COMPANION.
Before she had time to find a new situation, Christie received a note
from Miss Tudor, saying that hearing she had left Mrs. Saltonstall she
wanted to offer her the place of companion to an invalid girl, where
the duties were light and the compensation large.
“How kind of her to think of me,” said Christie, gratefully. “I’ll go
at once and do my best to secure it, for it must be a good thing or she
wouldn’t recommend it.”
Away went Christie to the address sent by Miss Tudor, and as she waited
at the door she thought:
“What a happy family the Carrols must be!” for the house was one of an
imposing block in a West End square, which had its own little park
where a fountain sparkled in the autumn sunshine, and pretty children
played among the fallen leaves.
Mrs. Carrol was a stately woman, still beautiful in spite of her fifty
years. But though there were few lines on her forehead, few silver
threads in the dark hair that lay smoothly over it, and a gracious
smile showed the fine teeth, an indescribable expression of
unsubmissive sorrow touched the whole face, betraying that life had
brought some heavy cross, from which her wealth could purchase no
release, for which her pride could find no effectual screen.
She looked at Christie with a searching eye, listened attentively when
she spoke, and seemed testing her with covert care as if the place she
was to fill demanded some unusual gift or skill.
“Miss Tudor tells me that you read aloud well, sing sweetly, possess a
cheerful temper, and the quiet, patient ways which are peculiarly
grateful to an invalid,” began Mrs. Carrol, with that keen yet wistful
gaze, and an anxious accent in her voice that went to Christie’s heart.
“Miss Tudor is very kind to think so well of me and my few
accomplishments. I have never been with an invalid, but I think I can
promise to be patient, willing, and cheerful. My own experience of
illness has taught me how to sympathize with others and love to lighten
pain. I shall be very glad to try if you think I have any fitness for
the place.”
“I do,” and Mrs. Carrol’s face softened as she spoke, for something in
Christie’s words or manner seemed to please her. Then slowly, as if the
task was a hard one, she added:
“My daughter has been very ill and is still weak and nervous. I must
hint to you that the loss of one very dear to her was the cause of the
illness and the melancholy which now oppresses her. Therefore we must
avoid any thing that can suggest or recall this trouble. She cares for
nothing as yet, will see no one, and prefers to live alone. She is
still so feeble this is but natural; yet solitude is bad for her, and
her physician thinks that a new face might rouse her, and the society
of one in no way connected with the painful past might interest and do
her good. You see it is a little difficult to find just what we want,
for a young companion is best, yet must be discreet and firm, as few
young people are.”
Fancying from Mrs. Carrol’s manner that Miss Tudor had said more in her
favor than had been repeated to her, Christie in a few plain-words told
her little story, resolving to have no concealments here, and feeling
that perhaps her experiences might have given her more firmness and
discretion than many women of her age possessed. Mrs. Carrol seemed to
find it so; the anxious look lifted a little as she listened, and when
Christie ended she said, with a sigh of relief:
“Yes, I think Miss Tudor is right, and you are the one we want. Come
and try it for a week and then we can decide. Can you begin to-day?”
she added, as Christie rose. “Every hour is precious, for my poor
girl’s sad solitude weighs on my heart, and this is my one hope.”
“I will stay with pleasure,” answered Christie, thinking Mrs. Carrol’s
anxiety excessive, yet pitying the mother’s pain, for something in her
face suggested the idea that she reproached herself in some way for her
daughter’s state.
With secret gratitude that she had dressed with care, Christie took off
her things and followed Mrs. Carrol upstairs. Entering a room in what
seemed to be a wing of the great house, they found an old woman sewing.
“How is Helen to-day, Nurse?” asked Mrs. Carrol, pausing.
“Poorly, ma’am. I’ve been in every hour, but she only says: ‘Let me be
quiet,’ and lies looking up at the picture till it’s fit to break your
heart to see her,” answered the woman, with a shake of the head.
“I have brought Miss Devon to sit with her a little while. Doctor
advises it, and I fancy the experiment may succeed if we can only amuse
the dear child, and make her forget herself and her troubles.”
“As you please, ma’am,” said the old woman, looking with little favor
at the new-comer, for the good soul was jealous of any interference
between herself and the child she had tended for years.
“I won’t disturb her, but you shall take Miss Devon in and tell Helen
mamma sends her love, and hopes she will make an effort for all our
sakes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Go, my dear, and do your best.” With these words Mrs. Carrol hastily
left the room, and Christie followed Nurse.
A quick glance showed her that she was in the daintily furnished
boudoir of a rich man’s daughter, but before she could take a second
look her eyes were arrested by the occupant of this pretty place, and
she forgot all else. On a low luxurious couch lay a girl, so beautiful
and pale and still, that for an instant Christie thought her dead or
sleeping. She was neither, for at the sound of a voice the great eyes
opened wide, darkening and dilating with a strange expression as they
fell on the unfamiliar face.
“Nurse, who is that? I told you I would see no one. I’m too ill to be
so worried,” she said, in an imperious tone.
[Illustration: HELEN CARROL]
“Yes, dear, I know, but your mamma wished you to make an effort. Miss
Devon is to sit with you and try to cheer you up a bit,” said the old
woman in a dissatisfied tone, that contrasted strangely with the tender
way in which she stroked the beautiful disordered hair that hung about
the girl’s shoulders.
Helen knit her brows and looked most ungracious, but evidently tried to
be civil, for with a courteous wave of her hand toward an easy chair in
the sunny window she said, quietly:
“Please sit down, Miss Devon, and excuse me for a little while. I’ve
had a bad night, and am too tired to talk just yet. There are books of
all sorts, or the conservatory if you like it better.”
