CHAPTER I.
THE DEEDS OF THE FARM.
Sunday, June 13.
In three days it will be a year since Helen promised to marry me, andon that anniversary she will be my wife.
It is strange how exactly according to my plan things have comeabout--and how differently from all that I have dreamed.
She is the most beautiful woman in the world; she is to be my wifesooner than I dared to hope--and--I must be good to her. I must loveher.
Did I ever doubt my love until she claimed it five days ago with suchconfidence in my loyalty? In that moment, as I went to her, as I tookher in my arms, as I felt that she needed me and trusted me, with thesuddenness of a revelation I knew--
It was hard to meet Ethel--and Milly and Mrs. Baker afterwards.
To-day, in preparing to move to our new home, I came across the roughnotes I wrote last December, when the marvel of Helen's beauty wasfresh to me. As I read the disjointed and half incredulous words I hadset to paper, I found myself living over again those days of Faery andenchantment.
Custom has somewhat dulled the shock of her beauty; I have grownquickly used to her as the most radiantly lovely of created beings; mymind has been drawn to dwell upon moral problems and to sorrow atseeing her gradually become the victim of her beauty--her nature, onceas fine as the outward form that clothes it, warped by constantadulation, envy and strife; until--
But it is a miracle! As unbelievable, as unthinkable as it was on thevery first day when that glowing dream of loveliness made manifestfloated toward me in the little room overlooking Union Square, and Iwas near swooning with pure delight of vision.
Beautiful; wonderful! She didn't love me then and she doesn't now; butthe most marvellous woman in the world needs me--and I will not failher.
I wish I could take her out of the city for a change of mentalatmosphere. She shrinks from her father's suggestion of a summer on thefarm. But in time her wholesome nature must reassert itself; she mustbecome, if not again the fresh, light-hearted girl I knew a year ago, asweet and gracious woman whose sufferings will have added pathos to hercharm.
And even now she's not to be judged like other women; before theshining of her beauty, reproach falls powerless. It is my sacred taskto guard her--to soothe her awakening from all that nightmare ofinflated hopes and vain imaginings. Kitty Reid and---yes, and littleEthel--will help me.
Kitty is a good fellow.
"Why, cert.," she said when I begged her last Wednesday to take care ofHelen. "Married! Did you say married? Oh, Cadge, quit pegging shoes!"
Jumping up from the drawing table, Kitty left streams of India inkmaking her beastesses all tigers while she called to Miss Bryant, whowas pounding viciously upon a typewriter:--
"Cadge, did you hear? Cadge! The Princess is going to be married.'Course you remember, Mr. Burke, Cadge is going to be married herselfSaturday."
"Don't be too sure of it," returned Miss Bryant, "and do let me finishthis sentence. Ten to one Pros. or I'll be grabbed off for anassignment Saturday evening 'fore we can be married. But the Princessis different; she has leisure. Burke, shake!"
She sprang up to take my hand, her eyes shining with excitement.
Kitty hurried with me to the Nicaragua, where she pounced upon Helen,her red curls madly bobbing.
"What a bride you'll make!" she cried fondly. "Going to be married fromthe den, aren't you? Oh, I'm up to my eyes in weddings; Cadge simplywon't attend to anything. But what have you been doing to yourself?Come here, Helen."
She pushed the proud, pale beauty into a chair, smothering her withkisses and the piles of cushions that seem to add bliss to women's joysand soften all their griefs.
"Tired, aren't you?" she purred. "Needed me. Now just you sit and talkwith Mr. Burke and I'll pack up your brittle-brae in three no-times.Clesta,--where's that imp?"
She called to the little combination maid and model who had accompaniedus.
"Clesta's afraid of you, Helen. 'Why'd ye fetch me 'long?' shewhimpers. 'Miss Kitty, why'd ye fetch me 'long?' Huh, I 'member how youused to have his picture with yours in a white and gold frame!"
Helen scarcely replied to Kitty's raptures. She laid her head backhalf-protestingly among her cushions, showing her long, exquisitethroat. For an instant she let her shadowy lashes droop over theeverchanging lustre of her eyes. I couldn't help thinking of a great,glorious bird of heaven resting with broken wing.
"Poor little Princess!" said Kitty, who hardly comes to Helen'sshoulder. Then we all laughed.
