Helen and Arthur Part 19

"For all the universe could offer I would not be my sister's rival,"

cried Helen, rising impetuously, and looking round her with a wild startled expression. "I will go and tell her so at once. I will ask her to confide in me and trust me. I will go away if she wishes it. If my father is willing, I will live with Miss Thusa in the wild woods."

"Wait awhile," said Arthur, smiling at her vehemence, "wait Helen, patiently, firmly. When temptations arise, it is time to resist. I fear I have done wrong in giving premature warning, but the impulse was irresistible, in the silence of these twilight woods."

Helen looked up through the soft shadows to thank him again for his counsels, and promise that they should be the guide of her life, but the words died on her lips. There was something so darkly penetrating in the expression of his countenance, so earnest, yet troubled, so opposite to its usual serene gravity, that it infected her. Her heart beat violently, and for the first time in her life she felt embarra.s.sed in his presence.

That night Helen pressed a wakeful pillow. She felt many years older than when she rose in the morning, for the experience of the day had been so oppressive. She could not realize that she had thought and felt and learned so much in twelve short hours.

CHAPTER IX.

"All other pa.s.sions have their hour of thinking, And hear the voice of reason. This alone Breaks at the first suspicion into frenzy, And sweeps the soul in tempests."--_Shakspeare._

The day that Alice left, Helen felt very sad and lonely, but she struggled with her feelings, and busied herself as much as possible with the household arrangements. Mrs. Gleason took her into the chamber which Mittie had been occupying alone, and showed her every thing that had been prepared for her accommodation as well as her sister's. Helen was unbounded in her grat.i.tude, and thought the room a paradise, with its nice curtains, tasteful furniture and airy structure.

When night came on, Helen retired early to her chamber, leaving Mittie with Clinton. She left the light burning on the hearth, for the memory of the lonely spinster, invoking by her song the horrible being, who descended, piece-meal, down the chimney, had not died away. That was the very chamber in which Miss Thusa used to spin, and recite her dreadful tales, and Helen remembered them all. It had been papered, and painted, and renewed, but the chimney was the same, and the shadows rested there as darkly as ever.

When Mittie entered the room, Helen was already in that luxurious state between sleeping and waking, which admits of the consciousness of enjoyment, without its responsibility. She was reclining on the bed, shaded by the muslin curtains, with such an expression of innocence and peace on her countenance, it was astonishing how any one could have marred the tranquillity of her repose.

The entrance of her sister partially roused her, and the glare of the lamp upon her face completely awakened her.

"Oh! sister!" she cried, "I am so glad you have come. It is so long since we have slept together. I have been thinking how happy we can be, where so much has been done for our comfort and luxury."

"You can enjoy all the luxuries yourself," said Mittie, "and be welcome to them all. I am going to sleep in the next room, for I prefer being alone, as I have been before."

"Oh! Mittie, you are not going to leave me alone; you will not, surely, be so unkind?"

"I wonder if I were not left alone, while Alice was with you, and I wonder if I complained of unkindness!"

"But _you_ did not care. You are not dependent on others. I am sure if you had asked me, I would have spread a pallet on the floor, rather than have left you alone."

"Helen, you are too old now to be such a baby," said Mittie, impatiently; "it is time you were cured of your foolish fears of being alone. You make yourself perfectly ridiculous by such nonsense."

She busied herself gathering her night-clothes as she spoke, and took the lamp from the table.

Helen sprang from the bed, and stood between Mittie and the door.

"No," said she, "if we must separate, I will go. You need not leave the chamber which has so long been yours. I do dread being alone, but alas!

I must be lonely wherever I am, unless I have a heart to lean upon. Oh!

Mittie, if you knew how I _could_ love you, you would let me throw my arms around you, and find a pillow on your sisterly breast."

She looked pleadingly, wistfully at Mittie, while tears glittered in her soft, earnest eyes.

"Foolish, foolish child!" cried Mittie, setting down the lamp petulantly, and tossing her night-dress on the bed--"stay where you are, but do not inflict too much sentiment on me--you know I never liked it."

"No," said Helen, thoughtfully, "I might disturb you, and perhaps if I once conquer my timidity, I shall be victor for life. I should like to make the trial, and I may as well begin to-night as any time. I do not wish to be troublesome, or intrude my company on any one."

Helen's gentle spirit was roused by the arbitrary manner in which Mittie had treated her, and she found courage to act as her better judgment approved. She was sorry she had pleaded so earnestly for what she might have claimed as a right, and resolved to leave her sister to the solitude she so much coveted.

With a low, but cold "good night," she glided from the apartment, closed the door, pa.s.sed through the pa.s.sage, entered a lonely chamber, and kneeling down by the bedside, prayed to be delivered from the bondage of fear, and the haunting phantoms of her own imagination. When she laid her head upon the pillow, she felt strong in the resolution she had exercised, glad that she had dared to resist her own weak, irresolute heart. She drew aside the window curtains and let the stars shine down brightly on her face. How could she feel alone, with such a glorious company all round and about her? How could she fear, when so many radiant lamps were lighted to disperse the darkness? Gradually the quick beating of her heart subsided, the moistened lashes shut down over her dazzled eyes, and she slept quietly till the breaking of morn. When she awoke, and recalled the struggles she had gone through, she rejoiced at the conquest she had obtained over herself. She was sure if Arthur Hazleton knew it, he would approve of her conduct, and she was glad that she cherished no vindictive feelings towards Mittie.

"She certainly has a right to her preferences," she said; "if she likes solitude, I ought not to blame her for seeking it, and I dare say my company is dull and insipid to her. I must have seemed weak and foolish to her, she who never knew what fear or weakness is."

