The reader — whom it is an author’s happy privilege to suppose profoundly interested in the book before him — may possibly have felt some little inquisitiveness relative to Mr. Gilbert Gresham’s movements since he took prudent flight before the dangerous attractions of his ward. Prior to the autumn of the present year, the artist had maintained desultory communication with the house in Portland Place, his brief letters being in each case addressed to Mrs. Cumberbatch. He always requested to be kindly remembered to Miss Norman, and desired that she would not fail to acquaint him with any service he could perform for her. Politeness required such sentences as these, and it was very rarely indeed that Mr. Gresham deviated from the laws of conventional courtesy. For the rest, he appeared to have perfectly recovered his health and spirits. He was somewhat unsettled, living principally in Italy, with an occasional visit to Switzerland or Germany; but lately he gravitated towards Paris, always his favourite city, but which he could not persuade himself to visit till quite assured that he should find there peace and quietude. His art was by no means neglected. During the present year, he had sent several pictures to England, three of which had found a place in the Academy exhibition.
But, early in August, Mrs. Cumberbatch had received a letter from her nephew, containing more momentous news than that with which his epistles were ordinarily freighted. In the first place, he acquainted his aunt with the fact that the end of the month would in all probability see him again in England. He was coming over with a party of friends from Paris, who were desirous of making a brief tour in the United Kingdom, some half-dozen of whom he would probably entertain for a few weeks at his house before they commenced, and as they returned from their expedition. The next and more important item of intelligence, was to the effect that the lease of the house in Portland Place terminated on Christmas Day of the present year, and that, all things considered, he did not think he should renew it. He was at present in negotiation for the purchase of a house in Versailles. Should he effect this purchase, he should take up his abode indefinitely in France. Nothing was said of either Mrs. Cumberbatch or Helen Norman. The former might, of course, consider herself as very shortly to be de trop. The latter, when made acquainted with the contents of this letter, could not help wondering somewhat anxiously what views her worthy guardian entertained with regard to her future.
The suspense of both was put to an end when, towards the middle of August, Mr. Gresham himself appeared, accompanied by the threatened Parisian friends. The meeting with her guardian was not so awkward as Helen had feared. Mr. Gresham had come forward to meet her with a pleasant smile, and, whilst shaking her hand, had spoken a few agreeable words in a manner as far from embarrassment as could well be imagined. He was evidently quite his old self, with the exception that his cynicism had become even a little more pronounced. Throughout his guests’ stay, he spoke but little with Helen, limiting himself to gentlemanly solicitude on the score of her health, and exchanging a few words with regard to Maud and her husband, both of whom, bye-the-by, were present once or twice to meet the French visitors. Helen could not help marvelling where his paternal feelings had gone to when he spoke on the latter subject. He mentioned Maud very much as he would have mentioned any newly-married young lady with whom he had been acquainted, and appeared glad that she moved a good deal in the world. Maud rather wanted ton he said, and in this way she would acquire it.
Helen was rather surprised that her guardian made no mention to her of his proposed change of residence, and at length concluded that either he had altered his mind, or he would not speak on the subject till his return from the tour. But, on the last day, Mr. Gresham intimated to her that he would be glad of half-an-hour’s private conversation in the library, and she went thither with pleasure in the prospect of having her doubts solved.
Mr. Gresham stood with his back to the fire when his ward entered, and, stepping forward with a motion of the utmost politeness, he begged her to be seated. He began to speak as if the conversation was to be no more than an ordinary one.
“I am glad to see, Miss Norman,” he said, with a smile of polished cynicism, “that you have abandoned to ruder, and therefore more suitable, hands the task with which you were employed when I left England.”
He had always addressed her as Miss Norman since his return, never as Helen.
“I fear I have obtained your good opinion by false pretences,” replied Helen, also smiling, though in her own frank manner.
“What! You still play the part of an aggravated species of sister of mercy?”
“I still do what little good I can,” she replied.
“But I think you have never been absent for any great time since we have been here?”
“It would have been scarcely respectful to these ladies and gentlemen to absent myself each day.”