Kitty stayed at the Nicaragua that night, and when I came Thursdayafternoon she stopped me outside the door, to say:--
"I wouldn't let Helen talk too much; she's nervous."
"Can you tell me what is the matter with her?" I asked. "I don't thinkshe's well."
"Oh, nothing. You know--she's been worrying." Then loyal Kitty spokepurposely of commonplaces. "General must have danced her off her feet.Darmstetter's death upset her terribly, too. She never will speak ofit. But she'll be as right as right with me. Bring her 'round as soonas the man comes for the trunks. You've only to head up a barrel ofdishes, quick, 'fore Clesta gets in any fine work smashing 'em."
As I passed through the hall, littered with trunks and packing cases,to the dismantled parlour, Helen looked up from a mass of old lettersand dance cards.
"I'm sorting my--souvenirs," she said.
The face she lifted was white, only the lips richly red, with a shadeof fatigue under the haunting eyes. The graceful figure in itsclose-fitting dress looked a trifle less round than it had done earlierin the winter, and one fair arm, as it escaped from its flowing sleeve,was almost thin.
"Dear," I said wistfully, for something in her drooping attitude smoteme to remorse and inspired me with tenderness; "will you really trustyour life to me?"
She leaned towards me, and beauty breathed about her as a spell. I benttill my lips caressed her perfumed hair; and then--I saw among therubbish on her desk something that made me interrupt the words we mighthave spoken.
"What's that?" I asked. "Not--pawn tickets?"
"For a necklace," she said; "and this--this must be my diamond--"
"Pawned and not paid for!"
She offered me the tickets, only half understanding, her great eyes asinnocent as they were lovely.
"I had forgotten," she said. "I only found them when I came to--"
She brushed the rubbish of her winter's triumphs and disappointments tothe floor, and turned from it with a little, disdainful movement.
"I had to pay the maids," she said simply.
"Nelly, why--why didn't you come to me sooner?"
With a bump against the door, Clesta sidled into the room awestruck andsmutched, bearing a tray.
"Miss Kitty said," she stammered, "as how I should make tea." And assoon as she had found a resting place for her burden, the frightenedgirl made a dash for the door.
Before Helen had finished drinking, there was a stir in the hall, andthen the sound of a familiar voice startled us.
"Wa-al, Helen 'Lizy," it said. "How ye do, John? Don't git up; I canset till ye're through."
And Mr. Winship himself stood before us, stoop-shouldered, roughlydressed from the cattle cars, his kindly old eyes twinkling, his goodface all glorified by the honest love and pride shining through itsplainness.
"Why, Father!" cried Helen with a start.
She looked at him with a nervous repugnance to his appearance, whichshe tried to subdue. He did not seem to notice it.
"Wa'n't lookin' for me yit-a-while, was ye?" he asked. "Kind o' thoughtI'd s'prise ye. Did s'prise the man down in the hall. Didn't want tolet me in till I told him who I was. Little gal in the entry says ye'removin'; ye do look all tore up, for a fac'."
Mr. Winship has grown old within the year. His hair has whitened andhis bushy eyebrows; but the grip of his hand, the sound of his homelyspeech, seemed to wake me from some ugly dream. Here we were togetheragain in the wholesome daylight, Father Winship, little Hele
n 'Lizy andthe Schoolmaster, and all must yet be well.
Mr. Winship sighed with deep content as he sank into a chair, his eyesscarcely leaving Helen. He owned himself beat out and glad of a dish oftea; but when Clesta had served him in her scuttling crab fashion, hewould stop in the middle of a sentence, with saucer half lifted, togaze with perplexed, wistful tenderness at his stately daughter.
She is the child of his old age; I think he must be long past sixty,and fast growing feeble. The instinct of father love has grown in himso refined that he sees the soul and not the envelope. Grand andbeautiful as she is to others, to him she is still his little Nelly.
He would not even own that he thought her altered.
"I d'know," he said, a shade of anxiety blending with the old fondpride. "Fust-off, Sis didn't look jes' nat'ral, spite of all thepicters she's sent us; but that was her long-tailed dress, mebbe. W'enshe's a young one, Ma was all for tyin' back her ears and pinchin' hernose with a clo'espin--to make it straight or so'thin'; but I says toMa, w'en Helen 'Lizy lef' home, 'don't ye be one mite afeard,' I says,'but what them bright eyes'll outshine the peaked city gals.' Guessthey have, sort o', eh, Sis; f'om what John's been writin'?"
