"IF I HAD BUT LOVED HER."
Dearly as Mrs. Desmond loved London and the comforts of her own home, she had no desire to spend the last days of sultry July in Bloomsbury Square. The Grange being no longer, in her eyes, a safe abode, the difficult question now arose where next to go. Long and anxious were the consultations that took place between husband and wife upon this subject. At last Colonel Desmond, glancing over the Times advertisement sheet, read of a pleasure steamer which was to start for the Baltic and St. Petersburg on the 1st of August. An idea struck him. Mrs. Desmond owned some property in Russia. Would she not like to see it? The short voyage would be agreeable. They might return by Vienna and Germany. Should they go? The idea actually found favour in Mrs. Desmond's eyes. She had had no experience of travelling by sea, and fancied that a voyage would be pleasant enough. And if they returned by Germany even the colonel might be brought to see the wisdom of placing Helen at one of those excellent German schools of which Mrs. Desmond had been wont to speak scornfully enough in times gone by. She did not forget that she had done so; but the knowledge that Helen had forced her to act in a manner contrary to her openly-expressed opinions added to the bitterness of her feelings towards the girl.
Rather to the colonel's surprise his wife raised no question about Helen's accompanying them on the projected trip. Longford Grange was deserted in all haste. Mrs. Desmond declared that the place had not suited her, and that she was thankful to see the last of it. Neither was the colonel sorry. Only Helen's heart ached as she drove with her parents through the village on her way to the station, straining her eyes to catch a last glimpse of the Rectory, where Harold lay, as they had just heard, between life and death.
"My poor sister!" sighed Mrs. Desmond, who was in a pleasant mood, thankful to be getting safely away from the neighbourhood of the fever. "My poor sister! No doubt she will feel the boy's loss; but, after all, there will be one less to provide for. And Harold was the most troublesome of them all. These trials are often blessings in disguise."
"Nonsense!" said the colonel, with a quick glance at Helen. "Harold will live to trouble them yet. You see if he doesn't. And as for his being troublesome, it's my belief that parents like the tiresome children best."
Mrs. Desmond pursed up her thin lips, and glanced at Helen in her turn.
"You speak without knowledge, John," she returned coldly. "To love a child that is continually paining you is impossible. It is a piece of modern cant to say that it is. Of course one must do one's duty towards a troublesome child. That is what you mean, I suppose."
The colonel merely shrugged his shoulders and made no reply. He did not find his wife charming when she took this tone.
"I know some one who is sorry to leave Longford," he said after a pause, looking kindly at Helen, who, white and silent, sat opposite to her father.
"Sorry!" began Helen half-stupidly. She was putting a strong restraint upon herself, for she dreaded showing any feeling before her stepmother.
"Surely Helen must be rather glad than sorry," interposed the latter. "If I were in her place I should pray that I might never see Longford again."
Both the colonel and Helen understood Mrs. Desmond's meaning. But although the former threw himself back with an impatient gesture, while Helen's lips quivered and her cheeks flushed, they both took refuge in silence, which remained unbroken until the station was reached.
A fortnight later and the days at Longford seemed almost like a dream to Helen, so changed were the outward surroundings of her life.
The steamer in which our friends had embarked had reached the landlocked Baltic. The lingering northern twilight was slowly, reluctantly giving place to night, such night as northern latitudes know even in late summer, when a sort of delicate gray veil, through which every object is distinctly visible, shrouds the earth for a few hours between sunset and sunrise. These nights possess a poetical charm that almost defies description, a charm that touches the most unimaginative with a vague sense of the nearness of an intangible other-world. There is a darkening and a hush. Nature, weary with the long day, rests; but rests, as it were, awake, waiting for the quick-coming dawn. Helen, sitting a little apart from a merry group of fellow-passengers on the steamer's deck, was under the spell of this wonderful summer's night. There are certain phases in nature which seem to work upon highly-strung people until they experience a kind of spiritual quickening, some such quickening as we imagine may come to us after death. It was this influence that was upon Helen now. The day had passed pleasantly enough except for one incident. Mrs. Desmond had not found the voyage come up to her expectations. In crossing the North Sea she had been horribly sea-sick, and now, although scarcely a ripple disturbed the surface of the Baltic, she found it hard to forget her previous sufferings. Upon this day, however, she had ventured up on deck for the first time. Helen, noticing her stepmother shivering, had run unasked to fetch her a wrap. Heedlessly catching up the first she could find, a white fleecy shawl, she ran up the companion with it in her hand. Just as she reached the top a steward, carrying a plate of soup, passed her. How it came about Helen scarcely knew, but the ship lurched, and the contents of the plate were bestowed upon the delicate white shawl. Mrs. Desmond from her chair watched the scene, and gave a little cry of dismay as she saw the rich soup dyeing her favourite shawl.
