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Unlucky
A Fragment of a Girl's Life
BY CAROLINE AUSTIN
Author of "Cousin Geoffrey and I," "Hugh Herbert's Inheritance,"
"Dorothy's Dilemma," &c.
BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW DUBLIN BOMBAY
[Illustration: CHRIS IS BROUGHT BACK BY HIS FRIEND THE SERGEANT]
CONTENTS.
I. HELEN'S STEPMOTHER
II. COUSIN MARY
III. HELEN'S ESCAPADE
IV. STRANGERS YET
V. LONGFORD GRANGE
VI. HAROLD
VII. "IF I HAD BUT LOVED HER"
UNLUCKY:
A FRAGMENT OF A GIRL'S LIFE.
CHAPTER I.
HELEN'S STEPMOTHER.
It must be allowed that Mrs. Desmond, with the best dispositions in the
world towards children in general and her most perplexing little
stepdaughter Helen in particular, was not very happy in her method of
dealing with young people. Brought up herself by two maiden aunts on the
old-fashioned repressive system, from which she had never consciously
suffered, the children of to-day, with their eager, uncontrolled
impulses, their passionate likes and dislikes, often fostered by their
elders, and their too early developed individualities, were simply a
painful enigma to her. That the fault lay in their training rather than
in the young people themselves Mrs. Desmond was free to confess, and,
during the long tranquil years of her maiden life, having never once
been called upon to face the child-problem seriously, she had contented
herself with gently regretting the lax discipline prevalent amongst the
rising generation, and with wondering mildly, and not without a certain
sense of quiet self-satisfaction, what would happen to the human race,
when, in course of time, all the properly brought-up people were
gathered to their fathers.
All this was changed, however, when this lady, spending a quiet summer
at a Swiss hotel, met Colonel Desmond, who had just returned from India,
and who was trying to restore his broken health at the same tranquil
spot. Colonel Desmond was attracted by the lady's calm, sweet face, and
before long he had told her his story, how he had lost his wife just
thirteen years ago, and how she had left him with one little girl,
Helen, for whose sake principally he had returned from India, and from
whom he was now parted for the first time. He found his listener
singularly sympathetic, and not at all disposed to be impatient over his
long tale of doubts and difficulties, chiefly concerning Helen, round
whom nearly all her father's thoughts centred at this period. The end of
this pleasant friendship may be guessed. Colonel Desmond's liking for
his new friend quickly changed to something deeper, to which she
responded. After that they soon came to a mutual understanding, and it
came about so quickly, and yet so naturally, that their fellow-guests at
the hotel were more fluttered than those chiefly concerned when, one
fine morning, this middle-aged couple were quietly married at the little
English church, and then as quietly went away together. This happened a
few months before our story opens. Upon the intervening time it is
needless to dwell. Helen's feelings may be better imagined than
described when, one day, without a word of warning, her father walked
into the drawing-room of the pleasant, unruly household where she was
temporarily located, and where she was, at that particular moment,
engaged in teaching some untidy-looking children to sit monkey-wise upon
the ground like her ayah, and, rather hastily unclasping the clinging
arms which his little daughter had flung round his neck, he presented to
her the gentle-looking lady who stood by his side as her new mother. A
stormy scene had ensued, during which Helen certainly behaved
abominably, stamping her feet and using some very strong language,
luckily expressed in Hindustani, of which tongue Mrs. Desmond was
blissfully ignorant. But she witnessed the passion, she recognized the
undutiful conduct, and her heart sank within her at the prospect that
opened before her. This was by no means the ideal little daughter over
whom her gentle heart had yearned, and to whom she had meant to perform
a true mother's part. As she looked and listened her feelings hardened,
as the feelings of seemingly gentle people will harden sometimes, and
she told herself that this was a child who could not be won, but who
might be disciplined.
This was Mrs. Desmond's first mistake. Unfortunately Helen's bad
behaviour at subsequent interviews only served to confirm her
stepmother's earliest impressions. Beneath her surface amiability Mrs.
Desmond possessed a considerable spirit of obstinate determination, and,
if taken the wrong way, she was not an easy person to manage. She now
determined, rightly or wrongly, that her stepdaughter's rebellious
temper must be conquered, and conquered with the only weapons that she
herself understood how to use. Accordingly when, a few weeks after her
first introduction to her father's wife, Helen came to the dull house in
Bloomsbury Square that Mrs. Desmond had inherited from her aunts, and
where she and her husband had fixed their abode until their future plans
were matured, the wayward girl found herself in a new and hitherto
undreamt-of atmosphere. The surprise caused by her novel surroundings
was so great that at first it almost took away her breath and left her
passive. That she, Helen, who had never learned anything save in the
most desultory fashion, upon whose caprices almost all her father's
arrangements had depended, and who had recognized no authority save that
of her own will, should be suddenly subjected to a routine that would
have been galling even to carefully brought-up children, must have
seemed to the poor child a cruel fate indeed. Every hour was mapped out
for her, every action was to be performed at its appointed time. Mrs.
