WHILE the boat was going to the _Springbok,_ General Rolleston whispered
to Captain Moreland; and what he said may be almost guessed from what
occurred on board the steamer soon afterward. Helen was carried trembling
into the cabin, and the order was given to heave the anchor and get under
way. A groan of disappointment ran through the ship; Captain Moreland
expressed the general's regret to the men, and divided two hundred pounds
upon the capstan; and the groan ended in a cheer.
As for Helen's condition, that was at first mistaken for ill health. She
buried herself for two whole days in her cabin; and from that place faint
moans were heard now and then. The sailors called her the sick lady.
Heaven knows what she went through in that forty-eight hours.
She came upon deck at last in a strange state of mind and body; restless,
strung up, absorbed. The rare vigor she had acquired on the island came
out now with a vengeance. She walked the deck with briskness, and a
pertinacity that awakened admiration in the crew at first, but by and by
superstitious awe. For, while the untiring feet went briskly to and fro
over leagues and leagues of plank every day, the great hazel eyes were
turned inward, and the mind, absorbed with one idea, skimmed the men and
things about her listlessly.
She had a mission to fulfill, and her whole nature was stringing itself
up to do the work.
She walked so many miles a day, partly from excitement, partly with a
deliberate resolve to cherish her health and strength; "I may want them
both," said she, "to clear Robert Penfold." Thought and high purpose
shone through her so, that after a while nobody dared trouble her much
with commonplaces. To her father, she was always sweet and filial, but
sadly cold compared with what she had always been hitherto. He was taking
her body to England, but her heart stayed behind upon that island. He saw
this, and said it.
"Forgive me," said she, coldly; and that was all her reply.
Sometimes she had violent passions of weeping; and then he would endeavor
to console her; but in vain. They ran their course, and were succeeded by
the bodily activity and concentration of purpose they had interrupted for
a little while.
At last, after a rapid voyage, they drew near the English coast; and then
General Rolleston, who had hitherto spared her feelings, and been most
indulgent and considerate, felt it was high time to come to an
understanding with her as to the course they should both pursue.
"Now, Helen," said he, "about the Wardlaws!"
Helen gave a slight shudder. But she said, after a slight hesitation,
"Let me know your wishes."
"Oh, mine are not to be too ungrateful to the father, and not to deceive
the son."
"I will not be ungrateful to the father, nor deceive the son," said
Helen, firmly.
The general kissed her on the brow, and called her his brave girl. "But,"
said he, "on the other hand, it must not be published that you have been
for eight months on an island alone with a convict. Anything sooner than
that. You know the malice of your own sex; if one woman gets hold of
that, you will be an outcast from society."
Helen blushed and trembled. "Nobody need be told that but Arthur; and I
am sure he loves me well enough not to injure me with the world."
"But he would be justified in declining your hand, after such a
revelation."
"Quite. And I hope he will decline it when he knows I love another,
however hopelessly."
"You are going to tell Arthur Wardlaw all that?"
"I am."
"Then all I can say is, you are not like other women."
"I have been brought up by a man."
"If I was Arthur Wardlaw, it would be the last word you should ever speak
to me."
"If you were Arthur Wardlaw, I should be on that dear island now."
"Well, suppose his love should be greater than his spirit, and--"
"If he does not go back when he hears of my hopeless love, I don't see
how I can. I shall marry him; and try with all my soul to love him. I'll
open every door in London to Robert Penfold; except one; my husband's.
And that door, while I live, he shall never enter. Oh, my heart; my
heart!" She burst out sobbing desperately. And her father laid her head
upon his bosom, and sighed deeply, and asked himself how all this would
end.
Before they landed, her fortitude seemed to return; and of her own accord
she begged her father to telegraph to the Wardlaws.
"Would you not like a day to compose yourself, and prepare for this
trying interview?" said he.
