A NEW HOME
"----Many, I believe there are,
Who live a life of virtuous decency,
Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel
No self-reproach; who of the moral law
Established in the land where they abide
Are strict observers; and not negligent
In acts of love to those with whom they dwell,
Their kindred and the children of their blood.
Praise be to such, and to their slumbers, peace!
--But of the poor man ask, the abject poor;
Go and demand of him, if there be here,
In this cold abstinence from evil deeds;
And these inevitable charities,
Wherewith to satisfy the human soul."
--WORDSWORTH.
It was getting dusk--too dusk to see to read the "History of Europe";
and Melicent, who had scarcely slept all night, stretched herself
upon her bed and fell asleep. The flash of a light in her eyes awoke
her, and starting up, she saw her uncle come in with a lamp, followed
by Mr. and Mrs. Helston.
She gave a low, thrilling cry, like that of a babe who sees its
mother. She had not expected this. The vicar had never seen her
look as she did when running to her friends' arms. He set down the
lamp and left them together.
It was long, however, before they could persuade her to tell them
anything. They were obliged to make her clearly understand the
serious nature of the charge against her. They showed how essential
it was to remove such a stigma. They guessed at once that she was
shielding someone; and after much urgent entreaty, she was induced to
tell them all, and leave the upshot to their discretion.
"I am sure," she said, when she had related the whole story, "that it
would not be the least use to tell them the truth; for two reasons.
First, they would think the bare idea of Gwen's behaving like that
simply ridiculous. Aunt Minna thinks they are all babies, and talks
to them as if they could hardly understand what she says; and they
mimic her afterwards. Second, because all the girls would deny it.
It would be my word against Maddie and Gwen. Which do you think they
would take?"
"There would be somebody else," observed Harry Helston firmly.
"Young Freshfield. I know Sir Joseph has been dissatisfied lately,
and he will have about settled his hash if any of this gets about.
The thing is--how to trap him? There will be no more chance for Gwen
to use that window, I take it?"
"He would still go on writing to her at Bensdale under cover to
Tommy, I expect--but oh, you must not say anything about it! You
don't know how awful it would be! Tommy would be sent away; they
would lead the most weary life--wear chains on their ankles, I should
think."
"But, dear," said Brenda gently, "what is to happen if this is
allowed to go on? Gwen does not know what she is doing. Suppose she
came to harm, what should we feel, who had never warned them of her
danger? Now I think of it, I noticed little things between her and
that man once or twice to-day. But she is so unformed, and--to
me--so unattractive, that I never thought of such a thing."
"She's rather a handsome girl," said her husband.
And now Melicent exhausted her eloquence to implore them not to say
anything.
"You see, it will only make them worse," she said. "If they were
trusted, they would be all right; if they were given credit for good
sense and good feeling, they would be quite different. But they are
treated like fools, who would be knaves if they were allowed their
own way, and it just makes them treacherous--they must have an
outlet! It's only for adventure and frolic that Gwen did it--it's
the only thing they have to think about--they're not allowed to read
or think, or do anything but just vegetate; how can such a life
content them? And now, if this is known, they will be all the more
shut in and tied up, and crushed down, and I shouldn't wonder if it
drove them to do something really wrong."
This view of the subject constituted a real difficulty. Revelation
would merely tighten the prison-bars, and would so increase the very
evil it was intended to remove. A more perplexing problem had never
been offered to the Helstons.
They put it resolutely away from them for a time, in order to tell
Melicent about their own plans for her future. They told her that
they hoped to receive, in about a fortnight's time, Carol Mayne's
formal permission to take charge of her for the present.
They had some private means, but did not consider themselves rich
enough to justify them in adopting her entirely. In all respects,
they thought it would be doing her a truer kindness to educate her
with a view to making her independent. Harry Helston, artist and
dreamer by temperament, was architect by profession. He had spent so
much time in travelling the world, and absorbing the idea of all the
masterpieces of his great profession, that his fortune was by no
means made. It was perhaps a drawback to him professionally, that of
him it might be said as of a certain statesman who "thought in
continents," that he, Harry Helston, "thought in cathedrals." The
ornamental suburban residence, with its nurseries chopped away in
chunks to make the external elevation picturesque, was his pet
abomination. He would do no work, where cheapness was to be the
marring key-note. Simplicity and the best craftsmanship were his
mottoes. His work lay in London, where he and his wife, after their
travels, were about to take a flat. But he was also now determined
to fulfil his youthful ambitions, and build for himself the house of
his dreams in Fransdale itself.
