HELEN'S ESCAPADE.
Helen was standing in the hall listening to the retreating wheels of the
cab that bore Cousin Mary away, and trying hard to keep back her tears.
It was the late afternoon of an early spring day. Spring, as is its
custom with us, had come suddenly; the air was soft and balmy, and the
open hall door revealed a vista of delicate green that had fallen like a
cloud upon the gaunt trees that filled the grimy London square. Even
the servant lingered at the open door, closing it at last reluctantly as
though loth to shut out the warm air and pleasant prospect.
It was just such a day as stirs the blood of even old people, while it
sets young hearts beating, and conjures up before youthful eyes all
sorts of pleasant visions. To Helen, accustomed for so many years to a
cloudless eastern sky, the sunshine, although it brought her renewed
life, brought also vague indefinable longings. London with its endless
streets and squares, its never-ending succession of human beings, its
saddening sights and sounds, seemed to stifle her. She longed, scarcely
knowing what it was for which she longed, for the green country, for
freedom, for space. To Cousin Mary it had been possible to speak of
these and many other things. Cousin Mary gone--gone too holding out only
the vaguest promises of another meeting, and with no word at all about
claiming that visit from Helen of which a good deal had been said in the
early stages of their friendship, the girl, suddenly thrown back upon
herself, felt, with the exaggerated feelings of youth, as though she
were deserted by everybody. It was impossible that she could guess how
hard Cousin Mary had tried to secure that visit from Helen about which
she had, rather incautiously perhaps, spoken to her young favourite. For
as the days went on, and Miss Macleod's stay had lengthened out beyond
her original intention, her interest in Helen had increased, and had
deepened into real affection. Beneath Cousin Mary's influence all the
best part of Helen's nature came out. And, indeed, her deep
affectionateness, her generous impulses, her quick repentances for
wrong-doing, her power of receiving good impressions, all combined to
make Helen a very fascinating little person to one who took the trouble
to understand her disposition. That there was another side to Helen's
character Miss Macleod knew. Such intense natures ever have their
reverse side. She had her bad impulses as well as her good ones; and a
fierce temper that it would need many years of patient effort to bring
under control. There was a spice of recklessness in Helen, too, and an
impatience of restraint. Hers was a nature that might harden and develop
terrible possibilities for evil under adverse circumstances. All this
Cousin Mary saw with painful distinctness as she watched the girl with
ever-increasing interest.
Accustomed as Mrs. Desmond declared she was to her cousin's vagaries,
this last fancy of Miss Macleod's rather astonished that lady. That
Helen should prefer a stranger to herself she regarded as merely another
proof of her stepdaughter's perversity. But what Mary Macleod could see
in the girl, and why she should want to carry off such an uninteresting
child on a long visit, fairly puzzled Mrs. Desmond. It was not only
perplexing, but extremely provoking, when it became evident that Miss
Macleod would not accept a polite excuse, but kept returning to the
charge, putting it into the colonel's head that Helen looked pale and
needed change.
"Perhaps after all, my dear, it might be well to accept your cousin's
kind offer," he suggested when Cousin Mary, with most unusual
persistency, made a final attempt to carry her point upon the last
evening of her stay in town.
Mrs. Desmond's thin lips tightened themselves a little, but she did not
reply immediately. She rose from her chair and crossed the room to where
her husband was sitting and laid her hand on his. "John," she said,
"didn't I promise you to do my best for your child?"
"Yes, my love, and I am sure--"
"Have I kept my word so far?"
"Of course, of course, my dear; but Helen is tiresome, no doubt. I only
thought that perhaps a little change--"
"That is enough, John. I only want to be sure that you trust me to be
the best--to be the best judge of what is for your child's--"
A little sob broke Mrs. Desmond's voice, and the last part of her speech
was inaudible. But she had completely conquered. Colonel Desmond had no
weapon for use against a woman's tears, and in spite of his promises to
support Mary Macleod, given to her in a private interview, during which
she had spoken pretty plainly, his silence gave consent to all that his
wife had to say when she had recovered herself sufficiently to decline
the obnoxious proposal in terms that left no further discussion of the
matter possible. And now Cousin Mary was gone, and the colonel, lying on
the drawing-room sofa prostrate with a bad headache, was conscious of
some qualms of conscience on Helen's account, not unmixed with feelings
of relief at the departure of this keen-eyed guest.