Desmond had recalled, with singular accuracy, the memories of her own
school-room days, and upon these Helen's were to be modelled
henceforward. From seven to eight o'clock she was to practise. At eight
she breakfasted upon the orthodox bread and milk or porridge--both forms
of nourishment being detested by badly brought-up Helen--in company with
Mrs. Desmond's own maid, who had grown gray in her mistress's service.
Breakfast over, her lessons were conned lying on her back, and at nine
o'clock her governess--a forbidding-looking female, not at all of the
modern type, but possessed of exactly the requirements that had been
considered essential in the days of Mrs. Desmond's youth--arrived, and
did not leave her pupil for a moment until the evening, when, dressed in
a prim white frock and sash, Helen was expected to take her place in her
stepmother's drawing-room, where, at a due distance from the fire, and
with a proviso that she was to speak when spoken to, she was allowed to
amuse herself with a book until the gong sounded for her parents'
dinner, when she was supposed to go to bed, with Mrs. Desmond's prim
maid again in attendance to put out the light.
It must not be supposed that Helen, her first surprise over, submitted
tamely to a life so utterly at variance with her former experiences and
so uncongenial to her tastes. On the contrary, she rebelled fiercely,
fairly frightening her composed stepmother with her outbursts of
passion, and distressing her father, who could not bear to see his
little daughter suffer, but who was daily falling more entirely under
his wife's influence, and who began to believe, with her, that nothing
but this sharp discipline could save Helen from the evil results of her
previous bad training.
All his life Colonel Desmond had been completely under the influence of
some one person or another. For the last few years he had been Helen's
most obedient subject. It soon became evident that her place was being
taken by his new wife. Perhaps this was not wonderful. Weak, easy-going,
and somewhat broken in health, Colonel Desmond now found himself, for
the first time, an object of tender solicitude. His tastes were
consulted and his fancies gratified; above all, his wife--pleasant,
low-toned, and agreeable to look upon--was constantly at hand to
minister to his wants--a gracious, restful presence set in pleasant
surroundings--for Mrs. Desmond possessed ample means, and money worries
were, for the first time in the colonel's experience, conspicuous by
their absence. It can scarcely be wondered at, then, that Colonel
Desmond, looking at his wife with her serene untroubled face, and
recognizing her perfect propriety of word and action, felt that he could
not further Helen's interests more truly than by placing her
unreservedly in her stepmother's hands, remembering, too, the wild Irish
blood that she had inherited from her mother, for Helen's mother had
been a wayward child up to her last hour, and had sorely tried the
colonel, notwithstanding the very true love that he had borne her.
Poor Helen! She was the jarring note in this contented, middle-aged
household. A grief to her father, who loved her; a terrible perplexity
to her well-meaning though prejudiced stepmother. Not at all a
terrible-looking little person, although Mrs. Desmond, amongst her most
intimate friends, did occasionally lament her stepdaughter's unfortunate
plainness. It was an interesting little face, with delicate though sharp
features, and large, questioning, restless, blue-gray eyes; sad enough
sometimes, but gleaming with fun and mischief on the least provocation.
Helen's rough dark hair and her rather angular figure were Mrs.
Desmond's despair; but the dark hair showed curious red glints when the
sun shone upon it such as would have struck an artist's fancy, and the
angular figure was lithe, and gave promise of graceful development when
the childish angularity should be out-grown.
