CHAPTER VI.
THE PASTOR'S STUDY.
THE evening of the same day found them seated in the small, cosey study of the parsonage.
Mr. Knowles, a white-haired man with a peculiarly mild, benign countenance, sat near the window, his silver locks illumined with the last rays of the setting sun.
At his feet Helen had seated herself on an ottoman. From her expressive features the haughty defiance had vanished. For the nonce she was a humble child. Her eyelashes were heavy with unshed tears, not bitter ones, for they had been talking of her father. And these precious memories softened and soothed her poor, torn heart.
Opposite them sat Frank and the cheerful companion of the clergyman. They were conversing in animated tones of college life and college duties, while Sybil, an unmarried daughter, moved in and out in the preparation of the simple evening meal.
"Come, father," she said, at length, "supper is on the table. And if you wish your pet Helen to enjoy Jane's waffles, you must come while they are hot."
A few words entreating a blessing on the food were spoken by the pastor before they were seated. Frank, whose eyes happened to turn toward his sister, was astonished to see her face quivering with emotion. This had passed, however, without notice. And during the meal, he had never remembered to have seen her more cheerful, fascinating all present by her life-like, piquant descriptions of scenes through which she had passed.
"Bring the Bible and Psalm book, Sybil," said the good man, when all had eaten, and were full. "Our friends will love to join us in our evening devotions."
Helen sprang from the table, and passed him the books.
"You always used to let me do it," she exclaimed, playfully.
She seated herself close to his elbow, opening the book at the place where the mark was inserted, and then putting her hand lovingly through his arm.
Occasionally, through the reading, Frank saw her give the arm a loving squeeze. And once the impulsive girl pressed her lips warmly on the wrinkled hand, when the silver-haired man turned upon her a glance so full of tenderness, that the watcher saw she could scarcely preserve her composure.
Indeed, when the few verses of evening praise had been sung, and the pastor poured out his earnest petitions for the friends present to unite in the service, she was wholly overcome, so that her sobs became quite audible.
No sooner had they risen from their kneeling posture, than she darted from the room.
"Oh! Oh!" she faltered, when Sybil followed, and tried to soothe her. "Oh, if I lived here, I might become good. I do love prayers from real Christian men. But now I'm bad,—all bad!"
It was quite late before the pastor would allow his visitors to leave. And then he followed them to the gate, bidding them return in the morning, as he had much to say. He passed his hand lovingly over Helen's abundant tresses, before he allowed his wife to take the young girl to her heart for a good-night kiss.
"She is overflowing with affection," he said, when with Sybil they had turned back to the house.
"Something has changed her," dryly remarked the practical Sybil. "I haven't yet made up my mind whether the change is for the better or for the worse."
Nurse Johnson had lived in the family of Mrs. Edmond's mother. She had followed the young wife to Woodbine Cottage, and been an early friend to Frank and Helen. In her sixtieth year, her kind master fitted up a small house formerly used by the gardener, and gave her a life-lease of it. It was a terrible trial to her when the old home was broken up, and her children, as she fondly called them, moved away. Eyes less sharp than hers would have discovered a change in the once lively Helen. It is not strange, therefore, that her love for her youthful mistress led the affectionate woman to wonder what had occurred during the few months since her master's decease.
"Here is your room," she said, leading the way to a tiny chamber under the eaves, "and Frank's is close by. Everything is sweet and clean, so you wont mind for once that it is small."
"No, indeed, nurse, I shall not mind anything, now I am where people love me for myself. I can lie here in the morning, and smell the fragrant honeysuckle, and hear the birds warbling their pleasant songs. Carry out the light, nurse, and let me see the trees waving in the moonlight, What pretty shadows the leaves make on the floor. Nurse, I call this a paradise, and I would like to live here always."
She threw her arms around the neck of her old friend, and sobbed quietly to herself.
"I knew ye weren't quite happy, darling. Ye couldn't deceive yer old nurse, with all yer smiles and gay tones. I seed right through inter yer heart; and when yer was out walking with yer brother, says I to myself, 'My pet isn't sitiwated as she oughter be, her eyes don't dance permiscuous as they used to do; and I can hear a plaint of sadness through her laugh.' Now sit down on yer bed, darling, and tell yer old nurse all about it."