"Your cousin is a very blunt woman," he said in rather a fretful tone to
his wife, who was sitting beside him. "It is strange how well she got on
with Helen. She seemed to like the child."
"Oh! it was merely a caprice and a spirit of opposition. Mary was always
unlike other people," returned Mrs. Desmond.
"I don't know why you should say that," went on the colonel, still
fretful. "People used to be very fond of Helen in India, and she has
been very well-behaved lately, hasn't she?"
Mrs. Desmond was nettled by her husband's tone and forgot her usual
prudence.
"I don't know what you call well-behaved," she said. "To me she seems
to grow more trying every day. Mary has made her simply insufferable. I
spare neither trouble nor expense, and yet--"
"Really, Margaret," broke in the colonel, "do spare me any more
complaints. If you want to be rid of the child, send her to your cousin.
She begged hard enough to be allowed to have her. Why on earth you
refused I can't think."
"Cousin Mary asked me and you--refused." The white face coming out of
gathering twilight shadows, and the tragic tones were Helen's.
Poor Helen! Forgotten by everybody--her governess had left her earlier
than usual in the day--she had been sitting alone in her little
down-stairs school-room, thinking over all that she had learnt from
Cousin Mary. She had been forming the most heroic resolves about her
future conduct. Never, never would she purposely annoy her stepmother
again. She would be patient, she would bear reproof meekly. And she
would remember that great Father whose presence was such a reality to
Cousin Mary, and who was training her not in anger but in love. As for
her dear earthly father, Helen smiled as she thought of him, and
recalled the days when he was always patient with her wayward fits. Then
the gathering twilight made her feel lonely, and she remembered that he
was ill upstairs. She would go to him, she thought, and, if by any
happy chance she found him alone, she would tell him of her sorrow for
the past and of her good resolves for the future. And if Mrs. Desmond
was there? Well, there could be no harm in creeping in very gently and
asking him how he felt, giving him a kiss, perhaps, and going away
again.
"I must be very quiet, and oh! I hope I shan't knock up against
anything," she said to herself as she went upstairs, speaking
half-audibly for company, as it were, and to keep up her spirits, for
the house seemed so still and quiet. The drawing-room door stood partly
open, but a screen concealed the upper part of the room, where the
colonel's sofa stood, from view. No one heard Helen enter, and although
she caught a murmur of voices she was half-way across the room when her
father's last remark arrested her attention.
I suppose it is a fact that it is in our most exalted moods we are most
liable to fall. Her father's words stung Helen to the quick, and changed
the whole current of her thoughts. In a twinkling all her good
resolutions vanished. While she had been determining to submit, to be
good, they, her father and stepmother, were discussing her, wishing to
be rid of her, owning her a burden. And yet, just for the sake of
tormenting her, of keeping her in bondage, they had refused her to
Cousin Mary. Oh, it was cruel, cruel!
"How could you do it? how could you?" she cried, her voice breaking into
a passionate sob. "Don't you know that I hate being here; yes, _hate_ it
quite as much as you hate having me. And Cousin Mary is good. I am not
bad when I am with her. I--"
"Helen," broke in Mrs. Desmond, while the colonel moaned and put his
hand to his head, "don't you see your father is ill? Go away instantly.
If you have learnt from Miss Macleod to listen at doors I must write and
beg her never to enter my house again. I did not know that you were
deceitful in addition to your other faults. Go at once. Don't speak
again."
"Father," began Helen; but he shook his head impatiently and motioned
her away. For a moment she looked at them both defiantly, then, like one
possessed, she scattered some books that lay upon a table near her in
all directions.
"John, John!" cried Mrs. Desmond, "you must interfere."
But Helen only laughed.
"You've told me to go. I'm going," she said, and walked away.
Straight down-stairs she walked, singing as she went a snatch of an
Indian native song. In the hall a comforter belonging to her father
caught her eye. She picked it up and twisted it round her head and
throat, then opening the hall door she passed out without a moment's
hesitation into the fast-gathering darkness. The door closed heavily
behind her. Upstairs the colonel heard it and sprang to his foot.