“Thank you. I’ll read quietly till you want me. Then I shall be very
glad to do any thing I can for you.”
With that Christie retired to the big chair, and fell to reading the
first book she took up, a good deal embarrassed by her reception, and
very curious to know what would come next.
The old woman went away after folding the down coverlet carefully over
her darling’s feet, and Helen seemed to go to sleep.
For a time the room was very still; the fire burned softly on the
marble hearth, the sun shone warmly on velvet carpet and rich hangings,
the delicate breath of flowers blew in through the half-open door that
led to a gay little conservatory, and nothing but the roll of a distant
carriage broke the silence now and then.
Christie’s eyes soon wandered from her book to the lovely face and
motionless figure on the couch. Just opposite, in a recess, hung the
portrait of a young and handsome man, and below it stood a vase of
flowers, a graceful Roman lamp, and several little relics, as if it
were the shrine where some dead love was mourned and worshipped still.
As she looked from the living face, so pale and so pathetic in its
quietude, to the painted one so full of color, strength, and happiness,
her heart ached for poor Helen, and her eyes were wet with tears of
pity. A sudden movement on the couch gave her no time to hide them, and
as she hastily looked down upon her book a treacherous drop fell
glittering on the page.
“What have you there so interesting?” asked Helen, in that softly
imperious tone of hers.
“Don Quixote,” answered Christie, too much abashed to have her wits
about her.
Helen smiled a melancholy smile as she rose, saying wearily:
“They gave me that to make me laugh, but I did not find it funny;
neither was it sad enough to make me cry as you do.”
“I was not reading, I was”—there Christie broke down, and could have
cried with vexation at the bad beginning she had made. But that
involuntary tear was better balm to Helen than the most perfect tact,
the most brilliant conversation. It touched and won her without words,
for sympathy works miracles. Her whole face changed, and her mournful
eyes grew soft as with the gentle freedom of a child she lifted
Christie’s downcast face and said, with a falter in her voice:
“I know you were pitying me. Well, I need pity, and from you I’ll take
it, because you don’t force it on me. Have you been ill and wretched
too? I think so, else you would never care to come and shut yourself up
here with me!”
“I have been ill, and I know how hard it is to get one’s spirits back
again. I’ve had my troubles, too, but not heavier than I could bear,
thank God.”
“What made you ill? Would you mind telling me about it? I seem to fancy
hearing other people’s woes, though it can’t make mine seem lighter.”
“A piece of the Castle of the Sun fell on my head and nearly killed
me,” and Christie laughed in spite of herself at the astonishment in
Helen’s face. “I was an actress once; your mother knows and didn’t
mind,” she added, quickly.
“I’m glad of that. I used to wish I could be one, I was so fond of the
theatre. They should have consented, it would have given me something
to do, and, however hard it is, it couldn’t be worse than this.” Helen
spoke vehemently and an excited flush rose to her white cheeks; then
she checked herself and dropped into a chair, saying, hurriedly:
“Tell about it: don’t let me think; it’s bad for me.” Glad to be set to
work, and bent on retrieving her first mistake, Christie plunged into
her theatrical experiences and talked away in her most lively style.
People usually get eloquent when telling their own stories, and true
tales are always the most interesting. Helen listened at first with a
half-absent air, but presently grew more attentive, and when the
catastrophe came sat erect, quite absorbed in the interest of this
glimpse behind the curtain.
Charmed with her success, Christie branched off right and left,
stimulated by questions, led on by suggestive incidents, and generously
supplied by memory. Before she knew it, she was telling her whole
history in the most expansive manner, for women soon get sociable
together, and Helen’s interest flattered her immensely. Once she made
her laugh at some droll trifle, and as if the unaccustomed sound had
startled her, old nurse popped in her head; but seeing nothing amiss
retired, wondering what on earth that girl could be doing to cheer up
Miss Helen so.
“Tell about your lovers: you must have had some; actresses always do.
Happy women, they can love as they like!” said Helen, with the
inquisitive frankness of an invalid for whom etiquette has ceased to
exist.
Remembering in time that this was a forbidden subject, Christie smiled
and shook her head.
“I had a few, but one does not tell those secrets, you know.”
Evidently disappointed, and a little displeased at being reminded of
her want of good-breeding, Helen got up and began to wander restlessly
about the room. Presently, as if wishing to atone for her impatience,
she bade Christie come and see her flowers. Following her, the new
companion found herself in a little world where perpetual summer
reigned. Vines curtained the roof, slender shrubs and trees made leafy
walls on either side, flowers bloomed above and below, birds carolled
in half-hidden prisons, aquariums and ferneries stood all about, and
the soft plash of a little fountain made pleasant music as it rose and
fell.
Helen threw herself wearily down on a pile of cushions that lay beside
the basin, and beckoning Christie to sit near, said, as she pressed her
hands to her hot forehead and looked up with a distressful brightness
in the haggard eyes that seemed to have no rest in them:
“Please sing to me; any humdrum air will do. I am so tired, and yet I
cannot sleep. If my head would only stop this dreadful thinking and let
me forget one hour it would do me so much good.”
“I know the feeling, and I’ll try what Lucy used to do to quiet me. Put
your poor head in my lap, dear, and lie quite still while I cool and
comfort it.”
Obeying like a worn-out child, Helen lay motionless while Christie,
dipping her fingers in the basin, passed the wet tips softly to and fro
across the hot forehead, and the thin temples where the pulses throbbed
so fast. And while she soothed she sang the “Land o’ the Leal,” and
sang it well; for the tender words, the plaintive air were dear to her,
because her mother loved and sang it to her years ago. Slowly the heavy
eyelids drooped, slowly the lines of pain were smoothed away from the
broad brow, slowly the restless hands grew still, and Helen lay asleep.
