Notwithstanding the kind treatment which Helen received in her new home,
she did not seem happy. Although the companions among which she had been
thrown had not been of a nature to give her very elevated ideas of moral
rectitude, something within told her that the act required of her would
be one of the basest ingratitude. The more she thought of it, the more
her heart recoiled from it. Yet so accustomed was she to obey the man
Armstrong without question,—not so much from affection as from fear and a
sense of duty,—that she had hardly admitted to herself the possibility
of refusing to comply with his demands. Now, however, that he had himself
confessed that no relationship existed between them, the force of the
latter consideration was not a little weakened; and, as fear decreases in
the absence of those who inspire it, she began now to consider in what
way she could contrive to avoid it.
Circumstances occurred before the dreaded Friday night which served to
hasten her decision. On the day previous, while roaming through the
fields with Ellen and Frank Gregory, in jumping hastily from a stone
wall, her foot turned, and her ankle was severely sprained. The pain was
so violent that she nearly fainted, and was quite unable to make her way
to the house, which was some quarter of a mile distant. The children
were exceedingly frightened, and, returning in breathless haste, gave an
immediate alarm.
Two men were speedily obtained, who, constructing a soft litter, conveyed
Helen to the house, without occasioning her much additional pain. A
physician was at once summoned. Meanwhile, Helen was put to bed, where
she received every attention. Mrs. Gregory had a warm heart, which
suffering in any form was sure to reach; and, had Helen been her own
child, she could not have been more tenderly cared for.
The physician decided that it was nothing very serious; though he
recommended, as a necessary precaution, that the injured member should
not be used for a fortnight or more, lest inflammation might ensue.
Helen did not hear him pronounce this sentence. When, however, she was
informed of it by Mrs. Gregory, after his departure, her mind at once
reverted to the fact that it would be an insuperable obstacle to her
performing the part assigned her. Actuated by the relief which the
thought brought to her, and without thinking of the manner in which it
would be construed, she involuntarily exclaimed,—
“Oh! I am so glad!”
“Glad!” exclaimed Mrs. Gregory, in astonishment. “What can you mean? You
surely cannot mean that you are glad you will be confined to the house by
sickness?”
Helen was embarrassed. She knew she could not explain herself without
telling all; and that she had not yet determined upon. At length she
said,—
“Because it will prevent me from doing something that I did not want to
do.”
“But why did you not want to do it?” asked Mrs. Gregory.
“Because I do not think it would have been right.”
“Then why would you have done it at all, even if you had been well
enough, if it was wrong?” asked Mrs. Gregory, more puzzled than ever.
“Because I was afraid to refuse,” said Helen, in a low tone.
“It was nothing that I required of you, I am sure,” said her mistress.
“No.”
“It surely could not be that your grandfather would require of you any
thing improper?”
Helen was silent.
“Then it is so. My dear child,” pursued the lady, kindly, “I have lived
longer than you, and naturally have more knowledge of the world. I need
not say that I have every disposition to befriend you, not only for your
own sake, but for the sake of my own little Helen, who, had she remained
to me, would have been about your age. Will you not, then, confide in
me so far as to inform me what it was that your grandfather required of
you?”
Helen considered a moment, and then, with a rapidity of decision which
sometimes comes after long and anxious thought, decided to communicate
every thing.
“I will tell you every thing,” she said, “if you will promise that no
harm shall come to the man who brought me here.”
“Your grandfather?”
“Will you promise?” asked Helen, anxiously.
“Yes, Helen,” said Mrs. Gregory: “though I cannot conceive what is to be
the nature of your revelation, I will promise that no harm shall befall
your grandfather.”
“You are so good and kind,” said the child, “that I can trust to what you
say. Then I will tell you, first of all, that the one who came with me is
not my grandfather.”
“Not your grandfather?” echoed Mrs. Gregory, in surprise.
“No. He is not even an old man. He only dressed himself up so when he
came here.”
“And what made him do that?”
“Because he thought you would pity him, and be more ready to take me.”
“Is he any relation to you?”
“I thought he was my uncle,” returned Helen, “until he came here last
time. Then he told me that he was no relation.”
“Where are your relations?”
