Unlucky

A Fragment of a Girl's Life

BY CAROLINE AUSTIN

Author of "Cousin Geoffrey and I," "Hugh Herbert's Inheritance," "Dorothy's Dilemma," &c.

BLACKIE & SON LIMITED

LONDON GLASGOW DUBLIN BOMBAY

CHRIS IS BROUGHT BACK BY HIS FRIEND THE SERGEANT

CONTENTS.

[CHAPTER I. Helen's Stepmother]
[CHAPTER II. Cousin Mary]
[CHAPTER III. Helen's Escapade]
[CHAPTER IV. Strangers yet]
[CHAPTER V. Longford Grange]
[CHAPTER VI. Harold]
[CHAPTER VII. "If I had but loved her"]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

[CHRIS IS BROUGHT BACK BY HIS FRIEND THE SERGEANT]

[HELEN FLINGS THE VIOLIN AT MRS. DESMOND'S FEET]

[HELEN AND HAROLD AT JIM'S BEDSIDE]

UNLUCKY:

A FRAGMENT OF A GIRL'S LIFE.

CHAPTER I.

HELEN'S STEPMOTHER.

It must be allowed that Mrs. Desmond, with the best dispositions in the world towards children in general and her most perplexing little stepdaughter Helen in particular, was not very happy in her method of dealing with young people. Brought up herself by two maiden aunts on the old-fashioned repressive system, from which she had never consciously suffered, the children of to-day, with their eager, uncontrolled impulses, their passionate likes and dislikes, often fostered by their elders, and their too early developed individualities, were simply a painful enigma to her. That the fault lay in their training rather than in the young people themselves Mrs. Desmond was free to confess, and, during the long tranquil years of her maiden life, having never once been called upon to face the child-problem seriously, she had contented herself with gently regretting the lax discipline prevalent amongst the rising generation, and with wondering mildly, and not without a certain sense of quiet self-satisfaction, what would happen to the human race, when, in course of time, all the properly brought-up people were gathered to their fathers.

All this was changed, however, when this lady, spending a quiet summer at a Swiss hotel, met Colonel Desmond, who had just returned from India, and who was trying to restore his broken health at the same tranquil spot. Colonel Desmond was attracted by the lady's calm, sweet face, and before long he had told her his story, how he had lost his wife just thirteen years ago, and how she had left him with one little girl, Helen, for whose sake principally he had returned from India, and from whom he was now parted for the first time. He found his listener singularly sympathetic, and not at all disposed to be impatient over his long tale of doubts and difficulties, chiefly concerning Helen, round whom nearly all her father's thoughts centred at this period. The end of this pleasant friendship may be guessed. Colonel Desmond's liking for his new friend quickly changed to something deeper, to which she responded. After that they soon came to a mutual understanding, and it came about so quickly, and yet so naturally, that their fellow-guests at the hotel were more fluttered than those chiefly concerned when, one fine morning, this middle-aged couple were quietly married at the little English church, and then as quietly went away together. This happened a few months before our story opens. Upon the intervening time it is needless to dwell. Helen's feelings may be better imagined than described when, one day, without a word of warning, her father walked into the drawing-room of the pleasant, unruly household where she was temporarily located, and where she was, at that particular moment, engaged in teaching some untidy-looking children to sit monkey-wise upon the ground like her ayah, and, rather hastily unclasping the clinging arms which his little daughter had flung round his neck, he presented to her the gentle-looking lady who stood by his side as her new mother. A stormy scene had ensued, during which Helen certainly behaved abominably, stamping her feet and using some very strong language, luckily expressed in Hindustani, of which tongue Mrs. Desmond was blissfully ignorant. But she witnessed the passion, she recognized the undutiful conduct, and her heart sank within her at the prospect that opened before her. This was by no means the ideal little daughter over whom her gentle heart had yearned, and to whom she had meant to perform a true mother's part. As she looked and listened her feelings hardened, as the feelings of seemingly gentle people will harden sometimes, and she told herself that this was a child who could not be won, but who might be disciplined.

This was Mrs. Desmond's first mistake. Unfortunately Helen's bad behaviour at subsequent interviews only served to confirm her stepmother's earliest impressions. Beneath her surface amiability Mrs. Desmond possessed a considerable spirit of obstinate determination, and, if taken the wrong way, she was not an easy person to manage. She now determined, rightly or wrongly, that her stepdaughter's rebellious temper must be conquered, and conquered with the only weapons that she herself understood how to use. Accordingly when, a few weeks after her first introduction to her father's wife, Helen came to the dull house in Bloomsbury Square that Mrs. Desmond had inherited from her aunts, and where she and her husband had fixed their abode until their future plans were matured, the wayward girl found herself in a new and hitherto undreamt-of atmosphere. The surprise caused by her novel surroundings was so great that at first it almost took away her breath and left her passive. That she, Helen, who had never learned anything save in the most desultory fashion, upon whose caprices almost all her father's arrangements had depended, and who had recognized no authority save that of her own will, should be suddenly subjected to a routine that would have been galling even to carefully brought-up children, must have seemed to the poor child a cruel fate indeed. Every hour was mapped out for her, every action was to be performed at its appointed time. Mrs. Desmond had recalled, with singular accuracy, the memories of her own school-room days, and upon these Helen's were to be modelled henceforward. From seven to eight o'clock she was to practise. At eight she breakfasted upon the orthodox bread and milk or porridge—both forms of nourishment being detested by badly brought-up Helen—in company with Mrs. Desmond's own maid, who had grown gray in her mistress's service. Breakfast over, her lessons were conned lying on her back, and at nine o'clock her governess—a forbidding-looking female, not at all of the modern type, but possessed of exactly the requirements that had been considered essential in the days of Mrs. Desmond's youth—arrived, and did not leave her pupil for a moment until the evening, when, dressed in a prim white frock and sash, Helen was expected to take her place in her stepmother's drawing-room, where, at a due distance from the fire, and with a proviso that she was to speak when spoken to, she was allowed to amuse herself with a book until the gong sounded for her parents' dinner, when she was supposed to go to bed, with Mrs. Desmond's prim maid again in attendance to put out the light.

It must not be supposed that Helen, her first surprise over, submitted tamely to a life so utterly at variance with her former experiences and so uncongenial to her tastes. On the contrary, she rebelled fiercely, fairly frightening her composed stepmother with her outbursts of passion, and distressing her father, who could not bear to see his little daughter suffer, but who was daily falling more entirely under his wife's influence, and who began to believe, with her, that nothing but this sharp discipline could save Helen from the evil results of her previous bad training.

All his life Colonel Desmond had been completely under the influence of some one person or another. For the last few years he had been Helen's most obedient subject. It soon became evident that her place was being taken by his new wife. Perhaps this was not wonderful. Weak, easy-going, and somewhat broken in health, Colonel Desmond now found himself, for the first time, an object of tender solicitude. His tastes were consulted and his fancies gratified; above all, his wife—pleasant, low-toned, and agreeable to look upon—was constantly at hand to minister to his wants—a gracious, restful presence set in pleasant surroundings—for Mrs. Desmond possessed ample means, and money worries were, for the first time in the colonel's experience, conspicuous by their absence. It can scarcely be wondered at, then, that Colonel Desmond, looking at his wife with her serene untroubled face, and recognizing her perfect propriety of word and action, felt that he could not further Helen's interests more truly than by placing her unreservedly in her stepmother's hands, remembering, too, the wild Irish blood that she had inherited from her mother, for Helen's mother had been a wayward child up to her last hour, and had sorely tried the colonel, notwithstanding the very true love that he had borne her.

