"IF I HAD BUT LOVED HER."
Dearly as Mrs. Desmond loved London and the comforts of her own home,
she had no desire to spend the last days of sultry July in Bloomsbury
Square. The Grange being no longer, in her eyes, a safe abode, the
difficult question now arose where next to go. Long and anxious were the
consultations that took place between husband and wife upon this
subject. At last Colonel Desmond, glancing over the _Times_
advertisement sheet, read of a pleasure steamer which was to start for
the Baltic and St. Petersburg on the 1st of August. An idea struck him.
Mrs. Desmond owned some property in Russia. Would she not like to see
it? The short voyage would be agreeable. They might return by Vienna and
Germany. Should they go? The idea actually found favour in Mrs.
Desmond's eyes. She had had no experience of travelling by sea, and
fancied that a voyage would be pleasant enough. And if they returned by
Germany even the colonel might be brought to see the wisdom of placing
Helen at one of those excellent German schools of which Mrs. Desmond had
been wont to speak scornfully enough in times gone by. She did not
forget that she had done so; but the knowledge that Helen had forced her
to act in a manner contrary to her openly-expressed opinions added to
the bitterness of her feelings towards the girl.
Rather to the colonel's surprise his wife raised no question about
Helen's accompanying them on the projected trip. Longford Grange was
deserted in all haste. Mrs. Desmond declared that the place had not
suited her, and that she was thankful to see the last of it. Neither was
the colonel sorry. Only Helen's heart ached as she drove with her
parents through the village on her way to the station, straining her
eyes to catch a last glimpse of the Rectory, where Harold lay, as they
had just heard, between life and death.
"My poor sister!" sighed Mrs. Desmond, who was in a pleasant mood,
thankful to be getting safely away from the neighbourhood of the fever.
"My poor sister! No doubt she will feel the boy's loss; but, after all,
there will be one less to provide for. And Harold was the most
troublesome of them all. These trials are often blessings in disguise."
"Nonsense!" said the colonel, with a quick glance at Helen. "Harold will
live to trouble them yet. You see if he doesn't. And as for his being
troublesome, it's my belief that parents like the tiresome children
best."
Mrs. Desmond pursed up her thin lips, and glanced at Helen in her turn.
"You speak without knowledge, John," she returned coldly. "To love a
child that is continually paining you is impossible. It is a piece of
modern cant to say that it is. Of course one must do one's _duty_
towards a troublesome child. That is what you mean, I suppose."
The colonel merely shrugged his shoulders and made no reply. He did not
find his wife charming when she took this tone.
"I know some one who is sorry to leave Longford," he said after a pause,
looking kindly at Helen, who, white and silent, sat opposite to her
father.
"Sorry!" began Helen half-stupidly. She was putting a strong restraint
upon herself, for she dreaded showing any feeling before her stepmother.
"Surely Helen must be rather glad than sorry," interposed the latter.
"If I were in her place I should pray that I might never see Longford
again."
Both the colonel and Helen understood Mrs. Desmond's meaning. But
although the former threw himself back with an impatient gesture, while
Helen's lips quivered and her cheeks flushed, they both took refuge in
silence, which remained unbroken until the station was reached.
A fortnight later and the days at Longford seemed almost like a dream to
Helen, so changed were the outward surroundings of her life.
The steamer in which our friends had embarked had reached the landlocked
Baltic. The lingering northern twilight was slowly, reluctantly giving
place to night, such night as northern latitudes know even in late
summer, when a sort of delicate gray veil, through which every object is
distinctly visible, shrouds the earth for a few hours between sunset and
sunrise. These nights possess a poetical charm that almost defies
description, a charm that touches the most unimaginative with a vague
sense of the nearness of an intangible other-world. There is a darkening
and a hush. Nature, weary with the long day, rests; but rests, as it
were, awake, waiting for the quick-coming dawn. Helen, sitting a little
apart from a merry group of fellow-passengers on the steamer's deck, was
under the spell of this wonderful summer's night. There are certain
phases in nature which seem to work upon highly-strung people until they
experience a kind of spiritual quickening, some such quickening as we
imagine may come to us after death. It was this influence that was upon
Helen now. The day had passed pleasantly enough except for one incident.