Tears rushed to Helen's eyes.
"I am very sorry," she stammered, going forward slowly and hanging her head.
Inwardly Mrs. Desmond felt convinced that Helen had acted from first to last with the sole purpose of annoying her. A good many people, however, were sitting and standing near her, and she controlled her anger.
"Why did you fetch the shawl?" she asked coldly.
"I—I thought it would make you more comfortable."
There was a second's pause, during which Mrs. Desmond mentally decided that Helen was lying deliberately.
"Take the thing away, please," she said at last. "It is utterly ruined. The very sight of it makes me feel ill."
"What an unlucky little girl it is!" said Colonel Desmond, patting Helen's shoulder as she turned silently away.
"And what a pity to see such a lovely shawl ruined!" ejaculated a lady who was sitting next to Mrs. Desmond, and who thought that that lady had displayed remarkable forbearance.
"What an unlucky little girl!" The words haunted Helen all day. They rang in her ears persistently. Was she unlucky? Would she always be unlucky? always doing things that hurt others? Would she never have a chance of showing that she was not really wicked? that she longed to do those sweet gracious actions that came so naturally from some people? Would no one ever love her except her father, whom she was always disappointing, whose chief trouble and anxiety she was, her stepmother said?
"I try, I try!" cried Helen to herself; "but I always do the wrong thing. I am unlucky."
Dusky night came on. No one noticed Helen as she sat alone in her quiet corner. Mrs. Desmond had retired long ago. Colonel Desmond had gone his own way, imagining his little girl safely in bed. Gradually the various groups of passengers dispersed, calling out merry good-nights to one another. Silence fell, broken only by the faint lapping of the sea against the ship as she went swiftly through the water.
With wide-open eyes, full of sad questionings, Helen looked out over the still waters and watched a faint coast-line that showed itself far away against the horizon. There was no moon visible, only that curious gray shroud veiled sea and sky, making everything look unreal and ghost-like, its effect heightened by the peculiar stillness of the sultry atmosphere.
Intensely wide awake, Helen sat and watched, while every incident in her short life seemed to pass in review before her. More vividly than any other, there came back to her the scene in Jim Hunt's dying chamber. She could almost have fancied that she was sitting once more by the little open window, listening to the sick boy's rambling talk, while the children shouted and laughed below.
Then the scene changed. What had happened? Where was the ship and the gray waters and shadowy, distant land? Had she been dreaming? Where was she?
In a sick-room, not bare and comfortless like Jim Hunt's, but bright and cheerful, lit with shaded lamps, and filled with tokens of thoughtful love. On the bed someone was lying, but from where Helen stood only a curly head was visible. At a small table by the bedside sat a lady, busy, apparently, over a gaily-coloured scrap-book. Her back was turned to Helen, but as the girl advanced timidly she raised her head and said: "I think I have done enough to-night, Harold. I will put the rest in to-morrow." "Not to-morrow;" and the little figure in its eagerness tried, though vainly, to raise itself in bed. "Not to-morrow. Mother, mother, do finish it to-night."
Helen clasped her hands. This was Harold. She pressed forward and tried to speak, but no words came. It was all curious, for Mrs. Bayden must surely see her now, and yet she made no sign. Helen looked at Harold, but his eyes were closed.
Mrs. Bayden glanced anxiously at Harold and then bent once more over the scrap-book. Helen stood quite still, gazing at Harold. His beautiful rounded face had grown pale and pinched, and it was almost difficult to recognize him, so changed was he. He lay quite still for what seemed to Helen a long time, but at last he moved and opened his eyes. Then he saw Helen standing at the foot of his bed, and he sat up and stretched out his arms to her, his face beaming with joy.
"Helen, Helen!" he cried. "Don't you see her, mother? I am coming. Helen, wait for me."