Just as it needed a trained eye to discern the possibilities of beauty
possessed by Helen, so it required some loving knowledge of young
natures to divine the latent good in her. Resentful, passionate, and
wayward, she was also deeply affectionate, and her passionate outbreaks
were followed by passionate repentance, a repentance that she expressed,
however, only to her father, and, as the months went by, rarely even to
him; for although his manner towards her was always kind and even
loving, she knew, with the unerring instinct of childhood, that his
affection was already to a certain extent alienated from her. She did
not blame him for this. In her loyal little heart he still reigned
supreme, as a being absolutely perfect and noble. It was on her
stepmother's unconscious head that all the vials of Helen's wrath were
poured. More or less cowed into outward submission, and half
broken-spirited by her monotonous life, she hated Mrs. Desmond with a
hatred that bade fair to poison her whole nature. To succeed in visibly
annoying her stepmother, to bring an angry cloud over her calm face, was
a positive pleasure to Helen. Mrs. Desmond had been accustomed to a
well-ordered household, and any domestic disturbance was extremely
annoying to her. Helen soon discovered this, and although she was
supposed not to speak to any member of the household, with the exception
of the maid, she delighted in surreptitious visits to the kitchen, and
in setting the servants by the ears. Then, again, noises of any kind
were Mrs. Desmond's abhorrence. Helen would purposely bang doors, tap
with her feet on the floor, even scrape a knife on her plate at
luncheon, and feel more than repaid for the sharp reproof which she drew
upon herself by watching her stepmother's agonized expression whilst the
torture was in progress. That these things were done purposely Mrs.
Desmond did not guess, any more than she imagined that the passionate
manifestations of affection for her father in which Helen occasionally
indulged, were evidences of real love.
As a fact, there was something antagonistic between Mrs. Desmond's
rather cold nature and Helen's ardent disposition. Only love and
patience could have knit these two together. Mrs. Desmond's theory that
a young girl should be treated as an irresponsible being, and forced
into the same mould that had successfully moulded former generations if
she was to turn out a "nice" woman, was fatal in this instance. The
same want of comprehension of the meaning of real education overshadowed
Helen's studies. Although, in the orthodox sense of the word, Helen's
education had been sadly neglected, she was by no means ignorant. She
had seen and observed much; had read, and read intelligently, books that
most girls of her age would unhesitatingly pronounce "dry;" while for
music she had a genuine talent. This last gift, however, did not help
her much under the system of tuition adopted for her. Ordered, for
instance, to practise her scales for an hour each day, without receiving
any explanation as to the usefulness of such practice, the girl
naturally regarded scale-playing as a fresh device for annoying her.
Consequently her playing during her early morning practice soon became
one of Mrs. Desmond's chief tortures, for each jarring note penetrated
through the thin partitions of a London house, and, reaching that
unhappy lady's ears, robbed her of her comfortable morning nap. Far too
conscientious to put an end to the nuisance for consciously selfish
motives, and too lacking in musical taste herself to discern Helen's
real talent, she suffered as silently as she could; not so silently,
however, but that Helen perceived the annoyance which she caused, and
which she took care should continue unabated. But here, as in so many
other instances, poor Helen's weapons were turned against herself.
Being taken by her father to an afternoon concert, an impromptu pleasure
indulged in during a blissful day when her stepmother was away, she was
seized with a vehement desire to learn to play the violin. Her father,
who fancied that his little girl had been looking pale lately, and who
was pleased with the prospect of giving her so innocent a pleasure,
consented, and quite after the manner of old times, the concert over,
they went off together and purchased a violin, which Helen insisted on
carrying home herself.
The afternoon had been so delightful, and had sped so quickly, that they
had both forgotten the time, and that Mrs. Desmond was to return home at
six o'clock. It was nearly seven when their cab brought them to their
own door.
"Yes, Mrs. Desmond had returned an hour ago and was in the
drawing-room," the servant said in answer to the colonel's rather
nervous questioning. A cloud fell upon Helen as she entered the warm,
well-lighted hall; but she clasped her violin tightly and followed her
father upstairs.
Mrs. Desmond rose from a low chair as her husband entered the
drawing-room. She was dressed in a pretty tea-gown, that well became her
tall, slight figure. Soft lace was arranged on her head, and the shaded
red light played on her diamond rings. She looked the very embodiment of
delicately-nurtured, serene, English womanhood, and so the colonel
thought as his eyes fell upon her. "What has kept you? I have been
anxious about you," she said, addressing him in a gently-reproachful
voice. "You must be cold and tired. Come and sit by the fire, and I will
ring for tea."
"My dear," returned her husband, coming forward and kissing her, "how
glad I am to see you back! The house seems like home again. As for tea,
the truth is, Helen and I--well, we have been having a little fun on our
own account. Come here, Helen, and tell your mother what we have been
doing. We sent Miss Walker about her business, didn't we? And then--."
The colonel paused, and Mrs. Desmond then perceived Helen standing
half-timidly, half-defiantly near the door.
"You there, Helen!" she said coldly. "How often am I to tell you that I
will not have you come into the drawing-room with your walking clothes
on! Go and take them off at once. When I was a child--."