Poor Helen! She was the jarring note in this contented, middle-aged household. A grief to her father, who loved her; a terrible perplexity to her well-meaning though prejudiced stepmother. Not at all a terrible-looking little person, although Mrs. Desmond, amongst her most intimate friends, did occasionally lament her stepdaughter's unfortunate plainness. It was an interesting little face, with delicate though sharp features, and large, questioning, restless, blue-gray eyes; sad enough sometimes, but gleaming with fun and mischief on the least provocation. Helen's rough dark hair and her rather angular figure were Mrs. Desmond's despair; but the dark hair showed curious red glints when the sun shone upon it such as would have struck an artist's fancy, and the angular figure was lithe, and gave promise of graceful development when the childish angularity should be out-grown.

Just as it needed a trained eye to discern the possibilities of beauty possessed by Helen, so it required some loving knowledge of young natures to divine the latent good in her. Resentful, passionate, and wayward, she was also deeply affectionate, and her passionate outbreaks were followed by passionate repentance, a repentance that she expressed, however, only to her father, and, as the months went by, rarely even to him; for although his manner towards her was always kind and even loving, she knew, with the unerring instinct of childhood, that his affection was already to a certain extent alienated from her. She did not blame him for this. In her loyal little heart he still reigned supreme, as a being absolutely perfect and noble. It was on her stepmother's unconscious head that all the vials of Helen's wrath were poured. More or less cowed into outward submission, and half broken-spirited by her monotonous life, she hated Mrs. Desmond with a hatred that bade fair to poison her whole nature. To succeed in visibly annoying her stepmother, to bring an angry cloud over her calm face, was a positive pleasure to Helen. Mrs. Desmond had been accustomed to a well-ordered household, and any domestic disturbance was extremely annoying to her. Helen soon discovered this, and although she was supposed not to speak to any member of the household, with the exception of the maid, she delighted in surreptitious visits to the kitchen, and in setting the servants by the ears. Then, again, noises of any kind were Mrs. Desmond's abhorrence. Helen would purposely bang doors, tap with her feet on the floor, even scrape a knife on her plate at luncheon, and feel more than repaid for the sharp reproof which she drew upon herself by watching her stepmother's agonized expression whilst the torture was in progress. That these things were done purposely Mrs. Desmond did not guess, any more than she imagined that the passionate manifestations of affection for her father in which Helen occasionally indulged, were evidences of real love.

As a fact, there was something antagonistic between Mrs. Desmond's rather cold nature and Helen's ardent disposition. Only love and patience could have knit these two together. Mrs. Desmond's theory that a young girl should be treated as an irresponsible being, and forced into the same mould that had successfully moulded former generations if she was to turn out a "nice" woman, was fatal in this instance. The same want of comprehension of the meaning of real education overshadowed Helen's studies. Although, in the orthodox sense of the word, Helen's education had been sadly neglected, she was by no means ignorant. She had seen and observed much; had read, and read intelligently, books that most girls of her age would unhesitatingly pronounce "dry;" while for music she had a genuine talent. This last gift, however, did not help her much under the system of tuition adopted for her. Ordered, for instance, to practise her scales for an hour each day, without receiving any explanation as to the usefulness of such practice, the girl naturally regarded scale-playing as a fresh device for annoying her. Consequently her playing during her early morning practice soon became one of Mrs. Desmond's chief tortures, for each jarring note penetrated through the thin partitions of a London house, and, reaching that unhappy lady's ears, robbed her of her comfortable morning nap. Far too conscientious to put an end to the nuisance for consciously selfish motives, and too lacking in musical taste herself to discern Helen's real talent, she suffered as silently as she could; not so silently, however, but that Helen perceived the annoyance which she caused, and which she took care should continue unabated. But here, as in so many other instances, poor Helen's weapons were turned against herself. Being taken by her father to an afternoon concert, an impromptu pleasure indulged in during a blissful day when her stepmother was away, she was seized with a vehement desire to learn to play the violin. Her father, who fancied that his little girl had been looking pale lately, and who was pleased with the prospect of giving her so innocent a pleasure, consented, and quite after the manner of old times, the concert over, they went off together and purchased a violin, which Helen insisted on carrying home herself.

The afternoon had been so delightful, and had sped so quickly, that they had both forgotten the time, and that Mrs. Desmond was to return home at six o'clock. It was nearly seven when their cab brought them to their own door.

"Yes, Mrs. Desmond had returned an hour ago and was in the drawing-room," the servant said in answer to the colonel's rather nervous questioning. A cloud fell upon Helen as she entered the warm, well-lighted hall; but she clasped her violin tightly and followed her father upstairs.

Mrs. Desmond rose from a low chair as her husband entered the drawing-room. She was dressed in a pretty tea-gown, that well became her tall, slight figure. Soft lace was arranged on her head, and the shaded red light played on her diamond rings. She looked the very embodiment of delicately-nurtured, serene, English womanhood, and so the colonel thought as his eyes fell upon her. "What has kept you? I have been anxious about you," she said, addressing him in a gently-reproachful voice. "You must be cold and tired. Come and sit by the fire, and I will ring for tea."

"My dear," returned her husband, coming forward and kissing her, "how glad I am to see you back! The house seems like home again. As for tea, the truth is, Helen and I—well, we have been having a little fun on our own account. Come here, Helen, and tell your mother what we have been doing. We sent Miss Walker about her business, didn't we? And then—."

The colonel paused, and Mrs. Desmond then perceived Helen standing half-timidly, half-defiantly near the door.

"You there, Helen!" she said coldly. "How often am I to tell you that I will not have you come into the drawing-room with your walking clothes on! Go and take them off at once. When I was a child—."

"It is really my fault this time, wife," put in the colonel, who dreaded a scene with Helen, and who had, besides, begun to grow a little weary of his wife's reminiscences of her childhood.

"Nonsense!" returned Mrs. Desmond with quite unusual asperity. "Helen knows my rules. She is quite old enough to understand that her duty is to conform to them, and stay!"—as Helen was turning away abruptly—"don't go while I am speaking. Have you learned your lessons for to-morrow?"

"No."

"Then ask Martha to put a lamp in the school-room, and set to work at once. We shall not expect to see you this evening."

"I won't set to work at once—I won't, I won't, I won't," muttered Helen under her breath. Her passion was rising; but for her father's sake, her father who had been so good to her, and who she dimly understood was responsible for her lapse from duty that afternoon, she strove to control herself. Knowing that her only chance was in escape, she made a dash at the door; but in so doing the top of her violin came into contact with a small china-laden table, and a valuable Dresden figure fell to the ground with a crash.

Mrs. Desmond, fairly roused from her wonted calm, rushed forward, uttering a low cry. Her china was very dear to her. She suffered no one but herself to touch it, and it was her boast that each piece had in her keeping remained as intact as it had been in her grandmother's time.

"Oh, Helen!" she cried, "what have you done? My poor little shepherd is broken. You might as well have broken the shepherdess too. The pair is spoilt—utterly spoilt!"

"Perhaps it can be mended," suggested the kind-hearted colonel, coming forward. He was really touched by his wife's distress, and also not a little uneasy about Helen's share in the disaster.

"Mended!" repeated Mrs. Desmond with rising irritation. "Do you suppose that I would have a piece of mended china in my drawing-room? No, the mischief is irreparable—irreparable."

As she spoke she gathered up the broken fragments tenderly, while a tear fell upon her white hand.