As the sound of his voice died away, the vision faded. Helen looked round, and found herself upon the sea, and heard again the water lapping against the ship. Only there was a change. The air was cold and charged with moisture. The distant coast-line had disappeared from sight, and the delicate gray veil had given place to a thick mist, through which the pale dawn strove in vain to pierce.
She sat quite still, trying to collect her thoughts. The impression left upon her by her dream was so vivid that it was at first impossible to believe that she had been asleep, and even when she succeeded in persuading herself that this had been the case the conviction remained that Harold lived, that he was waiting for her, and that they would meet again. This conviction gave her neither pleasure nor pain, but was so settled that it would have surprised her more to have seen her father standing beside her than Harold. She was curiously tranquillized too. All the vain longings and regrets that had troubled her so sorely of late were stilled. She felt quite happy and at rest, and regardless of the rolling mist which seemed to be closing in round the ship, she curled herself up in her long chair and fell fast asleep.
The child slept soundly, although the mist thickened and increased rapidly, and the captain, hastily aroused, paced the deck anxiously. Speed was reduced, all hands were on the alert, and discordant blasts on the fog-horn disturbed the quiet. Still Helen did not stir, until, suddenly, from the look-out there came a ringing cry, "Ship ahead!" Then she started up and saw what looked through the mist like a phantom ship bearing down upon the doomed vessel on which she stood. Half paralysed by vague fear, although quite ignorant of the reality of the peril, Helen remained rooted to the spot, whilst a few minutes of agonizing suspense ensued, and the captain's voice rang out his orders and each man went to his post. Then came a crash, a shock, under which the vessel shuddered like a living thing, and, almost as it seemed the next moment, the phantom-like ship, her deadly work done, was moving away, disregarding the affrighted shrieks with which the air was suddenly filled.
The passengers, rudely awakened, rushed on deck. Cries and shrieks were soon redoubled, for almost immediately after she was struck the ship stopped, and it became known that water was pouring into the engine-room, extinguishing the fires. There followed a few minutes of indescribable confusion, during which the men held bravely to their posts, until, once more, and for the last time, the captain's voice rang out clear and calm from the bridge:
"All hands clear away the boats! Save yourselves! To the boats!"
Instantly there was a rush for the boats, one of which was lashed to the ship close to where Helen was standing wringing her hands and calling wildly for her father.
Before the boat could be lowered it was filled, but a ship's officer, compassionating the lonely, terrified child, was just about to place Helen in the already heavily-weighted craft, when a woman, who, with a child in her arms, had just managed to scramble in, started up, screaming:
"My boy, my boy! He is not here! Save him, oh, save him!"
At sound of her voice a delicate, lame boy, between whom and Helen there had been a sort of friendship, pressed forward, but was instantly borne back by the excited crowd.
"Help him, I can manage for myself," said Helen, disengaging herself from her would-be deliverer's grasp and pointing to the boy.
There was no time for parleying. Crying, "Make way for the women and children," the officer, fancying that Helen also was safe, thrust the lame boy over the ship's side, and the over-filled boat moved away.
This half-instinctive act of generosity restored Helen to her presence of mind. The frantic crowd that had surged round her melted away as the boat passed out of sight. She rallied her courage and looked around her, wondering how she could best set about finding her father.
At this period the scene was a terrible one. The vessel was sinking fast, and already, where Helen stood, the water was almost up to her knees. Heart-rending cries and pitiful prayers filled the air. Mothers were calling wildly on their children, husbands on their wives, for the heavy mist and darkness added to the horror of the scene, making it difficult for people to distinguish one another.
Obtaining no answer to her repeated cries, Helen determined to advance cautiously. Clinging to the bulwarks, stumbling at every step, half drenched with water and benumbed with cold, she scrambled on for some distance. Once or twice she fancied that she heard her father's voice calling her, and replying as well as she was able, she struggled on in the direction from which the sound came. To reach him was her one absorbing desire. She felt certain that his strong arms would save her, that he would not let her perish.
Dawn came slowly. The mists lifted, but only to show a wild waste of water ruffled by a rising wind, and the sea-horses moaning and fretting round the doomed vessel, as though waiting for their prey. Helen shivered, and her courage began to fail. The water was rising, and people were climbing into the rigging.