Mrs. Desmond had not found the voyage come up to her expectations. In
crossing the North Sea she had been horribly sea-sick, and now, although
scarcely a ripple disturbed the surface of the Baltic, she found it hard
to forget her previous sufferings. Upon this day, however, she had
ventured up on deck for the first time. Helen, noticing her stepmother
shivering, had run unasked to fetch her a wrap. Heedlessly catching up
the first she could find, a white fleecy shawl, she ran up the companion
with it in her hand. Just as she reached the top a steward, carrying a
plate of soup, passed her. How it came about Helen scarcely knew, but
the ship lurched, and the contents of the plate were bestowed upon the
delicate white shawl. Mrs. Desmond from her chair watched the scene, and
gave a little cry of dismay as she saw the rich soup dyeing her
favourite shawl.
Tears rushed to Helen's eyes.
"I am very sorry," she stammered, going forward slowly and hanging her
head.
Inwardly Mrs. Desmond felt convinced that Helen had acted from first to
last with the sole purpose of annoying her. A good many people, however,
were sitting and standing near her, and she controlled her anger.
"Why did you fetch the shawl?" she asked coldly.
"I--I thought it would make you more comfortable."
There was a second's pause, during which Mrs. Desmond mentally decided
that Helen was lying deliberately.
"Take the thing away, please," she said at last. "It is utterly ruined.
The very sight of it makes me feel ill."
"What an unlucky little girl it is!" said Colonel Desmond, patting
Helen's shoulder as she turned silently away.
"And what a pity to see such a lovely shawl ruined!" ejaculated a lady
who was sitting next to Mrs. Desmond, and who thought that that lady had
displayed remarkable forbearance.
"What an unlucky little girl!" The words haunted Helen all day. They
rang in her ears persistently. Was she unlucky? Would she always be
unlucky? always doing things that hurt others? Would she never have a
chance of showing that she was not really wicked? that she longed to do
those sweet gracious actions that came so naturally from some people?
Would no one ever love her except her father, whom she was always
disappointing, whose chief trouble and anxiety she was, her stepmother
said?
"I try, I try!" cried Helen to herself; "but I always do the wrong
thing. I am unlucky."
Dusky night came on. No one noticed Helen as she sat alone in her quiet
corner. Mrs. Desmond had retired long ago. Colonel Desmond had gone his
own way, imagining his little girl safely in bed. Gradually the various
groups of passengers dispersed, calling out merry good-nights to one
another. Silence fell, broken only by the faint lapping of the sea
against the ship as she went swiftly through the water.
With wide-open eyes, full of sad questionings, Helen looked out over the
still waters and watched a faint coast-line that showed itself far away
against the horizon. There was no moon visible, only that curious gray
shroud veiled sea and sky, making everything look unreal and ghost-like,
its effect heightened by the peculiar stillness of the sultry
atmosphere.
Intensely wide awake, Helen sat and watched, while every incident in her
short life seemed to pass in review before her. More vividly than any
other, there came back to her the scene in Jim Hunt's dying chamber. She
could almost have fancied that she was sitting once more by the little
open window, listening to the sick boy's rambling talk, while the
children shouted and laughed below.
Then the scene changed. What had happened? Where was the ship and the
gray waters and shadowy, distant land? Had she been dreaming? Where was
she?
In a sick-room, not bare and comfortless like Jim Hunt's, but bright and
cheerful, lit with shaded lamps, and filled with tokens of thoughtful
love. On the bed someone was lying, but from where Helen stood only a
curly head was visible. At a small table by the bedside sat a lady,
busy, apparently, over a gaily-coloured scrap-book. Her back was turned
to Helen, but as the girl advanced timidly she raised her head and said:
"I think I have done enough to-night, Harold. I will put the rest in
to-morrow." "Not to-morrow;" and the little figure in its eagerness
tried, though vainly, to raise itself in bed. "Not to-morrow. Mother,
mother, do finish it to-night."
Helen clasped her hands. This was Harold. She pressed forward and tried
to speak, but no words came. It was all curious, for Mrs. Bayden must
surely see her now, and yet she made no sign. Helen looked at Harold,
but his eyes were closed.
Mrs. Bayden glanced anxiously at Harold and then bent once more over the
scrap-book. Helen stood quite still, gazing at Harold. His beautiful
rounded face had grown pale and pinched, and it was almost difficult to
recognize him, so changed was he. He lay quite still for what seemed to
Helen a long time, but at last he moved and opened his eyes. Then he saw
Helen standing at the foot of his bed, and he sat up and stretched out
his arms to her, his face beaming with joy.
"Helen, Helen!" he cried. "Don't you see her, mother? I am coming.
Helen, wait for me."