"Not irreparable, surely, my dear," persisted the colonel with characteristic want of tact. "I have seen plenty of figures like these in old china shops. To-morrow, first thing, Helen shall make amends for her carelessness by—"

"Ah, Helen!" interrupted Mrs. Desmond, who had regarded the first part of the colonel's sentence as a confession of ignorance too gross for argument, but who was recalled by the mention of Helen's name to the enormity of the girl's offence. "Helen—"

There was a moment's pause. Mrs. Desmond was half-astonished at the bitterness of her own feelings, and felt the necessity of controlling herself. She looked up and saw Helen watching her from the open doorway with an expression of scarcely veiled triumph. It was the last straw. If the girl's face had expressed even fear or shrinking, Mrs. Desmond's better nature would have been touched; but there was something of insolence in her stepdaughter's defiant attitude that exasperated the usually self-controlled woman.

"Helen," she said, and her voice was hard, "you have been exceedingly clumsy: a clumsy woman is intolerable. I object to harsh measures, but something must be done to make you more careful in future. For the present, go to your own room and remain—. What is that you are carrying?" she cried with a sudden change of voice, catching sight of the violin which Helen held behind her.

The faintest expression of anxiety flitted over Helen's face, but she made no answer.

"Show it to me at once. How dare you bring parcels into the drawing-room?"

"I am going to take it away now," returned the girl insolently without moving, for an evil spirit seemed to possess her, and she was absolutely gloating over her stepmother's evident discomfiture.

"I insist upon seeing it," went on Mrs. Desmond; while the colonel, murmuring "Helen" in a tone of remonstrance, walked over to the fireplace.

"You can see it, and hear it too!" cried Helen desperately, her passion blazing out at her stepmother's authoritative tone; and as she spoke she placed the violin on her shoulder, and with the bow drew a long discordant wail from its strings.

Mrs. Desmond started forward, but recovering herself by a violent effort she stopped and put her hands to her ears. Helen dropped her right hand by her side, with the other still holding the violin in position, and regarded her stepmother with a flushed, triumphant face.

"Go to your room," said the latter at last in accents of such bitterness that even her husband felt uncomfortable. "Go to your room and to bed. To-morrow I will see you. I do not wish to inflict any punishment upon you in anger."

"Punishment indeed!" cried Helen, whose blood was up. "I have done nothing to deserve punishment. My father gave me this violin. You cannot take it from me. It is mine."

"It shall be taken from you. John," turning to her husband, "I appeal to you. After Helen's disgraceful behaviour you cannot wish her to keep the present which in your mistaken kindness you appear to have given her."

The colonel sighed, but came forward nervously.

"Helen," he said, "pray do not oppose your mother. You know that she only desires your good. And really—"

He stopped short, for Helen was regarding him with a curious expression, and her breath was coming thick and fast.

"Do you want me to give her my violin?" she asked.

"Only for a little time, Helen, to show that you are sorry, and that you will be more obedient in future."

For a full minute Helen stood clutching her violin and regarding her father with that same curious expression; then she let the instrument drop slowly from her shoulder, and seizing it with her right hand, flung it from her with a furious gesture. It fell at Mrs. Desmond's feet.

HELEN FLINGS THE VIOLIN AT MRS. DESMOND'S FEET

"Take it," cried the excited girl, "take it. You have robbed me of my father, now you rob me of that. I hate you."

Not waiting for a reply, she rushed wildly from the room, and a moment later the sound of a banging door, adding a last torture to Mrs. Desmond's sorely-tried nerves, informed all whom it might concern that Helen was safe in her own chamber.

Colonel Desmond sighed deeply and turned away. His wife, always careful and orderly, stooped and picked up the violin.

"I hope it has not suffered," she said, placing it on a table. "It must go back to-morrow."

"Don't be hard on the child, Margaret," said the colonel, not noticing the foregoing remark.

"Am I ever hard on her, John?"

As Mrs. Desmond spoke she crossed the room and reseated herself in her easy-chair, leaning back wearily and wiping her eyes with her delicate lace handkerchief.

"No, my dear, of course not," returned the colonel. "But—"

"But what?"

"She needs patience. It is perhaps hard on her—"

"Hard on her! It is hard on me, I think."

"Yes, yes, my dear, I know that. I only mean—"

Colonel Desmond scarcely knew what he meant. His heart was bleeding for the wounds inflicted by that little termagant upstairs upon this gentle woman who continued to sit with her handkerchief to her eyes. He was longing to reconcile them, and yet he was dimly conscious that in his blundering man fashion he was but setting them farther apart.

"It is hard, I confess," murmured Mrs. Desmond after a pause. "If Helen were my own child could I care more for her welfare? I sacrifice my leisure, my inclinations—" her voice broke here, and once more the handkerchief was applied.

"My dear wife," began the colonel; but she motioned him to be silent.

"You little know what I have to endure from that child," she went on. "I do not wish you to know. She is your child, and I shall do my duty by her. But to be blamed by you is more than I can bear."

"I blame you, my dear Margaret! Come, you cannot mean that. Do you think that I don't feel grateful to you for your patience and for your goodness to me, to—to us every day. Why, you have only been away four-and-twenty hours, and the house felt like a wilderness. That was what drove me out, I think."

The colonel knelt down beside his wife and took her hand. She suffered herself to be consoled, and presently withdrew her handkerchief from her eyes and smiled.

"You are foolish to spoil Helen, dear John," she said. "With careful training I don't despair of making a good woman of her yet. But you must leave her to me, and her caprices must not be gratified."

"I thought her desire to learn the violin was innocent enough."

"Nonsense, John! you know nothing about children and their training. Girls were content with the piano in my young days; and I consider the modern girl's craze for violin playing extremely unfeminine. No; that violin must go back to-morrow. Helen's notions are far too fantastic already."

There was a suspicion of returning sharpness in Mrs. Desmond's tone, and her husband wisely forbore to press the subject further. On his way to dress for dinner he lingered for a few moments wistfully outside Helen's closed door. But neither then nor later, when (after Mrs. Desmond had retired on the plea of a headache, leaving the colonel free to follow his own devices), he returned, and knocking gently, called Helen, did any success reward his efforts to bring a crumb of consolation to the poor child. Judging by her silence that she must have fallen asleep, Colonel Desmond retired to his smoking-room and comforted himself by reflecting that Helen had certainly been naughty and probably deserved whatever punishment might be meted out to her. Then he recalled his wife's angelic goodness and smiled, thinking that such a woman could not possibly be very severe. Finally, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe before going to bed, he decided that only women could understand girls, and that Helen would thank him some day for having given her such a mother. But these comforting reflections did not prevent a wistful face, not unlike Helen's own, from peering out at him from amongst the dark shadows on the staircase, dimly lit by his solitary candle, a face that had looked up into his once and had whispered with failing voice, "Take care of the child and bring her safe to me." For our responsibilities are our own, and we cannot safely delegate them even to persons of angelic goodness.

CHAPTER II.

COUSIN MARY.

"I think that you are wrong, Margaret. Young people must be more or less the children of their generation."

The speaker was a cousin of Mrs. Desmond's, a certain Miss Macleod, or Cousin Mary as she was generally called by the younger members of her acquaintances. Mary Macleod lived in a northern county, and she and Mrs. Desmond had never been close friends, but circumstances having brought the former to London for a time, she had accepted her cousin's invitation to spend a week at Bloomsbury Square.

Cousin Mary was a person to whom all confided their troubles, and although she had only been in the house an hour or so, Mrs. Desmond was already launched on her favourite topic, the miseries resulting from the present pernicious system of bringing up young people. Mrs. Desmond was rather a self-centred person, and she was quite unconscious that her remarks were not approving themselves to her listener.