“I don’t know,” said Helen, thoughtfully. “I suppose I must have had some
once; but I can’t remember any thing about them. I have lived with my—I
mean Mr. Armstrong, ever since I can recollect.”
“And what was it he wanted you to do? Why was he so anxious to have you
come here?”
“Because⸺ You mustn’t blame me,” said Helen, earnestly, lifting her eyes
to Mrs. Gregory’s face; “for it made me very unhappy to think of doing
it. But he wanted me to leave the door open to-morrow night, so that he
could get in and carry off the silver.”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed Mrs. Gregory. “And he wished to implicate you
in such a crime?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Helen. “He told me that was what he wanted me to come
here for; and then I didn’t want to come at all. But he threatened me if
I did not. Then, when he was here last time, I tried to persuade him to
give up his design; but he wouldn’t listen to me, and I didn’t dare to
say any thing more.”
“You said, Helen,” remarked Mrs. Gregory, “that you never knew about your
relations. Can’t you remember any thing that happened when you was a
little child?”
“No,” said Helen, “not much; but I think I must have lived in the
country once, though I can’t remember when. There was an old woman, very
cross, that I used to be with before Mr. Armstrong took me. She used to
beat me sometimes.”
“How did she look?” said the lady, feeling a strange interest—for which
she found it difficult to account—in the child’s story.
“She was very tall; and she used to look at me—oh! so fiercely!”
“And is there nothing, no little keepsake, that you have, to remind you
of those childish days?”
“Yes,” said Helen, “there was one. It was an ivory ring that I have
always carried around with me. The tall woman tried to take it away from
me one day; but I cried so that she let me keep it.”
“Have you got it with you?” asked Mrs. Gregory, in great agitation.
“Yes,” said Helen, surprised at the strange effect this communication
appeared to have upon her mistress. “I always carry it in the pocket of
my dress.”
Mrs. Gregory, with trembling hands, sought the receptacle indicated,
and drew out an ivory ring, on which were inscribed the letters “H. G.”
Without a word, she sprang to the bed, clasped the bewildered Helen to
her bosom, and exclaimed, tearfully,—
“It is as I thought! You are my child!—my long-lost Helen!”
When her emotion had in some measure subsided, she made Helen acquainted
with the circumstances mentioned in the previous chapter, and also
informed her that the ring, which had served as the happy means of
restoring a long-lost child to her parent, was the gift of a brother of
hers, who had inscribed upon it “H. G.,” as the initials of Helen’s name,
and that the child had it with her on the day of her disappearance.
The happiness of Helen in being restored to her mother, and the joy of
the children on ascertaining that the one whom they had learned to love
so well, already, was their own sister, may better be imagined than
described.
One leaf remains to be added to this chronicle. It relates to Armstrong,
hitherto the guardian of Helen. Although the latter had received at his
hands so little for which she had occasion to be thankful, she could
not reconcile herself to the idea of his being imprisoned. We cannot
look with indifference upon the punishment of one with whom we have been
intimately associated, however well deserved it may be.
As Armstrong had no intimation of the check which his projects had
received, and as he was convinced that Helen’s fear of him would lead
her to carry out his commands, he stealthily approached the house the
following evening, as he had intended. The door had been purposely left
unlocked; but, in the room adjoining, four stout men had been stationed,
who at once seized upon the unsuspecting burglar, and, in spite of his
violent struggles, bound him. Thus secured, Mr. Gregory, who was one of
the four, explained to him in what manner his crime had been defeated,
and added,—
“Although you have been detected in crime, and richly deserve the penalty
which the offended law affixes to it, I have been induced by Helen to
afford you a chance of escaping. I will furnish you a ticket entitling
you to a passage in the next California steamer, and will not reveal your
guilty attempt, if you will engage to leave the country immediately.
Should you fail to go, I shall feel released from the promise I have made
to Helen, and at once cause you to be arrested.”
It is needless to say that Armstrong at once accepted these terms; and
the next steamer bound to the Pacific bore him a passenger.
As for Helen, the cloud which shadowed her earlier years has quite
disappeared; and in the affection of the home circle, to which her many
good qualities endear her, she finds all that can make life pleasant and
agreeable.