Helen and Arthur Part 22

Helen had recovered from the double shock she had received the night previous to Clinton's departure, but she was not the same Helen that she was before. Her childhood was gone. The flower leaves of her heart unfolded, not by the soft, genial sunshine, but torn open by the whirlwind's power. Never more could she meet Arthur Hazleton with the innocent freedom which had made their intercourse so delightful. If he took her hand, she trembled and withdrew it. If she met his eye, she blushed and turned away her glance--that eye, which though it flashed not with the fires of pa.s.sion, had such depth, and strength, and intensity in its expression. Her embarra.s.sment was contagious, and constraint and reserve took the place of confidence and ingenuousness; like the semi-transparent drapery over a beautiful picture, which suffers the lineaments to be traced, while the warm coloring and brightness of life are chilled and obscured.

The sisters were as much estranged as if they were the inmates of different abodes. Mrs. Gleason had prepared a room for Helen adjoining her own, resolved she should be removed as far as possible from Mittie's dagger tongue. Thus Mittie was left to the solitude she courted, and which no one seemed disposed to disturb. She remained the most of her time in her own chamber, seldom joining the family except at table, where she appeared more like a stranger than a daughter or a sister. She seemed to take no interest in any thing around her, nor did she seek to inspire any. She looked paler than formerly, and a purplish shade dimmed the brilliancy of her dazzling eyes.

"You look pale, my daughter," her father would sometimes say. "I fear you are not well."

"I am perfectly well," she would answer, with a manner so cold and distant, sympathy was at once repelled.

"Will you not sit with us?" Mrs. Gleason would frequently ask, as she and Helen drew near the blazing fire, with their work-baskets or books, for winter was now abroad in the land. "Will you not read to us, or with us?"

"I prefer being in my own room," was the invariable answer; and usually at night, when the curtains were let down, and the lamps lighted in the apartment, warm and glowing with the genialities and comforts of home, the young doctor would come in and occupy Mittie's vacant seat.

Notwithstanding the comparative coldness and reserve of Helen's manners, his visits became more and more frequent. He seemed reconciled to the loss of the ingenuous, confiding child, since he had found in its stead the growing charms of womanhood.

Arthur was a fine reader. His voice had that minor key which touches the chords of tenderness and feeling--that voice so sweet at the fireside, so adapted to poetry and all deep and earnest thoughts. He did not read on like a machine, without pausing to make remark or criticism, but his beautiful, eloquent commentaries came in like the symphonies of an organ. He drew forth the latent enthusiasm of Helen, who, forgetting herself and Mittie's withering accusations, expressed her sentiments with a grace, simplicity and fervor peculiar to herself. At the commencement of the evening she generally took her sewing from the basket, and her needle would flash and fly like a shooting arrow, but gradually her hands relaxed, the work fell into her lap, and yielding to the combined charms of genius and music, the divine music of the human voice, she gave herself up completely to the rapture of drinking in

"Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, The listener held her breath to hear."

If Arthur lifted his eyes from the page, which he had a habit of doing, he was sure to encounter a glance of bright intelligence and thrilling sensibility, instantaneously withdrawn, and then he often lost his place, skipped over a paragraph, or read the same sentence a second time, while that rich mantling glow, so seldom seen on the cheek of manhood, stole slowly over his face.

These were happy evenings, and Helen could have exclaimed with little Frank in the primer, "Oh! that winter would last forever!" And yet there were times when she as well as her parents was oppressed with a weight of anxious sorrow that was almost insupportable, on account of Louis. He came not, he wrote not--and the only letter received from him had excited the most painful apprehensions for his moral safety. It contained shameful records of his past deviations from rect.i.tude, and judging of the present by the past, they had every reason to fear that he had become an alien from virtue and home. Mr. Gleason seldom spoke of him, but his long fits of abstraction, the gloom of his brow, and the inquietude of his eye, betrayed the anxiety and grief rankling within.

Helen knew not the contents of her brother's letter, nor the secret cause of grief that preyed on her father's mind, but his absence and silence were trials over which she openly and daily mourned with deep and increasing sorrow.

"We shall hear from him to-morrow. He will come to-morrow." This was the nightly lullaby to her disappointed and murmuring heart.

Mittie likewise repeated to herself the same refrain "He will come to-morrow. He will write to-morrow." But it was not of Louis that the prophecy was breathed. It was of another, who had become the one thought.

Helen had not forgotten her old friend Miss Thusa, whom the rigors of winter confined more closely than ever to her lonely cabin. Almost every day she visited her, and even if the ground were covered with snow, and icicles hung from the trees, there was a path through the woods, printed with fairy foot-tracks, that showed where Helen had walked. Mr. Gleason supplied the solitary spinster with wood ready out for the hearth, had her cottage banked with dark red tan, and furnished her with many comforts and luxuries. He never forgot her devoted attachment to his dead wife, who had commended to his care and kindness the lone woman on her dying bed. Mrs. Gleason frequently accompanied Helen in her visits, and as Miss Thusa said, "always came with full hands and left a full heart behind her." Helen sometimes playfully asked her to tell her the history of the wheel so long promised, but she put her off with a shake of the head, saying--"she should hear it by and by, when the right time was at hand."