"Really, Mary," she said, glancing up in some surprise at her companion's tone, "you don't mean to say that you have taken up with these new-fangled notions about education? A household that exists only for children is, in my opinion—"

She paused, becoming suddenly aware that Helen had entered the room, book in hand as usual, and was taking up her accustomed station on a straight-backed chair situated at a respectful distance from the fireplace.

"You here, Helen?" she said rather sharply. "I did not hear you come in. Don't you see my cousin, Miss Macleod? Why don't you come and say 'How do you do?' to her?"

"I was waiting to be told to," returned the girl, with that indefinable note of defiance in her voice which grated the more upon her stepmother that it was impossible to discover in it any tangible cause of offence.

As Helen spoke she came forward with a lagging step and took Miss Macleod's outstretched hand, murmuring something unintelligible, Mrs. Desmond watching her stepdaughter with displeased eyes the while. Since the scene narrated in the last chapter, there had been a sort of armed neutrality between these two. Helen had submitted to the punishment inflicted upon her for her behaviour upon that occasion with the worst possible grace, and no single word of contrition for her fault had passed her lips. On the contrary, she maintained a sort of sullen reserve which annoyed even her father, and went far to deprive her of such consolation as she might have extracted from his secret, if unspoken, sympathy. As for Mrs. Desmond, her spirit of obstinacy was aroused, and so far from ascribing her failure to win Helen to any fault of her own, she clung yet more persistently than ever to her preconceived ideas, and subjected the girl to still severer discipline. Whilst acting thus, Mrs. Desmond considered herself the most forgiving of mortals because she maintained a forbearing though frigid demeanour towards her wayward stepdaughter. With her husband, indeed, she assumed a martyr-like air whenever Helen's name was mentioned. This did not happen often. Mrs. Desmond really loved her husband and had far too much tact to vex him, or to sound a jarring note in his hearing unnecessarily. Neither did she set herself designedly to lessen Helen in her father's affection. It was more by what she left unsaid than by what she said that she conveyed to the colonel a bad impression of Helen's disposition, and spoilt the happy, unrestrained intercourse that had hitherto subsisted between these two.

Such was the position of affairs at the time of Mary Macleod's visit. That quick-witted lady had guessed it pretty accurately from her cousin's conversation. Perhaps it interested her, for she watched Helen keenly from the moment that she became aware of the girl's presence. She smiled very pleasantly as Helen, in obedience to her stepmother's command, approached the visitor, and not at all repelled, seemingly, by the unwilling little hand that was laid in hers, she drew Helen's face down and kissed it, saying in a warm voice, to which the slight northern burr gave a homely sound:

"So you are my new cousin. I am a relation, you know—Cousin Mary. But, bless me, child, how cold your hands are! Come and sit by the fire and I will warm them."

A smile came upon Helen's face, although she drew back a little proudly.

"I am not cold, thank you," she said, and moved away.

Miss Macleod made no effort to detain her. She understood young people too well to try to force them into friendliness, and, as I have said, she had already made a tolerably shrewd guess as to the true state of the case. Taking up her knitting, she continued her chat with Mrs. Desmond in spite of the latter's rather constrained replies, for childless Cousin Mary's passion for young people was well known in her family, and Mrs. Desmond began to feel fidgety lest her guest might even temporarily interfere with Helen's training. It was a relief when the colonel entered the room smiling, happy, and friendly. After a few words of greeting to his guest he turned to inform his wife of some rather important news that had arrived from India by that day's mail. Upon this Miss Macleod put down her knitting and beckoned to Helen, pointing to a low chair by her side.

"Your book must be very absorbing," she said smilingly as Helen obeyed.

"No, it isn't," returned the girl abruptly. "I think it is the dullest book I ever read."

"Why don't you put it down then and talk to us?"

"Because," began Helen, with an ominous look in her stepmother's direction, "because"—but just then that lady, who had been listening to her husband with one ear and to Helen with the other, broke in:

"What is the dullest book you ever read?"

"This. Amy Herbert."

"That is grateful, Helen, seeing the pains I took to get it for you."

"And such a gorgeous-looking book too," put in the colonel, always eager to make peace.

Helen said nothing, but drew back her chair a little with a grating sound, while Mrs. Desmond frowned and went on:

"Amy Herbert is a book that has delighted hundreds of children. I can remember that when I was a girl, I knew every line of it. It is a pity that you do not lay to heart some of the lessons it teaches. But young people won't be taught nowadays."

"I think you are a little hard on young people, Margaret," put in Cousin Mary's pleasant voice. "We grown-up people are influenced by the feelings of our day. Books that appealed to our grandmothers don't affect us. Children are subject to the same influences. It is quite possible—"

"I can't see it," interrupted Mrs. Desmond with most unusual vehemence. "What was good enough for my aunts, for instance, is quite good enough for me, and always will be, I hope."

"My dear," interposed the colonel mildly, "would you write that note for me before dinner? It is important not to miss a single post."

Mrs. Desmond sighed gently, but rose with a resigned air to comply with her husband's request. He followed her to her writing-table, leaving Cousin Mary and Helen alone.

That notion of Miss Macleod's, that grown-up people and children were not set wide as the poles asunder, but were close akin to one another, struck Helen immensely, and made Cousin Mary seem quite an approachable being in this young girl's eyes, and instinctively she drew closer to this new relative with a pleasant sensation of confidence.

"I'll tell you what I was doing when you two were talking," she said, with the sudden burst of friendliness that comes so strangely from a lonely child. "I was thinking."

"Thinking, Helen! Were your thoughts worth a penny?"

Helen was not to be dealt lightly with. She was very serious.

"I heard what you were saying when I came into the room," she went on. "And I wondered what you meant when you said that children must belong to their generation."

Cousin Mary looked grave.

"It would take a long time to explain all that I meant," she said. "Perhaps we shall have a chance of talking it over before I leave. I didn't mean that the girls and boys of to-day have any excuse for being naughty and rebellious. But I sometimes think that as we grown-up people move about so much, and are tempted to grow restless and impatient, so the same influences may affect children to a certain extent, and that a very strict routine may be a little more irksome to them now than it was to us thirty years ago."

"Oh, it is dreadful!—dreadful!" murmured Helen.

"Nonsense! Not dreadful, only perhaps a little tiresome."

Helen's tone had been tragic, but there was a gleam of fun in Cousin Mary's eyes as she replied that brought a smile to the girl's face.

"Very tiresome," she said. "I hate lessons."

"They are a little wee bit trying sometimes, I grant. And yet we must learn them; must go on learning them all our lives."

Cousin Mary's face had grown grave again, and Helen began to think her the most perplexing person that she had ever met.

"Go on learning!" she repeated. "Grown-up people don't learn lessons."

"Not book lessons exactly, though I think I have learnt more book lessons even since I have been grown up than I did in the school-room. But that is a matter of choice. There are certain lessons that we must learn, because God goes on teaching them to us until we really know them."

"Oh! What are they?" asked Helen in an awe-struck whisper.

"I think obedience is one," replied Cousin Mary, with that little smile lurking in her eyes again. "I am dreadfully disobedient sometimes, but I am always sorry for it afterwards, I think. Perhaps some day I shall learn to know that my way is not best, and then I sha'n't want to be disobedient again."

"You disobedient!"

"It is quite true. For instance, I didn't want to come up to town at this particular time. I very nearly said I wouldn't come. You see, my doing so interfered with some very pleasant plans that I had made. That was why I did not like it, although I knew all the time that I ought to come. Now I begin to be very glad that I did not follow my own way, not only because I have done my duty, but because I have found a new cousin whom I mean to like very much."

The expression of Helen's face altered as she listened to her new friend's words. Her eyes, that had been heavy and downcast, lit up; she raised her head and threw back her hair with something of her old, careless gesture.