So intent upon her task was Christie, that she forgot herself till the
discomfort of her position reminded her that she had a body. Fearing to
wake the poor girl in her arms, she tried to lean against the basin,
but could not reach a cushion to lay upon the cold stone ledge. An
unseen hand supplied the want, and, looking round, she saw two young
men standing behind her.
Helen’s brothers, without doubt; for, though utterly unlike in
expression, some of the family traits were strongly marked in both. The
elder wore the dress of a priest, had a pale, ascetic face, with
melancholy eyes, stern mouth, and the absent air of one who leads an
inward life. The younger had a more attractive face, for, though
bearing marks of dissipation, it betrayed a generous, ardent nature,
proud and wilful, yet lovable in spite of all defects. He was very
boyish still, and plainly showed how much he felt, as, with a hasty nod
to Christie, he knelt down beside his sister, saying, in a whisper:
“Look at her, Augustine! so beautiful, so quiet! What a comfort it is
to see her like herself again.”
“Ah, yes; and but for the sin of it, I could find it in my heart to
wish she might never wake!” returned the other, gloomily.
“Don’t say that! How could we live without her?” Then, turning to
Christie, the younger said, in a friendly tone:
“You must be very tired; let us lay her on the sofa. It is very damp
here, and if she sleeps long you will faint from weariness.”
Carefully lifting her, the brothers carried the sleeping girl into her
room, and laid her down. She sighed as her head touched the pillow, and
her arm clung to Harry’s neck, as if she felt his nearness even in
sleep. He put his cheek to hers, and lingered over her with an
affectionate solicitude beautiful to see. Augustine stood silent, grave
and cold as if he had done with human ties, yet found it hard to sever
this one, for he stretched his hand above his sister as if he blessed
her, then, with another grave bow to Christie, went away as noiselessly
as he had come. But Harry kissed the sleeper tenderly, whispered, “Be
kind to her,” with an imploring voice, and hurried from the room as if
to hide the feeling that he must not show.
A few minutes later the nurse brought in a note from Mrs. Carrol.
“My son tells me that Helen is asleep, and you look very tired. Leave
her to Hester, now; you have done enough to-day, so let me thank you
heartily, and send you home for a quiet night before you continue your
good work to-morrow.”
Christie went, found a carriage waiting for her, and drove home very
happy at the success of her first attempt at companionship.
The next day she entered upon the new duties with interest and
good-will, for this was work in which heart took part, as well as head
and hand. Many things surprised, and some things perplexed her, as she
came to know the family better. But she discreetly held her tongue,
used her eyes, and did her best to please.
Mrs. Carrol seemed satisfied, often thanked her for her faithfulness to
Helen, but seldom visited her daughter, never seemed surprised or
grieved that the girl expressed no wish to see her; and, though her
handsome face always wore its gracious smile, Christie soon felt very
sure that it was a mask put on to hide some heavy sorrow from a curious
world.
Augustine never came except when Helen was asleep: then, like a shadow,
he passed in and out, always silent, cold, and grave, but in his eyes
the gloom of some remorseful pain that prayers and penances seemed
powerless to heal.
Harry came every day, and no matter how melancholy, listless, or
irritable his sister might be, for him she always had a smile, an
affectionate greeting, a word of praise, or a tender warning against
the reckless spirit that seemed to possess him. The love between them
was very strong, and Christie found a never-failing pleasure in
watching them together, for then Helen showed what she once had been,
and Harry was his best self. A boy still, in spite of his
one-and-twenty years, he seemed to feel that Helen’s room was a safe
refuge from the temptations that beset one of his thoughtless and
impetuous nature. Here he came to confess his faults and follies with
the frankness which is half sad, half comical, and wholly charming in a
good-hearted young scatter-brain. Here he brought gay gossip, lively
descriptions, and masculine criticisms of the world he moved in. All
his hopes and plans, joys and sorrows, successes and defeats, he told
to Helen. And she, poor soul, in this one happy love of her sad life,
forgot a little the burden of despair that darkened all the world to
her. For his sake she smiled, to him she talked when others got no word
from her, and Harry’s salvation was the only duty that she owned or
tried to fulfil.
A younger sister was away at school, but the others seldom spoke of
her, and Christie tired herself with wondering why Bella never wrote to
Helen, and why Harry seemed to have nothing but a gloomy sort of pity
to bestow upon the blooming girl whose picture hung in the great
drawing-room below.
It was a very quiet winter, yet a very pleasant one to Christie, for
she felt herself loved and trusted, saw that she suited, and believed
that she was doing good, as women best love to do it, by bestowing
sympathy and care with generous devotion.
Helen and Harry loved her like an elder sister; Augustine showed that
he was grateful, and Mrs. Carrol sometimes forgot to put on her mask
before one who seemed fast becoming confidante as well as companion.
In the spring the family went to the fine old country-house just out of
town, and here Christie and her charge led a freer, happier life.
Walking and driving, boating and gardening, with pleasant days on the
wide terrace, where Helen swung idly in her hammock, while Christie
read or talked to her; and summer twilights beguiled with music, or the
silent reveries more eloquent than speech, which real friends may enjoy
together, and find the sweeter for the mute companionship.
Harry was with them, and devoted to his sister, who seemed slowly to be
coming out of her sad gloom, won by patient tenderness and the cheerful
influences all about her.
Christie’s heart was full of pride and satisfaction, as she saw the
altered face, heard the tone of interest in that once hopeless voice,
and felt each day more sure that Helen had outlived the loss that
seemed to have broken her heart.
