CHAPTER III.
Shakspeare.
Helen had been but four-and-twenty hours returned when her mother expired in her arms; and as she slowly recovered from the immediate stupor of despair, the first sound that jarred discordantly upon her returning senses was the merry chime of the village bells summoning the rural congregation to morning-service, for it was Sunday.
The powers of sound upon the brain in awakening dormant associations, have been felt by many, independent of time or space. And even in declining life, an accidental imitation of the well-known tone of the bell that used to disturb the slumbers of the schoolboy, has recalled for a moment the remembrance of the long-forgotten hopes and fears of childhood. But the summons, which with its unwelcome jingle and ill-timed cheerfulness now grated upon Helen’s ear, was one which had never hitherto been unpleasing either to her or her mother. And the last time she had heard it—it seemed but yesterday—how different had been her feelings! In the sameness of their tranquil life, the return of the Sunday had always furnished the principal event, and the consequent periodical return of Mrs. Mordaunt’s walk to the parish-church had for some time been the extent of her rambles beyond her own garden. Upon these occasions the severe simplicity, though studied neatness of Mrs. Mordaunt’s attire, had added to the impression created by her striking though no longer blooming figure. And now Helen recalled with an astonishing accuracy the whole of her appearance, dress, and deportment, the last time that they had together started to obey that summons to church. She recollected too, and it was consolatory to her in her present state, the increased cheerfulness with which her mother always returned from thence; but it occurred to her, with some slight sensation of reproach, that she had not then been warned by the first symptom of bodily weakness shown by her mother, in requiring the assistance of her arm on their walk homewards the day before she had last left her on her visit to Lady Latimer.
Still that distractingly cheerful sound continued, and with the desperation with which one sometimes turns one’s attention to that which is painful, Helen half opened the window-shutters. It was a bright autumnal morning. At the distance of the garden she could see, on one side, small parties of the peasantry, all in their gayest clothing, and hearts as gay, hastening towards their morning duty, but opposite her own little gate, there was a still, and apparently increasing group, and all, as they passed, paused a minute, as it were, listening on the skirts of this group, and then, as they resumed their way, it was easy to observe in the awkward gait of all, and in the unfolded handkerchief of many of the women, that they had just heard heavy news. For Mrs. Mordaunt had been the best of neighbours to the poor, her charity had been, not only of the hand, but of the heart, and there are few so ignorant as not to appreciate the distinction.
From this melancholy sight, Helen turned inwardly to the consolation that she thought she might derive from the good offices of Mr. Saunders, the respectable clergyman, whose influence on his parishioners had only been commensurate to his merit. She mentioned this to Dorothy, with the desire that she might see him after the duties of the day were concluded.
“Aye, I thought of the same thing myself,” said Dorothy, “how fashous it was, and how disappointed you’d be when you heard it; why, he’s removed too—no, not dead,” seeing Helen much shocked,—“he’s gotten a better benefice, that’s all, and I don’t believe there’s fifty pound a-year difference, neither; and it was na like him, to leave us all for that, and go among strangers, and here I’m certain there are those who would have made up the difference to keep him—and now we’ve gotten a beardless boy, that drived himself down in a dog-cart, and that I should guess, had to learn more than to teach. He’s civil enough too, for when one of his sporting dogs, nasty brute, strayed into our grounds and destroyed one of your carnation-beds, and my poor mistress was sorely grieved, for she’d cared it every day for your return, and I went to give him a piece of my mind about it, instead of flying out too, he was so sorry, I couldn’t say half as much as I meant to have done, and he bid me say he’d rather hang all the dogs he had, than it should happen again. But he’s ow’r young for his business, that’s certain, and I’m thinking that you’d not like to speak to him yourself; but if you’d leave all to me, to settle about my poor lady’s last”——Here even Dorothy’s tough nature yielded to her better feelings, and her grief choked her.
“No, I’ll go through it all myself, if I can,” said Helen.
The Hon. and Rev. Henry Seaford called the next morning, to ask the intentions of the orphan girl as to the funeral of her parent, and Helen forced herself to see him. He was a raw youth just from college, but apparently with the manners of a gentleman, and the feelings of an honest man; very much embarrassed, however, at the distressing situation into which the duties of his new profession had brought him, but probably with nothing but his youth and inexperience, (of which he would soon be cured,) to prevent his adequately fulfilling them. Such as he was, though Helen felt at once that it was impossible for her to ask or expect any advice from him, on the difficulties of her present situation, which were most seriously aggravated by the removal of her old friend, Mr. Saunders, who would, at such a moment, have been an invaluable monitor. But, after she had in some measure, recovered from the effects of the harrowing sight of watching the earth close over the remains of her only acknowledged relation, she felt that it was then for her to decide something as to her future fate.