As the sound of his voice died away, the vision faded. Helen looked
round, and found herself upon the sea, and heard again the water lapping
against the ship. Only there was a change. The air was cold and charged
with moisture. The distant coast-line had disappeared from sight, and
the delicate gray veil had given place to a thick mist, through which
the pale dawn strove in vain to pierce.
She sat quite still, trying to collect her thoughts. The impression
left upon her by her dream was so vivid that it was at first impossible
to believe that she had been asleep, and even when she succeeded in
persuading herself that this had been the case the conviction remained
that Harold lived, that he was waiting for her, and that they would meet
again. This conviction gave her neither pleasure nor pain, but was so
settled that it would have surprised her more to have seen her father
standing beside her than Harold. She was curiously tranquillized too.
All the vain longings and regrets that had troubled her so sorely of
late were stilled. She felt quite happy and at rest, and regardless of
the rolling mist which seemed to be closing in round the ship, she
curled herself up in her long chair and fell fast asleep.
The child slept soundly, although the mist thickened and increased
rapidly, and the captain, hastily aroused, paced the deck anxiously.
Speed was reduced, all hands were on the alert, and discordant blasts on
the fog-horn disturbed the quiet. Still Helen did not stir, until,
suddenly, from the look-out there came a ringing cry, "Ship ahead!" Then
she started up and saw what looked through the mist like a phantom ship
bearing down upon the doomed vessel on which she stood. Half paralysed
by vague fear, although quite ignorant of the reality of the peril,
Helen remained rooted to the spot, whilst a few minutes of agonizing
suspense ensued, and the captain's voice rang out his orders and each
man went to his post. Then came a crash, a shock, under which the vessel
shuddered like a living thing, and, almost as it seemed the next moment,
the phantom-like ship, her deadly work done, was moving away,
disregarding the affrighted shrieks with which the air was suddenly
filled.
The passengers, rudely awakened, rushed on deck. Cries and shrieks were
soon redoubled, for almost immediately after she was struck the ship
stopped, and it became known that water was pouring into the
engine-room, extinguishing the fires. There followed a few minutes of
indescribable confusion, during which the men held bravely to their
posts, until, once more, and for the last time, the captain's voice rang
out clear and calm from the bridge:
"All hands clear away the boats! Save yourselves! To the boats!"
Instantly there was a rush for the boats, one of which was lashed to the
ship close to where Helen was standing wringing her hands and calling
wildly for her father.
Before the boat could be lowered it was filled, but a ship's officer,
compassionating the lonely, terrified child, was just about to place
Helen in the already heavily-weighted craft, when a woman, who, with a
child in her arms, had just managed to scramble in, started up,
screaming:
"My boy, my boy! He is not here! Save him, oh, save him!"
At sound of her voice a delicate, lame boy, between whom and Helen there
had been a sort of friendship, pressed forward, but was instantly borne
back by the excited crowd.
"Help him, I can manage for myself," said Helen, disengaging herself
from her would-be deliverer's grasp and pointing to the boy.
There was no time for parleying. Crying, "Make way for the women and
children," the officer, fancying that Helen also was safe, thrust the
lame boy over the ship's side, and the over-filled boat moved away.
This half-instinctive act of generosity restored Helen to her presence
of mind. The frantic crowd that had surged round her melted away as the
boat passed out of sight. She rallied her courage and looked around her,
wondering how she could best set about finding her father.
At this period the scene was a terrible one. The vessel was sinking
fast, and already, where Helen stood, the water was almost up to her
knees. Heart-rending cries and pitiful prayers filled the air. Mothers
were calling wildly on their children, husbands on their wives, for the
heavy mist and darkness added to the horror of the scene, making it
difficult for people to distinguish one another.
Obtaining no answer to her repeated cries, Helen determined to advance
cautiously. Clinging to the bulwarks, stumbling at every step, half
drenched with water and benumbed with cold, she scrambled on for some
distance. Once or twice she fancied that she heard her father's voice
calling her, and replying as well as she was able, she struggled on in
the direction from which the sound came. To reach him was her one
absorbing desire. She felt certain that his strong arms would save her,
that he would not let her perish.
Dawn came slowly. The mists lifted, but only to show a wild waste of
water ruffled by a rising wind, and the sea-horses moaning and fretting
round the doomed vessel, as though waiting for their prey. Helen
shivered, and her courage began to fail. The water was rising, and
people were climbing into the rigging.
