XCEPT in a sorrowful droop of his lips, which he could not always control, Clive Elsley gave no outward sign of suffering. He was a little graver than usual, perhaps, when he joined the family circle in the evening, but as ready as ever to answer all Mr. Irby's calls upon him, or converse with Milly, and help her in her studies. Trouble did not make him as selfish as he now discovered that his happiness must have done, or surely he would have seen ere this that Milly was looking as if she had outgrown her strength, while the expression of Helen Quatermaine's beautiful features was absolutely painful. He could not resist watching her, and, as she was unconscious of his scrutiny, it was not long before he detected the restless excitement under which she was labouring. Ida and Milly would laughingly comment on cousin Helen's industry, which they would declare quite put to shame their own efforts to help mamma; and Mrs. Irby, who was busy with the autumn dresses for the little ones, thanked her more than once for the help her busy fingers were giving; but neither mother nor daughters noticed how she winced when they praised her. It was only Clive who saw how nervously she started at any unusual sound; or how frequently her eyes filled with tears, and how eagerly she avoided being left alone. He no longer fancied that some bodily ailment was at the root of her haggard looks; it was too plainly a mental one, and he would have spoken to her on the subject, and invited her confidence, if he had not been forced to see that she discerned his intention, and was careful not to afford him an opportunity of carrying it out. Mrs. Irby's attention was first called to Helen by a neighbour, an agreeable elderly lady, who called to offer to take some of the young people to Bonchurch, where she owned a pretty cottage, to which, whenever she tired of inland scenery, she was in the habit of retreating for a few weeks. "I meant to ask you to let me have Milly and my god-daughter Ida, or either of the younger children. whom you think the sea breezes would benefit," Mrs. Haydon said. "But I fancy Miss Quatermaine requires change of air and scene as much as any one else. What do you say, my dear? Will you go with Milly and me to the Isle of Wight? You are fond of sketching, and I can promise you plenty of subjects for your pencil about St. Boniface Hill and the landslip." Helen's heart stood still, and she became so frightfully pale that Mrs. Irby, who the minute before had felt surprised at the comments on her appearance, started up, thinking she was about to faint. 66 "Aren't you well, my dear?" she demanded, anxiously. Why do you not tell me? How remiss I must have been not to notice it sooner." "Don't be uneasy; I am very well;" and then Helen, conscious and confused, could get no further. To-morrow Mrs. Haydon, who was noted for the rapidity of her movements, would start for the seaside; on the following morning Mr. Dunlop and his kinswoman would come to take her away. By accepting the proposal just made, she would be able to avoid the temptation, and the words "Yes, I will go with you," trembled on her lips. But they were not spoken, and, misinterpreting her hesitation, Ida eagerly pressed forward to beg that if cousin Helen did not wish to go, she might be taken. Mrs. Haydon assented willingly, observing that perhaps Miss Quatermaine would prefer to visit the island later in the season; and the moment for escape had passed by. To oblige Mrs. Irby, who wanted to make a few additions to the wardrobe of her daughters, their departure was ultimately deferred for another day, and Helen, glad to have plenty to do, occupied herself in Milly's room, helping the sisters alter some dresses they were to take with them, and trimming the coarse straw hats hastily purchased in the town. In vain did Mrs. Irby say, "My love, you are doing too much; your hands tremble, your cheeks are flushed; why not leave the rest to Miss Bent and nurse?" Helen would not hear her, for she dreaded unspeakably the solitude of her chamber; here she could forget that a few hours was all that stood between her and the flight to which Mr. Dunlop was urging her; there, not the act alone, but its probable results, would blankly face her, and make every passing minute more and more intolerable. And so she stayed, working assiduously till the pretty seaside costumes, hastily improvised for the occasion, lay ready to be donned in the morning; till Ida had grown weary of expatiating on the pleasures of the trip, and gone to rest, and Miss Bent and Mrs. Irby had thankfully followed her example. There was no excuse for remaining longer, and Helen also said her " good-night." But now Milly, with arms thrown lovingly about her neck, detained her to say a few parting words. She was not quite sure that it was right to leave mamma, especially as she seemed more worried than usual; would dear Helen try to prevent her working too hard? and promise not to let poor Clive sit alone and fret? and would she pledge herself to write very, very often, and send all the home news, however trivial? The ready assent to all these requests was rewarded with such tender