Whichever way she turned, the prospect seemed gloomy enough; one thing she had firmly resolved, that after Oakley’s insulting and offensive allusion to the terms and nature of the provision he had made for her, she would no longer live a dependent upon his bounty; and this she determined to decide irrevocably, as she knew the weakness of her heart, whilst she found it attempting to frame excuses for his conduct, in the excitement, perhaps jealousy of the moment. “No,” thought she, “if he heard the case as of an indifferent person, how base would he think her, who, under such circumstances, after such an injury, could consent to continue receiving the offender’s stipend?” And thus unconsciously she confirmed her own fears as to the weakness of her heart, by allowing her notions of his opinions to influence her conduct, even in rejecting his assistance.
What was therefore to be done? Sometimes her thoughts turned to Lady Latimer, but her proud spirit could not bear the idea of a life of useless dependence; and then, too, though from Lady Latimer she felt sure she should always receive the most considerate attentions which friendship could offer, yet, even if she had been ready to accept from her substantial assistance, when she recollected, in spite of that lady’s brilliant position in the world, how little command of ready money she ever had, she doubted very much whether, without inconvenience, she could supply her to the extent that would be necessary to maintain her as her companion in the world.
This plan, therefore, appeared as impracticable in itself, as unpalatable to her feelings; and as any communication to Lady Latimer would not only probably lead to a proposal of this kind, which she could not accept, but also entail confidences which she would rather avoid, she determined, for the present, to drop any correspondence with her.
She would have found in the old governess, with whom she had first met Lady Latimer, a ready confidant, and a useful assistant in any scheme she might wish to adopt, to make her talents available for her support, but unfortunately, during her absence from home, she, and Lady Latimer, had together regretted the not untimely death of that worthy person.
Having taken the resolution that the best way to rid herself of Oakley’s annuity, would be silently to omit to claim it at the bankers where it was deposited, as her feelings told her, that ostentatiously to reject it, would lead to attempts to alter her determination which might harass, but, she thought, could not convince her. She therefore, both as the necessary consequence towards avoiding any attempts of that kind, and, indeed, as the only way of procuring immediate means of subsistence, determined to let her present residence and leave it.
It was necessary to communicate this intention to old Dorothy, though she had not consulted her upon the reasons which had induced her to form it. For Dorothy’s was a character which was estimable, only for the perfection of one virtue—fidelity. Hers was not a disposition to conciliate confidence, or to render her services, when not necessary, particularly acceptable. But now that Helen was about to leave all the associations of her childhood, old Dorothy had in her eyes a peculiar value:—she was the only living thing, that could remind her of her mother, and with whom she could have the melancholy pleasure of talking of her that was gone. But besides this, her active services would be useful in disposing of the house, and wherever she afterwards went, till finally settled as governess in some family, (which was her intention,) the presence of a person of Dorothy’s age and appearance, would be a necessary protection to one so young and unguarded.
“You don’t know, perhaps, Dorothy, how completely a beggar I am left. I have no money, or any means of raising any, except by letting this house.”
“Letting this house! and would you think to turn me, in my old days, out of the snug chimney-corner, where I have sat these eighteen years?” answered Dorothy, her first impression partaking rather of the selfishness of age.
“It is no fault of mine, if I am forced to seek a livelihood elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere! and whither would you go, Miss, now you are your own mistress?”
“To London, in the first instance,” said Helen.
“To London!” screamed Dorothy, “with such a face, and in want too, and let poverty and passion fight which first should ruin you? No, never, if I can prevent it by fair means or foul!”
“My conduct will be neither dependent on place or circumstances,” said Helen, rather proudly; for she thought that her ancient attendant rather presumed upon her present situation to give vent to her ill-humour.
“Would I could think it, seeing what I’ve seen of you and your’n. Well, may peace be restored to those that are gone, and never lost by those that are left!” and her forbidding features were softened by an unusual fervency of expression.
Helen was struck with the apparent confirmation of some dreadful secret hanging over her own birth, and her mother’s conduct, which these words seemed to imply, and feared lest the continuation of what Dorothy was evidently preparing to address to her should furnish further proof.
