HAROLD.
Helen's attempts to interest her father in Harold were crowned with
success almost beyond her hopes. Colonel Desmond, who was fond of
children, had been already attracted by the boy's singularly handsome
face, and having a certain turn for mechanics himself, he was disposed
to be sympathetic over Harold's futile efforts to construct organs out
of cardboard and to model engines from blocks of wood. More than this,
it pleased the colonel to see his little daughter and her small friend
together. They had, indeed, an excellent effect upon one another. Both
naturally wilful and wayward with others, they seemed to have but one
will when together. Harold, who was accustomed to be alternately teased
and bullied by his sisters, to be wept over by his mother, and to be
treated as a dangerous if beloved animal by his father, looked upon
Helen as a superior being, on whose sympathy he could always count, who,
in some curious way, understood that it was not the object of his life
to outrage the feelings of those around him, and to whom he could safely
confide his dearest and most secret projects without fear of ridicule.
As for Helen, her feelings for her new friend partook of a motherly as
well as of a sisterly character. Her added years and her larger
experience, so far from giving her any desire to domineer over Harold,
aroused in her heart a sort of tenderness for him, which his sister's
treatment of him and the want of sympathy which he experienced at home
tended to foster. With regard to Harold's talents Helen had no
misgivings; and she was ready to listen patiently for hours whilst he
unfolded his schemes to her, ascribing to her own dullness and want of
comprehension the seeming vagueness of some of these schemes, promising
eagerly to help him in the working out of certain dull yet necessary
details of the sort which aspiring geniuses of all ages have been
disposed to shirk.
It must not be supposed that this happy friendship was recognized at
once by the children's respective belongings. Indeed, had it not been
for the colonel's unwonted firmness, the probability is that Harold and
Helen, after their first meeting, would have been kept resolutely apart.
"The colonel seems to have taken a fancy to Harold," said Mr. Bayden to
his wife one day when Colonel Desmond and Helen had called and invited
the boy to accompany them on some distant expedition.
"Such a pity that it was not Agatha!" sighed Mrs. Bayden, taking up a
fresh stocking from her heaped-up basket.
Mrs. Bayden was not the only person who considered it a pity that the
colonel's fancy had been taken by Harold.
"I could have endured Agatha, but why you choose to annoy me by having
that rough boy continually here I cannot understand," observed Mrs.
Desmond to her husband.
"My dear wife, why should Harold annoy you? He is scarcely ever in the
house, and he can't do much harm in the garden."
"He is the most unsatisfactory of my sister's children. Everyone knows
that he is a bad boy. Even Richard, who is a perfect idiot about his
children, acknowledges that he can do nothing with Harold."
"All I can say is that Bayden is--well, I must not abuse your
relations, Margaret. But, believe me, that boy has some good stuff in
him. Besides, he is a fine, handsome little chap, and his resemblance to
you is quite astonishing. Surely that ought to recommend him to me."
The colonel's speech, although exceedingly diplomatic, was justified by
facts. Harold's face, notwithstanding its rounded outlines, did bear a
resemblance to his aunt's. She smiled.
"You may say what you like, John, but I can't believe that Harold and
Helen can be good companions for one another. If she had taken a fancy
even to Grace I should have made no objection."
"Let the children be," returned the colonel a little testily. "Helen
looks better already for young companionship, and we cannot force
children's likes and dislikes any more than we can our own."
"That, I suppose, you learnt from Mary Macleod," said Mrs. Desmond, the
smile fading from her face. "However, I shall say no more. If any harm
comes of your foolish indulgence remember that I warned you."
The colonel did not reply. Why his wife had yielded so readily rather
puzzled him. But Mrs. Desmond had her own reasons. Helen had long been a
thorn in her side, and the pricking of this poor little thorn was fast
becoming unendurable to her. She had resolved, therefore, that her
stepdaughter must be sent away, and, like a wise woman, she was
husbanding all her forces towards the gaining of this important end, and
she was well aware that a little complaisance in an unimportant matter
of this kind would make her future task easier.