"I should. But it is mere weakness. And I must cure myself of my
weakness, or I shall never clear Robert Penfold. And then, papa, I think
of you. If old Mr. Wardlaw heard you had been a day in town, you might
suffer in his good opinion. We shall be in London at seven. Ask them at
eight. That will be one hour's respite. God help me, and strengthen poor
Arthur to bear the blow I bring him!"
Long before eight o'clock that day, Arthur Wardlaw had passed from a
state of somber misery and remorse to one of joy, exultation and unmixed
happiness. He no longer regretted his crime, nor the loss of the
_Proserpine._ Helen was alive and well, and attributed not her danger,
but only her preservation, to the Wardlaws.
Wardlaw senior kept his carriage in town, and precisely at eight o'clock
they drove up to the door of the hotel.
They followed the servant with bounding hearts, and rushed into the room
where the general and Helen stood ready to receive them. Old Wardlaw went
to the general with both hands out, and so the general met him, and
between these two it was almost an embrace. Arthur ran to Helen with
cries of joy and admiration, and kissed her hands again and again, and
shed such genuine tears of joy over them that she trembled all over and
was obliged to sit down. He kneeled at her feet, and still imprisoned one
hand, and mumbled it, while she turned her head away and held her other
hand before her face to hide its real expression, which was a mixture of
pity and repugnance. But, as her face was hidden, and her eloquent body
quivered, and her hand was not withdrawn, it seemed a sweet picture of
feminine affection to those who had not the key.
At last she was relieved from a most embarrassing situation by old
Wardlaw; he cried out on this monopoly, and Helen instantly darted out of
her chair, and went to him, and put up her cheek to him, which he kissed;
and then she thanked him warmly for his courage in not despairing of her
life, and his goodness in sending out a ship for her.
Now, the fact is, she could not feel grateful; but she knew she ought to
be grateful, and she was ashamed to show no feeling at all in return for
so much; so she was eloquent, and the old gentleman was naturally very
much pleased at first; but he caught an expression of pain on Arthur's
face, and then he stopped her. "My dear," said he, "you ought to thank
Arthur, not me; it is his love for you which was the cause of my zeal. If
you owe me anything, pay it to him, for he deserves it best. He nearly
died for you, my sweet girl. No, no, you mustn't hang your head for that,
neither. What a fool I am to revive old sorrows! Here we are, the
happiest four in England." Then he whispered to her, "Be kind to poor
Arthur, that is all I ask. His very life depends on you."
Helen obeyed this order, and went slowly back to Arthur; she sat, cold as
ice, on the sofa beside him, and he made love to her. She scarcely heard
what he said; she was asking herself how she could end this intolerable
interview, and escape her father's looks, who knew the real state of her
heart.
At last she rose, and went and whispered to him: "My courage has failed
me. Have pity on me, and get me away. It is the old man; he kills me."
General Rolleston took the hint, and acted with more tact than one would
have given him credit for. He got up and rang the bell for tea. Then he
said to Helen, "You don't drink tea now, and I see you are excited more
than is good for you. You had better go to bed."
"Yes, papa," said Helen.
She took her candle, and, as she passed young Wardlaw, she told him, in a
low voice, she would be glad to speak to him alone to-morrow.
"At what hour?" said he eagerly.
"When you like. At one."
And so she retired, leaving him in ecstasies. This was the first
downright assignation she had ever made with him.
They met at one o'clock; he radiant as the sun, and a rose in his
button-hole; she sad and somber, and with her very skin twitching at the
thought of the explanation she had to go through.
He began with amorous commonplaces; she stopped him, gravely.
"Arthur," said she, "you and I are alone now, and I have a confession to
make. Unfortunately, I must cause you pain--terrible pain. Oh, my heart
flinches at the wound I am going to give you; but it is my fate either to
wound you or to deceive you."
During this preamble, Arthur sat amazed rather than alarmed. He did not
interrupt her, though she paused, and would gladly have been interrupted,
since an interruption is an assistance in perplexities.