As she was leaving her room, with many a vivid resolution to conquer her besetting weaknesses, her step-mother entered, unconscious that the chamber had an occupant. She looked around with surprise, and Helen feared, with displeasure.

"Mittie preferred sleeping alone," she hastened to say, "and I thought she had a prior right to the other apartment."

"Selfish, selfish to the heart's core!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mrs. Gleason. "But, my dear child, I cannot allow you to be the victim of an arbitrary will.

The more you yield, the more concessions will be required. You know not, dream not, of Mittie's imperious and exacting nature."

"I begin to believe, dear mother, that the discipline we most need, we receive. I did feel very unhappy last night, and when I entered this room, the dread of remaining all alone, in darkness and silence, almost stopped the beatings of my heart. It was the first time I ever pa.s.sed a night without some companion, for every one has indulged my weakness, which they believed const.i.tutional. But after the first few moments--a sense of G.o.d's presence and protection, of the guardianship of angels, of the nearness of Heaven, hushed all my fears, and filled me with a kind of divine tranquillity. Oh! mother, I feel so much better this morning for the trial, that I thank Mittie for having cast me, as it were, on the bosom of G.o.d."

"With such a spirit, Helen," said her step-mother, tenderly embracing her, "you will be able to meet whatever trials the discipline of your life may need. Self-reliance and G.o.d-reliance are the two great principles that must sustain us. We must do our duty, and leave the result to Providence. And, believe me, Helen, it is a species of ingrat.i.tude to suffer ourselves to be made unhappy by the faults of others, for which we are not responsible, when blessings are cl.u.s.tering richly round us."

Helen felt strengthened by the affectionate counsels of her step-mother, and did not allow the cloud on Mittie's brow to dim the sunshine of hers. Mindful of the warnings of the young doctor, she avoided Clinton as much as possible, whose deep blue eyes with their long sable lashes often rested on her with an expression she could not define, and which she shrunk from meeting. True to her promise she visited Miss Thusa once a day, and took her spinning lessons, till she could turn the wheel like a fairy, and manufacture thread as smooth and silky as her venerable teacher. She insisted on bleaching it also, and flew about among the long gra.s.s, with her bright watering pot, like a living flower sprung up in the wilderness.

She was returning one evening from the cabin at a rather later hour than usual, for she was becoming more and more courageous, and could walk through the woods without starting at every sound. The trees were now beginning to a.s.sume the magnificent hues of autumn, and glowed with mingled scarlet, orange, emerald, and purple. There was such a brightness, such a glory in these variegated dyes, that they took away all impression of loneliness, and the crumpling of the dry, yellow leaves in the path had a sociable, pleasant sound. She hoped Arthur Hazleton would return before this jewelry of the woods had faded away, that she might walk with him through their gorgeous foliage, and hear from his lips the deep moral of the waning season. She reached the gray rock where Arthur had seated her, and sitting down on a thick cushion of fallen leaves, she remembered every word he had said to her the evening before his departure.

"Why are you sitting so mute and lonely here, fair Helen?" said a musical voice close to her ear, and Clinton suddenly came and took a seat by her side. Helen felt embarra.s.sed by his unexpected presence, and wished that she could free herself from it without rudeness.

"I am gazing on the beauty of the autumnal woods," she replied, her cheeks glowing like the scarlet maple leaves.

"I should think such contemplation better fitted one less young and bright and fair," said Clinton. "Miss Thusa, for instance, in her time-gray home.

"I am sure nothing can be brighter or more glorious than these colors,"

said Helen, making a motion to rise. It seemed to her she could see the black eyes of Mittie gleaming at her through the rustling foliage.

"Do not go yet," said Clinton. "This is such a sweet, quiet hour--and it is the first time I have seen you alone since the morning after your arrival. What have I done that you shun me as an enemy, and refuse me the slightest token of confidence and regard?"

"I am not conscious of showing such great avoidance," said Helen, more and more embarra.s.sed. "I am so much of a stranger, and it seemed so natural that you should prefer the society of Mittie, I considered my absence a favor to both."

"Till you came," he replied, in a low, persuasive accent, "I did find a charm in her society unknown before, but now I feel every thought and feeling and hope turned into a new channel. Even before you came, I felt you were to be my destiny. Stay, Helen, you shall not leave me till I have told you what my single heart is too narrow to contain."

"Let me go," cried Helen, struggling to release the hand which he had taken, and springing from her rocky seat. "It is not right to talk to me in this manner, and I will not hear you. It is false to Mittie, and insulting to me."

"I should be false to Mittie should I pretend to love her now, when my whole heart and soul are yours," exclaimed the young man, vehemently. "I can no more resist the impulse that draws me to you, than I can stay the beatings of this wildly throbbing heart. Love, Helen, cannot be forced, neither can it be restrained."

"I know nothing of love," cried Helen, pressing on her homeward path, with a terror she dared not betray, "nor do I wish to know--but one thing I do know--I feel nothing but dread in your presence. You make me wretched and miserable. I am sure if you have the feelings of a gentleman you will leave me after telling you this."

"The more you urge me to flee, the more firmly am I rooted to your side.

You do not know your own heart, Helen. You are so young and guileless.

It is not dread of me, but your sister's displeasure that makes you tremble with fear. You cannot fear me, Helen--you _must_, you _will_, you _shall_ love me."

Helen was now wrought up to a pitch of excitement and terror that was perfectly uncontrollable. Every word uttered by Clinton seemed burned in--on her brain, not her heart, and she pressed both hands on her forehead, as if to put out the flame.