"I like you very, very much," she said, "although you do say such strange things. I wish—"

Just then Cousin Mary's ball of wool fell from her lap and rolled away to some distance. Helen sprang to her feet and rushed to fetch it. At the same time Mrs. Desmond left her writing-table, and, shivering a little, rejoined her cousin by the fire. As she did so Helen brushed past her, holding the recovered ball in her hands. The action was not a courteous one, and Mrs. Desmond's displeasure was not mitigated by observing the girl's heightened colour and altered expression.

"You are exceedingly awkward and clumsy," she said, smoothing her laces, which had been displaced by Helen's rough contact. "I wonder what my cousin will think of such a little barbarian. You had better say good-night and go to bed at once. Perhaps that will teach you to be more careful in future."

Helen's face fell. Accustomed as she was to her stepmother's constant fault finding, to be reproved in this fashion and sent to bed like a baby before Cousin Mary stung her into fresh rebellion.

"It is still only a quarter to eight," she said, glancing at the clock. "Why should I go to bed before my usual hour? I have done nothing wrong. I couldn't help knocking up against you just now."

"Helen"—and for once the colonel's tone was really stern, for the insolence of his daughter's tone angered him. "Helen, how dare you speak in that way to your mother? Go to bed instantly, and don't let me see you again until you are ready to apologize."

For a moment Helen stood transfixed. Never in all her life had her father spoken to her so before. Every vestige of colour left her face; her white lips just moved, but no words came. Then she turned round and walked quietly out of the room, forgetting even to slam the door behind her.

"I suppose that we have to thank you for being spared a scene, Mary," said Mrs. Desmond as she sank into her chair with a deep sigh.

"I'm afraid that Helen is too much for Margaret," observed the colonel, addressing his visitor, but looking anxiously at his wife.

"Why don't you send her to a good school then?" asked the former briskly. "It's a lonely life for her here, poor child!"

"Because, Mary," interposed Mrs. Desmond, "I do not approve of a school training for girls; and I shall never shirk a duty that I have undertaken for my dear husband's sake, however painful and wearing it may be."

The colonel pressed his wife's hand, while Miss Macleod went on:

"And yet in this case a school training might be the best. Probably the child is too much alone and needs young society."

"Nonsense, Mary! Was not I brought up alone in this very house? Helen has many more indulgences than I ever had, and yet I was always happy and contented."

"But I should say, Margaret, that your disposition and Helen's are totally different. I can remember you a prim little girl sitting up in your high chair working your sampler or repeating Watt's hymns. And do you recollect your horror when I once went out of doors while I was putting on my gloves and afterwards proposed to race round the square? Ladies never did such things, you said. Now I have a suspicion that Helen might be very easily induced to race anybody along Regent Street."

The colonel smiled. There was a time when he used to boast of his little girl's high spirits and untamed ways.

"She has—" he began, but his wife interposed:

"I remember you, Mary, as a regular hoyden," she observed, and was about to go on when the announcement of dinner put an end to the conversation.

Mrs. Desmond could be a very pleasant companion when she chose, and upon this occasion she did choose, being anxious not only to obliterate from her husband's mind the painful impression caused by Helen's conduct, but also to convince her cousin that her marriage was an entirely happy one. Dinner was excellent and daintily served. In the evening an old friend of the colonel's dropped in, and there was plenty of bright talk. Colonel Desmond seemed profoundly contented, and his wife scarcely less so. Only Cousin Mary's thoughts wandered sometimes away from the cheerful voices and the pretty drawing-room, with its bright lights and fragrant flowers, to a small darkened chamber somewhere overhead, where she suspected that a forlorn little figure might be tossing restlessly and a young soul hardening for want of the love that is its right.

"Poor young thing!" thought Cousin Mary, longing in her eager way to run to the rescue, and yet knowing that she must bide her time if she would not make bad worse. But, thinking thus, the softness of her cousin's manner and the ancient endearments that passed between husband and wife had rather an irritating effect upon her. Once or twice there was a sharpness in her speech that a little astonished the good colonel.

"I expected from what I heard to find your cousin a charming woman," he said when he and his wife were alone together. "She has a pleasant enough face, but rather a sharp tongue, hasn't she?"

"Poor Mary!" laughed Mrs. Desmond softly. "She is a good soul at heart. A little hard, no doubt, but she has many excellent points."

Next day, although none of the usual noisy tokens of Helen's presence in the house were lacking, neither she nor her governess appeared at luncheon. Cousin Mary judged it wiser to ask no questions, but she sat in the drawing-room long after Mrs. Desmond disappeared to dress for that evening's dinner-party, hoping to catch a glimpse of the young culprit. But although she allowed herself only ten minutes for dressing, and was obliged in consequence to put on her plainest gown in place of the more elaborate one she had proposed wearing, she caught never a glimpse of Helen. Just, however, as she was closing her bed-room door behind her she heard her name called.

"Cousin Mary!"

The voice came in an eager whisper from the landing above.

"Cousin Mary, do just wait one minute."

"I'll wait five if you like, although I'm a wee bit late."

There was a rush down the stairs.

"O!" cried Helen, "please don't speak so loud. The old cat will hear if you do. The old cat is her maid. She is always trying what she can find out. The servants—but, O! I didn't come to say this. Look here! I know there was going to be a dinner party to-night, and I knew that she would have flowers, and I was determined that you should have some too. So I ran away from old Walker this afternoon. I gave her such a fright you should have seen her face. And I bought these."

As Helen, breathless and triumphant, finished speaking, she placed a bunch of lilies of the valley in Cousin Mary's hand.

"My dear child! I scarcely know what to say. O, yes! of course I will wear them," in answer to a blank look of dismay on Helen's face. "I thank you, dear, indeed I do. But, O! Helen, why did you do wrong for me? And, dear child, I have missed you all day."

Helen's face hardened.

"Has she been setting you against me too?"

"Helen, I can't stop now. I promise to wear your flowers and to think of you all the evening. Will you promise me something?"

"If I can."

"Will you try to put all unkind and ungenerous thoughts out of your head until I can see you again?"

"I don't know what you mean by ungenerous. Other people—"

There was a step on the stairs. Helen flew away, and Cousin Mary, going her way down, nearly fell into the arms of Mrs. Desmond's maid.

"I was coming up, miss, to see if I could assist you," said that individual demurely.

Cousin Mary put her aside rather coldly and proceeded to the drawing-room, where the guests were already gathered, and where Mrs. Desmond glanced at her cousin with some displeasure. This was occasioned not only by the lateness of Miss Macleod's arrival, but by the plainness of her attire, which, in Mrs. Desmond's opinion, was emphasized by a great bunch of lilies of the valley pinned carelessly in the front of her bodice without any attempt at arrangement, and looking, as that lady afterwards said, as if they had just come from the nearest greengrocer—a guess that came considerably nearer to the truth than most guesses do.

Dinner was a long and rather tedious affair. Cousin Mary's neighbours were not particularly entertaining, and although she tried to exert herself to talk her thoughts wandered constantly to the lonely child upstairs. In the drawing-room matters were still worse. Most of the ladies present were known to each other, and their small gossip sounded quite meaningless to an utter stranger like Miss Macleod. Mrs. Desmond, who, to do her justice, was never negligent of her duties as a hostess, noticed her cousin's abstraction, and tried more than once to draw her into the conversation, but without much success. When the gentlemen appeared there was a little very indifferent music, and then the company dispersed. Cousin Mary was heartily glad to find herself once more in her own room. But although she had pleaded fatigue in the drawing-room she seemed in no hurry to get into bed. Replacing her silk dress by a soft Cashmere gown, she opened her door and listened. Presently she heard Mrs. Desmond come up the stairs to her own room on the floor below. Cousin Mary peeped over the banisters and saw that the maid was in attendance. She waited until she heard the bed-room door close upon mistress and maid, and then she walked quietly upstairs, smiling to herself all the time.