Helen was even more surprised than her father to find that after her
unlucky day at the Rectory no embargo was put upon her intercourse with
Harold. How it came about neither they nor their elders exactly knew,
but through the long June days the two children were constantly
together, either working in a rough workshop which the colonel had
extemporized for them in an outbuilding, or rambling about the country
in search of flowers and butterflies. Notwithstanding Mrs. Desmond's
determination about Helen's future, it is scarcely likely that she could
have witnessed her stepdaughter leading a life so opposed to her own
preconceived notions without remonstrance had she not been really
suffering from the effects of her long anxiety in the spring, and
disposed for the first time in her life to let things take their course.
It was a very happy time for Helen, the happiest, perhaps, that she had
ever known. In the old days, when all her desires were gratified, her
waywardness and wilfulness had thrown a cloud over everything. Now she
was honestly trying to do what was right and to keep her temper under
due control, whilst healthy, sympathetic companionship kept her mind
occupied and prevented her from dwelling upon morbid fancies.
"If only mamma would like me a little," she used to think sometimes as
she went off to bed chilled by Mrs. Desmond's frigid good-night, but
full of happy plans for the morrow. But even of gaining "mamma's liking"
Helen did not altogether despair. She meant to be so good, so obedient,
she felt quite sure that she must win her stepmother at last.
"What is it that you wish for most in all the world?" she asked Harold
suddenly one evening.
Mrs. Desmond had kept her room all day, and Helen and Harold, having
drunk tea in the school-room, with the colonel as their guest, were
sitting under an apple-tree in the orchard. The setting sun flooded the
fair June landscape, and threw a glory round their young heads, showing
to their half-bewildered childish eyes strange visions and "lights that
never were on sea or land."
"What do I wish for most!" repeated Harold. "To do something great, I
think. What is the good of living if one is only to be just like
everyone else. I should like people to point me out as I went by, and to
say, 'That is Harold Bayden. He did--' I wonder what I should like them
to say, there are so many things it would be nice to be famous for."
"I don't think that I should care to be famous," said Helen gravely. "I
should like everyone to like me. It is dreadful not to be liked."
"You can't expect everyone to like you. It is much better to have one or
two people who like you very much."
"Yes. But people don't like me. I don't know why it is."
"Oh, Helen! doesn't your father like you? And I think that you are
awfully jolly."
"Of course my father likes me, because he is my father. But you know
that Grace and Agatha can't bear me. Perhaps you wouldn't like me,
Harold, if you knew how wicked I have been."
"Nonsense, Helen!"
"It isn't nonsense, Harold. Shall I tell you? I hardly like to speak of
it. It makes me shudder when I think of what might have been."
"Helen, what on earth do you mean?"
Harold's big eyes were fixed in amazement on his companion's face. She
went on speaking more to herself than to him.
"And yet it is true, quite true, though I can scarcely believe it
sometimes. And when you say that I am so much nicer and jollier than
Grace and Agatha I feel like a hypocrite."
"Helen!"
"They never did what I have done. Just think, Harold, I was so angry and
so wicked one day that I tried to run away. Father followed me and
brought me back, and he didn't scold me a bit, but he was so sorry that
he cried--actually _cried_. Did you know that a man could cry?"
"I am not sure," said Harold meditatively. Mr. Bayden's manner when he
was unduly annoyed by parochial matters, or provoked by his son's
iniquities, was often suggestive of tears, consequently the idea of a
man's crying presented nothing very tragic to Harold's imagination.
Besides, he was a little puzzled by the intensity of Helen's manner, and
scarcely understood her.
"I don't see that there was anything very wicked in running away. Of
course you would have gone back. What else could you have done? And I
daresay you were provoked." Harold spoke soothingly. He knew what it was
to be provoked himself, and had had his own dreams of running away to
sea, dreams which, it must be allowed, had never shaped themselves very
distinctly in his brain. Still, in virtue of them he could sympathize
most fully with Helen in her small escapade.
"Yes; but, Harold, you don't understand," she went on. "It was coming
out after me on that bitter night that nearly killed my father. Just
think: if--if he had died I should have killed him." Helen's voice
broke, and she buried her face in her hands.
"Don't, Helen," said Harold after a moment's perplexed pause. "You
didn't, you see. It is all right. Very likely your father would have
been ill anyway. And besides--"
"No, Harold, it is no good saying those things," burst out Helen. "As
long as I live I shall always see father lying on his bed, too feeble
almost to speak, and I shall have the feeling that it was for me. I try
to forget it, but it always comes back. I should like to be able to do
something very hard for him or for--mamma, just to prove how sorry I
am."