“And you continue to go to the unknown regions of the East?”
“There is still no lack of employment there.”
He paused for a few moments, still smiling, though with a subdued expression of surprise upon his countenance.
“Mrs. Cumberbatch probably acquainted you,” he resumed, “with my intention to give up this house, and live near Paris?”
“She did.”
“Yes,” he continued, looking up to the ceiling with a curious smile of self-ridicule. “I hesitated long and gravely between the Dorsetshire farm and a very passable little house in Versailles, and at length I arrived at the conclusion that my temperament lacked somewhat the bucolic side. It is just possible I might be ennuyé in Dorsetshire before many years had passed, just possible. So I decided ultimately for Versailles. Do you approve the choice, Miss Norman?”
“I think you did wisely to follow your individual tastes.”
“You do? Then I am happy. Well, my lease here is out at Christmas. Do you think you can arrange with Mrs. Cumberbatch to be ready by then?”
“You forget, Mr. Gresham, that you have not acquainted me with your plans regarding both of us.”
“My plans?” he returned, with an affectation of surprise. “Mais certainement — pardon me, I should say, certainly I have. Of course my house is entirely at your service, Miss Norman, whether it be situated in London or Versailles.”
Helen stood silent in extreme surprise.
“Have you any objection to living in France?” continued Mr. Gresham.
“No objection on the score of the country,” she replied. “But at present I could not think of leaving London. I need not explain my reasons, Mr. Gresham. In your eyes they are foolish enough, no doubt, but with me they outweigh every consideration.”
“Mon Dieu! Ces Anglaises!” exclaimed the artist, imitating with comical accuracy the tone and gesture of a Frenchman. “Well, to tell you the truth, Miss Norman, I was more than half prepared for this, and I had considered the contingency. Probably if I proposed it to you, you would only too gladly consent to take up your abode in one of those savoury courts or alleys which abound in the Oriental clime. But in such a course I fancy I see something scarcely becoming Miss Norman’s position. Indeed there might be some people so evil-disposed as to censure Miss Norman’s guardian under such circumstances.”
“I think it probable,” returned Helen, smiling.
“Just so. Then it remains for me to think of some suitable habitation for you. You would, of course, think it desirable that Mrs. Cumberbatch should continue to live with you?”
Helen assented out of mere politeness, though it is needless to say she would gladly have dismissed Mrs. Cumberbatch from her sight for ever.
“Again, just so. Then, may I ask, Miss Norman, whether there is any quarter of London in which you would prefer me to look for a suitable house?”
“I have only one ground of choice,” replied Helen. “It must be within easy access of the East End.”
“So I imagined,” replied her guardian, smiling sardonically. “Then you permit me to be your agent in this matter?”
“I shall feel grateful if you will undertake the trouble.”
“No trouble whatever,” replied Mr. Gresham, politely.
And so the conversation ended. When she reflected upon it, Helen could not but wonder at the easy manner in which Mr. Gresham relieved himself of the more tedious responsibilities of guardianship. It was evident that he had never seriously contemplated her accompanying him to France. There was something of refined selfishness in the whole arrangement; Helen perceived it, but it did not distress her. Indeed the prospect of living in a small house of her own was very delightful to her. Mrs. Cumberbatch was the only drawback, but she scarcely saw how it could be possible to relinquish that lady’s chaperonage. With Mrs. Cumberbatch herself, meanwhile, Mr. Gresham had held a longer and more serious conversation. The aunt and nephew understood each other wonderfully well. Mr. Gresham knew that in Mrs. Cumberbatch he had someone on whom he could thoroughly rely, as long as he made it coincident with her own interest to be trustworthy. Among his instructions to her were strong injunctions that she should do her utmost to bring Helen more into society. The sooner the latter was comfortably married out of the way, the better for Mr. Gresham’s ease, regard for which bade fair soon to monopolise the whole of that gentleman’s attention.
