the drawing-room that evening. When our heads are full of others it is wonderful how insignificant our own personal concerns become.