Alas, for Christie’s pride, for Harry’s hope, and for poor Helen’s
bitter fate! When all was brightest, the black shadow came; when all
looked safest, danger was at hand; and when the past seemed buried, the
ghost which haunted it returned, for the punishment of a broken law is
as inevitable as death.
When settled in town again Bella came home, a gay, young girl, who
should have brought sunshine and happiness into her home. But from the
hour she returned a strange anxiety seemed to possess the others. Mrs.
Carrol watched over her with sleepless care, was evidently full of
maternal pride in the lovely creature, and began to dream dreams about
her future. She seemed to wish to keep the sisters apart, and said to
Christie, as if to explain this wish:
“Bella was away when Helen’s trouble and illness came, she knows very
little of it, and I do not want her to be saddened by the knowledge.
Helen cares only for Hal, and Bella is too young to be of any use to my
poor girl; therefore the less they see of each other the better for
both. I am sure you agree with me?” she added, with that covert
scrutiny which Christie had often felt before.
She could but acquiesce in the mother’s decision, and devote herself
more faithfully than ever to Helen, who soon needed all her care and
patience, for a terrible unrest grew upon her, bringing sleepless
nights again, moody days, and all the old afflictions with redoubled
force.
Bella “came out” and began her career as a beauty and a belle most
brilliantly. Harry was proud of her, but seemed jealous of other men’s
admiration for his charming sister, and would excite both Helen and
himself over the flirtations into which “that child” as they called
her, plunged with all the zest of a light-hearted girl whose head was a
little turned with sudden and excessive adoration.
In vain Christie begged Harry not to report these things, in vain she
hinted that Bella had better not come to show herself to Helen night
after night in all the dainty splendor of her youth and beauty; in vain
she asked Mrs. Carrol to let her go away to some quieter place with
Helen, since she never could be persuaded to join in any gayety at home
or abroad. All seemed wilful, blind, or governed by the fear of the
gossiping world. So the days rolled on till an event occurred which
enlightened Christie, with startling abruptness, and showed her the
skeleton that haunted this unhappy family.
Going in one morning to Helen she found her walking to and fro as she
often walked of late, with hurried steps and excited face as if driven
by some power beyond her control.
“Good morning, dear. I’m so sorry you had a restless night, and wish
you had sent for me. Will you come out now for an early drive? It’s a
lovely day, and your mother thinks it would do you good,” began
Christie, troubled by the state in which she found the girl.
But as she spoke Helen turned on her, crying passionately:
“My mother! don’t speak of her to me, I hate her!”
“Oh, Helen, don’t say that. Forgive and forget if she has displeased
you, and don’t exhaust yourself by brooding over it. Come, dear, and
let us soothe ourselves with a little music. I want to hear that new
song again, though I can never hope to sing it as you do.”
“Sing!” echoed Helen, with a shrill laugh, “you don’t know what you
ask. Could you sing when your heart was heavy with the knowledge of a
sin about to be committed by those nearest to you? Don’t try to quiet
me, I must talk whether you listen or not; I shall go frantic if I
don’t tell some one; all the world will know it soon. Sit down, I’ll
not hurt you, but don’t thwart me or you’ll be sorry for it.”
Speaking with a vehemence that left her breathless, Helen thrust
Christie down upon a seat, and went on with an expression in her face
that bereft the listener of power to move or speak.
“Harry has just told me of it; he was very angry, and I saw it, and
made him tell me. Poor boy, he can keep nothing from me. I’ve been
dreading it, and now it’s coming. You don’t know it, then? Young Butler
is in love with Bella, and no one has prevented it. Think how wicked
when such a curse is on us all.”
The question, “What curse?” rose involuntarily to Christie’s lips, but
did not pass them, for, as if she read the thought, Helen answered it
in a whisper that made the blood tingle in the other’s veins, so full
of ominous suggestion was it.
“The curse of insanity I mean. We are all mad, or shall be; we come of
a mad race, and for years we have gone recklessly on bequeathing this
awful inheritance to our descendants. It should end with us, we are the
last; none of us should marry; none dare think of it but Bella, and she
knows nothing. She must be told, she must be kept from the sin of
deceiving her lover, the agony of seeing her children become what I am,
and what we all may be.”
Here Helen wrung her hands and paced the room in such a paroxysm of
impotent despair that Christie sat bewildered and aghast, wondering if
this were true, or but the fancy of a troubled brain. Mrs. Carrol’s
face and manner returned to her with sudden vividness, so did
Augustine’s gloomy expression, and the strange wish uttered over his
sleeping sister long ago. Harry’s reckless, aimless life might be
explained in this way; and all that had perplexed her through that
year. Every thing confirmed the belief that this tragical assertion was
true, and Christie covered up her face, murmuring, with an involuntary
shiver:
“My God, how terrible!”
Helen came and stood before her with such grief and penitence in her
countenance that for a moment it conquered the despair that had broken
bounds.
“We should have told you this at first; I longed to do it, but I was
afraid you’d go and leave me. I was so lonely, so miserable, Christie.
I could not give you up when I had learned to love you; and I did learn
very soon, for no wretched creature ever needed help and comfort more
than I. For your sake I tried to be quiet, to control my shattered
nerves, and hide my desperate thoughts. You helped me very much, and
your unconsciousness made me doubly watchful. Forgive me; don’t desert
me now, for the old horror may be coming back, and I want you more than
ever.”
Too much moved to speak, Christie held out her hands, with a face full
of pity, love, and grief. Poor Helen clung to them as if her only help
lay there, and for a moment was quite still. But not long; the old
anguish was too sharp to be borne in silence; the relief of confidence
once tasted was too great to be denied; and, breaking loose, she went
to and fro again, pouring out the bitter secret which had been weighing
upon heart and conscience for a year.