The visit of her guardian and his guests had furnished a brief distraction from Helen’s ordinary life; certainly no highly agreeable distraction, but still sufficient to give a momentary new current to her thoughts. The exercise of French conversation, which she had so long disused from lack of opportunity, was in itself pleasant, awakening all manner of strange bygone memories, wafting back to her, like a sweet perfume, the recollection of happier years. Then the anticipation of a pleasant change of abode at the year’s end was useful in giving her fresh matter for reflection, and averting her mind from the perpetual brooding over sad thoughts which had long since begun to set its mark upon her face in pallid cheeks and dark circles around the eyes. But these sensations were not of an enduring nature. Scarcely had the strangers left the house, when her mind renewed the thread of its every-day reflections, and continued to spin out the sorrowful web of its existence as though the task had known no interruption.
In addition to the sadness caused by the gradual annihilation of too sanguine hopes as regarded her toils among the poor, Helen had begun to suffer from causes of a more personal nature, from pain which had its beginning and end in the circumstances of her own individual being. Though she had hitherto been rather wont to pride herself on the possession of a philosophical mind which was all in all to itself, finding in her studies, her reveries, and the reflections to which her everyday work gave rise, all sufficing sources of occupation, of late a sad conviction had been working its way into her heart that these were not enough, that her being suffered a lack of nourishment, and yearned for stronger food. Sad conviction indeed it was, for to Helen’s mind it implied some loss of self-esteem, some perceptible falling away from the ideal life to which she had trained herself, some condescension to the weakness of less noble natures. The uneasy longing, which months ago had assumed no more definite shape than that of occasional depression bred of disappointment in her aims, had now grown to proportions far more formidable, and was every day assuming the character of a recognisable aspiration. She felt lonely. She knew not the sweet pleasure of possessing some true friend to whom she could impart the secret workings of her spirit, from whom she could look for quick, unfailing sympathy, and to whom in turn she could become the source of vivifying consolation. Mr. Heatherley, though in many things of great benefit to her, was not and could not be such a friend as this. Though standing on the common ground of universal charity, the impulse of each came from such entirely opposite quarters, the highest sympathies of each were so totally different in their natures, that the growth between them of anything resembling a perfect union of the spirit was never to be thought of. And yet Mr. Heatherley was the nearest friend that she possessed. All others were mere acquaintances. Living as she had always done in almost complete seclusion as far as the society of cultivated people was concerned, Helen had only once found herself in contact with a nature before which her own felt disposed to bow. Once and once only had a voice struck the chords of her heart and elicited what seemed to her like the barely perceptible prelude to a delicious harmony. It was possible she might have been mistaken; closer acquaintance might have dispelled this first illusion and rendered to her her freedom; but the chance of thus proving it had never been afforded her, for the object of her first timid heart-stirrings had suddenly vanished, and, what was more, in anger with herself. Yes; Arthur Golding’s long-cherished worship was not without its counterpart, though struggling and undeveloped, in Helen’s breast. Nor was it altogether unsuspected by its object, for Helen never forgot the circumstance of her own portrait so carefully separated, as if from less precious things, among Arthur’s drawings. And now in these days of increasing trouble, when the yearning for individual fellowship seemed to be consuming her physical powers, the noble-minded girl dwelt more frequently than ever on the recollections which Arthur’s name awakened. If the secret portraying of her face had meant anything more than a mere artist’s fancy, did the feeling which had prompted it still live in the young man’s heart? Frequently when she sat down to think of other things she found herself drifting away to thoughts of Arthur, wondering where he now lived, whether he still pursued the study of painting, whether he had changed in appearance? There had been a certain mystery in his sudden break with her guardian, the cause of which she felt convinced could not merely lie in that capricious temper to which Mr. Gresham had referred it. The knowledge she had since gained of the latter’s character induced her to believe that the fault had been more probably on his side than on that of his pupil, and the circumstance of Arthur’s relinquishing the benefit of his legacy till he could legally claim it decidedly pointed to a loftiness of spirit which would be superior to petty irritations. She would very much have liked to ask her guardian whether he knew anything of Arthur, but delicacy forbade her doing so. She had half unconsciously begun to hope that, when the time came for the payment of the legacy, she could not but hear something more of the young artist; but with her knowledge of Mr. Gresham’s plans came the certainty that this hope would be frustrated. Much better to expel these foolish fancies from her mind and strive to reconcile herself to her dread loneliness.