kisses, that Helen abruptly extricated herself from the innocent embrace, of which she knew she was not worthy, and, muttering an evasive reply, turned away; but Milly, who had caught sight of her face, and saw that all was not right, would have followed, and inquired the cause, if she had not been repulsed with an agitated—"Not to-night, dear; you must not ask me anything tonight. To-morrow-perhaps to-morrow." a little closer, and with the familiarity of one who knew her value, asked Miss Quatermaine in low tones for directions. "The gentleman encouraged me to hope, Miss, that you'd take me with you," she added, “I wasn't a goin' to stay here, for Mrs. Irby's is a place that don't suit me, and you'll want a maid aboard ship, ma'am, and as I have been in the affair all along, and done my best for both parties——” Hannah Jones never finished her speech, for the cry that suddenly broke from Helen's lips made her Aye! but what would they say or think of her to-recoil in alarm. morrow? Hastily kissing the lips of her astonished cousin, she shut herself in her room, and turned the key in the lock. But, to her great vexation, she found that she was not alone. One of the housemaids, a young woman whom Helen had always disliked, on account of a certain pert and over-officious manner, was busying herself at the toilette-table. She looked round when Helen entered, but continued to arrange the contents of the dressing-case, and smooth out ribbons, and roll up gloves, till coldly asked if she had much more to do. "That depends on you, miss," was the startling reply, spoken with an odious smirk that made the guilty blood rush in torrents to Helen's face and neck. “I thought you'd guess what I'm stopping for. I supposed as you'd be glad for me to put a few things into a bag or a portmanty for your journey." Some minutes elapsed before Helen could command herself sufficiently to make any reply. Once or twice since her interview with Mr. Dunlop she had recalled, with a feeling of surprise, the intimate acquaintance with the domestic affairs at the Lodge which he had testified. But that he had taken a servant into his confidence-a girl, too, who was not only vulgar but insolent, a girl who was only retained at the Lodge because Mrs. Irby had discovered that she was a homeless orphan-dismayed her greatly. It robbed her meditated flight of the poor remnants of propriety with which she had tried to clothe it. The secret which had been endurable while no one was cognisant of it but one of Mr. Dunlop's kinswomen, became horribly degrading when shared with either of Mrs. Irby's domestics. While she had been wavering, unable to bring herself to consent to such a marriage, and fondly fancying that no one suspected that she had even seen Maurice Dunlop, this girl had known all. It was by her agency the letter she found on her dressingtable had been placed there; her silence and connivance had doubtless been secured by bribes, Leave me!" she was imperiously commanded. "Did you know what you were doing, when you would have helped me to wrong all who trusted me, and disobey the best, the dearest of fathers? But why do I blame you when the fault lies in my own weakness? Go and fetch Mrs. Irby. Tell her I must speak with her directly.” "Are you sure you mean me to do this?" asked the girl, who saw all her hopes of further reward vanishing. "Am I sure! How dare you question me thus ?" exclaimed Helen, haughtily, then wrung her hands and drooped her head. Did she not deserve to have her better impulses distrusted, seeing that it was only her pride that had brought them into play? "Fetch Mrs. Irby!" she said again, and this time she was obeyed. CHAPTER XXVI. FULL CONFESSION. MRS. IRBY, wondering at the summons, and still more at the embarrassment of the messenger, came directly, and would have taken Helen into her arms, for the wild looks that met her own made her fancy her young guest must have received, in some inexplicable way, ill news from India. Her astonishment became still greater when Helen retreated from her shuddering and crying. Ah, do not touch me! do not look at me so kindly! you do not know what I have been doing. Honourable have you thought me, as a soldier's daughter should be? incapable of deceit, or of meditating anything I should be ashamed to confess to the whole world? I am neither, neither!" "Hush, Helen, hush! you are surely raving!" Mrs. Irby exclaimed, in her perplexity. "No, no, I am telling you sad and sober truths. For the last week I have been living a life of such concealment and deception as I never dreamed that I could have stooped to practise! Now do you begin to understand me?" HELEN QUATERMAINE. The name of Mr. Dunlop burst from Mrs. Irby's lips, for an inkling of the truth was beginning to dawn upon her. "Yes," said Helen, drearily; "I have seen him. Do you remember telling me that you trembled at the thought of the influence he might acquire over me if we met? Save me then! save me from him and from myself!" 