THE REVELATION.
THE months which followed were happy ones to the orphans, months to be
remembered in years to come. The tenants, reluctant to relinquish so
quiet a home, affected a compromise with the young owners. A part of
the house was surrendered to them for their exclusive use. And nurse
Johnson came to superintend their domestic arrangements, while Nannie,
a good-natured, strong-armed damsel from a neighboring farm, undertook
the work.
Even Sybil declared nothing could be better planned; and the result
proved her a true prophet.
Once a week, Helen asserted her dignity as housekeeper, by insisting
that the whole family from the parsonage should dine and take tea at
Woodbine Cottage.
What a happy time that was! How actively did she superintend the
culinary operations in the kitchen. The bread must be of the lightest,
the butter the sweetest, the cream the yellowest, the strawberries the
freshest, for this delightful occasion. How she bustled about with
sleeves rolled back and tiny white apron, to see that every apartment
was in order, and the flowers arranged to the best advantage. With what
a merry voice and dimpling cheeks, did she run hither and thither to
answer the demands of her brother, of nurse, or of Nannie.
Then when her guests had arrived, how solicitous she was to minister to
their comfort, how ready to gratify their every wish, to sing and play
for their entertainment.
Her piano had been removed from the hall to their own private parlor;
and here she conscientiously practised the lessons she had taken in the
city.
In the corner of the dining-room stood the easel, with the pallet and
brushes near at hand. Both Helen and her brother had a decided taste
for drawing, and many hours during this happy period were passed in
transferring to the canvas, the views in the neighborhood, which most
pleased them.
At the table, too, Helen's pretty air of shyness, her enthusiasm and
her blushes, rendered her very attractive. With her dear pastor seated
at her right hand, and Mrs. Knowles occupying a corresponding place by
her brother, with Sybil erect and angular on one side, and Frederic
opposite, the young girl declared she was the happiest creature in the
world. Indeed, since parting from her guardian, she seemed to ignore
his existence; to wish to free herself from the recollection of the
trying months through which she had passed. There was little now of
those fitful moods, flashing eyes, and bitter expressions.
"The country is so sweet," she said once to Mr. Frederic, as they were
walking together near a hedge of hawthorn. "I can pray here with the
hope that my heavenly Father will listen. Everything reminds me of his
love."
"Yes," he answered, looking down at the fresh, girlish face, lighted
with enthusiasm; "yes, God seems nearer to me in the country."
"I love to think it is his voice when the birds sing, or the water
gurgles so sweetly in the brook," Helen went on. "Do you remember," she
asked, looking archly in his face, "how you scolded me once for being
afraid of the geese in farmer Noyes' pond?
"'God made the pretty geese,' you said.
"And I asked: 'Is it naughty, then, to be afraid of anything God made?'"
The young clergyman threw back his head and laughed aloud, not a common
act of his, by the way.
"Can you remember that, Helen? Why you couldn't have been more than
four years old. I know I had to take you in my arms, and carry you out
of the reach of the dreadful monsters."
"I don't think I forget a single kind word ever spoken to me," was her
eager reply.
"Nor, it seems, have you forgotten my scolding!"
"Oh, you have scolded me a great many times beside that, you know!"
Helen tried to assume a careless tone, but in spite of her efforts, her
voice quivered a little.
"Have I?" he asked, more moved than he liked her to see. "I can't
recall the occasions to mind."
"You found me gazing in the brook, and told me I must not be vain. You
refused to take my hand and lead me home as I begged you, because you
thought I had been unkind to a poor boy. I had scratched his face with
all my strength, but it was because he drowned my pet kitten. After
your reproof, I took the boy home and gave him my only dollar, a silver
one. But I remember, even now, how mixed up my ideas of right and wrong
became the more I reflected on the subject. I was certainly wicked,
because you said so, but how could it be right for him to drown my
pretty kitten?"
"I am ashamed of my injustice, and will not go a step farther, until
you tell me you will forgive my crossness."