I said that Mr. Heatherley was Helen’s only friend, but it will perhaps be remembered that I have previously, when speaking of Lucy Venning, intimated the growth between the latter and Miss Norman of an attachment very similar to real friendship. And indeed, though there was too little of mental equality in the case to furnish a basis for the highest reciprocal affection, the benefit derived from their strengthening relations to each other was not exclusively on the side of the least gifted. Lucy, it is true, looked up to Helen as to some superior being, listened with the attention of an admiring disciple to her lightest words, and doubtless profited much by her conversation. On the other hand, to talk with Lucy was a sweet refreshment to Helen’s moral nature. The girl’s heart was so frank, so joyous, so absolutely pure, the piety which ruled her every thought, word and action was so unaffected and genuine, that Helen was not unfrequently led to compare her own acquired refinement with Lucy’s natural perfection and to feel that she was the loser by the comparison. In her examination of the depths of this limpid nature, Helen had long since arrived at its one and only secret, and in this secret, she had since fancied, lay the origin of much that was charming in Lucy. The reader already knows what this secret was. Wide as was the apparent distance between them, Mr. Heatherley had, without effort, and, indeed, unconsciously, obtained the complete conquest of the young girl’s heart. He was all in all to her Long ago she had regarded him with no other feeling than the deepest reverence, due at once to his personal character and to the office which he filled. But as the clergyman’s intimacy with her father had grown, and she saw more of his abundant charity, his unfailing kindness and gentleness of disposition his manly fortitude of character, she had insensibly cherished warmer feelings, and now she knew to her sorrow that she loved him. William Noble she respected and felt warmly for as a friend, but his entrance never caused her heart to leap and her face to blush as did that of Mr. Heatherley. She knew well the feeling with which William regarded her, and knew also that nothing would have pleased her father more than to see her his wife; and the consciousness that her heart was de voted to a hopeless affection, refusing to turn where prudence and filial love seemed alike to point to, often made her sad when her sadness could not be observed.
Helen had divined all this almost as soon as she had become sufficiently intimate with Lucy to visit occasionally at her house, and make the acquaintance of Mr. Venning. Lucy’s talk to her was so frequently of Mr. Heatherley that she could not but suspect how matters stood, and one or two questions so put that Lucy could not foresee their purpose, soon completed the discovery. It grieved Helen that she could see no trace in the clergyman’s conduct of his being aware of the girl’s passion, to say nothing of in any way reciprocating it. It appeared to her that Lucy would make her friend an admirable wife; just such a wife, indeed, as a man in his position should desire. She knew that he placed more value on moral worth than on intellectual attainment, and also that he was enough 6f a Radical to altogether disregard Lucy’s inferiority in social status. It seemed scarcely probable to her that Mr. Heatherley’s affections were already engaged. What a pity it was that, perhaps owing to a mere lack of perception on his part, the possible happiness of two lives should be neglected.
One Saturday afternoon, very shortly after the departure of Mr. Gresham and his friends, Helen was oppressed by a fit of unusual despondency. At such times as these she felt her loneliness acutely, knowing how easily the looming clouds could have been dispersed by one word of earnest and affectionate sympathy. The causes of her melancholy were such as it was impossible to confess to any one with whom she was acquainted, if indeed she herself really knew them. As the afternoon drew on her sufferings grew intolerable. A horror of her solitude crept over her and became a physical pain. Company of some sort she felt she must seek. Mrs. Cumberbatch was out of the question, though doubtless she would have been ready enough to talk. Of only one person could she think with any degree of consolatory pleasure, and that was Lucy Venning. She would set off at once to Lucy’s house, and pass there the few hours before the evening class.