“You wonder that I hate my mother; let me tell you why. When she was
beautiful and young she married, knowing the sad history of my father’s
family. He was rich, she poor and proud; ambition made her wicked, and
she did it after being warned that, though he might escape, his
children were sure to inherit the curse, for when one generation goes
free it falls more heavily upon the rest. She knew it all, and yet she
married him. I have her to thank for all I suffer, and I cannot love
her though she is my mother. It may be wrong to say these things, but
they are true; they burn in my heart, and I must speak out; for I tell
you there comes a time when children judge their parents as men and
women, in spite of filial duty, and woe to those whose actions change
affection and respect to hatred or contempt.”
The bitter grief, the solemn fervor of her words, both touched and awed
Christie too much for speech. Helen had passed beyond the bounds of
ceremony, fear, or shame: her hard lot, her dark experience, set her
apart, and gave her the right to utter the bare truth. To her heart’s
core Christie felt that warning; and for the first time saw what many
never see or wilfully deny,—the awful responsibility that lies on every
man and woman’s soul forbidding them to entail upon the innocent the
burden of their own infirmities, the curse that surely follows their
own sins.
Sad and stern, as an accusing angel, that most unhappy daughter spoke:
“If ever a woman had cause to repent, it is my mother; but she will
not, and till she does, God has forsaken us. Nothing can subdue her
pride, not even an affliction like mine. She hides the truth; she hides
me, and lets the world believe I am dying of consumption; not a word
about insanity, and no one knows the secret beyond ourselves, but
doctor, nurse, and you. This is why I was not sent away, but for a year
was shut up in that room yonder where the door is always locked. If you
look in, you’ll see barred windows, guarded fire, muffled walls, and
other sights to chill your blood, when you remember all those dreadful
things were meant for me.”
“Don’t speak, don’t think of them! Don’t talk any more; let me do
something to comfort you, for my heart is broken with all this,” cried
Christie, panic-stricken at the picture Helen’s words had conjured up.
“I must go on! There is no rest for me till I have tried to lighten
this burden by sharing it with you. Let me talk, let me wear myself
out, then you shall help and comfort me, if there is any help and
comfort for such as I. Now I can tell you all about my Edward, and
you’ll listen, though mamma forbade it. Three years ago my father died,
and we came here. I was well then, and oh, how happy!”
Clasping her hands above her head, she stood like a beautiful, pale
image of despair; tearless and mute, but with such a world of anguish
in the eyes lifted to the smiling picture opposite that it needed no
words to tell the story of a broken heart.
“How I loved him!” she said, softly, while her whole face glowed for an
instant with the light and warmth of a deathless passion. “How I loved
him, and how he loved me! Too well to let me darken both our lives with
a remorse which would come too late for a just atonement. I thought him
cruel then,—I bless him for it now. I had far rather be the innocent
sufferer I am, than a wretched woman like my mother. I shall never see
him any more, but I know he thinks of me far away in India, and when I
die one faithful heart will remember me.”
There her voice faltered and failed, and for a moment the fire of her
eyes was quenched in tears. Christie thought the reaction had come, and
rose to go and comfort her. But instantly Helen’s hand was on her
shoulder, and pressing her back into her seat, she said, almost
fiercely:
“I’m not done yet; yon must hear the whole, and help me to save Bella.
We knew nothing of the blight that hung over us till father told
Augustine upon his death-bed. August, urged by mother, kept it to
himself, and went away to bear it as he could. He should have spoken
out and saved me in time. But not till he came home and found me
engaged did he have courage to warn me of the fate in store for us. So
Edward tore himself away, although it broke his heart, and I—do you see
that?”
With a quick gesture she rent open her dress, and on her bosom Christie
saw a scar that made her turn yet paler than before.
“Yes, I tried to kill myself; but they would not let me die, so the old
tragedy of our house begins again. August became a priest, hoping to
hide his calamity and expiate his father’s sin by endless penances and
prayers. Harry turned reckless; for what had he to look forward to? A
short life, and a gay one, he says, and when his turn comes he will
spare himself long suffering, as I tried to do it. Bella was never
told; she was so young they kept her ignorant of all they could, even
the knowledge of my state. She was long away at school, but now she has
come home, now she has learned to love, and is going blindly as I went,
because no one tells her what she must know soon or late. Mamma will
not. August hesitates, remembering me. Harry swears he will speak out,
but I implore him not to do it, for he will be too violent; and I am
powerless. I never knew about this man till Hal told me to-day. Bella
only comes in for a moment, and I have no chance to tell her she must
not love him.”
Pressing her hands to her temples, Helen resumed her restless march
again, but suddenly broke out more violently than before:
“Now do you wonder why I am half frantic? Now will you ask me to sing
and smile, and sit calmly by while this wrong goes on? You have done
much for me, and God will bless you for it, but you cannot keep me
sane. Death is the only cure for a mad Carrol, and I’m so young, so
strong, it will be long in coming unless I hurry it.”
She clenched her hands, set her teeth, and looked about her as if ready
for any desperate act that should set her free from the dark and
dreadful future that lay before her.
For a moment Christie feared and trembled; then pity conquered fear.
She forgot herself, and only remembered this poor girl, so hopeless,
helpless, and afflicted. Led by a sudden impulse, she put both arms
about her, and held her close with a strong but silent tenderness
better than any bonds. At first, Helen seemed unconscious of it, as she
stood rigid and motionless, with her wild eyes dumbly imploring help of
earth and heaven. Suddenly both strength and excitement seemed to leave
her, and she would have fallen but for the living, loving prop that
sustained her.