Sir Joseph, who was a byword in the district for his stern refusal to
sell or lease land for building purposes, had relented in his case;
and the home of his imagination was to arise in a level meadow
half-way down the Dale--a pleasure house for holiday hours--a final
refuge for old age.
For the austere mystery of the North had made him as completely a
captive as was Melicent herself.
The girl could hardly believe that she was to visit every year, in
the company of those she loved best, the Dale which had gripped her
fancy so powerfully. The Helstons were to rent, until their own
house should be built, the tiny cottage upon which Melicent had
looked down, when she sat upon Tod's Trush. The darkness of her
misery was all changed into pure joy by the time her friends took
leave.
Before Mr. Helston lay the formidable necessity of seeing Mr. Cooper.
He was fairly perplexed. Should he speak, or not? He found himself
wondering what advice Mr. Hall, of Ilberston, would be likely to
give. But there was no time for reflection. He left his wife still
with Melicent, and found himself in the study without having made up
his mind as to his duty. His intention flickered to and fro like a
candle in the wind. Was he shirking truth because it was
disagreeable? Or was he contemplating an unwarrantable interference
into another man's affairs? Was he justified in giving information
which would result in deeper mismanagement of those unaccountable
beings, young girls? Or if he stood aloof, was he guilty of
Cain-like indifference to his brother's peril?
He sat down in more discomfort than he ever remembered to have
suffered before. His indignation that Melicent should suffer under
any kind of stigma made another powerful factor in his desires; and
he did not know for how much he ought to let it weigh. As he looked
at Mr. Cooper's cold, dark face, he was conscious of a desire to
demand that, as it had been publicly announced that Melicent was in
disgrace, so it should be publicly known that she was cleared. But
he felt pretty sure of the difficulty there would be in establishing
the truth. He saw a distinct likeness between the vicar and his
niece; he had seen the same hard glint in Melicent's eye when she was
on the defensive. The Coopers gave him the idea of being always on
the defensive--on the watch to parry and frustrate any attempts upon
their confidence or their intimacy.
"I shall be glad to hear that you have elicited any information that
may tend to Melicent's rehabilitation," said the vicar, in tones
wholly devoid of expectancy.
Helston found himself speaking without having in the least determined
what he meant to say.
"Melicent has told us what she knows," he said. "We think it clears
her. But we respect her motive for silence, and are inclined to
think that no good end could be served by telling you what she told
us."
The vicar looked stony. "But I think I must ask to hear it," he said.
"It was told us in confidence. Melicent is--is content to feel that
we know it. I--I am not sure that I am entitled to let it go
further."
The cold, blue eye still fixed him.
"You convey to me the idea that Melicent is shielding someone else.
Is this so?"
Helston twirled his soft hat idly in his hands, and looked at the
ground.
"I do not feel at liberty to say," he said at length.
"If that be so, the person shielded must be a member of my
household," said the vicar, in a voice which sounded to Helston like
the crackling of ice in a hard frost. "I suppose you can scarcely be
venturing to insinuate that it was one of my daughters?"
"I insinuate nothing; I do not know who it was. It was not Melicent."
"Far be it from me," said Mr. Cooper, after reflection, "to traduce
or speak ill of my sister's child; but if she has resorted to the
desperate expedient of trying to fasten blame upon one of my poor
girls, I must reluctantly lower still further my opinion of her. I
fear you and Mrs. Helston are altogether deceived in her."
"We are willing to take the risk," said Helston immediately, "and to
relieve you of the charge of her to-morrow, if you are willing." His
eyes twinkled as he added: "We have no daughters to be contaminated."
"Had it not been so, I could not in honour have allowed you to
undertake the charge of her. I am quite frank with you. I tell you
plainly that I will in no case keep her among my own girls; and I do
not know how to meet the cost of maintaining her elsewhere. If you,
knowing what you know, are willing to take her, my feelings can but
be those of gratitude and relief."
"Then we may consider it settled!" cried Helston, rising.
