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 | CHAPTER V.
COMPANION. Work |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
COMPANION.
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
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
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.
“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 half-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
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
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
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,
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
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
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 my
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
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
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; you 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
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
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
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
sends it, and she tried to have it dainty and beautiful
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
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
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
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.
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
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.
| CHAPTER V.
COMPANION. Work | |