For one instant Helen was tempted to yield and unburden her heart of its load. But a moment's reflection convinced her that her partial friend would be a most injudicious confident. Nurse would be sure to espouse her views, right or wrong; to endorse her own conduct, to hate whoever she fancied had injured one she loved, and thus be incapable of giving any good advice.
Still she would not wound the feelings of a friend so devoted, by refusing to place confidence in her, and therefore answered cautiously:
"It has been hard for me, nurse, to live with strangers, and I miss dear papa every hour in the day."
"That's it, pet; that's just what it is. You're grieving yourself to death, and that's wrong. The good Lord has took him home, and if yer try to do right, and love the dear Saviour, he'll call yer in his own good time. Now go to bed, and to-morrow ye 'll look more like yerself."
Exhausted by the various emotions of the day, our heroine was soon buried in a profound slumber, from which she did not arouse until the sun was high in the heavens. She started from her couch, and began to dress in great haste, only stopping occasionally to listen to the carolling of the redbreasts, or the familiar sounds from the farmyard.
The house was so small it was easy to hear every word spoken. And Helen, as she hurriedly twisted her abundant hair into a heavy coil, and hid it under a net, could distinctly follow the conversation taking place on the open porch beneath her window.
"I wish she had never left here," Frank was saying. "I'm afraid her health will be seriously affected. Mr. Knowles would have known exactly how to deal with her."
"What hinders her from coming back now? Miss Sybil would be delighted to have her there, and I've heard say that Mr. Frederic is coming home from his travels before long. He could tutor her just as he used to."
The listener held her breath. She could not afford to lose one word now. How changed she was. There was an air of softness about her, while her usually pale cheeks were of the richest crimson. What a pity there was nobody but the birds to see her.
A little maiden from a neighboring cottage came sauntering up to the door at this moment, to bring some eggs fresh laid, and Frank, impatient at his sister's late appearance, ran gayly up the steep stairs to call her, just as she was saying to herself, with clasped hands:
"Oh, what a happiness that would be!"
CHAPTER VII.
THE FEIGNED AND THE REAL.
ON reaching the parsonage, Sybil announced that her father had been called away to the bedside of an aged parishioner. Helen and her brother resolved, therefore, to improve the time of his absence by calling on some of their old protégés.
Every where they met with the most cordial welcome. But in one poor hut lay an old woman, bedridden and almost blind, who could not find words to express her joy and gratitude at having her dear friends once more under her roof.
"I told my heavenly Father," she said at length, "that I wanted to hear your voices once more. There's the Testament, Miss Helen, just where it used to be, on the shelf. If you'd read a few verses of the good Word, and yer brother 'd say a prayer, as yer father used to, I'd be more than content."
During the whole morning the young girl had been quite her former self. But now, as she took the Bible to gratify the old woman's request, Frank saw large drops running down her cheeks.
Her voice quivered a little as she asked:
"Where shall I read, Mrs. Barnes?" But then turning to the place indicated, the fourteenth chapter of St. John, she read in a tolerably calm voice, that, and the three succeeding chapters.
"It's like heaven, Miss," faltered the poor sufferer. "It's like hearing His voice calling to my poor heart, 'Father, I will that they also whom thou hast given me be with me where I am, that they may behold my glory which thou hast given me.' Think of that, Miss Helen, 'his glory'! When you pray, Mister Frank, ask Him to give me patience to wait his call."
After leaving the hut, they were hurrying back to the parsonage, when they met Mr. Knowles.
He saluted them with fatherly tenderness, taking Helen's hand and tucking it under his arm. But his face had a worn, anxious expression which did not escape their notice.
"Is the sick man very bad?" inquired Helen.
"All is well with him, my dear. His victory over death is complete through our Lord Jesus Christ. It was a privilege to see him die. More than ever my prayer is, 'Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his.'"
Helen's lips quivered, as she murmured:
"It scarcely seemed like dying when papa went home."
"You are right, my child, to call it home. It shows me you are looking forward to heaven as your own abode."
