Helen was seized with profound and anxious sadness. Leonard had been
three or four times to see her, and each time she saw a change in him
that excited all her fears. He seemed, it is true, more shrewd, more
worldly-wise, more fitted, it might be, for coarse daily life; but, on
the other hand, the freshness and glory of his youth were waning slowly.
His aspirings drooped earthward. He had not mastered the Practical, and
moulded its uses with the strong hand of the Spiritual Architect, of the
Ideal Builder: the Practical was overpowering himself. She grew pale
when he talked of Burley, and shuddered, poor little Helen! when she
found he was daily and almost nightly in a companionship which, with her
native honest prudence, she saw so unsuited to strengthen him in his
struggles, and aid him against temptation. She almost groaned when,
pressing him as to his pecuniary means, she found his old terror of debt
seemed fading away, and the solid healthful principles he had taken from
his village were loosening fast. Under all, it is true, there was what a
wiser and older person than Helen would have hailed as the redeeming
promise. But that something was _grief_--a sublime grief in his own
sense of falling--in his own impotence against the Fate he had provoked
and coveted. The sublimity of that grief Helen could not detect: she saw
only that it _was_ grief, and she grieved with it, letting it excuse
every fault--making her more anxious to comfort, in order that she might
save. Even from the first, when Leonard had exclaimed, "Ah, Helen, why
did you ever leave me?" she had revolved the idea of return to him; and
when in the boy's last visit he told her that Burley, persecuted by
duns, was about to fly from his present lodgings, and take his abode
with Leonard in the room she had left vacant, all doubt was over. She
resolved to sacrifice the safety and shelter of the home assured her.
She resolved to come back and share Leonard's penury and struggles, and
save the old room, wherein she had prayed for him, from the tempter's
dangerous presence. Should she burden him? No; she had assisted her
father by many little female arts in needle and fancy work. She had
improved herself in these during her sojourn with Miss Starke. She could
bring her share to the common stock. Possessed with this idea, she
determined to realize it before the day on which Leonard had told her
Burley was to move his quarters. Accordingly she rose very early one
morning; she wrote a pretty and grateful note to Miss Starke, who was
fast asleep, left it on the table, and before any one was astir, stole
from the house, her little bundle on her arm. She lingered an instant at
the garden-gate, with a remorseful sentiment--a feeling that she had
ill-repaid the cold and prim protection that Miss Starke had shown her.
But sisterly love carried all before it. She closed the gate with a
sigh, and went on.
She arrived at the lodging-house before Leonard was up, took possession
of her old chamber, and, presenting herself to Leonard as he was about
to go forth, said (story-teller that she was)--"I am sent away, brother,
and I have come to you to take care of me. Do not let us part again. But
you must be very cheerful and very happy, or I shall think that I am
sadly in your way."
Leonard at first did look cheerful, and even happy; but then he thought
of Burley, and then of his own means of supporting her, and was
embarrassed, and began questioning Helen as to the possibility of
reconciliation with Miss Starke. And Helen said gravely, "Impossible--do
not ask it, and do not go near her."
Then Leonard thought she had been humbled and insulted, and remembered
that she was a gentleman's child, and felt for her wounded pride--he was
so proud himself. Yet still he was embarrassed.
"Shall I keep the purse again, Leonard?" said Helen coaxingly.
"Alas!" replied Leonard, "the purse is empty."
"That is very naughty in the purse," said Helen, "since you put so much
into it."
"I?"
"Did not you say that you made, at least, a guinea a-week?"
"Yes; but Burley takes the money; and then, poor fellow! as I owe all to
him, I have not the heart to prevent his spending it as he likes."
"Please, I wish you could settle the month's rent," said the landlady,
suddenly showing herself. She said it civilly, but with firmness.
Leonard colored. "It shall be paid to-day."
Then he pressed his hat on his head, and putting Helen gently aside,
went forth.
"Speak to _me_ in future, kind Mrs. Smedley," said Helen with the air of
a housewife. "_He_ is always in study, and must not be disturbed."
The landlady--a good woman, though she liked her rent--smiled benignly.
She was fond of Helen, whom she had known of old.
"I am so glad you are come back; and perhaps now the young man will not
keep such late hours. I meant to give him warning, but--"
"But he will be a great man one of these days, and you must bear with
him now." And Helen kissed Mrs. Smedley, and sent her away half inclined
to cry.
Then Helen busied herself in the rooms. She found her father's box,
which had been duly forwarded. She re-examined its contents, and wept as
she touched each humble and pious relic. But her father's memory itself
thus seemed to give this home a sanction which the former had not; and
she rose quietly and began mechanically to put things in order, sighing
as she saw all so neglected, till she came to the rose-tree, and that
alone showed heed and care. "Dear Leonard!" she murmured, and the smile
re-settled on her lips.