"Father! father!" she cried wildly; but there was no answer, only a
faint moan that sounded as though it came from someone quite close to
her.
Helen paused. The sound was so pitiful it arrested her attention. She
looked about, and presently she descried a crouched-up figure close
beside her clinging to a hand-rail that had formed part of some steps
leading to the bridge. The girl put out her hand and touched the
recumbent figure.
"Are you hurt?" she asked. "Can I help you?"
Helen felt her hand clutched, and the figure raised itself. Then she
started back, for in the wild, terror-stricken face that met her gaze
she recognized her stepmother.
"Mamma!"
"Helen!"
"Where is my father?"
The words burst from Helen's lips in agonized entreaty.
Mrs. Desmond shook her head.
"I do not know," she answered feebly. "He left me safe, as he thought. I
only went back to fetch a few things that I was trying to preserve, and
that he had taken from me and thrown on the deck. There was plenty of
time, everyone said. And when I returned my place was taken. It was
wicked, cowardly. And I have been alone ever since."
"But my father, my father?" repeated Helen impatiently.
"How can I tell? He went in search of you. It was a terrible risk; I
told him so. You should have been with us."
A pang smote Helen's heart. She had been unlucky again. But for that
profound sleep that had fallen upon her on deck she might easily have
found her father at the first alarm.
"He cannot be far away. He would never forsake us," she said, wrenching
her hand from her stepmother's grasp. "I must find him."
"O, Helen, do not leave me!" moaned Mrs. Desmond, raising herself and
clinging to the girl's drenched skirts, "it is so terrible to be alone,
and I am so weak. If any help came I might be passed over and forgotten.
I cannot scream as some people do. Stay with me, Helen, stay with me."
Helen stood for a moment irresolute. If she remained here she must
abandon all hope of finding her father, almost, it seemed to her, all
hope of life. And the water was always mounting higher. She was not weak
like her stepmother. If no other help was at hand she might climb with
others into the rigging and wait for the aid that must surely come. And
there would be always that chance of finding her father.
"If I find father he will be able to help you," she said, moving away a
little.
"No, no, Helen; you must not leave me," cried Mrs. Desmond; and again
she clutched the girl's hand, those strong young fingers that had
closed so appealingly on hers once, but that were irresponsive now. Did
a recollection of that day, when Helen had appealed to her in vain,
return to Mrs. Desmond? Perhaps so, for there was a real ring of sorrow
in her voice as she said:
"I daresay I have been hard upon you, Helen; but I meant to do my duty
by you. And if at first--"
For once Mrs. Desmond had touched the right chord in Helen's breast.
There was no need for more words. The past flashed back upon the girl's
mind. Here was the chance for which she had longed, and she had been
going to throw it away.
"Of course I will stay with you," she cried impulsively, flinging
herself down beside her stepmother. "Don't be so sad, mamma," she went
on soothingly. "Father is sure to come to us. We shall be saved, I am
sure."
"Do you really think so, Helen?" moaned Mrs. Desmond. "I wish I could
believe it. Couldn't you say a prayer, child? I can't remember one,
although I have always said my prayers, night and morning; and I have
always tried to do my duty--always."
Tenderly supporting her stepmother's head on her poor, drenched lap,
Helen whispered our Lord's prayer, and then Mrs. Desmond wandered on
again, wondering about this and that, and chiefly why such a terrible
crisis should have come into her tranquil life.
"It has been all sorrow and trouble," she said, remembering the troubled
course of the past year. "I couldn't bear you, Helen. You must forgive
me. We must forgive everyone now."
With tears in her eyes Helen gave the required forgiveness. How strange
it all seemed! She and her stepmother alone together, with an awful
death creeping close up to them, and the understanding that would have
sweetened both their lives coming too late. Presently Mrs. Desmond's
mind began to wander. Helen listened to her disjointed talk, soothing
her as well as she was able; raising her voice occasionally to call
imploringly on her father, little dreaming that he, having left his wife
as he believed in safety, and having received an assurance from a ship's
officer that Helen had been placed in the first boat that left the ship,
had provided himself with a life-buoy, and was now battling with the
waves, trusting to the chance of keeping himself afloat and of being
eventually picked up by a passing vessel.
The desire of life was strong in Helen. It was terrible to her to remain
inactive and to watch the water gradually engulfing the ship. Sometimes
she felt almost unable to endure it longer; but at her least movement
Mrs. Desmond would start up, imploring her to remain.
"I would come back," she said once or twice. "I only want to find
another place where we might be a little safer. The water is coming in
upon us so fast."