"No, I am not! I dare not!" passionately exclaimed the young girl, with a burst of tears. "In order to go to heaven, I must forgive, and I cannot do that. You would not love me at all if you knew how bad I have grown."
"I shall never cease to love you, my poor child. But who has so deeply offended you that you cannot forgive? It is very unlike you, Helen, to feel so."
"Mr. Knowles, if you had been our guardian, all would have been prevented."
"Yes, sir," urged Frank, "we are dissatisfied, certainly Helen is, with Mr. Tracy. Would it be possible for us to request his resignation, and for you to assume the charge?"
The clergyman gave a searching look in the young man's face, but did not speak for several minutes, walking on slowly, gazing upon the ground. Then he answered:
"I must inquire into this. You shall tell me all about it at another time. Now I have a letter to write in answer to one I have just taken from the office. And by the way, Helen, did you ever meet a young girl in the city named Sarah Barrows?"
Helen started, the color flashing into her face.
"Yes, indeed, sir, I have seen her at Mr. Tracy's. I pity her with all my heart."
"She writes me she is in great trouble. But you may read the letter for yourself. It will enlist your sympathies in her behalf."
The epistle was as follows:
"REVEREND MR. KNOWLES:
"KIND PASTOR AND FRIEND: Excuse me for intruding once more on your
time. But I am in sore distress, and know not another friend to whom I
can appeal. My mother is very feeble; she cannot sit up an hour and the
pain in her back is incessant.
"Of course the care of her occupies much of my time. But by sewing late
into the night, I might be able to earn sufficient to pay our rent and
buy enough to keep us alive, were it not for the carelessness of the
rich about paying for work."
"At this very time I am threatened with being turned out of my room
into the street, which I feel sure would cause my dear mother's death,
because Mr. T—, one of the richest men in the city, will not pay me 'my
just dues.' I have done embroidery for his wife, and she always screws
me down to the lowest rates, but instead of paying promptly, as she
promised, and which I told her was absolutely necessary in order to
keep us from starving, she puts it off from time to time on the paltry
plea that she can not get the money from her husband.
"This morning, after a visit from my landlady, I resolved to go
directly to his office. Nothing but my extreme necessity would have
given me courage enough to do so. I was shown into his counting-room
where there were two or three gentlemen. And when he asked my business,
supposing I was a book-agent, I told him my sad story, and begged him
by the love he professed for his Saviour, to pay me my just debt.
"He expressed the greatest surprise: said he had never heard of me
before: apologized repeatedly for the inconvenience caused by the
mistake, and asked me to follow him to the desk, where I should be paid
with interest.
"I did so with a light heart; but what was my terror when I found he
was conducting me to the door. And when beyond the hearing of any one,
he abused me in the vilest language, threatening me with imprisonment
if I ever dared show my face in his office again.
"Now, dear sir, for the want of thirty dollars, justly earned, I must
leave my shelter, see my poor mother die in the street, and be left a
helpless orphan to end my days,—where? I do try to forgive my enemies,
but it is very hard to do so.
"Your miserable friend,
"SARAH BARROWS."
"Yes, Mr. Knowles, that's all true," exclaimed Helen, thrusting the open letter back into the gentleman's hand, with an unnatural laugh. "That's the kind of piety that prevails in the family of my revered guardian. I happened to overhear him talking to Sarah once in the hall. And if I had not run after her and emptied the contents of my purse into her hand, I think she would never have come to this last trial, she would have starved to death.
"Ah, yes!" added Helen with crimson cheeks, and eyes fairly blazing with indignation. "And when the poor couple were found dead in their beds, and the jury had pronounced a verdict of 'Death from Starvation,' what an eloquent plea Monson P. Tracy would have made for the poor in our garrets. How touchingly he would have described their destitution and want, their struggles and sufferings, before they would yield to vice, or death. What a prominent place would be secured for his speech in the journals, with the ostentatious heading:
"'MONSON P. TRACY'S PLEA FOR OUR POOR CITIZENS.'
"'Monson P. Tracy's offer to head a paper for our respectable poor,
with a subscription of five hundred dollars.'