"Father! father!" she cried wildly; but there was no answer, only a faint moan that sounded as though it came from someone quite close to her.
Helen paused. The sound was so pitiful it arrested her attention. She looked about, and presently she descried a crouched-up figure close beside her clinging to a hand-rail that had formed part of some steps leading to the bridge. The girl put out her hand and touched the recumbent figure.
"Are you hurt?" she asked. "Can I help you?"
Helen felt her hand clutched, and the figure raised itself. Then she started back, for in the wild, terror-stricken face that met her gaze she recognized her stepmother.
"Mamma!"
"Helen!"
"Where is my father?"
The words burst from Helen's lips in agonized entreaty.
Mrs. Desmond shook her head.
"I do not know," she answered feebly. "He left me safe, as he thought. I only went back to fetch a few things that I was trying to preserve, and that he had taken from me and thrown on the deck. There was plenty of time, everyone said. And when I returned my place was taken. It was wicked, cowardly. And I have been alone ever since."
"But my father, my father?" repeated Helen impatiently.
"How can I tell? He went in search of you. It was a terrible risk; I told him so. You should have been with us."
A pang smote Helen's heart. She had been unlucky again. But for that profound sleep that had fallen upon her on deck she might easily have found her father at the first alarm.
"He cannot be far away. He would never forsake us," she said, wrenching her hand from her stepmother's grasp. "I must find him."
"O, Helen, do not leave me!" moaned Mrs. Desmond, raising herself and clinging to the girl's drenched skirts, "it is so terrible to be alone, and I am so weak. If any help came I might be passed over and forgotten. I cannot scream as some people do. Stay with me, Helen, stay with me."
Helen stood for a moment irresolute. If she remained here she must abandon all hope of finding her father, almost, it seemed to her, all hope of life. And the water was always mounting higher. She was not weak like her stepmother. If no other help was at hand she might climb with others into the rigging and wait for the aid that must surely come. And there would be always that chance of finding her father.
"If I find father he will be able to help you," she said, moving away a little.
"No, no, Helen; you must not leave me," cried Mrs. Desmond; and again she clutched the girl's hand, those strong young fingers that had closed so appealingly on hers once, but that were irresponsive now. Did a recollection of that day, when Helen had appealed to her in vain, return to Mrs. Desmond? Perhaps so, for there was a real ring of sorrow in her voice as she said:
"I daresay I have been hard upon you, Helen; but I meant to do my duty by you. And if at first—"
For once Mrs. Desmond had touched the right chord in Helen's breast. There was no need for more words. The past flashed back upon the girl's mind. Here was the chance for which she had longed, and she had been going to throw it away.
"Of course I will stay with you," she cried impulsively, flinging herself down beside her stepmother. "Don't be so sad, mamma," she went on soothingly. "Father is sure to come to us. We shall be saved, I am sure."
"Do you really think so, Helen?" moaned Mrs. Desmond. "I wish I could believe it. Couldn't you say a prayer, child? I can't remember one, although I have always said my prayers, night and morning; and I have always tried to do my duty—always."
Tenderly supporting her stepmother's head on her poor, drenched lap, Helen whispered our Lord's prayer, and then Mrs. Desmond wandered on again, wondering about this and that, and chiefly why such a terrible crisis should have come into her tranquil life.
"It has been all sorrow and trouble," she said, remembering the troubled course of the past year. "I couldn't bear you, Helen. You must forgive me. We must forgive everyone now."
With tears in her eyes Helen gave the required forgiveness. How strange it all seemed! She and her stepmother alone together, with an awful death creeping close up to them, and the understanding that would have sweetened both their lives coming too late. Presently Mrs. Desmond's mind began to wander. Helen listened to her disjointed talk, soothing her as well as she was able; raising her voice occasionally to call imploringly on her father, little dreaming that he, having left his wife as he believed in safety, and having received an assurance from a ship's officer that Helen had been placed in the first boat that left the ship, had provided himself with a life-buoy, and was now battling with the waves, trusting to the chance of keeping himself afloat and of being eventually picked up by a passing vessel.
The desire of life was strong in Helen. It was terrible to her to remain inactive and to watch the water gradually engulfing the ship. Sometimes she felt almost unable to endure it longer; but at her least movement Mrs. Desmond would start up, imploring her to remain.