Still silent, Christie laid her down, kissed her white lips, and busied
herself about her till she looked up quite herself again, but so wan
and weak, it was pitiful to see her.
“It’s over now,” she whispered, with a desolate sigh. “Sing to me, and
keep the evil spirit quiet for a little while. To-morrow, if I’m strong
enough, we’ll talk about poor little Bella.”
And Christie sang, with tears dropping fast upon the keys, that made a
soft accompaniment to the sweet old hymns which soothed this troubled
soul as David’s music brought repose to Saul.
When Helen slept at last from sheer exhaustion, Christie executed the
resolution she had made as soon as the excitement of that stormy scene
was over. She went straight to Mrs. Carrol’s room, and, undeterred by
the presence of her sons, told all that had passed. They were evidently
not unprepared for it, thanks to old Hester, who had overheard enough
of Helen’s wild words to know that something was amiss, and had
reported accordingly; but none of them had ventured to interrupt the
interview, lest Helen should be driven to desperation as before.
“Mother, Helen is right; we should speak out, and not hide this bitter
fact any longer. The world will pity us, and we must bear the pity, but
it would condemn us for deceit, and we should deserve the condemnation
if we let this misery go on. Living a lie will ruin us all. Bella will
be destroyed as Helen was; I am only the shadow of a man now, and Hal
is killing himself as fast as he can, to avoid the fate we all dread.”
Augustine spoke first, for Mrs. Carrol sat speechless with her trouble
as Christie paused.
“Keep to your prayers, and let me go my own way, it’s the shortest,”
muttered Harry, with his face hidden, and his head down on his folded
arms.
“Boys, boys, you’ll kill me if you say such things! I have more now
than I can bear. Don’t drive me wild with your reproaches to each
other!” cried their mother, her heart rent with the remorse that came
too late.
“No fear of that; you are not a Carrol,” answered Harry, with the
pitiless bluntness of a resentful and rebellious boy.
Augustine turned on him with a wrathful flash of the eye, and a warning
ring in his stern voice, as he pointed to the door.
“You shall not insult your mother! Ask her pardon, or go!”
“She should ask mine! I’ll go. When you want me, you’ll know where to
find me.” And, with a reckless laugh, Harry stormed out of the room.
Augustine’s indignant face grew full of a new trouble as the door
banged below, and he pressed his thin hands tightly together, saying,
as if to himself:
“Heaven help me! Yes, I do know; for, night after night, I find and
bring the poor lad home from gambling-tables and the hells where souls
like his are lost.”
Here Christie thought to slip away, feeling that it was no place for
her now that her errand was done. But Mrs. Carrol called her back.
“Miss Devon—Christie—forgive me that I did not trust you sooner. It was
so hard to tell; I hoped so much from time; I never could believe that
my poor children would be made the victims of my mistake. Do not
forsake us: Helen loves you so. Stay with her, I implore you, and let a
most unhappy mother plead for a most unhappy child.” Then Christie went
to the poor woman, and earnestly assured her of her love and loyalty;
for now she felt doubly bound to them because they trusted her.
“What shall we do?” they said to her, with pathetic submission, turning
like sick people to a healthful soul for help and comfort.
“Tell Bella all the truth, and help her to refuse her lover. Do this
just thing, and God will strengthen you to bear the consequences,” was
her answer, though she trembled at the responsibility they put upon
her.
“Not yet,” cried Mrs. Carrol. “Let the poor child enjoy the holidays
with a light heart,—then we will tell her; and then Heaven help us
all!”
So it was decided; for only a week or two of the old year remained, and
no one had the heart to rob poor Bella of the little span of blissful
ignorance that now remained to her.
A terrible time was that to Christie; for, while one sister, blessed
with beauty, youth, love, and pleasure, tasted life at its sweetest,
the other sat in the black shadow of a growing dread, and wearied
Heaven with piteous prayers for her relief.
“The old horror is coming back; I feel it creeping over me. Don’t let
it come, Christie! Stay by me! Help me! Keep me sane! And if you
cannot, ask God to take me quickly!”
With words like these, poor Helen clung to Christie; and, soul and
body, Christie devoted herself to the afflicted girl. She would not see
her mother; and the unhappy woman haunted that closed door, hungering
for the look, the word, that never came to her. Augustine was her
consolation, and, during those troublous days, the priest was forgotten
in the son. But Harry was all in all to Helen then; and it was touching
to see how these unfortunate young creatures clung to one another, she
tenderly trying to keep him from the wild life that was surely
hastening the fate he might otherwise escape for years, and he
patiently bearing all her moods, eager to cheer and soothe the sad
captivity from which he could not save her.
These tender ministrations seemed to be blessed at last; and Christie
began to hope the haunting terror would pass by, as quiet gloom
succeeded to wild excitement. The cheerful spirit of the season seemed
to reach even that sad room; and, in preparing gifts for others, Helen
seemed to find a little of that best of all gifts,—peace for herself.
On New Year’s morning, Christie found her garlanding her lover’s
picture with white roses and the myrtle sprays brides wear.
“These were his favorite flowers, and I meant to make my wedding wreath
of this sweet-scented myrtle, because he gave it to me,” she said, with
a look that made Christie’s eyes grow dim. “Don’t grieve for me, dear;
we shall surely meet hereafter, though so far asunder here. Nothing can
part us there, I devoutly believe; for we leave our burdens all behind
us when we go.” Then, in a lighter tone, she said, with her arm on
Christie’s neck:
“This day is to be a happy one, no matter what comes after it. I’m
going to be my old self for a little while, and forget there’s such a
word as sorrow. Help me to dress, so that when the boys come up they
may find the sister Nell they have not seen for two long years.”