"Did he really look as if he were going to die?" asked Harold rather
irrelevantly.
Helen nodded. To speak the words again hurt her.
"I wonder what dying is like?" went on Harold.
Suddenly, and almost as he spoke, the sun dropped behind a bank of red
clouds. A little breeze sprang up and murmured in the trees overhead.
Helen shuddered and drew closer to her companion.
"It must be very awful," he went on. "And to think that the world will
go on just the same when we are gone. The sun will shine and the birds
will sing, and we shall be lying in the dreadful cold earth. It is
horrible."
"I used to think just like that once, Harold," whispered Helen
half-shyly. "I was dreadfully afraid of all sorts of things. I used to
think after I had been naughty that perhaps I should go to sleep and
wake up in hell. One day I told Cousin Mary--you don't know Cousin Mary,
do you? It is so easy to talk to her; one can tell her _anything_. She
thinks that dying will be only like going to sleep in the dark. We shall
be a little frightened, perhaps, but we shall know all the time that
nothing bad can really happen to us. And if any pain comes to us
afterwards it will be quite different from the pain that we suffer
now--pain that will never make us impatient or angry, because we shall
be able then to understand that it is bringing us nearer to God and
heaven. Cousin Mary says that is the end of all pain, only we are not
able to understand it quite now."
"Cousin Mary must say very odd things," observed Harold, who had been
trying to fathom Helen's meaning, and who felt hopelessly puzzled.
"Mother says that she is odd, and father says that some of her notions
are not--I forget the word; but they never ask her to stay with us. Is
she really very nice?"
"Very," answered Helen emphatically.
There was a pause. Both children were busy with their own thoughts. They
made a striking picture as they sat close together beneath the gnarled
apple-tree, the dying sunset lights lingering on their fair young
heads--a picture that was not without its pathos, because life must pass
that way, life--and death.
"I expect that it is getting late, and I ought to be going home," said
Harold after a few minutes, wearying of silence, and beginning to feel
that even Agatha's teasing would have a refreshingly every-day sound
after such serious thoughts.
Helen rose rather reluctantly.
"Very well," she said. "Let us go in and say good-night to father, and
afterwards I will walk with you as far as the gate."
"And I say, Helen, you won't forget to cut out those wheels for me
to-morrow morning, will you? They must match exactly, remember. And if
you could pull out and stretch that wire----"
"I sha'n't forget, Harold. You needn't fear. But, by the way, you never
told me about Jim Hunt."
"I heard father saying that he was very ill indeed. Mother stopped him
from saying more when she saw that I was there. I was thinking about him
just now. I used to hate him sometimes when he sat in the choir and
screamed in my ear. But I'm sorry for him now. I wish I hadn't hated
him. Father spoke as if he thought he was going to die."
"Couldn't we do something for him?" suggested practical Helen.
"I have sixpence," returned Harold, "if that would do."
Helen shook her head.
"You can't give people money when they are ill. I'll tell you what I
might do. I'll ask father if I may gather some strawberries and take
them to a sick boy in the village. If you come to-morrow morning
directly your lessons are over we might take them together."
"It won't do for Agatha to know. I should never hear the end of it. And,
besides, she hates poor people."
"No one need know. Father never asks any questions. He will just say,
'Do as you like.' He is sure to say nothing."
Harold was silent for a moment. A little struggle was going on his mind.
He knew that his mother would have disapproved of the project, and that
he was never allowed to go near any cottage where sickness was. But he
was sorry for Jim Hunt, who had done him many a rough kindness,
kindnesses which Harold was conscious of having often ill requited, and
he really longed to do the village lad this small service.
"Don't you care to come, Harold?" asked Helen in surprised tones. She
was a little annoyed that her plan had not immediately approved itself
to Harold, never guessing the reason for his hesitation. "I can go by
myself if you are afraid of Agatha."
"I am not afraid of Agatha, and of course I will go too. The
strawberries won't be my present, but I will tell Jim that I will give
him the engine I am making now when it is finished. And I say, Helen, we
might call it 'Jim,' mightn't we? I daresay that would please him."
