However lightly others might skim over or altogether cast aside the tasks of the stern schoolmaster, Life, their strict and conscientious performance was to Helen Norman a duty which she durst not neglect under any circumstances. Despite the fact that she was sadly conscious of the poor results which had in the aggregate attended her long months of labour among the destitute, despite the weary burden of unabated suffering which ceaselessly weighed upon her heart, despite the fact that her health was unmistakably giving way, that the dread signs of hereditary disease daily became more pronounced — no argument could as yet induce her to cease from her daily work. But this work had by degrees undergone a modification, partly owing to her failing strength, partly in consequence of reflection and much discussion with Mr. Heatherley. Instead of toiling day after day through the wearisome miseries of a whole large district, she had resolved to confine her attention to one fixed locality of small extent. By so doing she was enabled to acquire a completer knowledge of the needs of the poor to whom she ministered, and also had the power of affording more substantial assistance where it was really deserved. But it was to her evening school that she now devoted herself with the utmost ardour, looking to her work therein for higher and more wide-spreading results than her mere charitable exertions could be expected to produce. Here her efforts received each week their unmistakable reward. Those girls who at their first coming to her she had found rude in manner and speech, grew by degrees gentler and more refined, the deplorably ignorant gradually struggled out of their slough and began to show that they were creatures possessed of mind as well as body, the few who had already begun to yield to the fascination of vulgar vice became ashamed of their conduct when in their teacher’s presence and from the mere sound of her voice, the radiance of her beauty, conceived ideas of a purer life. From two evenings in the week, Helen, during the summer, increased the attendance to three, with appreciably good result, and was already contemplating a yet wider extension of her work in the sphere where she felt herself especially adapted for usefulness.
But her noble nature was not destined to attain to that perfection of active benevolence which she more ardently yearned after in proportion as her physical powers grew less and less capable of performing their part in the grand work. Towards the middle of the summer, notwithstanding the prevalence of genial weather, Helen contracted a severe cold, followed by a cough which would yield to no degree of careful treatment. She herself surmised only too clearly the significance of this cough, and the physician she was ultimately persuaded to consult confirmed her in her fear. He had at first appeared timid and inclined to ease his patient’s mind by euphemistic expressions and consolatory predictions; but Helen at once told him that she had for some time suspected the truth, and begged that he would not think her so weak-minded as to be unable to face the future with all its consequences. The physician made close inquiry into her habits of life, and at once urged that she should cease at all events the severest parts of her work, in particular the work of the school. But to this Helen could on no account be brought to consent. She said that if her life was to be held on but brief tenure, so much the more need that she should labour to the utmost while it lasted. Seldom chargeable with weaknesses distinctly feminine, in this matter Helen showed herself a true woman. She would listen to no argument. Her work, her work, that was her only thought.
Mr. Heatherley was a constant visitor at Holly Cottage, but Helen did her utmost to conceal from him the failure of her health. The increasing paleness of her cheek, the constant cough, these she could not prevent his observing, but any reference which he made to these signs of weakness was at once put aside and made light of. Moreover, Helen fancied she observed that the frequent visits of Mr. Heatherley were not entirely for her own sake, and it pleased her to think they were not. Able to sympathise as few could with poor Lucy’s quiet, self-restraining unexpectant devotion, she lost no opportunity of directing the clergyman’s attention to her companion’s many virtues, and it afforded her keen pleasure when she thought she could observe Mr. Heatherley’s eyes more frequently resting upon the sweet face of the timid girl. Once or twice she had purposely allowed Mr. Heatherley to remain alone in the room with Lucy for half an hour; and after each such conversation she made herself happy in the belief that the clergyman’s face wore a happier look than usual. Yes, it was a true pleasure which her pure nature derived from the prospect of poor Lucy being requited for her long and patient love; but she would have been more than human had not the thought of so much happiness at times smitten as with the breath of a cold and deadly wind upon her heart, and forced into her eyes tears of bitterest anguish.
Poor Helen! It seemed as though Fate had decreed she should pass through the deepest and darkest waters of suffering without the consolation of any hand clasped within her own. From the depths of her own heart could come her only comfort, and alas! how often did it seem to her as though too constant draughts from the spring had at length exhausted its resources. It would be vain to endeavour to depict in mere words the suffering she endured even on her days of least depression. The unconquerable dread of being left alone with her thoughts, the fearful anticipation of what her life would become if she yielded to her feebleness or relinquished her work, this feeling had perhaps equal strength with pure devotion to principle in determining her to work on at all costs. Could she but have heard of or from Arthur from time to time, could she but have known that he was working on stoutly at his art — nay, could she have received news of his death, anything would have been preferable to this losing sight of him entirely.