“Will you wear this, my darling? Your mother sends it, and she tried to
have it dainty and beautiful enough to please you. See, your own
colors, though the bows are only laid on that they may be changed for
others if you like.”
As she spoke Christie lifted the cover of the box old Hester had just
brought in, and displayed a cashmere wrapper, creamy-white, silk-lined,
down-trimmed, and delicately relieved by rosy knots, like holly berries
lying upon snow. Helen looked at it without a word for several minutes,
then gathering up the ribbons, with a strange smile, she said:
“I like it better so; but I’ll not wear it yet.”
“Bless and save us, deary; it must have a bit of color somewhere, else
it looks just like a shroud,” cried Hester, and then wrung her hands in
dismay as Helen answered, quietly:
“Ah, well, keep it for me, then. I shall be happier when I wear it so
than in the gayest gown I own, for when you put it on, this poor head
and heart of mine will be quiet at last.”
Motioning Hester to remove the box, Christie tried to banish the cloud
her unlucky words had brought to Helen’s face, by chatting cheerfully
as she helped her make herself “pretty for the boys.”
All that day she was unusually calm and sweet, and seemed to yield
herself wholly to the happy influences of the hour, gave and received
her gifts so cheerfully that her brothers watched her with delight; and
unconscious Bella said, as she hung about her sister, with loving
admiration in her eyes:
“I always thought you would get well, and now I’m sure of it, for you
look as you used before I went away to school, and seem just like our
own dear Nell.”
“I’m glad of that; I wanted you to feel so, my Bella. I’ll accept your
happy prophecy, and hope I may get well soon, very soon.”
So cheerfully she spoke, so tranquilly she smiled, that all rejoiced
over her believing, with love’s blindness, that she might yet conquer
her malady in spite of their forebodings.
It was a very happy day to Christie, not only that she was generously
remembered and made one of them by all the family, but because this
change for the better in Helen made her heart sing for joy. She had
given time, health, and much love to the task, and ventured now to hope
they had not been given in vain. One thing only marred her happiness,
the sad estrangement of the daughter from her mother, and that evening
she resolved to take advantage of Helen’s tender mood, and plead for
the poor soul who dared not plead for herself.
As the brothers and sisters said good-night, Helen clung to them as if
loth to part, saying, with each embrace:
“Keep hoping for me, Bella; kiss me, Harry; bless me, Augustine, and
all wish for me a happier New Year than the last.”
When they were gone she wandered slowly round the room, stood long
before the picture with its fading garland, sung a little softly to
herself, and came at last to Christie, saying, like a tired child:
“I have been good all day; now let me rest.”
“One thing has been forgotten, dear,” began Christie, fearing to
disturb the quietude that seemed to have been so dearly bought.
Helen understood her, and looked up with a sane sweet face, out of
which all resentful bitterness had passed.
“No, Christie, not forgotten, only kept until the last. To-day is a
good day to forgive, as we would be forgiven, and I mean to do it
before I sleep,” Then holding Christie close, she added, with a quiver
of emotion in her voice: “I have no words warm enough to thank you, my
good angel, for all you have been to me, but I know it will give you a
great pleasure to do one thing more. Give dear mamma my love, and tell
her that when I am quiet for the night I want her to come and get me to
sleep with the old lullaby she used to sing when I was a little child.”
No gift bestowed that day was so precious to Christie as the joy of
carrying this loving message from daughter to mother. How Mrs. Carrol
received it need not be told. She would have gone at once, but Christie
begged her to wait till rest and quiet, after the efforts of the day,
had prepared Helen for an interview which might undo all that had been
done if too hastily attempted.
Hester always waited upon her child at night; so, feeling that she
might be wanted later, Christie went to her own room to rest. Quite
sure that Mrs. Carrol would come to tell her what had passed, she
waited for an hour or two, then went to ask of Hester how the visit had
sped.
“Her mamma came up long ago, but the dear thing was fast asleep, so I
wouldn’t let her be disturbed, and Mrs. Carrol went away again,” said
the old woman, rousing from a nap.
Grieved at the mother’s disappointment, Christie stole in, hoping that
Helen might rouse. She did not, and Christie was about to leave her,
when, as she bent to smooth the tumbled coverlet, something dropped at
her feet. Only a little pearl-handled penknife of Harry’s; but her
heart stood still with fear, for it was open, and, as she took it up, a
red stain came off upon her hand.
Helen’s face was turned away, and, bending nearer, Christie saw how
deathly pale it looked in the shadow of the darkened room. She listened
at her lips; only a faint flutter of breath parted them; she lifted up
the averted head, and on the white throat saw a little wound, from
which the blood still flowed. Then, like a flash of light, the meaning
of the sudden change which came over her grew clear,—her brave efforts
to make the last day happy, her tender good-night partings, her wish to
be at peace with every one, the tragic death she had chosen rather than
live out the tragic life that lay before her.
Christie’s nerves had been tried to the uttermost; the shock of this
discovery was too much for her, and, in the act of calling for help,
she fainted, for the first time in her life.
When she was herself again, the room was full of people;
terror-stricken faces passed before her; broken voices whispered, “It
is too late,” and, as she saw the group about the bed, she wished for
unconsciousness again.
Helen lay in her mother’s arms at last, quietly breathing her life
away, for though every thing that love and skill could devise had been
tried to save her, the little knife in that desperate hand had done its
work, and this world held no more suffering for her. Harry was down
upon his knees beside her, trying to stifle his passionate grief.
Augustine prayed audibly above her, and the fervor of his broken words
comforted all hearts but one. Bella was clinging, panic-stricken, to
the kind old doctor, who was sobbing like a boy, for he had loved and
served poor Helen as faithfully as if she had been his own.