"My God!" he cried, "she has kept her word. She has gone. Quick! I must
follow her."
"Nonsense, John!" exclaimed his wife; "lie still. A servant shall go at
once. There is no need for alarm."
As she spoke she laid her hand on his arm, but he shook it off
impatiently.
"Don't dare to detain me," he said sternly. "If any evil happens to that
child I shall never forgive you."
"John, John!" cried Mrs. Desmond, throwing herself on the sofa and
bursting into real tears. "John, listen to me--"
But it was of no avail. Whether the colonel even heard his wife's last
appeal seems doubtful. Without pausing or turning his head, he walked
straight down-stairs and out into the street just as Helen had done
before him.
Darkness was falling fast. The air had turned chilly, with a bite of the
east in it. Fresh from the warm drawing-room, Colonel Desmond shivered
as he looked round in every direction, trying in vain to discover some
trace of the fugitive. But to all appearance she had vanished, and the
colonel, his alarm increasing every moment, as the passers-by whom he
interrogated merely shook their heads in answer to his excited questions
as to whether they had noticed a little girl without hat or bonnet going
by, was forced to enlist a policeman to aid him in his search.
A weary search it was, lasting for many hours. Helen, after leaving the
house, had walked steadily on, neither considering nor caring which way
she took. Before long she reached a labyrinth of small streets, where
there were few passers-by, and these chiefly clerks and artisans
hastening home. Scarcely aware of what she was doing, Helen paused every
now and then to watch these home-goers run eagerly up the steps of some
small dingy house, the door of which would open as if by magic at its
master's approach, whilst from within came gleams of light and glimpses
of small outstretched hands drawing father in. Such sights brought her a
realization of her own desolation, and she hurried on until at last
physical exhaustion brought her once more to a stand-still. Oh! how
tired and hungry she was! Even a piece of bread would have been welcome.
But, alas! her pocket was empty. She had not the wherewithal even to buy
bread. Then she sat down on a door-step and began to ponder on her
future proceedings. What was she to do? Go back? No; she would never do
that. Find Cousin Mary? But how was the necessary journey to be
accomplished without money? Certainly it might be possible to walk the
distance in two weeks--one week, perhaps. But--here Helen began to
shiver, and she was just trying to wrap her comforter more closely round
her when a light was flashed in her face and she felt her arm grasped.
Looking up, her heart nearly stood still with terror when she saw a
policeman standing beside her.
He looked at her for a minute, whilst she tried to speak, but couldn't.
She felt as if a nightmare was coming true.
"Get up and move on!" he said roughly. "Where do you come from? You
ought to have been at home long ago."
Helen needed no second bidding. Although the policeman kept his hand
upon her arm, and seemed to have some intention of questioning her
further, she released herself quickly and set off running as fast as she
could go. On and on she went, up one street and down another, until once
more exhaustion forced her to stop. It was growing late, and she espied
a dark porch where it struck her that she might pass the night free from
discovery. "In the morning I shall be able to think," she said,
crouching down on the cold stones. Terribly afraid as she was, and cold
and hungry, the idea of returning home never entered Helen's head. She
had said to herself that she would never go back, and she fully meant to
keep her word. A sort of drowsiness was stealing over her when
approaching footsteps startled her into wakefulness and roused her to
fresh terror. She jumped up and ran down the steps. Two figures were
approaching; one looked like that of the dreaded policeman. Could he be
coming to take her to prison? Once more she turned to fly, but her foot
caught against the curb-stone, and she fell heavily, striking her head
against the ground. The shock stunned her and rendered her unconscious.
When she opened her eyes great was her astonishment to see her father
bending over her, while a policeman with a deeply-concerned face was
looking on, and a cab was drawing up close beside them.
"She'll be all right now, sir," said the policeman. "Let me lift her
into the cab."
"Speak, Helen," cried the colonel, "are you hurt? Oh! my child, if any
harm had come to you!"
"How did you come here, Father?" asked Helen, still frightened and a
little defiant, struggling to her feet.
"I followed you, of course. Did you think I would leave you to wander
off alone? Come home."
Helen shrank back.
"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
inelegantly _she_ in 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.