"I don't know, Father."
"Don't ye--don't ye want t' hear 'bout the folks? Brought ye heaps o'messages. Frenchy, now--him that worked for us--druv over f'om theMerriam place to know 'f 'twas true that city folks made a catouse overye. He'd heard the men readin' 'bout ye in the papers.
"'Wa-al,' I says to Frenchy, 'Helen 'Lizy was al'ays han'some.'
"'D'know 'bout zat,' says Frenchy, only he says it in his lingo, 'butshe was one vair cute li'l gal.'
"'Han'some as a picter,' I tol' him; 'an' cutes' little tyke y'eversee.'"
"How is Mother?" asked Helen constrainedly.
"Ma's lottin' on havin' ye home; wants t' hear all 'bout the goodtimes. School done? All packed and ready for a start, ain't ye? But yedon't seem to be feeling any too good. Don't New York agree with ye,Sissy? Been studying too hard?"
"She is a goot organism; New York agrees vit her," I said. "Wasn't thathow poor old Darmstetter put it, Nelly? Mr. Winship, Nelly hasoverworked, but with your consent, she is about to let a tyrannicalhusband take care of her."
At my heedless mention of Darmstetter, Helen's white face grew whiter.Her trembling hand strayed, seeking support.
"Al'ays s'posed you'n' Sis'd be marryin' some day," said Mr. Winship,dubiously watching her, while he stroked his beard; "but seems mos's ifye'd better wait a spell, till Ma's chirked her up some. Han'some placehere."
His eyes examined the luxurious, disordered room.
"These here things ain't yourn, Sis?"
"Not all of them."
"I ain't refusin' to let Sis marry, if ye're both sot on't," heconceded. Then he caught sight of the Van Nostrand painting, and hisslow glance travelled from it to Helen. "That done for you, Sis? Inever helt with bare necks. Yes, Sis can marry, if she says so, thoughMa wants her home. But she ain't been writin' real cheerful. She--she'sasked for money, that's the size on't. An' here ye are up in arms an'she nigh sick. I don't want nothing hid away f'om me; how come yelivin' in a place like this?"
He rose laboriously, surveying through the open doorway the beautifulhall and the dining-room; while I interposed some jesting talk on othermatters, for I had hoped to get Helen out of the Nicaragua before herfather's arrival, and still hoped to spare him knowledge of our worsttroubles.
"If Sis has been buyin' all this here, I ain't denying that I'll feelthe expense," he said, sticking to the subject; "but I guess we canmanage."
Fumbling for his wallet, he drew some papers from it and handed them toHelen, adding:--
"There, Sis; there they are."
"Money, Father?" she asked with indifference. "I don't believe I needany."
"Don't ye? Ye wrote 'bout mortgagin'. I didn't want to do it, 'count o'Ma, partly; but we kep' worryin' an' worryin' 'bout ye. Ma couldn'tsleep o' nights or eat her victuals; an fin'lly--'Ezry,' she says, 'wewas possessed to let Helen 'Lizy, at her age, an' all the chick orchild we got, go off alone to the city. Ezry,' she says, 'you go fetchher home. Like's not Tim can let ye have the money,' she says; 'hiswife bein' an own cousin, right in the family, y'know.' So I've broughtthe deeds, Sis, an'--"
"What!" cried Helen, starting up. "The deeds of the farm? Let me see!"
She reached out a shaking hand for the papers.
"I'll pay you back!" she cried. "Why didn't you come sooner? How muchcan you get? How much money?"
"Not much more'n three thousan', I'm afeared, on a mortgage; cap'tal'skind o' skeery--but Tim--"
"Three thousand dollars!"
Laughing hysterically, she fell back in her chair.
"I had ought 'a come sooner; an' three thousan' ain't a gre't deal, Idon't suppose, here in the city; but it's been spend, spend--not that Igrutch it--an' things ain't so flourishin' as they was. I'm gittin' tooold to manage, mebbe--"
"Mr. Winship," I said, "Nelly has told you the truth; she doesn't needmoney; she--"
"Three thousand will save me!" Helen cried. "I can pay a little toeverybody. I can hold out, I can--"
"Please, Miss--the furniture--"
Behind Clesta appeared two men who gaped at Helen in momentaryforgetfulness of their errand.