"I'm sure it would. Then it is settled. I shall be waiting for you in
the orchard to-morrow. If we walk fast across the fields we can stay a
little while with Jim and get back in plenty of time for lunch."
No hitch occurred in the projected arrangements. Mrs. Desmond still kept
her room on the following day. Colonel Desmond gladly complied with his
little daughter's request, and Helen, basket in hand, was awaiting
Harold in the orchard some time before the appointed hour, which,
however, passed without bringing him. At last she saw him running across
the grass.
"How late you are! I began to think you weren't coming," she cried.
Harold's face was flushed, and did not wear its best expression.
"I came as soon as I could," he said. "Of course, as I was in a hurry
everything went wrong. I _hate_ Latin. Why need one learn what one
doesn't like? And Agatha--"
"Never mind Agatha," interrupted Helen soothingly. "You have come; that
is the great thing. Let us start at once. We can talk as we go."
"How fast you are walking!" said Harold presently, a little note of
fretfulness in his voice as, beneath a blazing noonday sun, Helen
half-ran across the fields, her companion toiling after her.
"Because we must make haste," returned Helen rather sharply, looking
round at Harold. Then she stopped short suddenly. "What is the matter?"
she asked in altered tones. "Aren't you well? Let me go alone, and you
can wait in the shade till I come back."
"Nonsense, Helen!" said Harold, still fretfully. "I am quite well, only
I am hot, and you will walk so fast."
Helen did not reply. She altered her pace and began to talk on other
subjects; but Harold was singularly quiet and unresponsive.
In a few minutes the children arrived at a stile, and, leaving the
fields, passed into a narrow lane, from which, by a plank that crossed
a black, festering ditch, they reached a group of low thatched houses,
very picturesque in appearance, but telling a tale of age and decay.
Towards one of these, rather larger than the rest, and separated from
the road by a strip of garden, Harold now led the way, closely followed
by Helen. Harold knocked at the door, and a gruff voice cried "Come in!"
Harold walked in boldly; Helen followed timidly. These scenes were new
to her, and she felt terribly shy.
The Hunt family was seated at dinner. The father, in his rough working
clothes, had already pushed an almost untasted plate of food away from
him, but several flaxen heads were busy over the table, whilst Mrs.
Hunt, a hard-featured woman, was bustling about and speaking in a sharp,
high-pitched key.
"Lor'! be it you, Master Harold?" cried the man, whilst the woman
dropped a saucepan lid in her astonishment.
"I--we came to ask about Jim," said Harold.
"Well, he bean't no better as I can see," returned the man. "You can
tell the parson so."
"I didn't come from my father, I came for myself," said Harold stoutly;
"and please we should like to see Jim if we may."
Husband and wife exchanged glances.
"Won't the young lady sit down?" asked Mrs. Hunt, after an instant's
pause, dusting a chair for Helen with her apron.
"No, thank you," replied Helen, "we only came to see Jim, and we haven't
much time."
"Let 'em go, then, if they wull," observed the man, answering his wife's
unspoken question.
"He won't know you," said Mrs. Hunt, whose eyes were fixed on Helen's
basket; "and it's no good giving him things he can't swallow. But if
Master Harold and the young lady like to go upstairs they're welcome.
He's lying in the room right atop of the stairs. You'll find the door
open to keep the room cool."
The visitors needed no second bidding. Stumbling up the dark rotten
staircase they soon found themselves in the room where, on a rough bed,
Jim, with wide open, blank eyes, lay tossing and tumbling. The
atmosphere here was less oppressive than that below, and through the
tiny window a little breeze came, and the sunlight made one golden patch
upon the rough, dirty floor.
[Illustration: HELEN AND HAROLD AT JIM'S BEDSIDE]
"Don't you know us, Jim?" asked Harold, going up to the sick boy and
bending over him.
Jim only replied by an unmeaning stare, and began to mutter inaudibly.
"See, Jim, we have brought you some strawberries," said Helen, advancing
and opening her basket.
A glance of intelligence passed over the lad's face as he looked from
Helen to the strawberries, but it faded directly, and the low muttering
recommenced.