He stood directly in her path, and for one instant she raised her eyes
to his face. Then, with crimson cheeks and quickened pulse, she said
faintly:
"Please let me go on," and he did.
That night, when in the solitude of his own room, he took from his
neck the ribbon attached to a locket, and, unclasping it, gazed upon
the placid face so skilfully portrayed there, why did another pair of
eyes dance before his vision? Not calm, cold orbs, like those in the
picture, but eyes soul-lit, with life and love shining in their depths.
Why, when gazing on those thin, well-formed lips, upon which the smile
seemed stereotyped, did memory flash upon him a mouth he had lately
looked upon, lips full and sweet, and quivering with repressed emotion?
Why, from gazing at the features, did he proceed to a dissection of
character, and for the first time acknowledge that a woman who could
lead a man on to make proposals of marriage, with the intention of
wounding him through his affections, was unworthy of his regard? Why
did he, instead of placing the relic of past joys under his pillow, as
heretofore, lock it in a desk out of sight, and resolve to let by-gones
be by-gones?
Had Sybil known all that was transpiring on the other side of the
partition within a few feet of her own pillow, she would have roused
herself from her heavy slumber to thank God that his delusion was over
at last. Or had she heard his nightly prayer wherein he thanked his
heavenly Father for the sweet interview which the day had afforded, and
even guessed to whom he referred, she would have hoped much for his
future.
As it was, she slept on quietly and profoundly, while he lay for hours
communing with his own heart.
"Helen," said Frank one morning at breakfast, "don't make any
engagement for to-morrow, for I prophesy you will have company."
The young lady glanced archly in his face, as she said: "I can guess
who. It will be a Miss about my age; and she will not come alone."
"You are mistaken for once," he added in some confusion. "I am quite
confident you cannot guess the name of the person."
"I will write it down and put it in a sealed envelope, and we shall see
whether I cannot." Still the same roguish curl to the lips.
"Come out to the arbor, and I will tell you a secret."
She smiled gayly and followed him.
"Do you remember a promise you once wished me to make?"
"I remember a great many."
"Pshaw, don't be silly! One about my being married."
"No, I recollect nothing of that kind, I wished you to remain single,
that we may each live in happy freedom from care."
"Do you still wish it, Helen?"
"If you could persuade Sybil Knowles to be my sister, perhaps I might
consent."
"Nonsense, Sis. Sybil is old enough to be my mother. There is a way,
though, that you could gain her in that relation, Frederic might."
"Hush Frank, what has all this to do with my company?"
"Helen, I am going to give you a sister. While you were so unhappy, I
wouldn't tell you. But now that your heart is so gay, that songs flow
from your lips as naturally as from the robins, I have ventured to ask
her to Woodbine Cottage."
She did not start as he expected, or show any symptoms of surprise.
Presently he added, "She will be here by the ten up train, and I shall
go to meet her. So you see you have not guessed right."
With a merry laugh Helen tore open the envelope and held it out before
him.
To his astonishment he read, "Miss Constance DeWolf will visit me
to-morrow accompanied by Mr. Francis Joseph Edmond."
"Why, Sis, I hope you haven't been breaking open my letters. So you
knew it all the time. Oh, how deceitful women are!"
He laughed as he kissed her affectionately. "You must explain," he
urged, "how you found me out. But have you no congratulations to offer?"
"Not one, till I have seen her and proved her to be worthy of my
brother. If she is so, I don't think she will have any reason to
complain of my coldness. Wait a minute; and I will explain how I
ascertained the name of my relative elect."
She darted into the house and soon returned with her portfolio. Taking
from this a slip of blotting-paper, she laughingly held up before him
the impression made by the ink, which, when held before a mirror,
easily revealed the name she had placed in the envelope.
"I soon ascertained from your absorbed, absent manner that you had
a secret: and as you suddenly appeared in the character of a daily
correspondent, I put the two things together, and guessed you had a
lady-love. Haven't I waited patiently for you to tell me?"
[Illustration]