Arrived at her destination, she knocked and was admitted by a maid-of-all-work occasionally employed in the house. On going into the parlour she found Mr. Venning and his daughter sitting side by side, the former with a somewhat grave expression of countenance, the latter’s eyes showing unmistakable traces of recent tears. Both, however, rose at once upon her entrance, and Mr. Venning greeted her in his ordinary kind and unrestrained manner.
“This is kind of you to come this afternoon, Miss Norman,” he said. “You couldn’t have come at a better moment. Lucy has a little headache, and is a trifle out of spirits. I’m sure your voice will do her good at once; won’t it, Lucy?”
His daughter only replied by a sweet smile and a cordial pressure of Helen’s hand, which sufficiently bespoke her contentment.
“I am afraid I shall be a poor comforter,” said Helen. “My very reason for coming was that I did not feel very well myself, and knew that half an hour’s talk with Lucy would restore my spirits. Well, I see we must prescribe for each other, Lucy. I dare say the amusement of doing so will dispense with the necessity of any disagreeable medicine.”
Lucy laughed, helping Helen the while to remove her hat and cloak. But there was still a dimness in her eyes, and her lips trembled slightly in a way which made her fearful of trusting her voice.
“I know you will excuse me, Miss Norman,” said Mr. Venning. “Though it is Saturday evening I have still business to attend to. Never mind,” he added with a quiet laugh. “Tomorrow is the day of rest. The thought of its enjoyment keeps me up all through the week. I often wonder what we working men should do without our Sunday.”
As he spoke he withdrew from the parlour, and Helen took a seat by Lucy’s side.
“Now let us open our budget of sorrows,” she said. “I strongly suspect, Lucy, that yours will outweigh mine in dolefulness. You have been crying.”
Lucy’s frank nature was incapable of deceit even in trifles. She only paused for a moment before replying, then said, without raising her eyes —
“I have been low-spirited all day. I think it must be the heat, or — or I don’t know what.”
“I think you must take a holiday to-night,” said Helen. “You know Mr. Heatherley almost always comes to the class on Saturday. I’m sure he will be glad to take your work if he knows you are unwell; or, if he should not come, I shall have very little difficulty in managing by myself.”
“Oh, no,” interposed Lucy, lifting up an eager face, “indeed I would not stay away on any account. The headache is going away; it — it has not been very much. I could not think of staying at home.”
“Then you must promise me,” said her friend, “to work a little less hard than usual. I’m sure I marvel at your patience sometimes when I see you working with those poor children as if your life depended on it.”
“I do my best,” replied the girl, “but I’m sure I don’t know who wouldn’t, with your example before them, Miss Norman. Mr. Heatherley often says that ——”
“Well, what does Mr. Heatherley say?” asked Helen, smiling, as Lucy suddenly stopped short, and became a little red.
“He says he never knew a more excellent teacher than yourself, Miss Norman,” hastily returned Lucy, averting her face.
“Oh, Mr. Heatherley is only too ready to speak well of everyone, isn’t he, Lucy? No doubt he says just as pleasant things of you.”
Lucy shook her head slightly, still blushing, but made no reply. Helen watched her a few moments curiously. At length Lucy suddenly turned her face towards her companion with such a look of simplicity, wherein were blended sorrow, bashfulness and trust, that the latter was moved to take her hand and bend forward to her with an answering look, as if inviting confidence.
“Miss Norman,” faltered Lucy, the tears glistening in her eyes, “may I ask you a question — a — a rather strange question?”
“Anything you like, Lucy.”
“Did you ever think that I spoke too much of Mr. Heatherley?” This last word broken momentarily in the middle by a sob. “That I — might — might make people think by the way I spoke of him — that I ——”
“Who has put such a thought into your mind, dear?” asked Helen, willing to relieve the blushing girl of the difficulty of completing her sentence.
“Father has talked to me very seriously this afternoon, Miss Norman,” replied Lucy; “not unkindly, you know; he never does that; only very seriously. And I’m sure that all he says is for my own good. He says that I had better try to think and speak less of Mr. Heatherley. But I didn’t know that I spoke very often about him, Miss Norman, indeed I didn’t. Do you — do you think I do?”