Often in the early summer dawns she awoke from a brief and troubled slumber, crying “Arthur! Arthur!” In her dreams she was for ever seeking him, seeking him over wild, trackless deserts, amidst ghastly shapes and horrors unutterable. Often she saw his form afar off, always far off, beyond the sound of her voice which called upon him in tones of heartrending anguish; and, bitterest suffering of all, he generally appeared to her not alone, but with a vague shape by his side, the shape of a woman. Yes, that was Arthur’s wife. 0 God! To think that a wretched being, so unworthy of the least of Arthur’s smiles, so incapable of appreciating a word he uttered, of entering into the very humblest of his aspirations, to think that such a one could boast herself his wife! Oh, it was unjust, cruelly unjust. In her bitterest moments she said in her heart that injustice was the beginning and the end of all things human.
Towards the end of August she was sitting one evening quietly in Lucy’s company, when the last post brought two letters, one addressed to herself, one to her companion.
“A letter for you, Lucy?” she said, smiling. “That is indeed an unusual thing.”
“Whoever can it be from?” exclaimed the other, scanning the direction closely. As she did so, a blush rose to her cheek. She looked timidly up at Helen, who was however already engaged in reading her own letter, then she broke open the envelope. Her first glance was at the last page, then, slightly averting her face, she began to read with an almost frightened countenance, the paper rustling tremulously in her hand.
The contents of Helen’s letter appeared to be interesting. We will transcribe them —
“Versailles, “Aug. 18th, 1872.
“My Dear Helen, — “How well I can imagine your grave surprise on opening this letter and seeing the signature of a shameless runaway. I cannot tell how much or how little you know of my story, which really I may some day be tempted to present to you in the familiar three volumes. I think it might go down excellently with the patrons of Mudie’s, especially if the character of the heroine were a trifle idealised; that, I am sure you will agree with me, would be absolutely necessary. But whether you know much or little, you have in all probability heard enough to convince you that I have suffered all sorts of horrors, and that I may fairly lay claim to your congratulations on the occasion of my once more becoming a free denizen of this tolerable world of ours.
“Yes, Helen; I made a mistake. In marrying Waghorn I knew that I was marrying a wealthy fool, if not something worse, but I had convinced myself that, beyond my change of name, I should be able to keep myself as distinct and separate from ‘my husband’ as though I had still been single. I married, in fact, for the sake of a position. Now-a-days an unmarried woman of more than one-and-twenty stands in an anomalous situation. Her maidenhood brings with it absolutely nothing but disadvantages. You will say that I might have made a better match. Well, I suppose I might; but, to tell you the truth, there was something of perversity in my act I had always a strange pleasure in doing and thinking differently from other people, in forcing circumstances to suit my own whims rather than in bending myself to circumstances. In this case I had resolved to have the delight of leading an agreeable life amid surroundings which would have driven any other woman crazy. Of course I had miscalculated my own powers. I found that I had to deal with quite an exceptional brute, and at length I bitterly repented my folly.
“Now this letter is meant to be a little reproachful. Among all my acquaintances in London there was one, and one alone, who ever had any power over those tenderer impulses of my nature which it is customary to call the better part of one. One acquaintance I had who, by continuing what she had once been to me, a frank friend, might often have lightened my suffering and guided me in the paths of prudence — that is the word I prefer to substitute for such high-flown terms as ‘virtue,’ ‘honour,’ or even ‘wisdom.’ But that acquaintance was too much disgusted with my lack of seriousness to long retain her interest in my doing or suffering. Even at the eleventh hour, when I had determined to leave ‘my husband’s’ house, but was as yet uncertain where to go, I called upon this acquaintance of mine; but, alas! she was too unwell to see me; and so — Never mind what followed. Can you guess who the acquaintance was?