"Yes, I understand all about it."
"Helen, Sis," plead her brother, after gazing at her with mingled wonder and alarm. "Don't look so. I don't know you. Think of dear father."
"No, I dare not think of anything so sweet and precious. Poor Sarah's wants must be relieved." She pulled out her netted purse, her face growing every moment more hard and defiant, and impulsively tore open a roll of bills. Then, with a groan of regret, exclaimed, "I have only twenty-six dollars, and thirty are needed at once."
"Give me the address," urged Frank, "and I will forward the money by this morning's express. Fifty dollars will not be too much, and fortunately I have some bank notes with me."
"Come with me, my poor child," urged the pastor, taking Helen's hand, as with a face from which all the color had vanished, she stood gazing after her brother's retreating form. "Come with me. I must inquire into this."
CHAPTER VIII.
THE SUBSCRIPTION PAPER.
SIX months have passed since the events related in the last chapter. After a week's holiday, the brother and sister returned to the city, where the student intended to pass the remainder of his vacation.
Soon after their arrival, Helen renewed her lessons both in music and drawing, devoting herself to her practice with a zeal which threatened to prove an injury to her health.
Her guardian being absent on a business tour, and the time of Roswell being unusually employed in his father's store, the young wards found their residence in the city far more endurable than they had expected.
By the advice of Mr. Knowles, Frank had persuaded his sister to return to her studies, and endeavor to bear with patience the annoyances and petty trials likely to arise from the fact of living with persons so uncongenial to her taste.
That there was anything beyond such annoyances to be feared, neither Mr. Knowles nor Frank imagined. For, true to her own sense of honor, Helen had kept the secret she had overheard strictly within her own breast.
In the beginning of the autumn, just after her brother had left for College, the young girl was seized with the measles which were very prevalent at that time. In her case the disease was violent, and left her with an alarming cough which confined her to her chamber for months.
It was May before she was quite recovered, which leads us to the present time in her history.
During her convalescence she had begun to keep a journal which, once a week, she deposited with her own hands in the Post Office for her brother. From this journal I shall take the liberty to make a few extracts.
June 2: "Mrs. Barrows died last night. Poor Sarah sent me word as she
had promised, and I went to her at once. She was overcome almost as
much as if she had never expected such an event. I could say nothing
to comfort her, so I just sat and held her hand, and let my tears fall
with hers. I did wish then that I dared to remind her of the Saviour's
love and pity. I would have given anything if I had been worthy to
kneel by that couch, and commit the afflicted girl to the care of One
mighty to give consolation. But as I knew I had no right, I sat still,
and shed some tears for myself as well as for her. By and by the woman
for whom she had sent, came to make arrangements for the funeral, and I
took my leave.
"As I had promised to procure what mourning was necessary, I went into
a dry-goods store for that purpose. While I was hesitating between
goods that suited my taste and such as suited the length of my purse,
(my guardian keeping me rather short of late), the owner of the store,
Mr. McKinstry, came by and spoke to me.
"'I hope that mourning is not for yourself, Miss Edmond,' he said.
"'No, sir. It's for a poor seamstress, named Sarah Barrows.'
"'I have heard that name before,' he answered, trying to call to his
recollection where he had heard it. 'Has she a sick mother?'
"'Yes, sir; it is she who is dead.'
"'And is Sarah left entirely destitute?'
"'Yes, sir, and very feeble in consequence of her devotion to her
mother. I wish something might be done to aid her. She is very worthy.'
"I said this more to myself than to him; but he responded at once:
"'I was greatly interested in her appearance on the only occasion I
ever met her; and if you will start a subscription paper, I will give
twenty-five dollars.'
"I was going to thank him, but just then he was called away. Now I
shall do as he suggested, and call on him to-morrow to head the list. I
am very happy about this, and very hopeful too. You used to say I could
make people do just what I wished; and I mean to exert all my talents
in this good cause. Perhaps I shall get enough to support Sarah a year
at school. It is the height of her ambition to be a school teacher;
and I have heard her say that after one year of review and close
application she would dare venture."
June 6. "I tried to write last evening after the funeral, but so much
had happened I was too much excited. I called on Mr. McKinstry twice.