Perhaps his haste betrayed how he was yearning to get away, for a
look of suspicion crossed the vicar's face.
"Do you not think I have a right to ask you to be more explicit?" he
said.
His visitor looked down, and it was after an interval that he slowly
said:
"You have a right. I ask you to waive it. What I have heard rests
wholly upon Melicent's word, which, I understand, you do not trust."
The vicar could not say that he did.
"You would not take her word against that of your own children?"
"Certainly not!"
"That is natural enough; but it convinces me that there is no more to
be said."
The vicar looked down, thinking deeply. Then abruptly, and perhaps
with the deliberate idea of taking the other by surprise, he demanded:
"She would not tell you the name of the man?"
"There is no man in the world to whom she would accord a clandestine
meeting."
"Perhaps you forget that I was an eye-witness, Mr. Helston."
"Would you swear in a court of law that the girl whom you saw was
Melicent?"
The vicar hesitated.
"Why," asked Helston, "did you not at once enter her room, and
convince yourself?"
"I never act in haste; besides, there is no doubt. She wore
Melicent's hat--a kind of broad, flat cap which she wears in the
garden; and she entered her room! Mr. Helston, I fear I must ask you
to be explicit. You have said too much, or not enough. What is it
you suggest?"
"I suggest nothing, for I know nothing, except the fact, of which I
am sure, that the girl you saw was not Melicent. Had you gone to her
room, and confronted her then and there, you would have known more
than I do at this moment."
"I think you are bound to tell me what my niece has told you," said
the vicar; and a new uneasiness was in his voice.
"No; I am not bound to, and I have no wish to. But there is a
further question, as to whether I ought to. I--I can't speak without
inflicting great pain, which I am very loath to do. But I can't get
away from the feeling that perhaps I ought not to allow you to go on
in ignorance of the true state of affairs. Perhaps I have said
enough to put you on your guard. Let us leave it so."
"No;" the answer came at once and firmly. "We cannot leave it so.
You must tell me the tale which my niece has poured into your ears,
in simple justice to me and mine. If Melicent has slandered her
cousins, she should be punished."
"Equally, if they have allowed her to suffer for them, they should be
punished," said Helston, stung at last. "May I ask if you have made
any sort of inquiry among them?"
"Decidedly not. I have not allowed them even to know the way this
misguided girl has behaved."
Helston hardly knew whether most to pity or be enraged at such
blindness. He turned away and walked to the window. The girls were
just passing through the garden on their way from feeding their
rabbits. They all glanced in a furtive way at the study windows, and
Gwendolen met his eyes fully. She averted her face in confusion, and
hurried on. The visitor turned abruptly to the vicar and took leave.
He could not trust himself to say another word. Mr. Cooper
accompanied him to the hall door, and they found themselves suddenly
face to face with Gwen, coming in.
Her father, in a marked way, encircled her with his arm, as if to
show his confidence. The girl was trembling, scarlet, deeply moved.
She turned upon Helston.
"Then she held her tongue?" she gulped out. "She has not split, even
now?"
Helston's face lit up.
"Does that touch you, Miss Cooper?" he asked kindly.
"It does. I'm most things that are bad, but I simply can't be such a
sneak as this. Father! It was I, not Melicent, whom you saw in the
yard! And you may thrash me, or starve me, or do what you like with
me, but I will never tell you the name of the man who was with me!
Oh, Melicent isn't the only person in this house with any sense of
honour! She's--she's--taught me a lesson! You tell her from me, Mr.
Helston, that if I'm ever any good in this world, it'll be all owing
to her."
The vicar had not said one word. He stood where he was, the arm
which his daughter had shaken off rigid against his side. His face
grew bloodless, his expression a marvellous exhibition of
self-control.
It seemed to Helston kindest to say good-bye and leave the house
hurriedly. His admiration for Gwendolen was great; after what
Melicent had told him, he could partly guess the effort it needed to
make her confession--a confession which must expose not only her own
wrong-doing, but the whole working of a long system of deceit; for
the matter could now hardly be allowed to rest where it stood.
Contact with Melicent's honesty and courage had stimulated this girl
to show herself honest and courageous. He felt very hopeful of her
future, though he himself winced at the ordeal now before her.