203 Mrs. Irby a suppliant where she should have been a judge! Ah! this was too much, and Helen struggled out of her embrace more conscience-stricken than if the severest rebukes had been heaped upon her. "Do not speak to me so kindly! she gasped. "How can I ever look up again, when every word you say makes my remorse sharper? Will papa be as generous and forgiving? Who will tell him how What is the rebellious, how treacherous, his Helen has been? See here, for three days I have carried his last letter in my pocket unopened. I dared not read it. I know that in it he calls me his loving, his obedient child, and praises me for my cheerful submission to his wishes. What will he say when he knows the truth?" "They mean that I have proved as weak, as wicked, as you foreboded; for he has entreated me to marry him, and I have not refused. In a few hours he will be here: he has planned for me to quit your house secretly, and let him take me back to India his wife. Now you know all. Thank heaven I have found courage to tell it. The burden of my secret has been almost more than I could bear!" Mrs. Irby could scarcely believe her ears. She had placed implicit confidence in the principles of her young charge, and that she could be actually pleading guilty to clandestine proceedings seemed too improbable to be credited. The proud sensitive Miss Quatermaine on the eve of a secret flight! Impossible! She sought further explanations; but Helen, who had slid down at her feet, was weeping so hysterically that she could not reply; and remembering the confused manner of the housemaid, Mrs. Irby recalled, and sternly questioned her. With some difficulty the whole truth was extorted from the sullen Hannah; and when her mistress learned beyond a doubt how she had permitted Mr. Dunlop to tamper with her, she refused to retain such a treacherous domestic in her house, and bade her prepare to quit it at dawn. When once more left alone with the sobbing Helen, her first emotions towards her were very angry ones, though she scarcely knew which of the twain was the most deserving of reprobation-he who had played the tempter, or she who had listened but too readily to his pleadings. However, Helen's deep grief and humble attitude soon evoked kindlier feelings. She had paused when at the verge of the precipice, and drawn back affrighted and repentant; and she had lost the selfconfidence that had helped to lure her there. Remembering, too, the pitiful appeal she had just uttered, Mrs. Irby knelt down beside her ward, and drew the shame-bowed head to her bosom, and as she did so, reproached herself for what had happened. "My poor child! why was I not kinder to you? Had I been more tender, more motherly, would you not have come to me, and told me how sorely you were being tried? I might have known that you were in trouble, for Clive asked me some days ago what had changed you so, but I was so absorbed in my own vexations that I neglected you. Can you forgive me for it?" She had now worked herself up to such a pitch of excitement that Mrs. Irby was seriously alarmed, and knew not how to act for the best; but forcibly raising her from the floor, she insisted that she should endeavour to control herself. "Listen to me, Helen," she said, speaking with a sternness she was far from feeling. "I will not have Mr. Irby annoyed nor my neighbours scandalised by the knowledge of what you have been meditating, and therefore you must be guided by me. I am going to take you to Milly; you shall share her bed to-night; it will be enough for her to know that you are not well, and that I do not choose to have you left alone." 'But Maurice-Mr. Dunlop!" Helen faltered. "He is so impetuous! when he finds, that I do not meet him at the appointed place, his disappointment may hurry him into some rash deed." "I do not think it will, my dear. At any rate, he does not deserve much sympathy, and I am sorry to see you distressing yourself about him. Depend upon it, if he is as truly attached to you as you imagine, he will not do anything to make you unhappy, nor love you less for recoiling, even at the last moment, from an act that you know to be wrong." But Helen continued to accuse herself, and excuse him. "It is I who have been most to blame. Had he found me patiently enduring our separation, he would not have urged this marriage upon me. I, who knew his peculiar temper, and have some influence with him, might have exercised it for good, instead of which I have wavered till he may with justice assert that it is my selfish fear of consequences more than any sense of right, that has made me draw back." But Mrs. Irby would not hear this. "You are not to harass yourself as to what conclusions Mr. Dunlop may draw from your conduct. You have remembered your duty ere it was too late, and on your knees, my child, put up an earnest thanksgiving that it was so. Not another word! You have exhausted yourself, and recollect, Milly is to know nothing of this; I cannot have such a tale poured into her innocent ears." At another time Helen would have resented the severity with which Mrs. Irby was now speaking; but she was too much oppressed with the keen sense of her error to be anything but humble. Still she clung about her friend with imploring looks, admitting the justice of her anger, expressing herself ready to agree to any arrangement Mrs. Irby