But Mrs. Desmond was almost past fear itself now, and her only reply was
to cling yet more closely to the lithe young figure by her side; and
Helen could not steel her heart against such an appeal.
Still the ordeal was a terrible one. Awful as the scene had been when
the vessel had first struck, it became more appalling now, as,
gradually, cries were hushed, those few left upon the wreck reserving
all their strength for their fight with death, and the cold dawn showed
still only that vast expanse of gray, seething waters, unbroken by even
a passing sail. Helen's heart sank within her. Must it come, this awful
death? Was there no help anywhere? The strong life within her rebelled
at the thought, and she looked round her, wondering whether her strength
would enable her to drag Mrs. Desmond with her to a place of greater
safety. Still holding her stepmother's hand, she managed to drag herself
to her feet, and as she did so she caught sight of a rude raft, composed
of a few planks hastily fastened together, on which two men were
standing, having apparently just put off from the wreck.
"Help!" she cried.
The raft drifted on and there came no answer. With the courage of
despair she repeated her cry, and the men looked round. Possibly the
sight of the forlorn childish figure standing, as it appeared, utterly
alone on the doomed vessel, touched them, for, notwithstanding the
danger of returning to the fast-submerging wreck, they altered their
course and came within hail.
"You must jump!" shouted one, throwing a rope to Helen, who stood with
both hands outstretched, calling out words of encouragement to Mrs.
Desmond, who still clung to her, and who was too dazed with terror and
exhaustion to understand that help was at hand.
"Quick!" shouted their deliverers. "Pass the rope round you and trust to
it. We can come no nearer."
"Quick!" they cried again as they saw Helen stooping down and adjusting
the rope, not round herself, but round a figure that lay at her feet.
"Courage, mamma, courage!" she said. "Hold fast to the rope! We are
saved, we are saved!"
"Saved!" echoed Mrs. Desmond, clutching feebly at the rope. "Don't leave
me, Helen."
"Come," shouted the men, "there is not a moment to lose."
"Hold fast, dear, hold fast!" said Helen, beginning to attach herself
also to the rope. But it was too late. Crying "Ready?" the men pulled
the rope. With a faint scream Mrs. Desmond disappeared alone into the
swirling water. A minute or two later her dripping, senseless form lay
upon the raft, which was itself almost engulfed immediately afterwards
as, with an awful booming sound, the wreck settled down lower into the
water. A rising wave caught Helen and carried her off her feet. She
caught at some floating wreckage, which supported her for a moment, and
looked round her for the last time. The raft had disappeared from sight.
She was alone.
* * * * *
Day broke. The mist melted away as the sun rose sparkling on the water
that, swept by a light wind, danced gaily in the glad morning light. But
of the ship that had moved so gallantly over those same waters only a
few short hours before, no trace remained, save here and there some
floating wreckage. No trace either of the brave little soul whose
perplexities were all over now, who would never be unlucky any more, to
whom death had come gently and tenderly at last, and to whom it had been
given to offer the supremest sacrifice, even its own life, for another.
* * * * *
Colonel and Mrs. Desmond were amongst the survivors on that fatal night,
whose terrible events cost the latter a long and painful illness. On her
recovery she burst into tears when Helen's name was mentioned in her
presence for the first time. Whether she was fully conscious of her
stepdaughter's heroic behaviour towards her no one ever exactly knew.
Her husband learnt much of what had passed through her ravings during
her illness, but he dreaded recurring to so painful a subject. Very
sadly, after many months had elapsed, they returned to their home in
Bloomsbury Square, and from that day forward no untoward event occurred
to mar the outward calm of the lives of this middle-aged couple as they
went down into what seemed serene old age; but the colonel's hair
whitened rapidly, and Mrs. Desmond realized too late all that she had
missed.
Spring was in the land once more when Colonel and Mrs. Desmond, aged and
saddened, stood again in sight of Longford Grange. Mrs. Desmond trembled
as she walked, and the colonel took her hand gently and led her towards
the churchyard. There, at the head of a little mound, bright with
spring flowers, a marble cross had been placed. On it was written--
IN MEMORY OF
HAROLD,
Who Died August 10th, 187--.
And below--
On the same day and about the same hour,
HELEN,
Drowned through the Foundering of the
"Empress" in the Baltic.
"_Love is all and death is nought._"
Mrs. Desmond knelt down and kissed the cold stone. "If I had but loved
her," she said.