Arrived upon the landing, she looked about her, and presently espying a door standing partly open, and, peeping in, she saw at once she had reached her goal, for by the faint light that came in through the uncurtained window she could discern Helen lying in bed and tossing about restlessly.

"Are you awake, Helen?" asked Cousin Mary softly.

Helen sat up in bed.

"Oh!" she cried, "have you really come to see me? I was afraid to expect you. And yet—"

"Yet you had a notion that I might come."

As Cousin Mary spoke she closed the door quietly and walked up to Helen's bed. Then she struck a light and lit a small lamp that she carried in her hand. After this she made Helen lie down, shook up her pillow, and covered her up; and then, drawing a chair close up to the bedside, she sat down herself.

"Are you going to stop for a little while?" asked Helen with glistening eyes.

"For a little while, yes. Not for long, though; you ought to have been asleep hours ago."

"How can I go to sleep when I am so—so dreadfully unhappy?" Helen's eyes that had been glistening a minute ago were filled with tears, and her voice grew tremulous. "I hate being such a baby," she went on, dashing away the rebellious tears with an angry hand. "I never let her see me cry. Only—only, somehow, when any one is very kind like you are——"

"Silly child!" said Cousin Mary, taking the girl's hand, "don't you know that you are making your own troubles out of that sore little heart of yours?"

"My own troubles! You don't understand, or you wouldn't say that. Why should I do as she tells me? She isn't my mother. My father and I were happy before she came, and now even father doesn't love me. I met him on the stairs to-day and he asked me if I was sorry, and just because I said I wasn't he went on and never spoke another word to me. He didn't use to want me to be sorry, he wanted me to be happy."

"And yet you weren't always happy then, Helen."

"Oh, yes! I was; at least nearly always."

"Had you no troubles? Did nothing ever go wrong? Were there no tears?"

"Well, of course, sometimes things went wrong. But it was quite, quite different then."

"You believe that your father loved you then, don't you, Helen?"

"I know he did."

"And yet, loving you as he did, he saw that you must have some better training than he was able to give you; and he wished to make a happy home for you. He did his best for you, and you make things very hard for him. I think he might truly say that his little daughter does not love him."

"But I do, even now. I would do anything in the world for him."

"You show your affection very curiously, Helen."

Helen was silent, and Cousin Mary went on. "When one loves a person truly one ceases to think of one's own happiness so much."

"But I can't do anything to make him happy now."

"You could do a very great deal."

"How?"

"By helping to make his home happy, by being respectful and obedient to your stepmother, and by trying to become what she wishes to see you."

"I never could please her if I tried ever so hard."

"But have you ever tried?"

Helen was again silent.

"I know it wouldn't be quite easy at first, dear. But if you were to say to yourself when you feel your temper rising, 'It is for my father's sake,' it would be possible, I think. Love makes so many things easy."

Helen lay very still. There was silence for a few minutes, and then Cousin Mary spoke again. "You were rude yesterday evening, my child; your father was quite right to reprove you. You caused him a great deal of pain. Won't you make amends to him by telling him and your stepmother that you are sorry?"

Still no reply from Helen, and Cousin Mary was heaving a sigh of disappointment, when suddenly the bed-clothes were flung violently on one side, and Helen sprang to her feet.

"I will go at once," she exclaimed. "She—I mean mamma—can't be in bed yet. I shall be able to go to sleep when I have seen her and kissed my father. And I suppose, Cousin Mary, that I ought to tell her that I ran away from Miss Walker to-day. Well, never mind, I will tell it all, and then I shall start fresh to-morrow. Wherever can my dressing-gown be?"

Cousin Mary had some difficulty in dissuading this impulsive child from executing her project. Miss Macleod, however, shrewdly suspected that Mrs. Desmond would decline to receive her stepdaughter's apologies at that late hour, and that a fresh scene would be the only outcome of such an injudicious proceeding. Helen, rather crestfallen, at length allowed herself to be coaxed back into bed again, and then Cousin Mary crept down to the smoking-room and persuaded the colonel, who was sitting rather gloomily over his expiring fire, to come upstairs and say good-night to his repentant daughter. He did not require much persuasion, and the moonlight shone through the little attic window upon three very happy faces, as Cousin Mary looked on at the reconciliation of father and daughter.

"A thousand thanks for looking after my little girl," whispered the colonel to Mary as they went down-stairs together. "She—she——"

"She has the makings of a fine woman," interposed the latter warmly, "but you must not repress her too much. Send her away from home. It will be best, believe me."

"Well, well, we must see," returned the colonel hesitatingly. "I must talk it over with Margaret. And, by the bye, let us say nothing of what has taken place to-night until Helen has made her peace. You understand. Good night, good night!"

So saying, and walking very cautiously, the colonel crept down-stairs to his own quarters, while Cousin Mary, shrugging her shoulders a little impatiently, sought her own room.

As for Helen, she was soon asleep and dreaming of dainty feasts in which she was participating. She had been dreadfully hungry, for she had indignantly refused to eat the only food that had been brought to her in her disgrace. In the sincerity of her penitence, however, she resolved to bear the pangs of hunger in dignified silence, and if her dream-feasts were not very satisfying they answered their purpose, for the hours flew by and she never stirred until the morning.

CHAPTER III.

HELEN'S ESCAPADE.

Helen was standing in the hall listening to the retreating wheels of the cab that bore Cousin Mary away, and trying hard to keep back her tears. It was the late afternoon of an early spring day. Spring, as is its custom with us, had come suddenly; the air was soft and balmy, and the open hall door revealed a vista of delicate green that had fallen like a cloud upon the gaunt trees that filled the grimy London square. Even the servant lingered at the open door, closing it at last reluctantly as though loth to shut out the warm air and pleasant prospect.

It was just such a day as stirs the blood of even old people, while it sets young hearts beating, and conjures up before youthful eyes all sorts of pleasant visions. To Helen, accustomed for so many years to a cloudless eastern sky, the sunshine, although it brought her renewed life, brought also vague indefinable longings. London with its endless streets and squares, its never-ending succession of human beings, its saddening sights and sounds, seemed to stifle her. She longed, scarcely knowing what it was for which she longed, for the green country, for freedom, for space. To Cousin Mary it had been possible to speak of these and many other things. Cousin Mary gone—gone too holding out only the vaguest promises of another meeting, and with no word at all about claiming that visit from Helen of which a good deal had been said in the early stages of their friendship, the girl, suddenly thrown back upon herself, felt, with the exaggerated feelings of youth, as though she were deserted by everybody. It was impossible that she could guess how hard Cousin Mary had tried to secure that visit from Helen about which she had, rather incautiously perhaps, spoken to her young favourite. For as the days went on, and Miss Macleod's stay had lengthened out beyond her original intention, her interest in Helen had increased, and had deepened into real affection. Beneath Cousin Mary's influence all the best part of Helen's nature came out. And, indeed, her deep affectionateness, her generous impulses, her quick repentances for wrong-doing, her power of receiving good impressions, all combined to make Helen a very fascinating little person to one who took the trouble to understand her disposition. That there was another side to Helen's character Miss Macleod knew. Such intense natures ever have their reverse side. She had her bad impulses as well as her good ones; and a fierce temper that it would need many years of patient effort to bring under control. There was a spice of recklessness in Helen, too, and an impatience of restraint. Hers was a nature that might harden and develop terrible possibilities for evil under adverse circumstances. All this Cousin Mary saw with painful distinctness as she watched the girl with ever-increasing interest.