"I would come back," she said once or twice. "I only want to find another place where we might be a little safer. The water is coming in upon us so fast."
But Mrs. Desmond was almost past fear itself now, and her only reply was to cling yet more closely to the lithe young figure by her side; and Helen could not steel her heart against such an appeal.
Still the ordeal was a terrible one. Awful as the scene had been when the vessel had first struck, it became more appalling now, as, gradually, cries were hushed, those few left upon the wreck reserving all their strength for their fight with death, and the cold dawn showed still only that vast expanse of gray, seething waters, unbroken by even a passing sail. Helen's heart sank within her. Must it come, this awful death? Was there no help anywhere? The strong life within her rebelled at the thought, and she looked round her, wondering whether her strength would enable her to drag Mrs. Desmond with her to a place of greater safety. Still holding her stepmother's hand, she managed to drag herself to her feet, and as she did so she caught sight of a rude raft, composed of a few planks hastily fastened together, on which two men were standing, having apparently just put off from the wreck.
"Help!" she cried.
The raft drifted on and there came no answer. With the courage of despair she repeated her cry, and the men looked round. Possibly the sight of the forlorn childish figure standing, as it appeared, utterly alone on the doomed vessel, touched them, for, notwithstanding the danger of returning to the fast-submerging wreck, they altered their course and came within hail.
"You must jump!" shouted one, throwing a rope to Helen, who stood with both hands outstretched, calling out words of encouragement to Mrs. Desmond, who still clung to her, and who was too dazed with terror and exhaustion to understand that help was at hand.
"Quick!" shouted their deliverers. "Pass the rope round you and trust to it. We can come no nearer."
"Quick!" they cried again as they saw Helen stooping down and adjusting the rope, not round herself, but round a figure that lay at her feet.
"Courage, mamma, courage!" she said. "Hold fast to the rope! We are saved, we are saved!"
"Saved!" echoed Mrs. Desmond, clutching feebly at the rope. "Don't leave me, Helen."
"Come," shouted the men, "there is not a moment to lose."
"Hold fast, dear, hold fast!" said Helen, beginning to attach herself also to the rope. But it was too late. Crying "Ready?" the men pulled the rope. With a faint scream Mrs. Desmond disappeared alone into the swirling water. A minute or two later her dripping, senseless form lay upon the raft, which was itself almost engulfed immediately afterwards as, with an awful booming sound, the wreck settled down lower into the water. A rising wave caught Helen and carried her off her feet. She caught at some floating wreckage, which supported her for a moment, and looked round her for the last time. The raft had disappeared from sight. She was alone.
Day broke. The mist melted away as the sun rose sparkling on the water that, swept by a light wind, danced gaily in the glad morning light. But of the ship that had moved so gallantly over those same waters only a few short hours before, no trace remained, save here and there some floating wreckage. No trace either of the brave little soul whose perplexities were all over now, who would never be unlucky any more, to whom death had come gently and tenderly at last, and to whom it had been given to offer the supremest sacrifice, even its own life, for another.
Colonel and Mrs. Desmond were amongst the survivors on that fatal night, whose terrible events cost the latter a long and painful illness. On her recovery she burst into tears when Helen's name was mentioned in her presence for the first time. Whether she was fully conscious of her stepdaughter's heroic behaviour towards her no one ever exactly knew. Her husband learnt much of what had passed through her ravings during her illness, but he dreaded recurring to so painful a subject. Very sadly, after many months had elapsed, they returned to their home in Bloomsbury Square, and from that day forward no untoward event occurred to mar the outward calm of the lives of this middle-aged couple as they went down into what seemed serene old age; but the colonel's hair whitened rapidly, and Mrs. Desmond realized too late all that she had missed.
Spring was in the land once more when Colonel and Mrs. Desmond, aged and saddened, stood again in sight of Longford Grange. Mrs. Desmond trembled as she walked, and the colonel took her hand gently and led her towards the churchyard. There, at the head of a little mound, bright with spring flowers, a marble cross had been placed. On it was written—
IN MEMORY OF
HAROLD,
Who Died August 10th, 187—.
And below—
On the same day and about the same hour,
HELEN,
Drowned through the Foundering of the
"Empress" in the Baltic.
"Love is all and death is nought."
Mrs. Desmond knelt down and kissed the cold stone. "If I had but loved her," she said.