"But when is the right time, Miss Thusa?" asked Helen. "I begin to think it is to-morrow."

"To-morrow never comes," replied Miss Thusa, solemnly, "but death does.

When his footsteps cross the old stile and tramp over the mossy door-stones, I'll tell you all about that ancient machine. It won't do any good till then. You are too young yet. I feel better than I did in autumn, and may last longer than I thought I should--but, perhaps, when the ground thaws in the spring the old tree will loosen and fall--or break off suddenly near the root. I have seen such things in my day."

"Oh! Miss Thusa," said Helen, "I never want to hear any thing about it, if its history is to be bought so dear--indeed I do not."

"Only if you should marry, child, before I die," continued Miss Thusa, musingly, "you shall know then. It is not very probable that such will be the case; but it is astonishing how young girls shoot up into womanhood, now-a-days."

"It will be a long time before I shall think of marrying, Miss Thusa,"

answered Helen, laughing. "I believe I will live as you do, in a cottage of my own, with my wheel for companion and familiar friend."

"It is not such as you that are born to live alone," said the spinster, pa.s.sing her hand lovingly over Helen's fair, warm cheek. "You are a love-vine that must have something to grow upon. No, no--don't talk in that way. It don't sound natural. It don't come from the heart. Now _I_ was made to be by myself. I never saw the man I wanted to live one day with--much less all the days of my life. They may say this is sour grapes, and call me an old maid, but I don't care for that; I must have my own way, and I know it is a strange one; and there never was a man created that didn't want to have his. You laugh, child. I hope you will never find it out to your cost. But you havn't any will of your own; so it will be all as it should be, after all."

"Oh, yes I have, Miss Thusa; I like to have my own way as well as any one--when I think I am right."

"What makes your cheeks redden so, and your heart flutter like a bird caught in a snare?" cried the spinster, looking thoughtfully, almost sorrowfully, into Helen's soft, loving, hazel eyes. "_That step_ doesn't cross my threshold so often for nothing. You would know it in an army of ten thousand."

The door opened and Arthur Hazleton entered. The day was cold, and a comfortable fire blazed in the chimney. The fire-beams that were reflected from Helen's glowing cheek might account for its burning rose, for it even gave a warmer tint to Miss Thusa's dark, gray form. Arthur drew his chair near Helen, who as usual occupied a little stool in the corner.

"What magnificent strings of coral you have, Miss Thusa?" said he, looking up to a triple garland of red peppers, strung on some of her own unbleached linen thread, and suspended over the fire-place. "I suppose they are more for ornament than use."

"I never had any thing for ornament in my life," said Miss Thusa. "I supply the whole neighborhood with peppers; and I do think a drink of pepper tea helps one powerfully to bear the winter's cold."

"I think I must make you my prime minister, Miss Thusa," said the young doctor, "for I scarcely ever visit a patient, that I don't find some traces of your benevolence, in the shape of balmy herbs and medicinal shrubs. How much good one can do in the world if they only think of it!"

"It is little good that I've ever done," cried the spinster. "All my comfort is that I havn't done a great deal of harm."

Opening the door of a closet, at the right of the chimney, she stooped to lift a log of wood, but Arthur springing up, antic.i.p.ated her movement, and replenished the already glowing hearth.

"You keep glorious fires, Miss Thusa," said he, retreating from the hot sparkles that came showering on the hearth, and the magnificent blaze that roared grandly up the chimney.

"It is _her_ father that sends me the wood--and if it isn't his daughter that is warmed by my fire-side, let the water turn to ice on these bricks."

"And now, Miss Thusa," said the young doctor, "while we are enjoying this hospitable warmth, tell us one of those good old-fashioned stories, Helen used to love so much to hear. It is a long time since I have heard one--and I am sure Helen will thank me for the suggestion."

"I ought to be at my wheel, instead of fooling with my tongue," replied Miss Thusa, jerking her spectacles down on the bridge of her nose. "I shan't earn the salt of my porridge at this rate; besides there's too much light; somehow or other, I never could feel like reciting them in broad daylight. There must be a sort of a shadow, to make me inspired."

"Please Miss Thusa, oblige the doctor this time," pleaded Helen. "I'll come and spin all day to-morrow for you, and send you a sack of salt beside."

"Set a kitten to spinning!" exclaimed Miss Thusa, her grim features relaxing into a smile--putting at the same time her wheel against the wall, and seating herself in the corner opposite to Helen.

"Thank you," cried Helen, "I knew you would not refuse. Now please tell us something gentle and beautiful--something that will make us better and happier. Ghosts, you know, never appear till darkness comes. The angels do."

Miss Thusa, sat looking into the fire, with a musing, dreamy expression, or rather on the ashes, which formed a gray bed around the burning coals. Her thoughts were, however, evidently wandering inward, through the dim streets and shadowy aisles of that Herculaneum of the soul--memory.