“No, no, Helen; I am not, after all, writing to reproach you, but merely to let you know that I am once more comfortable, and probably in a fair way to be so for the rest of my life. What interest was it likely you could take in me and my affairs? We were pursuing such wholly different paths; both of us philosophers, but belonging to what different schools. You were a species of Stoic, given up to the pursuit of intensely serious aims, which aims presupposed the sacrifice of your own pleasures. You could see nothing good in a life which was not wholly devoted to the benefit of others. You were preeminently sage, in the French sense of the word. Who could imagine Helen Norman in love, to say nothing of being married? But I, for my part, was a sort of Epicurean; and yet I think not exactly an Epicurean, but that term is the closest my philosophical knowledge will supply. I looked upon the world with contempt, and made gratified egotism the sole end of my existence. How was it likely you could continue to be my friend?
“You will say that I must have seen that my philosophy is delusive, and that consequently I have given it up. Pas du tout, ma chère. I still pursue with intense avidity what I have ever considered the main object of this frivolous life. And shall I tell you to what it has brought me? I am on the point of being affianced to — to a Russian Prince! Yes; believe it or not, as you please. Poor fellow! He has been desperately in love with me for — can you believe it? — more than a month. Though I am not yet technically divorced, he persists in considering me so, and threatens to make me his property as soon as possible. Papa looks upon the undertaking with a quiet smile of — I know not what. All the reply I can get from him on this matter is, ‘Mais, cela ne me regarde pas; c’est une affaire à toi, ma fille.’
“Think of me occasionally, Helen; and, when you do so, picture me amid the horrors of a Russian winter, over the ears in bear skins. Are you happy, yourself? I will hope so, but I have my doubts. Depend upon it your philosophy is horribly unpractical. Think it over, there’s a good girl. Your Russian prince may even now be waiting for you, if only you knew it.
“Yours affectionately, dear Helen, “Maud.”
Helen laid aside the letter with a deep sigh, and for a few moments was sunk in her own reflections. When she at length looked up, she saw that Lucy’s eyes were fixed upon her, with a curiously mingled expression of pleasure and pain.
“Will — will you please to read this, Miss Norman?” asked Lucy, holding out the open letter, her face suffused with a deep blush.
Wondering much what the contents could be, Helen took it and read. It was a proposal from Mr. Heatherley, a manly letter, very characteristic of the writer. There was no rapturous declamation, no exaggerated passion; merely the. offer of a deep and unwavering affection, of a share in all his future joys and sorrows, of active participation in his life’s work. Far from drawing imaginative pictures of a lover’s paradise, he clearly intimated that the duties of a clergyman’s wife were often laborious, often distasteful, and she who would fulfil them duly must be distinguished by piety, good sense, and infinite patience. Of all these he believed Lucy was possessed, for h had long watched her closely and every new discovery he had made had served to strengthen his affection by convincing him that it was based on reason. He urged her not to be hasty in her reply, but to write to him after several days’ consideration.
“And your answer, Lucy?” asked Helen, smiling, though with something of sadness.
The girl at once left her chair and seated herself on a low stool at Helen’s feet. As she spoke she looked up into the latter’s face, and her eyes were suffused with tears.
“I cannot leave you!” she whispered, whilst the tears slowly gathered and overflowed. “I could never leave you!”
“Dear, affectionate child!” exclaimed Helen, passing her arm round Lucy, and looking down upon her with a calm tenderness which seemed to invest her pale Madonna-like face with a halo of sanctity. “Do you really mean that your love for me would overpower that you have so long felt for Mr. Heatherley?”
“Indeed — indeed I feel it does,” sobbed Lucy. “Now you have more need than ever of me, now that you are so weak and suffer so much. How could I leave you alone, or, still worse, bear to think that some one else was filling my place in your regard? I am sure Mr. Heatherley does not know how ill you are, or he could not wish to persuade me to leave you.”
“But it is hardly fair, dear,” replied Helen, “to make Mr. Heatherley’s chance of a wife depend upon the state of my health. Mr. Heatherley I am sure wishes me well, but to expect him to remain a bachelor for an indefinite period on my account would be rather too much.”
There was silence, during which Lucy sat with her face resting upon her hands.
“Do you love him well enough,” pursued Helen, still with the same calm smile upon her lips, “to take him as your husband? Are you undaunted by this formidable array of wifely duties?”
“No work could be too severe if he set it me,” replied Lucy, without uncovering her face.
“Then,” continued Helen, “much as you regret leaving me, Lucy, you must not let that influence your answer. Who am I that I should hold you back before such a prospect of happiness? We need not part for ever, dear.”
“Not yet, not yet!” exclaimed the other, her sobs break............