Helen's creditors have proved more than reasonable, with the exceptionof the furniture people; their demands were such that there seemed noalternative but to surrender the goods. As the men who came for themadvanced into the room, stammering questions about the articles theywere to remove, Helen struggled to her feet and started to meet them,then stopped, clutching at a table for support. Their eyes never lefther face.
"Are they takin' your things, Sis?" asked Mr. Winship.
Her feverish glance answered him.
"What's to pay?" he inquired.
"Want to keep the stuff, Boss?" asked the head packer.
"Yes," I said, seeing her distress, and resolving desperately to findthe means, somehow.
"It ain't none o' your look-out," interposed Mr. Winship. "Sis ain'ta-goin' to be beholden to her husband, not till she's married. EzryWinship al'ays has done for his own, an' he proposes to do, jes' asfur's he's able. Sis'll tell ye I hain't stented her--What's to pay?"
I couldn't see all his savings go for gauds!
"You may take the goods," I said to the men, with sudden revulsion offeeling. "There's no room for them," I added gruffly to Mr. Winship,"in our--the rooms--where we are to live."
"All right, Boss," said the head packer; "which gent speaks for thelady?"
"Father!" Helen gasped.
"What's to pay?" insisted Mr. Winship.
"Take the goods," I repeated.
"All right, Boss;" and the two men went about their work, stillglancing at us with sidelong looks of curiosity.
Helen gazed at me with eyes that stabbed. Then slowly her glancedulled. She dropped on a packing box and sat silent--a bowed figure ofdespair--forgetting apparently that she was not alone.
Mr. Winship made no further attempt to interfere with events. He stoodby Helen's side, puzzled and taciturn.
I, too, was silent, reproaching myself for the brutality of my action,unable to decide what I should have done or ought to do. Helen herselfhad suggested that we give up the furniture, and I had not mourned thenecessity, for I hated the stuff, with its reminders of the General andthe Whitney woman and Bellmer and the Earl and all those strange peoplethat I used to see around her. But I might have known that she couldnot, all at once, wean herself from the trumpery.
A minute later Clesta ushered in the man who was to take the trunks,and when I had given him his directions, I asked:--
"Shall we go, Nelly?"
"If ye ain't reconciled to movin'--" Mr. Winship began.
But Helen answered neither of us. Her eyes were bent upon the floor,and a look, not now of resentment, but of--was it fear?--had slowlycrept upon her face. Her hands were clenched.
Darmstetter!
Instinct--or memory of my careless words spoken but alittle earlier--told me the truth. The growing pallor of her cheekspoke her thought. How that tragedy haunts her! The face I looked uponwas at the last almost ghastly.
"Nelly--" I said, very gently.
She looked around with the slow bewilderment that I once saw on theface of a sleep-walker. Her eyes saw through us, and past us, fixedupon some invisible horror. She was heedless of the familiar scene, thefigures grouped about her. Then there came a sudden flush to her face,a quick recoil of terror; she shuddered as if waking from a nightmare.
"Why do we stay here?" she cried starting up with sudden, panicstrength. "Let's get out of this horrible place! Let's go! Oh, let'sgo! Let's go!"
And so it was, in sorrow and with dark forebodings, that we left thegay rooms where Helen had so passionately enjoyed her little flight inthe sunshine.
The drive through the streets was at first silent. Shutting her eyes,she leaned back in the carriage. Sometimes she shuddered convulsively.
"Where ye goin'?" Mr. Winship asked at last, peering out at thecarriage window. Indeed the trip to Fourteenth Street seemedinterminable to me, and I didn't wonder at his impatience.
The simple question broke down Helen's reserve.
"Anywhere!" she sobbed, breaking into violent, hysterical tears. "Ididn't want to stay there! I didn't want the furniture! I didn't wantit! I don't want money! Father, you needn't mortgage!"
"We'll talk 'bout that some other time," said Mr. Winship soothingly."Nevermind now, Sissy."
"Ye'll take good care of Helen 'Lizy?" he said to Cadge and Kitty whenwe had half carried her up the long flights of stairs to the studio. Heseemed to take no notice of the strange furnishings of the loft, buthis furrowed brow smoothed itself as he looked into the hospitablefaces of the two girls.
"Ye'll take good care of her?" he repeated simply. "I'm afeard mydaughter ain't very well."
"We will; we will!" they assured him eagerly; and indeed it seemed thatHelen had found her needed rest, for she bade us good night almostcheerfully.