"Arthur, we suffered great hardships on the boat, and you would have lost
me but for one person. He saved my life again and again; I saved his upon
the island. My constancy was subject to trials--oh such trials! So great
an example of every manly virtue forever before my eyes! My gratitude and
my pity eternally pleading! England and you seemed gone forever. Make
excuses for me if you can. Arthur--I--I have formed an attachment."
In making this strange avowal she hung her head and blushed, and the
tears ran down her cheeks. But we suspect they ran for _him,_ and not for
Arthur.
Arthur turned deadly sick at this tremendous blow, dealt with so soft a
hand. At last he gasped out, "If you marry him, you will bury me."
"No, Arthur," said Helen, gently; "I could not marry him, even if you
were to permit me. When you know more, you will see that, of us three
unhappy ones, you are the least unhappy. But, since this is so, am I
wrong to tell you the truth, and leave you to decide whether our
engagement ought to continue? Of course, what I have owned to you
releases you."
"Releases me! but it does not unbind my heart from yours," cried Arthur,
in despair.
Then his hysterical nature came out, and he was so near fainting away
that Helen sprinkled water on his temples, and applied eau-de-cologne to
his nostrils, and murmured, "Poor, poor Arthur! Oh, was I born only to
afflict those I esteem?"
He saw her with the tears of pity in her eyes, and he caught her hand,
and said, "You were always the soul of honor; keep faith with me, and I
will cure you of that unhappy attachment."
"What! Do you hold me to my engagement after what I have told you?"
"Cruel Helen! you know I have not the power to hold you."
"I am not cruel; and you have the power. But oh, think! For your own
sake, not mine."
"I have thought; and this attachment to a man you cannot marry is a mere
misfortune--yours as well as mine. Give me your esteem until your love
comes back, and let our engagement continue."
"It was for you to decide," said Helen, coldly, "and you have decided.
There is one condition I must ask you to submit to."
"I submit to it."
"What, before you hear it?"
"Helen, you don't know what a year of misery I have endured, ever since
the report came of your death. My happiness is cruelly dashed now, but
still it is great happiness by comparison. Make your conditions. You are
my queen, as well as my love and my life."
Helen hesitated. It shocked her delicacy to lower the man she had
consented to marry.
"Oh, Helen," said Arthur, "anything but secrets between you and me. Go on
as you have begun, and let me know the worst at once."
"Can you be very generous, Arthur?--generous to him who has caused you so
much pain?"
"I'll try," said Arthur, with a groan.
"I would not marry him, unless you gave me up. For I am your betrothed,
and you are true to me. I _could_ not marry him, even if I were not
pledged to you; but it so happens, I can do him one great service without
injustice to you; and this service I have vowed to do before I marry. I
shall keep that vow, as I keep faith with you. He has been driven from
society by a foul slander; that slander I am to sift and confute. It will
be long and difficult; but I shall do it; and you could help me if you
chose. But that I will not be so cruel as to ask."
Arthur bit his lip with jealous rage; but he was naturally cunning, and
his cunning showed him there was at present but one road to Helen's
heart. He quelled his torture as well as he could, and resolved to take
that road. He reflected a moment, and then he said:
"If you succeed in that, will you marry me next day?"
"I will, upon my honor."
"Then I will help you."
"Arthur, think what you say. Women have loved as unselfishly as this; but
no man, that ever I heard of."
"No man ever did love a woman as I love you. Yes, I would rather help
you, though with a sore heart, than hold aloof from you. What have we to
do together?"
"Did I not tell you?--to clear his character of a foul stigma, and
restore him to England, and to the world which he is so fitted to adorn."
"Yes, yes," said Arthur; "but who is it? Why do I ask, though? He must be
a stranger to me."
"No stranger at all," said Helen; "but one who is almost as unjust to you
as the world has been to him;" then, fixing her eyes full on him, she
said, "Arthur, it is your old friend and tutor, Robert Penfold."