proposed, but at the same time pleading for Mr. Dunlop. "What will he say or think when he comes, and finds I have failed him? Yes, he may deserve to be disappointed. I know that he has done wrong, but it is this that makes my uneasiness greater. If he could be told that I am firmly resolved to abide by my father's decision, and entreated to return to India, take up his neglected duties there, and wait hopefully for better days, I could be content. May I not write to him ?" Seeing consent in Mrs. Irby's eyes, Helen opened her desk, but her hands trembled, and she could not command her thoughts. As soon as she attempted to write, a vision of Maurice Dunlop's mortification, his rage, and the desperate deeds into which these passions might betray him, overcame her. She leaned back in her chair, the pen fell from her hand, and she gazed piteously at Mrs. Irby, who came to her immediately. "This agitation will make you ill. Come away with me to Milly, and I will ask Clive to see Mr. Dunlop." But Helen blushed, and asked, uneasily, if there were no other way; if Mr. Elsley must be made acquainted with circumstances so humiliating to herself. "There is no other way," Mrs. Irby decided, after a little consideration. She knew that if this embassy were entrusted to her husband he would commence it with blustering, and saying things that would only incense his auditor, and then in all probability end by going over to his side, and agreeing with him that Colonel Quatermaine had behaved with unnecessary harshness. Nor did she care to let any one in her household, however trusty, become cognisant of the affair. Hannah would be silent for her own sake; and for Helen's it would be well to dismiss Mr. Dunlop both quietly and promptly. "Yes, it must be Clive," she reiterated. "Who would judge you as mercifully as he will? Who else would strive so wisely and kindly to make Mr. Dunlop see that he will be acting more dishonourably than he has already done if he refuses to acquiesce in your decision, and trouble you no more? Some one must make him understand that it is useless his attempting to hold any further intercourse with you, and who will do this as well as Clive?" Helen sighed. If her proud spirit chafed at the necessity of submitting to the restrictions Mrs. Irby was imposing, how would the still haughtier one of Mr. Dunlop endure them? Perhaps she might have renewed her entreaties that he should be dealt with as tenderly as possible, if Mrs. Irby-more concerned for her than her lover-had not imposed silence, and hurried her into the chamber of Milly, where any further conversation was impossible. Millicent Irby, enjoying the sweet slumbers of youth, and an untroubled mind, scarcely heard them enter, and after drowsily murmuring a regret at her cousin's indisposition, closed her eyes again; but Helen, though she undressed, and lay down beside the happy sleeper, was wakeful and watchful till the dawn. She heard, or fancied she heard, the sound of voices in the room below-Mrs. Irby's and Clive Elsley's; they were discussing her conduct, of course; it might be that they were marvelling to each other how the Helen Quatermaine-who had prided herself upon her freedom from all that was mean and debasing, could have stooped to aught that savoured of concealment. Nor did she find any consolation in the thought that they would remember she had repented and confessed; for how could she forget that it was neither pure unmixed regret for having been so nearly tempted into disobedience to an earthly father, nor a dread of offending a Heavenly One, that had influenced her half so much as her sense that she was degraded by the girl Hannah's participation in her secret. No self-pity could either hide from her how she had abased herself, or how much she deserved that even her kindest friends should condemn her. "Let him that thinketh he standeth"-how those words now tormented her! Pride and confidence in her own judgment had always been Helen's besetting sins, though she had never discovered it till now. Then her thoughts flew to Mr. Dunlop, who would soon be on his way to the Lodge. Would Clive Elsley really perform his mission as successfully as Mrs. Irby predicted? If he, by some well-meant but ill-timed rebuke, irritated the already disappointed man, to what lengths might not his impetuous temper carry him? Imagination pictured such dire and unlikely calamities that Helen could lie still no longer, but wrapping a shawl around her, walked to and fro till her sharpened ears detected the unclosing of the outer door. She went to the window, and drew aside the curtain. It was Clive Elsley who had quitted the house, and she stamped her slippered foot with impatience as she saw him linger in the garden to break off one of the late roses and inhale its scent. How could he move so leisurely when about an errand of so much importance? But now he had unlatched the side gate leading through an orchard into the lane where Mr. Dunlop must be even now awaiting her; and Helen sank down on the window-seat, all other thoughts merged in her sympathy for him whom she refused to consider half so much to blame as herself. (To be continued.) |