Helen and Arthur Part 24

"Tell me, Mittie," he cried, "the whole length and breadth of the interest you have in this young man. I have suffered you to elude this subject too long. I have borne with your proud and sullen reserve too long. I have been weak and irresolute in times past, but thoroughly aroused to a sense of my authority and responsibility as a father, as well as my duty as a man, I command you to tell me all that has pa.s.sed between you and Bryant Clinton. Has he proffered you marriage? Has he exchanged with you the vows of betrothal? Have you gone so far without my knowledge or approval?"

"I cannot answer such questions, sir," she haughtily replied, the hot blood rushing into her face and filling her forehead veins with purple.

"You have no right to ask them in this presence. There are some subjects too sacred for investigation, and this is one. There are limits even to a father's authority, and I protest against its encroachments."

Those who are slow to arouse to anger are slow to be appeased. The flame that is long in kindling generally burns with long enduring heat. Mr.

Gleason had borne, with unexampled patience, Mittie's strange and wayward temper. For the sake of family peace he had sacrificed his own self-respect, which required deference and obedience in a child. But having once broken the spell which had chained his tongue, and meeting a resisting will, his own grew stronger and more determined.

"Do you dare thus to reply to _me_, your father?" cried he; "you will find there are limits to a father's indulgence, too. Trifle not with my anger, but give me the answer I require."

"Never, sir, never," cried she, with a mien as undaunted as Charlotte Corday's, that "angel of a.s.sa.s.sination," when arraigned before the tribunal of justice.

"Did you never hear of a discarded child?" said he, his voice sinking almost to a whisper, it was so choked with pa.s.sion.

"Yes, sir."

"And do you not fear such a doom?"

"No, sir."

"My husband," exclaimed Mrs. Gleason, laying her hand imploringly on his shoulder, "be calm. Seek not by violence to break the stubborn will which kindness cannot bend. Let not our fireside be a scene of domestic contention, which we shall blush to recall. Leave her to the dark and sullen secrecy she prefers to our tenderness and sympathy. And, one thing I beseech you, my husband, suspend your judgment of the character of Clinton till Louis is able to explain all that is doubtful and mysterious. He is weary now, and needs rest instead of excitement."

There was magic in the touch of that gentle hand, in the tones of that persuasive voice. The father's stern brow relaxed, and a cloud of the deepest sadness extinguished the fiery anger of his glance. The cloud condensed and melted away in tears. Helen saw them, though he turned away, and shaded his face with his hand, and putting her arms round him, she kissed the hand which hung loosely at his side. This act, so tender and respectful, touched him to the heart's core.

"My child, my darling, my own sweet Helen," he cried, pressing her fondly to his bosom. "You have always been gentle, loving and obedient.

You have never wilfully given me one moment's sorrow. In the name of thy beautiful mother I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed."

The excitement of his feelings gave an exalted tone to his voice and words, and as the benediction stole solemnly into her heart, Helen felt as if the plumage of the white dove was folded in downy softness there.

In the meantime Mittie had quitted the room, and Mrs. Gleason drawing near Louis, sat down by him, and addressed him in a kind, cheering manner.

"These heavy locks must be shorn to-morrow," said she, pa.s.sing her hand over his long, dark hair. "They sadden your countenance too much. A night's sleep, too, will bring back the color to your face. You are over weary now. Retire, my son, and banish every emotion but grat.i.tude for your return. You are safe now, and all will yet be well."

"Oh, mother," he answered, suffering his head to droop upon her shoulder, then suddenly lifting it, "I am not worthy to rest on this sacred pillow. I am not worthy to touch the hem of your garments, but if the deepest repentance--the keenest remorse," he paused, for his voice faltered, then added, pa.s.sionately, "oh, mother--

'Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy sirups of the world Can ever medicine me to the sweet sleep'

I once slept beneath this hallowed roof."

"No, my son--but there is a remedy more balmy and powerful than all the drugs of the East, which you can obtain without money and without price."

Louis shook his head mournfully.

"I will give you an anodyne to-night, prepared by my own hand, and to-morrow--"

"Give me the anodyne, kindest and best of mothers, but don't, for Heaven's sake, talk of to-morrow."

But whether man speak or be silent, Time, the unresting traveler, presses on. Never but once have its chariot wheels been stayed, when the sun stood still on the plains of Gibeon, and the moon hung pale and immovable over the vale of Ajalon. Sorrow and remorse are great prophets, but Time is greater still, and they can no more arrest or accelerate its progress than the breath of a new-born infant can move the eternal mountains from their base.

Louis slept, thanks to his step-mother's anodyne, and the dreaded morrow came, when the broad light of day must reveal all the inroads the indulgence of guilty pa.s.sions had caused. Another revelation must be made. He knew his father would demand a full history of his conduct, and it was a relief to his burdened conscience, that had so long groaned under the weight of secret transgressions, to cast itself prostrate at the feet of parental authority in the dust and ashes of humiliation. But while he acknowledged and deplored his own vices, he could not criminate Clinton. He implored his father to inflict upon him any penalty, however severe, he knew, he felt it to be just, but not to require of him to treat his friend with ingrat.i.tude and insult. His stay would not be long. He must return very soon to Virginia. He had been prevented from doing so by a fatal and contagious disease that had been raging in the neighborhood of his home, and when that subsided, other accidental causes had constantly interfered with his design. Must the high-spirited Virginian go back to his native regions with the story so oft repeated of New England coldness and inhospitality verified in his own experience?