“Can nothing save her?” Christie whispered, as the prayer ended, and a
sound of bitter weeping filled the room.
“Nothing; she is sane and safe at last, thank God!”
Christie could not but echo his thanksgiving, for the blessed
tranquillity of the girl’s countenance was such as none but death, the
great healer, can bring; and, as they looked, her eyes opened,
beautifully clear and calm before they closed for ever. From face to
face they passed, as if they looked for some one, and her lips moved in
vain efforts to speak.
Christie went to her, but still the wide, wistful eyes searched the
room as if unsatisfied; and, with a longing that conquered the mortal
weakness of the body, the heart sent forth one tender cry:
“My mother—I want my mother!”
There was no need to repeat the piteous call, for, as it left her lips,
she saw her mother’s face bending over her, and felt her mother’s arms
gathering her in an embrace which held her close even after death had
set its seal upon the voiceless prayers for pardon which passed between
those reunited hearts.
When she was asleep at last, Christie and her mother made her ready for
her grave; weeping tender tears as they folded her in the soft, white
garment she had put by for that sad hour; and on her breast they laid
the flowers she had hung about her lover as a farewell gift. So
beautiful she looked when all was done, that in the early dawn they
called her brothers, that they might not lose the memory of the blessed
peace that shone upon her face, a mute assurance that for her the new
year had happily begun.
“Now my work here is done, and I must go,” thought Christie, when the
waves of life closed over the spot where another tired swimmer had gone
down. But she found that one more task remained for her before she left
the family which, on her coming, she had thought so happy.
Mrs. Carrol, worn out with the long effort to conceal her secret cross,
broke down entirely under this last blow, and besought Christie to tell
Bella all that she must know. It was a hard task, but Christie accepted
it, and, when the time came, found that there was very little to be
told, for at the death-bed of the elder sister, the younger had learned
much of the sad truth. Thus prepared, she listened to all that was most
carefully and tenderly confided to her, and, when the heavy tale was
done, she surprised Christie by the unsuspected strength she showed. No
tears, no lamentations, for she was her mother’s daughter, and
inherited the pride that can bear heavy burdens, if they are borne
unseen.
“Tell me what I must do, and I will do it,” she said, with the quiet
despair of one who submits to the inevitable, but will not complain.
When Christie with difficulty told her that she should give up her
lover, Bella bowed her head, and for a moment could not speak, then
lifted it as if defying her own weakness, and spoke out bravely:
“It shall be done, for it is right. It is very hard for me, because I
love him; he will not suffer much, for he can love again. I should be
glad of that, and I’ll try to wish it for his sake. He is young, and
if, as Harry says, he cares more for my fortune than myself, so much
the better. What next, Christie?”
Amazed and touched at the courage of the creature she had fancied a
sort of lovely butterfly to be crushed by a single blow, Christie took
heart, and, instead of soothing sympathy, gave her the solace best
fitted for strong natures, something to do for others. What inspired
her, Christie never knew; perhaps it was the year of self-denying
service she had rendered for pity’s sake; such devotion is its own
reward, and now, in herself, she discovered unsuspected powers.
“Live for your mother and your brothers, Bella; they need you sorely,
and in time I know you will find true consolation in it, although you
must relinquish much. Sustain your mother, cheer Augustine, watch over
Harry, and be to them what Helen longed to be.”
“And fail to do it, as she failed!” cried Bella, with a shudder.
“Listen, and let me give you this hope, for I sincerely do believe it.
Since I came here, I have read many books, thought much, and talked
often with Dr. Shirley about this sad affliction. He thinks you and
Harry may escape it, if you will. You are like your mother in
temperament and temper; you have self-control, strong wills, good
nerves, and cheerful spirits. Poor Harry is willfully spoiling all his
chances now; but you may save him, and, in the endeavor, save
yourself.”
“Oh, Christie, may I hope it? Give me one chance of escape, and I will
suffer any hardship to keep it. Let me see any thing before me but a
life and death like Helen’s, and I’ll bless you for ever!” cried Bella,
welcoming this ray of light as a prisoner welcomes sunshine in his
cell.
Christie trembled at the power of her words, yet, honestly believing
them, she let them uplift this disconsolate soul, trusting that they
might be in time fulfilled through God’s mercy and the saving grace of
sincere endeavor.
Holding fast to this frail spar, Bella bravely took up arms against her
sea of troubles, and rode out the storm. When her lover came to know
his fate, she hid her heart, and answered “no,” finding a bitter
satisfaction in the end, for Harry was right, and, when the fortune was
denied him, young Butler did not mourn the woman long. Pride helped
Bella to bear it; but it needed all her courage to look down the coming
years so bare of all that makes life sweet to youthful souls, so
desolate and dark, with duty alone to cheer the thorny way, and the
haunting shadow of her race lurking in the background.
Submission and self-sacrifice are stern, sad angels, but in time one
learns to know and love them, for when they have chastened, they uplift
and bless. Dimly discerning this, poor Bella put her hands in theirs,
saying, “Lead me, teach me; I will follow and obey you.”
All soon felt that they could not stay in a house so full of heavy
memories, and decided to return to their old home. They begged Christie
to go with them, using every argument and entreaty their affection
could suggest. But Christie needed rest, longed for freedom, and felt
that in spite of their regard it would be very hard for her to live
among them any longer. Her healthy nature needed brighter influences,
stronger comrades, and the memory of Helen weighed so heavily upon her
heart that she was eager to forget it for a time in other scenes and
other work.
So they parted, very sadly, very tenderly, and laden with good gifts
Christie went on her way weary, but well satisfied, for she had earned
her rest.