But what hurt Helen the most was that all these years he should not have cared enough to write even to Uncle Jason. She, Helen, might have died, or misfortune might have attended Uncle Jason and the house been broken up, she cast on the charities of the world. He could not know.
How had she come by this fine sense of justice, this clear sight in so many things, this comprehension of honor and the right of every human soul? She was suddenly a puzzle to herself. Was this the outgrowth of the wild, laughing, merry child, ready for any fun or frolic or mischief, who ran races with boys, and could play ball, climb trees, jump higher fence-rails than any girl, and be proud of it? Yet, were not these things modified in the gymnasium? So she need not blush over it, or be ashamed of the riotous childhood.
And why had she protested so strenuously against going in the shoeshop? Where did these curious qualities and contradictions come from? Did she really owe her awakening to Mr. Warfield? Would she have been content in the Mulford groove but for him? Yet all these feelings and desires must have been in her brain, inherited from somewhere.
What might not her father demand of her? Perhaps he was an invalid, and even now she, with aims and purposes settled on a higher plane, might be compelled to spend years of waiting in which there would be no pleasure, no satisfaction. Could she do it? Had he the right to ask it?
She was coming nearer and nearer to the momentous decision. Oh, was she leaving the dear, bright, fascinating schooldays behind her, the friends of girlhood, the ambitious climbing where it seemed almost as if one had winged feet, the delightful life with its discussions, its shaping of tastes, its comparison of heroes, when they almost quarreled, each being so eager and confident of her own, the lovely walks, unearthing the secrets of nature growths, the pretty, touching confidences so much to girls, the expansion everywhere; two splendid, joyous years of improvement, draining the real secrets of knowledge to help explain the mysteries of life,—was it all over?
They were coming nearer to all the Hopes. A hard little smile settled about her lips. How queer they should have called it Hope, this dead and alive place, where hope could be so easily crushed? Would she abandon hope when she entered?
They steamed into the station, backed a little for some cause, then came forward again. She was on the off-side so she need not look out of the window. She waited for the small procession to pass out of the aisle, then she picked up her satchel and her precious box. Mr. Warfield stood watching, and her heart beat more freely. He took her satchel when the conductor had helped her down, and studied her face eagerly.
"I began to wonder if you were on the train. Are you tired? It is a long journey."
The friendly voice seemed to restore her.
"Not especially tired," she answered slowly.
They walked on in silence, but a question trembled about her lips.
"Were you tremendously surprised? Of course, one couldn't give particulars in a telegram."
"Why—yes, after believing him dead all these years. Is he—is he well?"
That was not what she wanted to ask.
"Yes, I think so. Mrs. Dayton said he had not changed very much. He is fifty-four and looks seventy. But, oh, the learning! He certainly has 'ransacked the ages.'"
"And I suppose it will seem strange to him to have a big girl?" There was a little falter in Helen's voice, and she flushed and paled.
"Well—he almost expected you had gone through college," and Mr. Warfield gave his shoulders a shrug. "I can tell you he has no faith in modern education. And I do believe he would rather have you forty than sixteen."
"I am glad to be only sixteen," Helen returned with decision. "Life is a splendid thing and youth is its garden of growth, and I am more than satisfied to be still in the lovely garden."
She held her head up very straight, and the poise of her shoulders was fine and vigorous. She would not be made old for anybody. She would not hurry through any sweet year of her life.
"There will be some clashing," thought Mr. Warfield. "And I do believe she will win."
"When did he come?" she asked presently. "And where has he been all these years?"
"The last year in the British Museum. Before that buried in the ruins of the lost cities of the Bible, read now by cylinders and tablet plates and inscriptions on stone. Well, it is wonderful to know so much, to be able to reconstruct dead and gone ages. He reached here four or five days ago and surprised the Mulfords; came over here and engaged board when he heard you were on the eve of return; went up to New York and reached here last night."
Of course, he might have written her a few words.
"And that wonderful old lady of yours is dead! Wouldn't it have been queer if you had started for Europe? Oh, here we are!" and he opened the gate.
Helen walked straight up the path, and the man pacing the porch paused at the steps. He was tall and thin, with a bend in the shoulders, and his clothes hung loosely on him. His face had a sort of shrunken look and was much wrinkled, his beard was sparse and snowy white, and his white hair was rather long with curling ends. He looked like an old picture, but he was a gentleman every inch of him.
"Oh!" Helen exclaimed with a gasp.
He took both hands, looked her over from head to foot, then touched his lips to her forehead.
"You're not a bit like your mother," and Helen detected a sense of relief in his tone.
Could he remember all these years? Almost a sob came up in her throat. Yes, girl life had ended. "I am glad and thankful that I have you to recall, happy, happy schooldays," she said to herself. "No one can take that from me. Oh, Mrs. Van Dorn! I hope you know what all this has been to me, what it will be in the years to come."
They were parent and child, but they had to begin life over, a new life to her. His way was settled. Would hers have to yield?
The future seemed to hold problems no less serious than those which had confronted her in the past. But there had been some way provided for each difficulty thus far, as we have seen, and how the brave girl made good use of what her schooldays had done for her can at some time in the future be learned by reading "Helen Grant's Friends."
THE END
Transcriber's note:
In the List of Illustrations there is reference to an ilustration on page 235. It could not be found, and the information is placed here.
| They were winding round into Elm Avenue, with great bunches of wild flowers and bright leaves | 235 |