But he was out, so I had to head my list with some other name. I found
the gentlemen very good-natured and generous, listening patiently to
my story about Sarah and never offering me less than ten dollars.
Yesterday morning I had seventy-five toward the three hundred that I
consider necessary for a year's schooling, and went to Mr. McKinstry
again for his twenty-five, feeling quite rich at the thought that with
that, one third had been raised with so little trouble.
"The good man was looking over the names while he asked me questions
about Sarah; for he had taken a lively interest in her, and at last I
grew quite confidential.
"Now I have come to a part where I fear, Frank, you will blame me; and
I must confess my own conscience pricks me a little. I was saying,
'If I can't make up all the sum, I must contrive to collect a debt of
thirty dollars owing her.'
"'Certainly you must. But, Miss Edmond, you have omitted your
guardian's name. Has he not given you something?'
"'I have not asked him.'
"Then you must, without delay. It was at his store I met your protégé;
and her modesty and grace of manner greatly prepossessed me in her
favor.'
"'What was her errand?' I asked, feeling my face burn with shame.
"'To collect a bill which Mrs. Tracy had overlooked, and which he
paid at once. I remember he spoke of the girl after he came back with
the receipt, and said he could not forgive himself for her apparent
distress; or rather, he expressed deep regret that he had never heard
of her before. He remarked that he should not soon forget her.'
"I could not sit still and hear this. I started to my feet, and I have
no doubt I looked like a fury, as you say I do when I'm angry.
"'Did you imagine Mr. Tracy followed poor Sarah from the room to pay
her?' I asked.
"'Of course I did.'
"'But, Mr. McKinstry, he did not. He knew well of her distress, and
was annoyed at her continuing to urge the bill upon his wife, which
her mother's sickness obliged her to do. I heard him abuse her, and
threaten never to give her a dollar if she was so impertinent. She
should wait, he said, till it pleased him to pay it. When she humbly
urged that she had done the work under price, because her need was so
great, and represented their starving condition, he actually shut the
door in her face. I believe she was starving then.'
"'Can this be true?' he asked, gazing in my face as if he would read me
through.
"'Yes, sir, every word of it. I ran out by the servants' door, and gave
her what change I had in my purse, and that was how our acquaintance
began.'
"'Are you sure he did not pay the bill on the day she called?'
"I then told him about Sarah's letter to Mr. Knowles, and that you had
sent her the money to keep her from being turned into the street. I
told him, too, that I referred to the same bill when I mentioned that
some one owed her thirty dollars.
"'This is a terrible revelation,' he said, very sternly. 'I wish I
might believe you are yourself deceived.'
"'I wish so myself; with all my heart,' I exclaimed, sobbing. 'For if I
were, so many things would be different.'
"'Give me that paper a minute,' he said, presently.
"And then I was all alone in his counting-room, perched up on the
high stool where I had seated myself. Don't think me very silly and
childish, for I couldn't help it. When I thought how many people one
selfish man can make unhappy, my self-control gave way. And when Mr.
McKinstry came back, he found me leaning on his desk, and crying all
over his papers like a great baby. I laughed, though, when he showed me
the addition of four names to my paper, over a sum of sixty dollars,
making more than half of all I want.
"Before I came away, he tried to make me promise to present the paper
to Mr. Tracy, but I would not. And he said:
"'Then I shall do it myself. If he does not pay his debts, the law
shall make him.'
"You can imagine after this, how I felt when, at the usual hour, Mr.
Tracy read the Bible, and prayed for the poor and afflicted, the sick
and dying, etc., etc. I never before realized so fully the truth of the
inspired words: 'Behold, the hire of the laborers * * * which is of you
kept back by fraud, crieth; and the cries * * * are entered into the
ears of the Lord of Sabaoth.'"
July 17. "I have long felt that a crisis in my life was approaching.
I have several times met Monson P. Tracy's eyes fixed on me with a
strange expression. It is impossible to describe it,—not hate, nor
contempt, nor curiosity, but a mingling of all these emotions. I
imagine he has ascertained that I do not worship him, and perhaps
thinks I have taken a peep under the cloak of piety which he wraps so
closely about him.