"Can't we do anything for him?" asked Harold in a whisper.
"I think that we might make him more comfortable," said Helen, beginning
with deft fingers to straighten the bed-clothes and raise the pillows.
"And see, his poor mouth is parched. We might moisten his lips."
"Well, miss, you are kind, to be sure," said Mrs. Hunt's voice from the
doorway; "I can't do for him as I would. There's the children; they must
be seen to, and the fowls and the pigs. He was a good lad to me, though
he is not my own, and we never had a wrong word, never."
"Won't he get better?" asked Harold.
"I don't believe as he will," returned the woman. "The very night as he
was took I says to his father, he's took for death. And I believe my
words is coming true."
"Water!" murmured Jim, a look of consciousness stealing into his
fever-stricken eyes.
The woman hastened to his side and gave the water, not unkindly.
"Who's that?" he asked, pointing at Harold.
"Why, Jim, don't you know? That's Master Harold come to see you. And the
young lady from the Grange, she--" But Jim was already beginning to
wander again, and both Harold and Helen were almost due at home, and
dared not prolong their stay.
"It is so dreadful for him to be alone," said Helen as they stumbled
down-stairs preceded by Mrs. Hunt. "May I come and sit with him this
afternoon?"
Mrs. Hunt assented. She did not want the young lady "bothering about,"
but it would never do to risk falling out with the Grange. So it was
arranged that Helen should return, and then she and Harold started off
homewards at a rapid pace. It did occur to Helen to ask her father's
permission for this second visit, but when she arrived at home she found
that he was out and not expected back until late in the afternoon. Mrs.
Desmond was still upstairs, and Helen lunched alone, and afterwards, her
head still full of poor Jim, took a few restless turns up and down the
garden walks, and then set out for the village.
Upon the village a sort of afternoon calm seemed to have fallen. The
children were in school, the men at work in the fields, a few of the
women were straw-plaiting and gossiping idly at their doors, and these
stared and whispered one to another as Helen passed them on her way to
the Hunts' cottage. Here all was silent, save that through the open
window overhead a sound of Jim's unintelligible muttering could be heard
occasionally.
"It's you, miss, is it?" said Mrs. Hunt, appearing at last in answer to
Helen's timid knocking; "go up if you like. Nobody can do any good, I'm
afeard. But it's kind of you to come."
Helen made no answer, but climbed the narrow staircase and entered the
sick boy's room. There was no change since her last visit, although she
fancied that Jim's face brightened a little as she went in. Very gently
she attended to his comfort, and she even succeeded in making him
swallow some milk that stood by his bedside. Then he closed his eyes,
and she went and sat down by the window, wondering whether a sense of
human companionship was the comfort to Jim that she fancied it would be
to herself under similar circumstances. Very slowly the afternoon wore
on. Every now and then the sick boy stirred and recommenced his confused
talk. Such strange talk it seemed to Helen to come from dying lips. It
was his work that troubled him. The fowls that would lay away, the cows
that he could not milk, the sheep that would stray. And he was always
late, and father would come home and be angry.
"Poor Jim! perhaps his work is all done. Perhaps no one will ever be
angry with him any more," thought Helen, tears rising to her eyes. Seen
in this light it did occur to her that dying was not such a very sad
thing after all. Here was Jim, whose life had been a hard one, who had
known no pleasures, who was stupid, every one said, and whom no one had
cared for much. That very night, perhaps, he would know more than the
wisest man living; he might be seeing more beautiful things than we can
even picture, and be making the most wonderful discoveries about that
undying love which Cousin Mary had said was always about us from the
moment we were born. And on earth no one would speak his name save
gently, no one would remember that he was plain and silly, but he would
be thought of tenderly, and even those who had not loved him would have
a sigh to give to his memory.
"Was dying so very sad after all?" Helen was still asking herself this
question, when from below there came a sound of merry laughter, and of
trampling childish feet. The children were coming out from school, and
simultaneously the whole village seemed to wake up. Boys shouted and
played; lowing cows were brought in to be milked; the women began their
preparations for the evening meal, and, from their open doorways, called
loudly upon their respective children. Life was there; and here was
death. Poor Jim! never to mingle with his fellows again; never to feel
the warm sun and the soft air; to go away from the cheerful day into the
dark unknown. Yes; it was dreadful, dreadful, and Helen buried her face
in her hands to shut out the sad picture.