"It is really my fault this time, wife," put in the colonel, who dreaded
a scene with Helen, and who had, besides, begun to grow a little weary
of his wife's reminiscences of her childhood.
"Nonsense!" returned Mrs. Desmond with quite unusual asperity. "Helen
knows my rules. She is quite old enough to understand that her duty is
to conform to them, and stay!"--as Helen was turning away
abruptly--"don't go while I am speaking. Have you learned your lessons
for to-morrow?"
"No."
"Then ask Martha to put a lamp in the school-room, and set to work at
once. We shall not expect to see you this evening."
"I won't set to work at once--I won't, I won't, I won't," muttered Helen
under her breath. Her passion was rising; but for her father's sake, her
father who had been so good to her, and who she dimly understood was
responsible for her lapse from duty that afternoon, she strove to
control herself. Knowing that her only chance was in escape, she made a
dash at the door; but in so doing the top of her violin came into
contact with a small china-laden table, and a valuable Dresden figure
fell to the ground with a crash.
Mrs. Desmond, fairly roused from her wonted calm, rushed forward,
uttering a low cry. Her china was very dear to her. She suffered no one
but herself to touch it, and it was her boast that each piece had in her
keeping remained as intact as it had been in her grandmother's time.
"Oh, Helen!" she cried, "what have you done? My poor little shepherd is
broken. You might as well have broken the shepherdess too. The pair is
spoilt--utterly spoilt!"
"Perhaps it can be mended," suggested the kind-hearted colonel, coming
forward. He was really touched by his wife's distress, and also not a
little uneasy about Helen's share in the disaster.
"Mended!" repeated Mrs. Desmond with rising irritation. "Do you suppose
that I would have a piece of _mended_ china in my drawing-room? No, the
mischief is irreparable--irreparable."
As she spoke she gathered up the broken fragments tenderly, while a tear
fell upon her white hand.
"Not irreparable, surely, my dear," persisted the colonel with
characteristic want of tact. "I have seen plenty of figures like these
in old china shops. To-morrow, first thing, Helen shall make amends for
her carelessness by--"
"Ah, Helen!" interrupted Mrs. Desmond, who had regarded the first part
of the colonel's sentence as a confession of ignorance too gross for
argument, but who was recalled by the mention of Helen's name to the
enormity of the girl's offence. "Helen--"
There was a moment's pause. Mrs. Desmond was half-astonished at the
bitterness of her own feelings, and felt the necessity of controlling
herself. She looked up and saw Helen watching her from the open doorway
with an expression of scarcely veiled triumph. It was the last straw. If
the girl's face had expressed even fear or shrinking, Mrs. Desmond's
better nature would have been touched; but there was something of
insolence in her stepdaughter's defiant attitude that exasperated the
usually self-controlled woman.
"Helen," she said, and her voice was hard, "you have been exceedingly
clumsy: a clumsy woman is intolerable. I object to harsh measures, but
something must be done to make you more careful in future. For the
present, go to your own room and remain--. What is that you are
carrying?" she cried with a sudden change of voice, catching sight of
the violin which Helen held behind her.
The faintest expression of anxiety flitted over Helen's face, but she
made no answer.
"Show it to me at once. How dare you bring parcels into the
drawing-room?"
"I am going to take it away now," returned the girl insolently without
moving, for an evil spirit seemed to possess her, and she was absolutely
gloating over her stepmother's evident discomfiture.
"I insist upon seeing it," went on Mrs. Desmond; while the colonel,
murmuring "Helen" in a tone of remonstrance, walked over to the
fireplace.
"You can see it, and hear it too!" cried Helen desperately, her passion
blazing out at her stepmother's authoritative tone; and as she spoke she
placed the violin on her shoulder, and with the bow drew a long
discordant wail from its strings.
Mrs. Desmond started forward, but recovering herself by a violent effort
she stopped and put her hands to her ears. Helen dropped her right hand
by her side, with the other still holding the violin in position, and
regarded her stepmother with a flushed, triumphant face.
"Go to your room," said the latter at last in accents of such bitterness
that even her husband felt uncomfortable. "Go to your room and to bed.
To-morrow I will see you. I do not wish to inflict any punishment upon
you in anger."
"Punishment indeed!" cried Helen, whose blood was up. "I have done
nothing to deserve punishment. My father gave me this violin. You cannot
take it from me. It is mine."
"It shall be taken from you. John," turning to her husband, "I appeal to
you. After Helen's disgraceful behaviour you cannot wish her to keep the
present which in your mistaken kindness you appear to have given her."
The colonel sighed, but came forward nervously.
