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_ 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.
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
halt-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 rny 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 beads 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. _
Read next: CHAPTER VI. SEAMSTRESS
Read previous: CHAPTER IV. GOVERNESS
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