Helen did not reply immediately, but regarded her companion with a tender and compassionate smile.
“I see you think so, Miss Norman,” said Lucy, speaking quickly, with downcast eyes. “Oh, how foolish I have been. But, indeed, father and you are mistaken. I — I never thought of him in that way. At least,” she added hurriedly, “I think I never did. I’m sure I never meant to be so foolish. Don’t think the worse of me, Miss Norman. I will be very careful in future.”
“Think the worse of you, Lucy?” returned Helen, pressing Lucy’s little hand between her own. “But you have been guilty of nothing improper. You are naturally so quiet that I am sure you have not spoken so freely to anyone but your father and myself.”
“Indeed I have not,” broke in Lucy, eagerly. “You and father are the only people who hear me speak without fear just what I think.”
“Then you do think much of Mr. Heatherley?” asked Helen, with rather a sad smile.
“It would be foolish and wrong to try to hide the truth from you, Miss Norman; you who have always shown me such great kindness. I have often thought of Mr. Heatherley, but I’m sure only as a kind friend. I could never forgive myself if I led you to believe anything else. But father is quite right in what he said, and I know that I should be acting foolishly and wrongly if I don’t try to turn my thoughts quite away from him — for a time, at least. I have already begun to do so, and I had no idea that it would be so much trouble. But it is my duty, and I shall have strength given me to perform it.”
She ceased, and sat looking before her with the slightest shade of melancholy upon her features. Helen, who recognised in the simple girl’s utterances kindred tones to those which for ever whispered in her own heart, felt herself drawn closer to Lucy by strong bonds of sympathy. There was consolation, too, in hearing her speak of her simple troubles, more than could have been found in any learned sermon and philosophical essay whatsoever. For a moment the thought arose that Lucy’s untutored mind could not nourish such sufferings as those born in her own sophisticated imagination, and that therefore her pains were not so hard to struggle with; but this Helen’s better sense at once rejected with scorn. The bitterness of yearnings never to be satisfied could be no less bitter to Lucy than to herself. If the former showed less of what she suffered it must be attributed to superior self-government rather than to any lack of sensibility.
After a silence of several minutes Helen spoke, using to her simple friend the same reasoning she had often applied to herself.
“You are right, dear,” she said. “Every necessity in this world becomes a duty, and we must struggle to submit to it as best we may. And the best way to gain our own peace is never to lose hope. Though the path we have to tread may be painful enough at first, we must never cease to hope, never yield up the conviction that it will lead us to some great happiness. What that happiness may be we are often quite unable to foresee. If we begin to struggle against a selfish desire, never losing faith in the justice of our efforts, we may some day find in renunciation itself a greater happiness than the fulfilment of the desire could have brought us. Depend upon it, our happiness is seldom worked out in the way we expect it to be. Why this should be so, would puzzle much cleverer people than you and I, Lucy, to explain; we must just be content with knowing what usually happens and apply this experience to our own cases. Look back through your own life and reflect how many longings you have cherished, thinking their fulfilment at the time absolutely needful for your future happiness; and notice how many of them have resulted in disappointment which seemed at the time inexpressibly bitter, but which you can now smile and wonder at. They have all passed away, but not without leaving their effect upon you; no, not a word you speak, not a thought you think, is without some effect on your own nature. To be able to look back on these struggles and see their lessons is what we call wisdom, and those are the happiest who are able to apply this wisdom to their present guidance. You understand what I mean by this little sermon, Lucy?”
“Quite well,” replied the girl, with a grateful look. “I believe I have been trying to think the same things myself, but they were not so clear to me as you have made them.”
“Suffering is an excellent teacher,” returned Helen, smiling sadly, “and to minds which face her honestly she teaches very much the same lessons.”
Shortly after this, as the evening was drawing on, Lucy rose with a brighter face and prepared tea, at which her father joined them. And when at the chapel that night Mr. Heatherley shook hands with her in his ordinary kind way, Helen noticed that she replied to him with less embarrassment than of late; and sighed to think that her own counsels should have so much more weight with others than with herself.