Accustomed as Mrs. Desmond declared she was to her cousin's vagaries, this last fancy of Miss Macleod's rather astonished that lady. That Helen should prefer a stranger to herself she regarded as merely another proof of her stepdaughter's perversity. But what Mary Macleod could see in the girl, and why she should want to carry off such an uninteresting child on a long visit, fairly puzzled Mrs. Desmond. It was not only perplexing, but extremely provoking, when it became evident that Miss Macleod would not accept a polite excuse, but kept returning to the charge, putting it into the colonel's head that Helen looked pale and needed change.

"Perhaps after all, my dear, it might be well to accept your cousin's kind offer," he suggested when Cousin Mary, with most unusual persistency, made a final attempt to carry her point upon the last evening of her stay in town.

Mrs. Desmond's thin lips tightened themselves a little, but she did not reply immediately. She rose from her chair and crossed the room to where her husband was sitting and laid her hand on his. "John," she said, "didn't I promise you to do my best for your child?"

"Yes, my love, and I am sure—"

"Have I kept my word so far?"

"Of course, of course, my dear; but Helen is tiresome, no doubt. I only thought that perhaps a little change—"

"That is enough, John. I only want to be sure that you trust me to be the best—to be the best judge of what is for your child's—"

A little sob broke Mrs. Desmond's voice, and the last part of her speech was inaudible. But she had completely conquered. Colonel Desmond had no weapon for use against a woman's tears, and in spite of his promises to support Mary Macleod, given to her in a private interview, during which she had spoken pretty plainly, his silence gave consent to all that his wife had to say when she had recovered herself sufficiently to decline the obnoxious proposal in terms that left no further discussion of the matter possible. And now Cousin Mary was gone, and the colonel, lying on the drawing-room sofa prostrate with a bad headache, was conscious of some qualms of conscience on Helen's account, not unmixed with feelings of relief at the departure of this keen-eyed guest.

"Your cousin is a very blunt woman," he said in rather a fretful tone to his wife, who was sitting beside him. "It is strange how well she got on with Helen. She seemed to like the child."

"Oh! it was merely a caprice and a spirit of opposition. Mary was always unlike other people," returned Mrs. Desmond.

"I don't know why you should say that," went on the colonel, still fretful. "People used to be very fond of Helen in India, and she has been very well-behaved lately, hasn't she?"

Mrs. Desmond was nettled by her husband's tone and forgot her usual prudence.

"I don't know what you call well-behaved," she said. "To me she seems to grow more trying every day. Mary has made her simply insufferable. I spare neither trouble nor expense, and yet—"

"Really, Margaret," broke in the colonel, "do spare me any more complaints. If you want to be rid of the child, send her to your cousin. She begged hard enough to be allowed to have her. Why on earth you refused I can't think."

"Cousin Mary asked me and you—refused." The white face coming out of gathering twilight shadows, and the tragic tones were Helen's.

Poor Helen! Forgotten by everybody—her governess had left her earlier than usual in the day—she had been sitting alone in her little down-stairs school-room, thinking over all that she had learnt from Cousin Mary. She had been forming the most heroic resolves about her future conduct. Never, never would she purposely annoy her stepmother again. She would be patient, she would bear reproof meekly. And she would remember that great Father whose presence was such a reality to Cousin Mary, and who was training her not in anger but in love. As for her dear earthly father, Helen smiled as she thought of him, and recalled the days when he was always patient with her wayward fits. Then the gathering twilight made her feel lonely, and she remembered that he was ill upstairs. She would go to him, she thought, and, if by any happy chance she found him alone, she would tell him of her sorrow for the past and of her good resolves for the future. And if Mrs. Desmond was there? Well, there could be no harm in creeping in very gently and asking him how he felt, giving him a kiss, perhaps, and going away again.

"I must be very quiet, and oh! I hope I shan't knock up against anything," she said to herself as she went upstairs, speaking half-audibly for company, as it were, and to keep up her spirits, for the house seemed so still and quiet. The drawing-room door stood partly open, but a screen concealed the upper part of the room, where the colonel's sofa stood, from view. No one heard Helen enter, and although she caught a murmur of voices she was half-way across the room when her father's last remark arrested her attention.

I suppose it is a fact that it is in our most exalted moods we are most liable to fall. Her father's words stung Helen to the quick, and changed the whole current of her thoughts. In a twinkling all her good resolutions vanished. While she had been determining to submit, to be good, they, her father and stepmother, were discussing her, wishing to be rid of her, owning her a burden. And yet, just for the sake of tormenting her, of keeping her in bondage, they had refused her to Cousin Mary. Oh, it was cruel, cruel!

"How could you do it? how could you?" she cried, her voice breaking into a passionate sob. "Don't you know that I hate being here; yes, hate it quite as much as you hate having me. And Cousin Mary is good. I am not bad when I am with her. I—"

"Helen," broke in Mrs. Desmond, while the colonel moaned and put his hand to his head, "don't you see your father is ill? Go away instantly. If you have learnt from Miss Macleod to listen at doors I must write and beg her never to enter my house again. I did not know that you were deceitful in addition to your other faults. Go at once. Don't speak again."

"Father," began Helen; but he shook his head impatiently and motioned her away. For a moment she looked at them both defiantly, then, like one possessed, she scattered some books that lay upon a table near her in all directions.

"John, John!" cried Mrs. Desmond, "you must interfere."

But Helen only laughed.

"You've told me to go. I'm going," she said, and walked away.

Straight down-stairs she walked, singing as she went a snatch of an Indian native song. In the hall a comforter belonging to her father caught her eye. She picked it up and twisted it round her head and throat, then opening the hall door she passed out without a moment's hesitation into the fast-gathering darkness. The door closed heavily behind her. Upstairs the colonel heard it and sprang to his foot.

"My God!" he cried, "she has kept her word. She has gone. Quick! I must follow her."

"Nonsense, John!" exclaimed his wife; "lie still. A servant shall go at once. There is no need for alarm."

As she spoke she laid her hand on his arm, but he shook it off impatiently.

"Don't dare to detain me," he said sternly. "If any evil happens to that child I shall never forgive you."

"John, John!" cried Mrs. Desmond, throwing herself on the sofa and bursting into real tears. "John, listen to me—"

But it was of no avail. Whether the colonel even heard his wife's last appeal seems doubtful. Without pausing or turning his head, he walked straight down-stairs and out into the street just as Helen had done before him.

Darkness was falling fast. The air had turned chilly, with a bite of the east in it. Fresh from the warm drawing-room, Colonel Desmond shivered as he looked round in every direction, trying in vain to discover some trace of the fugitive. But to all appearance she had vanished, and the colonel, his alarm increasing every moment, as the passers-by whom he interrogated merely shook their heads in answer to his excited questions as to whether they had noticed a little girl without hat or bonnet going by, was forced to enlist a policeman to aid him in his search.