"There is another reason why a longer residence here is undesirable;
'intolerable,' is the better word. Roswell persists, in spite of all
my coldness, in paying me marked attention. He does this especially in
public, and evidently means to give the impression that some engagement
exists between us.
"How I am chafed and fretted by all this, you can easily imagine.
Sometimes for a few minutes I do try to follow dear Mr. Knowles'
advice, and subdue all my hard thoughts. Sometimes I can pray for the
charity which 'endureth all things, which thinketh no evil,' but I
suppose there is too much iniquity in my heart for my prayers to be
heard."
July 25. "Oh, Frank! How I wish you were here this minute. If you do
not come soon, I shall leave by myself. Something has just happened
which has made me very angry. I was sitting in my room with the door
ajar on account of the heat, when I heard a familiar voice at the front
entrance inquiring for me. I flew to the mirror to brush my hair, and
then stood impatiently waiting for the servant to summon me, when I
heard the outer door shut, and, running to the window I saw, who do you
guess? Your old friend, Frederic Knowles, walking slowly up the street.
I rushed down stairs with so much haste, that I almost fell into the
arms of Mr. Tracy, who was taking a card from the hands of the servant
girl.
"'Why was I not called to receive my visitor?' I asked, angrily enough.
"'Mr. Tracy told me you were not in,' the girl answered, innocently.
"I repeated my question, turning to him.
"He dismissed the servant, and walked into the parlor without
answering. Then he said coolly:
"'I am your guardian, and wish to know the character of gentlemen who
call, before I allow you to receive their visits.'
"I confess I was too angry to articulate one word. Oh, how I longed to
tell him all I thought of his conduct. I am thankful now that I was
restrained from doing so, though I cannot keep back the tears when
I recollect my disappointment. Why am I not twenty-one instead of
seventeen? Or, why was not Mr. Knowles appointed my guardian instead of
Monson P. Tracy? I have no doubt he has learned of my interview with
Mr. McKinstry, and is intending to punish me. But is not a guardian's
authority limited? How sadly our dear papa mistook the character of the
man he selected for us."
CHAPTER IX.
THE PROFESSOR'S DEFEAT.
THE crisis which Helen had predicted was reached on the very evening before Frank's arrival from college for the summer vacation. Roswell Tracy made proposals of marriage to his father's ward. His proposals were indignantly rejected. Hereupon Mr. Tracy interposed, and represented the immense benefits which would accrue to Helen and her brother, were the two families to be united by wedlock.
The young lady bit her lips till the blood came, trying to keep silent. But when her guardian went on to urge her compliance, by describing the deep affection of his son, she found it impossible longer to restrain herself.
"Mr. Tracy," she began, "no arguments you can use will change my determination. I despise the character of your son. He cares nothing for me, as you are well aware. His aim is to become possessed of the fortune my dear papa left me. Impossible, do you say? Then I am forced to remind you of a conversation which took place between you and him in this very room nearly a year ago, when you, Monson P. Tracy, recommended me as a favorable match to your son; and when he, after bestowing on me various epithets of contempt, was only persuaded into the plot by your representations of the size of my fortune."
While she spoke, the excited girl stood opposite her horror-stricken companion, her head haughtily thrown back, her eyes blazing with defiance, until he really quailed before her.
"No wonder you blush," she exclaimed, noticing a deep flush on his cheeks. "You, whom my father raised from poverty: You whom he trusted with all that he most valued on earth. I have often blushed for you when I have heard you speak his name.
"I have done more for you than you deserve, for I have never repeated to any one, the precious conversation which I accidentally overheard. What I shall do in the future I cannot say. My only desire now is to leave the city. Before the usual time for resuming my studies, a mutual agreement must be entered into as to my place of residence."
To say that the merchant was astonished by his ward's haughty defiance of his wishes, would but feebly express the emotions which surged through his mind as she, a young girl of seventeen summers, expressed her sentiments without reserve concerning him and the plans he had made for her future. He acknowledged to himself that for the time she had conquered; but with an oath, he bound himself to revenge her insult. He doubted her truthfulness when she said she had never repeated the conversation she had overheard, for he judged her conduct by his own, and could scarcely conceive of a sense of honor strong enough to prevent her from publishing such an event to the disadvantage of one she disliked.
