During the winter following Mr. Polk's death, Colonel Belmont was
driving his coach along the beach beyond the Park one afternoon when
Helena, who sat beside him, saw him give a long shudder, then huddle.
She grasped the reins of the four swiftly trotting horses and spoke over
her shoulder to Alan Rush.
"Pull my father up to the top," she said.
Rush did as he was bid, and the body of Colonel Belmont was laid out
between the two rows of young people, whose gaiety had frozen to horror.
"Now take the reins," said Helena.
Rush took the reins. Helena followed her father swiftly and stooped to
take his head in her arms. But she dropped her ear to his lips instead,
then to his heart. For a moment longer she stared at him, while the
others waited for the outburst. But she returned to the front seat, and
caught the reins from Rush's hands.
"I must do something," she said; and he knew better than to answer her,
or even to look at her.
It was some time before she could turn the horses, and then she was
several miles from home. She drove with steady hands; but when they had
reached the house and Rush lifted her down, she was trembling violently.
She pushed him aside.
"Go and get Magdaléna," she said.
Magdaléna remained with her a week. This was Helena's first real grief,
and there was nothing cyclonic about it. "I'll never get over it," she
said. "Never! And I'll never be quite the same again. Of course I don't
mean that I'll have this awful sense of bereavement and keep on crying
all my life: I know better than that; but I could never forget him, nor
forget to wish I still had him, if I lived to be a hundred. If I had
anything to reproach myself for--anything serious--I believe I'd go off
my head; but I _was_ good to him; and I am sure mamma never could have
taken better care of him than I did. When he was under doctor's orders I
gave him every drop of the medicine myself, and I never would let him
eat a thing I thought wouldn't agree with him. He used to say his life
was a burden, poor darling, but I know he liked it. And who knows?--if I
hadn't watched him so, he might not have lived as long as he did. That
is my one consolation.... This terrible grief makes everything else seem
so paltry; I could not even think of being engaged to Alan Rush any
longer. Poor fellow! I feel sorry for him, but I can't play for a long
time to come. As for papa's wishes in the matter, Mr. Geary and Mr.
Washington will take care of my money, and I am quite able to take care
of myself. If papa is near me now, he will understand how I feel, and
agree with me. I wish I had some heroic destiny. Why has the United
States ceased to make history? I'd like to play some great part. Papa
used to say there was bound to be another upheaval some day, but I'm
afraid it won't be in my time."
"It may," replied Magdaléna. "There's a good deal of history-making,
quiet and noisy, going on all the time. I've been reading the newspapers
this last year. They're horrid sensational things, but I manage to get a
few ideas from them. No one can tell what may happen ten years hence.
You may have a chance to be the heroine of a revolution yet."
"I'm afraid I'll never be anything but a belle, and I'm tired of that
already, although I never could stand being shelved. But if there is a
revolution during my life I'll be a factor in it. Just you remember
that."
"I really do believe that you were intended for something
extraordinary."
"I believe I was. That's the reason I'm so restless and dramatic. I
don't feel as if I ever could be so again, though,--not for ages,
anyhow."
The old close and affectionate intimacy between the two girls was
restored during that week. At its end Helena went East to visit her
aunt, Mrs. Forbes. She was the untrammelled mistress of something under
a million dollars; and as her private car, filled with flowers, bonbons,
and books, pulled away from a sorrowing crowd of friends on the Oakland
side of the ferry, it must be confessed she reflected that the future
would appear several shades darker if she were arranging her belongings
in a half-section, a small quarterly allowance in her pocket.
Nevertheless Colonel Belmont had his reward. His daughter's grief was
deep and lasting; and perhaps he knew.