Arthur laid his hand with an admonishing motion on Helen, whose lips parted to speak, and the trio sat in silence for a few moments, waiting the coming inspiration. It has been so often said that we do not like to repeat the expression, but it really would have been a study for a painter--that old, gray room (for the walls being unpainted were of the color of Miss Thusa's dress;) the antique, bra.s.s-bound wheel, the scarlet tracery over the chimney, and the three figures illuminated by the flame-light of the blazing chimney. It played, that flame-light, with rich, warm l.u.s.tre on Helen's soft, brown hair and roseate cheek, quivered with purplish radiance among Arthur's darker locks--and lighted up with a sunset glow, Miss Thusa's h.o.a.ry tresses.

"Gentle and beautiful!" repeated the oracle. "Yes! every thing seems beautiful to the young. If I could remember ever feeling young, I dare say beautiful memories would come back to me. 'Tis very strange, though, that the older I grow, the pleasanter are the pictures that are reflected on my mind. The way grows smoother and clearer. I suppose it is like going out on a dark night--at first you can hardly see the hand before you, but as you go groping along, it lightens up more and more."

She paused, looked from Arthur Hazleton to Helen, then from Helen to Arthur, as if she were endeavoring to embue her spirit with the grace and beauty of youth.

"I remember a tale," she resumed, "which I heard or read, long, long ago--which perhaps I've never told. It is about a young Prince, who was heir to a great kingdom, somewhere near the place where the garden of Eden once was. When the King, his father, was on his death bed, he called his son to him, and told him that he was going to die.

"'And now, my son,' he said, 'remember my parting words. I leave you all alone, without father or mother, brother or sister--without any one to love or love you. Last night I had a dream, and you know G.o.d's will was made known in dreams, to holy men of old. There came, in my dream, an aged man, with a beard as white as ermine, that hung down like a mantle over his breast, with a wand in his right hand, and stood beside my bed.

"'Hear my words,' he exclaimed, in a solemn voice, 'and tell them to your son. When you are dead and gone, let him gird himself for a long pilgrimage. If he stay here, he will be turned into a marble statue. To avert this doom, he must travel through the world till he finds a young maiden's warm, living heart--and the maiden must be fair and good, and be willing to let the knife enter her bosom, and her heart be taken bleeding thence. And then he must travel farther still, till a white dove shall come from the East, and fold its wings on his breast. If you would save your kingdom and your son, command him to do this. It is the will of the Most High.'

"The old man departed, but his words echoed like thunder in my ears.

Obey him, my son, the vision came from above.

"The young Prince saw his father laid in the tomb, then prepared himself for his pilgrimage. He did not like the idea of being turned into marble, neither did he like the thought of taking the heart of a young and innocent maiden, if he should find one willing to make the offering--which he did not believe. The Prince had a bright eye and a light step, and he was dressed in brave attire. The maidens looked out of the windows as he pa.s.sed along, and the young men sighed with envy.

He came to a great palace, and being a King's son, he thought he had a right to enter it; and there he saw a young and beautiful lady, all shining with diamonds and pearls. There was a great feast waiting in the hall, and she asked him to stay, and pressed him to eat and drink, and gave him many gla.s.ses of wine, as red as rubies. After the feast was over, and he felt most awfully as he did it, he begged for her heart, the tears glittering in his eyes for sorrow. She smiled, and told him it was already his--but--when with a shaking hand he took a knife, and aimed it at her breast, she screamed and rushed out of the hall, as if the evil one was behind her--Don't interrupt me, child--don't--I shall forget it all if you do. Well, the Prince went on his way, thinking the old man had sent him on a fool's errand--but he dared not disobey his dead father, seeing he was a King. It would take me from sun to sun to tell of all the places where he stopped, and of all the screaming and threatening that followed him wherever he went. It is a wonder he did not turn deaf as an adder. At last he got very tired and sorrowful, and sat down by the wayside and wept, thinking he would rather turn to marble at once, than live by such a horrible remedy. He saw a little cabin close by, but he had hardly strength to reach it, and he thought he would stay there and die.

"'What makes you weep?' said a voice so sweet he thought it was music itself, and looking up, he saw a young maiden, who had come up a path behind him, with a pitcher of water on her head. She was beautiful and fair to look upon, though her dress was as plain as could be. She offered him water to drink, and told him if he would go with her to the little cabin, her mother would give him something to eat, and a bed to lie upon, for the night dew was beginning to fall. He had not on his fine dress at this time, having changed it for that of a young peasant, thinking perhaps he would succeed better in disguise. So he followed her steps, and they gave him milk, and bread, and honey, and a nice bed to sleep upon, though it was somewhat hard and coa.r.s.e. And there he fell sick, and they nursed him day after day, and brought him back to health.

The young maiden grew more lovely in his eye, and her voice sounded more and more sweet in his ear. Sometimes he thought of the sacrifice he was to ask, but he could not do it. No, he would die first. One night, the old man with the long, white beard, came in his dream, to his bedside.

He looked dark and frowning.

"'This is the maiden,' he cried, 'your pilgrimage is ended here. Do as thou art bidden, and then depart.'