"Yes," he soliloquized, as she with a contemptuous bow swept from the room, "yes, I have been too squeamish with regard to her property. I will invest those outlying bonds to-morrow."
A few hours later, when Frank reached the city, he found his sister quite calm. The catastrophe she had dreaded for months had taken place. The necessity for a change of residence had been made apparent. Roswell's impertinent advances had received a check, and now she could go forth in peace.
"Where shall we go?" asked Frank, seriously.
"Home to Woodbine Cottage, if the tenants can be persuaded to give up the lease. I would leave to-night were it possible. But as it is not, you must come with me while I bid good-by to my teachers and the few friends I shall leave behind."
"So be it. But as I am within a few months of my majority, I must have an interview with Mr. Tracy before I leave."
"You can do that while I pack my trunks."
A week later found our young friends once more the inmates of Nurse Johnson's cottage. Their kind friend, Mr. Knowles, had undertaken to negotiate with the tenants and endeavor to induce them to relinquish their lease nine months before its legal termination.
In the meantime, they had received a hearty welcome to the parsonage whenever they wished to be there. But as Frederic, the youngest son, the Benjamin of the pastor's old age, was now at home, Helen shrank from the invitation to take up her abode there, pleasant as on some accounts, it would have been.
This young man, after graduating at Yale College, had passed two years in Germany studying theology, and had now come to spend his last year with his father, writing sermons and laboring among his father's flock.
In some respects the young theologue differed from most students. He did not imagine that by secluding himself from his fellows and studying the musty folios found in the library of his alma mater, he could most effectually fit himself to work upon the minds of men. He considered that after the study of God's word, the most effective "study of mankind is man." And that in order to address men most successfully, a pastor must interest himself in whatever concerns his people, must visit them often at their homes, watch the workings of their minds under different circumstances, search out their weaknesses as well as their strength.
Mr. Frederic, as he was called by the villagers in distinction from his father, was in his twenty-eighth year, though Sybil's junior by seven summers. From a boy he had been a special favorite with Mr. Edmond, and had received many tokens of his affection. It was by the generous aid of his father's wealthy parishioner that his expenses abroad had been defrayed. Of course it was to be expected that he would feel a keen interest in everything which concerned the welfare of the children of his patron.
Sybil was by no means a match-maker, and yet, for some time, she had been forming a nice little plan by which her favorite brother was to be able to settle among them as the successor of their father, and at the same time become the possessor of a dear little wife and an ample fortune.
I do not intend to advance the idea that Sybil was mercenary. Such a charge would rouse up the whole inhabitants of Maytown in her defence. But Sybil well knew, that while the labors of a faithful pastor are great, his pay is small; that while he preaches benevolence, the scarcity of his means will not allow him the luxury of practising it. By her own experience, she well understood the petty cares and vexations which arise from the receipt of a very limited salary; and she did hope that her brother's mind would not be cramped and harassed by such cases.
It was with a view to keep alive the interest Frederic naturally felt in Frank and Helen, that this energetic woman made frequent mention of them in her letters to Germany; and was delighted to find that in his answers her brother always referred to them. But her dissatisfaction was extreme, when, on his return, he confided to her the rise and progress of an affection for an English lady he had met in Halle, the encouragement he had received from her, and at last his keen disappointment at her rejection of his proposal.
"I have lost faith in woman," he said, in a despondent tone, "and therefore I shall never marry."
"Lost fiddlestick! Pshaw, Fred! I supposed you were more of a man. Just because that flirt of a foreigner presented you the mitten, to give up in that way! I'm ashamed of you. If your first parish treat you ungratefully, do you intend to retire to a monastery, and say:
"'I shall never try another parish; I have lost faith in them'?"
"I'm afraid, after all, he isn't worthy of such a prize as my pet Helen," she soliloquized, after he had retired. "Her fresh, warm heart deserves a better return than he can give."
CHAPTER X.
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?"