"Say no more," said his father. "I will reflect on all you have said, and you shall know the result. Now, come with me to the counting-house, and let me see if you can put your mathematics to any practical use.

Employment is the greatest safeguard against temptation."

There was one revelation which Louis did not make, and that was the amount of his debts. He dared not do it, though again and again he had opened his lips to tell it.

"To-morrow I will do it," thought he--but before the morrow came he recollected the words of Miss Thusa, uttered the last time he had visited her cabin--"If you should get into trouble and not want to vex those that are kin, you can come to me, and if you don't despise my counsel and a.s.sistance perhaps it may do you good." This had made but little impression on him at the time, but it came back to him now "_powerfully_" as Miss Thusa would say; and he thought it possible there was more meant than reached the ear. He remembered how meaningly, how even commandingly her gray eye had fixed itself on him as she spoke, and he believed in the great love which the ancient spinster bore him. At any rate he knew she would be gratified by such a proof of confidence on his part, and that with Spartan integrity she would guard the trust. It would be a relief to confide in her.

He waited till twilight and then appeared an unexpected but welcome visitor at the Hermitage, as Helen called the old gray cottage. The light in the chimney was dim, and she was hastening to kindle a more cheering blaze.

"No, Miss Thusa," said he, "I love this soft gloom. There's no need of a blaze to talk by, you know."

"But I want to see you, Louis. It is long since we've watched your coming. Many a time has Helen sat where you are now, and talked about you till the tears would run down her cheeks, wondering why you didn't come, and fearing some evil had befallen you. I've had my misgivings, too, though I never breathed them to mortal ear, ever since you went off with that long-haired upstart, who fumbled so about my wheel, trying to fool me with his soft nonsense. What has become of him?"

"He is at home, I believe--but you are too harsh in your judgment, Miss Thusa. It is strange what prejudiced you so against him."

"Something _here_," cried the spinster, striking her hand against her heart; "something that G.o.d put here, not man. I'm glad you and he have parted company; and I'm glad for more sakes than one. I never loved Mittie, but she's her mother's child, and I don't like the thought of her being miserable for life. And now, Louis, what do you want me to do for you? I can see you are in trouble, though you don't want the fire to blaze on your face. You forget I wear gla.s.ses, though they are not always at home, where they ought to be, on the bridge of my nose."

"You told me if I needed counsel or a.s.sistance, to come to you and not trouble my kindred. I am in distress, Miss Thusa, and it is my own fault. I'm in debt. I owe money that I cannot raise; I cannot tax my father again to pay the wages of sin. Tell me now how you can aid me; _you_, poor and lonely, earning only a scanty pittance by the flax on your distaff, and as ignorant of the world as simple-hearted Helen herself?"

Miss Thusa leaned her head forward on both hands, swaying her body slowly backward and forward for a few seconds; then taking the poker, she gave the coals a great flourish, which made the sparks fly to the top of the chimney.

"I'll try to help you," said she, "but if you have been doing wrong and been led away by evil companions, he, your father, ought to know it.

Better find it out from yourself than anybody else."

"He knows all my misconduct," replied Louis, raising his head with an air of pride. "I would scorn to deceive him. And yet," he added, with a conscious blush, "you may accuse me of deception in this instance. He has not asked me the sum I owe--and Heaven knows I could not go and thrust my bills in his face. I thought perhaps there was some usurer, whom you had heard of, who could let me have the money. They are debts of honor, and must be paid."

"Of _honor_!" repeated Miss Thusa, with a tone of ineffable contempt. "I thought you had more sense, Louis, than to talk in that nonsensical way.

It's more--it's downright wicked. I know what it all means, well enough.

They're debts you are ashamed of, that you had no business to make, that you dare not let your father know of; and yet you call them debts of honor."

Louis rose from his seat with a haughty and offended air.

"I was a fool to come," he muttered to himself; "I might have known better. The Evil Spirit surely prompted me."

Then walking rapidly to the door, he said--

"I came here for comfort and advice, Miss Thusa, according to your own bidding, not to listen to railings that can do no good to you or to me.

I had been to you so often in my boyish difficulties, and found sympathy and kindness, I thought I should find it now. I know I do not deserve it, but I nevertheless expected it from you. But it is no matter. I may as well brave the worst at once."

s.n.a.t.c.hing up his hat and pulling it over his brows, he was about to shoot through the door, when the long arm of Miss Thusa was interposed as a barrier against him.

"There is no use in being angry with an old woman like me," said she, in a pacifying tone, just as she would soothe a fretful child. "I always speak what I think, and it is the truth, too--Gospel truth, and you know it. But come, come, sit down like a good boy, and let us talk it all over. There--I won't say another cross word to-night."

The first smile which had lighted up the face of Louis since his return, flitted over his lip, as Miss Thusa pushed him down into the chair he had quitted, and drew her own close to it.

"Now," said she, "tell me how much money you want, and I'll try to get it for you. Have faith in me. That can work wonders."

After Louis had made an unreserved communication of the whole, she told him to come the next day.