Just then she heard a sound of voices below. Mrs. Hunt was talking
volubly, but who was she addressing? Not her husband certainly. Perhaps
it was the doctor. Helen felt a little shamefaced at the idea of being
caught watching beside the sick boy, and she advanced to the door to see
if there was any chance of escape. Then she felt still more perturbed,
for she recognized Mr. Bayden's voice speaking in quick nervous tones.
"Of course, Mrs. Hunt," he was saying, "if I could do the poor lad any
good, I would see him directly. But you say that he knows nobody."
"Well, I can't say that exactly. He seemed to brighten up like when
Master Harold came in this morning. Not that--"
"Master Harold!"
The words were gasped out in quick, agitated accents.
"Yes, sir; why, bless me! I thought you sent him, him and the young lady
from the Grange. They come just as we was sittin' at dinner, and I says
to Hunt, says I, I do take it kind like--"
"Do you mean that Master Harold was here this morning? That he saw
Jim?"
"I do, sir; and the young lady--"
But there was no need for any more of Mrs. Hunt's roundabout statements.
Helen had already guessed from Mr. Bayden's agitated tones that
something was wrong, and she now appeared upon the scene.
"What are you doing here?" cried the clergyman, catching sight of her.
"I--I only came to see Jim, he seemed so lonely," faltered Helen. "I am
very sorry if I did wrong. Please don't blame Harold. It was all my
doing that we came."
"Oh! what have you done! what have you done!" cried Mr. Bayden, wringing
his hands. "Come home with me directly. I must see your father."
"Well, I never!" ejaculated Mrs. Hunt in some indignation; whilst Helen,
still bewildered, prepared to obey.
"My good woman, don't attempt to interfere," said Mr. Bayden testily,
trying to control himself. "Anything that I can do for the poor lad, of
course, as a clergyman, I am prepared to do. But I cannot risk my
children. Here is money. Get anything that is needed for Jim."
"A pretty clergyman!" muttered Mrs. Hunt, looking sullenly at the money
that still lay upon the table, as though half inclined to throw it after
its donor, who was by this time half-way down the village street,
followed by Helen. "Well, it's lucky for him Jim is none o' mine, or I'd
have given him a piece of my mind. A pretty clergyman!"
Mr. Bayden meanwhile, who would have been the last person in the world
to wound Mrs. Hunt's feelings wilfully, and who was quite unconscious
that in his terror and excitement he had omitted to explain to her the
cause of his perturbation at Harold's visit, was half-way across the
fields leading to the Grange before he had sufficiently recovered
himself even to address Helen.
"Am I walking too fast for you?" he said then.
"Oh, no!" answered Helen, who was nearly out of breath with her efforts
to keep up with her companion. "I hope you won't be angry with Harold,"
she added timidly. "I am quite sure my father won't mind my having
gone."
"Not mind your having gone!" repeated Mr. Bayden. "It was a most wicked,
thoughtless act. And to lead Harold into mischief too! My poor Harold!"
"Oh, Mr. Bayden, is anything the matter with Harold?"
Helen's agonized tones touched the clergyman, preoccupied as he was.
"I don't know," he returned more gently. "He ate no lunch, and he
complained of headache this afternoon. It may be nothing."
"But why--why?" began Helen, when, to her joy, she saw her father a
little ahead of them.
"There is father!" she cried joyfully, running after him. Her tale was
nearly told before Mr. Bayden came up to them.
"What has my little girl been doing?" asked the colonel, smiling.
"Interfering with your sick folk? No harm done, I hope."
"I hope not," answered Mr. Bayden tremulously. "But--shall I speak
before her?"
"Run on, Helen," said the colonel. "Now," he went on as Helen obeyed, an
anxious look gathering on his face, "what is it?"
"Just this. I met the doctor this afternoon, and he fears an epidemic in
the village. Jim Hunt is dying, may be dead already. He ought to have
been isolated from the first. But our regular doctor is away, and this
one has no sense. As for that silly Mrs. Hunt--"
"Has the doctor pronounced the disease infectious?" interrupted the
colonel impatiently.