But Dorothy’s thoughts had taken another turn, for she began again. “No, I’m clear determined you shall not leave this house if I can help it. I have not been forty years in service without putting by a penny. You never was a fanciful child: your wants are not hard to tell. You just let me market as I have done, and ask no questions about it; and, on your part, you’ll just let me end my days in the old kitchen chimney-corner, which is just the warmest I ever kenned.”
Helen was much touched by this proposal, which was both essentially kinder than she could have expected from Dorothy, and in its framing more delicate than the old woman’s habitual want of manners would have led her to expect; but as, of all species of dependence, it was the least inviting, she was as firm in declining it as profuse in her thanks.
The old woman paused a little, and then, as if armed with sudden resolution, said, “Then I shall just write mysel’ to some of your great kin, what claims I know you have upon them.”
“How do you mean?” said Helen, with a consciousness that some great disclosure was in Dorothy’s contemplation, unwilling to check her, and yet afraid to hear it.
“Why should I fear to tell it? It canna hurt her now; she that has done her best to atone to a Heavenly Father canna fear a frail daughter’s forgiveness; and as for you, it was no fault of yours—why should you care that you came into the world with shame, so as you can but go shameless out of it?”
She then gradually unfolded to Helen the history of Mrs. Mordaunt’s frailty, such as that lady had herself confessed it to Oakley, only that Dorothy told it in her own way, and much less favourably to Lord Rockington.
“And wasn’t it enough to sicken one of vanities, to see what she might have been and what she was? But it was na only by her that I learnt the curse of comeliness. I felt it nearer home—not myself, no—Heaven be praised there never was aught about me to catch a leering eye. But I had once a sister, a gentle, light-haired, blue-eyed girl, with a skin like a lady’s. When she left our home for London, she carried with her the sighs of many a stout heart; but she soon forgot them and us, and never wrote more. It was some years after, when I was in my first service in London, I was sent an errand of a moon-shiny night; at the corner of a street, a half-frantic, tipsy creature seized me with horrid loathsome oaths. I turned to free myself. It was my sister Sarah sure enough: but she had no beauty left to boast. No, she had cured herself of that; and, ever since, I can never bring her to my mind, save as I saw her on that awful night. That would have sickened one of good looks; but then, my poor lady, you have seen what a jewel her soul would have been if Providence would only have set it in an ugly case. When I first knew her, she sacrificed every thing to the vain love of her own sweet person; sure she had more temptation than most folk, but it is sad to think of her as of the fallen!”
So thought poor Helen; but though there was much in old Dorothy’s relation most painfully interesting, there was nothing that did not rather tend to confirm her in her previous determination to depend upon her own exertions alone for subsistence, rather than run the risk of spreading the disgraceful tale by seeking relief at the expense of reposing confidence.
It required no small powers of persuasion to convince Dorothy that this was a desirable course to adopt. But when, by a display of firmness on her own part, she had made it obvious even to the obstinate old woman, that there was no longer any use in contesting the point;—
“Well then,” said Dorothy, “I must e’en trundle off with you, for I have now no other care in this world than to keep you out of harm’s way if I can.”
The house, through her means, was easily let, furnished, to Mr. Seaford, who preferred it to his own, in which he intended to establish a curate; and the half year’s anticipation of the moderate annual rent of fifty pounds was almost all with which Helen tore herself away from the scenes of her youth.
Upon the journey, and still more upon their arrival in London, she suffered many additional inconveniences, to which she found the asperities of Dorothy’s disposition would constantly subject her. For though it was good feeling which had induced the old woman to determine to follow her young mistress, yet her temper was not improved by the discomforts to which this determination necessarily exposed her. She would, as it appears, have been very ready herself to furnish the means which might have enabled Helen still to live in her own house; but that proposal once rejected, she was not over scrupulous in the demands which her selfish wants made upon the slender purse of her young mistress.
It had been Helen’s intention, at first, to endeavour to procure some situation as governess in a good family, for which her accomplishments peculiarly fitted her. But now she found the difficulty of presenting herself any where without recommendation or introduction; and how was she to procure these, without applying to some one who would disclose her actual situation? She therefore determined, for the present, to take a quiet lodging in a respectable part of the town, and support herself by the disposal of fancy-work for some of the bazaars. And it was soon obvious to her, that she must exert herself to the utmost in this line, as, after Dorothy had indignantly rejected several lodgings as uncomfortable, with which she would herself have been very well contented, she was at last obliged to pacify that difficult person by taking one which she herself disliked, and for which she paid a guinea a-week; something more than what she was receiving for the house she had forced herself to quit.