"Helen," he said, "pray do not oppose your mother. You know that she
only desires your good. And really--"
He stopped short, for Helen was regarding him with a curious expression,
and her breath was coming thick and fast.
"Do _you_ want me to give her my violin?" she asked.
"Only for a little time, Helen, to show that you are sorry, and that you
will be more obedient in future."
For a full minute Helen stood clutching her violin and regarding her
father with that same curious expression; then she let the instrument
drop slowly from her shoulder, and seizing it with her right hand, flung
it from her with a furious gesture. It fell at Mrs. Desmond's feet.
[Illustration: HELEN FLINGS THE VIOLIN AT MRS. DESMOND'S FEET]
"Take it," cried the excited girl, "take it. You have robbed me of my
father, now you rob me of that. I hate you."
Not waiting for a reply, she rushed wildly from the room, and a moment
later the sound of a banging door, adding a last torture to Mrs.
Desmond's sorely-tried nerves, informed all whom it might concern that
Helen was safe in her own chamber.
Colonel Desmond sighed deeply and turned away. His wife, always careful
and orderly, stooped and picked up the violin.
"I hope it has not suffered," she said, placing it on a table. "It must
go back to-morrow."
"Don't be hard on the child, Margaret," said the colonel, not noticing
the foregoing remark.
"Am I ever hard on her, John?"
As Mrs. Desmond spoke she crossed the room and reseated herself in her
easy-chair, leaning back wearily and wiping her eyes with her delicate
lace handkerchief.
"No, my dear, of course not," returned the colonel. "But--"
"But what?"
"She needs patience. It is perhaps hard on her--"
"Hard on her! It is hard on me, I think."
"Yes, yes, my dear, I know that. I only mean--"
Colonel Desmond scarcely knew what he meant. His heart was bleeding for
the wounds inflicted by that little termagant upstairs upon this gentle
woman who continued to sit with her handkerchief to her eyes. He was
longing to reconcile them, and yet he was dimly conscious that in his
blundering man fashion he was but setting them farther apart.
"It is hard, I confess," murmured Mrs. Desmond after a pause. "If Helen
were my own child could I care more for her welfare? I sacrifice my
leisure, my inclinations--" her voice broke here, and once more the
handkerchief was applied.
"My dear wife," began the colonel; but she motioned him to be silent.
"You little know what I have to endure from that child," she went on.
"I do not wish you to know. She is your child, and I shall do my duty by
her. But to be blamed by you is more than I can bear."
"I blame you, my dear Margaret! Come, you cannot mean that. Do you think
that I don't feel grateful to you for your patience and for your
goodness to me, to--to us every day. Why, you have only been away
four-and-twenty hours, and the house felt like a wilderness. That was
what drove me out, I think."
The colonel knelt down beside his wife and took her hand. She suffered
herself to be consoled, and presently withdrew her handkerchief from her
eyes and smiled.
"You are foolish to spoil Helen, dear John," she said. "With careful
training I don't despair of making a good woman of her yet. But you must
leave her to me, and her caprices must not be gratified."
"I thought her desire to learn the violin was innocent enough."
"Nonsense, John! you know nothing about children and their training.
Girls were content with the piano in my young days; and I consider the
modern girl's craze for violin playing extremely unfeminine. No; that
violin must go back to-morrow. Helen's notions are far too fantastic
already."
There was a suspicion of returning sharpness in Mrs. Desmond's tone, and
her husband wisely forbore to press the subject further. On his way to
dress for dinner he lingered for a few moments wistfully outside Helen's
closed door. But neither then nor later, when (after Mrs. Desmond had
retired on the plea of a headache, leaving the colonel free to follow
his own devices), he returned, and knocking gently, called Helen, did
any success reward his efforts to bring a crumb of consolation to the
poor child. Judging by her silence that she must have fallen asleep,
Colonel Desmond retired to his smoking-room and comforted himself by
reflecting that Helen had certainly been naughty and probably deserved
whatever punishment might be meted out to her. Then he recalled his
wife's angelic goodness and smiled, thinking that such a woman could not
possibly be very severe. Finally, as he knocked the ashes out of his
pipe before going to bed, he decided that only women could understand
girls, and that Helen would thank him some day for having given her such
a mother. But these comforting reflections did not prevent a wistful
face, not unlike Helen's own, from peering out at him from amongst the
dark shadows on the staircase, dimly lit by his solitary candle, a face
that had looked up into his once and had whispered with failing voice,
"Take care of the child and bring her safe to me." For our
responsibilities are our own, and we cannot safely delegate them even to
persons of angelic goodness.