"He doesn't know what to make of it. Two more children in the village
are down with it."
"And our children have been exposed to it?"
Mr. Bayden nodded.
"I am sorry, Bayden," resumed the colonel. "Let us hope that no harm
will come of it. Helen has been thoughtless. I will speak to her. The
less said to anyone else the better. I daresay it would only
unnecessarily alarm your wife. Come in now and have some tea."
"Don't ask me," cried the clergyman, his excitement rising again.
"Harold was not well when I left home. Nothing but duty would have taken
me out. Good-bye, good-bye!"
Mr. Bayden hurried away a good deal annoyed with Colonel Desmond for his
apparent unconcern, and resolved to impart the whole affair to his wife
as soon as possible.
Helen rejoined her father.
"Oh, Helen!" said the latter gravely, "this is a bad business. What
could have induced you to go to the Hunts' cottage, and to take Harold
with you? I am really vexed with you."
"Indeed, father," faltered Helen, "I did not think that I was doing
anything wrong."
"Didn't you know that Jim has a fever. And now Mr. Bayden says that
Harold has taken it."
Helen gave a little cry and buried her face in her hands. She understood
it all now, Mr. Bayden's distress and her father's annoyance. And
Harold? Then her thoughts stopped, they dared not travel further.
"Let this be a lesson to you, Helen," went on the colonel seriously,
still annoyed and a little anxious, although sorry for the child's
evident distress. "You are too heedless. That is at the root of all your
troubles. There, run in now and get yourself cool. We mustn't have you
laid up, and the heat to-day is quite Indian. Cheer up! I daresay Harold
will be well to-morrow."
Thus dismissed, Helen went her way. She was very sad and downcast, and
her old morbid fancies returned in full force. Two days of terrible
suspense followed, during which even Mrs. Desmond remarked upon the
girl's altered looks. On the third day a hurried note from Mrs. Bayden
informed her sister that Harold was dangerously ill, and alluded to his
visit to Jim in Helen's company in terms that there was no mistaking.
Mrs. Desmond's annoyance at the reception of this information was not
lessened by the fact of its having been hitherto kept from her
knowledge. But Helen was too unhappy to suffer greatly from her
stepmother's reproaches, too down-hearted to take comfort even from her
father's assurances that Harold must have taken the fever before his
visit to Jim, as otherwise it would not have declared itself so
speedily.
There was, in fact, no comfort for poor Helen, not even the comfort of
knowing from hour to hour how the sufferer fared. All communication
between the Rectory and the Grange was stopped, and Mrs. Desmond was
making hasty preparations for departure. Helen wandered about, a forlorn
little figure, generally alone, but occasionally accompanied by her
father.
It was upon one of these latter occasions on the very last day of their
stay at the Grange, that the father and daughter, walking sadly through
the lanes, encountered Mr. Bayden. The clergyman tried to pass on, but
the colonel interposed.
"We're not afraid of infection here, Bayden. How is the lad?"
Mr. Bayden shook his head. "He is very, very ill," he answered brokenly.
"Dear me! Such a fine little fellow! He is sure to pull through."
"I dare not hope for it," returned the clergyman; "though I would give
my life for him."
As he spoke he passed on, and the colonel and Helen continued their walk
in sad silence. Colonel Desmond was half surprised at his little girl's
silence. He even thought that she ought to have spoken, and hoped that
she was not growing hard-hearted.
He did not look at her face, or its strained unchildlike expression
might have alarmed him. Neither could he see her when, finding herself
alone in her own room, she sat down and buried her face in her hands,
moaning, "I would give my life for him, my life for him," while tearless
sobs shook her slight frame.
No one thought of Helen through those sad days, no one pitied her. Even
her father was vexed that through her thoughtlessness she had made it
possible for people to say that she was answerable for Harold's illness.
More and more the poor little head puzzled itself over questions that
can find no answer here; but strangest of all it seemed to her to think
of the days when Harold was the Rectory grievance, the bitterest drop in
his mother's cup, and to contrast them with the present, when love was
fighting its bitter battle over him with death.
How miserable Agatha had looked in church last Sunday! Perhaps even
Agatha knew that she loved her brother now. How sad that love and
tenderness should come too late! Was it always so?