A weary search it was, lasting for many hours. Helen, after leaving the house, had walked steadily on, neither considering nor caring which way she took. Before long she reached a labyrinth of small streets, where there were few passers-by, and these chiefly clerks and artisans hastening home. Scarcely aware of what she was doing, Helen paused every now and then to watch these home-goers run eagerly up the steps of some small dingy house, the door of which would open as if by magic at its master's approach, whilst from within came gleams of light and glimpses of small outstretched hands drawing father in. Such sights brought her a realization of her own desolation, and she hurried on until at last physical exhaustion brought her once more to a stand-still. Oh! how tired and hungry she was! Even a piece of bread would have been welcome. But, alas! her pocket was empty. She had not the wherewithal even to buy bread. Then she sat down on a door-step and began to ponder on her future proceedings. What was she to do? Go back? No; she would never do that. Find Cousin Mary? But how was the necessary journey to be accomplished without money? Certainly it might be possible to walk the distance in two weeks—one week, perhaps. But—here Helen began to shiver, and she was just trying to wrap her comforter more closely round her when a light was flashed in her face and she felt her arm grasped. Looking up, her heart nearly stood still with terror when she saw a policeman standing beside her.

He looked at her for a minute, whilst she tried to speak, but couldn't. She felt as if a nightmare was coming true.

"Get up and move on!" he said roughly. "Where do you come from? You ought to have been at home long ago."

Helen needed no second bidding. Although the policeman kept his hand upon her arm, and seemed to have some intention of questioning her further, she released herself quickly and set off running as fast as she could go. On and on she went, up one street and down another, until once more exhaustion forced her to stop. It was growing late, and she espied a dark porch where it struck her that she might pass the night free from discovery. "In the morning I shall be able to think," she said, crouching down on the cold stones. Terribly afraid as she was, and cold and hungry, the idea of returning home never entered Helen's head. She had said to herself that she would never go back, and she fully meant to keep her word. A sort of drowsiness was stealing over her when approaching footsteps startled her into wakefulness and roused her to fresh terror. She jumped up and ran down the steps. Two figures were approaching; one looked like that of the dreaded policeman. Could he be coming to take her to prison? Once more she turned to fly, but her foot caught against the curb-stone, and she fell heavily, striking her head against the ground. The shock stunned her and rendered her unconscious.

When she opened her eyes great was her astonishment to see her father bending over her, while a policeman with a deeply-concerned face was looking on, and a cab was drawing up close beside them.

"She'll be all right now, sir," said the policeman. "Let me lift her into the cab."

"Speak, Helen," cried the colonel, "are you hurt? Oh! my child, if any harm had come to you!"

"How did you come here, Father?" asked Helen, still frightened and a little defiant, struggling to her feet.

"I followed you, of course. Did you think I would leave you to wander off alone? Come home."

Helen shrank back.

"Must I?" she said feebly.

"We have been hard upon you, child, I daresay. I have been thinking, God knows——"

Her father's tone, almost more than his words, touched the girl's generous heart.

"It is I who am bad—wicked," she whispered, throwing her arms round his neck. "Forgive me, dear."

This whispered conversation occupied but a few seconds. Before many minutes had passed Helen and her father, seated hand in hand, were driving homewards. The sound of wheels brought Mrs. Desmond to the head of the stairs. Her face bore signs of genuine emotion, but her expression hardened when she saw her husband cross the hall leading Helen, who hung back a little.

"Oh! John," she cried, "I am thankful to see you back safely. Going out without a coat, too! No one knows the anxiety I have endured."

Colonel Desmond made no reply, but he put his arm round Helen and half-forced her upstairs.

"Wife," he said, "come here;" and they all three went into the drawing-room.

"Margaret," he went on, and as he took her unresponsive hand and forced her to approach Helen, there was an appeal in his voice that must have touched a less self-absorbed woman, "Margaret, we have all something to forgive. I think we have been a little hard on the child. I have realized that through these fearful hours—hours that I shall never forget. God has given her back to us. Let us take her as from Him, and let this night be as if it had never been except for the lesson it has taught us."

"I do not understand heroics," said Mrs. Desmond coldly, moving away a little. "Helen has behaved shamefully, but if you wish her fault to be condoned, I have no more to say."

As she spoke she seated herself in her low chair, leaning her head wearily upon her hand.

"Have you no kind word to say to her, Margaret?" pleaded the colonel, unwilling to let slip the opportunity of bringing these two together, and, manlike, making bad worse. "You are sorry, Helen? Tell your mother so."

"Yes, I am sorry," said Helen. She spoke passively, like a child saying a lesson.

She was not sullen as her stepmother, smiling ironically, fancied; but she was cold, tired, and hungry, and the painful emotions of the last few hours had temporarily exhausted her power of feeling acutely.

But Colonel Desmond heard the words, and was satisfied; the little by-play was beyond him.

"You hear her, Margaret? Forgive her freely. Think if we had lost her. Think——"

But the idea of his little girl wandering homeless and unprotected in our great London through the long night hours, was too much for the colonel. Ill and over-wrought, he turned white, staggered, and, throwing himself into the nearest chair, sobbed like a child.

Mrs. Desmond's maid sympathized too deeply with her injured mistress to find it possible to wait on Helen that night. But Helen's cause having been adjudicated a rightful one by the kitchen tribunal, where rough justice is meted out with impartiality as a rule, the poor wornout child had no lack of practical sympathy and help. She was soon in bed and asleep, and although she woke up with a curious stiff feeling all over her, she was by no means seriously the worse for her rash adventure.

She awoke in a very humble frame of mind, thoroughly ashamed of her flight, and half afraid to venture upon any more good resolutions. She knew with unerring instinct that her stepmother had not forgiven her, never would forgive her, and her heart sank as she thought of the sharp reproofs, the never-ending tasks that would most certainly be her portion for some time to come, until, perhaps, the memory of this fault was lost through the commission of another of still greater enormity.

"But I can never do anything so dreadful again, never!" said Helen to herself as she rose and dressed; "and I must be patient. Perhaps if I am she will even get to like me a little"—Mrs. Desmond was always inelegantly she in Helen's thoughts. "I don't know that I should care for that, though. But for father's sake, dear father! I had no idea he cared so much. I must never hurt him again."

After this she went down-stairs to practise her scales as usual, only very quietly and carefully, with no unnecessary faults. Things soon fell into their old channel, and, as she had anticipated, Helen had a good many small persecutions to endure, although Mrs. Desmond carefully avoided any open conflict with her stepdaughter. And in one way things were never so bad with Helen again after that memorable evening, for she never again doubted her father's love, and, as Cousin Mary had said, love makes so many things easy.

CHAPTER IV.

STRANGERS YET.

Spring did not fulfil its early promise that year. Those few warm days were followed by long weeks of bitter east wind, during which the tender green leaves grew dark and shrivelled, whilst even the daffodils and primroses that were hawked about the streets had a pinched, careworn look, as though their whole existence had been a struggle.

It almost seemed as though the east wind had penetrated inside the comfortable house in Bloomsbury Square, and had poisoned that tranquil atmosphere. Helen was no longer the only discordant element there. Mrs. Desmond, whose calm boast it had always hitherto been that she never allowed herself to be influenced by weather, suddenly developed mysterious pains in her head which her doctor declared to be neuralgia.

"The result of worry, I suppose?" suggested Mrs. Desmond with a mental reference to Helen.

"No doubt, no doubt," he returned indifferently, for he could not imagine that this patient's worries were very serious ones; "no doubt. Ladies will worry, you know. You want tone, plenty of strong nourishment, and a change in the wind, that will soon set you up."

The good doctor sighed a little as he walked down-stairs. It was so easy to order good nourishment for the mistress of this luxurious house where there was such absolute certainty that he would be obeyed. There were other houses distant not five minutes' walk, where the very words were a mockery. Suddenly he stopped. An idea had occurred to him, and he ran back.

"By the way," he said, re-opening the drawing-room door, "I am just going on to see a poor woman who is suffering much in the same way as yourself. She keeps herself and six children by her needle, poor soul. A few glasses of port wine—"