III.
Helen was not long in making the acquaintance of Ellen and Frank Gregory, the children of her employer, over whom she was expected thenceforth to have oversight.
Those who have always lived in the country, or to whom frequent visits have made it familiar, can hardly appreciate the depth of enjoyment which it brought to a child, who, like Helen, had been confined for years in the most noisome portion of a great city. To her, the most common objects seemed invested with an interest altogether new; and she plucked with as much eagerness the dandelions and buttercups which covered the greensward in profusion as if they had been the rarest exotics. There is a freemasonry in children which does away with formal introductions and the barriers of etiquette. When, two hours after her companion’s departure, Helen and the children came bounding in, flushed with exercise, Mrs. Gregory had an opportunity to observe—what before had escaped her notice—that Helen was more than ordinarily pretty. Something there was in her expression that seemed to strike the chords of memory; but Mrs. Gregory dismissed it as only a chance resemblance.
“Helen,” said she, calling the child to her side, “have you always lived in the city?”
“For a long time, madam. I cannot remember ever to have lived anywhere else.”
“And do you like it as well as the country?”
“I do not like it at all,—it is so dark and dirty and close. The sun does not shine there as it does here; and I could not run out into the fields, but all day long I had to sit alone.”
“Alone? Wasn’t your grandfather with you?”
“Yes,” said Helen, casting down her eyes. “He would come home to meals; but he had to attend to his business.”
“He seems too old and infirm to be able to do much,” said Mrs. Gregory, compassionately.
Helen was about to disclaim the age and infirmity, when the thought of the near relation in which Armstrong stood to her came over her mind in time, and she only answered, “Yes, ma’am.”
“How long since your grandmother died?”
This, too, was an embarrassing question for Helen; but the necessity of saying something prompted her to reply, “A good while.”
Perceiving, though she could not conjecture why, that her questions confused Helen, Mrs. Gregory desisted.
It was about four o’clock on the succeeding afternoon that Mrs. Gregory, who was sitting at the window, detected the bent form of the assumed old man slowly making his way up the hill.
“Your grandfather is coming,” said she to Helen, who sat beside her.
Helen tried to look as joyful as the approach of her only relative might be expected to make her; but the thought of the deception which she was even then practising towards a family who were showing her great kindness, and the still greater wrong which she was required to do them, made it a difficult task for one no better versed in dissimulation.
Mrs. Gregory noticed it no further than to form the opinion that she was a little odd in her manners.
As Helen expected, Armstrong requested her to walk a little apart with him; and then, dropping at once the whining tone he had assumed, inquired, quickly and peremptorily,—
“Well, what have you discovered?”
“Nothing,” said Helen, timidly, and as if deprecating his anger.
“Nothing?” he echoed, his eyes lighting with indignation. “What am I to understand by that?
“Come, child,” said he, softening his tone, as he saw that she was terrified by his roughness, “I don’t mean you any harm; but the fact is, I have placed you here to help me, and help me you must, otherwise I shall be compelled to carry you back to live with me in New York. Perhaps you would like to go?”
“Oh, no, no!” said Helen. “Don’t carry me back! Let me stay here!”
“Well, so I will, if you behave well. Now, tell me truly, have you no idea where they keep the silver? I know they have a large quantity of it.”
Helen reluctantly admitted, that, although she did not know, she could form an idea.
“Where?” asked Armstrong, eagerly.
“In the pantry, at the west corner of the house.”
“Humph! And do they lock the door at night?”
“Yes; but the key remains in the lock.”
“So far, so good. Does any one sleep in the lower part of the house?”
“No one.”
“Better still.”
A moment afterwards, Armstrong added, a new thought striking him,—
“I have not seen any dog near the house. Do they keep any?”
“No.”
“That is lucky. A determined dog is sometimes a troublesome customer. I recollect, one night, Dick Hargrave and I had planned a little expedition of this kind, when it was all broken up by a cursed bull-dog, who rushed out upon us as if he would tear us to pieces; and, to tell the truth, he did tear Dick’s coat off his back.”
Helen listened in dismay; for it revealed to her what she had not known,—that her uncle had been implicated in affairs of a similar kind before. It will be remembered that Armstrong, in proposing to her to co-operate with him, had used the pretext that Mr. Gregory had cheated him, and that he was resolved to repay himself. This, Helen had believed at the time; but his present unguarded remarks led her to entertain strong doubts of its truth. Her strong natural dislike for the duplicity and treachery required at her hands determined her, in spite of her habitual timidity and fear of her companion, to venture a remonstrance. This, however, she delayed till he should make a specific demand upon her.
He resumed: “I don’t know but there’s a pretty good chance of success. To-night is Tuesday night. I can’t very well get ready before Friday. On that night, you must contrive, in some manner,—taking care to incur no suspicion,—to come down stairs and unlock the front door. I shall be on hand at one o’clock. Be very particular about the time; for what I do must be done quickly.”
“But, uncle, wouldn’t that be robbery?”
“Robbery! Didn’t I tell you that old Gregory had cheated me out of more than the sum I shall take?”
“But they have treated me kindly; and it makes me feel ashamed to know that I am trying to injure them, uncle”——
“Don’t call me uncle again! I’m no uncle of yours,” said Armstrong, roughly. Noticing the child’s look of surprise, he added, “There, the murder is out! I had intended to treat you as a niece; but you don’t deserve it. It is time to talk to you in a different strain. I declare to you, Helen, that, unless you comply with my command, I will make you repent it most bitterly. Do you hear?”
“Yes,” said Helen, terrified no less by his looks than his words.
“Then take care that you remember: Friday night, at one. And now, as we understand each other, that is all that is necessary.”
They returned to the house in silence. Armstrong, with a hypocritical whine, thanked Mrs. Gregory for her kindness to his dear grand-daughter, who, he was glad to find, seemed so contented and happy in her new position.
“You will pardon an old man’s tears,” said he, drawing his hand across his eyes; “but she is all that is left to me now.”
“What a good old man!” thought Mrs. Gregory, as she hastened to assure him that whatever she could do to add to the comfort of his grand-daughter would cheerfully be done.
As for Helen, she was astonished and confused at what she had discovered. She had always been led to believe that Armstrong was her uncle, and had more than once reproached herself for the dislike she could not help entertaining for him. Now he had himself disclaimed the relationship; and Helen was left to conjecture fruitlessly who and what she was.